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Specially engraved for the Ridpath Library.
JOHN ^
CLARK.
RIDPATH
CLASSIC
EDITION DE LUXE
‘fWEMTY FIVE VOLUMES
FIFTH AVENUE LIBRARY SOCIETY
NEW YORK
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A Biographical and Bibliographical Summary of the
World's Most Eminent Authors, including the Choicest
Selections and Masterpi *ces from their Writings, Com¬
prising the Best Features of Many Celebrated Com¬
pilations, Notably ^ ^ ^
THE GUERNSEY COLLECTION
THE DE PUY COLLECTION
THE RIDPATH COLLECTION
Carefully edited and arranged by a corps
of the most capable scholars
EDITOR IN CHIEF
JOHN CLARK RIDPATH, A.M., LL.D.
Author of “Ridpath’s History of the United States,” “Encyclopedia of
Universal History,” “Great Races of Mankind,” etc., etc.
WITH REVISIONS AND ADDITIONS BY
WILL M. CLEMENS
Author of “ The Life of Roosevelt,” “ The Life of Mark Twain,” “The Life
of Kipling.” Of the Editorial Staff of the “Encyclopedia
Americana,” etc.
TWENTY-FIVE VOLUMES
NEW YORK
the: fifth avenue library socie:ty
19 0 6
Copyright, 1906
BY
THE FIFTH AVENUE LIBRARY SOCIETY
All rights reserved
LIST OF AUTHORS VOL. XXIII.
PAGE
Turner, Charles Tennyson.7
Tuttiett, Mary Gray.10
Twain, Mark, see Clemens, Samuel Langhorne .
Tyler, Moses Coit.17
Tyler, Roy all.25
Tyndall, John.29
Tyrt^eus. 33
Tytler, Alexander Fraser.36
Tytler, Patrick Fraser.39
Udall, Nicholas.43
Uhland, Johann Ludwig ..46
Ulbach, Louis.58
Ulfilas, or Wulfila.61
Uncle Remus, see Harris, Joel Chandler ....
Upton, George Putnam.63
Urquhart, David.67
Valaoritis, Aristoteles*. 7 °
Valdes, Armando Palacio. 73
Valera y Alcala Galiano, Juan. 77
Vambery, Arminius.81
Van Alstyne, Frances Jane Crosby.84
Vanbrugh, Sir John.85
Van Dyke, Henry Jackson.. . 90
Van Dyke, John Charles. 92
Vaughan, Henry.98
Vauquelin, Jean de la Fresnaye.109
Vaux, Thomas .. • • • • m
Vazoff, Ivan. IJ 3
• • •
111
IV
LIST OF AUTHORS VOL. XXIII.
PAGE
Vedas .n 6
Vedder, David.121
Vega Carpio, Felix Lope de.123
Vere, Auerey de, see De Vere, Aubrey.
Verhaeren, Emile.127
Verlaine, Paul.130
Verne, Jules.133
Vernon Lee, see Paget, Violet.
Verplanck, Julian Crommelin.161
Very, Jones.171
Viau, Theophile de.177
Viaud, Louis Marie Julien.179
Vidal, Peter.184
Vigny, Alfred Victor de.186
VlLLARI, PASQUALE. 190
Villemain, Abel Francois.198
Villon, Francois.200
Vincent, Frank.206
Vincent, John Heyl.208
Virgil .211
Vogue, Eugene Marie Melchior, Vicomte de . 247
Voisenon, Claude-Henri Fusee de.250
Volney, Constantin Francois de Chassebceuf . . . 252
Voltaire, Francois Marie Arouet de.254
VONDEL, JOOST VAN DeN.2 66
Voss, Johann Heinrich.270
Voynich, Ethel Lillian Boole.272
Vries, Hugo de.274
Wace, Robert.292
Wagner, Charles.294
Wagner, Wilhelm Richard.303
Wakefield, Nancy Amelia Woodury Priest .... 323
Wakeman, Edward Lewis.325
Walford, Lucy Betkia Colquhoun.328
Walker, James Barr.332
Wallace, Alfred Russel.337
Wallace, Horace Binney.340
LIST OF AUTHORS VOL. XXIII.
v
Wallace, Lewis.343
Wallace, Susan Arnold Elston.350
Wallace, William Ross.355
Waller, Edmund.358
Walpole, Horace.366
Walton, Izaaic.381
Walworth, Clarence Alphonsus.390
Warburton, Eliot Bartholemew George.392
Warburton, William ..394
Ward, Artemus, see Brown, Charles Farrar .
Ward, Elizabeth Stuart Phelps.401
Ward, Mary Augusta Arnold.408
Ward, Nathaniel . > .414
Warden, Florence, see James, Florence.
Ware, Eugene Fitch ..423
Ware, William.426
Warman, Cy. 433
Warner, Anna Bartlett.438
Warner, Charles Dudley.441
Warner, Susan. 45 1
Warren, John Byrne Leicester.455
Warren, Samuel.458
Warton, Joseph.460
Warton, Thomas.462
Washington, Booker Taliaferro.465
Washington, George. 475
Wasson, David Atwood.483
Waters, Clara Erskine Clement.486
Waterton, Charles.489
C^^URNER, Charles Tennyson, an English poet;
wl® k° rn at Somersby, Lincolnshire, July 4, 1808;
died at Cheltenham, April 25, 1879. He was
an elder brother of the poet-laureate Tennyson. In
1835 he became vicar of Grasby; and here he spent
the greater part of his life. In 1835 he inherited of
his great-uncle, Rev. Samuel Turner, the Grasby liv¬
ing and Caistor House; and thereupon, by royal li¬
cense, he assumed the name of Turner. He was joint
author, with his brother Alfred, of a volume of juve¬
nile poems published in 1827 under the title Poems by
Two Brothers. His other works include Sonnets and
Fugitive Pieces (1830) ; Sonnets (1864) ; Small Tab¬
leaux (1868) ; Sonnets, Lyrics, and Translations
(1873) Collected Sonnets, Old and New (1880).
An article from his pen, entitled My Timepiece, was
published in Good Words in 1870; and several of
his poetical pieces first appeared in Macmillan's Maga¬
zine.
THE SCHOOLBOY’S DREAM.
’Twas the half-year’s last day, a festal one;
Light tasks and feast and sport, hoop, cricket, kite,
Employed us fully, till the summer night
Stole o’er the roofs of happy Alderton.
( 7 )
8
CHARLES TENNYSON TURNER
Homer in-doors, and field games out of school,
Made medley of my dreams; for, when I slept,
The quaintest' vision o’er my fancy swept,
That ever served the lordship of misrule:
Our hoops through gods and heroes ran a-muck;
Our kites o’erhung the fleets, a public gaze !
And one wild ball the great Achilles struck —
Oh ! how he towered and lightened at the stroke!
But, tho’ his formal pardon I bespoke,
I told him plainly ’twas our holidays.
JOY.
Joy came from Heaven, for men were mad with pain,
And sought a mansion on this earth below;
He could not settle on the wrinkled brow,
Close-gathered to repel him, and again
Upon the cheek he sought repose in vain,
He found that pillow all too chill and cold,
Where sorrow’s streams might float him from his hold,
Caught sleeping in their channel; the eye would fain
Receive the stranger on its slippery sphere,
Where life had purer effluence than elsewhere,
But where no barrier might forbid the tear
To sweep it when it listed; so that there
He stayed, nor could the lips his couch prepare,
Shifting untenably from smile to sneer.
A DREAM.
I dreamed — methought I stood upon a strand
Unblest with day for ages; and despair
Had seized me, but for cooling airs that fanned
My forehead, and a voice that said “ Prepare! ”
Anon I felt that dawning was at hand;
A planet rose, whose light no cloud could mar,
And made through all the landscape, near and far r
A wild half-morning for that dreary land;
I saw her seas come washing to the shore
In sheets of gleaming ripples, wide and fair;
I saw her goodly rivers brimming o’er,
CHARLES TENNYSON TURNER
9
And from their fruitful shallows looked the star;
And all seemed kissed with starlight; till the beam
f sunrise broke, and yet fulfilled my dream.
A REMINISCENCE OF THE ILIAD.
Nor, could I bring within my visual scope
The great localities old stories boast.
Would I forget thee, Troas; whose first hope
Of travel pointed to thy lonely coast;
How would my quickened fancy reproduce
The incessant brazen flash of Homer’s war,
And heroes moving quick their ground to choose
With spear-tops burning like the autumn star,
Along that sullen seaboard, till at length
Mine ear should thrill, my startled pulses bound,
When from the trench those two grand voices rose,
And, each involved in other, swept their foes
Before them like a storm, the wrath and strength
Of God and man conspiring to the sound.
THE LATTICE AT SUNRISE.
As on my bed I mused and prayed,
I saw my lattice prankt upon the wall,
The flaunting leaves and flitting birds withal —
A sunny phantom interlaced with shade.
“ Thanks be to Heaven ! ” in happy mood I said;
“ What sweeter aid my matins could befall
Than this fair glory from the East hath made?
What holy sleights hath God, the Lord of all,
To bid us feel and see ! We are not free
To say we see not, for the glory comes
Nightly and daily, like the flowing sea;
His lustre pierceth through the midnight glooms;
And at prime hours, behold, he follows me
With golden shadows to my secret rooms.”
letty’s globe.
When Letty had scarce passed her third glad year,
And her young, artless words began to flow,
10
MARY GRAY TUTTIETT
One day we gave the child a colored sphere
Of the wide earth, that she might mark and know
By tint and outline all its sea and land.
She patted all the world; old empires peeped
Between her baby fingers; her soft hand
Was welcome at all frontiers; how she leaped
And laughed and prattled in her pride of bliss!
But when we turned her sweet, unlearned eye
On our own isle, she raised a joyous cry —
“Oh, yes! I see it; Letty’s home is there!”
And while she hid all England with a kiss,
Bright over Europe fell her golden hair.
THE OCEAN
The ocean at the bidding of the moon
Forever changes with his restless tide;
Flung shoreward now, to be regathered soon
With kingly pauses of reluctant pride,
And semblance of return. Anon from home
He issues forth anew, high-ridged and free —
The gentlest murmur of his seething foam
Like armies whispering where great echoes be.
Oh, leave me here upon this beach to rove,
Mute listener to that sound so grand and lone!
A glorious sound, deep drawn and strongly thrown
And reaching those on mountain heights above,
To British ears (as who shall scorn to own?)
A tutelar fond voice, a savior tone of love
UTTIETT, Mary Gray (“ Maxwell Gray”),
an English novelist; born at Newport, Isle of
Wight, in 1850. She early began a literary
career by writing essays and verse for the magazines.
Her first novel, The Broken Tryst , appeared in 1879,
but The Silence of Dean Maitland (1886) brought her
MARY GRAY TUTTIETT
before the British and American public as one of the
most notable of the later novelists. Her subsequent
novels include The Reproach of Annesley (1888);
In the Heart of the Storm (1891) ; An Innocent Im¬
postor (1892) ; The Last Sentence (1893) ; A Costly
Freak (1894) ; Songs of the Dragon Slayer (1895) ;
Sweethearts and Friends (1897) ; The Flouse of Hid¬
den Treasure (1898); Ribstone Pippins (1898); The
Forest Chapel (1899); The World’s Mercy (1900);
Four Leaved Clover (1902) ; and Richard Rosny
(1903)-
THE LAST SERMON.
He gave out his text, “ I will confess my wickedness,
and be sorry for my sin,” and began quietly reading from
the manuscript before him in a clear and harmonious
but strikingly level tone, which, though audible all over
the building, did not correct the general tendency to
drowsiness on that hot and drowsy afternoon.
The premier and those who heard him for the first time
were disappointed, the premier deciding within himself
that he would not confer much luster upon the oratory
of the Upper House, and would never endanger Bishop
Oliver’s position as the best speaker on the Bench.
It was a sermon such as dozens of clergymen turn out
every day. The preacher exhorted his hearers to repent
and confess their sins. He reminded them that repentance
is the first and last duty which the Church enjoins on her
children. He alluded to the different practices of the
Church in different ages with regard to it, and its exag¬
geration in the Roman Communion and in old American
Puritan days. He observed that some sins exacted public
confession. At this point he became a little paler, and
his voice rose on its accustomed sonorous swell. He said
that' it was a right and wholesome feeling which pros¬
trated a crowned king before the tomb of the murdered
archbishop of Canterbury, kept an emperor barefoot in
the snow at Canossa, and humiliated Theodosius before
12
MARY GRAY TUTTIETT
the closed gates of Milan Cathedral. “ Do you know,
my brothers,” he continued, with a thrill of intense feel¬
ing in his voice, “ why I speak to-day of the duty of
public confession of public sin? I have a purpose.”
He paused. For some moments there reigned that
dread silence which is so awfully impressive in a vast
assembly of living and breathing human beings. He
paused so long that people grew uncomfortable, thinking
he must be ill, and the buzzing of a perplexed humble-bee,
which had somehow strayed into the choir, and was
tumbling aimlessly against people’s heads, sounded loud
and profane, and the man who could not repress a sneeze
and the lady who let her prayer-book fall felt each guilty
of an unpardonable crime. Meantime, the dean gazed
quietly before him, and no one saw the chill drops of
agony which beaded his brow, or suspected the anguish
which literally rent his heart.
The bishop with difficulty suppressed a grunt of dis¬
approval. “ He pauses for effect,” he thought; “ now for
the fire-works! Divine rage consumes the dean! Out
with the handkerchiefs. If people must rant, why on
earth can’t they rant in barns ? ”
“ My brothers,” continued the dean, at last breaking the
thrilling silence, and speaking in a low but perfectly clear
and audible voice, “ it is because I myself am the most
grievous of sinners and have sinned publicly in the face
of this great congregation, the meanest among whom I
am unworthy to address, because I wish to confess my
wickedness, and tell you that I am sorry for my sin. I
have no right to be standing in this place to-day; to be
the parish priest, as it were, of this noble building; to fill
an office hallowed by the service of a long line of saintly
men. My life has been one black lie. The three darkest
blots upon the soul of man — impurity, bloodshed, treach¬
ery — have stained my soul.”
At these words there was a faint rustle of surprise
through all the congregation. The bishop frowned; “ He
drives his theatrical exaggeration too far,” he thought.
The duke and Lord Arthur recovered from the gentle
slumber the sermon’s beginning had induced. Every eye
was fixed in wonder, interest, or incredulity upon the
MARY GRAY TUTTIETT
13
marble features of the preacher — that is, every eye within
the choir; while to those outside it, who heard the voice
from an invisible source, the effect was doubled.
“ My life,” he continued, “ has been outwardly success¬
ful in no small degree. I have, in spite of my sin, been
permitted to minister to sick souls; for the Almighty is
pleased sometimes to use the vilest instruments for noble
ends. I have sat at good men’s feasts, an honored guest;
yes, and at the tables of the great, the very greatest in
the land. I have risen to a position of eminence in the
ministry of our national Church — that Church whose
meanest office better men than I are unworthy to fill. I
have been offered still greater honors, the office of bishop
and the dignity of a spiritual peerage, as you all know;
nor was it till now my intention to decline this promotion.
I have been much before the public in other ways, which
it were unbecoming to mention in this holy place. Such
dignities as have been mine, my brothers — for I may
still, in spite of my sins, call you brothers, since I am
still God’s child, and only desire to return to Him by
the way of penitence — such dignities are based upon the
assumption not only of moral rectitude, but of decided
piety, and neither of these has ever been mine. My be¬
loved brothers, hear me, and take warning, and oh ! pity
me, for I am the most miserable of men. Like those
against whom Christ pronounced such bitter woes, I have
desired to wear long robes, to receive greetings in the
market-place, to occupy the chief seats in synagogues;
these things have been the very breath of my nostrils,
and for these I have sinned heavily, heavily. The favor
of men has been dear to me, therefore I offer myself to
their scorn. To no man, I think, has man’s favor been
dearer than to me. Ah, my brothers, there is no more
bitter poison to the soul than the sweetness I loved with
such idolatry! Well does our Saviour warn us against
it.”
He spoke all this with quiet anguish, straight from his
heart, his manuscript being closed; while at this point
tears came and dimmed the blue luster of his large deep
eyes, and coursed quietly and unheeded down his cheeks.
The congregation still listened with wide-eyed wonder, not
U
MARY GRAY TUTTIETT
knowing how to take these extraordinary utterances, and
half suspecting that they were the victims of some stage
effect. But the premier’s face wore a startled gaze, and
he looked round uneasily. The idea suddenly entered his
head, that his recent elevation and the strenuously toil¬
some life he led had been too much for the dean, and
driven him mad. Nor was he alone in his belief, which
was shared by the dean’s doctor amongst others.
The bishop was terribly moved, and half doubtful
whether it would not be well to persuade the preacher to
leave the pulpit as quietly as possible; he too thought
the dean mad, and trembled lest the gossip his own son
had repeated might have driven his sensitive organiza¬
tion off its balance. Tears sprung to his eyes, and he
loathed himself for the petty feelings he had suffered to
enter his heart that very day.
“ What I confess now, in the presence of God and of
this congregation, against whom I have sinned,” continued
the preacher, “ I shall confess shortly before the civil
tribunals of this land, the laws of which I have broken.
Nineteen years ago, when in deacon’s orders, I led an
innocent young woman astray.” Here his voice broke
with a heavy sob. “ I was the tempter — I, who fell
because I deemed myself above temptation. My brothers,
since then I have not had one happy hour. Mark that,
you who perchance stand on the verge of transgression.
But that is not all. With a heart still stained with that
iniquity, which I vainly tried to expiate by bodily penance,
I took upon me, in this very cathedral, the awful re¬
sponsibilities of the priesthood, and fell into new tempta¬
tion.
“ The father of this poor girl discovered my iniquity,
and, justly angered, fell upon me with violence. In the
struggle, I know not how, I killed him. Yes, my brothers,
look upon me with the honest' scorn you must feel when
you hear that these hands, which have broken the bread
of life and sprinkled the waters of healing, are red with
the blood of the man I wronged. But even that is not the
full measure of my iniquity. I had a friend; I loved
him — I loved him, I tell you,” he echoed, passionatelv,
“ more than any mortal man. He was a man of noble
MARY GRAY TUTTIETT
character and spotless life; he had gifts which gave prom¬
ise of a glorious and beneficent career. Suspicion fell
upon him through my fault, but not my deliberate fault.
He was tried for my crime, found guilty, and sentenced to
twenty years’ penal servitude.”
Here the preacher trembled exceedingly, and was
obliged to pause, while people looked from one to an¬
other with horror-stricken eyes and blanched faces, and
the very air seemed to palpitate with their agitation.
“ Two days ago,” continued the unhappy man, “ he came,
fresh from the prison, to worship in this holy place. I
was preaching — I, the traitor, the hypocrite; I who had
lived in palaces while the friend of my youth pined in
the prison I had deserved — I saw him; I recognized him
through all the terrible changes that awful misery had
wrought upon him. I could not bear the sight, and fled
from it like another Cain. But I did not even then repent.
“ My brothers, this man wrote to me and forgave me,
and that broke my stony heart. The Almighty had called
me by heavy sorrows through many years to repentance,
but I repented not until I was forgiven. The All-Merciful
did not leave me alone in my wickedness. I saw the
wife of my youth pine away before my eyes, and my
children fade one by one till my home became a desolation,
and yet I sinned on, deadening my conscience by continual
opiates of subtlest sophistry. It is not for me to detail
these; to say how I persuaded myself that my gifts were
needed in the ministry of the Church; that I was bound
to sacrifice all, even conscience, to the sacred calling, and
such-like. Blind was I, blind with pride and self-love.
Nay, I refused even to look my sin in the face. I stifled
memory; I never realized what I had done until the awful
moment of revelation, when I stood eye to eye with the
friend I betrayed. My dear brothers, have you ever
thought what years of penal servitude must mean to a
gentleman, a man of refined feelings, of intellectual tastes,
of unusual culture? To be herded with the vicious, the
depraved, the brutal, the defective or degraded organiza¬
tions which swell the mass of crime in our land; to be cut
off from all other human intercourse, all converse with
the world of intellect and culture; to pass weary, weary
i6
MARY GRAY TUTTIETT
years in fruitless manual toil and pining captivity; to
wear the garb of shame; to be subject to rough and un¬
educated and not always kindly jailers ”—here something
choked his utterance for awhile —“ to know no earthly
hope; to see the long vista of twenty years’ monotonous
misery streaching remorselessly ahead, and all this in the
flower of youth and the blossom-time of life? From six-
and-twenty to six-and-forty! Can you grasp what' that
means ? This, and more than this, I inflicted on the friend
who loved and trusted me; and of this I declare before
God and man I repent, and desire as far as possible to
amend.
“ In a few days I shall be in a felon’s cell. I shall be
happier there than I have ever been in the brightest
moments of my prosperity. My brothers, I still bear a
divine commission to warn and teach; I beseech you to
heed my story and take warning. Let me be to you as
the sunken vessel which marks the treacherous reef be¬
neath the wave! Listen and heed well what I say, as it
were, with dying breath, for I shall be civilly dead, vir¬
tually dead, in twelve hours’ time. I repent, and there
is mercy for me as for the vilest; but I can never undo
the consequences of my sins — never, though I strove
through all the endless ages of eternity. I can not restore
honor and innocence to her whom I robbed of these price¬
less jewels. I can not give back his life to him whose
blood I shed. I can not recall the years of youth, and
hope, and health, and power of wide usefulness which
were blasted in the prison of my friend. It were rash to
say that the Almighty can not do these things; it is
certain He can not without disordering the whole scheme
of human life, certain that He will not. How far the
human will can frustrate the divine purposes has never
been revealed to mortal man — is probably unknown to
the wisdom of seraphs; but this we know, that nothing
can happen without divine permission. It may be that
man’s will is absolutely free with regard to thought, and
only limited with regard to action, to its effects upon
others. Certain it is, that God can bring good out of evil,
and that those who trust in Him, however oppressed and
afflicted by the wickedness of their fellow-men, will never-
MOSES COIT TYLER
17
theless be delivered in all their afflictions, and that to
them ‘ all things work for good/ These are my last
words, dear brothers. Ponder them, I beseech you, as
men ponder dying words, even of the vilest.”
The dean ceased, and, turning, as usual, to the east,
repeated the ascription with humble reverence. He then
turned once more to the congregation, and seated himself,
with a sigh of exhaustion, while the bishop, whose eyes
were full of tears, stood with uplifted hand and pro¬
nounced the benediction, in a moved and awe-stricken
voice, upon the agitated, half-terrified multitude, and upon
the unheeding ears of the dean.— The Silence of Dean
Maitland.
(g^&^YLER, Moses Coit, an American historian and
critic; born at Griswold, Conn., August 2,
1835; died at Ithaca, N. Y., December 28,
1900. He was graduated from Yale in 1857; in 1867
he was made Professor of the English Language and
Literature in the University of Michigan, and in 1881
Professor of American History in Cornell University.
In 1881 he took orders in the Episcopal Church. His
principal works are The Brawnville Papers (1868);
History of American Literature (Vols. I., II., 1878) ;
Manual of English Literature (1879) 1 Life of Patrick
Henry (1888) ; History of American Literature Dur¬
ing the Colonial Time (1897); The Literary History
of the American Revolution (1897).
THE EARLIEST AMERICAN BOOK.
Captain John Smith became a somewhat prolific author;
but while nearly all of his books have a leading reference
to America, only three of them were written during the
period of his residence as a colonist in America. Only
Vol. XXIII.—2
MOSES COIT TYLER
T°
To
these three, therefore, can be claimed by us as belonging
to the literature of our country. The first of these books,
A True Relation of Virginia, is of deep interest to us,
not only on account of its graphic style, and the strong
light it throws upon the very beginning of our national
history, but as being unquestionably the earliest book in
American literature. It was written during the first thir¬
teen months of the first American colony, and gives a
simple and picturesque account of the stirring events
which took place there during that time, under his own
eye. It was probably carried to London by Captain Nel¬
son of the good ship Phoenix, which sailed from James¬
town on June -2, 1608; and it was published in London
and sold “ at the Grayhound in Paul’s Church-Yard,” in
the latter part of the same year. . . .
Barely hinting at the length and tediousness of the sea-
voyage, the author plunges with epic promptitude into
the midst of the action, by describing their arrival in Vir¬
ginia, their first ungentle passages with the Indians, their
selection of a place of settlement, their first civil organi¬
zation, their first .expedition for discovery toward the
upper waters of the James River, the first formidable
Indian attack upon their village, and the first return for
England, two months after their arrival, of the ships
that had brought them to Virginia.
Upon the departure of these ships, bitter quarrels
broke out among the colonists. “ Things were neither
carried on with that discretion nor any business effected
in such good sort as wisdom would; . . . through
which disorder, God being angry with us, plagued us
with such famine and sickness that the living were scarce
able to bury the dead. ... As yet we had no houses
to cover us; our tent's were rotten, and our cabins worse
than nought. . . . The president and Captain Mar¬
ten’s sickness compelled me to be cape-merchant, and yet
to spare no pains in making houses for the company, who,
notwithstanding our misery, little ceased their malice,
grudging and muttering . . . being in such despair
as they would rather starve and rot with idleness than be
persuaded to do anything for their own relief without
constraint.”
MOSES COIT TYLER
i9
But the energetic Captain had an eager passion for
making tours of exploration along the coast and up the
rivers; and after telling how he procured corn from the
Indians, and thus supplied the instant necessities of the
starving colonists, he proceeds to relate the history of
a tour of discovery made by him up the Chickahominy,
on which tour happened the famous incident of his fall¬
ing into captivity among the Indians. The reader will
not fail to notice that' in this earliest book of his, writ¬
ten before Powhatan’s daughter, the Princess Pocahontas,
had become celebrated in England, and before Captain
Smith had that enticing motive for representing him¬
self as specially favored by her, he speaks of Powhatan
as full of friendliness to him; he expressly states that
his own life was in no danger at the hands of that Indian
potentate; and of course he has no situation on which to
hang the romantic incident of his rescue by Pocohontas
from impending death. This pretty story has now lost'
historical credit, and is generally given up by critical
students of our early history.
Having ascended the Chickahominy about sixty miles,
he took with him a single Indian guide, and pushed into
the woods. Within a quarter of an hour he “ heard a
loud cry and a hallooing of Indians,” and almost imme¬
diately he was assaulted by two hundred of them, led by
Opechancanough, an under-king to the Emperor Pow¬
hatan. The valiant Captain, in a contest so unequal,
certainly was entitled to a shield; and this he rather
ungenerously extemporized by seizing his Indian guide,
and with his garters binding the Indian’s arm to his own
hand; thus, as he coolly expresses it, “ making my hind
my barricado.”
As these Indians still pressed toward him, Captain
Smith discharged his pistol, which wounded some of his
assailants, and taught them all a wholesome respect by
the terror of its sound; then, after much parley he sur¬
rendered to them, and was carried off prisoner to a place
about six miles distant. There he expected to be at’ once
put to death, but was agreeably surprised by being treated
with the utmost kindness. . . .
After many days spent in traveling hither and yon
20
MOSES COIT TYLER
with his captors, he was at last, by his own request, de¬
livered up to Powhatan, the over-lord of that region.
He gives a picturesque description of the barbaric state
in which he was received by that potent chieftain, whom
he found “ proudly lying upon a bedstead a foot high,
upon ten or twelve mats,” the emperor himself being
“ richly hung with many chains of great pearls about his
neck, and covered with a great covering of raccoon-
skins. At his head sat a woman, at his feet another; on
each side, sitting upon a mat upon the ground, were
ranged his chief men on each side of the fire, ten in a
rank; and behind them as many young women, each with
a great chain of white beads over her shoulders, their
heads painted in red; and with such a grave and majestic
countenance as drove me into admiration to see such
state in a naked savage. He kindly welcomed me with
good words and great platters of sundry victuals, assuring
me his friendship and my liberty within four days.”
Thus day by day passed in pleasant discourse with
his imperial host, who asked him about “ the manner of
our ships and sailing the seas, the earth and skies, and
of our God,” and who feasted him not only with continual
“ platters of sundry victuals,” but with glowing descrip¬
tions of his own vast dominions stretching away beyond
the rivers and the mountains to the land of the setting
sun. . . .
“ Thus having with all the kindness he could devise
sought to content me, he sent me home with four men,
one that usually carried my gown and knapsack after me,
two others loaded with bread, and one to accompany me.”
The author then gives a description of his journey back
to Jamestown, where “ each man with truest signs of joy ”
welcomed him; of his second visit to Powhatan; of
various encounters with hostile and thievish Indians; and
of the arrival from England of Captain Nelson in the
Phoenix, April 20, 1608 — an event which “ did ravish
them with exceeding joy.” Late in the narrative he makes
his first reference to Pocahontas, whom he speaks of as
“ a child of ten years old, which not only for feature,
countenance, and proportion much exceedeth any of the
MOSES COIT TYLER
21
rest of his people, but for wit and spirit the only non¬
pareil of his country.”
After mentioning some further dealings with the Ind¬
ians, he concludes the book with an account of the
preparations for the return to England of Captain Nelson
and his ship; and describes those as remaining as “ being
in good health, all our men well contented, free from
mutinies, in love one with another, and as we hope in
a continual peace with the Indians, where we doubt not
but by God’s gracious assistance and the Adventurers’
willing minds and speedy furtherance to so honorable an
action, in after times to see our nation to enjoy a country
not only exceeding pleasant for habitation, but also very
profitable for commerce in general, no doubt pleasing to
Almighty God, honorable to our gracious sovereign, and
commodious generally to the whole kingdom.”
Thus, with words of happy omen, ends the first book of
American literature. It was not composed as a literary
effort. It was meant to be merely a budget of information
for the public at home, and especially for the London
stockholders of the Virginia Company. Hastily, appar¬
ently without revision, it was wrought vehemently by
the rough hand of a soldier and an explorer, in the pauses
of a toil that was both fatiguing and dangerous, and while
the incidents which he records were fresh and clinging in
his memory. Probably he thought little of any rules of
literary art as he wrote this book; probably he did not
think of writing a book at all. Out of the abundance of
his materials, glowing with pride over what he had done
in the great enterprise, eager to inspire the home-keeping
patrons of the colony with his own resolute cheer, and
accustomed for years to portray in pithy English the ad¬
ventures of which his life was fated to be full, the bluff
Captain just stabbed his paper with inken words; he
composed not' a book but a big letter; he folded it up,
and tossed it upon the deck of Captain Nelson’s depart¬
ing ship.
But though he ma3^ have had no expectation of doing
such a thing, he wrote a book that is not unworthy to be
the beginning of English literature in America. It has
faults enough, without doubt. Had it not these, it would
22
MOSES COIT TYLER
have been too good for the place it occupies. The com¬
position was extemporaneous; there appears in it some
chronic misunderstanding between the nominatives and
their verbs; now and then the words and clauses of a
sentence are jumbled together in blinding heaps; but in
spite of all its crudities, here is racy English, pure English,
the sinewy, picturesque, and throbbing diction of the navi¬
gators and soldiers of the Elizabethan time. And although
the materials of this book A are not moulded in nice pro¬
portion, the story is well told. The man has an eye and
a hand for that thing. He sees the essential facts of a
situation, and throws the rest away; and the business
moves straight forward.— History of American Literature.
THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS.
Did the people of New England in their earliest age
begin to produce a literature? Who can doubt it? With
their incessant activity of brain, with so much both of
common and of uncommon culture among them, with in¬
tellectual interests so lofty and strong, with so many
outward occasions to stir their deepest passions into the
same great currents, it would be hard to explain it had
they indeed produced no literature. Moreover, contrary
to what is commonly asserted of them, they were not
without a literary class. In as large a proportion to the
whole population as was then the case in the mother-
country, there were in New England many men trained
to the use of books, accustomed to express themselves
fluently by voice and pen, and not so immersed in the
physical tasks of life as to be deprived of the leisure for
whatever writing they were prompted to undertake. It
was a literary class made up of men of affairs, country-
gentlemen, teachers, above all of clergymen; men of let¬
ters who did not depend upon letters for their bread, and
who thus did their work under conditions of intellectual
independence. Nor is it true that all the environments
of their lives were unfriendly to literary action; indeed,
for a certain class of minds those environments were
extremely wholesome and stimulating. There were about
them many of the tokens of the picturesque, romantic, and
MOSES COIT TYLER
23
impressive life: the infinite solitudes of the wilderness, its
mystery, its peace; the near presence of nature, vast,
potent, unassailed; the strange problems presented to them
by savage character and savage life; their own escape
from great cities, from crowds, from mean competitions;
the luxury of having room enough; the delight of being
free; the urgent interest of all the Protestant world in
their undertaking; the hopes of humanity already looking
thither; the coming to them of scholars, saints, statesmen,
philosophers. Many of these factors in the early colonial
times are such as cannot be reached by statistics, and are
apt to be lost by those who merely grope on the surface
of history. If our antiquarians have generally missed
this view, it may reassure us to know that our greatest
literary artists have not failed to see it. “ New England,”
as Hawthorne believed, “ was then in a state incompar¬
ably more picturesque than at present, or than it had
been within the memory of man.” That, indeed, was the
beginning of “ the old colonial day ” which Longfellow has
pictured to us.
“ When men lived in a grander way,
With ampler hospitality.”
For the study of literature, they turned with eagerness
to the ancient classics; read them freely; quoted them
with apt facility. Though their new home was but a
province, their minds were not provincial; they had so
stalwart and chaste a faith in the ideas which brought
them to America as to think that wherever those ideas
were put into practice, there was the metropolis. In the
public expression of thought they limited themselves by
restraints which, though then prevalent in all parts of the
civilized world, now seem shameful and intolerable: the
printing-press in New England during the seventeenth
century was in chains. The first instrument of the craft
and mystery of printing was set up at Cambridge in 1639,
under the auspices of Harvard College; and for the sub¬
sequent twenty-three years the president of that college
was in effect responsible for the good behavior of the
terrible machine. His control of it did not prove suf¬
ficiently vigilant. The fears of the clergy were excited
24
MOSES C01T TYLER
by the lenity that had permitted the escape into the world
of certain books which tended “ to open the door of
heresy;” therefore, in 1662, two official licensers were
appointed, without whose consent nothing was to be
printed. Even this did not make the world seem safe;
and two years afterward the law was made more stringent.
Other licensers were appointed; excepting the one at
Cambridge no printing-press was to be allowed in the
colony; and if from the printing-press that was allowed
anything should be printed without the permission of the
licensers, the peccant' engine was to be forfeited to the
government and the printer himself was to be forbidden
the exercise of his profession “ within this jurisdiction for
the time to come.” But even the new licensers were not
severe enough. In 1667, having learned that these officers
had given their consent to the publication of The Imi¬
tation of Christ , a book written “ by a Popish minister,
wherein is contained some things that are less safe to be
infused amongst the people of this place,” the authorities
directed that the book should be returned to the licensers
for “ a more full revisal,” and that in the meantime the
printing-press should stand still. In the leading colony
of New England legal restraints upon printing were not
entirely removed until about twenty-one years before the
Declaration of Independence.
The chief literary disadvantages of New England were
that her writers lived far from the great repositories of
books, and far from the central currents of the world’s
best thinking; that the lines of their own literary activity
were few; and that, though they nourished their minds
upon the Hebrew Scriptures and upon the classics of the
Roman and Greek literatures, they stood aloof, with a
sort of horror, from the richest and most exhilarating
types of classic writing in their own tongue. In many
ways their literary development was stunted and stiffened
by the narrowness of Puritanism. Nevertheless, what
they lacked in symmetry of culture and in range of literary
movement was something which the very integrity of
their natures was sure to compel them, either in them¬
selves or in their posterity, to acquire. For the people
of New England it must be said that in stock, spiritual
ROYALL TYLER
25
and physical, they were well started; and that of such a
race, under such opportunities, almost anything great and
bright may be predicted. Within their souls at that time
the aesthetic sense was crushed down and almost tram¬
pled out by the fell tyranny of their creed. But the
aesthetic sense was still within them; and in pure and
wholesome natures such as theirs its emergence was only
a matter of normal growth. They who have their eyes
fixed in adoration upon the beauty of holiness are not far
from the sight of all beauty. It is not permitted to us
to doubt that in music, in painting, architecture, sculpture,
poetry, prose, the highest art will be reached, in some
epoch of its growth, by the robust and versatile race
sprung from those practical idealists of the seventeenth
century — those impassioned seekers after the invisible
truth and beauty and goodness. Even in their times, as
we shall presently see, some sparkles and prophecies of
the destined splendor could not help breaking forth.— A
History of American Literature.
S YLER, Royall, an American dramatist, poet
and journalist; born at Boston, Mass., July
18, 1757; died at Brattleboro, Vt., August 16,
1826. He was a graduate of Harvard College and a
law-student in John Adam’s office. He served for a
time on General Benjamin Lincoln’s staff in 1776, and
again, in 1786, in the brief campaign that led to the
suppression of Shay’s rebellion, in central and western
Massachusetts. The same year he visited New York
City, in connection with negotiations in that affair,
and while there procured the production of his comedy,
The Contrast, April 16, 1786, at the John Street Thea¬
tre. The play was an instant success, and its author,
ROYALL TYLER
encouraged, produced several other comedies of con¬
siderable merit.
In 1797 his Algerine Captive; or the Life and Ad¬
ventures of Dr. Updike Underhill, Six Years a Pris¬
oner Among the Algerines, was published. This
clever book was a fictitious memoir, under cover of
which the author launched his humor, satire, wisdom,
and manly indignation at the foibles of American so¬
ciety, the horrors of the slave-trade, etc. It had a
large sale and established the author’s reputation in
England as well as in America. In 1799 Tyler re¬
moved to Vermont, where he rose to the Chief Jus¬
ticeship of the Supreme Court (1800-1806), afterward
practising law and compiling the Reports of Cases in
the Supreme Court of Vermont.
About 1800 Isaiah Thomas established the Farmer’s
Repository — the first American journal of belles-let¬
tres and affairs — and Tyler was for years one of the
brilliant band of literary men who made this little sheet
famous. He wrote incessantly upon every imaginable
topic — essays, poems, satires, political squibs, attacks
on French democracy, the Della Cruscan literary cult,
fashionable frivolities, religious hypocrisy — and al¬
ways to the unceasing entertainment of his readers.
Tyler was a scholar, a wit, a gentleman, a “ man of
the world ” in the best sense of the term; a good citi¬
zen, friend, and neighbor. He combined all that was
best of the polish and brilliancy of the last century
with the manly virtues and love of humanity that were
to be the heritage of Americans of the nineteenth cen¬
tury. A single extract (a mock advertisement from
the Farmer’s Repository ) must suffice to show his
erudition and the playfulness of his humor:
ROYALL TYLER
VARIETY STORE.
TO THE LITERATI.
MESS. COLON & SPONDEE
WHOLESALE DEALERS IN
VERSE, PROSE AND MUSIC,
BEG LEAVE TO INFORM THE PUBLIC
AND THE LEARNED IN PARTICULAR THAT
PREVIOUS TO THE ENSUING
COMMENCEMENT
They purpose to open a fresh Assortment of
Lexo graphic, Burgursdician and Parnassian
GOODS
suitable for the season,
At the Room on the Plain,* lately occupied
by Mr. Frederic Wiser, Tonsor,
if it can be procured —
— Where they will expose to Sale
SALUTATORY and Valedictory Orations, Syllogistic
and Forensic Disputations and Dialogues among the
living and the dead — Hebrew roots and other simples
— Dead Languages for living Drones — Oriental Lan¬
guages with or without points, prefixes or suffixes —
Attic, Doric, Ionic, and /Eolic Dialects, with the Wabash,
Onondaga, and Mohawk Gutturals — v’s added and dove-
* At Hanover, N. H.
28
ROYALL TYLER
tailed to their vowels, with a small assortment of the
genuine Peloponnessian Nasal Twangs — Monologues,
Dialogues, Trialogues, Tetralogues, and so on from one
to twenty logues.
Anagrams, Acrostics, Anacreontics, Chronograms, Epi¬
grams, Hudibrastics, and Panegyrics; Rebusses, Charades,
Puns, and Conundrums, by the gross or single dozen.
Ether, Mist, Sleet, Rain, Snow, Lightning, and Thun¬
der, prepared and personified, after the manner of Della
Crusca with a quantity of Brown Humor, Blue Fear
and Child Begetting Love, from the same Manufactory;
with a Pleasing variety of high-colored, compound Epi¬
thets, well assorted — Love Letters by the Ream — Sum¬
mary Arguments, both Merry and Serious — Sermons,
moral, occasional, or polemical — Sermons for Texts, and
Texts for Sermons — Old Orations Scoured, Forensics
furbished, Blunt Epigrams newly pointed, and cold Con¬
ferences hashed; with Extemporaneous Prayers corrected
a\nd amended — Alliterations artfully allied — and periods
polished to perfection.
Airs, Canons, Catches, and Cantatas — Fugues, Over¬
tures, and Symphonies for any number of Instruments
— Serenades for Nocturnal Lovers — Amens and Halle¬
lujahs, trilled, quavered, and slurred — with Couplets,
Syncopations, Minims and Crochet Rests, for female
voices — and Solos, with three parts, for hand-organs.
Accidental Deaths, Battles, Bloody Murders, Premature
News, Tempests, Thunder and Lightning, and Hail-Stones,
of all dimensions, adapted to the Season.
Circles squared, and Mathematical points divided into
quarters and half shares.
Serious Cautions against Drunkenness, &c., and other
coarse Wrapping Paper, gratis, to those who buy the
smallest article.
^ On hand a few Tierces of Attic Salt — Also, Cash,
and the highest price given for Raw Wit, for use of the
Manufactory, or taken in exchange for the above Articles.
JOHN TYNDALL
29
S YNDALL, John, an Irish physicist and philos¬
opher; born at Leighton Bridge, near Carlow,
-0==^ August 21, 1820; died at Haselmere, Surrey,
England, December 4, 1893. In 1847 be became a
teacher in Queenwood College, and began original
investigations with Dr. Frankland. In 1848 he stud¬
ied in Germany under Bunsen and Magnus, and, from
1853 until his death, was Professor of Natural Phi¬
losophy in the Royal Institution. He lectured in the
United States in 1872, and gave the proceeds to aid
students pursuing scientific research in this country.
Plis published books are: The Glaciers of the Alps
(i860) ; Mountaineering (1861) ; A Vacation Tour
(1862) ; Heat a Mode of Motion (1863) ; On Radia¬
tion (1865) ; Faraday as a Discoverer (1868) ; Dia¬
magnetism and Magne-Crystallic Action, and Lectures
on Electrical Phenomena (1870) ; Notes on Light, and
Hours of Exercise in the Alps (1871) ; The Forms of
Water in Clouds and Rivers, Ice and Glaciers, and
Fragments of Science (1871; enlarged ed. 1876);
Contributions to Molecular Physics in the Domain of
Radiant Heat (1872) ; On Sound (3d ed.), and Six
Lectures on Light (2d ed., 1875) ; Lessons on Elec¬
tricity, delivered in 1875-76 (Amer. ed., 1889) ; Es¬
says on the Floating Matter in the Air, in Relation to
Putrefaction and Infection (1881) ; New Fragments
(1892).
LIMIT OF MATERIALISM.
In affirming that the growth of the body is mechanical,
and that thought, as exercised by us, has its correlative
in the physics of the brain, I think the position of the
“ materialist ” is stated, as far as that position is a ten-
30
JOHN TYNDALL
able one. I think the materialist will be able finally to
maintain this position against all attacks; but I do not
think, in the present condition of the human mind, that
he can pass beyond this position. I do not think he is
entitled to say that his molecular groupings and his
molecular motions explain everything. In reality they
explain nothing. The utmost he can affirm is the asso¬
ciation of two classes of phenomena, of whose real bond
of union he is in absolute ignorance. The problem of
the connection of body and soul is as insoluble in its
modern form as it was in the prescientific ages. Phos¬
phorous is known to enter into the composition of the
human brain, and a trenchant German writer has ex¬
claimed, “ Ohne Phosphor, kein Gedanke.” That may
or may not be the case; but even if we knew it to be the
case, the knowledge would not lighten our darkness. On
both sides of the zone here assigned to the materialist
he is equally hopeless. If you ask him whence is this
“ Matter ” of which we have been discoursing, who or
what divided it into molecules, who or what impressed
upon them this necessity of running into organic forms,
he has no answer. Science is mute in reply to these
questions. But if the materialist is confounded and science
rendered dumb, who else is prepared with a solution ?
To whom has this arm of the Lord been revealed? Let
us lower our heads and acknowledge our ignorance, priest
and philosopher, one and all. — Fragments of Science.
SCIENTIFIC IMAGINATION.
How, then are those hidden things to be revealed?
How, for example, are we to lay hold of the physical
basis of light, since, like that of life itself, it lies en¬
tirely without the domain of the senses? Philosophers
may be right in affirming that we cannot transcend ex¬
perience; but we can, at all events, carry it a long way
from its origin. We can also magnify, diminish, qualify,
and combine experiences, so as to render them fit for
purposes entirely new. We are gifted with the power
of imagination — combining what the Germans call
Anschauungsgabe and Einbildungskraft — and by this
JOHN TYNDALL
3 i
power we can lighten the darkness which surrounds the
world of the senses. There are Tories even in science
who regard imagination as a faculty to be feared and
avoided rather than employed. They had observed its
action in weak vessels, and were duly impressed by its
disasters. But they might with equal justice point to
exploded boilers as an argument against the use of
steam. Bounded and conditioned by cooperant Reason,
imagination becomes the mightiest instrument of the
physical observer. Newton’s passage from the falling
apple to the falling moon was at the outset a leap of
the imagination. When William Thompson tries to
place the ultimate particles of matter between his com¬
pass points, and to apply them to a scale of millimetres,
he is powerfully aided by this faculty. And in much
that has been recently said about protoplasm and life,
we have the outgoings of the imagination guided and
controlled by the known analogies of science. We should
still believe in the succession of day and night, of summer
and winter; but the soul, of Force would be dislodged
from the universe; causal relations would disappear, and
with them that science which is now binding the parts
of nature to an organic whole. — Fragments of Science.
THE COLORS OF THE SKY.
The cloud takes no note of the size on the part of the
waves of asther, but reflects them all alike. It exercises
no selective action. Now the cause of this may be that
the cloud particles are so large in comparison with the
size of the waves of aether as to reflect them all indif¬
ferently. A broad cliff reflects an Atlantic roller as
easily as a ripple produced by a sea-bird’s wing; and in
the presence of large reflecting surfaces the existing
differences of magnitude disappear. But supposing the
reflecting particles, instead of being very large, to be very
small, in comparison with the size of the waves. In this
case, instead of the whole wave being fronted and in great
part thrown back, a small portion only is shivered off.
The great mass of the wave passes over such a particle
without reflection. Scatter, then, a handful of such for-
32
JOHN TYNDALL
eign particles in our atmosphere, and set imagination to
watch their action upon the solar waves. . . . An
undue fraction of the smaller waves is scattered by the
particles, and, as a consequence, in the scattered light,
blue will be the predominant color. . . .
We have here a case presented to the imagination,
and, assuming the undulatory theory to be a reality, we
have, I think, fairly reasoned our way to the conclusion
that were the particles, small in comparison to the size
of the aether waves, sown in our atmosphere, the light
scattered by those particles would be exactly such as we
observe in our azure skies. . . .
Let us now turn our attention to the light which
passes unscattered among the particles. How must it
be finally affected? By its successive collisions with
the particles the white light is more and more robbed
of its shorter waves; it therefore loses more and more
of its due proportion of blue. The result may be antic¬
ipated. The transmitted light, where short distances are
involved, will appear yellowish. But as the sun sinks
toward the horizon the atmospheric distances increase,
and consequently the number of scattering particles. They
abstract in succession the violet, the indigo, the blue, and
even disturb the proportions of green. The transmitted
light under such circumstances must pass from yellow
through orange to red. This is exactly what we find in
nature. Thus, while the reflected light gives us at noon
the deep azure of the Alpine skies, the transmitted light
gives us at sunset the warm crimson of the Alpine snows.
— Fragments of Science.
FREEDOM OF INQUIRY.
It is not to the point to say that the views of Lucretius
and Bruno, of Darwin and Spencer, may be wrong. Here
I should agree with you, deeming it indeed certain that
these views will undergo modification. But the point is,
that, whether right or wrong, we claim the right to dis¬
cuss them. For science, however, no exclusive claim is
here made; you are not urged to erect it into an idol.
The inexorable advance of man’s understanding in the
TYRT2EUS
33
path of knowledge, and those unquenchable claims of his
moral and emotional nature which the understanding can
never satisfy, are here equally set forth. The world em¬
braces not only a Newton, but a Shakspeare — not only
a Boyle, but a Raphael — not only a Kant, but a Bee¬
thoven — not only a Darwin, but a Carlyle. Not in each
of these, but in all, is human nature whole. They are
not opposed, but supplementary — not mutually exclusive,
but reconcilable. And if, unsatisfied with them all, the
human mind, with the yearning of a pilgrim for his dis¬
tant home, will still turn to the mystery from which it
has emerged, seeking so to fashion it as to give unity to
thought and faith; so long as this is done, not only with¬
out intolerance or bigotry of any kind, but with the en¬
lightened recognition that ultimate fixity of conception
is here unattainable, and that each succeeding age must
be held free to fashion the mystery in accordance with its
own needs — then, casting aside all the restrictions of
materialism, I would affirm this to be a field for the no¬
blest exercise of what, in contrast with the knozving fac¬
ulties, may be called the creative faculties of man. Here,
however, I touch a theme too great for me to handle, but
which will assuredly be handled by the loftiest minds
when you and I, like streaks of morning cloud, shall have
melted into the infinite azure of the past.
YRTTEUS, a Greek poet; born in the earlier
part of the seventh century b.c. He was the
second in order of time of the Greek elegiac
poets, and is perhaps the most renowned martial poet
of all times. The information which has come down
to us respecting this remarkable man is for the most
part legendary and unreliable. It is related that the
Spartans, disheartened at the success of their enemies
Vol. XXIII.—3
34
TYRT7EUS
at the beginning of the second Messenian war, con¬
sulted the Delphian oracle, and were directed to ask
a leader from Athens; that the Athenians, fearing lest
the Lacedaemonians should extend their dominion in
the Peloponnesus, sent them Tyrtaeus, a lame school¬
master, a native of Aphidnae, in Attica; but that this
man whom they had sent, as it were in mockery, so
roused and maintained the courage of the Spartans by
his warlike songs that in the end they obtained a com¬
plete victory over their dangerous foes. It is, of
course, impossible to say what amount of truth may
be contained in the above legend; but it is probable
that Tyrtaeus was by birth a stranger, that he became
a Spartan by the subsequent recompense of citizen¬
ship conferred upon him, that he was an impressive
and efficacious minstrel, and that he was moreover
something of a wise and influential statesman, being
able not only to animate the courage of the warrior on
the field of battle, but also to soothe those discontents
and troubles which usually prevail among the citizens
in time of war. Grote calls him an inestimable ally
of the Lacedaemonians during their second struggles
with the Messenians; and the few indisputable facts
respecting both the first and the second war have been
gathered from the extant fragments of his poems.
The poems of Tyrtaeus were of two kinds; the first
were elegies, in which the warrior was exhorted to
bravery against the foe, and inspirited with descrip¬
tions of the glory of fighting for one’s native land;
the other sort were composed in more rapid measures,
and intended as marching-songs, to be accompanied
with the flute. The influence of these poems on the
minds of the Spartan youth continued to be very pow¬
erful long after the poet himself had passed away.
TYRTJEUS
35
The fragments which we possess of these famous songs
and elegies will be found in Gaisford’s Poetce Minores
Grceci. They have also been edited separately by Klotz
(1764) and by Stock (1819). Another good edition
of the text of Tyrtseus is that of Bergk in his Poetce
Lyrici Greed.
MARTIAL ELEGY.
How glorious fall the valiant, sword in hand,
In front of battle for their native land !
But O, what ills await the wretch that yields,
A recreant outcast from his country’s fields!
The mother whom he loves shall quit her home,
An aged father at his side shall roam,
His little ones shall, weeping, with him go,
And a young wife participate his woe;
While, scorned and scowled upon by every face,
They pine for food, and beg from place to place.
Stain of his breed ! dishonoring manhood’s form!
All ills shall cleave to him; affliction’s storm
Shall blind him wandering in the vale of years,
Till, lost to all but ignominious fears,
He shall not blush to leave a recreant’s name,
And children like himself inured to shame.
But we will combat for our father’s land,
And we will drain the life-blood where we stand,
To save our children. Fight ye, side by side,
And serried close, ye men of youthful pride !
Disdaining fear, and deeming light the cost
Of life itself in glorious battle lost.
Leave not our sires to stem the unequal fight,
Whose limbs are nerved no more with buoyant might!
Nor, lagging backward, let the younger breast
Permit the man of age (a sight unblessed!)
To welter in the combat’s foremost thrust,
His hoary head dishevelled in the dust,
36
ALEXANDER FRASER TYTLER
And venerable bosom bleeding bare !
But youth’s fair form, though fall’n, is ever fair;
And beautiful in death the boy appears,
The hero boy that dies in blooming years !
In man’s regret he lives, and woman’s tears:
More sacred than in life, and lovelier far
For having perished in the front of war.
— Translation of Thomas Campbell.
THE HERO.
When falling in the van he life must yield,
An honor to his sire, his town, his state —
His breast oft mangled through his circling shield,
And gashed in front through all his armor’s plate —
Him young and old together mourn: and then
His city swells his funeral’s sad array;
His tomb, his offspring, are renowned ’mongst men —
His children’s children, to the latest day.
His glory or his name shall never die,
Though ’neath the ground, h,e deathless shall remain,
Whom fighting steadfastly, with courage high,
For country and for children, Mars hath slain.
— Translation for Fraser’s Magazine.
S YTLER, Alexander Fraser, a Scottish jurist,
historian and essayist; born at Edinburgh,
October 15, 1747; died there, January 5, 1813.
From 1780 to 1800 he was Professor of Civil History
in the University of Edinburgh; in 1790 became Judge
Advocate of Scotland; in 1802 was raised to the Bench
as Lord Woodhouselee, and was made Lord Justiciary
in 1811. He was the author of several legal treatises;
ALEXANDER FRASER TYTLER
37
of Lectures on History , of Memoirs of Henry Home
of Karnes , and of the Elements of General History,
Ancient and Modern. He also published an Essay
on the Life and Writings of Petrarch, with transla¬
tions of some of his sonnets, and an Essay on the
Principles of Translation. To periodicals he contrib¬
uted several papers after the manner of the Specta¬
tor.
AN OVER-ECONOMICAL WIFE.
I am a middle-aged man, possessed of a moderate in¬
come arising chiefly from the profits of an office of which
the emolument is more than sufficient to compensate
the degree of labor with which the discharge of its duties
is attended. About my forty-fifth year I became tired
of the bachelor state; and taking the hint from some
little twinges of the gout, I began to think it was full
time for me to look out for an agreeable help-mate. The
last of the juvenile tastes which forsakes a man is his
admiration of youth and beauty; and I own I was so far
from being insensible to these attractions that' I felt my¬
self sometimes tempted to play the fool, and marry for
love. I had sense enough, however, to resist this inclina¬
tion, and in my choice of a wife to sacrifice rapture and
romance to the prospect of ease and comfort.
I wedded the daughter of a country gentleman of
small fortune; a lady much about my own time of life,
who bore the character of a discreet, prudent woman,
who was a stranger to fashionable folly and dissipation
of every kind, and whose highest merit was that' of an
excellent housewife. I was not deceived in the idea I
had formed of my wife’s character. She is a perfect
paragon of prudence and discretion. Her moderation is
exemplary in the highest degree; and as to economy, she
is all that I expected — and a great deal more, too.
• •»••••
Alas! how little do we know what is for our good!
Like the poor gentleman who killed himself by taking
38
ALEXANDER FRASER TYTLER
physic when he was in health, I wanted to be happier than
I was, and I have made myself miserable.
My wife’s ruling passion is the care of futurity. She
had not been married above a month before she found
my system — which was to enjoy the present — was totally
inconsistent with those provident plans she had formed
in the view of a variety of future contingencies which,
if but barely possible, she looks upon as absolutely
certain. . . .
In accomplishing this economical reformation my wife
displayed no small address. She began by giving me
frequent hints of the necessity there was of cutting off
all superfluous expenses; and frequently admonished me
that it was better to save while our family was small than
to retrench when it grew larger. When she perceived
that this argument had very little force (as it grew
every day weaker), and that there was nothing to be done
by general admonition, she found it necessary to come to
particulars. She endeavored to convince me that I was
cheated in every article of my family expenditure. . . .
This I found was but a prelude to a more serious at¬
tack ; and the battery was levelled at a point where I was
but too vulnerable. I never went out to ride but I found
my poor spouse in tears at my return. She had an uncle,
it seems, who broke a collar-bone by a fall from his horse.
My pointers, stretched upon the hearth, were never beheld
by her without uneasiness. They brought to mind a third
cousin who lost a finger by the bursting of a fowling-
piece ; and she had a sad presentiment that my passion
for sport might make her one day the most miserable of
women “ Sure, my dear,” she would say, “ you would
not for the sake of a trifling gratification to yourself ren¬
der your wife constantly unhappy! Yet I must be so
while you keep those vicious horses and nasty curs.”
What could I do? A man would not choose to pass for a
barbarian.
Good claret — which I have long been accustomed to
consider as a panacea for all disorders — my wife looks
upon as little better than a slow poison. She is convinced
PATRICK FRASER TYTLER
39
of its pernicious effects both on my purse and constitu¬
tion, and recommends to me, for the sake of both, some
brewed stuff of her own, which she dignifies with the name
of wine, but which to me seems nothing but ill-fermented
vinegar. She tells me with much apparent satisfaction
how she has passed her currant-wine for Cape, and her
gooseberry for champagne; but for my part I never taste
them without feeling very disagreeable effects; and I once
drank half a bottle of her champagne, which gave me a
colic for a week.
In the matter of victuals I am doomed to still greater
mortification. Here my wife’s frugality is displayed in a
most remarkable manner. As everything is bought when
at the lowest price, she lays in during the summer all her
stores for the winter. For six months we live upon salt
provisions, and the rest of the year on fly-blown lamb
and stale mutton. If a joint is roasted one day, it is
served cold the next, and hashed on the day following.
All poultry is contraband. Fish, unless salt herrings and
dried ling, when got at a bargain — I am never allowed
to taste.— The Lounger, April 15, 1780.
S YTLER, Patrick Fraser, a Scottish biog¬
rapher and historian; born at Edinburgh, Au-
gust 30, 1791; died at Malvern, England, De¬
cember 24, 1849. He was admitted to the Scottish
bar in 1813, practiced for several years, but ultimately
devoted himself to authorship. His principal works
are: Life of James Crichton of Cluny, commonly
called the Admirable Crichton (1819) ; Life of John
Wycliffe (1826) ; History of Scotland (9 vols., 1828-
42); Lives of Scottish Worthies (1831); Historical
View of the Progress of Discovery on the More North¬
ern Coasts of America (1832); Life of Sir Walter
40
PATRICK FRASER TYTLER
Raleigh (1833); Life of Henry VIII. (1837); Eng¬
land Under the Reigns of Edward VI. and Mary
(1839). 1844 a pension of £200 a year was award¬
ed to him for eminent literary services.
THE BETRAYAL AND EXECUTION OF WILLIAM WALLACE.
The only man in Scotland who had steadily refused
submission was Wallace; and the King [Edward I.], with
that inveterate cruelty and unbroken perseverance which
marked his conduct to his enemies, now used every possi¬
ble means to hunt him down, and become master of his
person. He had already set a large sum upon his head;
he gave strict orders to his captains and governors in
Scotland to be constantly on the alert; and he now care¬
fully sought' out those Scotsmen who were enemies to
Wallace, and bribed them to discover and betray him.
For this purpose he commanded Sir John de Mowbray,
a Scottish knight at his court, and who seems at this time
to have risen in great favor and trust with Edward, to
carry with him into Scotland Ralph de Haliburton, one
of the prisoners lately taken at Stirling. Haliburton was
ordered to co-operate with the other Scotsmen who were
then engaged in the attempt to seize Wallace, and Mow¬
bray was to watch how this base person conducted him¬
self.
What were the particular measures adopted by Hali¬
burton, or with whom he co-operated, it is now impossible
to determine; but it is certain that soon after this Wal¬
lace was taken and betra)^ed by Sir John Menteith, a
Scottish baron of high rank. Perhaps we are to trace
this infamous transaction to a family feud. At the battle
of Falkirk, Wallace, who on account of his overbearing
conduct had never been popular with the Scottish nobility,
opposed the pretensions of Sir John Stewart of Bonkill,
when this baron contended for the chief command. In
that disastrous defeat, Sir John Stewart, with the flower
of his followers, was surrounded and slain; and it is said
that Sir John Menteith, his uncle, never forgave Wallace
for making good his own retreat, without attempting a
PATRICK FRASER TYTLER
4i
l
rescue. By whatever motive he was actuated, Menteith
succeeded in discovering the retreat of Wallace, through
the treacherous information of a servant who waited on
him, and having invaded the house by night, seized Wal¬
lace in his bed, and instantly delivered him to Edward.
His fate, as was to be expected, was soon decided; but
the circumstances of refined cruelty and torment which
attended his execution reflect an indelible stain upon the
character of Edward; and were they not stated by English
historians themselves, could scarcely be believed.
Having been carried to London, he was brought with
much pomp to Westminster Hall, and there arraigned for
treason. A crown of laurel was placed in mockery upon
his head, because he had been heard to boast that he de¬
served to wear a crown in that Hall. Sir Peter Mallone,
the King’s Justice, then impeached him as a traitor to the
King of England, as having burned the villages and ab¬
beys, stormed the castle, slain and tortured the liege sub¬
jects of his master, the King. Wallace indignantly and
truly repelled the charge of treason, as he had never sworn
fealty to Edward; but to the other articles of accusation
he pleaded no defence. They were notorious, and he was
condemned to death.
The sentence was executed on August 23, 1305. Dis¬
crowned and chained, he was now dragged at the tails of
horses through the streets to the foot of a high gallows
placed at the elms of Smithfield. After being hanged,
but not to death — he was cut down, yet breathing; his
bowels were taken out and burned before his face. His
head was then stricken off, and his body divided into four
quarters. The head was placed on a pole on London
Bridge; his right arm above the bridge at Newcastle; his
left arm was sent to Berwick; his right foot and limb to
Perth; and his left quarter to Aberdeen. “ These,” says
an old English historian, “were the trophies of their fa¬
vorite hero which the Scots had now to contemplate, in¬
stead of his banners and gonfalons which they had once
proudly followed.”
But he might have added that they were trophies more
glorious than the richest banner that had ever been borne
before him; and if Wallace had already been, for his day
42
PATRICK FRASER TYTLER
and romantic character, the idol of his people — if they
had long regarded him as the only man who had asserted,
throughout every change of circumstance, the independ¬
ence of his country — now that the mutilated limbs of the
martyr to liberty were brought among them, it may well
be conceived how deep and inextinguishable were their
feelings of pity and revenge.— History of Scotland.
u
j^DALL, Nicholas, an English dramatist; born
at Hampshire in 1504; died at Westminster,
December 23, 1556. He was educated at Ox¬
ford. From 1534 to 1543 he was master at Eton. In
1 555 he became master of Westminster School. He
was known as a severe schoolmaster; but he wrote
several plays for his pupils, one of which, Ralph Rois¬
ter Doister , is the earliest specimen of English com¬
edy. It was written before 1551, and it marks the
transition from the mysteries and interludes of the
Middle Ages to the comedies of modern times. The
play is divided into five acts, and the plot is amusing
and well constructed. The characters are of the mid¬
dle class.
FROM “ ROISTER DOISTER.”
Mathew Merygreke. Christian Custance. Trist
Trusty.
M. Mery .— Custance and Trustie both, I doe you here
well finde.
C. Custance .— Ah, Mathew Merygreke, ye haue vsed
me well.
M. Mery .— Nowe for altogether ye must your answere
tell.
( 43 )
44
NICHOLAS UDALL
Will ye have this man, woman? or else will ye not?
Else will he come neuer bore so brymme nor tost so hot.
Trist and Cu. — But why joyn ye with him?
T. Trusty. — For mirth.
C. Custance. — Or else in sadnesse.
M. Mery. — The more fond of you both hardly yat mater
gesse.
Tristram. — Lo, how say ye dame ?
M. Mery. — Why do ye think dame Custance
That in this wowyng I haue ment ought but pastance ?
C. Custance. — Much things ye spake, I wote, to main-
taine his dotage.
M. Mery. — But well might ye iudge I spake it all in
mockage !
For why? Is Roister Doister a fitte husband for you?
T. Trusty. — I dare say ye neuer thought it.
M. Mery. — No, to God I vow.
And dyd not I knowe afore of the infurance
Betweene Gawyn Goodlucke, and Christian Custance?
And dyd not I for the nonce, by my conueyance,
Reade his letter in a wrong sense for daliance?
That if you coulde haue take it vp at the first bounde,
We should thereat such a sporte and pastime haue founde.
That all the whole towne should haue ben the merrier.
C. Custance. — I’ll ake your heades both, I was neuer
werier,
Nor neuer more vexte since the first day I was borne.
T. Trusty. — But very well I wist he here did all in
scorne.
C. Custance. — But I feared thereof to take dishonestie.
M. Mery. — This should both haue made sport, and
shewed your honestie,
And Goodlucke I dare sweare, your wit'te therein would
low.
T. Trusty. — Yea, being no worse than we know it to
be now.
M. Mery. — And nothing yet to late, for when I come
to him,
Hither will he repair with a sheepes looke full grim,
By plaine force and violence to drive you to yelde.
NICHOLAS UDALL
45
C. Custance. — If ye two bidde me, we will with him
pitch a fielde,
I and my maids together.
M. Mery. — Let vs see, be bolde.
C. Custance. — Ye shall see womens warre.
T. Trusty. — That fight wil I behold.
M. Mery. — If occasion feme, takyng his parte full
brim
I will strike at you, but the rappe shall light on him
When we first appeare.
C. Custance. — Then will I runne away.
As though I were afeared.
T. Trusty. — Do you that part wel play
And I will sue for peace.
M. Mery. — And I will set him on.
Then wil he looke as fierce as a Cotssold lyon.
T. Trusty. — But when gost thou for him?
M. Mery. — That do I very no we
C. Custance. — Ye shal find vs here.
M. Mery. — Wel God haue mercy on you. [Exit.
T. Trusty. — There is no cause of feare, the least boy
in the streete.
C. Custance. — Nay, the least girle I haue will make
him take his feete.
But hearke, me thinke they make preparation.
T. Trusty. — No force it will be a good recreation.
C. Custance. — I will stand within, and steppe forth
speedily.
And so make as though I ranne away dreadfully.
Much of the language of Roister Doister is in long
and irregularly measured rhyme, of which a specimen
may be given from a speech of Dame Custance re¬
specting the difficulty of preserving a good reputation:
Lord, how necessary it is now of days
That each body live uprightly all manner ways,
For let never so little a gap be open,
And be sure of this, the worst shall be spoken.
How innocent stand I in this for deed or thought,
JOHANN LUDWIG UHLAND
40
And yet see what mistrust towards me it hath wrought,
But thou, Lord, knowest all folks’ thoughts and eke in¬
tents,
And thou art the deliverer of all innocents.
native town, studied law, and practiced in Stuttgart,
where he was connected with the Ministry of Justice.
In 1819 he became a member of the Wurtemberg As¬
sembly. He was Professor of German Language and
Literature at Tubingen from 1830 to 1833. He re¬
signed the professorship to take more active part in
the Diet as a liberal leader, but withdrew in 1839. In
1848 he became a member of the Frankfort Assembly.
He wrote poetry which appeared in periodicals as
early as 1806. His works include: Gedichte (1815) ;
the dramas Ernst von Schwaben and Ludwig der
Bayer (1817-19; 3d ed., 1863) ; Alte hoch und niedcr
dentsche Volkslieder (1844-45) J and Schriften zur
Geschichte der Dichtung und Sage (8 vols., 1865-73).
His poems have been translated by Longfellow, by
Alexander Platt (1844), and his Songs and Ballads
by W. W. Skeat (1864).
A CASTLE BY THE SEA.
Hast thou the castle seen,
That tov/ers near the sea?
In golden, rosy sheen
The clouds above it flee.
MIL AND, Johann Ludwig, a German poet
born at Tubingen, April 26, 1787; died there
November 13, 1862. He was educated in his
JOHANN LUDWIG UHLAND
47
Methinks it' fain would bend
Down o’er the crystal main,
Methinks it fain would rend
The golden clouds in twain.
“ Yes, I have seen it oft,
That castle on the strand,
The silver moon aloft,
And fogs upon the land.”
Did wind and Ocean’s wave
Breathe forth refreshing sound?
And in those halls above,
Did harp and song resound?
“ The winds, the billows all
In deepest stillness slept,
I heard within that hall
A song of wail, and wept.”
And sawest thou up there
The monarch and his queen?
The waving mantles’ glare?
The crown and jewels’ sheen?
With rapture led they none?
No gentle maiden fair,
In beauty like the sun,
Beaming with golden hair?
“ I saw them pacing slow,
No crown its pomp displayed,
They wept in weeds of woe;
I saw no lovely maid.”
— Translation of Alfred Baskerville.
THE LUCK OF EDENHALL.
Of Edenhall, the youthful Lord
Bids sound the festal trumpet’s call;
He rises at the banquet board,
48
JOHANN LUDWIG UHLAND
And cries, ’mid the drunken revellers all,
“ Now bring me the Luck of Edenhall! ”
The butler hears the words with pain,
The house’s oldest seneschal,
Takes slow from its silken cloth again
The drinking-glass of crystal tall;
They call it the Luck of Edenhall.
Then said the Lord: “ This glass to praise,
Fill with red wine from Portugal! ”
The graybeard with trembling hand obeys,
A purple light shines over all,
It beams from the Luck of Edenhall.
Then speaks the Lord, and waves it light:
“ This glass of flashing crystal tall
Gave to my sires the Fountain-sprite;
She wrote in it, If this glass doth fall,
Farezvell then, O Luck of Edenhall!
{ ‘ ’Twas right a goblet the Fate should be
Of the joyous race of Edenhall!
Deep draughts drink we right willingly;
And, willingly ring, with merry call,
Kling! klang! to the Luck of Edenhall! ”
First rings it deep, and full, and mild,
Like to the song of a nightingale;
Then like the roar of a torrent wild,
Then mutters at last like the thunder’s fall,
The glorious Luck of Edenhall.
“ For its keeper takes a race of might,
The fragile goblet of crystal tall;
It has lasted longer than is right,
Kling! klang! — with a harder blow than all
Will I try thy luck at Edenhall! ”
As the goblet ringing flies apart,
Suddenly cracks the vaulted hall;
JOHANN LUDWIG UHL AND
49
And through the rift, the wild flames start,
The guests in dust are scattered all,
With the breaking Luck of Edenhall!
In storms the foe, with fire and sword;
He in the night has scaled the wall,
Slain by the sword lies the youthful Lord,
But holds in his hands the crystal tall,
The shattered Luck of Edenhall!
On the morrow the butler gropes alone,
The graybeard in the desert hall,
He seeks his Lord’s burnt skeleton,
He seeks in the dismal ruin’s fall
The shards of the Luck of Edenhall.
“ The stone wall,” saith he, “ doth fall aside,
Down must the stately columns fall;
Glass in this earth’s Luck and Pride;
In atoms shall fall this earthly ball
One day like the Luck of Edenhall! ”
— Translation of Longfellow.
THE PASSAGE.
Many a year is in its grave,
Since I crossed this restless wave;
And the evening, fair as ever,
Shines on ruin, rock, and river.
Then in the same boat beside
Sat two comrades old and tried —
One with all a father’s truth,
One with all the fire of youth.
One on earth in silence wrought.
And his grave in silence sought;
But the younger, brighter form
Passed in battle and in storm.
Vol. XXIII.—4
50
JOHANN LUDWIG UHLAND
So whene’er I turn my eye
Back upon the days gone by,
Saddening thoughts of friends come o’er me.
Friends that closed their course before me.
But what binds us, friend to friend,
But that soul with soul can blend?
Soul-like were those hours of yore;
Let us walk in soul once more.
Take, O boatman, thrice thy fee,—
Take, I give it willingly;
For, invisible to thee,
Spirits twain have crossed with me.
— Translation of Longfellow.
a mother’s grave.
A grave, oh, Mother, has been dug for thee
Within a still, to thee, a well-known place.
A shadow, all its own, above shall be,
And flowers, its threshold, too, shall ever grace.
And, even, as thou died’st, so in thy urn
Thou’lt lie unconscious of both joy and smart;
And, daily, to my thoughts shalt thou return,
I dig, for thee, this grave within my heart.
— Translation of Frederick W. Ricord.
GIANTS AND DWARFS.
From her father’s lofty castle upon the mountain side,
One day into the valley the giant’s daughter hied.
A plough and yoke of oxen she happened there to find,
And a peasant who contentedly was trudging on behind.
Giants and dwarfs!
The oxen, plough and peasant to her seemed very small,
So she took them in her apron to the castle, one and all.
“What have you there, my daughter?” said the giant,
turning pale.
JOHANN LUDWIG UHLAND
5i
“ Some pretty playthings, papa, that I found down in the
vale.”
Giants and dwarfs!
“ Pick up your pretty playthings, my dear, and take them
back,
Or else some day our larder its stock of food may lack!
The dwarfs must plough the valleys, or the valleys grow
no wheat;
And the giants of the mountains would have then no
bread to eat.”
Giants and dwarfs!
— Translation of L. F. Starrett.
THE LOST CHURCH.
A muffled tolling in the air
Is heard far down the wood’s recesses;
None knows when first it sounded there,
Its cause tradition dimly guesses.
Of the Lost Church the chimes, ’tis said,
Swell on the breeze through these lone places;
Here once a crowded footpath led,
But no man now can find its traces.
As late that woodland’s depths I trod,
Where now no beaten track extended,
And from this troublous time to God
My yearning soul in prayer ascended,
When all the wilderness was stilled,
I heard again that airy tolling;
The higher my devotion swelled
More near and clear the waves came rolling.
My spirit was so snatched away,
Inward so far the sound upbore me,
That to this hour I cannot say
What strange, unearthly spell was o’er me.
More than a hundred years had fled,
Methought, while I had thus been dreaming,
0* oi: sul ua'
5-2
JOHANN LUDWIG UHLAND
When through the clouds above my head
Broke a free space, like noontide gleaming.
The heavens looked down so darkly blue,
So full and bright the sun was beaming,
And a proud minster, full in view,
Stood in the golden lustre gleaming.
Methought bright clouds, like wings, upbore
The stately pile, while ever higher
Seemed through the blessed heavens to soar,
Till lost to sight, the sparkling spire.
I heard the bell with rapturous clang
Thrill down through all the trembling tower;
Swayed by no human hand it rang,
But by a holy tempest’s power.
The storm and stream my spirit swept
Aloft as on a billowy ocean,
Till ’neath that lofty dome I stept,
With trembling tread and glad emotion.
How in those halls to me it seemed
Can never in my words be painted;
How darkly clear the windows gleamed
With forms of all the martyrs sainted.
Then saw I, filled with wondrous light,
Glow into life these pictured splendors;
A world was opened to my sight
Of holy women — Faith’s defenders.
As, thrilled with holy love and awe,
I fell before the altar kneeling,
Behold! high over me I saw
Heaven’s glory painted on the ceiling.
But when I raised my eyes once more,
The arch had burst with silent thunder;
Wide open flung was heaven’s high door,
And every veil was rent asunder.
What majesty I now beheld,
In still, adoring wonder bending,
JOHANN LUDWIG UHL AND
S3
Upon my ear what music swelled,
Both trump and organ notes transcending;
No word of man hath power to tell;
Who yearns to know and vainly guesses,
Give heed to that mysterious bell
That toils far down the wood’s recesses.
— Translation of C. T. Brooks.
THE BEGGAR.
A Beggar through the world so wide,
I wander all alone;
Yet once a brighter fate was mine,
In days that long have flown.
Within my father’s home I grew,
A happy child and free;
But ah ! the heritage of want
Is all he left to me.
The gardens of the rich I view,
The fields with bounty spread;
My path is through the fruitless way,
Where toil and sorrow tread.
And yet amidst the joyous throng,
The joys of all I share,
With willing heart' I wait, and hide
My secret load of care.
O blessed God ! I am not left
An exile from thy love;
On all the world thy smiles descend
In mercy from above.
In every valley still I find
The temples of thy grace,
Where organ notes and choral songs
With music fill the place.
JOHANN LUDWIG ULILAND
For me the sun, the moon, the stars,
Reveal their holy rays,
And when the vespers call to prayer,
My heart ascends in praise.
Some time, I know, the gates of bliss
Will open to the blest,
And I, in marriage garments clad,
Shall rise a welcome guest.
— Translation of William A. Butler.
THE JOURNEY HOME.
O break not, bridge that trembles so!
O fall not, rock that threat’nest woe !
Earth, sink not down; thou, heav’n, abide
Until I reach my loved one’s side !
— Translation of W. W. Skeat.
THE VENGEANCE.
The squire hath murdered his knight for gold;
The squire would fain be a warrior bold.
He slew him by night upon a drear field,
And in the deep Rhine his body concealed.
He braced on the armor, so heavy and bright,
And mounted the steed of his master, the knight.
And as he rode over a bridge ’cross the Rhine
The charger ’gan fiercely to rear and to whine.
As the golden spurs in the flanks did go,
The squire was cast' in the stream’s wild flow.
With foot and with hand he struggles in vain,
By the armor drawn down, he ne’er rises again.
— Translation of Henry Phillips, Jr.
JOHANN LUDWIG UHLAND
55
THE HOSTESS'S DAUGHTER.
Three students had crossed o’er the Rhine’s dark tide,
At the door of a hostel they turned aside.
“ Hast thou, Dame Hostess, good ale and wine ?
And where is thy daughter so sweet and fine?”
“ My ale and wine are cool and clear;
On her death-bed lieth my daughter dear.”
And when to the chamber they made their way,
In a sable coffin the damsel lay.
The first — the veil from her face he took,
And gazed upon her with mournful look.
“ Alas ! fair maiden — didst thou still live,
To thee my love would I henceforth give ! ”
The second — he lightly replaced the shroud,
Then round he turned him, and wept aloud:
“ Thou liest, alas! on thy death-bed here,
I loved thee fondly for many a year !
The third — he lifted again the veil,
And gently he kissed those lips so pale;
“ I love thee now, as I loved of yore,
And thus will I love thee for evermore! ”
— Translation of W. W. Skeat.
THE MINSTREL’S CURSE.
There stood in olden times a castle, tall and grand,
Far shone it o’er the plain, e’en to the blue sea’s strand,
And round its garden wove a wreath of fragrant flowers,
In rainbow radiance played cool fountains ’mid the bowers.
56
JOHANN LUDWIG UHLAND
There sat a haughty king, in victories rich and lands,
He sat enthroned so pale, and issued stern commands;
For what he broods is terror, rage his eyeballs lights,
And scourge is what he speaks, and blood is what he
writes.
Once to this castle went a noble minstrel pair,
The one with golden locks, and gray the other’s hair;
The old man, with his harp, a noble charger rode
And gayly at his side his blooming comrade strode.
The old man to the stripling spake: “ Prepare my son !
Bethink our deepest songs, awake the fullest tone,
Nerve all thy strength, and sing of grief as well as love !
Our task is the proud monarch’s stony heart to move.”
Now in the pillared hall the minstrels stand serene,
And on the throne there sit the monarch and his queen;
The king, in awful pomp, like the red north-light’s sheen,
So mild and gentle, like the full moon, sat the queen.
The old man struck the chords, he struck them wondrous
well —
Upon the ear the tones e’er rich and richer swell;
Then streamed with heavenly tones the stripling’s voice
of fire,
The old man’s voice replied, like spirits’ hollow choir.
They sing of spring and love, the golden time they bless
Of freedom, and of honor, faith, and holiness.
They sing of all the joys that in the bosom thrill,
With heart-exalting strains the gilded halls they fill.
The crowd of courtiers round forget their scoffing how,
The king’s bold warriors to God in meekness bow,
The queen dissolved in raptures, and in sadness sweet
The rose upon her breast casts at the minstrel’s feet.
“ My people led astray, and now you tempt my queen! ”
The monarch, trembling, cried, and rage flashed in his
mien.
JOHANN LUDWIG UHLAND
He hurled his sword, it pierced the stripling as it gleamed,
Instead of golden songs a purple torrent streamed.
Then was the host of hearers scattered as by storm.
The minstrel’s outspread arms received the lifeless form;
He wraps his mantle round him, sets him on his steed,
He binds him upright, fast, and leaves the hall with speed.
But at the portal’s arch the aged minstrel stands,
His harp of matchless fame he seized with both his hands,
And ’gainst a marble pillar dashing it, he cries,
Resounding through the hall the trembling echo flies:
“ Woe be to thee, proud pile, may ne’er sweet music’s
strain
Amid thy halls resound, nor song, nor harp again!
No! sighs alone, and sobs, and slaves that bow their
head,
Till thee to dust and ashes the God of vengeance tread!
“Ye perfumed gardens, too, in May-day’s golden light,
Gaze here upon the corpse with horror and affright,
That ye may parch and fade, your every source be sealed,
That you in time to come may lie a barren field.
“ Woe, murderer, to thee ! let' minstrels curse thy name!
In vain shall be thy wish for bloody wreaths of fame;
And be thy name forgot, in deep oblivion veiled,
Be like a dying breath, in empty air exhaled! ”
The old man cried aloud, and Heaven heard the sound:
The walls a heap of stones, the pile bestrews the ground;
One pillar stands alone, a wreck of vanished might,
And that, too, rent in twain, may fall e’er dawn of night.
Around,, where gardens smiled, a barren desert land, «
No tree spreads there its shade, no fountains pierce the
sand,
Nor of this monarch’s name speaks song or epic verse;
Extinguish’d and forgot! such is the Minstrel’s Curse.
— Translation of A. Baskerville.
58
LOUIS UlBACH
fLBACH, Louis, a French poet and novelist;
born at Troyes in 1822; died April 16, 1889.
For many years he was connected with Uln -
dependence Beige; in 1852 he became editor of the
Revue de Paris, and in 1876 of the Ralliement. In
1877 he was decorated with the Cross of the Legion
of Honor. Among his works are Gloriana, a volume
of poems (1844); Lettres d’une Honnete Femme
(1873); Le Marteau d’Acier (1873); Le Sacrifice
d’Aurelie (1873) ; La Ronde de Nuit (1874) ; Le
Livre d’une Mere (1875) 1 Aventures de Trois Gran-
des Dames de la Cour de Vienne (1876) ; Le Baron
Americain (1876) ; Le Comte Orphee (1878) ; Mine.
Gosselin (1878). Several of his works have been
translated into English, among which is The Steel
Hammer, translated in 1888.
THE VERDICT.
Emilienne listened to it all. Her ears caught the dread¬
ful words. People near her lowered their voices a little;
but she heard them through the hum; and the pale Christ
over the seat of judgment, smitten afresh by the dreadful
talk around Him, seemed to her to sweat drops of blood
in Flis oaken frame.
She had remained leaning on the balustrade, her elbows
resting on the wood, silent, motionless, savage, and em¬
bittered, thinking how she could visit her anger on all
mankind, and on the law itself, if the blow she appre¬
hended should fall on her innocent husband.
The platform, now quitted by the judges, left full in
her view Madame de Monterey; and now the two wives
looked at each other.
Gabrielle knew nothing of what was being said around
Emilienne, but she observed upon her face the reflection
of each horrible word. She saw her petrified by a horror
LOUIS ULBACH
59
that froze all her limbs, and she herself quivered with
anxiety.
Gaston, nailed as it were upon his seat, for he had not
dared to leave the court-room, was biting his nails furi¬
ously. He looked every minute or two at his watch, or
cast suspicious glances to right and left of him, as if he
were afraid that somebody would feel astonished at his
keeping his seat, now that he had no more part in the
trial, but carefully avoiding looking straight before him
in the direction of the platform. A judge sat there for
him, and him alone, and that judge was Gabrielle.
He thought the court-room suffocating. Drops stood
upon his forehead. He did not wipe them off; so that he
might have been said to weep at every pore.
At the end of three-quarters of an hour, the ringing of
a bell made everybody start. Gaston folded his arms,
Gabrielle clasped her hands tighter, and Emilienne
clutched more firmly the balustrade.
The jurors came back.
They did not look so very terrible. None of them was
pale. That, at least, was a good sign.
The foreman of the jury held with dignity before his
breast a large sheet of paper, on which the verdict was
written. If the paper had been bloodstained, surely so
good a man (a worker in bronze, he was in the Marais)
could not have pressed it, as he was doing, to his heart.
The judges came in.
All these details, which I have not invented, and which
form part of the every-day proceedings in a law-court,
seem to me indispensable to the atmosphere of the drama.
There was a. deep silence — a silence as if everything
held its breath, and the presiding judge requested the fore¬
man of the jury to read the verdict.
Jean, who had been brought in at the same time as the
judges entered, stood up, with his eyes fixed on his wife,
and pale as death.
The foreman of the jury placed his hand upon his heart,
which seemed to have an escutcheon or placard over it,
for the pocket-book in his pocket made a square outline
on the left side of his coat, and, in an official voice he
read:
6o
LOUIS ULBACH
“ On my honor and my conscience, before God and be¬
fore men, the verdict of the jury is — Yes; the majority
decide that the prisoner is guilty ! ”
As a murmur rose, the artisan in bronze, who was not
of bronze himself, hastened to add:
“ The majority of us consider that there are extenuating
circumstances in favor of the prisoner.”
Jean fell back in his seat, utterly overcome.
Emilienne had been about to utter a cry, but she re¬
strained herself with all her strength. What was the use
of giving those spectators who had come there to look on
grief the pleasure of seeing her despair? . . .
The imperial prosecutor demanded sentence. The pre¬
siding judge then asked the prisoner’s counsel if he had
anything more to say.
“ I recommend Jean Mortier to the indulgence of the
court,” said the lawyer, gathering up his papers, and in
the commonplace tone in which a priest, accustomed to
death-beds, says a requiem over a dead body as he is about
to go away
The judges had no need to retire to their chamber to
consult together. They rose, drew somewhat apart, and
talked in whispers. The chief judge, like the officiating
priest when he says the confession in the beginning of the
mass, bowed right and left to those around him, and they,
like the lesser clergy in the service, bent toward him and
bowed to him.
After that Jean Mortier’s affair was ended.
The judge went back to his place, put on his cap (the
cap adds to his infallibility), and after reading the articles
of the code sufficiently abridged for the purpose, gave sen¬
tence, condemning Jean Mortier to fifteen years’ hard la¬
bor at the galleys.
This was not a severe sentence for so great a crime.
“ Prisoner, you have three days left to make your ap¬
peal for a new trial to the cour de cassation ” said the chief
judge, mildly.
Jean remained standing, not stupefied, but thunderstruck,
and trying to care nothing for the thunderbolt. He re¬
membered the words of the verdict; it had hit him like an
arrow in his face, and imitating, unconsciously, the for-
ULFILAS
61
mula of the foreman of the jury, he laid his hand upon
his heart and said, loudly:
“ On my honor and my conscience, before God and be¬
fore men, I swear that I am innocent. I refuse any ex¬
tenuating circumstances, I refuse to appeal, I refuse the
galleys. I commit my cause to God, Who will judge you
all, and will some day make manifest the real murderer,
when it is too late.”
Some newspapers blamed this speech, saying it was too
theatrical not to be the utterance of a hypocrite.
Jean turned toward his wife.
“ Farewell, my Emilienne ! ”
That possessive pronoun uttered at the moment when
wife and child and property and all things else ceased to
be his, appeared also a bravado.
Jean quickly left the court-room, dragged out by the
gendarmes, not hearing or not listening to his wife, who
cried after him:
“Aurevoir! Au revoir! ”
The crowd heard her, and were differently impressed
by this supreme protest'.
People stood aside to let Emilienne pass. She had come
there alone, and alone she went away. All her limbs
trembled, but she did not faint, and without supporting
herself by the wall she went down the staircase of the
cour a’assizes, and hastened with a quick step toward the
conciergerie .— The Steel Hammer; translation of E. W.
Latimer.
a LFILAS, or WULFILA (“ Little Wolf”),
a Gothic bishop and translator of the Bible,
born in 311 a.d. ; died at Constantinople in
381. His parents were Christians from Cappadocia.
At the Synod of Antioch in 341, he was consecrated
Bishop of the Arian Goths, who lived north of the
lower Danube. LHfilas preached in Latin, Greek, and
62
ULFILAS
Gothic, translating the Scriptures into the latter
tongue, for which it became necessary to supplement
the Greek alphabet with Gothic runes. The manu¬
script of the translation was lost for a time, but part
of it was found during the sixteenth century. The
Book of Kings, however, is missing and may never
have been translated. There are extant the greater
portion of the Gospels, a large portion of the Epistles,
and fragments of the Old Testament. The original
work shows evidences of having been done by various
hands, but doubtless all under the supervision of Ul-
filas. This translation is highly prized by philolo¬
gists, the Gothic grammar being of priceless value in
the history of human speech. It is three centuries
earlier than any other specimen of Teutonic language
in existence. The principal portion is the Codex Ar-
genteus, in the university library at Upsala, Sweden,
which is written in silver characters on a purple
ground. Other fragments are preserved at Wolfen-
biittel, Germany, and at Milan and Turin. In these
old manuscripts are many inflections which have since
been lost, and words which give us the clew to rela¬
tionships otherwise untraceable, and with phrases
which cast a strong light on the joyous youth of the
Teutonic people.
ULFILAS’S CREED.
(Included in His Will.)
I, Ulfila, bishop and confessor, have ever thus believed,
and in this alone true faith make my testament to my
Lord: I believe that there is one God the Father, alone
unbegotten and invisible; and I believe in His only begot¬
ten Son, our Lord and our God, Artificer and Maker of
the whole creation, having none like Himself. Therefore,
there is one God of all [the Father], who is also God of
GEORGE PUTNAM UPTON
63
our God [the Son]. And I believe in one Holy Spirit, an
enlightening and sanctifying power, even as Christ said
to His Apostles, “ Behold, I send the promise of My
Father in you; but tarry ye at Jerusalem till ye shall be
endued with power from on high,” and again, “ Ye shall
receive power when the Holy Spirit' is come upon you; ”
and this Holy Spirit is neither God nor Lord, but the
servant of Christ, subject and obedient in all things to
the Father—[The conclusion of the sentence is want¬
ing.
^sy^PTON, George Putnam, an American journal-
^ ist, critic and translator; born at Roxbury,
Mass., October 25, 1834. He was educated
in the schools of Roxbury and at Brown University,
from which he graduated in 1854. In October, 1855,
he went to Chicago and became connected with the
Chicago National Citizen, later with the Chicago Even¬
ing Journal, and from 1862 to 1871 was literary, art,
musical and dramatic critic on the Chicago Tribune.
Since 1871 he has been an editorial writer on that
paper. Among his earlier publications are Letters of
Peregrine Pickle (1869), and History of the Chicago
Fire (1872). His later works include Woman in
Music (1880) ; translation of Max Muller’s Deutsche
Licbc (1880) ; translations of Ludwig Nohl’s Lives of
Beethoven, Haydn, Liszt and Wagner (1884) ; Stand¬
ard Operas (1885); Standard Oratorios (1886);
Standard Cantatas (1887); Standard Symphonies
(1888). Mr. Upton has also been a frequent con¬
tributor to periodical literature.
6 4
GEORGE PUTNAM UPTON
WOMAN NOT A COMPOSER.
Why is it, then, that woman, who possesses all these
attributes in a more marked degree than man, who is the
inspiration of love, who has a more powerful and at the
same time more delicate emotional force than man, who
is artistic by temperament, whose whole organism is sen¬
sitively strung, and who is religious by nature — why is it
that woman, with all these musical elements in her nature,
is receptive rather than creative? Why is it that music
only comes to her as a balm, a rest, or a solace of
happiness among her pleasures and her sorrows, her corn-
monplaces and her conventionalities, and that it does not
find its highest sources in her? In other fields of art
woman has been creative. Rosa Bonheur is man’s equal
upon canvas. Harriet Hosmer has made the marble live
with a man’s truth and force and skill. Mrs. Browning
in poetry, Mary Somerville and Caroline Herschel in sci¬
ence, George Sand, Charlotte Bronte and Madame de
Stael in fiction, have successfully rivalled man in their
fields of labor; while George Eliot, with almost more than
masculine force, has grappled with the most abstruse prob¬
lems of human life, and though an agnostic has cour¬
ageously sifted the doubts of science and latter-day cul¬
tured unbelief, and plucked many a rose of blessing for
suffering humanity from amid its storms of sorrow and
pain. . . .
There is another phase of the feminine character which
may bear upon the solution of this problem; and that is
the inability of woman to endure the discouragements of
the composer, and to battle with the prejudice and indiT
ference, and sometimes with the malicious opposition of
the world, that obstruct his progress. The lives of the
great composers, with scarcely an exception, were spent
in constant struggle, and saddened with discouragements,
disappointments, the pinching of poverty, the jealousies of
rivals, or the contemptuous indifference of contemporaries.
Beethoven struggled all his life with adverse fate. Schu¬
bert’s music was hardly known in his lifetime, and his
best works were not fairly recognized until after his death.
GEORGE PUTNAM UPTON
65
Schumann is hardly yet known. There is scarcely a more
pitiable picture than that of the great Handel struggling
against the malicious cabals of petty and insignificant rivals
for popular favor who now are scarcely known even by
name. Mozart’s life was a constant warfare; and when
this wonderful child of genius went to his grave in the
paupers’ quarter of the church-yard of St. Marx, he went
alone — not one friend accompanied him, and no one
knows to this day where he sleeps. Berlioz’s music is
just beginning to be played in his native country. Wag¬
ner fought the world all his life with indomitable courage
and persistence, and died before he had established a per¬
manent place for his music. There is scarcely a com¬
poser known to fame, and whose works are destined to
endure, who lived long enough to see his music appre¬
ciated and accepted by the world for what it was really
worth. Such fierce struggles and overwhelming discour¬
agements, such pitiless storms of fate and cruel assaults
of poverty, in the pursuit of art, woman is not calculated
to endure. If her triumph could be instant; if work after
work were not to be assailed, scoffed at, and rejected; if
she were not liable to personal abuse, to the indifference
of her sex on the one hand and masculine injustice on
the other — there would be more hope for her success in
composition; but instant triumphs are not the rewards of
great composers. The laurels of success may decorate
their graves, placed there by the applauding hands of ad¬
miring posterity, but rarely crown their brows.— Woman
in Music.
BEETHOVEN.
A general sketch of the life and musical accomplish¬
ments of Beethoven has already appeared in the com¬
panion to this work, The Standard Operas. In this con¬
nection, however, it seems eminently fitting that some
attention should be paid to the religious sentiments of the
great composer and the sacred works which he produced.
He was a formal member of the Roman Church, but at
the same time an ardent admirer of some of the Protestant
doctrines. His religious observances, however, were pe¬
culiarly his OAvn. His creed had little in common with
Vol. XXIII.—5
66
GEORGE PUTNAM UPTON
any of the ordinary forms of Christianity. A writer in
Macmillan’s Magazine some years ago very clearly de-
fined his religious position in the statement that his faith
rested on a pantheistic abstraction which he called “ Love.”
He interpreted everything by the light of this sentiment,
which took the form of an endless longing, sometimes
deeply sad, at others rising to the highest exaltation. An
illustration of this in its widest sense may be found in
the choral part of the Ninth Symphony. He at times
attempted to give verbal expression to this ecstatic faith
which filled him, and at such times he reminds us of the
Mystics. The following passages, which he took from
the inscription on the temple of the Egyptian goddess
Neith at Sais, and called his creed, explain this: “I am
that which is. I am all that is, that was, and that shall
be. No mortal man hath lifted my veil. He is alone by
Himself, and to Him alone do all things owe their being.”
With all this mysticism his theology was practical, as is
shown by his criticism of the words which Moscheles ap¬
pended to his arrangement of “ Fidelio.” The latter wrote
at the close of his work: u Fine, with God’s help.” Bee¬
thoven added: “ O man! help thyself.” That he was
deeply religious by nature, however, is constantly shown
in his letters. Wandering alone at evening among the
mountains, he sketched a hymn to the words, “ God alone
is our Lord.” In the extraordinary letter which he wrote
to his brothers, Carl and Johann, he says: “ God looks
into my heart. He searches it, and knows that love for
man and feelings of benevolence have their abode there.”
In a letter to Bettina von Arnim, he writes: “If I am
spared for some years to come, I will thank the Omnipo¬
tent for the boon, as I do for all other weal and woe.”—
The Standard Oratorios.
DAVID URQUHART
67
S RQUHART, David, a British publicist; born in
Bracklanwell, county of Cromarty, in 1805;
died at Naples, Italy, May 16, 1877. He was
educated at Oxford, traveled in the East, and was
appointed Secretary of Legation at Constantinople, re¬
turning to England in 1836. In 1847 he was elected
to Parliament from Stafford, but was not re-elected
in 1852. Among his works are: Observations on Eu¬
ropean Turkey (1831) ; Turkey and its Resources
( 1 & 33 ) 1 Spirit of the East (1838) ; The Pillars of Her-
cules, a Narrative of Travels in Spain and Morocco
(1850); The Progress of Russia (1853), and The
Lebanon (i860).
THE CEDARS OF GOD.
How accurate the Prophet’s description: “ A cedar in
Lebanon with fair branches, with a shadowy shroud and
of high stature, and his top was among the thick boughs.”
In presence of our ancient British oaks, I have felt awe¬
struck with the thought that the tread of Roman legions
had echoed from their boughs. What then must' one feel
beneath tabernacles of verdure planted at the beginning
of time, and standing now; in vigor equal to attempting a
race with futurity as long as that which they have already
run. Then, too, insects of human spawn, hatched and
harvested in a day, may snatch an hour from their scanty
reckoning amidst their noisy fellows, to wander in the
shade or shadows of 12,000 years, and wonder at the story
of four hundred generations which they have seen and
will see.
I have spoken as yet but of one cedar. What', then,
was the grove ? It was of trees of the same species in¬
deed, but of ordinary dimensions, and these shot straight
up as we see in the so-called cedars brought to Europe;
there was no block and no parting off of branches; this
peculiarity belonged only to the antediluvian breed. The
68
DAVID URQUHART
Titans only had the arms of Briareus. Elsewhere I found
more of these vast vegetable polypi: they are chiefly on
the top of the hill, perhaps ten in all. Of these two ap¬
proach their fall; one by being burnt at the root, the other
breached by the storm. Three more are unsound; two
only are in their prime, and to them it belongs to convey
to future times an idea of the giant brood; if indeed they
be not soon killed while the miscreant habit obtains of
stripping off the bark for fools to write their names.
A French writer, in 1725, whose work I saw at the
Jesuit convent at Gazir, estimates then the old trees at
twenty. Thus one-half have been used up in a century
by tourists for an album. There are perhaps thirty more
which would take four men to girth, and which may be
two or three thousand years old. The remainder, which
may amount to five thousand, are of smaller dimensions,
though none seems to be younger than a couple of cen¬
turies : These are the character of the old species. The
trunk divides at from ten to twenty feet from the ground;
the branches contorted and snake-like, spread out as from
a centre, and give to the tree the figure of a dome. The
leaf-bearing boughs spread horizontally; the leaves are
spiculae, point upward, growing from the bough like grass
from the earth. These spicuke are thick and short, about
an inch in length. The cones stand up in like manner,
and are seen in rows above the straight boughs. The
cones contain seeds like the cone of the snow-bar. The
timber is in color like the red pine, with a shade of brown.
It is close-grained and extremely hard. No worm touches
it, and the centre of the largest trees seems solid. It is
considered the most durable of woods. In the destruction
of Antioch, Tyre, and other places, in the time of the Cru¬
saders, the beams of cedar are enumerated and mourned
over, as are the vessels of gold and silver and the glass of
Tyre. Many of these must have been from the time of
Hiram and Solomon. They burn without smoke, and emit
the perfume of frankincense.
I made a fire of cedar-wood, but with the fragments
around, and half-burned trunks. I lighted a flame amid
the snow, which filled the wood with its oven perfume.
The light smoke hung in the boughs, as vapor of amber
DAVID URQVHART
69
and opal, and then from the clear flame a perpendicular
mirage arose, through which danced snow, foliage, and
sky, as if seen through an atmosphere of boiling glass.
Their name in Arabic is Arz. They are called Arz Leb-
nan, Arz Allah, Arz Mobarik; the Arz of Lebanon, the
Arz of God, the blessed Arz. The sacred character is,
however, not solely derived from their form and position:
it must be attributed also to their solitariness. At present
to visit them constitutes a pilgrimage. There is, besides,
the mystery. A plant that stands alive before you and
yearly produces its seed, and which yet cannot be repro¬
duced by means of that seed, is something out of the order
of nature. That in the time of the Prophets they were
confined to this district, the Old Testament informs us;
that to-day they are to be found nowhere else, any trav¬
eler’s eyes may tell him.— The Lebanon.
V
» ALAORITIS, Aristoteles, a Greek poet and
patriot; born at Santa Maura, Ionian Isles,
September 13, 1824 ; died near Santa Maura,
in September, 1879. He was educated first in the
Ionian Isles, and subsequently at a school in Geneva.
Later he went to Paris, but the Northern climate was
too severe for his constitution, and he completed his
studies at the university of Pisa. In 1850 he returned
to Santa Maura. An ardent and active Plellene, he
was among those deputies in the Ionian chamber who
never ceased to combat the British Protectorate. It
was he who drew up and presented, in 1862, to the
Lord High Commissioner the declaration in which the
representatives of the Ionian Islands petitioned for
their union with Greece; and he was shortly afterward
elected a representative in the National Chamber at
Athens.
Valaoritis wrote a number of poems in early youth;
but a published collection, which indicated certain
promise, was not followed by any further volume until
he had reached the age of thirty-two. In 1857 ap¬
peared the famous volume known as the Mnemosyna.
His later poems approach even more closely than his
early ones those popular songs which were his chief
(70)
V ALAORITIS
7 1
inspiration. It is not easy to find an exact English
equivalent for the title Mnemosyna, as the commemo¬
rative services for the dead which it is used to indicate
in Greek are unknown among us; the nearest transla¬
tion would perhaps be “ Memorial Poems,” and as such
the collection includes elegies recording personal losses
and odes commemorating the heroes and forerunners
of Greek independence.
Of the following extracts — translated by Rennell
Rodd — the former is from a poem which tells of the
heroic self-immolation of the priest Samuel, known
as “ the prophet of Kiapha,” who, in 1803, refusing to
leave the abandoned fortress of Kounghi, remained
with five wounded pallikars to await the advance of
the enemy. They gathered all the remaining powder
together in the chapel, and as the soldiers advanced,
Samuel administered the communion to his five com¬
rades ; then, as the strokes of the invaders fell upon
the door, he fired the magazine and was buried with
the foe in the ruins of Kounghi.
THE VICTORY OF GOD.
The first’ has partaken, the second has partaken,
He has given it to the third; the fourth has received it,
He stands before the last one, and offers it to him;
And as the priest’s melodious voice intoned the
“ Of Thy mysterious banquet
To-day, O Son of God-”
Voices broke in, blows on the door, loud tumult;
The infidels press round: “ Now, mark, what dost thou
here ? ”
Samuel lifted his eyes up at the sound,
And from the spoon poised high above the barrel
Let fall thereon an awful drop of consecrated blood:
Then broke the lightning shock, the great world thun¬
dered,
72
V ALAORITIS
The church showed one red flash upon the clouds, one red
flash, dusky Kounghi!
Ah, what a funeral fire on this her day of doom
Had ill-starred Suli, what smoke of what frankincense!
Then seemed to mount up skyward the monk’s dark cas¬
sock,
And spread and ever spread like an awful cloud of gloom.
Like a great, black cloud it spread and blotted out the
sun;
And as the smoke kept rising that bore it in its train
The robe went sailing on and swept by like the shadow of
death;
And wherever its terrible shadow passed on its way
Like a mysterious fire it set the woods aflame.
Yet with the first few thunderstorms, and after the new
rains,
A green grass sprang again there, laurel and olive and
myrtle,
Hopes, victories and battles, and liberty and joy.
— From Mnemosyna.
THE VISION OF THANASE THE MARTYR.
The eye of God that never shuts kept vigil also;
And suddenly there came in their thousands round Tha¬
nase
The mighty spirits from another world,
With the symbols of their ancient martyrdom, their man¬
liness of old,
And they kissed him on the forehead and breathed new
vigor through him;
And o’er his gloomy prison they, in their azure stoles,
Spread wide their wings abroad, and opened round above
him
The deeps of heaven infinite, and starred them o’er
With memories immortal and sweet perfumes from the
grave.
— From the Fourth Canto of Thanase Diakos, in
Mnemosyna -
ARMANDO PAL AC 10 VALDES
73
^-^ALDES, Armando Palacio, a Spanish novelist
and critic; born at Madrid in 1859. A good
VT'Jl representative, though not in all respects the
highest, of the new school of Spanish fiction, he is
natural, graphic, full of life and color, and might be
called an idealizing realist. His novels are El Senorito
Octavio, Marta y Maria (transited with the title Mar¬
quis of Penalta in 1886) ; El Idilio de un Enfermo
(Invalid); Aguas Fuertas (Strong Waters — stories
and sketches) ; Jose, Riverita, Maximina (translated in
1888 — a sequel to Riverita, and commended as a book
that makes goodness interesting), El Cuarto Podcr
(The Fourth Estate) ; La Hermana San Sulpicio (Sis¬
ter St. Sulpice — translated in 1890); and Espuma
(Froth). The translations here noted are by Nathan
Haskell Dole, of Boston. In explanation of the fol¬
lowing selection, it should be stated that Sister St.
Sulpice, her own name Gloria, had taken but a tem¬
porary vow of two years in the convent. The critical
works of Valdes are Los Oradores del Ateneo; Los
Novelistas Espanoles; Neuve Viaje al Parnaso; and
La Literature en 1881 (in collaboration).
SEVILLE.
Walking through the streets of Seville at that time of
the evening was like visiting at the houses. Families and
their callers gathered in the patios, and there was an ex¬
cellent view of the patios from the streets through the
screen doors. I saw young ladies in thin dresses, rocking
back and forth in their American chairs, their black hair
braided and decorated with some bright-colored flower,
while their beaux, lolling unceremoniously in easy-chairs,
chatted with them in low tones or fanned them. I heard
their cries, their laughter, their piquant phrases.
74
ARMANDO PAL AC 10 VALDES
In some of the court-yards they were playing the guitar
and singing merry malaguenas or melancholy peteneras,
with prolonged, mournful notes, interrupted by the olcs!
and clapping of hands among the hearers.
In others, two or three young girls would be dancing
seguidillas; the castanets clacked merrily; the silhouettes
of the dancers floated back and forth across the screen
door in attitudes now haughty, now languid and languish¬
ing, always provocative, full of voluptuous promises.
Those were the patios which might be called tradi¬
tional.
There were others, also, in modern style or modernized,
where fashionable waltzes were played on the pianoforte
or the more popular pieces from the zarzuelas or ope¬
rettas recently performed in Madrid, unless, indeed, they
sang the Vorrei Morir, or the La Stella Confident e, or
some other of the pieces composed by the Italians for the
enjoyment of sympathetic families of the middle classes.
There were, finally, also those of mysterious character,
where the light was always soberly reduced to a minimum,
silent and sad in appearance; by close attention one might
see by the half-light that reigned amid the leaves of the
plants the form of some loving couple, and if the passer¬
by walked softly or paused, perhaps his ear might catch
the soft, tender sound of a kiss, though I would not vouch
for it.
Everywhere the strong floods of light that poured out
from the patios, the noise and uproar that came from
out the grated doors, filled the street with animation, and
spread through the city an atmosphere of cordiality and
gayety.
It was the life of the south, free, gushing, expansive,
unafraid of the curious gaze of the passer-by, rather de¬
sirous of it, and proud of satisfying it, where still is spread
abroad, although so many centuries have passed, the senti¬
ment of hospitality, the religion of the Arabs.
At such a time Seville presents a magic spectacle; an
enchantment disturbing to the mind and conducive to
visions. It seemed as if one were present in a strange,
transparent city, an immense cosmorama such as dis¬
turbs our fancy when we are children, and awakens itj
ARMANDO PALACIO VALDES
75
the heart irresistible desires to fly to other mysterious and
poetic regions.
I breathed intoxicating odors; not the slightest stir
cooled the brow. My steps grew shorter and slower as
I wandered dizzily through the confused labyrinth of
streets, all lighted up with gushing floods of light, echoing
gayly with sounds of music, vibrating with shouts and the
merry laughter of women.
When it was eleven o’clock my feet would turn swiftly
toward the Calle de Argote de Molina, till I reached
Gloria’s house. Mystery gave our interviews an infinite
enchantment. With my forehead leaning against the iron
bars of the grating, feeling my mistress’s gentle breath
on my cheek and the touch of her perfumed hair, I let
hours pass uncounted, which will perhaps be the happiest
of my existence.
Gloria talked, talked an endless stream: dazzled by the
light of her eyes, which, like two electric accumulators,
were slowly and gently magnetizing me, I listened to her
without moving an eyelash, delighted by her sweet and
piquant Andalusian accent, the remembrance of which
makes more than one Englishman sigh amid the fogs of
Britain.
What did she talk about?
I hardly know: — about the insignificant happenings of
the day, of the trifles of life; sometimes of the future, in¬
venting a thousand contradictory plans which made me
laugh; sometimes again of the events that had taken place
in the convent. I enjoyed immensely hearing her tell
about the tricks which she had performed during her
school-days, the thousand and one comic or melancholy
incidents that had taken place while she was at the col¬
lege.
As a girl she had been full of the mischief, she frankly
confessed. Scarcely a day passed without her playing
some trick on the Sisters. The sad and monotonous life
of the convent was not for her. They arose very early
and spent half an hour in prayer in the class-room; they
then heard mass. On going out they were allowed to
speak to each other, but simply to exchange the greetings
of the day. At recess, or the hour of recreation, as they
76
ARMANDO PALACIO VALDES
called it, they were also allowed to talk. Outside of these
hours they were forbidden to communicate, but she never
had obeyed this order, either when she was a student, or
after she became a Sister.
“ I could not, my son, I could not; the words would
crowd upon my tongue, and would have to be spoken, or
I should burst.”
On one occasion, for having made fun of the Sister
San Onofre, they had shut her up in the garret; from
there she could look down into the barracks, and hearing
the sentinel cry: “ Sentinel on guard,” she replied at the
top of her voice, “On guard! ( alerta estd).”
This caused a genuine scandal, and brought upon her
condign punishment. But she laughed at punishments,
just as she did at the Sisters. Many times she had been
obliged to do penance by entering all the classes, drop¬
ping on her knees in the middle of the room, and making
crosses on the floor with her tongue. She had done so,
but she made the other girls laugh with her grimaces.
I wanted to know something about Mother Florentina,
for what the French nun told me about her had aroused
my curiosity.
“ Ah ! the Mother Florentina was very kind; she always
called us Ulletas, and let us do what we pleased, except
when we were set to work. . . . Oh, then there was
nothing else to do but to put in with all our might; she
would not allow the least particle of dust in our rooms;
she kept us sweeping until the floors shone like a mirror.
You know, don’t' you, that she had to pay dearly for that
little dance at Marmolejo? She was retrograded and
obliged to ask pardon on her knees of the whole Sister¬
hood. Poor Mother! for our fault, I should say — for
yours! ”
“ I knew that she was no longer Mother Superior; the
nun who came to open the door for me told me so; a
smart nun, certainly, with very stern eyes and a foreign
accent.”
“ Oh, yes, Sister Desiree.”
“ She must be a hard one to get along with.”
“Most trying! We are no friends. When I was an
interne she left me no peace; till one day came the
JUAN VALERA Y ALCALA GAL 1 AN 0
77
thunder-clap, you know; I mean I almost broke her head.
From that time she became as pliable as a glove.”
The hours swiftly sped, but we heard them not', nor
wished to hear the strokes of the clock solemnly sound¬
ing in the silence and loneliness of the night. Still, the
ill-mannered stroke of one would startle us, and fill us
with anxiety. We still remain for some little time talk¬
ing. Half-past one sounds.
“ Go, go ! ”
“ Only just five minutes more.”
The five minutes pass, and then five more, and still I
do not move. Then Gloria suddenly, in the middle of
a sentence, springs up, vexed with her own sweet self,
and says abruptly:
“ Adios ! hasta manana — till t'o-morrow ! ”— Sister
Saint Sulpice.
^fffALERA y ALCALA GALIANO, Juan, a
r SMp Spanish statesman, diplomat and novelist;
“AAj ° born at Cabra, October 18, 1824; died at
Madrid, April 19, 1905. He studied at Granada, be¬
came secretary of legation at Naples and later at Dres¬
den, Lisbon and St. Petersburg. In 1859 he was made
Minister of Commerce and Agriculture. After serving
as ambassador at Frankfort, he took part in the
Spanish revolution of 1868. Subsequently he was
ambassador to Lisbon, Washington, Brussels and
Vienna. He was also made a member of the Senate,
the Council of State and the Spanish Academy. His
writings in prose fiction have assured him a high place
in literature. His Pepita Jimenez (1874), marks the
revival of Spanish fiction. Among his later works are
Dora Luz (1878); Morsamor (1899); De Rios Ar¬
gentina s (1901) ; Ecos Argentinos (1901).
73
JUAN VALERA Y ALCALA GAL 1 AN 0
IN THE GLEN.
My father, wishing to pay off to Pepita the compliment
of her garden party, invited her in her turn to make a
visit to our country-house of the Pozo de la Solana.
. . . We had to go in the saddle. As I have never
learned to ride horseback, I mounted, as on all the former
excursions with my father, a mule which Dientes, our
mule-driver, pronounced twice as good as gold, and as
steady as a hay-wagon. . . . Now Pepita Ximenez,
whom I supposed I should see in side-saddle on an animal
of the donkey species also,— what must she do but aston¬
ish me by appearing on a fine horse of piebald marking,
and full of life and fire. It did not take me long to see
the sorry figure I should cut, jogging along in the rear
with fat Aunt Casilda and the vicar, and to be mortified
by it. When we reached the villa and dismounted, I
felt relieved of as great a load as if it was I that had
carried the mule, and not the mule that had carried
me. . . .
Bordering the course of the brook, and especially in
the ravines, are numerous poplars with other well-grown
trees, which, in conjunction with the shrubbery and taller
herbs, form dusky and labyrinthine thickets. A thousand
fragrant sylvan growths spring up spontaneously there;
and in truth it is difficult to imagine anything wilder, more
secluded, more completely solitary, peaceful, and silent,
than that spot. In the blaze of noonday, when the sun is
pouring down his light in floods from a sky without a
cloud, and in the calm warm hours of the afternoon
siesta, almost the same mysterious terrors steal upon the
mind as in the still watches of the night. One compre¬
hends there the way of life of the ancient patriarchs,
and of the heroes and shepherds of primitive tradition,
with all the apparitions and visions they were wont to
have,— now of nymphs, now of gods, and now of angels,
in the midst of the brightness of day.
In the passage through those dusky thickets, it came
about at a given moment, I know now how, that Pepita
JUAN VALERA Y ALCALA GALIANO
79
and I found ourselves side by side and alone. All the
others have remained behind.
I felt a sudden thrill run over all my body. It was the
very first time I had ever been alone with that woman;
the place was extremely solitary, and I had been think¬
ing but now of the. apparitions — sometimes sinister,
sometimes winsome, but always supernatural — that used
to walk at noonday in the sight of the men of an earlier
time.
Pepita had put off at 1 the house her long riding-skirt,
and now wore a short one that did not hamper the grace¬
ful lightness of her natural movements. On her head
she had set a charmingly becoming little Andalusian
shade-hat. She carried in her hand her riding-whip;
and somehow my fancy struck out the whimsical conceit
that this was one of those fairy wands with which the
sorceress could bewitch me at will, if she pleased.
I do not shrink from setting down on this paper de¬
served eulogies of her beauty. In that wild woodland
scene, it seemed to< me even fairer than ever. The plan
that the old ascetic saints recommended h> us as a safe¬
guard,—namely, to think upon the beloved one as all
disfigured by age and sickness, to picture her as dead,
lapsing away in corruption, and a prey to worms,— that
picture came before my imagination in spite of my will.
I say “ in spite of my will,” because I do not believe
that any such terrible precaution is necessary. No evil
thought as to the material body, no untoward suggestion
of the malign spirit, at that time disturbed my reason nor
made itself felt by my senses or my will.
What did occur to me was a line of reasoning, con¬
vincing at least in my own mind, that quite obviated the
necessity of such a step of precaution. Beauty, the
product of a divine and supreme art, may be indeed but
a weak and fleeting thing, disappearing perchance in a
twinkling: still the idea and essence of that beauty are
eternal; once apprehended by the mind of man, it must
live an immortal life. The loveliness of that woman,
such as it has shown itself to me to-day, will vanish, it
is true, within a few brief years; that wholly charming
body, the flowing lines and contours of that exquisite
8o
JUAN VALERA Y ALCALA GALIANO
form, that noble head so proudly poised above the slender
neck and shoulders,— all, all will be but food for loath¬
some worms; but though the earthly form of matter
is to change, how as to the mental concepting of that
frame, the artistic ideal, the essential beauty itself?
Who is to destroy all that? Does if not remain in the
depths of the Divine Mind? Once perceived and known
by me, must it not live forever in my soul, victorious
over age and even over death ? — Pcpita Ximenez.
pepita’s eyes.
As I must have told you in former letters, Pepita’s
eyes, though green like those of Circe, have a most tran¬
quil and exemplary expression. One would decide that
she was not conscious of the power of her eyes at all,
nor ever knew that they could serve for any other pur¬
pose than simply that of seeing with. When her gaze
falls upon you, its soft light is so clear, so candid and
pure, that so far from fomenting any wicked thought, it
appears as if it favored only those of the most limpid
kind. It leaves chaste and innocent souls in unruffled
repose, and it destroys all incentive to ill in those that
are not so. Nothing of ardent passion, nothing of un¬
hallowed fire, is there in the eyes of Pepita. Like the
calm, mild radiance of the moon, rather, is the sweet
illumination of her glance.
Well, then I have to tell you now, in spite of all the
above, that two or three times I have fancied I caught
an instantaneous gleam of splendor, a lightning-like flash,
a devastating leap of flame, in those fine eyes when they
rested upon mine. Is this only some ridiculous bit of
vanity, suggested by the arch-fiend himself? I think it
must be. I wish to believe that it is, and I will believe
that it is.
No, it was not a dream, it was not the figment of a
mad imagination, it was but the sober truth. She does
suffer her eyes to< look into mine with the burning glance
of which I have told you. Her eyes are endowed with a
magnetic attraction impossible to explain. They draw
me on, they undo me, and I cannot withhold my own
ARMINIUS VAMBERV
81
from them. At those times my eyes must blaze with a
baleful flame like hers. Thus did those of Amnon when
he contemplated Tamar; thus did those of the Prince of
Shechem when he looked upon Dinah.
When our glances meet in that way I forget even my
God. Her image instead rises up in my soul, victorious
over everything. Her beauty shines resplendent beyond
all other beauty; the joys of heaven seem to me of less
worth than her affection, and an eternity of suffering
but a trifling cost for the incalculable bliss infused into
my being by a single one of those glances of hers, though
they pass quick as the lightning’s flash.
When I return to my dwelling, when I am alone in
my chamber, in the silence of the night,— then, oh then,
all the horror of my situation comes upon me, and I form
the best of resolutions,— but only to break them again
forthwith.
I promise myself to invent a pretext of sickness, or to
seek some other subterfuge, no matter what, in order
not to go to Pepita’s house on the succeeding night; and
yet I go, just as if no such resolution had been taken. . . .
Not alone to my sight is she so delectable, so grateful,
but her voice also sounds in my ears like the celestial
music of the spheres, revealing to me all the harmonies
of the universe. I even go to the point of imagining
that there emanates from her form a subtile aroma of
delicious fragrance, more delicate than that of mint by
the brook-sides, or than wild thyme on the mountain
slopes.— Pepita Ximenes.
^g^i^AMBERY, Arminius, an Hungarian traveler
M and historian; born at Szerdahely, March 19,
WxH 1832. He was a soldier in the revolution of
1848, was seriously wounded in the battle of Comorn,
and after the war had to escape to Turkey, whence
he traveled over a large portion of Central Asia. He
V cl. XXIII.—6
82
ARMIN1US VAMBERY
lived many years in Constantinople and in 1863-64
visited Persia, Khiva, Bokhara, Samarkand and Pie-
rat. On his return to Hungary he became Professor
of Oriental Languages and Literature at Buda Pesth.
Among his principal works are Travels in Central
Asia (1865); Wanderings and Adventures in Persia
(1867) ; Sketches in Central Asia (1868) ; History of
Bokhara (1873) ; Central Asia and the Anglo-Russian
Boundary Question, and Islam in the Nineteenth Cen¬
tury (1875) 5 Manners in Oriental Countries (1876) ;
Primitive 1 Civilization of the Turko-Tartar People
(1879) ; Origin of the Magyars (1882) ; The Turkish
People (1885) ; The Future Contest for India (1886),
and various philological treatises, including a German-
Turkish Dictionary. His works are very popular in
England, though their accuracy has been seriously
questioned
ST. STEPHEN, THE FIRST KING OF HUNGARY.
(Reigned 997-1038.)
King Stephen led the Hungarian nation from the dark¬
ness of paganism into the light of Christianity, and from
the disorders of barbarism into the safer path of western
civilization. Pie induced his people to abandon the fierce
independence of nomadic life, and assigned to them a
place in the disciplined ranks of European society and of
organized states. Under him, and through his exertions,
the Hungarian people became a western nation. Never
was a change of such magnitude, and we may add such
a providential change, accomplished in so short a time,
with so little bloodshed, and with such signal success as
this remarkable transformation of the Hungarian people.
The contemporaries of this great and noble man, those
who assisted him in guiding the destinies of the Hun¬
garian nation, gave him already full credit for the wise
and patriotic course pursued by him, and the Hungarian
ARMINIUS VAMBERY
83
nation of the present clay still piously and gratefully
cherishes his memory. To the Hungarians of to-day,
although eight and a half centuries removed from St.
Stephen, his fame continues to be a living one, and they
still fondly refer to his exalted example, his acts, his
opinions, and admirations, as worthy to inspire and ad¬
monish the young generations in their country.
This need be no matter for surprise, for at no period
of Hungary’s history has her political continuity been
interrupted in such a way as to make her lose sight' of
the noble source from which its greatness sprang. No
doubt a complete change has taken place in the political
and social order, in the course of so many centuries,
but the state structure, however modified, still rests upon
the deep and sure foundations laid by the wisdom of her
first king. One day in the year, the 20th of August —
called St. Stephen’s day — is still hallowed to his mem¬
ory. On that day his embalmed right hand is carried
about with great pomp and solemnity, in a brilliant pro¬
cession, accompanied by religious ceremonies, through
Ancient Buda, and shown to her populace. The kingdom
of Hungary is called the realm of St. Stephen to this day,
the Hungarian kings are still crowned with the crown of
St. Stephen, and the nation acknowledges only him to be
its king whose temples have been touched by the sacred
crown. The Catholic Church in Hungary, although it
no more occupies its former pre-eminent position in the
state, still retains enough of power, wealth, and splendor
to bear ample testimony to the lavish liberality of St.
Stephen. Thus the historian meets everywhere with
traces of his benignant activity, and whilst the fame and
saintliness of the great king have surrounded his name
with a luminous halo in the annals of his nation, that
very brilliancy has prevented from coming down to pos¬
terity such mere terrestrial and every-day details as would
assist in drawing his portrait. The grand outlines of his
form detach themselves vividly and sharply from the dark
background of his age — but there is a lack of contem¬
porary accounts which would help to fill up these outlines,
and the legends of the succeeding generations which make
mention of him can but ill supply this want, for they re-
84 FRANCIS JANE CROSBY VAN ALSTYNE
gard in him the saint only, and not' the man. His deeds
alone remain to guide us in the task of furnishing a
truthful picture of the founder of his country, and well
may we apply to him the words of Scripture, that the
tree shall be known by its fruit.— The Story of the Na¬
tions: Hungary.
ALSTYNE, Francis Jane Crosby, an
American poet and hymn writer ; born at New
York in 1829. She was blind from childhood,
as was her husband Van Alstyne. The marriage of
Miss Crosby to Van Alstyne was brought about in the
Home of the Blind, of which both were inmates, in
1858. When fifteen she wrote the following verse,
which she says was her guiding star through life, and
the secret of her cheerfulness:
O what a happy soul I am,
Although I cannot see !
I am resolved that in this world
Contented I will be.
How many blessings I enjoy
That other people don’t;
Whew! To weep or sigh because I am blind
I cannot nor I won’t.
She taught school and was very apt. It was after
this that she turned her hand to song writing. She
wrote words for many of the songs of George F. Root,
the well known composer. Some of them are favor¬
ites now, among others Hazel Dell; Rosalie, the Prairie
Flower; Proud World, Goodby; I'm Going Home;
Honeysuckle Glen; and There's Music in the Air.
JOHN VANBRUGH
Some of her cantatas are Flower Queen and the Pil¬
grim Fathers.
While a teacher at the Home for the Blind Miss
Crosby met Henry Clay, Presidents Tyler and Van
Buren, General Winfield Scott and Governor Seward.
In 1844 a volume of verses, called The Blind Girl
and Other Poems, was published, with a portrait of
the writer. In 1849, Monterey and Other Poems, and
in 1858 A Wreath of Columbia Flowers followed.
It was in 1864, upon the advice of William B. Brad¬
bury, the famous composer of sacred music, that Miss
Crosby wrote her first hymn. It began thus :
We are going, we are going,
To a home beyond the skies.
Since that time she has composed over 3,000 hymns.
The hymn that has brought her most fame is Safe in
the Arms of Jesus. It was composed in 1868.
Others of her hymns are Rescue the Perishing;
Jesus, Iveep Me Near the Cross, and Keep Thou My
Way, 0 Lord.
ANBRUGH, Sir John, an English dramatist;
born at London in 1666; died there, March
yQjUj 26, 1726. He was of Flemish ancestry, and
was educated in France. He entered the army and
became captain, but resigned and devoted himself to
architecture. He designed Castle Howard, in York¬
shire, and built Blenheim, the residence of the Duke
of Marlborough. He was knighted in 1714 and made
Comptroller of the Royal Works, and in 1716 became
86
JOHN VANBRUGH
Surveyor of the Works at Greenwich Hospital. His
plays are well written and give amusing pictures of
contemporary life. Their titles are: The Relapse
(1697) ; The Provoked Wife (1697) ; Hdsop (1698) ;
an adaptation of Fletcher’s Pilgrim (1700); Confed¬
eracy (1705), adaptations from Moliere’s comedies,
and an unfinished comedy, The Journey to London,
completed by Colley Cibber.
LOVELESS AND AMANDA.
Love .— How true is that philosophy, which says
Our heaven is seated in our minds !
Through all the roving pleasures of my youth
(Where nights and days seem all consumed in joy.
Where the false face of luxury
Display’d such charms,
As might have shaken the most holy hermit.
And made him totter at his altar),
I never knew one moment’s peace like this.
Here, in this little, soft retreat,
My thoughts unbent from all the cares of life,
Content' with fortune,
Eased from the grating duties of dependence,
From envy free, ambition under foot,
My life glides on, and all is well within.
Enter amanda.
How does the happy cause of my content.
My dear Amanda? [Meeting her kindly.
You find me musing on my happy state
And full of grateful thoughts to Heaven and you.
Aman .— Those grateful offerings Heaven can’t receive
With more delight than I do,
Would I could share with it as well
The dispensations of its bliss!
That I might’ search its choicest favors out.
And shower ’em on your head forever.
JOHN VANBRUGH 87
Love. — The largest boons that Heaven thinks fit to
grant,
To things it has decreed shall crawl on earth,
Are in the gift of woman form’d like you.
Perhaps when time shall be no more,
When the aspiring soul shall take its flight
And drop this ponderous lump of clay behind it,
It may have appetites we know not' of.
And pleasures as refined as its desires —
But till that day of knowledge shall instruct me,
The utmost blessing that my thought can reach
[Taking her in his arms.
Is folded in my arms, and rooted in my heart.
Aman. — There let it grow forever !
Love. — Well said, Amanda — let it be forever —
Would Heaven grant that-
Aman. — ’Twere all the heaven I’d ask„
But we are clad in black mortality,
And the dark curtain of eternal night
At last must drop between us.
Love. — It must.
That mournful separation we must see,
A bitter pill it is to all; but doubles its ungrateful taste,
When lovers are to swallow it.
Aman. — Perhaps that pain may only be my lot.
—The Relapse.
PICTURE OF THE LIFE OF A WOMAN OF FASHION.
Sir John Brute, in the “Provoked Wife” disguised
in his lady’s dress, joins in a drunken midnight frolic,
and is taken by the Constable and Watchmen before a
Justice of the Peace.
Justice. Pray, madam, what may be your ladyship’s
common method of life? if I may presume so far.
Sir John. Why, sir, that of a woman of quality.
Justice. Pray, how may you generally pass your time,
madam? Your morning, for example?
Sir John. Sir, like a woman of quality. I wake about
two o’clock in the afternoon — I stretch, and make a
sign for my chocolate. When I have drunk three cups,
88
JOHN VANBRUGH
I slide down again upon my back, with my arms over my
head, while my two 1 maids put on my stockings. Then,
hanging upon their shoulders, I’m trailed to my great
chair, where I sit and yawn for my breakfast. If it don’t
come presently, I lie down upon my couch, to say my
prayers, while my maid reads me the playbills.
Justice. Very well, madam.
Sir John. When the tea is brought in, I drink twelve
regular dishes, with eight slices of bread and butter; and
half an hour after, I send to the cook to know if the
dinner is almost ready.
Justice. So, madam.
Sir John. By that time my head is half dressed, I
hear my husband swearing himself into a state of perdi¬
tion that the meat’s all cold upon the table; to amend
which I come down in an hour more, and have it sent
back to the kitchen, to be all dressed over again.
Justice. Poor man.
Sir John. When I have dined, and my idle servants
are presumptuously set down at their ease to do so too,
I call for my coach, to go to' visit fifty dear friends, of
whom I hope I never shall find one at home while I live.
Justice. So ! there’s the morning and afternoon pretty
well disposed of. Pray, how, madam, do> you pass your
evenings ?
Sir John. Like a woman of spirit, sir; a great' spirit.
Give me a box and dice. Seven’s the main! Oons, sir,
I set you a hundred pound ! Why, do you think, women
are married now-a-days to sit at home and mend nap¬
kins ? Oh, the Lord help your head!
Justice. Mercy on us, Mr. Constable! What will this
age come to ?
Constable. What will it come to indeed, if such
women as these are not set in the stocks !
FABLE.
A Band, a Bob-wig, and a Feather,
Attacked a lady’s heart together.
The Band in a most learned plea,
Made up of deep philosophy,
JOHN VANBRUGH
89
Told her if she would please to wed
A reverend beard, and take, instead
Of vigorous youth,
Old solemn truth,
With books and morals, into bed,
How happy she would be !
The Bob he talked of management,
What wondrous blessings Heaven sent
On care, and pains, and industry:
And truly he must be so free
To own he thought your airy beaux,
With powdered wig and dancing shoes,
Were good for nothing — mend his soul!
But prate, and talk, and play the fool.
He said ’twas wealth gave joy and mirth,
And that to be the dearest wife
Of one who laboured all his life
To make a mine of gold his own,
And not spend sixpence when he’d done,
Was heaven upon earth.
j
When these two blades had done, d’ye see,
The Feather — as it might be me —
Steps, sir, from behind the screen,
With such an air and such a mien —
Like you, old gentleman — in short,
He quickly spoiled the statesman’s sport
It proved such sunshine weather,
That you must know, at the first beck
The lady leaped about his neck,
And off they went together.
90
HENRY JACKSON VAN DYKE
DYKE, Henry Jackson, an American
clergyman and poet; born at Germantown,
Pa., November io, 1852. He studied at the
Brooklyn Polytechnic Institute, and afterward at
Princeton College. Pie then entered the Theological
Seminary at Princeton, and having graduated there in
1877, he went to Germany and studied at the Univer¬
sity of Berlin. Before leaving Princeton, he edited for
a time the Princeton Book , and was corresponding ed¬
itor of the Presbyterian , published in Philadelphia. He
returned to America in 1879 and took charge of a Con¬
gregational church at Newport; and in 1882 became
pastor of the Presbyterian Brick Church in New
York. He was preacher at Harvard University in
1891 and 1892; and in 1895 h e became Lyman Beecher
Lecturer at Yale. In 1900 he became Professor of
English Literature in Princeton University. His lit¬
erary works, besides many contributions to periodicals,
include The Reality of Religion (1884); The Story
of the Psalms (1887) ; The National Sin of Literary
Piracy (1888) ; The Poetry of Tennyson (1889) ; God
and Little Children (1890) ; Straight Sermons to
Young Men and Other Human Beings (1893) 1 The
Bible as It Is (1893); The Christ Child in Art: a
Study of Interpretation (1894) ; The People Respon¬
sible for the Character of Their Rulers (1895), and
Responsive Readings (1895). Other works are His¬
toric Presbyterianism (1893); Little Rivers (1895);
That Monster (1896); The Higher Critic (1896);
The Gospel for an Age of Doubt (1897) ; The Build¬
ers and Other Poems (1897); Ships and Havens
(1897); Fisherman’s Luck (1899); The Toiling of
HENRY JACKSON VAN DYKE Qt
Felix (1900) ; The Blue Flower (1901) ; The Ruling
Passion (1902); Music and Other Poems (1904);
and The School of Life (1905).
THE BREATH OF TIME.
The monuments of mortals
Are as the flower of the grass:
Through Time’s dim portals
A voiceless, viewless wind doth pass;
And where it breathes, the brightest blooms decay,
The forests bend to earth more deeply day by day,
And man’s great buildings slowly fade away.
One after one
They pay to that dumb breath
The tribute of their death;
And are undone.
The towers incline to dust,
The massive girders rust,
The domes dissolve in air,
The pillars that upbear
The lofty arches crumble, stone by stone,
While man the builder looks about him in despair,
For all his works of pride are overthrown.
— From The Builders.
ARMENIA.
Stand back, ye messengers of mercy! Stand
Far off, for I will save my troubled folk
In my own way. So the false Sultan spoke;
And Europe, hearkening to his base command.
Stood still to see him heal his wounded land.
Through blinding snows of winter and through smoke
Of burning towns, she saw him deal the stroke
Of cruel mercy that his hate had planned.
Unto the prisoners and the sick he gave «
New tortures, horrible, without a name;
Unto the thirsty, blood to drink; a sword
Unto the hungry; with a robe of shame
92
JOHN CHARLES VAN DYKE
He clad the naked, making life abhorred.
He saved by slaughter, but denied a grave.
— The Independent, March 5, i 8 p 6 .
8 .AN DYKE, John Charles, an American art
critic and librarian ; born at New Brunswick,
N. J., April 21, 1856. For many years he
studied art in Europe, has lectured at various univer¬
sities, and is Professor of Art at Rutgers’s College.
In 1878 he became librarian of Sage Library. His
works are Books and How to Use Them (1883) ; Prin¬
ciples of Art (1887) ; Art for Art's Sake (1893) ; His¬
tory of Painting (1893) 1 Old Dutch and Flemish Mas¬
ters (1895) ; Modern Flemish Masters (1896) ; Nature
for Its Own Sake (1898); Italian Painting (1901);
Old English Masters (1902) ; The Meaning of Pictures
(1903)-
WHAT A BURNE-JONES PICTURE MEANS.
“ The words of an artist explaining the general aim
and purpose of his art are always helpful in understand¬
ing the work itself. After reading the letters of Millet
and Watts we comprehend their pictures much better,
for they tell us what was their point of view, what they
strove for and what meaning they intended to convey.
Fortunately, we have written testimony that will explain
Sir Edward Burne-Jones and his view of art with equal
clearness. It appears in a letter which he wrote to a
friend years ago, with perhaps no thought that it would
ever be seen by the public eye. In part it runs thus:
“ I mean by a picture a beautiful romantic dream of
something that never was, never will be; in a light better
than any light that ever shone; in a land no one can
define or remember, only desire; and the forms divinely
beautiful — and then I wake up with the waking of
Brunhild.”
JOHN CHARLES VAN DYKE
93
After that statement no one could possibly think of
Burne-Jones as a realist or an academician or a painter
devoted merely to exploiting his skill of hand. He was
opposed to all that. The forms of reality or of tradition
were merely the means of suggesting an unreality. For
he was primarily absorbed with “ a beautiful romantic
dream of something that never was.”
With his poetic temperament he early fell in love with
the classic and Biblical traditions, the mediaeval legends,
the old romances, the fabled stories of antiquity. They
were the starting point of his romantic thoughts — the
beginning of his reveries — that grew into pictorial forms
divinely beautiful. He mused over the Days of Creation,
the Garden of Pan, the story of Merlin, the tale of the
Sleeping Beauty. He saw the characters he loved in his
mind’s eye, saw them drawn, modeled and painted as they
should appear in art. That was his ideal. Then he took
up his brush and tried to paint them — tried to realize
this ideal upon canvas. That produced his picture. It
also produced with himself what he has called “ the
waking of Brunhild ”— that is, disappointment. He
never could realize fully what he saw in tne mirror of
dreams. The figures were more “ divinely beautiful ” in
his vision than upon his canvas. He was, however, his
own severest critic in this respect.
It is easy to understand how a mind so poetically en¬
dowed, so romantically inclined, would see material fit
for its purpose in the old English ballads. It was in the
Percy Reliques that Burne-Jones found the story of King
Cophetua and the Beggar Maid. It was a popular tale
with the early dramatic writers and often alluded to as
an illustration of love leveling all ranks. For it seems
that King Cophetua was a reigning prince in Africa who
“. . . cared not for women-kinde
But did them all disdaine ”
until from his palace window he saw pass by the beggar
maid “ all in gray.” Then peace of mind forsook him.
He could not be happy without her, and his love strug¬
gled with his rank until one eventful day when he hap-
94
JOHN CHARLES VAN DYKE
pened to be out walking. The beggars followed him in a
drove asking alms. He dismissed them one by one with
money, all except Penelophon:
“ The King he cal’d her back againe,
And unto her he gave his chaine;
And said, ‘ With us you shal remaine
Till such time as we dye.’
“ ‘ What is thy name, faire maid? ’ quoth he:
‘ Penelophon, O King/ quoth she:
With that she made a lowe courtsey,
A trim one as I weene.
“ Thus hand in hand along they walke
Unto the King’s pallace;
The King with courteous, comly talke
This beggar doth embrace.
The beggar blusheth scarlet red,
O O' 7
And straight againe as pale as lead.
But not a word at all she said,
She was in such amaze.”
And they were wed, and the beggar maid
. . behaved herself that day
As if she had never walkt the way;
She had forgot her gowne of gray,
Which she did weare of late.”
The tale ends, like all good love stories, with long life
and much happiness:
“ Thus they led a quiet life
Duringe their princely raigne,
And in a tombe were buried both
As writers sheweth plaine.
The lords they tooke it grievously,
The ladies tooke it heavily,
The commons cryed piteously.
Their death to them was paine.”
JOHN CHARLES VAN DYKE
95
The story is certainly romantic enough — far enough
removed from the actual — to> suit the painter’s purpose;
and it is just as certainly poetic. And yet there is more
romance in the picture than in the poem, more pathos
in the wondering face of the beggar maid than the tale
tells us. This is not merely an illustration that supple¬
ments a written text, but it is a distinct creation. The
legendary figures that barely existed in a few lines of an
old ballad are here brought into new life and being.
They live with all the splendor of medisevalism. The
dramatic scene of bringing Penelophon home to the pal¬
ace appears before us. There she sits on the King’s
golden throne, lost in a confused whirl of thoughts,
shrinking into her beggar’s garment of gray, dazed at
the splendor of her surroundings. And there sits at her
feet King Cophetua quite willing to cast his kingdom
and crown at her feet.
The very mood of the lovers is perhaps caught up and
repeated in a low melody which the two< youths at the
railing are singing — a melody that spreads the feeling
of pathos, of passion, and suggests the strange, sweet
sadness of romance. Indeed, the picture is just what
Burne-Jones described it.
But while this bit of old romance is far enough re¬
moved from the actual, Burne-Jones has not seen fit to
overlook the beauty of the material. He intended that
the picture should be beautiful in more than the tale it
told. It is a marvel of skillful design and rich color.
The King himself is clad in glittering blue-steel armor,
and over the armor is a mantle of blue green lined with
purple; his spear and shield lean against the steps of
the dais and his jewel-hilted sword rests between his
knees.
The beggar maid in her mantle of gray, which but
poorly hides her bare feet' and arms, sits upon purple
cushions. She is fair with dull golden hair and light
gray eyes. In her right hand she holds some purple
anemones. The chair of state is raised on a flight of
steps with an open balustrade around the double seat,
and the whole is covered with beaten metal-work in
gold, showing reliefs of lions and other animals in the
96
JOHN CHARLES VAN DYKE
Assyrian style. “ Myrtle branches are seen through the
rails on the left, and an orange tree laden with fruit and
blossoms stands behind where two youths lean on the
coping singing from an illuminated score. They wear
long gowns of red and blue and changing green and pink.
Through a partly curtained window in the background
are seen the ramparts of the castle, a stretch of forest
land and a quiet evening sky.”
From top to bottom the picture is composed, drawn,
executed to please the eye. And yet it is odd, archaic-
looking. Its drawing is constrained and somewhat angu¬
lar, its composition is arbitrary rather than realistic, and
its blue-green tone of color is morbid. Undeniably, it
has what the mob calls “ a queer look.” It harks back
to Crivelli or Mantegna and in some respects makes one
think of Pinturiccio or Botticelli. That is the inherit¬
ance of Pre-Raphaelitism, of which Burne-Jones was a
late exponent. The mystery and wonder with the strange
composition and color were the necessary result of his
teaching under Rossetti. But in the years to come, when
this odd look has passed away and the affectation and
strained effort of Pre-Raphaelitism are forgotten, it' is a
question if the splendid decorative workmanship of such
a panel as this will not be regarded with the same admi¬
ration that we to-day bestow upon Botticelli’s Allegory
of Spring. The workmanship alone with its decorative
result will keep the picture from oblivion. The story
may pass and the types become obsolete and the senti¬
ment be considered mere sentimentality; but the skill of
the craftsman will endure.
And yet this is not' painting in the Velasquez sense.
There is no free swing of the brush. Everything is
measured and weighed with the greatest nicety and exe¬
cuted with the greatest care. It was a belief of the Pre-
Raphaelites that if the painter looked after the facts the
beauty would look after itself. And so we have in this
picture by Burne-Jones a surface executed with the ex¬
actness of a Japanese lacquer or a precious piece of
cloisonne. The brush is small and the touch minute.
The King’s crown, armor and jeweled sword, the gold
of the steps, the beaten reliefs of lions and peacocks, the
JOHN CHARLES VAN DYKE
97
patterns of the cloth, the flowers and fruits, are all
wrought with the skill of a goldsmith. And the total
result of it is not a finical or petty surface, but something
that impresses one by its richness. The blue-green and
purple notes of color which are repeated throughout the
picture rather help on the feeling of regal splendor. The
total effect seems to carry us back into knightly days,
and brings up before us the barbaric glory of an African
prince in the olden time.
Of course this refinement of surface, this devotion to
the painting of textures, is counterbalanced to> some ex¬
tent by harshness in the contours. The drawing is sharp
and one feels the edges. The golden throne seems want¬
ing in the sense of solidity; the King himself, for all his
splendor, seems brittle, and the beggar maid is seemingly
petrified. Again, the formality of the composition has
resulted in a somewhat huddled appearance. There is
more material in the panel than it will comfortably hold.
These are some of the things that give it “ a queer look ”
to our eyes, though we have gathered from the painter’s
own words that he never intended that the picture should
have a pronounced realistic look.
Pre-Raphaelitism, from which Burne-Jones descended,
was started in England about 1847 by Rossetti, Holman
Hunt and Sir John Millais, in connection with several
poets and sculptors — seven in all. Mr. Ruskin was its
advocate and had much to do with bringing it into public
notice. It was in effect an emulation of the sincerity,
the loving care and the scrupulous exactness in matters
of truth that characterized the Italian painters before
Raphael. It was an attempted return to the veracity of
the early masters — Botticelli, Bellini, Mantegna and
their contemporaries. With it there was mingled a
moral and religious pose and a whatnot of mysticism
and morbidity comparable to that' of Botticelli. It was
an honest effort pushed, perhaps, to an extreme. The
members of the brotherhood did not continue together
for any length of time, but the influence of the movement
was far-reaching.
Burne-Jones was a pupil of Rossetti, the real founder
of Pre-Raphaelitism, and from him he got much of the
Vol. XXIII.— 7
98
HENRY VAUGHAN
mystic, the dreamy and the melancholy quality of his art.
He was born in Birmingham in 1833 and educated at
King Edward’s School, in that town. He left Oxford
before graduation and joined William Morris in London.
He met Rossetti in 1855, and under his influence, with
Morris, Swinburne and others for friends, he was soon
launched on a career. Recognition came to him late but
was substantial enough toward the end. The Royal
Academy made him an Associate — a something which
he afterward resigned; Oxford gave him the degree of
D. C. L., and France gave him the ribbon of the Legion
of Honor. He was made a baronet in 1894. When he
died, in 1898, the pictures in his studio sold for $150,000.
But long before that he had won his spurs with the paint¬
ers and was respected and honored as an artist of un¬
common genius.
The King Cophetua and the Beggar Maid was painted
in 1884 and is a very large canvas, measuring twelve feet
in height by nine feet in width. It hangs to-day in the
National Gallery of British Art, and is considered not
only one of the masterpieces of the collection but possi¬
bly the most Complete picture that Burne-Jones ever
painted.— Ladies’ Home Journal.
Sy^-^AUGHAN, Henry, a Welsh poet and mystic;
born at Skethiog-on-Usk in 1621 ; died there,
April 23, 1695. He was known as “ the
Silurist,” from his being born in South Wales, the
country of the Silures. He had a twin brother
Thomas, known as “ the Rosicrucian,” with whom he
entered Jesus College, Oxford, in 1638; having been
privately educated since 1632 by the rector of Llan-
gattock. It was early in the great rebellion that the
brothers went to Oxford; King Charles kept his court
there, and the young Vaughans were hot Royalists.
HENRY VAUGHAN
99
Thomas bore arms, and Henry was imprisoned.
Thomas, after many trials, returned to Oxford, de¬
voted his life to alchemy, and wrote books on such
subjects as the state of man after death, “grounded
on proto-chemistry ”; the discovery of the true
“ caelum terra? ” and the like. At what time Henry
left the university is not known; but it was evidently
after he had studied some time in London and had
been introduced into the society of men of letters that
he published his first volume, Poems with the Tenth
Satire of Juvenal Englished (1646). He published
his collection of sacred poems, Silex Scintillans, in
1650. His Olor Iscanus, the Swan of Usk, a collec¬
tion of secular verses, was published by his brother in
1651. A mystical treatise in prose, The Mount of
Olives , followed in 1652; and then two prose transla¬
tions, Flores Solitudinis, in 1654, and Her metical
Physick, in 1655. In 1678 an Oxford friend collected
the poems of Vaughan’s middle life in a volume en¬
titled Thalia. Rediviva. One of the best of his single
poems is entitled The Retreate.
The poems of Vaughan evince considerable strength
and originality of thought and copious imagery, though
tinged with a gloomy sectarianism, and marred by
crabbed rhymes. Campbell scarcely does justice to
Vaughan in styling him one of the harshest even of
the inferior order of the school of conceit,” though he
admits that he has “ some few scattered thoughts that
meet our eye amidst his harsh pages, like wild-flowers
on a barren heath.” As a sacred poet, Vaughan has
an intensity of feeling only inferior to Crashaw. He
had a dash of Celtic enthusiasm. He does not seem
to have attained to a competence in either, for he com-
100
HENRY VAUGHAN
plains much of the proverbial poverty and suffering
of poets:
As they were merely thrown upon the stage,
The mirth of fools, and legends of the age.
In his latter days, Vaughan grew deeply serious and
devout, and published his Sacred Poems , which con¬
tain his happiest effusions. The poet was not with¬
out hopes of renown, and he wished the river of his
native vale to share in the distinction:
When I am laid to rest hard by thy streams,
And my sun sets where first it sprang in beams,
I'll leave behind me such a large kind light'
As shall redeem thee from oblivious night,
And in these vows which — living yet — I pay,
Shed such a precious and enduring ray.
As shall from age to age thy fair name lead
Till rivers leave to run, and men to read!
EARLY RISING AND PRAYER.
When first thy eyes unveil, give thy soul leave
To do the like; our bodies but forerun
The spirit’s duty: true hearts spread and heave
Unto their God, as flowers do to the sun:
Give Him thy first thoughts then, so shalt thou keep
Him company all day, and in Him sleep.
Yet never sleep the sun up; prayer should
Dawn with the day: there are set awful hours
’Twixt heaven and us; the manna was not good
After sunrising; far day sullies flowers:
Rise to prevent the sun; sleep doth sins glut,
And heaven’s gate opens when the world’s is shut.
Walk with thy fellow-creatures; note the hush
And whisperings amongst them. Not a spring
Or leaf but hath his morning-hymn; each bush
HENRY VAUGHAN
IOI
And oak doth know I am. Canst thou not sing?
O leave thy cares and follies! Go' this way,
And thou art sure to prosper all the day.
Serve God before the world; let Him not go
Until thou hast a blessing; then resign
The whole unto Him, and remember who
Prevailed by wrestling ere the sun did shine;
Pour oil upon the stones, weep for thy sin,
Then journey on, and have an eye to heaven.
Mornings are mysteries; the first the world’s youth,
Man’s resurrection, and the future’s bud,
Shroud in their births; the crown of life, light, truth,
Is styled their star; the stone and hidden food;
Three blessings wait upon them, one of which
Should move — they make us holy, happy, rich.
When the world’s up, and every swarm abroad,
Keep well thy temper, mix not with each clay;
Despatch necessities; life hath a load
Which must be carried on, and safely may;
Yet keep those cares without thee; let the heart
Be God’s alone, and choose the better part.
THE RAINBOW.
Still young and fine, but what is still in view
We slight as old and soiled, though fresh and new.
How bright wert thou when Shem’s admiring eye
Thy burnished flaming arch did first descry;
When Zerah, Nahor, Haran, Abram, Lot,
The youthful world’s gray fathers, in one knot
Did with intentive looks watch every hour
For thy new light, and trembled at each shower!
When thou dost shine, darkness looks white and fair;
Forms turn to music, clouds to smiles and air;
Rain gently spends his honey-drops, and pours
Balm on the cleft earth, milk on grass and flowers.
Bright pledge of peace and sunshine, the sure tie
Of thy Lord’s hand, the object of his eye!
102
HENRY VAUGHAN
When I behold thee, though my light be dim,
Distinct, and low, I can in thine see Him,
Who looks upon thee from his glorious throne,
And minds the covenant betwixt all and One.
THE STORY OF ENDYMI0N.
(Written after reading M. Gombauld’s romance of
“ Endymion.”
Eve read thy soul’s fair night-piece, and have seen
The amours and courtship of the silent queen;
Her stolen descents to earth, and what did move her
To juggle first with heaven, then with a lover;
With Latmos’ louder rescue, and (alas!)
To find her out, a hue and cry in brass;
Thy journal of deep mysteries, and sad
Nocturnal pilgrimage; with thy dreams, clad
In fancies darker than thy cave; thy glass
Of sleepy draughts ; and as thy soul did pass
In her calm voyage, what discourse she heard
Of spirits; what dark groves and ill-shaped guard
Ismena led thee through; with thy proud flight
O’er Periardes, and deep-musing night
Near fair Eurotas’ banks; what solemn green
The neighbour shades wear; and what forms are seen
In their large bowers; with that sad path and seat
Which none but light-heeled nymphs and fairies beat;
Their solitary life, and how exempt
From common frailty — the severe contempt
They have of man — their privilege to live
A tree or fountain, and in that reprieve
What ages they consume: with the sad vale
Of Diophania; and the mournful tale
Of the bleeding, vocal myrtle: these and more,
Thy richer thoughts, we are upon the score
To thy rare fancy for. Nor dost thou fall
From thy first majesty, or ought at all
Betray consumption. Thy full vigorous bays
Wear the same green, and scorn the lean decays
Of style or matter; just as I have known
HENRY VAUGHAN
Some crystal spring, that from the neighbour dowfc
Derived her birth, in gentle murmurs steal
To the next vale, and proudly there reveal
Her streams in louder accents, adding still
More noise and waters to her channel, till
At last, swollen with increase, she glides along
The lawns and meadows, in a wanton throng
Of frothy billows, and in one great name
Swallows the tributary brooks" drowned fame.
Nor are they mere inventions, for we
In the same piece find scattered philosophy,
And hidden, dispersed truths, that folded lie
In the dark shades of deep allegory,
So neatly weaved, like arras, they descry
Fables with truth, fancy with history.
So that thou hast, in this thy curious mould,
Cast that commended mixture wished of old,
Which shall these contemplations render far
Less mutable, and lasting as their star;
And while there is a people, or a sun,
Endymion’s story with the moon shall run.
TIMBER.
Sure thou didst flourish once, and many springs,
Many bright mornings, much dew, many showers,
Passed o’er thy head; many light' hearts and wings
Which now are dead, lodged in thy living towers.
And still a new succession sings and flies,
Fresh groves grow up, and their green branches shoot
Towards the old and still enduring skies,
While the low violet thrives at their root.
NIGHT AND NICODEMUS.
Most blessed believer he!
Who in that land of darkness and blinde eyes
Thy long expected healing wings could see,
‘ When thou didst rise;
104
HENRY VAUGHAN
And, what can never more be done,
Did at midnight speak with the Sun!
O who will tell me where
He found thee at that dead and silent hour ?
What hallow’d, solitary ground did bear
So rare a flower;
Within whose sacred leaves did lie
The fulness of the Deity?
No mercy-seat of gold,
No dead and dusty Cherub, nor carved stone,
But his own livings works, did my Lord hold
And lodge alone;
Where trees and herbs did watch and peep
And wonder, while the Jews did sleep.
Dear night! this world’s defeat;
The stop to busie fools; care’s check and curb;
The day of Spirits; my soul’s calm retreat
Which none disturb!
Christ’s progress and his prayer-time;
The hours to which high Heaven doth chime.
God’s silent, searching flight:
When my Lord’s head is filled with dew; and all
His locks are wet with the clear drops of night;
His still, soft call;
His knocking time; the soul’s dumb watch,
When Spirits their Fair Kindred catch.
Were my loud, evil days,
Calm and undaunted as is Thy dark Tent,
Whose peace but by some Angel’s wing or voice
Is seldom rent;
Then I in Heaven all the long year
Would keep, and never wander here.
— From Silix Scintillans .
t* r* .- ‘ • *v • * ■ 0 »
HENRY VAUGHAN
105
DEATH.
Though since thy first sad entrance
By just Abel’s blood,
’Tis now six thousand years well nigh,
And still thy sovereignty holds good;
Yet by none art thou understood.
We talk and name thee with much ease.
As a tryed thing,
And every one can slight his lease,
As if it ended in a Spring,
Which shades and bowers doth rent-free bring.
To thy dark land these heedless go.
But there was One
Who' search’d it quite through to and fro,
And then, returning like the Sun,
Discover’d all that there is donQ.
And since his death we thoroughly see
All thy dark way;
Thy shades but thin and narrow be,
Which his first looks will quickly fray;
Mists make but triumphs for the day.
— From Silex Scintillans.
EARLY INNOCENCE.
Happy those early days, when I
Shin’d in my Angel-infancy !
Before I understood this place
Appointed for my second race,
Or taught my soul to fancy ought
But a white, Celestiall thought;
When yet I had not walkt above
A mile or two from my first love,
And looking back, at that short' space,
Could see a glimpse of his bright face;
When on some gilded Cloud or flowre
io6
HENRY VAUGHAN
My gazing soul would dwell an houre,
And in those weaker glories spy
Some shadows of eternity;
Before I taught my tongue to wound
My Conscience with a sinfule sound,
Or had the black art to dispence
A sev’rall sinne to ev’ry sence,
But felt through all this fleshly dresse
Bright shootes of everlastingness.
O, how I long to travell back,
And tread again that ancient track !
That I might once more reach that plaine,
Where first I left my glorious traine;
From whence th’ Inlightened spirit sees
That shady City of Palme trees.
— From The Retreate.
THEY ARE ALL GONE.
They are all gone into the world of light,
And I alone sit lingering here!
Their very memory is fair and bright,
And my sad thoughts doth clear;
It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast,
Like stars upon some gloomy grove —
Or those faint beams in v/hich this hill is drest
After the sun’s remove.
I see them walking in an air of glory,
Whose light doth trample on my days;
My days which are at best but dull and hoary,
Mere glimmering and decays.
O holy hope ! and high humility !
High as the heavens above!
These are your walks, and you have showed them me
To kindle my cold love.
Dear, beauteous death — the jewel of the just —
Shining nowhere but in the dark!
HENRY VAUGHAN
107
What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,
Could man outlook that mark!
He that hath found some fledged bird’s nest may know,
At first sight, if the bird be flown;
But what fair dell or grove he sings in now,
That is to him unknown.
And yet, as angels in some brighter dreams
Call to the soul when man doth sleep,
So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes,
And into glory peep.
If a star were confined into a tomb,
Her captive flames must needs burn there,
But whe'n the hand that locked her up gives room,
She’ll shine through all the sphere.
O Father of eternal life, and all
Created glories under thee !
Resume thy spirit from this world of thrall
Into true liberty.
Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill
My perspective still as they pass;
Or else remove me hence unto that hill
Where I shall need no glass.
THE MORNING WATCH.
O Joyes ! Infinite Sweetness ! with what flowers
And shoots of glory my soul breakes and buds !
All the long houres
Of night and rest,
Through the still shrouds
Of sleep and clouds,
This dew fell on my breast;
O how it Blonds ,
And Spirits all my Earth ! Heark! In what Rings
And Hymning Circulations the quick world
Awakes and sings !
The rising winds,
HENRY VAUGHAN
io8
And falling springs,
Birds, beasts, all things
Adore him in their kinds.
Thus all is hurled
In sacred Hymnes and Order the great Chime
And Symphony of nature. Prayer is
The world in tune,
A spirit-voyce,
And vocall joyes,
Whose Eccho is Heaven’s blisse.
O let me climbe
When I lye down. The pious soul by night
Is like a clouded starre, whose beames though said
To shed their light
Under some cloud,
Yet are above,
And shine and move
Beyond that mystic shrowd.
So in my Bed,
That curtain’d grave, though sleep, like ashes, hide
My lamp and life, both shall in thee abide.
— Silex Scintillans.
PEACE.
My Soul, there is a Countrie
Afar beyond the stars,
Where stands a winged Sentrie
All skilful in the wars.
There, above noise and danger.
Sweet peace sits, crowned with smiles.
And One born in a manger
Commands the beauteous files.
He is thy gracious friend
And (O my Soul, awake!)
Did in pure love descend,
To die here for thy sake.
If thou canst get but thither,
There growes the flowre of peace.
The rose that cannot wither,
Thy fortress and thy ease.
JEAN DE LA FRESNAYE VAUQUELIN 109
Leave then thy foolish ranges;
For none can thee secure,
But One, who never changes,
Thy God, thy Life, thy Cure.
—From Olor Iscanus, the Swan of Usk.
S ^AUQUELIN, Jean de la Fresnaye, a French
> poet; born at La Fresnaye, near Falaise, in
J 1 535 ; died at Caen in 1607. He followed
for a time the profession of arms; then was Advocate
Royal and Lieutenant-General under Henry III., and
finally President of the Presideal bench at Caen under
Henry IV. The CEuvres Poetiques of Vauquelin con¬
tain many sportive songs and other light pieces which
are read with pleasure. He was the first writer of %
idyls in French verse, and is considered as the real
founder of French satire, which he redeemed from the
grossness that had hitherto characterized the produc¬
tions that went under that name. His Foresteries,
which he began to publish at the age of twenty, shows
the same qualities which are found more fully devel¬
oped in his Idillies — qualities which are summed up
by the author himself in the descriptive phrase, " la
Nature en chemise” Some of his sonnets, political
and religious, are of an elevated sentiment. His Art
Poetique is rude in style, but interesting for the blunt
novelty of its ideas.
MIDSUMMER.
Shady valleys, tumbling floods,
Crystal fountains, lofty woods,
Where Philanon hath oft presst
no JEAN DE LA FRESNAYE VAUQUELIN
Lively Phillis to his breast,
Blest be ye, and never air
Strip your winter branches bare;
Lovely valleys, parching heat
Never soil your green retreat;
Never hoof of herd uncouth,
Fountains, break your margins smooth;
Streams, your windings never lie
By the dog-star scorched and dry;
Never woodman’s axe intrude,
Forests, on your solitude;
Nor the wolf be ever here
To scare your flocks with nightly fear;
Still the Nymphs, a holy choir,
To your haunts for peace retire;
Pan himself, with you to dwell,
Bid his Msenalus farewell.
— From Les Idillies.
TITYRUS’ HARP.
The harp that whilom on the reedy shore
Of Mincius, to the listening shepherds sung
Such strains as never, haply, or before
Or sithence, ’mid the mountain cliffs have rung
Of Msenalus, or on Lycaeus hoar;
And sounded next, to bolder music strung,
The gifts of Pales, and what perils bore,
What toils achiev’d, that Phrygian goddess-sprung,
Now on an aged oak, making the gloom
More awful, hangs; where, if the wind have stirr’d,
Seems as a proud and angry voice were heard:
“ Let none with universe hardiment presume
To touch me; for, once vocal at command
Of Tityrus, I brook no meaner hand.”
— Free Translation from Imitation of Costanzo.
THOMAS VAUX
in
AUX, Thomas, Lord, an English poet; born at
Harrowden, Northamptonshire, in 1510; died
in 1562. He was the son of Nicholas Vaux,
a distinguished statesman and warrior who was cre¬
ated a baron by Henry VIII., and from whom is de¬
scended the present Baron Vaux. Upon the attain¬
ment of his majority he took his seat in Parliament
as a baron in the twenty-second year of the reign of
Henry VIII. He had been already with Wolsey in his
embassy to the Emperor Charles V.; and in 1532 he
accompanied the King to France — having previously,
it is said, had the custody of Queen Catherine. In
1 533 he was made a Knight of the Bath, and after¬
ward Captain of the Island of Jersey; which office he
surrendered in 1536. His poems, which were for
some time attributed to his father, are chiefly to be
found in the Paradyse of Dainty e Devyces, which was
reprinted long after in The Bibliographer. The As¬
sault of Cupid, and the Dyttie, or Sonnet Made by
the Lord Vaux in Tyme of the Noble Queene Marye,
were reprinted by Dr. Percy and Mr. Ellis. Among
the best known of his pieces are The Aged Louer Re-
nounceth Loue; No Pleasure Without some Paine;
Of the Instabilitie of Youth; Of a Contented Minde;
Of Beying Asked the Occasion of his White Heade.
THE TORPOR OF OLD AGE.
My lusts they do me leave,
My fancies all be fled,
And tract of time begins to weave
Gray hairs upon my head.
THOMAS VAUX
112
My muse doth not delight
Me as she did before;
My hand and pen are not in plight
As they have been of yore.
For reason me denies
This youthly, idle rhyme;
And day by day to me she cries,
Leave of these toys in time.
The wrinkles in my brow,
The furrows in my face,
Say limping age will lodge him now
Where youth must give him place.
Thus must I youth give up,
Whose badge I long did wear;
To them I yield the wanton cup
That better may it bear.
— From the Aged Louer Renounceth Loue.
OF A CONTENTED MINDE.
When all is done and said,
In th’ end thus shall you find,
He most of all doth bathe in bliss,
That hath a quiet mind;
And clear from worldly cares,
To deem can be content,
The sweetest time in all his life
On thinking to be spent.
The body subject is
To fickle fortune’s power,
And to a million of mishaps
Is casual every hour;
And death in time doth change
It to a clod of clay,
Whereas the mind, which is divine,
Runs never to decay.
IVAN VAZOFF
113
Companion none is like
Unto the mind alone,
For many have been harmed by speech,
Through thinking, few or none;
Fear oft restraineth words,
But makes not thought to cease,
And he speaks best that hath the skill
When for to hold his peace.
Our wealth leaves us at death,
Our kinsmen at the grave.
But virtues of the mind unto
The heavens with us we have;
Wherefore for virtue’s sake
I can be well content,
The sweetest time of all my life
To deem in thinking spent.
— Taken from The Paradyse of Daintye Devyces.
^■g^AZOFF, Ivan, a Bulgarian novelist and poet;
i K born at Sopot, Eastern Roumelia, in August,
lA&E 1850. He was educated first at the school of
his native town; and was then sent by his father, a small
trader, to Kalofer and to Philippopolis. From 1870 to
1872 he resided in Roumania; and then returned to
Sopot and entered his father’s business. But in 1876,
having become more and more an object of suspicion to
the Turkish authorities, he had to fly for his life north
across the Balkan; and reaching Bucharest he joined
the Bulgarian Revolutionary Committee. The three
stormy years that followed saw the development of his
genius and the publication of three famous volumes of
patriotic lyrical poetry, The Banner and the Guzla;
The Sorrozvs of Bulgaria, and The Deliverance. He
Vol. XXIII.— 8
IVAN VAZOFF
114
returned in 1878 to find Sopot destroyed; and he then
accepted a judicial appointment from the Russians.
In the following year he was elected a member of the
permanent committee of the provincial assembly of
Eastern Roumelia; and having settled at Philippopolis,
the new capital, he there published his earliest prose
works, Not Long Ago; Mitrofan; Hadji and The Out¬
cast. He also issued here his comedy entitled Mik-
halaki and two new collections of poetry: Fields and
Woods; and Italy, the latter published in 1884, after he
had been traveling in that country. During the war
of 1885 he visited the battle-fields and published his
Slivnitza; and in 1886 he left for Russia and settled in
Odessa. Here he wrote his masterpiece, Pod Igoto
(Under the Yoke) which first appeared in serial form
in Sbornik, a review published by the Bulgarian Min¬
ister of Public Instruction. In 1889 he returned and
settled in Sofia. In 1892 he published The Great
Desert of Rilo and In the Heart of the Rhodope, and
undertook the editorial management of the monthly
periodical, Dennitsa —the Morning Star.
THE MARTYR OF THE MILL.
Suddenly a storm of bullets burst upon the mill. As
the volley grew louder, the Turks approached still nearer.
From the continued silence, they came to the conclusion
that the concealed rebel was unarmed. Bullets rained
upon the walls.
The Turks were now quite close. The time was at
hand. Ognianoff stood upright at a window, the doctor
in the doorway.
They looked at each other; then each discharged his
revolver into the surging mass of the enemy. The un¬
expected rejoinder brought three Turks to the ground,
and revealed the force of the mill. The Turks saw that
there was more than one rebel there. This confused
IVAN VAZOFF
ii 5
them, but only for a moment. The victors of Klassoura
rushed with a shout at the building. Some aimed from
the banks at the openings in the walls, so as to prevent
the defenders from appearing there and firing at the
attacking party. The struggle could not last.
“ We’re done for, Doctor,” said Ognianoff; “ farewell
for ever, my brother ! ”
“ Farewell, brother ! ”
“ But neither of us, Doctor, must fall into their hands
alive.”
“No, neither of us. I’ve four cartridges left; and I’m
keeping one for myself.”
“ I’m keeping two, Doctor,” and Ognianoff involun¬
tarily turned toward Rada. She lay there still, but her
face had become deathlike in its pallor; from her left
breast a thin stream of blood was quietly trickling down
over her dress. A bullet had glanced off the wall and
struck her; and she had passed from unconsciousness
into eternal slumber.
Then Ognianoff left his post’ and drew near to her;
he knelt down, took her cold hands in his, and imprinted
one long kiss on her icy lips; he kissed her forehead,
her wondrous, loving eyes, her hair, and her wound
where the blood was flowing. If he uttered any sound,
murmured a last farewell in that last kiss, whispered
a “ Good-by, till we meet again, Rada,” it could not be
heard in the roar of the guns outside and the pattering
of the bullets within. He wrapped her in his cloak.
When he arose, tears were flowing down his cheeks.
A whole ocean of sorrow was in those tears.
Perhaps — who knows ? —there was mingled also a
warm feeling of gratitude to Providence!
During this last mute farewell, which lasted only half
a minute, Sokoloff was facing alone the hundred assail¬
ants. Suddenly he turned round and saw Rada. Then
his hair stood on end, his eyes flashed like a tiger’s, and,
heedless of the danger, he drew himself up at full length
in the door-way, as though mocking at the bullets, and
cried, in the purest Turkish:
“ You cursed dogs! you shall pay dearly for every drop
n6
VEDAS
of Bulgarian blood! ” and he discharged his revolver
into the thick of the crowd.
With redoubled frenzy the horde now rushed at the
impregnable fortress — for such the ruined mill seemed
to have become. A wild shout followed by a fresh
volley, cleft the air.
“ Ah! ” groaned the doctor, flinging away his revolver.
A bullet had pierced his right hand. Inexpressible hor¬
ror and despair were depicted on his face. Ognianoff,
still firing at the crowd, and also covered with blood,
asked:
“Are you in pain, brother ?”
" No, but I’ve fired off my last cartridge — I forgot.”
“ Here; there are two left in my revolver; take it,”
said Ognianoff, handing the weapon to Sokoloff. “ Now
they shall see how a Bulgarian apostle dies! ” And
drawing the long yataghan from the doctor’s belt, he
rushed from the door into the crowd, dealing frightful
blows left and right.
Half an hour later the whole horde, triumphant and
ferocious, was marching with demoniacal glee from the
valley with Ognianoff’s head on a pole. The doctor’s
head, slashed to pieces by their knives — it had first been
shattered by the doctor himself with a bullet — could not
serve as a trophy. So also Rada’s head was left behind
for reasons of policy.
A cart behind conveyed the killed and wounded.
With savage shouts of triumph the band reached the
town. It was more silent and deserted than a grave¬
yard. They set up the trophy in the market-place.— From
Pod Ig
^H^EDAS, the sacred books of Brahminism, of the
earliest or Vedic period, supposed to have ex¬
tended from 1200 to 200 b.c. Excluding the
Bramanas and Sutras, which are of the nature of com¬
mentaries, and are referred to 1000 to 200 b.c., the
VEDAS
▼ T **
x l 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 /
Vedas, or sacred hymns, assumed to date 12000 to
1000 b.c., exist in four collections: the Rig-Veda,
Sama-Veda, Yajur-Veda, and Atharva-Veda — the
first, which is the most prized, containing 1,028 hymns
and 10,580 verses. Many translations of portions of
these have been made in German and English, e. g.,
accompanying Muir’s Original Sanskrit Texts (5 vols.,
1863-70). Max Muller has published 6 volumes of
text and translation of Rig-Veda-Sanhita, beginning
1869—Sanhita meaning text; and gives an account
of the sacred writings in his History of Ancient
Sanskrit Literature (1859). The word Veda means
“ knowledge.” Muller speaks of the Vedas as the old¬
est of human writings.
HYMN TO AGNI (THE GOD OF FIRE) AND THE MARUTS (THE
storm-gods).
1. Thou art called forth to this fair sacrifice for a
draught of milk; with the Maruts come hither, O Agni!
2. No god indeed, no mortal, is beyond the might of
thee, the mighty one; with the Maruts come hither, O
Agni!
3. They who know the great sky, the Visve Devas
without guile; with the Maruts come hither, O Agni!
4. The wild ones who sing their song, unconquerable
by force; with the Maruts come hither, O Agni !
5. They who are brilliant, of awful shape, powerful,
and devourers of foes; with the Maruts come hither, O
Agni!
6. They who in Heaven are enthroned as gods, in the
light of the firmament; with the Maruts come hither, O
Agni!
7. They who toss the clouds across the surging sea;
with the Maruts come hither, O Agni!
8. They who shoot with their darts across the sea with
might; with the Maruts come hither, O Agni !
9. I pour out to thee for the early draught the sweet
(juice) of Soma; with the Maruts come hither, O Agni!
n8
VEDAS
HYMN TO THE MARUTS (THE STORM-GODS).
1. Sing forth, O Kanvas, to the sportive host of your
Maruts, brilliant on their chariots, and unscathed —
2. They who were born together, self-luminous, with
the spotted deer (the clouds), the spears, the daggers,
the glittering ornaments.
3. I hear their whips, almost close by, as they crack
them in their hands; they gain splendor on their way.
4. Sing forth your god-given prayer to the exultant
host of your Maruts, the furiously vigorous, the powerful.
5. Celebrate the bull among the cows (the storm among
the clouds), for it is the sportive host of the Maruts;
he grew as he tasted the rain.
6. Who, O ye men, is the oldest among you here, ye
shakers of heaven and earth, when you shake them like
the hem of a garment?
7. At your approach the son of man holds himself
down; the gnarled cloud fled at your fierce anger.
8. They at whose racings the earth, like a hoary king,
trembles for fear on their ways.
9. Their birth is strong indeed; there is strength to
come forth from their mother, nay, there is vigor twice
enough for it.
10. And these sons, the singers, enlarged the fences
in their coursings; the cows had to walk knee-deep.
11. They cause this long and broad unceasing rain to
fall on their ways.
12. O Maruts, with such strength as yours, you have
caused men to fall, you have caused the mountains to
fall.
13. As the Maruts pass along, they talk together on
the way; does anyone hear them?
14. Come fast on your quick steeds! there are wor¬
shippers for you among the canvas; may you well re¬
joice among them.
VEDAS
119
HYMN TO THE MARUTS AND INDRA.
The Prologue.
The sacrificer speaks:
1. With what splendor are the Maruts all equally en¬
dowed, they who are of the same age, and dwell in the
same house? With what thoughts? From whence are
they come? Do these heroes sing forth their (own)
strength because they wish for wealth ?
2. Whose prayers have the youths accepted? Who
has turned the Maruts to his own sacrifice ? By what
strong devotion may we delight' them, they who float
through the air like hawks?
The Dialogue.
The Maruts speak:
3. From whence, O Indra, dost thou come alone, thou
who art mighty? O Lord of men, what has thus hap¬
pened to thee? Thou greetest (us), when thou comest
together with (us) the bright (Maruts). Tell us, then,
thou with thy bay horses, what thou hast against us!
Indra speaks:
4. The sacred songs are mine (mine are), the prayers;
sweet are the libations! My strength rises, my thun¬
derbolt is hurled forth. They call for me, the prayers
yearn for me. Here are my horses, they carry me toward
them.
The Maruts speak:
5. Therefore, in company with our strong friends, hav¬
ing adorned our bodies, we now harness our fallow deer
with all our might; for, Indra, according to thy custom,
thou hast been with us.
Indra speaks:
6. Where, O Maruts, was that custom of yours, that
you should join me who am alone in killing Ahi ? I
indeed am terrible, strong, powerful — I escaped from
the blows of every enemy.
120
VEDAS
The Maruts speak:
7. Thou hast achieved much with us as companions.
With the same valor, O hero ! let us achieve, then, many
things, O thou most powerful, O Indra ! whatever we, O
Maruts, wish with our heart.
Indra speaks:
8. I slew Vritra, O Maruts, with might, having grown
strong through my own vigor; I, who hold the thunder¬
bolt in my arms, I have made these all-brilliant waters to
flow freely for man.
The Maruts speak:
9. Nothing, O powerful lord, is strong before thee;
no one is known among the gods like unto thee. No one
who is now born will come near, no one who has been
born. Do what has to be done, thou who art grown so
strong.
Indra speaks:
10. Almighty power be mine alone, whatever I may
do, daring in my heart; for I indeed, O Maruts, am
known as terrible : of all that I threw down, I, Indra, am
the lord.
Indra speaks:
11. O Maruts, now your praise has pleased me, the
glorious hymn which you have made for me, ye men ! —*
for me, for Indra, for the powerful hero, as friends, for
your own sake and by your own efforts.
Indra speaks:
12. Truly, there they are, shining toward me, assum¬
ing blameless glory, assuming vigor. O Maruts, wher¬
ever I have looked for you, you have appeared to me in
bright splendor; appear to me also now !
The Epilogue.
The sacrificer speaks:
13. Who has magnified you here, O Maruts? Come
hither, O friends, toward your friends. Ye brilliant
Maruts, cherish these prayers, and be mindful of these
rites.
14. The wisdom of Manya has brought us to this, that
he should help as the poet helps the performer of a
DAVID VEDDER
121
sacrifice: bring (them) hither quickly! Maruts, on to
the sage! these prayers the singer has recited for you.
15. This your praise, O Maruts, this your song conies
from Mandarya, the son of Mana, the poet. Come hither
with rain ! May we find ourselves, offspring, food, and
a camp with running water.— Muller’s Rig-Vedci-San-
hita, Book I., Hymns to the Maruts.
PRAYER FROM THE KIG-VEDA.
This new and excellent praise of thee, O splendid,
playful sun, is offered by us to thee. Be gratified by
this my speech. Approach this craving mind as a fond
man seeks a woman. May that sun who contemplates
and looks into all worlds be our protection. Let us med¬
itate on the adorable light of the divine ruler; may it
guide our intellects. Desirous of food, we solicit the
gift of the splendid sun, who should be studiously wor¬
shipped.- Venerable men, guided by understanding, sa¬
lute the divine sun with oblations and praise.— Hand¬
book of Sanskrit Literature.
EDDER, David, a Scottish lyric poet; born at
Burness, Orkney, in 1790; died at Newington,
EAL- near Edinburgh, February 11, 1854. He was
the son of a small proprietor near Kirkwall. De¬
prived of his parents early in life, he entered the
merchant marine, and afterward the customs service.
In 1852 he was placed on the retired list; when he
took up his residence in Edinburgh, near which town
he died. Vedder began to rhyme very early in life,
but he did not venture on publishing till 1826, when
The Covenanter’s Communion and Other Poems ap¬
peared. Then followed Arcadian Sketches; Leg¬
endary and Lyrical Pieces in 1832, and in the same
122
DAVID VEDDER
year a Memoir of Sir Walter Scott, with Critical
Notices of His Writings. Ten years later he reap¬
peared as the author of a volume of Poems, Leg¬
endary, Lyrical, and Descriptive. In 1848 Vedder and
his son-in-law, Frederick Schenck, a lithographer, is¬
sued jointly an illustrated book entitled The Pictorial
Gift-Book of Lays and Lithography. His last work
was a new English version of the German story of
Reynard the Fox, published in 1852.
THE TEMPLE OF NATURE.
Talk not of temples — there is one
Built without hands, to mankind given;
Its lamps are the meridian sun,
And all the stars of heaven;
Its walls are the cerulean sky;
Its floors the earth so green and fair;
The dome is vast immensity —
All Nature worships there!
The Alps, arrayed in stainless snow,
The Andean ranges yet untrod,
At sunrise and at sunset glow
Like altar-fires to God.
A thousand fierce volcanoes blaze,
As if with hallowed victims rare;
And thunder lifts its voice in praise —
All Nature worships there!
The Ocean heaves resistlessly,
And pours its glittering treasures forth;
His waves — the priesthood of the sea —
Kneel on the shell-gemmed earth,
And there emit a hollow sound,
As if they murmured praise and prayer
On every side ’tis holy ground —
All Nature worships there!
FELIX LOPE DE VEGA CARPIO
123
The cedar and the mountain pine,
The willow on the fountain brim,
The tulip and the eglantine,
In reverence bend to Him;
The song-birds pour their sweetest lays
From tower and tree and middle air;
The rushing river murmurs praise —
All Nature worships there!
S EGA CARPIO, Felix Lope de, a Spanish poet
and dramatist; born at Madrid, November 25,
1562; died there, August 27, 1635. The
Bishop of Avila was interested in his education; and,
at seventeen, he entered the University of Alcala de
Henares, where he distinguished himself. After many
vicissitudes, and after service as a soldier in the
Invincible Armada, he became a Franciscan priest.
His fame was so unbounded that a brilliant diamond
was called a Lope diamond; a fine day, a Lope day, etc.
He is said to have been the most prolific author who
ever lived, having written eighteen hundred dramas.
Lord Holland gave a list of four hundred and ninety-
seven still extant. Besides these, were long poems,
Arcadia; La Hermosura de Angelica, etc. His mis¬
cellaneous writings were published in twenty-one vol¬
umes (Madrid, 1776).
FROM THE “ ESTRELLA DE SEVILLA.”
Sancho .— I kiss thy feet'.
King .— Rise, Sancho, rise and know
I wrong thee much to let thee stoop so low.
Sancho .—My liege, confounded with thy grace I stand;
Unskilled in speech, no words can I command
124
FELIX LOPE DE VEGA CARPIO
To tell the thanks I feel.
King. — Why, what in me
To daunt thy noble spirit canst thou see?
Sancho. —Courage and majesty that strike with awe;
My sovereign lord; the fountain of the law;
In fine, God’s image, which I come to obey,
Never so honored as I feel to-day.
King. —Much I applaud thy wisdom, much thy zeal;
And now, to try thy courage, will reveal
That which you covet so to learn — the cause
That thus my soldier to the presence draws.
Much it imports the safety of my reign
A man should die — in secret should be slain;
This must some friend perform; search Seville through,
None can I find so fit to trust as you.
Sancho. — Guilty he needs must be.
King. — He is.
Sancho. — Then why.
My sovereign liege, in secret should he die?
If public law demands the culprit’s head,
In public let the culprit’s blood be shed.
Shall Justice’s sword, which strikes in face of day
Stoop to dark deeds — a man in secret slay?
The world will think who kills by means unknown
No guilt avenges, but implies his own.
If slight his fault, I dare for mercy pray.
King. — Sancho, attend; — you came not here to-day
An advocate to plead a traitor’s cause,
But to perform my will, to execute my laws,
To slay a man; and why the culprit bleed
Matters not thee, it is thy monarch’s deed;
If base, thy monarch the dishonor bears.
But say — to draw against my life who dares,
Deserves he death?
Sancho. — Oh, yes ! a thousand times.
King .—Then strike without remorse: these are the
wretch’s crimes.
Sancho. — So let him die; for sentence Ortiz pleads:
Were he my brother, by this arm he bleeds.
King. — Give me thy hand.
Sancho. — With that my heart I pledge.
FELIX LOPE DE VEGA CARPIO
125
King. — So, while he heeds not, shall thy rapier’s edge
Reach his proud heart.
Sancho. — My liege ! my sovereign lord !
Sancho’s my name, I wear a soldier’s sword.
Would you with treacherous acts and deeds of shame
Taint such a calling, tarnish such a name?
Shall I — shall I to sink from open strife,
Like some base coward, point the assassin’s knife?
No ! face to face his foe must Ortiz meet,
Or in the crowded mart, or public street,
Defy and combat him in open light.
Curse the mean wretch who slays, but dares not fight
Naught can excuse the vile assassin’s blow;
Happy, compared with him, his murdered foe —
With him who, living, lives but to proclaim,
To all he meets, his cowardice and shame.
King. — E’en as thou wilt; but in this paper read,
Signed by the king, the warrant of the deed.
Act as you may, my name shall set you free.
Sancho. — Does, then, my liege, so meanly deem of me?
I know his power, which can the earth control,
Know his unshaken faith and steadfast soul.
Shall seals, shall parchments, then, to me afford
A surer warrant than my sovereign’s word?
To guard my actions, as to guide my hand,
I ask no surety but my king’s command.
Perish such deeds! [Tears the paper.'] they serve but
to record
Some doubt, some question of a monarch’s word.
What need of bonds ? By honor bound are we —
I to avenge thy wrongs, and thou to rescue me.
One price I ask — the maid I name for bride.
King. — Were she the richest and best allied
In Spain, I grant her.
Sancho. — So throughout the world,
May oceans view thy conquering flag unfurled!
King. — Nor shall thy actions pass without a meed.
This note informs thee, Ortiz, who must bleed,
But, reading, be not startled at a name;
Great is his prowess; Seville speaks his fame.
Sancho. —I’ll put that prowess to the proof ere long.
126
FELIX LOPE DE VEGA CARPIO
to-morrow.
Lord, what am I, that, with unceasing care,
Thou didst seek after me — that Thou didst wait,
Wet with unhealthy dews, before my gate,
And pass the gloomy nights of winter there?
Oh, strange delusion, that I did not greet
Thy blest approach ! and, oh, to heaven how lost,
If my ingratitude’s unkindly frost
Has chilled the bleeding wounds upon Thy feet!
How oft my guardian angel gently cried,
“ Soul, from thy casement look, and thou shalt see
How He persists to knock and wait for thee ! ”
And, O, how often to that voice of sorrow,
“ To-morrow, we will open,” I replied!
And when the morrow came, I answered still, “To
morrow.”
— Translation of Longfellow.
COUNTRY LIFE.
Let the vain courtier waste his days,
Lured by the charm that wealth displays,
The couch of dawn, the board of costly fare;
Be his to kiss the ungrateful hand
That waves the sceptre of command,
And rear full many a palace in the air:
Whilst I enjoy, all unconfined,
The glowing sun, the genial wind,
And tranquil hours, to rustic toil assigned;
And prize far more, in peace and health,
Contented indigence than joyless wealth.
Not mine in fortune’s face to bend,
At Grandeur’s altar to attend,
Reflect his smile, and tremble at his frown;
Not mine a fond, aspiring thought,
A wish, a sigh, a vision, fraught
With Fame’s bright phantom, Glory’s deathless crown
Nectareous draughts and viands pure
Luxuriant nature will insure;
EMILE VERHAEREN
127
These the clear fount and fertile field
Still to the wearied shepherd yield;
And when repose and visions reign,
Then we are equals all, the monarch and the swain.
8 ERHAEREN, Emile, a Belgian poet and critic;
born at St. Amand, near Antwerp, in 1855.
After some time spent at a college in Ghent,
he became a student at the university of Louvain,
where he founded and edited a journal, in which work
he was assisted by Van Dyck, the singer. He also
formed, about this time, a close friendship with
Maeterlinck. In 1881 he was called to the bar at
Brussels, but soon gave up his legal career to devote
himself entirely to literature. In 1883 h e published
Les Flamndes, his first volume of poems, and shortly
afterward became one of the editors of L’Art Moderne,
to which review he was for ten years a constant con¬
tributor. In 1892 he founded, with the help of two
friends, the section of art in the “ House of the Peo¬
ple ” at Brussels. Here the best music is performed,
and lectures are given upon literary and artistic sub¬
jects. Between 1886 and 1896 he brought out suc¬
cessively eight small volumes of poems: Les Moines;
Les Soirs; Les Debacles; Les Flambeaux Noirs; Ap-
parus dans mes Chemins; Les Campagnes Hallucinees;
Les Villages Illusoires; and Les Villes Tentaculaires
Verhaeren’s Les Campagnes Hallucinees; Les Villes
Tentaculaires , and a later work entitled Les Aubes
constitute what is known as his “ Trilogy,” his longest
and most ambitious effort, written throughout in a
tragic and prophetic spirit. Verhaeren’s diligence as
128
EMILE VERHAEREN
a critic, and the sanity and generosity of his literary
appreciations, are witnessed by his writings in the
pages of L’Art Moderne; La Jeune Belgique; La
Wallonie; La Revue Independante; Les Ecrits pour
VArt; Magazine of Art, and many other periodicals.
LE SILENCE.
Ever since ending of the summer weather,
When last the thunder and the lightning broke,
Shatt’ring themselves upon it at one stroke,
The Silence has not stirred there in the heather.
All round about stand steeples straight as stakes,
And each its bell between its fingers shakes;
And round about, with their three-storied loads,
The teams prowl down the roads;
All round about where’er the pine-woods end,
The wheel creaks on along its rutty bed,
But not a sound is strong enough to rend
That space intense and dead.
Since summer, thunder-laden, last was heard,
The Silence has not stirred;
And the broad heath-land, where the nights sink down
Beyond the sand-hills brown,
Beyond the endless thickets closely set,
To the far borders of the far-away,
Prolongs It yet.
Even the winds disturb not as they go
The boughs of those long larches, bending low
Where the marsh-water lies,
In which Its vacant eyes
Gaze at themselves unceasing, stubbornly,
Only, sometimes, as on their way they move,
The noiseless shadows of the clouds above,
Or of some great bird’s hov’ring flight on high.
Brush It in passing by.
EMILE VERHAEREN
129
Since the last bolt that scored the earth aslant,
Nothing has pierced the Silence dominant.
Of those who cross Its vast immensity.
Whether at twilight or at dawn it be,
There is not one but feels
The dread of the Unknown that It instils;
An ample force supreme, It holds Its sway,
Uninterruptedly the same for aye.
Dark walls of blackest fir-trees bar from sight
The outlook toward the paths of hope and light;
Great, pensive junipers
Affright from far the passing travelers;
Long, narrow paths stretch their straight lines unbent,
Till they fork off in curves malevolent;
And the sun, ever shifting, ceaseless lends
Fresh aspects to the mirage whither tends
Bewilderment.
Since the last bolt was forged amid the storm,
The polar Silence at the corners four
Of the wide heather-land has stirred no more.
Old shepherds, whom their hundred years have worn
To things all dislocate and out of gear,
And their old dogs, ragged, tired-out, and torn,
Oft watch It on the soundless lowlands near,
Or downs of gold bedecked with shadows’ flight,
Sit down immensely there beside the night'.
Then, at the curves and corners of the mere,
The waters creep with fear;
The heather veils itself, grows wan and white;
All the leaves listen upon all the bushes,
And the incendiary sunset hushes
Before Its face his cries of brandished light.
And in the hamlets that about It lie,
Beneath the thatches of their hovels small,
The terror dwells of feeling It is nigh,
And though It stirs not, dominating all.
Broken with dull despair and helplessness,
Beneath Its presence they crouch motionless,
Vol. XXIII.— 9
130
PAUL VERLAINE
As though upon the watch — and dread to see.
Through rifts of vapor, open suddenly
At evening, in the noon, the argent eyes
Of Its mute mysteries.
— From Les Villages Illnsoires; translation of
Miss Alma Strettel.
^g^ERLAINE, Paul, a French poet; born at Metz,
mP//i March 30, 1844; died at Paris, January 8,
eMa 1896. His father, a captain in the engineers,
removed with his family to Paris in 1851; and it
was there that Paul spent the greater part of his life,
varied by visits to England, Belgium, Holland and
Germany. His first volume of poems, Poemes Satur-
niens, was published at the age of twenty-three; and
was followed by Fetes Galantes (1869); La Bonne
Chanson (1870); Romances sans Paroles (1874),
Sagesse (1881) ; Jodis et Naguere (1884) ; Amour
(1888); Parallelement (1889); Dedicaces (1890);
Bonheur (1891) ; Chansons pour File (1891) ; Litur¬
gies Intimes (1892); Elegies (1893); Odes en son
Honneur (1893); Dans les Limbes (1894); Epi-
grammes (1894); and the following works in prose:
Les Poetes Maudits (1884) ; Louise Leclercq (1885) ;
Memoires d’un Veuf (1886) ; Mes Hdpitaux (1891) ;
Mes Prisons (1893) 1 Quinze Jours en Hollande
1893), and Confessions (1895).
More than any other man of letters of his time,
Verlaine was a sort of public figure, typifying, for
all the world, the traditional vagabond character of
the poet. As the whole of his work was personal,
one long confession of the joys and sorrows, the
PAUL VERLAINE
I 3 i
sins and repentances, of his strange, troubled, intensely
living life, it is perhaps natural that an undue atten¬
tion should have been given, not always quite sym¬
pathetically, to these private accidents of existence,
about which he has himself said all that need be said.
THE BLUE SKY IS SMILING.
The blue sky is smiling afar o’er the roof,
Smiling its tend’rest and best;
A green tree is rearing above the same roof
Its swaying crest.
The belfry-bells up in the motionless sky
Softly and peacefully ring;
The birds that go sailing athwart the same sky
Unceasing sing.
The murmur of bees everywhere fills the air —
Honey-bees up from the street;
My God ! there is life everywhere in the air,
Calm life and sweet.
Then what have you done, guilty man, that you weep?
What guilty thing have you done,
That under the life-giving sun you can weep —
The smiling sun?
—From Sagesse; translation of J. W. Banta.
THE LOVE OF CHRIST.
And thou must love Me, child, the Saviour said: —
Behold My bleeding heart; My riven side;
My wounded feet, that Mary knelt, dim-eyed,
To clasp; Mine arms to thee outspread.
Thy sins I’ve borne: My cross with blood is red;
Sponge, nails, all, all, thy wand’ring heart shall guide
To love where nought was known but selfish pride;
My blood shall be thy wine, My flesh thy bread.
132
PAUL VERLAINE
I’ve loved thee, brother mine, e’en down to death;
My Father’s child in spirit and in faith,
For thee Fve suffered, as the Scripture saith,
Thine agony went out with my last breath;
Thy tears hung cold upon My clammy brow;
O tearful, trembling friend, rest with Me now.
— From Sagesse; translation of J. W. Banta.
A TALK SENTIMENTAL.
In the deserted park, silent and vast,
Erewhile twO' shadowy, glimmering figures passed.
Their lips were colorless, and dead their eyes;
Their words were scarce more audible than sighs.
In the deserted park, silent and vast,
Two spectres conjured up the buried past.
“ Our ancient ecstasy, do you recall ? ”
“ Why, pray, should I remember it at all ? ”
“ Does still your heart at mention of me glow ?
Do still you see my soul in slumber?” “No!”
“ Ah, blessed, blissful days when our lips met!
You loved me so!” “Quite likely — I forget.”
— Translation of Gertrude Hall.
IN A MINOR KEY.
Tranquil in the twilight dense
By the speaking branches made.
Let us breathe the influence
Of the silence and the shade.
Let your heart melt into mine,
And your soul reach out to me,
’Mid the languors of the pine
And the sighing of the arbute tree.
Close your eyes, your hand let be
Folded on your slumbering heart,
From whose hold all treachery
Drive forever, and all art.
JULES VERNE,
JULES VERNE
133
Let us with the hour accord!
Let us let the gentle wind,
Rippling in the sunburnt sward,
Bring us to a patient mind!
And when Night across the air
Shall her solemn shadow fling,
Touching voice of our despair,
Long the nightingale shall sing.
— Translation of Gertrude Hall.
ERNE, Jules, a French novelist; born at Nan¬
tes, February 8, 1828; died at Amiens, March
24, 1905. He was educated in his native
town, studied law in Paris, where he devoted much
attention to dramatic literature. His comedy Les
Pailles Rompues was performed at the Gymnase in
1850, and Onze Tours de Liege followed. His fame
rests upon his scientific romances, which have a touch
of extravagance in their treatment. His works, which
are widely read, have been translated into English.
Among them are Five Weeks in a Balloon (1870) ;
A Journey to the Centre of the Earth (1872) ; Twenty
Thousand Leagues Under the Sea (1873) ; Meridiana:
the Adventures of Three Englishmen and Three Rus¬
sians in South Africa (1873) ; From the Earth to the
Moon Direct in Ninety-seven Hours Twenty Minutes,
and a Trip Round It (1873); The Fur Country, or
Seventy Degrees North Latitude (1874) ; Around the
World in Eighty Days (1874) ; A Floating City, and
The Blockade Runners (1874) ; The English at the
North Pole (1874); Dr. Ox's Experiment (1874);
A Winter Amid the Ice (1875) ; The Mysterious Island
C 34
JULES VERNE
(1875) ; The Survivors of the “Chancellor” (1875) >
Michael Strogoff, the Courier of the Czar (1876);
The Child of the Cavern (1877) 5 Hector Servadac, or
the Career of a Comet (1877) > Dick Sands, the Boy
Captain (1878) ; Le Rayon Vert (1882) ; Keraban-le-
teta (1883); L'Etoile du Sud (1884); Le Pays de
Diamants (1884); Le Chcmin de prance (1887);
Deux Ans de Vacances (1888); Famille Sans Nom
(1889); Ccesar Cascabel (1890); Mathias Sautlorf
(1890) ; Nord contra Sud (1890) ; The Purchase of
the North Pole (1890) ; Claudius Bomhamac (1892) ;
Chateau des Carpathes (1892) ; Le Sphinx des Glaces
(1897); and Le Village Aerien (1900).
THE BOTTOM OF THE SEA.
And now, how can I retrace the impression left by me
upon that walk under the waters? Words are impo¬
tent to relate such wonders ! Captain Nemo walked in
front, his companions followed some steps behind. Con-
seil and I remained near each other, as if an exchange
of words had been possible through our metallic cases.
I no longer felt the weight of my clothing, or my shoes,
of my reservoir of air, or of my thick helmet, in the
midst of which my head rattled like an almond in his
shell.
The light, which lit the soil thirty feet below the sur¬
face of the ocean, astonished me by its power. The
solar rays shone through the watery mass easily and
dissipated all color, and I clearly distinguished objects
at a distance of a hundred and fifty yards. Beyond that
the tints darkened into fine gradations of ultramarine,
and faded into vague obscurity. Truly this water which
surrounded me was but another air denser than the ter¬
restrial atmosphere but almost as transparent. Above
me was the calm surface of the sea. We were walking
on fine, even sand, not wrinkled, as on a flat shore,
which retains the impression of the billows. This daz¬
zling carpet, really a reflector, repelled the rays of the
JULES VERNE
135
sun with wonderful intensity, which accounted for the
vibration which penetrated every atom of liquid. Shall
I be believed when I say that, at the depth of thirty
feet, I could see as if I was in broad daylight?
For a quarter of an hour I trod on this sand sown
with the impalpable dust of shells. The hull of the
Nautilus, resembling a long shoal, disappeared by de¬
grees; but its lantern, when darkness should overtake
us in the waters, would help to guide us on board by its
distinct rays. Soon forms of objects outlined in the
distance were discernible. I recognized magnificent rocks,
hung with a tapestry of zoophytes of the most beautiful
kind, and I was at first struck by the peculiar effect of this
medium.
It was then ten in the morning, the rays of the sun
struck the surface of the waves at rather an oblique
angle, and at the touch of their light, decomposed by
refraction as through a prism, flowers, rocks, plants,
shell, and polypi were shaded at the edges by the seven
solar colors. It was marvellous, a feast for the eyes,
this complication of colored tints, a perfect kaleido¬
scope of green, yellow, orange, violet, indigo, and blue;
in one word, the whole palette of an enthusiastic color¬
ist ! Why could I not communicate to Conseil the lively
sensations which were mounting to my brain, and rival
him in expressions of admiration? For aught I knew,
Captain Nemo and his companion might be able to ex¬
change thoughts by means of signs previously agreed
upon. So for want of better, I talked to myself; I de¬
claimed in the copper box which covered my head, thereby
expending more air in vain words than was, perhaps,
expedient.
Various kinds of isis, clusters of pure tuft-coral, prickly
fungi, and anemones, formed a brilliant garden of flow¬
ers, enamelled with porplutse, decked with their collar¬
ettes of blue tentacles, sea-star studding the sandy bottom,
together with asterophytons like fine lace embroidered
by the hands of naiads; whose festoons were waved by the
gentle undulations caused by our walk. It was a real
grief to me to crush under my feet the brilliant specimens
of mollusks which strewed the ground by thousands, of
136
JULES VERNE
hammer-heads, donaciae (veritable bounding shells), of
staircases, and red helmet-shells, angel-wings, and many
others producced by this inexhaustible ocean. But we
were bound to walk, so we went on, whilst above our
heads waved shoals of physalides, leaving their tentacles
to float in their train, medusae whose umbrellas of opal or
rose-pink, escalloped with a band of blue, sheltered us
from the rays of the sun and fiery pelagiae which, in the
darkness, would have strewn our path with phosphor¬
escent light.
All these wonders I saw in the space of a quarter of
a mile, scarcely stopping, and following Captain Nemo,
who beckoned me on by signs. Soon the nature of the
soil changed; to the sandy plain succeeded an extent
of slimy mud, which the Americans call “ ooze/’ com¬
posed of equal parts of siliceous and calcareous shells.
We then traveled over a plain of sea-weed of wild and
luxuriant vegetation. This sward was of close texture,
and soft to the feet, and rivalled the softest' carpet woven
by the hand of man. But whilst verdure was spread at
our feet, it did not abandon our heads. A light net-work
of marine plants, of that inexhaustible family of sea¬
weeds of which more than two thousand kinds are known,
grew on the surface of the water. I saw long ribbons of
fucus floating, some globular, others tuberous, laurenciae
and cladostephi of most delicate foliage, and some rhodo-
menise palmatae, resembling the fan of a cactus. I no¬
ticed that the green plants kept nearer the top of the sea
whilst the red were at a greater depth, leaving to the
black or brown hydrophytes the care of forming gardens
and parterres in the remote beds of the ocean.
We had quitted the Nautilus about an hour and a half.
It was near noon; I knew by the perpendicularity of the
sun’s rays, which were no longer refracted. The magical
colors disappeared by degrees, and the shades of emerald
and sapphire were effaced. We walked with a regular
step, which rang upon the ground with astonishing inten¬
sity ; the slightest noise was transmitted with a quickness
to which the ear is unaccustomed on the earth; indeed,
water is a better conductor of sound than air, in the ratio
of four to one. At this period the earth sloped downward;
JULES VERNE
137
the light took a uniform tint. We were at a depth of a
hundred and five yards and twenty inches, undergoing a
pressure of six atmospheres.
At this depth I could still see the rays of the sun,
though feebly; to their intense brilliancy had succeeded
a reddish twilight, the lowest state between day and night;
and we could still see well enough.— Twenty Thousand
Leagues Under the Sea.
WE START ON THE JOURNEY.
“ You see, the whole island is composed of volcanoes,”
said the Professor, “ and remark carefully that they all
bear the name of Yokul. The word is Icelandic, and
means a glacier. In most of the lofty mountains of that
region the volcanic eruptions come forth from ice-bound
caverns. Hence the name applied to every volcano on
this extraordinary island.”
“ But what does this word Sneffels mean ? ”
To this question I expected no rational answer. I was
mistaken.
“Follow my finger to the western coast of Iceland;
there you see Reykjawik, its capital. Follow the direc¬
tion of one of its innumerable fjords or arms of the sea,
and what' do vou see below the sixty-fifth degree of lati¬
tude ? ”
“ A peninsula,— very like a thigh-bone in shape.”
“ And in the centre of it —”
“ A mountain.”
“Well, that’s Sneffels.”
I had nothing to say.
“ That is Sneffels,— a mountain about five thousand
feet in height, one of the most remarkable in the whole
island, and certainly doomed to be the most celebrated in
the world, for through its crater we shall reach the Cen¬
tre of the Earth.”
“ Impossible! ” cried I, startled and shocked at the
thought.
“Why impossible?” said Professor Hardwigg in his
severest tones.
JULES VERNE
13S
“ Because its crater is choked with lava, by burning
rocks,— by infinite dangers.”
“ But if it be extinct?”
“ That would make a difference.”
“ Of course it would. There are about three hundred
volcanoes on the whole surface of the globe,— but the
greater number are extinct. Of these Sneffels is one.
No eruption has occurred since 1219; — in fact it has
ceased to be a volcano at all.”
After this what more could I say? Yes,— I thought of
another objection.
“ But what is all this about Scartaris and the kalends
of July — ? ”
My uncle reflected deeply. Presently he gave forth the
result of his reflections in a sententious tone.
“ What appears obscure to you, to me is light. This
very phrase shows how particular Saknussemm is in his
directions. The Sneffels mountain has many craters.
He is careful therefore to' point the exact one which is
the highway into the Interior of the Earth. He lets us
know, for this purpose, that about the end of the month
of June, the shadow of Mount Scartaris falls upon the
one crater. There can be no< doubt about the matter.”
My uncle had an answer for everything.
“ I accept all your explanations,” I said, “ and Saknus¬
semm is right. He found out the entrance to the bowels
of the earth; he has indicated correctly; but that he or
any one else ever followed up the discovery, is madness
to suppose.”
“ Why so-, young man ? ”
“ All scientific teaching, theoretical and practical, shows
it to- be impossible.”
“ I care nothing for theories,” retorted my uncle.
“ But is it not well known that heat increases one
degree for every seventy feet you descend into the earth ?
— which gives a fine idea of the central heat. All the
matters which compose the globe are in a state of incan¬
descence; even gold, platinum, and the hardest rocks, are
in a state of fusion. What would become of us ? ”
“ Don’t be alarmed at the heat, my boy.”
“ How so?”
JULES VERNE
139
“ Neither you nor anybody else know anything about
the real state of the earth’s interior. All modern experi¬
ments tend to explode the older theories. Were any such
heat to' exist, the upper crust of the earth would be shat¬
tered to atoms, and the world would be at an end.”
A long, learned, and not uninteresting discussion fol¬
lowed, which ended in this wise: —
“ I do not believe in the dangers and difficulties which
you, Henry, seem to multiply; and the only way to learn
is, like Arne Saknussemm, to go and see.”
“ Well,” cried I, overcome at last, “ let us go and see.
Though how we can do that in the dark is another mys¬
tery.”
“ Fear nothing. We shall overcome these, and many
other difficulties. Besides, as we approach the Centre, I
expect to find it luminous —”
“ Nothing is impossible.”
“ And now that we have come to a thorough under¬
standing, not a word to any living soul. Our success de¬
pends on secrecy and despatch.”
Thus ended our memorable conference, which roused a
perfect fever in me. Leaving my uncle, I went forth like
one possessed. Reaching the banks of the Elbe, I began
to think. Was all I had heard really and truly possible?
Was my uncle in his sober senses, and could the interior
of the earth be reached? Was I the victim of a madman,
or was he a discoverer of rare courage and grandeur
of conception?
To a certain extent I was anxious to be off. I was
afraid my enthusiasm would cool. I determined to pack
up at once. At the end of an hour, however, on my way
home, I found that my feelings had very much changed.
“ I’m all abroad,” I cried; “ ’tis a nightmare,— I must
have dreamed it.”
At this moment I came face to face with Gretchen,
whom I warmly embraced.
“ So you have come to meet me,” she said; “ how
good of you. But what is the matter?”
Well, it was no use mincing the matter; I told her all.
She listened with awe, and for some minutes she could
not speak.
140
JULES VERNE
“Well?” I at last said, rather anxiously.
“What a magnificent journey. If I were only a man!
A journey worthy of the nephew of Professor Hardwigg.
I should look upon it as an honor to accompany him.”
“ My dear Gretchen, I thought you would be the first
to cry out against this mad enterprise.”
“No; on the contrary, I glory in it. It is magnificent,
splendid,— an idea worthy of my father. Henry Lawson,
I envy you.”
This was, as it were, conclusive. The final blow of all.
When we entered the house we found my uncle sur¬
rounded by workmen and porters, who were packing up.
He was pulling and hauling at a bell.
“ Where have you been wasting your time? Your port¬
manteau is not packed,— my papers are not in order,—
the precious tailor has not brought my clothes, nor my
gaiters,— the key of my carpet bag is gone!”
I looked at him stupefied. And still he tugged away
at the bell.
“We are really off, then?” I said.
“Yes, of course,— and yet you go out for a stroll,
unfortunate boy! ”
“ And when do we go ? ”
“ The day after to-morrow, at daybreak.”
I heard no more; but darted off to my little bedchamber
and locked myself in. There was no doubt about it now.
My uncle had been hard at work all the afternoon. The
garden was full of ropes, rope-ladders, torches, gourds,
iron clamps, crow-bars, alpenstocks, and pickaxes.—
enough to load ten men.
I passed a terrible night. I was called early the next
day, to learn that the resolution of my uncle was un¬
changed and irrevocable. I also' found my cousin and
affianced wife as warm on the subject as was her father.
Next day, at five o’clock in the morning, the post-
chaise was at the door. Gretchen and the old cook re¬
ceived the keys of the house; and, scarcely pausing to
wish any one good-by, we started on our adventurous
journey into the Centre of the Earth.— A Journey to the
Centre of the Earth.
JULES VERNE
141
FIRST LESSONS IN CLIMBING.
At Altona, a suburb of Hamburg, is the Chief Station
of the Kiel railway, which was to take us to the shores
of the Belt. In twenty minutes from the moment of our
departure we were in Holstein, and our carriage entered
the station. Our heavy luggage was taken out, weighed,
labelled, and placed in a huge van. We then took our
tickets, and exactly at seven o’clock were seated opposite
each other in a first-class railway carriage.
My uncle said nothing. He was too busy examining
his papers, among which of course was the famous parch¬
ment, and some letters of introduction from the Danish
consul, which were to pave the way to an introduction
to the Governor of Iceland. My only amusement was
looking out of the window. But as we passed through a
flat though fertile country, this occupation was slightly
monotonous. In three hours we reached Kiel, and our
baggage was at once transferred to the steamer.
We had now a day before us, a delay of about ten
hours; which fact put my uncle in a towering passion.
We had nothing to do but to walk about the pretty town
and bay. At length, however, we went on board, and
at half past ten were steaming down the Great Belt. It
was a dark night, with a strong breeze and a rough sea,
nothing being visible but the occasional fires on shore,
with here and there a lighthouse. At seven in the morn¬
ing we left Korsor, a little town on the western side of
Seeland.
Here we took another railway, which in three hours
brought us to the capital, Copenhagen, where, scarcely
taking time for refreshment, my uncle hurried out to
present one of his letters of introduction. It was to the
director of the Museum of Antiquities, who, having been
informed that we were tourists bound for Iceland, did
all he could to assist us. One wretched hope sustained
me now. Perhaps no vessel was bound for such distant
parts.
Alas! a little Danish schooner, the Valkyrie, was to
sail on the second of June for Reykjawik. The captain,
M. Bjarne, was on board, and was rather surprised at
142
JULES VERNE
the energy and cordiality with which his future passenger
shook him by the hand. To him a voyage to Iceland was
merely a matter of course. My uncle, on the other hand,
considered the event of sublime importance. The honest
sailor took advantage of the Professor’s enthusiasm to
double the fare.
“ On Tuesday morning at seven o’clock be on board,”
said M. Bjarne, handing us our receipts.
“ Excellent! Capital! Glorious ! ” remarked my un¬
cle, as we sat down to a late breakfast; “ refresh your¬
self, my boy, and we will take a run through the town.”
Our meal concluded, we went to the Kongens-Nye-
Torw; to the King’s magnificent palace; to the beautiful
bridge over the canal near the Museum; to the immense
cenotaph of Thorwaldsen, with its hideous naval groups;
to the castle of Rosenberg; and to all the other lions of
the place,— none of which my uncle even saw, so ab¬
sorbed was he in his anticipated triumphs.
But one thing struck his fancy, and that was a certain
singular steeple situated on the Island of Amak, which is
the southeast quarter of the city of Copenhagen. My
uncle at once ordered me to turn my steps that way, and
accordingly we went on board the steam ferry boat which
does duty on the canal, and very soon reached the noted
dockyard quay.
In the first instance we crossed some narrow streets,
where we met numerous groups of galley slaves, with
parti-colored trousers, gray and yellow, working under
the orders and the sticks of severe task-masters, and
finally reached the Vor-Frelser’s-Kirk.
This church exhibited nothing remarkable in itself;
in fact, the worthy Professor had only been attracted to
it by one circumstance, which was, that its rather ele¬
vated steeple started from a circular platform, after which
there was an exterior staircase, which wound round to
the very summit.
“ Let us ascend,” said my uncle.
“ But I never climb church towers,” I cried; “ I am
subject to dizziness in my head.”
“ The very reason why you should go up. I want to
cure you of a bad habit.”
JULES VERNE
143
“ But, my good sir —”
“ I tell you to come. What is the use of wasting so
much valuable time ? ”
It was impossible to dispute the dictatorial commands
of my uncle. I yielded with a groan. On payment of a
fee, a verger gave us the key. He, for one, was not par¬
tial to the ascent. My uncle at once showed me the way,
running up the steps like a school-boy. I followed as
well as I could, though no> sooner was I outside the
tower, than my head began to swim. There was nothing
of the eagle about me. The earth was enough for me,
and no ambitious desire to soar ever entered my mind.
Still, things did not go badly until I had ascended one
hundred and fifty steps, and was near the platform, when
I began to feel the rush of cold air. I could scarcely
stand, when, clutching the railings, I looked upwards.
The railing was frail enough, but nothing to those which
skirted the terrible winding staircase, that appeared, from
where I stood, to ascend to the skies.
“ Now then, Henry ! ”
“ I can’t do it! ” I cried, in accents of despair.
“ Are you, after all, a coward, sir?” said my uncle,
in a pitiless tone. “ Go* up, I say! ”
To' this there was no^ reply possible. And yet the keen
air acted violently on my nervous system; sky, earth, all
seemed to> swim round, while the steeple rocked like a
ship. My legs gave way like those of a drunken man.
I crawled upon my hands and knees; I hauled myself up
slowly, crawling like a snake. Presently I closed my
eyes, and allowed myself to be dragged upwards.
“ Look around you,” said my uncle, in a stern voice;
“ Heaven knows what profound abysses you may have to
look down. This is excellent practice.”
Slowly, and shivering all the while with cold, I opened
my eyes. What then did I see? My first glance was
upwards at the cold, fleecy clouds, which as by some
optical delusion appeared to stand still, while the steeple,
the weathercock, and our two selves, were carried swiftly
along. Far away on one side could be seen the grassy
plain, while on the other lay the sea, bathed in translu¬
cent light. The Sund, or Sound, as we call it, could be
144
JULES VERNE
discovered beyond the point of Elsinore, crowded with
white sails, which, at that distance, looked like the wings
of sea-gulls; while to the east could be made out the far-
off coast of Sweden. The whole appeared a magic pan¬
orama.
But, faint and bewildered as I was, there was no rem¬
edy for it. Rise and stand up I must. Despite my pro¬
testations my first lesson lasted quite an hour. When,
nearly two hours later, I reached the bosom of mother
earth, I was like a rheumatic old man bent double with
pain.
“ Enough for one day,” said my uncle, rubbing his
hands; “ we will begin again to-morrow.”
There was no remedy. My lessons lasted five days,
and at the end of that period, I ascended blithely enough,
and found myself able to look down into the depths be¬
low without even winking, and with some degree of
pleasure.— A Journey to the Centre of the Earth.
OUR VOYAGE TO ICELAND.
The hour of departure came at last. The night before,
the worthy Mr. Thompson brought us the most cordial
letters of introduction for Count Trampe, Governor of
Iceland, for M. Pictursson, coadjutor to the bishop, and
for M. Finsen, mayor of the town of Reykjawik. In
return, my uncle nearly crushed his hands, so warmly
did he shake them.
On the second of the month, at two in the morning,
our precious cargo of luggage was taken on board the
good ship Valkyrie. We followed, and were very politely
introduced by the captain to a small cabin with two
standing bed places, neither very well ventilated nor very
comfortable. But in the cause of science men are ex¬
pected to suffer.
“Well, and have we a fair wind?” cried my uncle, in
his most mellifluous accents.
“An excellent wind!” replied Captain Bjarne. “We
shall leave the Sound, going free with all sails set,”
A few minutes afterwards, the schooner started before
the wind, under all the canvas she could carry, and en¬
tered the channel. An hour later, the capital of Den-
JULES VERNE
145
mark seemed to sink into the waves, and we were at no
great distance from the coast of Elsinore. My uncle was
delighted; for myself, moody and dissatisfied, I appeared
almost to expect a glimpse of the ghost of Hamlet.
“ Sublime madman,” thought I, “ you, doubtless, would
approve our proceedings. You might, perhaps, even fol¬
low us to the centre of the earth, there to resolve your
eternal doubts.”
But no ghost, or anything else, appeared upon the an¬
cient walls. The fact is, the castle is much later than
the time of the heroic prince of Denmark. It is now
the residence of the keeper of the Strait of the Sound,
and through that Sound more than fifteen thousand ves¬
sels of all nations pass every year.
The castle of Kronborg soon disappeared in the murky
atmosphere, as well as the tower of Helsinborg, which
which raises its head on the Swedish Bank. And here
the schooner began to feel in earnest the breezes of the
Cattegat. The Valkyrie was swift enough, but with all
sailing boats there is the same uncertainty. Her cargo
was coal, furniture, pottery, woolen clothing, and a load
of corn. As usual, the crew was small,— five Danes
doing the whole of the work.
“How long will the voyage last?” asked my uncle.
“ Well, I should think about ten days,” replied the
skipper; “ unless, indeed, we meet with some northeast
gales among the Faroe Islands.”
“ At all events, there will be no very considerable de¬
lay,” cried the impatient Professor.
“ No, Mr. Hardwigg/’ said the captain, “ no fear of
that. At all events, we shall get there some day.”
Towards evening the schooner doubled Cape Skagen,
the northernmost part of Denmark, crossed the Skager-
Rak during the night,— skirted the extreme point of
Norway through the gut of Cape Lindness, and then
reached the Northern Seas. Two days later, we were
not far from the coast of Scotland, somewhere near
what Danish sailors call Peterhead, and then the Valky¬
rie stretched out direct for the Faroe Islands, between
Orkney and Shetland. Our vessel now felt the full force
of the ocean waves, and the wind shifting, we with great
Vol. XXIII. —10
146
JULES VERNE
difficulty made the Faroe Isles. On the eighth day, the
captain made out Myganness, the westernmost of the
Isles, and from that moment headed direct for Portland,
a cape on the southern shores of the singular island for
which we were bound.
The voyage offered no incident worthy of record. I
bore it very well, but my uncle, to his great annoyance,
and even shame, was remarkably sea-sick ! This mal de
mer troubled him the more, that it prevented him from
questioning Captain Bjarne as to the subject of Sneffels,
as to the means of communication, and the facilities of
transport. All these explanations he had to adjourn to
the period of his arrival. His time meanwhile was spent
lying in bed, groaning, and dwelling anxiously on the
hoped-for termination of the voyage. I didn’t pity him.
On the eleventh day we sighted Cape Portland, over
which towered Mount Myrdals Yokul, which, the weather
being clear, we made out very readily. The Cape itself
is nothing but a huge mount of granite, standing naked
and alone to meet the Atlantic waves. The Valkyrie
kept off the coast, steering to the westward. On all sides
were to be seen whole “ schools ” of whales and sharks.
After some hours we came in sight of a solitary rock
in the ocean, forming a mighty vault, through which the
foaming waves poured with intense fury. The islets of
Westman appeared to leap from the ocean, being so low
in the water as scarcely to be seen until you were right
upon them. From that moment the schooner was steered
to the westward in order to round Cape Reykjaness, the
western point of Iceland.
My uncle, to his great disgust, was unable even to crawl
on deck, so heavy a sea was on, and thus lost the first
view of the Land of Promise. Forty-eight hours later,
after a storm which drove us far to sea under bare poles,
we came once more in sight of land, and were boarded by
a pilot, who, after three hours of dangerous navigation,
brought the schooner safely to an anchor in the bay of
Faxa before Reykjawik.
My uncle came out of his cabin, pale, haggard, thin,
but full of enthusiasm, his eyes dilated with pleasure and
satisfaction. Nearly the whole population of the town
JULES VERNE
M7
was on foot to see us land. The fact was that scarcely
any one of them but expected some goods by the period¬
ical vessel.
Professor Hardwigg was in haste to leave his prison,
or rather as he called it, his hospital; but before he at¬
tempted to do so, he caught hold of my hand, led me to
the quarter-deck of the schooner, took my arm with his
left hand, and pointed inland with his right, over the
northern part of the bay, to where rose a high two-
peaked mountain,— a double cone covered with eternal
snow.
“ Behold,” he whispered in an awe-stricken voice;
“ behold — Mount Sneffels ! ”
Then without further remark, he put his finger to his
lips, frowned darkly, and descended into the small boat
which awaited us. I followed, and in a few minutes we
stood upon the soil of mysterious Iceland!
Scarcely were we fairly on shore when there appeared
before us a man of excellent appearance, wearing the
costume of a military officer. He was, however, but a
civil servant, a magistrate, the governor of the island,—
Baron Trampe. The Professor knew whom he had to
deal with. He therefore handed him the letters from
Copenhagen, and a brief conversation in Danish fol¬
lowed, to which I of course was a stranger, and for a
very good reason, for I did not know the language in
which they conversed. I afterwards heard, however,
that Baron Trampe placed himself entirely at the beck
and call of Professor Plardwigg.
My uncle was most graciously received by M. Finsen,
the mayor, who, as far as costume went, was quite as
military as the governor, but also, from character and
occupation, quite as pacific. As for his coadjutor, M.
Pictursson, he was absent on an episcopal visit to the
northern portion of the diocese. We were therefore
compelled to defer the pleasure of being presented to
him. His absence was, however, more than compensated
by the presence of M. Fridriksson, professor of natural
science in the college of Reykjawik, a man of invaluable
ability. This modest scholar spoke no languages save
Icelandic and Latin. When, therefore, he addressed him-
148
JULES VERNE
self to me in the language of Horace, we at once came
to understand one another. He was, in fact, the only-
person that' I did thoroughly understand during the whole
period of my residence in this benighted island.
Out of three rooms of which his house was composed,
two were placed at our service, and in a few hours we
were installed with all our baggage, the amount of which
rather astonished the simple inhabitants of Reykjawik.
“ Now, Harry,” said my uncle, rubbing his hands, “ all
goes well; the worst difficulty is now over.”
“How the worst difficulty over?” I cried, in fresh
amazement.
“ Doubtless. Here we are in Iceland. Nothing more
remains but to descend into the bowels of the earth.”
“ Well, sir, to a certain extent you are right. We
have only to go down,— but, as far as I am concerned,
that is not the question. I want to know how we are to
get up again.”
“ That is the least part of the business, and does not
in any way trouble me. In the meantime, there is not
an hour to lose. I am about to visit the public library.
Very likely I may find there some manuscripts from the
hand of Saknussemm. I shall be glad to consult them.”
“ In the meanwhile,” I replied, “ I will take a walk
through the town. Will you not likewise do so?”
“ I feel no interest in the subject,” said my uncle.
“ What for me is curious in this island, is not what is
above the surface, but what is below.”
I bowed by way of reply, put on my hat and furred
cloak, and went out.
It was not an easy matter to lose oneself in the two
streets of Reykjawik; I had therefore no need to ask
my way. The town lies on a flat and marshy plain, be¬
tween two hills. A vast field of lava skirts it on one
side, falling away in terraces toward the sea. On the
other hand is the large bay of Faxa, bordered on the
north by the enormous glacier of Sneffels, and in which
bay the Valkyrie was then the only vessel at anchor.
Generally there was one or two English or French gun¬
boats, to watch and protect the fisheries in the offing.
They were now, however, absent on duty.
JULES VERNE
149
The longest of the streets of Reykjawik runs parallel
to the shore. In this street the merchants and traders
live in wooden huts made with beams of wood, painted
red,— mere log huts, such as you find in the wilds of
America. The other street, situated more to the west,
runs towards a little lake between the residences of the
bishop and the other personages not engaged in com¬
merce.
I had soon seen all I wanted of these weary and dismal
thoroughfares. Here and there was a strip of discolored
turf, like an old worn-out bit of woolen carpet; and now
and then a bit of kitchen garden, in which grew pota¬
toes, cabbage, and lettuces, almost diminutive enough to
suggest the idea of Lilliput.
In the center of the new commercial street, I found
the public cemetery, enclosed by an earthen wall. Though
not very large, it appeared not likely to be filled for cen¬
turies. From hence I went to the house of the Governor,
—a mere hut in comparison with the Mansion House at
Hamberg, but a palace alongside the other Icelandic
houses. Between the little lake and the town was the
church, built in simple Protestant style, and composed of
calcined stones, thrown up by volcanic action. I have
not the slightest doubt that in high winds its red tiles
were blown out, to the great annoyance of the pastor
and congregation. Upon an eminence close at hand was
the national school, in which were taught Hebrew, En¬
glish, French and Danish.
In three hours my tour was complete. The general
impression upon my mind was sadness. No trees, no
vegetation, so to speak,— on all sides volcanic peaks,—
the huts of turf and earth,— more like roofs than houses.
Thanks to the heat of these residences, grass grows on
the roof, which grass is carefully cut for hay. I saw
but few inhabitants during my excursion, but I met a
crowd on the beach, drying, salting, and loading cod-fish,
the principal article of exportation. The men appeared
robust but heavy; fair-haired, like Germans, but of pen¬
sive mien,— exiles of a higher scale in the ladder of
humanity than the Esquimaux, but, I thought, much more
150
JULES VERNE
unhappy, since, with superior perceptions, they are com¬
pelled to live within the limits of the Polar Circle.
Sometimes they gave vent to a convulsive laugh, but
by no chance did they smile. Their costume consists of
a coarse capote of black wool, known in Scandinavian
countries as the “ vadmel,” a broad-brimmed hat, trousers
of red serge, and a piece of leather tied with strings for
a shoe,— a coarse kind of moccasin.
The women, though sad-looking and mournful, had
rather agreeable features, without much expression.
They wear a bodice and petticoat of sombre vadmel.
When unmarried, they wear a little brown knitted cap
over a crown of plaited hair; but when married, they
cover their heads with a colored handkerchief, over
which they tie a white scarf.— A Journey to the Centre
of the Earth.
THE REAL JOURNEY COMMENCES.
Our real journey had now commenced.
Hitherto our courage and determination had overcome
all difficulties. We were fatigued at times; and that was
all. Now, unknown and fearful dangers we were about
to encounter.
I had not as yet ventured to take a glimpse down the
horrible abyss into which in a few minutes more I was
about to plunge. The fatal moment had, however, at
last arrived. I had still the option of refusing or accept¬
ing a share in this foolish and audacious enterprise. But
I was ashamed to show more fear than the eider-duck
hunter. Hans seemed to accept the difficulties of the
journey so tranquilly, with such calm indifference, with
such perfect recklessness of all danger, that I actually
blushed to appear less of a man than he !
Had I been alone with my uncle, I should certainly
have sat down and argued the point fully; but in the
presence of the guide I held my tongue. I gave one
moment to the thought of my charming cousin, and then
I advanced to the mouth of the central shaft.
It measured about a hundred feet in diameter, which
made about three hundred in circumference. I leaned
over a rock which stood on its edge, and looked down.
JULES VERNE
I5i
My hair stood on end, my teeth chattered, my limbs
trembled, I seemed utterly to lose my centre of gravity,
while my head was in a sort of whirl, like that of a
drunken man. There is nothing more powerful than this
attraction toward an abyss. I was about to fall headlong
into the gaping well, when I was drawn back by a firm
and powerful hand. * It was that of Hans. I had not
taken lessons enough at the Frelser’s-kirk of Copenhagen
in the art of looking down from lofty eminences without
blinking!
However, few as the minutes were during which I
gazed down this tremendous and even wondrous shaft, I
had a sufficient glimpse of it to give me some idea of its
physical conformation. Its sides, which were almost as
perpendicular as those of a well, presented numerous
projections which doubtless would assist our descent.
It was a sort of wild and savage staircase, without
banister or fence. A rope fastened above, near the sur¬
face, would certainly support our weight and enable us
to reach the bottom, but how, when we had arrived at
its utmost depth, were we to loosen it above? This was,
I thought, a question of some importance.
My uncle, however, was one of those men who are
nearly always prepared with expedients. He hit upon a
very simple method of obviating this difficulty. He un¬
rolled a cord about as thick as my thumb, and at least
four hundred feet in length. He allowed about half of
it to go down the pit and catch in a hitch over a great
block of lava which stood on the edge of the precipice.
This done, he threw the second half after the first.
Each of us could now descend by catching the two
cords in one hand. When about two hundred feet below,
all the explorer had to do was to let go one end and pull
away at the other, when the cord would come falling
at his feet. In order to go down farther, all that was
necessary was to continue the same operation.
This was a very excellent proposition, and, no doubt, a
correct one. Going down appeared to me easy enough;
it was the coming up again that now occupied my
thoughts.
“ Now,” said my uncle, as soon as he had completed
152
JULES VERNE
this important preparation, “ let us see about the bag¬
gage. It must be divided into three separate parcels,
and each of us must carry one on his back. I allude to
the more important and fragile articles.”
My worthy and ingenious uncle did not appear to
consider that we came under that denomination.
“ Hans,” he continued, “ you will take charge of the
tools and some of the provisions; you, Harry, must take
possession of another third of the provisions and of the
arms. I will load myself with the rest of the eatables,
and with the more delicate instruments.”
“ But,” I exclaimed, “ our clothes, this mass of cord
and ladders,— who will undertake to carry them down ? ”
“ They will go down of themselves.”
“And how so?” I asked.
“ You shall see.”
My uncle was not fond of half measures, nor did he
like anything in the way of hesitation. Giving his orders
to Hans, he had the whole of the non-fragile articles
made up into one bundle; and the packet, firmly and
solidly fastened, was simply pitched over the edge of the
gulf.
I heard the moaning of the suddenly displaced air, and
the noise of falling stones. My uncle, leaning over the
abyss, followed the descent of his luggage with a per¬
fectly self-satisfied air, and did not rise until it had com¬
pletely disappeared from sight.
“ Now then,” he cried, “ it is our turn.”
I put it in good faith to any man of common sense,—
was it possible to hear this energetic cry without a shud¬
der?
The Professor fastened his case of instruments on his
back. Hans took charge of the tools, I of the arms. The
descent then commenced in the following order: Hans
went first, my uncle followed, and I went last. Our
progress was made in profound silence,— a silence only
troubled by the fall of pieces of rock, which, breaking
from the jagged sides, fell with a roar into the depths
below.
I allowed myself to slide, so to speak, holding fran¬
tically on the double cord with one hand and with the
JULES VERNE
153
other keeping myself off the rocks by the assistance of
my iron-shod pole. One idea was all the time impressed
upon my brain. I feared that the upper support would
fail me. The cord appeared to me far too fragile to
bear the weight of three such persons as we were, with
our luggage. I made as little use of it as possible, trust¬
ing to my own agility, and doing miracles in the way of
feats of dexterity and strength upon the projecting
shelves and spurs of lava, which my feet seemed to
clutch as strongly as my hands.
The guide went first, I have said, and when one of the
slippery and frail supports broke from under his feet he
had recourse to his usual monosyllabic way of speaking.
“ Gifakt—”
“ Attention,— look out,” repeated my uncle.
In about half an hour we reached a kind of small ter¬
race, formed by a fragment of rock projecting some dis¬
tance from the sides of the shaft.
Hans now began to haul upon the cord on one side
only, the other going as quietly upward as the other
came down. It fell at last, bringing with it’ a shower of
small stones, lava and dust, a disagreeable kind of rain
or hail.
While we were seated on this extraordinary bench I
ventured once more to look downwards. With a sigh I
discovered that the bottom was still wholly invisible.
Were we, then, going direct to the interior of the earth?
The performance with the cord recommenced, and a
quarter of an hour later we had reached to the depth of
another two hundred feet.
I have very strong doubts if the most determined geol¬
ogist would, during that descent, have studied the nature
of the different layers of earth around him. I did not
trouble my head much about the matter; whether we
were among the combustible carbon, silurians, or primi¬
tive soil, I neither knew nor cared to know.
Not so the inveterate Professor. He must have taken
notes all the way down, for, at one of our halts, he began
a brief lecture.
“ The farther we advance,” said he, “ the greater is
my confidence in the result. The disposition of these
154
JULES VERNE
volcano strata absolutely confirms the theories of Sir
Humphry Davy. We are still within the region of the
primordial soil; the soil in which took place the chemical
operation of metals becoming inflamed by coming in
contact with the air and water. I at once regret the old
and now for ever exploded theory of a central fire. At
all events, we shall soon know the truth.”
Such was the everlasting conclusion to which he came.
I, however, was very far from being in humor to discuss
the matter. I had something else to think of. My silence
was taken for consent; and still we continued to go down.
At the expiration of three hours, we were, to all ap¬
pearance, as far off as ever from the bottom of the well.
When I looked upwards, however, I could see that the
upper orifice was every minute decreasing in size. The
sides of the shaft were getting closer and closer together;
we were approaching the regions of eternal night!
And still we continued to descend !
At length, I noticed that when pieces of stone were
detached from the sides of this stupendous precipice, they
were swallowed up with less noise than before. The
final sound was sooner heard. We were approaching the
bottom of the abyss!
As I had been very careful to keep account of all the
changes of cord which took place, I was able to tell
exactly what was the depth we had reached, as well as
the time it had taken.
We had shifted the rope twenty-eight times, each oper¬
ation taking a quarter of an hour, which in all made
seven hours. To this had to be added twenty-eight
pauses; in all ten hours and a half. We started at one;
it was now, therefore, about eleven o’clock at night.
It does not require great knowledge of arithmetic to
know that twenty-eight times two hundred feet make
five thousand six hundred feet in all (more than an En¬
glish mile).
While I was making this mental calculation a voice
broke the silence. It was the voice of Hans.
“ Halt! ” he cried.
I checked myself very suddenly, just at the moment
when I was about to kick my uncle on the head.
JULES VERNE
155
“We have reached the end of our journey,” said the
worthy Professor, in a satisfied air.
“ What, the interior of the earth ? ” said I, slipping
down to his side.
“ No, you stupid fellow! but we have reached the bot¬
tom of the well.”
“ And I suppose there is no> farther progress to be
made ? ” I hopefully exclaimed.
“ Oh, yes; I can dimly see a sort of tunnel, which
turns off obliquely to the right. At all events, we must
see about that to-morrow. Let us sup now, and seek
slumber as best' we may.”
I thought it time, but made no observations on that
point. I was fairly launched on a desperate course, and
all I had to do* was to go forward hopefully and trust¬
ingly.
It was not even now quite dark, the light filtering down
in a most extraordinary manner.
We opened the provision bag, ate a frugal supper, and
each did his best to find a bed amid the pile of stones,
dirt, and lava, which had accumulated for ages at the
bottom of the shaft.
I happened to grope out the pile of ropes, ladders, and
clothes which we had thrown down; and upon them I
stretched myself. After such a day’s labor, my rough
bed seemed as soft as down !
For a while I lay in a sort of pleasant trance.
Presently, after lying quietly for some minutes, I
opened my eyes and looked upwards. As I did so I made
out a brilliant little dot, at the extremity of this long,
gigantic telescope.
It' was a star without scintillating rays. According to
my calculations, must be P in the constellation of the
Little Bear.
After this little bit of astronomical recreation, I
dropped into a sound sleep.— A Journey to the Centre of
the Earth.
WE CONTINUE OUR DESCENT.
At eight o’clock the next morning, a faint kind of dawn
of day awoke us. The thousand and one prisms of the
156
JULES VERNE
lava collected the light' as it passed, and brought it to us
like a shower of sparks.
We were able with ease to see objects around us.
“ Well, Harry, my boy/’ cried the delighted Professor,
rubbing his hands together, “ what say you now ? Did
you ever pass a more tranquil night in our house in the
Konig Strasse? No deafening sounds of cart-wheels,
no cries of hawkers, no bad language from boatmen or
watermen ? ”
“ Well, uncle, we are quiet at the bottom of this well;
but to me there is something terrible in this calm.”
“ Why,” said the Professor, hotly, “ one would say
you were already beginning to be afraid. How will you
get on presently? Do you know that, as yet, we have
not penetrated one inch into the bowels of the earth ? ”
“ What can you mean, sir ? ” was my bewildered and
astonished reply.
“ I mean to say that we have only just reached the
soil of the island itself. This long vertical tube, which
ends at the bottom of the crater of Sneffels, ceases here
just' about on a level with the sea.”
“ Are you sure, sir ? ”
“ Quite sure. Consult the barometer.”
It was quite true that the mercury, after rising gradu¬
ally in the instrument, as long as our descent was taking
place, had stopped precisely at twenty-nine degrees.
“ You perceive,” said the Professor, “ we have as yet
only to endure the pressure of air. I am curious to re¬
place the barometer by the manometer.”
The barometer, in fact, was about to become useless,—
as soon as the weight of the air was greater than what
was calculated as above the level of the ocean.
“ But,” said I, “ is it not very much to be feared that
this ever-increasing pressure may in the end turn out
very painful and inconvenient?”
“ No,” said he. “ We shall descend very slowly, and
our lungs will be gradually accustomed to breathe com¬
pressed air. It is well known that aeronauts have gone
so high as to be nearly without air at all; why, then,
should we not accustom ourselves to breathe when we
have,— say, a little too much of it? For myself, I am
JULES VERNE
157
certain I shall prefer it. Let us not lose a moment.
Where is the packet which preceded us in our descent?”
I smilingly pointed it out to my uncle. Hans had not
seen it, and believed it caught somewhere above us:
“ huppe,” as he phrased it.
“ Now,” said my uncle, “ let us breakfast, and break¬
fast like people who have a long day’s work before
them.”
Biscuit and dried* meat, washed down by some mouth¬
fuls of water flavored with schiedam, was the material
of our luxurious meal.
As soon as it was finished, my uncle took from his
pocket a note-book destined to be filled by memoranda
of our travels. He had already placed his instruments
in order, and this is what he wrote: —
Monday, July 1st.
Chronometer, 8h. 17m. morning.
Barometer, 29 degrees.
Thermometer, 43 degrees Fahrenheit.
Direction, E. S. E.
This last observation referred to the obscure gallery,
and was indicated to> us by the compass.
“ Now, Harry,” cried the Professor, in an enthusiastic
tone of voice, “ we are truly about to take our first step
into the Interior of the Earth; never before visited by
man since the first creation of the world. You may con¬
sider, therefore, that at this precise moment our travels
really commence.”
As my uncle made this remark, he took in one hand
the Ruhmkorf coil apparatus, which hung round his neck,
and with the other he put the electric current into com¬
munication with the worm of the lantern. And a bright
light at once illumined that dark and gloomy tunnel!
The effect was magical!
Hans, who carried the second apparatus, had it also
put into operation. This ingenious application of elec¬
tricity to practical purposes enabled us to move along by
the light of an artificial day, amid even the flow of the
most inflammable and combustible gases.
158
JULES VERNE
“ Forward! ” cried my uncle. Each took up his bur¬
den. Hans went first, my uncle followed, and I going
third, we entered the sombre gallery!
Just as we were about to engulf ourselves in this dis¬
mal passage, I lifted up my head, and through the tube¬
like shaft saw that Iceland sky I was never to see again!
Was it the last I should ever see of any sky?
The stream of lava flowing from the bowels of the
earth in 1229, had forced itself a passage through the
tunnel. It lined the whole of the inside with its thick
and brilliant coating. The electric light added very
greatly to the brilliancy of the effect.
The great difficulty of our journey now began. How
were we to prevent ourselves from slipping down the
steeply-inclined plane? Happily some cracks, abrasures
of the soil, and other irregularities, served the place of
steps; and we descended slowly, allowing our heavy lug¬
gage to slip on before, at the end of a long cord.
But that which served as steps under our feet, became
in other places stalactites. The lava, very porous in
certain places, took the form of little round blisters.
Crystals of opaque quartz, adorned with limpid drops of
natural glass suspended to the roof like lustres, seemed
to take fire as we passed beneath them. One would have
fancied that the genii of romance were illuminating their
underground palaces to receive the sons of men.
“ Magnificent, glorious ! ” I cried, in a moment of in¬
voluntary enthusiasm; “ what a spectacle, uncle ! Do you
not admire these variegated shades of lava, which run
through a whole series of colors, from reddish brown to
pale yellow,— by the most insensible degrees ? And these
crystals,— they appear like luminous globes.”
“ You are beginning to see the charms of travel, Mas¬
ter Harry,” cried my uncle. “ Wait a bit, until we ad¬
vance farther. What we have as yet discovered is
nothing — onward, my boy, onward!”
It would have been a far more correct and appropriate
expression, had he said, “ Let us slide,” for we were go¬
ing down an inclined plane with perfect ease. The com¬
pass indicated that we were moving in a southeasterly
direction. The flow of lava had never turned to the
JULES VERNE
159
right or the left. It had the inflexibility of a straight
line.
Nevertheless, to my surprise, we found no perceptible
increase in heat. This proved the theories of Humphry
Davy to be founded on truth, and more than once I found
myself examining the thermometer in silent astonishment.
Two' hours after my departure it only marked 54 de¬
grees Fahrenheit. I had every reason to believe from
this that our descent was far more horizontal than ver¬
tical. As for discovering the exact depth to which
we had attained, nothing could be easier. The Profes¬
sor, as he advanced, measured the angles of deviation
and inclination; but he kept the result of his observa¬
tions to himself.
About eight o’clock in the evening, my uncle gave
the signal for halting. Hans seated himself on the
ground. The lamps were hung to fissures in the lava
rock. We were now in a large cavern where air was
not wanting. On the contrary, it abounded. What
could be the cause of this,— to what atmospheric agita¬
tion could be ascribed this draught? But this was a
question which I did not care to discuss just then. Fa¬
tigue and hunger made me incapable of reasoning. An
unceasing march of seven hours had not been kept up
without great exhaustion. I was really and truly worn
out, and delighted enough I was to hear the word Halt.
Hans laid out some provisions on a lump of lava, and
we each supped with keen relish. One thing, however,
caused us great uneasiness,— our water reserve was al¬
ready half exhausted. My uncle had full confidence in
finding subterranean resources, but hitherto we had com¬
pletely failed in so doing. I could not help calling my
uncle’s attention to the circumstance.
“ And you are surprised at this total absence of
springs ? ” he said.
“ Doubtless,— I am very uneasy on the point. We
have certainly not enough water to last us five days.”
“ Be quite easy on that matter,” continued my uncle.
“ I answer for it we shall find plenty of water,— in fact,
far more than we shall want.”
“ But when ? ”
i6o
JULES VERNE
“ When we once get through this crust of lava. How
can you expect springs to force their way through these
solid stone walls ? ”
“ But what is there to prove that this concrete mass
of lava does not extend to the centre of the earth? I
don’t think we have as yet done much in a vertical
way.”
“What puts that into your head, my boy?” asked my
uncle, mildly.
“ Well, it' appears to me that if we had descended very
far below the level of the sea,— we should find it rather
hotter than we have.”
“ According to your system,” said my uncle; “ but
what does the thermometer say ? ”
“ Scarcely 15 degrees by Reaumur, which is only an
increase of 9 since our departure.”
“Well, and what conclusion does that bring you to?”
inquired the Professor.
“ The deduction I draw from this is very simple. Ac¬
cording to the most exact observations, the augmenta¬
tion of the temperature of the interior of the earth is 1
degree for every hundred feet. But certain local causes
may considerably modify this figure. Thus at Yakoust
in Siberia, it has been remarked that the heat increases
a degree every thirty-six feet. The difference evidently
depends on the conductibility of certain rocks. In the
neighborhood of an extinct volcano, it has been remarked
that the elevation of temperature was only 1 degree on
every five-and-twenty feet. Let us, then, go upon this
calculation, — which is the most favorable, — and cal¬
culate.”
“ Calculate away, my boy.”
“ Nothing easier,” said I, pulling out my note-book
and pencil. “ Nine times one hundred and twenty-five
feet make a depth of eleven hundred and twenty-five
feet.”
“ Archimedes could not have spoken more geometri¬
cally.”
“Well?”
“ Well, according to my observations, we are at least
ten thousand feet below the level of the sea.”
GULIAN CROMMELIN VERPLANCK 161
“ Can it be possible ? ”
“ Either my calculation is correct, or there is no truth
in figures.”
The calculations of the Professor were perfectly cor¬
rect. We were already six thousand feet deeper down
in the bowels of the earth than any one had ever been
before. The lowest known depth to which man had
hitherto penetrated was in the mines of Kitz-Bahl, on
the Tyrol, and those of Wuttemburg in Bohemia.
The temperature, which should have been eighty-one,
was in this place only fifteen. This was a matter for
serious consideration.— A Journey to the Centre of the
Earth.
^-g^ERPLANCK, Gulian Crommelin, an Amer-
ican jurist and essayist; born at New York,
August 6, 1786; died at Fishkill Landing,
N. Y., March 18, 1870. He was graduated from
Columbia College in 1801, studied law, and after be¬
ing admitted to the bar went to Europe, where he
resided several years. Upon his return he entered
political life, and was elected to the State Legislature.
In 1822 he was appointed Professor of the Evidences
of Christianity in the Episcopal Theological Seminary,
New York; in 1824 he published a volume of Essays
on the Nature and Uses of the Various Evidences of
Revealed Religion , and the next year a legal work
on The Doctrine of Contracts. In 1825, he was
elected a member of Congress, retaining his seat for
eight years, and especially distinguished himself by
procuring the passage of a bill increasing the term
of copyright from twenty-eight to forty-two years.
In 1827, in conjunction with William Cullen Bryant
Vol. XXIII.—11
GULIAN CROMMELIN VERPLANCK
162
and Robert C. Sands, he published The Talisman , an
illustrated miscellany. From time to time he delivered
discourses, of which a collection was published in 1833,
under the title, Discourses and Addresses on Subjects
of American History , Arts, and Literature. Later
lectures were The Right Moral Influence of Liberal
Studies (1833) ; The Influence of Moral Causes upon
Opinion, Science , and Literature (1834) ; The Amer¬
ican Scholar (1836). In 1847 he completed an illus¬
trated edition of Shakespeare’s Plays, for which he
furnished Prefaces and Notes.
JOHN JAY.
The name of John Jay is gloriously associated with
that of Alexander Hamilton in the history of our liber¬
ties and our laws. John Jay had completed his aca¬
demic education in Columbia College several years before
the commencement of the Revolution. The beginning of
the contest between Great Britain and the Colonies found
him already established in legal reputation; and, young
as he still was, singularly well fitted for his country’s
most arduous services, by a rare union of the dignity and
gravity of mature age with youthful energy and zeal.
At the age of thirty he drafted, and in effect himself
framed, the first Constitution of the State of New York,
under which we lived for forty-five years, which still
forms the basis of our present State Government, and
from which other States have since borrowed many of its
most remarkable and original provisions. At that age,
as soon as New York threw off her colonial character,
he was appointed the first Chief Justice of the State.
Then followed a long, rapid, and splendid succession
of high trusts and weighty duties, the results of which
are recorded in the most interesting pages of our na¬
tional history. It was the moral courage of Jay, at the
head of the Supreme Court of his own State, that gave
confidence and union to the people of New York. It was
from his richly stored mind that proceeded, while repre-
GULIAN CROMMELIN VERPLANCK 163
senting this State in the Congress of the United States
(over whose deliberations he for a time presided), many
of those celebrated State papers whose grave eloquence
commanded the admiration of Europe, and drew forth the
eulogy of the master orators and statesmen of the time —
of Chatham and Burke whilst by the evidence which they
gave to the wisdom and talent that guided the councils of
America, they contributed to her reputation and ultimate
triumph as much as the most signal victories of her arms.
As our Minister at Madrid and Paris his capacity pene¬
trated, and his calm firmness defeated, the intricate wiles
of the diplomatists and Cabinets of Europe until, in illus¬
trious association with Franklin and John Adams, he
settled and signed the definitive treaty of peace, recog¬
nizing and confirming our national independence. On his
return home a not less illustrious association awaited
him, in a not less illustrious cause — the establish¬
ment and defence of the present National Constitution,
with Hamilton and Madison. The last Secretary of For¬
eign Affairs under the old Confederation, he was selected
by Washington as the first Chief Justice of the United
States under the new Constitution. His able negotiation
and commercial treaty with Great Britain, and his six
years’ administration as Governor of this State, completed
his public life.
After a long and uninterrupted series of the highest
civil employments, in the most difficult times, he sud¬
denly retired from their toils and dignities, in the full
vigor of mind and body, at a time when the highest
honors of the nation still courted his acceptance and at
an age when, in most statesmen, the objects of ambi¬
tion show as gorgeously, and its apparitions are as stir¬
ring as ever. He looked upon himself as having fully
discharged his debt of service to his country; and, sat¬
isfied with the ample share of public honor which he
had received, he retired with cheerful content, without
ever once casting a reluctant eye toward the power or
dignities he had left. For the last thirty years of his
remaining life he was known to us only by the occa¬
sional appearance of his name, or the employment of
his pen, in the service of piety or philanthrophy. A
164
GULIAN CROMMELIN VERPLANCK
halo of veneration seemed to encircle him, as one be¬
longing to another world, though yet lingering amongst
us. When, during the last year, the tidings of his death
came to us, they were received through the nation with
solemn awe, like that with which we read -the mysterious
passage of ancient Scripture — “ And Enoch walked with
God; and he was not, for God took him .”—Address at
Columbia College , 1830.
Shakespeare’s name.
The right orthography of the great poet’s name has
been, for the last sixty years, as disputed and doubtful a
question as any other of the many points which have
perplexed and divided his editors and critics. Shake-
spere, Shakespeere, Shakspeare, Schackspeere, Shax-
speare, Shakspear, Shakespear, Shakspere, " Shaxpere, are
among the variations, of more or less authority; besides
one or two others, like Shaxhred, which are evidently
blunders of a careless or ignorant scribe. More recent
and minutely accurate researches seem to me to have
proved, from the evidence of deeds, parish-registers,
town-records, etc. (see the various extracts in Collier’s
Life), that the family name was Shakspere, with some
varieties of spelling, such as might occur among illiterate
persons in an uneducated age. The evidence that the
poet himself considered this his family name (which
before seemed most probable), has been, within a few
years, confirmed by the discovery of his undoubted auto¬
graph in a copy of the first edition of Florio’s translation
of Montaigne, in folio — a book of his familiarity with
which there are many traces in his later works, and which
he has used in the way of direct imitation, and almost of
transcription in the Tempest, act II, scene 1. I therefore
fully agree with Sir Frederick Madden, in his tract on
this point, and with Mr. Knight, in his Biography and
Pictorial edition of Shakespeare, that the poet’s legal and
habitual signature was William Shakspere. Yet I, nev¬
ertheless, concur with Dr. Nares (Glossary), Mr. Collier,
Mr. Dyce, and others, in retaining the old orthography
Shakespeare, by which the poet was alone known as an
GULIAN CROMMELIN VERPLANCK
165
author, in his own day and long after. The following
reasons seem to me conclusive: Whether from the in¬
convenience of the Stratford mode of spelling the name
not corresponding in London with its fixed pronunciation,
or for some other reason, the poet, at an early period
of his literary and dramatic career, adopted, for all public
purposes, the orthography of Shakespeare. His name
appears thus spelled in the first edition of his Venus and
Adonis (1593), where the dedication of the “first heir
of his invention ” to the Earl of Southampton is sub¬
scribed at full length, William Shakespeare. This very
popular poem passed through at least six editions during
the author’s lifetime, between 1593 and 1606, and sev¬
eral more within a few years after his death, in all of
which the same spelling is preserved. This was fol¬
lowed, in 1594, by his poem of Literece, where the same
orthography is preserved, in the signature to the dedi¬
cation to the same noble friend and patron. All the suc¬
ceeding editions, of which there were at least four during
the author’s lifetime, retain the same orthography.
Again, in his Sonnets, first printed in 1609, we have nearly
the same orthography, it differing only in printing the
name Shake-speare.
All the editions of Shakespeare’s several poems differ
from those of his plays published during his life in that
typographical accuracy which denotes an author’s own
care, while the contemporary old quarto editions of his
plays, published separately, commonly swarm with gross
errors either of the printer or the copyist. Again, all
those editions of his genuine plays, thus published during
his life, as well as others falsely ascribed to him, concur
in the same mode of spelling the name, it being given
invariably either Shake-speare, or Shakespeare. His
name appears thus in at least sixty title-pages of single
plays, published by different printers, during his own
life. Finally, in the folio collection of 1623, made by
his friends Heminge and Condell, we find the same
orthography, not only in the title and dedication, and
list of performers, but in the verses prefixed by the poet’s
personal friends, Ben Jonson, Holland, Digges — the only
variance being that the editors and Ben Jonson write
GULIAN CROMMELIN VERPLANCK
166
Shakespeare, and Digges has the name Shake-speare.
All the succeeding folios retain the same mode, and two
at least of those were published while many of the poet’s
contemporaries still lived. Moreover, all the poet’s lit¬
erary contemporaries, who have left his name in print',
give it in the same way — as Ben Jonson, several times;
Drayton, Meares (in his oft-quoted list of Shakespeare’s
works written before 1598) ; Allot in his collection called
the “ English Parnassus ” — with several others.
So again, in the next generation, we find the same
mode universally retained — as, for example, by Milton,
by Davenant, who was certainly the poet’s godson, and
who seems to have been willing to pass for his illegiti¬
mate son; and by the painstaking Fuller. The last writer,
in his notice of Shakespeare, in his Worthies of England,
refers to “ the warlike sound of his surname (whence
some may conjecture him of military extraction), Hasti-
vibrans, or Shakespeare.”
The heraldic grant of armorial bearings confirmed to
the poet, in his ancestor’s right, bearing the crest of a
falcon, supporting (or brandishing) a spear, etc., seems
to be founded on the very same signification and pro¬
nunciation of the name. Thus Shakespeare remained
the only name of their great dramatist known to the
English public, from 1593, for almost two centuries
after, until, in the last half of the last century, the author¬
ity of Malone and his fellow-commentators substituted,
in popular use, Shakspeare — a version of the name which
has the least support of any of the variations.
The result of the whole evidence on this point, which
in regard to any other English author would hardly be
worth examining, but which has- its interest to thousands
of Shakespeare’s readers on both sides of the Atlantic,
is simply this: The poet, for some reason, thought fit
to adapt the spelling of his name to the popular mode
of pronouncing it according to the pronunciation of
London and his more cultivated readers; but this was
done in his public, literary, and dramatic character only
— while as a Warwickshire gentleman, and a burgher of
Stratford-upon-Avon, he used his old family orthog¬
raphy in the form he thought most authentic.
GULIAN CROMMELIN VERPLANCK 167
Such variations in the spelling of surnames were not
at all unusual in the poet’s age, and before, and half a
century after, of which many instances have fallen under
my own casual observation. When half the business of
life is transacted, as now, by cheques, notes, bills, re¬
ceipts, and all those informal evidences of contract that
the old law contemptuously designated as mere “ parole
contracts,” although written, the identity of spelling, like
a certain similarity of handwriting, becomes of absolute
necessity for all persons who have any business of any
kind. In the older modes of life, where few transactions
were valid without the attestation of a seal and witnesses,
both law and usage were satisfied with the similarity of
sounds (the idem sonans of the courts), and a man might
vary his signature as he pleased. Thus the poet could
see no objection to having, like his own Falstaff, one
name for his family and townsfolk, and another for the
public — Shakespere for his domestic use and his concerns
at Stratford-upon-Avon, and Shakespeare for the rest
of England — we may add, though he did not, for pos¬
terity, and the whole world.
hamlet’s madness.
Hamlet, after the interview with his father’s spirit,
has announced to his friends his probable intent “ to
bear himself strange and odd,” and put on an “ antic dis¬
position.” But the poet speaks his own meaning through
Hamlet’s mouth, when he makes the prince assure his
mother, “ It is not madness.” The madness is but sim¬
ulated. Still, it is not “ cool reason ” that directs his
conduct and governs his impulses. His weakness and his
melancholy, the weariness of life, the intruding thoughts
of suicide, the abrupt' transitions, the towering passion,
the wild or scornful levity, the infirmity of purpose —
these are not feigned. They indicate crushed affections
and blighted hopes. They show the sovereign reason —
not overthrown by disease, not captive to any illusion,
not paralyzed in its power of attention and coherent
thought — but perplexed, darkened, distracted by natural
and contending emotions from real causes. His mind is
168 GULIAN CROMMELIN VERPLANCK
overwhelmed with the oppressive sense of supernatural
horrors, of more horrible earthly wrongs, and terrible
duties. Such causes would throw any mind from its pro¬
priety; but it is the sensitive, meditative, yet excitable
and kind-hearted prince, quick in feeling, warm in affec¬
tion, rich in thought, “ full of large discourse, looking
before and after,” yet (perhaps on account of those very
endowments), feeble in will and irresolute in act. He it
is, who
“ Hath a father killed, and mother stain’d,
Excitements of his reason and his blood.”
Marked and peculiar as is his character, he is yet, in
this, the personification of a general truth of human na¬
ture, exemplified a thousand times. in the biography of
eminent men. He shows the ordinary incompatibility of
high perfection of the meditative mind, whether poetical
or philosophical (and Hamlet is both), with the strong
will, the prompt and steady determination that give en¬
ergy and success in the active contests of life.
It is thus that, under extraordinary and terrible cir¬
cumstances impelling him to action, Hamlet’s energies
are bent up to one great and engrossing object, and still
he shrinks back from the execution of his resolves, and
would willingly find refuge in the grave.
It may be said that, after all, this view of Hamlet’s
mental infirmity differs from the theory of his insanity
only in words; that the unsettled mind, the morbid melan¬
choly, the inconstancy of purpose, are but, in other lan¬
guage, the description of a species of madness. In one
sense this may be true. Thin partitions divide the excite¬
ment of passion, the absorbing pursuit of trifles, the delu¬
sions of vanity, the malignity of revenge — in short, any
of the follies or vices that “ flesh is heir to ” — from the
stage of physical or mental disease, which in the law of
every civilized people causes the sufferer to be regarded
as “ of unsound mind and memory,” incompetent to dis¬
charge the duties of society, and no longer to be trusted
with its privileges. It was from the conviction of this
truth that a distinguished and acute physician, of great
eminence and experience in the treatment of insanity
GULIAN CROMMELIN VERPLANCK 169
(Dr. Haslam), was led, in the course of a legal inquiry,
in reply to the customary question, “ Was Miss B-
of sound mind ? ” to astonish his professional audience
by asserting that he had “ never known any human being
of sound mind.”
But the poet’s distinction is the plain and ordinary
one. It is that between the irregular, fevered action of
an intellect excited, goaded, oppressed, and disturbed
by natural thoughts and real causes too powerful for its
control — and the same mind, after it has been affected
by the change (modern science would say, by that physical
change) which may deprive the sufferer of his power of
coherent reasoning, or else inflict upon him some self-
formed delusion influencing all his perceptions, opinions,
and conduct. If, instead of the conventional reality of
the ghostly interview, Hamlet had been painted as acting
under the impulses of the self-raised phantoms of an
overheated brain, that would be insanity in the customary
sense, in which, as a morbid physical affection, it is to be
distinguished from the fitful struggles of a wounded spirit
— of a noble mind torn with terrible and warring
thoughts.
This is the difference between Lear, in the agony of
intolerable passion from real and adequate causes, and
the Lear of the stormy heath, holding an imaginary
court of justice upon Goneril and her sister.
Now as to this scene with Ophelia. How does it cor¬
respond with this understanding of the poet’s intent?
Critics of the highest authority in taste and feeling
have accounted for Hamlet’s conduct solely upon the
ground of the absorbing and overwhelming influence of
the one paramount thought which renders hopeless and
worthless all that formerly occupied his affections. The
view is, in conception and feeling, worthy of the poet; but
it is not directly supported by a single line in his text,
while it overlooks the fact that he has taken pains to
mark, as an incident of his plot, the unfortunate effect
upon Hamlet’s mind of Ophelia’s too confiding obedience
to her father’s suspicious caution. The author could not
mean that this scene should be regarded as a sudden and
causeless outbreak of passion, unconnected with any prior
i;o
GULIAN CROMMELIN VERPLANCK
interview with Ophelia. He has shown us that, immedi¬
ately after the revelation of the murder, the suspicious
policy of Polonius compels his daughter to “ repel Ham¬
let's letters,” and deny him access. This leads to that
interview so touchingly described by Ophelia — of silent
but piteous expostulation, of sorrow, suspicion, and un¬
uttered reproach:
“ With his other hand thus, o’er his brow,
He falls to such perusal of my face
As he would draw it.”
This silence, more eloquent than words, implies a con¬
flict of mixed emotions, which the poet himself was con¬
tent to suggest, without caring to analyze it in words.
Whatever these emotions were, they had no mixture of
levity, anger, or indifference.
When the Prince again meets Ophelia it is with calm
and solemn courtesy. She renews the recollection of
her former refusal of his letters, by returning “ the re¬
membrances of his that she had longed to re-deliver.”
The reader knows that, in the gentle Ophelia, this is an
act, not of her will, but of her yielding and helpless
obedience. To her lover it must appear as a confirma¬
tion of her abrupt and seemingly causeless breaking off
of all former ties at a moment when he most needed
sympathy and kindness. This surely cannot be received
with calmness. Does she, too, repel his confidence, and
turn away from his altered fortunes and his broken
spirit? The deep feelings that had before choked his
utterance cannot but return. He wraps himself in his
cloak of assumed madness. He gives vent to intense
emotion in agitated and contradictory expressions (“I
did love you once” — “I loved you not”), and in wild
invective, not at Ophelia personally, but at her sex’s
frailties. In short, as elsewhere, where he fears to re¬
pose confidence, he masks, under his assumed “ antic
disposition,” the deep and real ‘ excitement of his reason
and his blood.”
This understanding of this famous scene seems to me
required by the poet’s marked intention to separate
JONES VERY
171
Ophelia from Hamlet’s confidence, by Polonius com¬
pelling her —
“ — To lock herself from his resort;
Admit no messenger, receive no tokens.”
All which would otherwise be a useless excrescence
on the plot. It, besides, appears so natural in itself,
that the only hesitation I have as to its correctness arises
from respect to the differing opinions of some of those
who have most reverenced and best understood Shake¬
speare’s genius. — From Shakespeare's Plays.
S ERY, Jones, an American poet and essayist;
born at Salem, Mass., August 28, 1813; died
there, May 8, 1880. Entering Harvard at the
end of the sophomore year, he was graduated in 1836,
and was a tutor in Greek, 1836-38, while studying
divinity. In 1838 he retired to Salem. By many of
his eminent contemporaries, such as Emerson, Bryant,
Channing and Dana, he was regarded as a rare phe¬
nomenon of originality and spirituality; and the re¬
corded fragments of his conversations suggest a more
unique individuality than his poems, which, however,
are full of delicate grace and a most exalted soul-
experience, comparable to that of Madame Guion,
Catharine Adorna, or Edward Payson. He believed
that his poems were written by a kind of Divine in¬
spiration. The first edition was prepared by Emerson,
Essays and Poems, 1839. William P. Andrews edited
the poems, with a Memoir, 1883; and a complete edi¬
tion, with biography, was published by the Rev. James
Freeman Clarke in 1886.
172
JONES VERY
TO HIM THAT HATH SHALL BE GIVEN.
Why readest thou? thou canst not gain the life
The spirit leads but by the spirit’s toil:
The labor of the body is not strife
Such as will give to thee the wine and oil;
To him who hath, to him my verse shall give,
And he the more from all he does shall gain;
The spirit’s life he, too, shall learn to live,
And share on earth in hope the spirit’s pain;
Be taught of God; none else can teach thee aught';
He will thy steps forever lead aright;
The life is all that' He His sons has taught;
Obey within, and thou shalt see its light,
And gather from its beams a brighter ray.
To cheer thee on along thy doubtful way.
IN HIM WE LIVE.
Father ! I bless Thy name that I do live,
And in each motion am made rich with Thee,
That when a glance is all that I can give,
It' is a kingdom’s wealth, if I but see;
This stately body cannot move, save I
Will to its nobleness my little bring;
My voice its measured cadence will not try,
Save I with every note consent to sing;
I cannot raise my hands to hurt or bless,
But I with every action must' conspire
To show me there how little I possess,
And yet that little more than I desire;
May each new act my new allegiance prove,
Till in Thy perfect love I ever live and move.
THE CLAY.
Thou shalt do what Thou wilt with Thine own hand,
Thou form’st the spirit' like the moulded clay;
For those who love Thee keep Thy just command,
And in Thine image grow as they obey;
JONES VERY
173
New tints and forms with every hour they take
Whose life is fashioned by Thy Spirit’s power;
The crimson dawn is round them when they wake,
And golden triumphs wait the evening hour;
The queenly sceptred night their souls receives,
And spreads their pillows ’neath her sable tent,
Above them sleep their palm with poppy weaves,
Sweet rest Thou hast to all who labor lent,
That they may rise refreshed to light again
And with Thee gather in the whitening grain.
THE PRESENCE.
I sit within my room, and joy to find
That Thou, who always lov’st, art with me here,
That I am never left by Thee behind,
But by Thyself Thou keep’st me ever near.
The fire burns brighter when with Thee I look,
And seems a kinder servant sent to me;
With gladder heart I read Thy holy book,
Because Thou art the eyes with which I see.
This aged chair, that table, watch, and door
Around in ready service ever wait;
Nor can I ask of Thee a menial more
To fill the measure of my large estate
For Thou Thyself, with all a Father’s care,
Where’er I turn, art ever with me there.
THE SABBATIA.
The sweet-brier rose has not a form more fair
Nor are its hues more beauteous than thine own,
Sabbatia, flower most beautiful and rare!
In lonely spots blooming unseen, unknown.
So spiritual thy look, thy stem so light,
Thou seemest not from the dark earth to grow;
But to belong to heavenly regions bright,
Where night comes not, nor blasts of winter blow.
To me thou art a pure, ideal flower.
So delicate that mortal touch might mar;
Not born, like other flowers, of sun and shower,
174
JONES VERY
But wandering from thy native home afar
To lead our thoughts to some serener clime,
Beyond the shadows and the storms of time.
THE LATTER RAIN.
The latter rain — it falls in anxious haste
Upon the sun-dried fields and branches bare,
Loosening with searching drops the rigid waste
As if it would each root’s lost strength repair;
But not a blade grows green as in the spring;
No swelling twig puts forth its thickening leaves;
The robins only ’mid the harvests sing,
Pecking the grain that scatters from the sheaves;
The rain falls still — the fruit all ripened drops,
It pierces chestnut-burr and walnut-shell;
The furrowed fields disclose the yellow crops;
Each bursting pod of talents used can tell;
And all that once received the early rain
Declare to man it was not sent in vain.
THE SPIRIT-LAND.
Father! Thy wonders do not singly stand,
Nor far removed where feet have seldom strayed;
Around us ever lies the enchanted land,
In marvels rich to Thine own sons displayed
In finding Thee are all things round us found;
In losing Thee are all things lost beside;
Ears have we, but in vain strange voices sound;
And to our eyes the vision is denied;
We wander in the country far remote,
’Mid tombs and ruined piles in death to dwell;
Or on the records of past greatness dote,
And for a buried soul the living cell;
While on our path bewildered falls the night
That ne’er returns us to the fields of light.
NATURE.
The bubbling brook doth leap when I come by,
Because my feet find measure with its call;
JONES VERY
I
The birds know when the friend they love is nigh,
For I am known to them, both great and small.
The flower that on the lonely hillside grows
Expects me there when spring its bloom has given;
And many a tree and bush my wanderings knows,
And e’en the clouds and silent stars of heaven;
For he who with his Maker walks aright,
Shall be their lord as Adam was before;
His ear shall catch each sound with new delight.
Each object wear the dress that then it wore;
And he, as when erect in soul he stood,
Hear from his Father’s lips that all is good.
YOURSELF.
’Tis to yourself I speak; you cannot know
Him whom I call in speaking such a one,
For you beneath the earth lie buried low,
Which he alone as living walks upon;
You may at times have heard him’speak to you,
And often whispered, perchance, that you were he;
And I must ever wish that it were true,
For then you could hold fellowship with me:
But now you hear us talk as strangers, met
Above the room wherein you lie abed;
A word perhaps loud spoken you may get,
Or hear our feet when heavily they tread;
But he who speaks, or him who’s spoken to,
Must both remain as strangers still to you.
THE DEAD.
I see them — crowd on crowd they walk the earth,
Dry, leafless trees no autumn wind laid bare;
And in their nakedness find cause for mirth,
And all unclad would winter’s rudeness dare;
No sap doth through their clattering branches flow,
Whence springing leaves and blossoms bright appear;
Their hearts the living God have ceased to know
Who gives the spring-time to th’ expectant year.
They mimic life, as if from Him to steal
176
JONES VERY
His glow of health to paint the livid cheek;
They borrow words for thoughts they cannot feel,
That with a seeming heart their tongue may speak;
And in their show of life more dead they live
Than those that to the earth with many tears they give.
THE SILENT.
There is a sighing in the wood,
A murmur in the beating wave,
The heart has never understood
To tell in words the thoughts they gave.
Yet oft it feels an answering tone,
When wandering on the lonely shore,
And could the lips its voice make known,
’Twould sound as does the ocean’s roar.
And oft beneath the wind-swept pine
Some chord is struck and strains to swell;
Nor sounds nor language can define —
’Tis not for words or sounds to tell.
’Tis all unheard, that Silent Voice,
Whose goings forth, unknown to all,
Bid bending reed and bird rejoice,
And fill with music Nature’s hall.
And in the speechless human heart
It speaks, where’er man’s feet have trod
Beyond the lip’s deceitful art,
To tell of Him, the Unseen God.
THEOPHILE DE VIAU
177
fc^S^IAU, Theophile de, a French poet; born at
a^/x. Clairac in 1590; died at Chantilly in 1626.
His grandfather had been secretary to the
Queen of Navarre; and his father was an avocat at
Bordeaux. His youth was passed in the little village
of Bousseres Sainte Radegonde, on the River Lot,
amid scenes which he never tired of recalling in after
years. He was educated by Scotch scholars; but on
leaving school he fell into debaucheries which nearly
ruined him. He went to Paris in 1610; but finding
that preferment at Court was impossible for the son
of a Huguenot, he withdrew in 1612 to the Nether¬
lands, where he learned the use of snuff and the art of
getting drunk by Dutch rule. Calvinist as Theophile
was, he was nevertheless licentious, both in his con¬
duct and in his writings. In 1619 he found it expedient
to withdraw to England, where he attempted to get
an introduction to James I.; but that Prince refused
to see him. He drifted into infidelity; but seems to
have found it convenient, in those changing times, to
be now a Huguenot and now a Catholic, as occasion
served. A work, entitled Le Parnasse Satirique,
which appeared in 1622, was generally understood to
be the production of de Viau, and he was prosecuted
for it, brought to Paris, and there kept in prison for
two years, being finally banished. His health was
broken by his sufferings and anxieties in the prison,
and at the age of thirty-six his life was brought to an
end. His works consist of odes, elegies, sonnets,
tragedies, a dramatic dialogue on immortality entitled
Socrate Mourant and apologies for himself.
Viau stands out a clear and well-defined individu-
Vol. XXIII.—12
178
THEOPHILE DE VIAU
ality, one of those who are not mere umbra, reflectors
of other men’s genius; but who dare to be independent,
who occupy such a position that no history of French
literature is complete without them.
LALAGE.
Roses and lilies, fair to view,
Canst in my garden see;
Brighter thy cheeks with either hue,
My own fair Lalage.
Evermore young, in yonder sky,
Shines Dian, heavenly fair;
Heaven’s pure light on lover’s eye,
Beams Lalage the rare.
Beautiful vision of the skies,
I wake to see but thee;
All the day long these ears, these eyes,
Know naught but Lalage.
Cupid, with fire and shaft and bow,
And Graces carved in white —
Everything ’minds me, high and low,
Of Lalage, my light.
— Translation of J. W. Banta.
THE COUNTRY.
Listen ! the birds with warbling faint
Lift morning hymns to yon red rays —
The only God they know — which paint
Fresh glory on their wings and ways.
The ploughshare plunges down the rows;
The ploughman in the furrows deep
Strides after, rousing as he goes,
His lazy oxen, half-asleep.
LOUIS MARIE JULIEN VIAUD
179
Night flies away; the murmurous day
Wakes all the voices of the light;
And life and truth, for age and youth.
Drive off the fantasies of night.
Alidor, deep in happy sleep,
Kisses his Iris in a dream;
And waking, seeks those burning cheeks,
Which still beside him blushing seem.
The blacksmith at his anvil stands —
See how the quick fire ruddy shows,
Beneath the hammer in his hands,
The iron with a white heat glows.
Yon dying candles feebly burn,
The broad day makes their glimmer low;
The great sun dazzles as we turn,
And catch his rays the casement through.
Up, Phillis sweet, the morning greet,
And in the dewy garden seek
The flowers spread with white and red.
To match the glory of thy cheek.
Translation of Walter Besant.
I A U D, Louis Marie Julien (“ Pierre
Loti ”) ; a French novelist; born at Rochefort,
January 14, 1850. He was educated at home
and in the naval school at Brest, 1867; became mid¬
shipman in 1873, an d lieutenant in 1881, and made
many voyages in Oceanica and to Japan, Senegal, etc.
Participating in the French war against Anam (south
of China) in 1883, his truth-telling letters to Figaro
led to his suspension from active service; he painted
180 LOUIS MARIE JUL1EN VIAUD
“ too black ” the conduct of the French soldiers in
taking the forts of Hue. He is a wonderful painter
in words, making a picture with every brief stroke;
and the translator of some of his works, Clara Bell,
has admirably rendered the delicacy of his touch, color,
and sentiment. From Lands of Exile (1887) seems
to be a transcript of fact and scene in the Tonquin
cruise, the extract here given being perhaps largely
imaginative. His other works are Aziyade (1879);
Rarahn, a Polynesian Idyl (1880), (reprinted under
the title of Marriage of Loti) ; The Romance of a
Spain (Algerian soldier) (1881) ; Flowers of Ennui;
Pasquala Ivanovitch; Suleima (1882); My Brother
Yves (1883) ; The Three Women of Kasbah (1884) ;
The Iceland Fisherman; Madame Chrysanthemum
(1887); Japoneries of Autumn (1889); Au Maroe
(1890); Le Roman d’un Enfant, an autobiography
(1890) ; Le Livre de la Pitie et de la Mort (1891) ;
Fantome d’ Orient, a sequel to Aziyade (1892) ; Mate-
lot (1893). Of the above works, From Lands of
Exile; Rarahu; The Iceland Fisherman; and Madame
Chrysanthemum have been published in English.
THE MARBLE MOUNTAIN OF ANAM.
The caverns are peopled with idols; the entrails of
the rocks are haunted; spells are sleeping in these deep
recesses. Every incarnation of Buddha is here — and
other, older images, of which the Bonzes no longer know
the meaning. The gods are of the size of life; some
standing up resplendent' with gold, their eyes staring and
fierce; others crouched and asleep, with half-closed eyes
and a sempiternal smile. Some dwell alone, unexpected
and startling apparitions in dark corners; others — numer¬
ous company — sit in a circle under a marble canopy in
the green, dim light of a cavern; their attitudes and faces
make one’s flesh creep; they seem to be holding council.
LOUIS MARIE JULIEN VIAUD
181
And each one has a red silk cowl over his head — in
some pulled low over the eyes to hide their faces, all but
the smile: one has to lift it to see them.
The gilding and Chinese gaudiness of their costumes
have preserved a sort of vividness that is still gorgeous;
nevertheless they are very old; their silken hoods are
all worm-eaten; they are a sort of wonderfully pre¬
served mummies. The walls of the temple are of the
primeval marble rock, hung with stalactites, and worn
and grooved in every direction by the trickling water
oozing from the hill above.
And lower down, quite at the bottom, in the nether¬
most caverns, dwell other gods who have lost every
trace of color, whose names are forgotten, who have
stalactite's in their beards and masks of saltpetre. These
are as old — as old as the world; they were living gods
when our western lands were still frozen, virgin forests,
the home of the cave-bear and the giant elk. The in¬
scriptions that surround them are not Chinese, they
were traced by primeval man before any known era; these
bas-reliefs seem earlier than the dark ages of Angcor.
They are antediluvian gods, surrounded by inscrutable
things. The Bonzes still venerate them, and their cavern
smells of incense.
The great and solemn mystery of this mountain lies
in its having been sacred to the gods and full of wor¬
ship ever since thinking beings have peopled the earth.
Who were they who made those idols of the lowest
caverns? ... We came up from the subterranean
regions, and when we reached the great gate once more
I say to Lee-Loo: “Your great pagoda is very fine.”
Lee-Loo smiles. “ The great pagoda ! — you have not
seen it.’
And then he turns to the left, up the ascending flight
of steps. Marble steps, as before, carpeted with the
pink periwinkle, overhung by lilies, drooping palms, and
luxuriant rare ferns, the rocks close in on it more and
more; the pink creepers grow paler and the plants more
slender in the cooler shade. Tawny ourangs are perched
on every point of the spires that tower above us, watch¬
ing with excited curiosity and moving like old men.
LOUIS MARIE IULIEN VIAUD
182
Another gateway in a new style rises before us, and
we stop to look. It is not like the one we have left be¬
low ; it is differently strange. This one is very simple,
and it is impossible to explain what there is of unknown
and unseen in this very simplicity; it is the quintes¬
sence of finality. The gateway strikes us at once as
the gateway to Beyond; and that Beyond is Nirvana, the
peace of the eternal void. There is a decoration of vague
scroll-work, shapes that twine and cling in mystical em¬
brace without beginning or end — a painless, joyless eter¬
nity, the eternity of the Buddhist — simply annihilation
and rest in extinction.
We pass this gateway, and the walls, closing in by
degrees, at last meet over our heads. The ourangs have
all vanished together, hurrying away as if they knew
where we are going now, and intend to go there, too, by
a way known to them alone, and to be there before us.
Our steps ring on the marble blocks with sonorous echo
peculiar to underground passages. We make our way
under a low vault which penetrates the heart of the
mountain in the blackness of darkness.
Total night — and then a strange light dawns before
us which is not daylight: a green glimmer, as green as
green fire.
“ The pagoda! ” says Lee-Loo.
A doorway of irregular shape, all fringed with sta¬
lactites, stands open before us, rising to about half the
height of the great sanctuary within. It is the very
heart of the mountain, a deep and lofty cavern with
green marble walls. The distance is drowned, as it
were, in a transparent twilight looking like sea-water;
and from above, through a shaft, down which the great
monkeys are peeping at us, comes a dazzling beam of
light of indescribable tint: it is as if we were walking
into a huge emerald pierced by a moonbeam. And the
shrines, the gods, the monsters in this subterranean
haze, this mysterious and resplendent green halo of glory,
have a vivid and supernatural splendor of hue.
Slowly we go down the steps of a stair guarded by
four horrible idiots riding on nightmare creatures. Just
facing us stand two little temples, all striped with sky-
LOUIS MARIE JULIEN VIAUD
183
blue and pink; their base is lost in shadow and they look
like the enchanted dwellings of earth-gnomes. In a fis¬
sure in the rock a colossal god wearing a gold mitre
squats smiling. And high above the shrines and images,
the marble vault shuts it all in, like a stupendous and
crushing curtain in a thousand green folds.
The guardian gods of the stairs glare at us with a leer
in their great perfidious, greedy eyes, grinning from ear
to ear with bogie laughter. They look as if they were
shrinking closer to the wall to make way for us, holding
in their steeds, which set their teeth like tigers. And
far up, perched on the great dome round the opening
through which the green rays fall, the ourangs are sitting,
their legs and tails hanging over among the garlands of
creepers, watching to see if we shall venture in.
Down we go — doubtfully, with involuntary slowness,
under the influence of an unfamiliar and indescribable
religious awe. As we reach the lowest step, there is a
subterranean chill; we speak and rouse hollow echoes
that transform our voices.
The floor of the cave is of very fine sand covered with
the dung of bats, filling the air with a strange, musky
smell; it is dented all over with the print left by monkeys,
like that of little hands. Here and there stand ancient
marble vases, and altars for Buddhist rites.
Then there are numbers of what look like very long,
very enormous brown snakes hanging from the top of
the vault down to the floor — or they may be cables, huge
cables shining like bronze, stretched from top to bottom
of this nave. They are roots of creepers, thousands of
years old perhaps, larger than any known growth. The
ourangs, growing bolder, seem to be about to descend
by these to inspect us more closely, for they are the
familiars of the sanctuary.
Presently we see a group of four Bonzes in violet robes
who have followed us and are now standing on the top
steps of the gap by which we came. They pause at the
entrance of the underground passage in the sea-green
twilight, looking tiny among the gods and monsters. And
then, coming toward us, they slowly descend — down,
down, into the greener radiance.
184
PETER VIDAL
It was like a scene of another world, a ritual of ad¬
mission of departed spirits into the Buddhist heaven. —
From Lands of Exile; translation of Clara Bell.
^prfi^IDAL, Peter, a Provengal troubadour; born
at Toulouse about 1165; date of his death
unknown. He was the son of a rich furrier,
who was of a poetic turn. His career was so filled
with fantastic adventures as to bring his sanity into
serious doubt; indeed, he seems all his life to have
been mad in everything but his poetry. He wandered
as a vagrant from one Court to another — those of
Alfonso II. of Aragon; Viscount Barral of Marseilles;
Count Raymond VI. of Toulouse; the Marquis Boni¬
face II. of Montferrat; King Emmerich of Hungary;
and Count Richard of Poitiers, afterward King of
England. At the Court of the Viscount Barral, he
entered one morning the chamber of the Countess
Adalasia, and awoke her with a kiss; and for this
indiscretion he was obliged to leave. In 1190, having
joined the crusade of King Richard, he married a
Greek lady; and imagining that she was the daughter
of the Greek Emperor at Constantinople, he assumed
the arms of the Emperor himself, and had all the royal
insignia borne before him. When the news of the
capture of Byzantium was brought to him, he hurried
to the Golden Horn in his usual headlong way, mean¬
ing to prefer his claims to the vacant throne. Whether
it was during the voyage that he died, or directly after
landing, cannot be ascertained.
PETER VIDAL
185
A PRANDIAL IMPROVISATION.
I hate who gives a scanty feast;
The mind where envy rankles;
A brawling monk; a smirking priest;
And the maid who shows her ankles.
The fool who dotes upon his wife;
The churl whose wine’s diluted;
The pessimist, with joy at strife; —
May these three be well hooted!
Deep shame befall who wears a sword
He never draws in fight;
And be the huckster’s brat abhorred
Who apes the airs of knight.
Let scorn be hers who weds her groom;
And his who weds his harlot;
And may the gibbet be the doom
Of rogues that strut in scarlet.
— Sung to the guitar at the Countess Adalasia’s
castle.
TO ADALASIA.
Thy breeze is blowing on my cheeks,
O land of lyre and lance;
In every gush to me it speaks
Of Her I love, and France.
’Twas there I sang, and won renown;
’Twas there my heart I gave
Unto the dame whose cruel frown
Me forth an exile drave.
How pleasant every breeze that leaves
The land of lyre and lance —
How welcome every voice that weaves
A Tale of Her and France.
ALFRED VICTOR DE VIGNY
1 86
Why, for the deed it bade me dare,
Could not my love atone ?
And wherefore does a form so fair
So stern a spirit own ?
Far better feel a Moslem blade,
Than thus despairing pine;
So on my breast the cross I’ll braid,
And hie to Palestine.
Seek, song, with this my last farewell.
The land of lyre and lance;
Nor to my lady fail to tell,
I die for Her and France.
— Written upon joining the Crusade of Richard /.
ADALASIA RECONCILED.
Visions of beauty round me throng —
Each thought’s a flower, each breath a song.
With hope my every fibre glows,
My very blood in music flows.
Her mantle Joy has round me cast,
My lady-love relents at last.
No grief has earth like that we prove
When swept in wrath from those we love;
Nor does a bliss for mortals smile
Like that when fond hearts reconcile.
I feel the bliss; I’ve felt the pain;
Nor shall I tempt the last again.
— Written when the Countess u sent him a pres¬
ent of the kiss he stole.”
S IGNY, Alfred Victor, Comte de, a French
poet and novelist; born at Loches, Touraine,
March 28, 1799; died at Paris, September 17,
1863. At the age of sixteen he joined the regiment
of musketeers of Louis XVIII., and accompanied the
ALFRED VICTOR DE VIGNY
187
King to Ghent during the Hundred Days. In 1823
he entered the line in order to be able to accompany
the French expedition to Spain. His regiment, how¬
ever, was detained in the Pyrenees, and the time he
had hoped to give to action he spent in writing poetry,
In 1826 he married Miss Lydia Bunbury, an English¬
woman of fortune, and two years later he retired from
the army and devoted himself entirely to literature.
Already, in 1815 and 1822, respectively, he had pub¬
lished two volumes of Pocmes, which were inspired
by his classical and Biblical studies. His Elio a, on la
Soeur des Anges, appeared in 1824. It is the history
of a fallen seraph. After he had definitely adopted
literature as his pursuit in life he became one of the
leaders of the Romantic movement, and his Poernes,
Antiques et Modernes, issued 1826 and 1837, were
hailed as among the finest productions of the new
school. In 1826 appeared his great historical romance
entitled Cinq-Mars. The success of this romantic il¬
lustration of the times of Richelieu encouraged him
to produce his Stello, or the Blue-Devils (1832), which
defined the poet’s position in society, and Military
Servitude and Greatness (1835), the materials of
which he derived from the history of the republic and
the empire. As a dramatic writer he also achieved
considerable success by his Chatterton (1835), an epi¬
sode taken from Stello. He also wrote La Marechale
d’Ancre, and several other historical dramas. He was
made a member of the French Academy in 1845. It
was not until after Count de Vigny’s death that his
Destinees: Poemes Philosophiques, were given to the
world. An edition of his CEuvres Completes appeared
in 1883.
i88
ALFRED VICTOR DE VIGNY
COME, MAIDEN, WITH ME O’ER THE WATERS.
Come, maiden, come with me to glide
All alone o’er the sea;
My lovely and portionless bride,
I only with thee.
My bark dances light on the waters,
Like a bird on the wing;
See — see its bright flag and its sail;
Think not that ’tis tiny and frail.
For I am its king.
Let the waters be stormy or still,
We shall not sink beneath;
Let the winds rage around at their will,
And threaten with death.
The winds and the waves I defy,
No longer, then, wait:
No wall to imprison thee now:
Not one to say nay to thy vow —
None with us but Fate.
The land? — it was made for the slave,
And for toil, day and night;
But the sea, for the free and the brave
Lies boundless and bright.
Each wave has a secret of pleasure;
It whispers to me,
“Wilt be happy? love ever, but only
Fear not to be poor and be lonely —
Dare, dare to be free! ”
—From Poemes; translation of Walter Besant.
THE HORN.
I love, through the deep woods at close of day,
To hear the horn sounding the stag at bay,
Or hunter’s farewell note, which echo wakes,
And the north wind through all the forest takes.
ALFRED VICTOR DE VIGNY
189
How oft have I a midnight vigil kept,
And smiled to hear it — yet, more often wept!
It seemed the sound prophetic, which, of old,
The coming death of paladins foretold.
The horses halt upon the mountain-brow.
Foam-whitened; ’neath their feet is Roncevaux,
By day’s last dying flame scarce colored o’er;
The far horizon shows the flying Moor.
“ Seest thou naught, Turpin, in the torrent-bed? ”
“ I see two knights; one dying and one dead,
Both crushed ’neath a black rock’s vast fragment lie;
The strongest holds a horn of ivory.
His soul’s last breath twice called us to his aid! ”
“ God! how the horn wails through the forest glade.”
LEGENDS OF OLD. •
Ah! sweet it is, when all the boughs are black
And the deep snow lies heavy on the ground,
The legends of past days to summon back
And bid old stories once again go round.
To listen, while without the poplar only
Lifts up long arms against a wintry sky,
And on the tree the snow-robed raven lonely
Stands balanced like the vane that hangs on high.
Ah! sweet it is, old stories to recall,
The legends of that old world passed away:
While the white snow enwraps and covers all,
And trees hang out black branches to the day.
— From Poemes; translation in Temple Bar.
190
PAS QUALE VILLARI
>7-yi^ILLARI, Pasquale, an Italian historian; born
at Naples, October 3, 1827. He was educated
under Basilo Piroti and de Sanctis. He
studied law and began to practice that profession; but
•in 1847 he was imprisoned for his share in the revolu¬
tion of that year. Upon his release he went to Flor¬
ence, where, in very needy circumstances, he devoted
himself to the study of history, supporting himself by
giving private lessons. In 1859 he published his
Storia di Girolamo Savonarola, and was immediately
made Professor of History at the University of Pisa.
His work on Savonarola — which has been translated
into English by his wife — was followed by La Civiltd
Latina e Germanica (1861) ; Leggendc che Illustrano
la Divina Commedia (1865), and many critical, educa¬
tional, and poetical treatises. His political pamphlet
Di Chi e la Colpa —“Whose is the Fault?”—stirred
the nation to its very depths; and the same year, 1866.
Villari was called to the chair of History at the Insti-
tute of Higher Studies in Florence. He became Gen¬
eral Secretary of Public Instruction in 1869, Senator in
1884, and Minister of Public Instruction in 1891. His
Niccolo Mackiavelli — translated by his wife — was
published in 1877; and in 1893 h e issued his Storia de
Firenze —(Florentine History)—which has been also
rendered into English by his wife.
MACHIAVELLI IN EARLY LIFE.
Of middle height, slender figure, with sparkling eyes,
dark hair, rather a small head, a slightly aquiline nose,
a tightly closed mouth: all about him bore the impress
of a very acute observer and thinker, but not that of
one able to wield much influence over others. He could
PAS QUALE V1LLARI
igi
not easily rid himself of the sarcastic expression con¬
tinually playing round his mouth and flashing from
his eyes, which gave him the air of a cold and impassi¬
ble calculator; while nevertheless he was frequently
ruled by his powerful imagination; sometimes suddenly
led away by it to an extent befitting the most fantastic
of visionaries. He applied himself to the faithful ser¬
vice of the Republic, with all the ardor of an ancient
Republican, inspired by reminiscences of Rome, pagan
and republican. His leisure was devoted to reading,
conversation, and the usual pleasures of life. Being of
a cheerful temper, he was on good terms with his col¬
leagues in the Chancery, and if intimate with his supe¬
rior, Marcello Virgilio, was far more so with Biagio
Buonaccorsi, who, although in an inferior position and
but a mediocre scholar, was a worthy man and a firm
friend. He it was who, when Machiavelli was at a dis¬
tance, used to write him long and affectionate letters in
a tone of real friendship, and from these we learn that
the first secretary of the Ten was much given to gay
living, and to various irregular love affairs, of which
the two wrote to each other in a style that is far from
edifying. — From Niccolo Machiavelli; translation of
Linda Villari.
CAPTURE OF SAVONAROLA.
Savonarola’s adherents had either disappeared or were
in hiding; all Florence now seemed against him.
The morning of the 8th of April, Palm Sunday, 1498,
passed quietly, but it was easy for an observant eye to
discern that this tranquillity was only the sullen calm that
precedes a storm, and that it was a marvel no startling
event had yet occurred. Savonarola preached St. Mark’s,
but his sermon was very short and sad: he offered his
body as a sacrifice to God, and declared his readiness to
face death for the good of his flock. Mournfully, but with
much composure, he took leave of his people; and in giv¬
ing them his benediction, seemed to feel that he was
addressing them for the last time. The friar’s adherents
then hurried to their homes to procure arms, while a por-
192
PAS QUALE V1LLAR1
tion of their adversaries held the corners of the streets,
and all the rest marched through the city, crying “To
St. Mark’s, to St. Mark’s, fire in hand ! ” They assembled
on the piazza of the Signory; and when their numbers
had sufficiently increased, moved in the direction of the
convent, brandishing their weapons, and uttering fierce
cries. On the way they caught sight of a certain man,
named Pecori, who was quietly walking to the church of the
Santissima Annunziata, singing psalms as he went; and
immediately some of them rushed after him, crying, “ Does
the hypocrite still dare to memble ! ” And overtaking him
on the steps of the Innocenti, they slew him on the spot.
A poor spectacles-maker, hearing the great noise in the
street, came out with his slippers in his hand; and while
trying to persuade the people to be quiet, was killed by a
sword-thrust in his head. Others shared the same fate;
and in this way, infuriated by the taste of blood, the mob
poured into the square of St. Mark. Finding the church
thronged with the people who had attended vespers, and
were still engaged in prayer, they hurled a dense shower
of stones through the door; whereat a general panic en¬
sued, the women shrieked loudly, and all took to flight.
In a moment the church was emptied; its doors, as well
as those of the convent were locked and barred; and no
one remained within save the citizens who were bent on
defending St. Mark’s.
Although barely thirty in number, these comprised some
of the most devoted of Savonarola’s adherents; the men
who had escorted him to the pulpit, and were ever pre¬
pared to risk their life in his service. For some days
past they had known that the convent was in danger:
and accordingly eight or ten of them had always come to
guard it by night. Without the knowledge of Savonarola
or Fra Domenico, whom they knew to be averse to all
deeds of violence, they had, by the suggestion of Fra
Silvestro and Fra Francesco de’ Medici, secretly deposited
a store of arms in a cell beneath the cloister. Here were
some twelve breastplates and as many helmets; eighteen
halberds, five or six crossbows, shields of different kinds,
four or five harquebusses, a barrel of powder, and leaden
bullets, and even, as it would seem, two small mortars.
PAS QUALE VILLARI
193
Francesco Davanzati, who had furnished almost all these
weapons and was then in the convent, brought out and
distributed them to those best able to use them. Assisted
by Baldo Xnghimlami, he directed the defence for some
time; placing guards at the weakest points, and giving
the necessary orders. About sixteen of the friars took
arms, and foremost among them were Fra Luca, son of
Andrea della Robbia, and our Fra Benetto. It was a
strange sight to see some of these men, with breastplates
over their Dominican robes and helmets on their heads,
brandishing enormous halberds, and speeding through the
cloister with shouts of “ Viva Cristo ! ” to call their com¬
panions to arms.
Savonarola was deeply grieved by this, and Fra Do¬
menico went about imploring all to cast aside their weap¬
ons. “ They must not stain their hands in blood; they
must not disobey the precepts of the gospel, nor their
superior’s commands.” So he cried, but all was in vain;
for at that moment the furious yells outside rose to a
deafening pitch, and more determined attacks were made
on the gates. It was then that Savonarola resolved to end
the fruitless and painful struggle by the sacrifice of his
own safety; so, assuming his priest’s vestments, and tak¬
ing a cross in his hand, he said to his companions, “ Suf¬
fer me to go forth, since through me orta est haec tem-
pestas” (this storm has risen) : and wished to surrender
himself to his enemies at once. But he was met by
universal cries of despair; friars and paymen pressed
round him with tears and supplications. “ No! do not
leave us! you will be torn to pieces; and what would
become of us without you?” When he saw his most
trusted friends barring the way before him, he turned
about and bade all follow him to the church. First of
all he carried the Host in procession through the cloisters;
then led the way to the choir, and reminded them that
prayer was the only weapon to be employed by ministers
of religion: whereupon all fell on their knees before the
consecrated wafer, and intoned the chant —“ Salvum fac
populum tuum, Domine ” (O Lord, save thy people).
Some had rested their weapons against the wall, others
Vol. XXIII.— 13
194
PASQUALE VILLAR1
still grasped them, and only a few remained on guard at
the main entrances.
It was now about the twenty-second hour (i.e., two
hours before sundown) ; the throng on the Piazza had
increased, the assailants were encouraged by meeting with
no resistance, and the Signory’s guards were coming to
their aid. At this moment the mace-bearers appeared,
to proclaim the Signory’s decree that all in the convent
were to lay down their arms; and that Savonarola was
sentenced to exile, and ordered to quit the Florentine
territory within twelve hours’ time. Most of those who
heard this announcement regarded it as a device of the
enemy. It was difficult to credit that the Signory could
order the attacked, who were making scarcely any defence,
to lay down their arms, while the assailants, who were
the sole authors of the disturbable, and in far greater
numbers, were not only left unmolested, but supplied with
reinforcements! Nevertheless, the proclamation decided
several to obtain safe-conducts and hurry away.
Meanwhile night was falling, and the siege of the con¬
vent was being carried on with desperate ferocity. Some
fired the gates; while others had successfully scaled the
walls on the Sapienza side, and made their way into the
cloisters. After sacking the infirmary and the cells, they
all penetrated to the sacristy, sword in hand, and broke
upon the door leading to the choir. When the friars, who
were kneeling there in prayer, found themselves thus sud¬
denly attacked, they were naturally stirred to self-defence.
.Seizing the burning torches, and crucifixes of metal and
wood, they labored their assailants with so much energy
that the latter fled in dismay, believing for a moment that
a band of angels had come to the defence of the convent.
Then the other monks, who had laid down their arms
at Savonarola’s behest, again resumed the defence; and
there was more skirmishing in the cloisters and corridors.
At’ the same time the great bell of the convent, called the
Piagnona, tolled forth the alarm; both besiegers and be¬
sieged fought with great fury; all was clamor and confu¬
sion, cries of despair, and clashing of steel. This was
the moment when Baldo Inghirlami and Francesco Da-
vanzati dealt such vigorous blows and that Fra Luca
PAS QUALE VILLARI
195
*
d’Andrea della Robbia chased the foes through the clois¬
ters, sword in hard. Fra Benedetto and a few others
mounted on the roof, and repeatedly drove back the
enemy with a furious hail of stones and tiles. Several
of the monks fired their muskets with good effect inside
the church; and a certain Fra Enrico, a young, fair-haired,
handsome German, particularly distinguished himself by
his prowess. At the first beginning of the struggle he
had courageously sallied out into the midst of the mob,
and possessed himself of the weapon he wielded so va¬
liantly; accompanying each stroke with the cry, “ Salvum
fac populum.tuum, Domine.”
At this juncture the victory was decidedly with St.
Mark’s, and its defenders were exulting in this success,
when a fresh edict of the Signory was proclaimed, declar¬
ing all rebels who did not forsake the convent within an
hour. Thereupon several more demanded safe-conducts
and departed, thus further diminishing the too scanty
garrison. And there being no longer any doubt as to the
Signory’s intention of crushing St. Mark’s, even the rem¬
nant of the defenders lost hope and courage, and were
already beginning to give way. Savonarola and many
of his brethren still remained in the choir, offering up
prayers, which were interrupted from time to time by the
cries of the injured or the piteous wail of the dying.
Among the latter was a youth of the Panciatichi House,
who was borne, fatally wounded, to the steps of the high
altar; and there, amid volleys of harquebuss shots, re¬
ceived the communion from Fra Domenico, and joyfully
drew his last breath in the friar’s arms, after kissing the
crucifix and exclaiming, “ Ecce quam bonum et quam
jucundum habitare fratres in unum ! ” (Behold how good
and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in
unity!)
Night had now come; and the monks, exhausted with
hunger and agitation, devoured some dry figs one of the
companions had brought. Suddenly the defence was re¬
sumed; louder cries were heard, and fresh volleys of shot.
In the pulpit from which Savonarola had so frequently
inculcated the doctrine of peace, Fra Enrico, the German,
had now taken his stand and was firing his harquebuss
196
PASQUALE VILLARI
with fatal effect. The smoke became so dense that it was
necessary to break the windows in order to escape suffo¬
cation; and thereupon long tongues of flame poured into
the church from the burning doors. The German and
another defender retreated into the choir, and clambering
upon the high altar, planted their harquebusses beside
the great crucifix, and continued their fire.
Savonarola was overwhelmed with grief by this waste
of life in his cause, but was powerless to prevent it. No
attention being paid to his protests, he again raised the
Host and commanded his friars to follow him. Trav¬
ersing the dormitory, he had conducted nearly all to the
Greek library, when he caught sight of Fra Benedetto
rushing down stairs, maddened with fury and fully armed,
to confront the assailants at close quarters. Laying his
hand on his disciple’s shoulder, he gave him a severe
glance, and said in a tone of earnest reproof, “ Fra Bene¬
detto, throw down those weapons and take up the cross:
I never intended my brethren to shed blood.” And the
monk humbled himself at his master’s feet, laid aside his
arms, and followed him to the library with the rest.
A final and still more threatening decree was now issued
by the Signory, against all who continued to resist; com¬
manding Savonarola, Fra Domenico, and Fra Silvestro
to present themselves at the palace without delay, and
giving their word that no harm should be offered them.
Fra Domenico insisted on seeing the order in writing;
and the heralds, not having it with them, went back to
fetch it. Meanwhile Savonarola had deposited the sacra¬
ment in the hall of the library beneath the noble arches
of Michelozzi’s vault'; and collecting the friars around
him, addressed them for the last time in these memo¬
rable words: “ My beloved children, in the presence of
God, in the presence of the consecrated wafer, with our
enemies already in the convent, I confirm the truth of
my doctrines. All that I have said hath come to me from
God, and He is my witness in Heaven that I speak no lie.
I had not foreseen all that the city would so quickly turn
against me; nevertheless, may the Lord’s will be done.
My last exhortation to ye is this: let faith, prayer, and
patience be your weapons. I leave ye with anguish and
PAS QUALE VILLAR1
19;
grief, to give myself into my enemies’ hands. I know
not' whether they will take my life; but certain am I that,
once dead, I shall be able to succor ye in Heaven far
better than it hath been granted me to help ye on earth.
Take comfort, embrace the cross, and by it shall ye find
the way of salvation.”
The invaders were now masters of almost the whole
of the convent; and Gioacchino della Vecchia, captain of
the palace guard, threatened to knock down the walls with
his guns unless the orders of the Signory were obeyed.
Fra Malatesta Sacramoro, the very man who a few days
before had offered to walk through the fire, now played
the part of Judas. He treated with the Compagnacci,
and persuaded them to present a written order, for which
they sent an urgent request to the Signory; while Savon¬
arola again confessed to Fra Domenico, and took the
sacrament from his hands, in preparation for their com¬
mon surrender. As for their companion. Fra Silvestro,
he had hidden himself, and in the confusion was nowhere
to be found.
Just then a singular incident occurred. One of Savon¬
arola’s disciples — a certain Girolamo Gini, who had long
yearned to assume the Dominican robe — had come to
vespers that day, and from the beginning of the riot en¬
ergetically helped in the defence of the convent. When
Savonarola ordered all to lay down their arms, this worthy
artisan instantly obeyed; but nevertheless could not re¬
frain from rushing through the cloisters and showing
himself to the assailants,— in his desire, as he confessed
at his examination, to face death for the love of Jesus
Christ. Having been wounded, he now appeared in the
Greek library, with blood streaming from his head; and
kneeling at his master’s feet humbly prayed to be invested
with the habit. And his request was granted on the spot.
Savonarola was urged by some of his friends to consent
to be lowered from the walls and seek safety in flight;
since, if he once set foot in the palace, there was little
chance of his ever leaving it alive. He hesitated, and
seemed on the point of adopting this sole means of escape;
when Fra Malatesta turned on him and said, “ Should not
the shepherd lay down his life for his lambs?” These
ABEL FRANCOIS VILLEMAIN
198
words appeared to touch him deeply; and he accordingly
made no reply, but after kissing his brethren and folding
them to his heart,— this very Malatesta first of all,— he
deliberately gave himself up, together with his trusty and
inseparable Fra Domenico, into the hands of the mace-
bearers who had returned from the Signory at that in¬
stant.— Storia di Girolamo Savonarola.
^sg^ILLEMAIN, Abel Franqois, a French critic
W&D and orator; born at Paris, June 11, 1790; died
there, May 8, 1870. He was educated at the
Imperial Lyceum and was a pupil in rhetoric of Luce
de Lancival. M. de Fontanes appointed him professor
of rhetoric in the Lycee Charlemagne about 1810. In
1812 he gained a prize offered by the Institute for his
Eloge de Montaigne, in which he displayed great
power of generalization and an excellent gift of har¬
monious language. In 1814 he produced a Discourse
on the Advantages and Inconveniences of Criticism,
which was crowned by the French Academy. In 1816
he became Professor of French eloquence at the Uni¬
versity of Paris, and wrote an Eloge de Montesquieu.
He published History of Cromwell (1819); Lectures
on French Literature (1828-38), which is considered
his principal work; Discours et Melanges Litteraires
(1823), and Studies of Ancient and Foreign Literature
(1846). Blending in his lectures literary analysis,
biography, spicy anecdotes, ingenious judgments in
detail and profound generalities, he gave them the
form of eloquent conversation, and acquired a high
reputation as a professor and critic. He was admitted
to the Academy in 1821. Under the new regime he
ABEL FRANCOIS VILLEMAIN
199
became a Peer of France in 1832, President of the
Royal Council of Public Instruction in 1834, and Per¬
petual Secretary of the French Academy the same
year. He was Minister of Public Instruction from
May, 1839, to March, 1840, and held the same office
in the Cabinet of Guizot from 1840 to 1844.
Villemain is generally recognized as one of the most
accomplished writers of his time. His style is ad¬
mirable and his works present a happy union of mod¬
eration with independence, while they preserve a due
equilibrium between reason and imagination.
-HE CHARACTERS OF “ TELEMACHUS.”
Without doubt Fenelon has participated in the faults
of those that he imitated; and if the combats of Tele-
machus have the grandeur and the fire of the combats of
the Iliad, Mentor sometimes speaks as long as one of
Homer’s heroes; and sometimes the details of a some¬
what commonplace moral discussion remind us of the
long interviews of the Cyropedia. Considering Tele-
machus as an inspiration of the Greek muses, it seems
that the genius of Fenelon receives from them a force
that to him was unnatural. The vehemence of Sopho¬
cles is completely preserved in the savage imprecations
of Philoctetes. Love burns in the heart of Eucharis as
in the verses of Theocritus. Although the beauties of
antiquity seems to have been gleaned for the compo¬
sition of Telemachus, there remains to the author some
glory of invention, without taking account of what is
creative in the imitation of foreign beauties, inimitable
before and after Fenelon. Nothing is more beautiful
than the arrangement of Telemachus, and we do not find
less grandeur in the general idea than taste and skill
in the union and contrast of episodes. The chaste and
modest loves of Antiope, introduced at the end of the
poem, correct, in a sublime manner, the transports of
Calypso. The interest of passion is thus twice produced
— once under the image of madness and again under
200
FRANCOIS VILLON
that of virtue. But, as Telemachus is especially a book
of political ethics, what the author paints with most force
is ambition, that malady of kings which brings death
to peoples — ambition, great and generous in Sesostris,
imprudent in Idomeneus; tyrannical and calamitous in
Pygmalion; barbarous, hypocritical, and ingenious in
Adrastus. This last character, superior to Virgil’s Me-
zentius, is traced with a vigor of imagination that no
historical truth could surpass. This invention of per¬
sonages is not less rare than the general invention of a
plan. The happiest character among these truthful por¬
traits is that of young Telemachus. More developed,
more active than the Telemachus of the Odyssey, he com¬
bines all that can surprise, attach, and instruct — in the
age of passions he is under the guard of wisdom, which
often allows him to fail, because faults are the education
of men; he has the pride of the throne, the transport of
heroism, and the candor of early youth. Plis mixture of
hauteur and naivete, of force and submission, forms per¬
haps the most touching and the most amiable character
invented by the epic muse; and, doubtless, Rousseau, a
great master in the art of painting and touching, felt this
marvellous charm when he supposed that Telemachus
would be, in the eyes of chastity and innocence, the ideal
model worthy of a first love.
^§^ILLON, Francois, a French poet; born at Paris
in 1431; died at St. Maixent about 1484. His
] AfiV real name was Montcorbier; he took the name
Villon from a patron. He has been called the first
poet of France — first as one who disregarded the arti¬
ficial verse that reigned, and, from the depths of his
personal experiences and humane sympathies, spoke
out with a simple earnestness none the less true because
interspersed with a cheerful though sometimes des-
FRANCOIS VILLON
201
perately ironical humor. His life was that of a poor
profligate, at times criminal, vagabond, and his char¬
acter may be gathered from the fact that he was long
described as “ the poet-thief ” and “ the literary house¬
breaker.” From certain lines in his verses, it is con¬
cluded that he was of poor parentage. He studied
at the University of Paris; but in 1461 he was com¬
mitted to prison at Melun, with five accomplices, for
a crime the nature of which is not certainly known.
Whatever it was, he tells us that he was tempted into
it by his mistress, who afterward deserted him. After
remaining in a dungeon and in chains during a whole
summer, he was condemned to be hanged; but Louis
XI., then newly come to the throne, commuted his sen¬
tence into exile, in consideration of his poetical abil¬
ities. “ Villon is perhaps the only man,” says Carey,
“ whom the Muse has rescued from the gallows.” Af¬
ter his release he was reduced to such straits that he
was forced to beg his bread. It is asserted by Rabelais
that Villon was subsequently in favor with Edward V.
of England. Besides his Petit Testament, written in
1456, and his Grand Testament (1461), composed
during his imprisonment, his published writings con¬
sist of only a few ballads in the language d’Argot — a
sort of slang used among knaves of that age, but now
wholly unintelligible. His two “ Testaments,” which
have been highly praised, are humorous pieces, in
which a fancied disposal of property is made, with the
view only of raising a laugh at the legatees — a species
of drollery in which Villon has had many imitators.
His poems were edited by Clement Marot, at the in¬
stance of Francis I., and several editions have been
published since.
John Payne translated Villon’s poems in 1878 and
202
FRANCOIS VILLON
1881, doing them into English verse, for the first time,
in their original forms. Some verbal changes are
made in Payne’s translation, e.g., retaining the French
heaulmiere, in the “ Regrets of the beautiful
heaulmiere” which, referring to some kind of bonnet
or cap of the time, is confusing when literally translated
helm-maker, and makes a bad accent in the second line
of the poem. Mr. Payne’s old-fashioned title-page
and quaint translations are in happy keeping with the
ancient reliques. The best French edition complete
is by M. Jannet (1867), but contains verses in jargon
and the Replies Franches, which are not believed to
be the work of Villon.
It is while in prison, under sentence of death, that
Villon composed the magnificent ballad in which he
imagines himself and his companions hanging dead
upon the gibbet of Montfaucon.
THE BALLAD OF THE HANGED.
Brothers, who still may live — our own lives spent —
We pray you harden not your hearts at sight
Of us poor sinners; so, in mercy bent,
Shall God’s full pity on your souls alight.
Look up and see us dangling, three and four:
As for the flesh we loved so much of yore,
’Tis gone, devoured by birds, and rotted off;
We are but hanging bones, on gibbet dressed:
Let no man at our wretched guise make scoff:
But pray God all, that He may give us rest.
And if we call you brethren, do not show
Gesture disdainful — though ’tis true we died
By act of justice: think that men are so,
And all are not by wisdom justified.
Therefore let prayers from tender hearts begun
Continue to the Blessed Virgin’s Son;
Pray that His grace be not entirely lost-
FRANCOIS VILLON
203
Dead are we: O that Christ may give His best;
Dead souls with living men are never crossed:
Yet pray God all, that He may give us rest.
The rain that falls upon us washes all;
The sun that shines has blackened us and dried:
Ravens and crows have plucked out eye and ball,
Have picked at beard and at our locks have tried.
Never at any time do we sit down,
But here and there by shifting breezes blown,
We change, ne’er resting, at the wild wind’s will,
While birds are pecking cheek, and head, and breast.
Brothers, let cruel mockery be still:
And pray God all, that He may give us rest.
Prince Jesus, Thou who Lordship hast o’er all,
Keep us from mastery and might of Hell;
Let us not lie accursed, but with Thy blest:
And ye, O brothers, read our lesson well,
And pray God all, that He may give us rest.
— Translation of Walter Besant.
BALLAD OF OLD-TIME LADIES.
Tell me where, in what land of shade,
Hides fair Flora of Rome, and where
Are Thais and Archipiade,
Cousins german in beauty rare ?
And Echo, more than mortal fair,
That, when one calls by river-flow
Or marish, answers out of air?
But what has become of last year's snow?
Where did the learn’d Helo’isa vade,
For whose sake Abelard did not spare
(Such dole for love on him was laid)
Manhood to lose and a cowl to wear?
And where is the queen who willed whilere
That Burdan, tied in a sack should go
Floating down Seine from the turret-stair?
But what has become of last yeaVs snow?
04
FRANCOIS VILLON
Blanche, too, the lily-white queen, that made
Sweet music as if she a siren were ;
Broad-foot Bertha; and Joan the maid,
The good Lorrainer, the English bare
Captive to Rouen, and burned her there:
Beatrix, Eremburge, Alys — lo !
Where are they, virgin debonair?
But what has become of last year's snow?
Envoi.
Prince, you may question how they fare
This week, or liefer this year, I trow:
Still shall this burden the answer bear,
But what has become of last year's snow?
BALLAD OF THE OLD-TIME LORDS.
Where is Calixtus, third of the name,
That died in the purple whiles ago,
Four years since he to the tiar came?
And the King of Aragon, Alfonso?
The Duke of Bourbon, sweet of show,
And the Duke Arthur of Brittaine?
And Charles the Seventh, the Good. Heigh ho
But where is the doughty Charlemagne?
Likewise the King of Scots, whose shame
Was the half of his face (or folks say so).
Vermeil as amethyst held to the flame,
From chin to forehead all of a glow?
The King of Cyprus, of friend and foe
Renowned; and the gentle King of Spain,
Whose name, alas, I do not know?
But where is the doughty Charlemaine?
Of many more might I ask the same,
That are but dust that the breezes blow;
But I desist, for none may claim
To stand against Death, that lays all low.
Yet one more question before I go:
Where is Lancelot, King of Behaine ?
FRANCOIS VILLON
205
And where are his valiant ancestors now?
But where is the doughty Charlemcdnef
Envoi.
Where is Du Guesclin, the Breton prow?
Where is the Dauphin of Auvergne lain?
Where is Alenqon’s good duke ? Lo !
But where is the doughty Charlemaine?
REGRETS OF THE BEAUTIFUL HEAULMIERE.
Methought I heard the fair complain —
The fair that erst was heaulmiere —
And wish herself a girl again.
After this fashion did I hear:
“ Alack ! old age, felon and drear:
Why hast so early laid me low?
What hinders but I slay me here,
And so at one stroke end my woe? . . .
“ I did to many me deny
(Therein I showed but little guile)
For love of one right false and sly,
Whom without stint I loved erewhile,
On whomsoever I might smile,
I loved him well, sorry or glad;
But he to me was harsh and vile,
And loved me but for what I had.
“ Ill as he used me, and howe’er
Unkind, I loved him none the less:
Even had he made me fagots bear
And bind, one kiss and one caress,
And I forgot his wickedness.
The rogue ! ’twas ever thus the same
With him. It brought me scant liesse:
And what is left me? Sin and shame.
“ Now is he dead this thirty year,
And I’m grown old and worn and gray:
When I recall the days that were
206
FRANK VINCENT
And think of what I am to-day,
And when disrobed myself survey
And see my-body shrunk to naught,
Withered and shrivelled — well-a-day !
For grief I am well-nigh distraught.
“ Where is that clear and crystal brow ?
Those eyebrows arched and golden hair?
And those clear eyes, where are they now,
Wherewith the wisest ravished were?
The little nose so straight and fair;
The tiny, tender, perfect ear;
Where is the dimpled chin, and where
The pouting lips so red and clear?” . .
And so the litany goes round
Lamenting the good time gone by,
Amongst us crouched upon the ground,
Poor silly hags, all huddled by
A scanty fire of hemp-stalks dry,
Easy to light and soon gone out;
(We that once held our heads so high)
So all take turn and turn about.
— Translation of John Payne.
INCENT, Frank, an American traveler; born
at Brooklyn, N. Y., April 2, 1848. After re¬
ceiving his education at Yale, he traveled for
eleven years, visiting all parts of the world. His
valuable collection of Siamese and Cambodian antiqui¬
ties he presented to the Metropolitan Museum of New
York in 1884. Mr. Vincent is a member of many
geographical and ethnological societies, and has re¬
ceived decorations from the Kings of Burma, Siam,
and Cambodia. His works are The Land of the White
FRANK VINCENT
20 7
Elephant (1874); Through and Through the Tropics
(1876) ; Two Months in Burma (1877) ; The Wonder-
fid Ruins of Cambodia (1878); Norsk, Lapp, and
Finn (1881); Around and About South America
(1888) ; The Republics of South America (1889) 5 I n
and Out of Central America (1890) ; and Actual Af¬
rica (1895). With A. E. Lancaster he wrote The
Lady of Cawnpore (1891).
THE SHOAY DAGON.
The most wonderful sight in Rangoon is the great
Shoay Dagon, or Golden Pagoda — the largest edifice of
the kind in Burma, and probably the largest in the world.
The entrance, guarded by two huge griffins of brick
and mortar, passes between long, narrow sheds, which
are beautifully carved and gaudily painted in vermilion
and gold, and covered with representations of Buddhistic
tortures reserved for the damned, and thence, mounting
a very dilapidated staircase, the immense stone terrace
upon which the pagoda itself stands is reached. This ter¬
race is nearly a thousand feet square, and the base of
the structure, standing at its centre, is octagonal-shaped
and fifteen hundred feet in circumference, while the en¬
tire height of the pagoda is three hundred feet. It is built
of solid masonry and lime, covered with gold-leaf, and
gradually tapers to a spire which terminates in a tee (um¬
brella), an open iron-work cap, twenty-six feet in height.
The gold upon this pagoda is said to equal the weight of
a former Burmese king, and the spire blazes so fiercely
under a noonday’s sun as to almost dazzle the beholder.
At the base of the immense structure are broad stone
steps and large griffins, and also some smaller pagodas of
like design.
Within the enclosure of the pagoda are many temples,
most of them containing huge images of Gaudama (the
last Buddha), made of wood, brick and lime, marble and
metal, and nearly all thickly gilded; some of the sitting
figures are twelve feet, and some of the standing ones as
208
JOHN HEYL VINCENT
much as eighteen feet in height. I noticed that all the
faces wore a humorous, contented expression, one sensual,
however, rather than intellectual. Some of their drapery
was made of minute pieces of glass; especially were the
fringes of robes thus ornamented. This gave them the
appearance of coats of mail, and when different-colored
glasses were used in a court-dress the effect was quite
gay. Some of the idols were clothed in yellow garments
•—yellow being the ordained color of all priestly robes.
On small tables in front of many of the images were
placed candles, flowers, and little flags; some of these
being used in the forms of worship, and some having
been presented as offerings by religious devotees. Lofty
poles were planted at short intervals around the pagoda.
These were crowned with tees, and also at several feet
from their tops were fixed rudely made game-cocks — the
national emblem of the Burmese — and the remainder of
the pole was hung with vari-colored streamers. Burma
is well known to be one of the strongholds of Buddhism.
The Shoay Dagon Pagoda derives its peculiar sanctity
from being the depository, according to Burmese tradi¬
tion, of relics of the last four Buddhas.— The Land of the
White Elephant.
S INCENT, John Heyl, an American clergyman;
born at Tuscaloosa, Ala., February 23, 1832.
He was educated in Milton and Lewisburg,
Pa., and was educated for the Methodist ministry in
New Jersey. In 1855 he was ordained deacon, and
in 1857 was transferred from the New Jersey into
the Rock River Conference, serving as pastor in Ga¬
lena, Chicago, and other western cities until 1865. In
that year he founded the Northwest Sunday-School
Quarterly and in 1866 The Sunday-School Teacher.
Prom 1868 till 1884 he was secretary of the Methodist
JOHN HEYL VINCENT
2og
Episcopal Sunday-School Union and Tract Society.
He has been editor of many Sunday-school publica¬
tions of his denomination. In 1873 he organized a
Sunday-school teachers’ institute to prepare teachers
for their work. This met at Chautauqua, N. Y., in
1874, and has since assembled yearly at that place. At
the Methodist conference of 1888 he was elected
bishop. His publications include : Little Footprints in
Bible Lands (1861) ; The Chautauqua Movement
(1886) ; The Home Book (1886) ; The Modern Sun¬
day-School (1887) ; Better Not (1887), and later for
the Chautauqua Text-book series, Bible Outlines; Bib¬
lical Explanation; Christian Evidences; English His¬
tory; Greek History; Outlines of General History;
and also Unto Him (1899).
COLLATERAL AIDS.
The Bible is an immense book. It is as wonderful
for its richness and variety as for its magnitude. There
is scarcely a branch of human knowledge upon which
it does not shed some light. It is a book of diverse
sciences albeit its central science is that of salvation.
To this all the rest bow as the sheaves of Hebron and
the stars of Heaven bowed to Joseph.
In the unfolding of the plan of redemption which the
Bible records we find a treasure of history, of biog¬
raphy, of geography, of ancient, peculiar, and almost
forgotten usages, of philosophy, ethics, of theology —
such as no other book in the world contains. Now if a
man would be head-master of the school in which this
great volume is the text-book, he must indeed give
himself wholly to these things. He has no time for
anything else. He must be literally homo unius libri.
The minister who becomes an enthusiastic pastor and
teacher will find the pulpit a limited sphere and the Sab¬
bath but a small portion of the time he needs for exposi¬
tion, and for training his people in the contents of the
Vol. 'XXIII.— 14
210
JOHN HEYL VINCENT
Book. Prizing all the knowledge which God has there
communicated, he seeks to awaken in his young people
and among the old an intense delight in truth. He
trains them in Bible history and biography, knowing how
much is lost by not taking up its events in their due
chronological order. He trains his people in Bible geog¬
raphy — for how can one adequately comprehend history
without geography? Is not the Bible full of geography?
And do not the lands of the Bible yet remain singularly
unchanged in most of their features, as though God would
preserve the land to complement and thus corroborate and
illustrate the Book ? The old customs — domestic, politi¬
cal, religious — how they are inwrought into the very
texture of the divine poetry, prophecy, and precept! One
cannot clearly interpret the Word unless he knows these
customs. And does not the far East still hold them? Are
they not glowing on granite and marble walls in Egypt?
Do not the clay-books of Nineveh and Babylon perpetuate
the knowledge of them ? Our wholly consecrated pastor
brings land and book, custom and book, picture and book,
together. The one explains the other. The young people
who cared little for the Bible at first have been led into
the very heart of it by way of Egypt and Sinai and Syria
and Nineveh. They looked eagerly at the “ stones ” he
showed them, and lo ! they found written on them the com¬
mandments of God.
The Bible is a book of doctrines. The Church Cate¬
chism is a systematic arrangement of these doctrines.
They are these formulated. They are to be buried in
the mind of childhood as the conduits and water-pipes
are laid under a city. For a time they seem almost use¬
less; hidden and forgotten. But lo ! one day the gates in
the reservoir are hoisted, and through the buried pipes
rushes a stream of cold, refreshing, delightful, life-giving
water. So our pastor believes in the “ dry-formulas ”
of faith; but he teaches them in so pleasant a manner that
they never seem dry to his scholars, and betimes, and
before a long time, too, the streams of salvation flow
through them.
The Church is also an army. The pastor knows this
well, and all the week keeps his people drilling, and war-
PUBLIUS V ERG I LIUS MARO VIRGIL
211
ring, and working. He raises up from among his little
people a band of willing laborers and brave soldiers. He
scatters tracts by their hands. He collects by their aid
missionary money. He distributes Bibles, he visits the
poor, the sick, and the imprisoned through his busy people.
Knowing that service rendered is all the more zealously
and efficiently performed if it be intelligent service, he
trains his people in missionary work. They know the
missionary maps and the various fields of missionary labor,
the peculiar difficulties to be overcome, the measure of
success achieved already, the work remaining to be done.
He moreover trains his people in all kinds of Christian
work, and makes them acquainted as far as possible with
the history of eleemosynary institutions and brotherhoods
the world over. The Church is itself a “ college for Bible
students and for Christian workers.” — The Church
School.
IRGIL, Publius Vergilius Maro, a Latin poet;
born on the banks of the Mincio, in the district
LyKfC G f Andes, October 19, 70 b.c. ; died at Brun-
dusium, September 21, 19 b.c. Though his parents
were of humble origin, they were able to give him a
good education, and he was sent to school at Cre¬
mona. Soon after his sixteenth year he went to
Milan, where he continued his studies until he went
to Rome two years later. At Rome he studied rhetoric
and philosophy under the best teachers of the time.
His studies were probably interrupted by the civil war,
for little is known of his life for the next few years.
His father’s farm, with other lands, was confiscated
and given to the soldiers, and though, through the
influence of friends and a personal appeal to the
Emperor, he obtained the restitution of it, he never
212
PUBLIUS VERGILIUS MARO VIRGIL
succeeded in getting possession of it. In 37 b.c,
the Eclogues, a collection of ten pastorals modelled on
those of Theocritus, were published and were at once
received with favor. Soon after this he withdrew
from Rome and went to Campania, residing at Naples
or at his country-house near Nola. He spent the
next seven years in the composition of the Georgies,
or Art of Husbandry. This poem, which is in four
books, and which is considered his most original and
finished work, appeared in 30 b.c. The rest of his life,
eleven years, was spent on the ./Eneid, a work under¬
taken at the urgent request of the Emperor. During
the years of its composition he traveled in Grece and
occasionally visited Rome, but spent most of his time
in retirement. In 19 b.c. he had completed the AEneid,
and he left Italy for Athens, intending to spend three
years in Greece and Asia, and devote this time to the
revision of the work. At Athens he met Augustus
and was persuaded by him to return to Italy. At
Megara, he was taken ill, but continued his voyage,,
though he constantly grew worse, and died at Brun-
dusium soon after landing. At his own request he
was buried at Naples. In his last illness he requested
to have the AEneid burned, but the Emperor would not
permit this. From this fact it has been supposed that
he was dissatisfied with the poem. Virgil is repre¬
sented as tall and dark, of a delicate constitution, shy
and reserved in his manners, sincere in character, and
of a gentle disposition. He was never married.
THE 2ENEID.
Argument. — The Trojans, after a seven-years’ voyage,
set sail for Italy, but are overtaken by a dreadful storm,
which /Eolus raises at Juno’s request. The tempest sinks
I
PUBLIUS VERGILIUS MARO VIRGIL
213
one vessel and scatters the rest; Neptune drives off the
winds, and calms the sea. Hineas, with his own ship and
six more, arrives safely at an African port. Venus com¬
plains to Jupiter of her son’s misfortunes. Jupiter com¬
forts her, and sends Mercury to procure him a kind recep¬
tion among the Carthaginians. ^Eneas going out to
discover the country, meets his mother in the shape of a
huntress, who conveys him in a cloud to Carthage, where
he sees his friends whom he thought lost, and receives a
kind entertainment from the queen. Dido, by a device of
Venus, begins to have a passion for him, and, after some
discourse with him, desires the history of his adventures
since the siege of Troy, which is the subject of the two
following books.
Arms and the man I sing, who first
By fate of Ilian realm amerced,
To fair Italia onward bore,
And landed on Lavinium’s shore: —
Long tossing earth and ocean o’er,
By violence of heaven, to sate
Fell Juno’s unforgetting hate:
Much labored too in battle-field.
Striving his city’s walls to build,
And give his Gods a home:
Thence come the hardy Latin brood,
The ancient sires of Alba’s blood,
And lofty-rampired Rome.
Say, Muse, for godhead how disdained,
Or wherefore wroth, Heaven’s queen constrained
That soul of piety so long
To turn the wheel, to cope with wrong.
Can heavenly natures nourish hate
So fierce, so blindly passionate?
There stood a city on the sea
Manned by a Tyrian colony,
Named Carthage, fronting far to south
Italia’s coast and Tiber’s mouth,
Rich in all wealth, all means of rule,
214
!PUBLIUS VERGILIUS MARO VIRGIL
And hardened in war’s sternest school.
Men say the place was Juno’s pride
More than all lands on earth beside;
E’en Samos’ self not half so dear:
Here were her arms, her chariot here:
Here, goddess-like, to fix one day
The seat of universal sway,
Might Fate be wrung to yield assent,
E’en then her schemes, her cares were bent.
Yet had she heard that sons of Troy
Were born her Carthage to destroy;
From those majestic loins should spring
A nation like a warrior king,
Ordained for Libya’s overthrow:
The web of fate was woven so.
This was her fear: and fear renewed
The memory of that earlier feud,
The war at Troy she erst had waged
In darling Argos’ cause engaged:
Nor yet had faded from her view
The insults whence those angers grew;
Deep in remembrance lives engrained
The judgment which her charms disdained,
The offspring of adulterous seed,
The rape of minion Ganymede:
With such resentments brimming o’er,
She tossed and tossed from shore to shore
The Trojan bands, poor relics these
Of Achillean victories,
Away, from Latium: many a year,
Fate-driven, they wandered far and near:
So vast the labor to create
The fabric of the Roman state!
Scarce out of sight of Sicily
Troy’s crews were spreading sail to sea,
Pleased o’er the foam to run,
When Juno, feeding evermore
The vulture at her bosom’s core,
Thus to herself begun:
“What? I give way? has Juno willed.
PUBLIUS VERG1LIUS MARO VIRGIL
215
And must her will be unfulfilled?
Too weak from Latium’s coast to fling
Back to the sea this Trojan king?
Restrained by Fate? Could Pallas fire
The Argive fleet to wreak her ire,
And drown the crews, for one offence,
Mad Ajax’ curst incontinence?
She from the clouds Jove’s lightning cast.
Dispersed the ships, the billows massed,
Caught the scathed wretch, whose breast exhaled
Fierce flames, and on a rock impaled:
I who through heaven its mistress move,
The sister and the wife of Jove,
With one poor tribe of earth cntend
Long years revolving without end.
Will any Juno’s power adore
Henceforth, or crown her altars more?”
Such fiery tumult in her mind,
She seeks the birthplace of the wind,
yEolia, realm for ever rife
With turbid elemental life:
Here ^Eolus in a cavern vast
With bolt and barrier fetters fast
Rebellious storm and howling blast.
They with the rock’s reverberant roar
Chafe blustering round their prison-door:
He, throned on high, the sceptre sways,
Controls their moods, their wrath allays.
Break but that sceptre, sea and land
And heaven’s ethereal deep
Before them they would whirl like sand,
And through the void air sweep.
But the great Sire, with prescient fear,
Had whelmed them deep in dungeon drear,
And o’er the struggling captives thrown
Huge masses of primeval stone,
Ruled by a monarch who might know
To curb them or to let them go :
Whom now as suppliant at his knees
Juno bespoke in words like these*
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“ O yEolus! since the Sire of all
Has made the wind obey thy call
To raise or lay the foam,
A race I hate now ploughs the sea,
Transporting Troy to Italy
And home-gods reft of home:
Lash thou thy winds, their ships submerge,
Or toss them weltering o’er the surge.
Twice seven bright nymphs attend on me,
The fairest of them Deiope:
Her will I give thee for thine own,
The partner of thy heart and throne,
With thee to pass unending days
And goodly children round thee raise.”
The God replies: “ O Queen, ’tis thine
To weigh thy will, to do it mine.
Thou givest me this poor kingdom, thou
Hast smoothed for me the Thunderer’s brow;
Givest me to share the Olympian board,
And o’er the tempests mak’st me lord.”
He said, and with his spear struck wide
The portals in the mountain side:
At once, like soldiers in a band,
Forth rush the winds, and scour the land:
Then lighting heavily on the main,
East, South, and West with storms in train,
Heave from its depth the watery floor,
And roll great billows to the shore.
Then come the clamor and the shriek,
The sailors shout, the main-ropes creak:
All in a moment sun and skies
Are blotted from the Trojans’ eyes:
Black night is brooding o’er the deep,
Sharp thunder peals, live lightnings leap:
The stoutest warrior holds his breath,
And looks as on the face of death.
At once yEneas thrilled with dread,
Forth from his breast, with hands outspread,
These groaning words he drew:
“O happy, thrice and yet again,
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Who died at Troy like valiant men.
E'en in their parents’ view!
O Diomed, first of Greeks in fray,
Why pressed I not the plain that day.
Yielding my life to you,
Where stretched beneath a Phrygian sky
Fierce Hector, tall Sarpedon lie:
Where Simois tumbles ’neath his wave
Shields, helms, and bodies of the brave ? ”
Now, howling from the north, the gale.
While thus he moans him, strikes his sail:
The swelling surges climb the sky;
The shattered oars in splinters fly;
The prow turns round, and to the tide
Lays broad and bare the vessel’s side;
On comes a billow, mountain-steep,
Bears down, and tumbles in a heap.
These stagger on the billow’s crest;
Those to the yawning depth deprest
See land appearing ’mid the waves,
While surf with sand in turmoil raves.
Three ships the South had caught and thrown
On scarce hid rocks, as Altars known,
Ridging the main, a reef of stone,
Three more fierce Eurus from the deep,
A sight to make the gazer weep,
Drives on the shoals, and banks them round
With sand, as with a rampire-mound.
One, which erewhile from Lycia’s shore
Orontes and his people bore,
E’en in vEneas’ anguished sight
A sea down crashing from the height
Strikes full astern: the pilot', torn
From off the helm, is headlong borne:
Three turns the foundered vessel gave,
Then sank beneath the engulfing wave.
There in the vast abyss are seen
The swimmers, few and far between,
And warriors’ arms and shattered wood
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And Trojan treasures strew the flood.
And now Ilioneus, and now
Aletes old and gray,
Abas and brave Achates bow
Beneath the tempest’s sway;
Fast drinking in through timbers loose
At every pore the fatal ooze,
Their sturdy barks give way.
Meantime the turmoil of the main,
The tempest loosened from its chain,
The waters of the nether deep
Upstarting from their tranquil sleep,
On Neptune broke: disturbed he hears,
And quickened fly a monarch’s fears,
His calm broad brow o’er ocean rears.
./Eneas’ fleet he sees dispersed,
Whelmed by fierce wave and stormy burst:
Nor failed a brother’s eye to read
Junonian rancor in the deed.
Forthwith he summoned East and West,
And thus his kingly wrath expressed: —
“ How now ? presume ye on your birth
To blend in chaos skies and earth,
And billowy mountains heavenward heave,
Bold Winds, without my sovereign leave?
Whom I — but rather were it good
To pacify yon troubled flood.
Offend once more, and ye shall pay
Upon a heavier reckoning-day.
Back to your master instant flee,
And tell him, not to him but me
The imperial trident of the sea
Fell by the lot’s award:
His is that prison-house of stone,
A mansion, Eurus, all your own:
There let him lord it to his mind,
The jailor-monarch of the wind,
But keep its portal barred,”
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He said, and, ere his words were done
Allays the surge, brings back the sun:
Triton and swift Cymothoe drag
The ships from off the pointed crag:
He, trident-armed, each dull weight heaves,
Through the vast shoals a passage cleaves.
Makes smooth the ruffled wave, and rides
Calm o’er the surface of the tides.
As when sedition oft has stirred
In some great town the vulgar herd,
And brands and stones already fly —
For rage has weapons always nigh —
Then should some man of worth appear
Whose stainless virtue all revere,
They hush, they hist: his clear voice rules
Their rebel wills, their anger cools:
So ocean ceased at once to rave,
When, calmly looking o’er the wave,
Girt with a range of azure sky,
The father bids his chariot fly.
The tempest-tossed .Tmeadse
Strain for the nearest land,
And turn their vessels from the sea
To Libya’s welcome strand.
Deep in a bay an island makes
A haven by its jutting sides,
Whereon each wave from ocean breaks.
And parting into hollows glides.
High o’er the cove vast rocks extend,
A beetling cliff at either end:
Beneath their summit far and wide
In sheltered silence sleeps the tide,
While quivering forests crown the scene,
A theatre of glancing green.
In front, retiring from the wave,
Opes on the view a rock-hung cave,
A home that nymphs might call their own,
Fresh springs, and seats of living stone:
No need of rope or anchor’s bite
To hold the weary vessel tight.
Such haven now gains,
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With seven lorn ships, the scant remains
Of what was once his fleet:
Forth leap the Trojans on the sand,
Lay down their brine-drenched limbs on land.
And feel the shore is sweet.
And first from flints together clashed
The latent spark Achates flashed,
Caught in sere leaves, and deftly nursed
Till into flame the fuel burst.
Then from the hold the crews o’ertoiled
Bring out their grain by ocean spoiled,
And gird themselves with fire and quern
To parch and grind the rescued corn.
Meanwhile flEneas scales a height
And sweeps the ocean with his sight;
Might he perchance a Capys mark,
An Antheus in his Phrygian bark,
Or trace the arms that wont to deck
Caicus on some laboring wreck.
No vessel seaward meets his eyes,
But on the shore three stags he spies,
Close followed by a meaner throng
That grazed the winding coasts along.
He catches from Achates’ hand
Quiver and bow, and takes his stand;
And first the lordly leaders fall
With tree-like antlers branching tall;
Then, turning on the multitude,
He drives them routed through the wood,
Nor stays till his victorious bow
Has laid seven goodly bodies low,
For his seven ships; then portward fares.
And ’mid his crews the quarry shares.
The wine which late their princely host,
What time they left Trinacria’s coast,
Bestowed in casks, and freely gave,
A brave man’s bounty to the brave,
With like equality he parts,
And comforts their desponding hearts:
“ Comrades and friends! for ours is strength
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Has brooked the test of woes;
O worse-scarred hearts! these wounds at length
The Gods will heal, like those.
You that have seen grim Scylla rave,
And heard her monsters yell,
You that have looked upon the cave
Where savage Cyclops dwell,
Come, cheer your souls, your fears forget;
This suffering will yield us yet
A pleasant tale to tell.
Through chance, through peril lies our way
To Latium, where the fates display
A mansion of abiding stay:
There Troy her fallen realm shall raise:
Bear up, and live for happier days.”
Such were his words: on brow and tongue
Sat hope, while grief his spirit wrung.
They for their dainty food prepare,
Strip off the hide, the carcass bare,
Divide and spit the quivering meat,
Dispose the fire, the cauldrons heat,
Then, stretched on turf, their frames refresh
With generous wine and wild deer’s flesh.
And now, when hunger’s rage was ceased,
And checked the impatience of the feast,
In long discourse they strive to track
And bring their missing comrades back.
Hope bandies questions with despair,
If yet they breathe the upper air,
Or down in final durance lie,
Deaf to their friends’ invoking cry.
But chief ^Eneas fondly yearns,
And racks his heart for each by turns,
Now weeping o’er Orontes’ grave,
Now claiming Lycus from the wave,
Brave Gyas, and Cloanthus brave.
And now an end had come, when Jove,
His broad view casting from above,
The countries and their people scanned,
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The sail-fledged sea, the lowly land,
Last on the summit of the sky
Paused, and on Libya fixed his eye.
’Twas then sad Venus, as he mused,
Her starry eyes with tears suffused,
Bespoke him: “ Thou whose lightnings awe,
Whose will on heaven and earth is law.
What has /Eneas done, or how
Could my poor Trojans cloud thy brow,
To suffer as they suffer now?
So many deaths the race has died:
And now behold them, lest one day
To Italy they win their way,
Barred from all lands beside!
Once didst thou promise with an oath
The Romans hence should have their growth,
Great chiefs, from Teucer’s line renewed,
The masters of a world subdued :
Fate heard the pledge: what power has wrought
To 1 turn the channel of thy thought?
That promise oft consoled my woe
For Ilium’s piteous overthrow,
While I could balance weight with weight,
The prosperous with the adverse fate.
But now the self-same fortune hounds
The lorn survivors yet:
And hast thou, mighty King, no bounds
To their great misery set?
Antenor from the Greeks could ’scape,
Mid Hadria’s deep recesses shape
His dangerous journey, and surmount
The perils of Timavus’ fount,
Where with the limestone’s reboant roar
Through nine loud mouths the sea-waves pour.
And all the fields are deluged o’er:
Yet here he built Patavium’s town,
His nation named, his arms laid down,
Now rests in honor and renown:
We, thine own race, on whom thy word
Olympian glories has conferred,
Our vessels lost, O shame untold!
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Are traitorously bought and sold,
Still from Italia kept apart
To pacify one jealous heart'.
Lo ! piety with honor graced,
A monarch on his throne replaced! ”
With that refulgence in his eye
Which soothes the humors of the sky,
Jove on his daughter’s lips impressed
A gracious kiss, then thus addressed:
“ Queen of Cythera ! spare thy pain:
Thy children’s fates unmoved remain:
Thine eyes shall have their pledged desire
And see Lavinium’s walls aspire:
Thine arms at length shall bear on high
To bright possession in the sky
^Eneas the high-souled: nor aught
Has turned the channel of my thought.
He — for I now will speak thee sooth,
Vexed as thou art bv sorrow’s tooth,
Will ope the volume and relate
The far-off oracles of Fate —
Fierce war in Italy shall wage,
Shall quell her people’s patriot rage,
And give his veteran’s worn with strife,
A city and a peaceful life,
Till summers three have seen him reign.
Three winters crowned the dire campaign.
But he, the father’s darling child,
Ascanius, now lulus styled
(Ilus the name the infant bore
Ere Ilium’s sky was clouded o’er),
Shall thirty years of power complete,
Then from Lavinium’s royal seat
Transfer the empire, and make strong
The walls of Alba named the Long.
Three hundred years in that proud town
Shall Hector’s children wear the crown,
Till Ilia, priestess-princess, bear
By Mars’ embrace a kingly pair.
Then, with his nurse’s wolf-skin girt,
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Shall Romulus the line assert,
Invite them to his new-raised home,
And call the martial city Rome.
No date, no goal I here ordain:
Theirs is an endless, boundless reign.
Nay, Juno’s self, whose wild alarms
Set ocean, earth, and heaven in arms,
Shall change for smiles her moody frown,
And vie with me in zeal to crown
Rome’s sons, the nation of the gown.
So stands my will. There comes a day,
While Rome’s great ages hold their way,
When old Assaracus’s sons
Shall quit them on the Myrmidons,
O’er Phthia and Mycenae reign,
And humble Argos to their chain.
From Troy’s fair stock shall Caesar rise.
The limits of whose victories
Are ocean, of his fame the skies;
Great Julius, proud that style to bear,
In name and blood lulus’ heir.
Him, at the appointed time, increased
With plunder from the conquered East,
Thine arms shall welcome to the sky,
And worshippers shall find him nigh.
Then battles o’er the world shall cease,
Harsh times shall mellow into peace:
Then Vesta, Faith, Quirinus, joined
With brother Remus, rule mankind:
Grim iron bolt and massy bar
Shall close the dreadful gates of War:
Within unnatural Rage confined,
Fast bound with manacles behind,
His dark head pillowed on a heap
Of clanking armor, not in sleep,
Shall gnash his savage teeth, and roar
From lips incarnadined with gore.”
He said, and hastes from heaven to send
The son of Maia down;
Bids Carthage open to befriend
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The Teucrians, realm and town,
Lest Dido, ignorant of fate,
Should drive the wanderers from her gate.
Swift Mercury cuts with plumy oar
The sky, and lights on Libya’s shore.
At once he does the Sire’s behest,
Each Tyrian smooths his rugged breast,
And chief the queen has thoughts of grace
And pity to the Teucrian race.
But good SEneas, through the night
Revolving many a care,
Determines with the dawn of light
Forth from the port to fare,
Explore the stranger clime, and find
What land is his, by stress of wind,
By what inhabitants possessed
(For waste he sees it), man or beast.
And back the tidings bear.
Within a hollowed rock’s retreat,
Deep in the wood, he hides his fleet,
Defended by a leafy screen
Of forestry and quivering green:
When with Achates moves along,
Wielding two> spears, steel-tipped and strong
When in the bosom of the wood
Before him, lo, his mother stood,
In mien and gear a Spartan maid,
Or like Harpalyce arrayed,
Who tires fleet coursers in the chase,
And heads the swiftest streams of Thrace.
Slung from her shoulders hangs a bow;
Loose to the wind her tresses flow;
Bare was her knee; her mantle’s fold
The gathering of a knot controlled.
And “ Saw ye, youths,” she asks them, “ say,
One of my sisters here astray,
A sylvan quiver at her side,
And for a scarf a lynx’s hide,
Or pressing on the wild boar’s track
With upraised dart and voiceful pack?”
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Thus Venus; Venus’ son replied:
“ No sister we of thine have spied:
What name to call thee, beauteous maid?
That look, that voice the God betrayed;
Can it be Phoebus’ sister bright,
Or some fair Nymph, has crossed our sight?
Be gracious, whosoe’er thou art,
And lift this burden from our heart;
Instruct us, ’neath what sky at last,
Upon what shore, our lot is cast;
We wander here, by tempest blown,
The people and the place unknown.
O say! and many a victim’s life
Before thy shrine shall stain my knife.”
Then Venus: “ Nay, I would not claim
A goddess’ venerable name:
The buskins and the bow I bear
Are but what Tyrian maidens wear.
The Punic state is this you see,
Agenor’s Tyrian colony:
But all around the Libyans dwell,
A race in war untamed and fell.
The sceptre here queen Dido sways.
Who fled from Tyre in other days,
To ’scape a brother’s frenzy: long
And dark the story of her wrong;
To thread each tangle time would fail,
So learn the summits of the tale.
Sychseus was her husband once,
The wealthiest of Phoenicia’s sons:
She loved him: nor her sire denied,
But made her his, a virgin bride.
But soon there filled the ruler’s place
Her brother, worst of human race,
Pygmalion; ’twixt the kinsman came
Fierce hatred, like a withering flame.
With avarice blind, by stealthy blow
The monster laid Sychaeus low,
E’en at the altar, recking nought
What passion in his sister wrought:
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Long time he hid the foul offence,
And, feigning many a base pretence,
Beguiled her love-sick innocence.
But, as she slept, before her eyes
She saw in pallid ghastly guise
Her Lord’s unburied semblance rise;
The murderous altar he revealed,
The death-wound, gaping and unhealed.
And all the crime the house concealed:
Then bids her fly without delay,
And shows, to aid her on her way,
His buried treasures, stores untold
Of silver and of massy gold.
She heard, and, quickened by affright.
Provides her friends and means of flight.
Each malcontent her summons hears,
Who hates the tyrant, or who fears;
The ships that in the haven rode
They seize, and with the treasures load:
Pygmalion’s stores o’er ocean speed.
And woman’s daring wrought the deed.
The spot they reached where now your eyes
See Carthage-towers in beauty rise:
There bought them soil, such space of ground
As one bull’s hide could compass round;
There fixed their site; and Byrsa’s name
Preserves the action fresh in fame.
But who are you? to whom allied?
Whence bound and whither ? ” Deep he sighed,
And thus with laboring speech replied:
“ Fair Goddess ! should thy suppliants show
From first to last their tale of woe,
Or ere it ceased the day were done,
And closed the palace of the sun.
We from old Troy, if Tyrian ear
Have chanced the name of Troy to hear,
Driven o’er all seas, are thrown at last
On Libya’s coast by chance-sent blast.
Ttneas I, who bear on board
My home-gods, rescued from the sword:
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Men call me good; and vulgar fame
Above the stars exalts my name.
My quest is Italy, the place
That nursed my Jove-descended race.
My ships were twenty when I gave
My fortunes to the Phrygian wave;
My goddess-mother lent me light,
And oracles prescribed my flight:
And now scarce seven survive the strain
Of boisterous wind and billowy main.
I wander o’er your Libyan waste,
From Europe and from Asia chased,
Unfriended and unknown.” No more
His plaint of anguish Venus bore,
But interrupts ere yet ’tis o’er:
“ Whoe’er you are, I cannot deem
Unloved of heaven you drink the beam
Of sunlight; else had never Fate
Conveyed you to a Tyrian’s gate.
Take heart and follow on the road,
Still making for the queen’s abode.
You yet shall witness, mark my word,
Your friends returned, your fleet restored;
The winds are changed, and all are brought
To port, or augury is naught,
And vain the lore my parents taught.
Mark those twelve swans that hold their way
In seemly jubilant array,
Whom late, down swooping from on high,
Jove’s eagle scattered through the sky:
Now see them o’er the land extend
Or hover, ready to descend:
They, rallying, sport on noisy wing,
And circle round the heaven, and sing:
E’en so your ships, your martial train,
Have gained the port, or stand to gain.
Then pause not further, but proceed,
Still following where the road shall lead.”
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She turned, and flashed upon their view
Her stately neck’s purpureal hue;
Ambrosial tresses round her head
A more than earthly fragrance shed;
Her falling robe her footprints swept,
And showed the goddess as she stept:
While he, at length his mother known,
Pursues her with complaining tone:
“And art thou cruel like the rest?
Why cheat so oft thy son’s fond eyes ?
Why cannot hand in hand be pressed,
And speech exchanged without disguise ? ”
So ring the words of fond regret
While toward the town his face is set.
But Venus either traveler shrouds
With thickest panoply of clouds,
That none may see them, touch, nor stay,
Nor, idly asking, breed delay.
She through the sky to Paphos moves,
And seeks the temple of her loves,
Where from a hundred altars rise
Rich stream and flowerets’ odorous sighs.
Meantime, the path itself their clue,
With speed their journey they pursue;
And now they climb the hill, whose frown
On the tall towers looks lowering down,
And beetles o’er the fronting town.
SEneas marvelling views the pile
Of stately structures, huts erewhile,
Marvelling, the lofty gates surveys.
The pavements, and the loud highways.
On press the Tyrians, each and all:
Some raise aloft the city’s wall,
Or at the fortress’ base of rock
Toil, heaving up the granite block:
While some for dwellings mark the ground,
Select a site and trench it round,
Or choose the rulers and the law,
And the young senate clothe with awe.
They hollow out the haven; they
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The theatre’s foundations lay,
And fashion from the quarry’s side
Tall columns, germs of scenic pride.
So bees, when spring-time is begun,
Ply their warm labor in the sun,
What time along the flowery mead
Their nation’s infant hope they lead;
Or with clear honey charge each cell,
And make the hive with sweetness swell,
The workers of their loads relieve,
Or chase the drones that gorge and thieve:
With toil the busy scene ferments,
And fragrance breathes from t'hymy scents.
“ O happy they,” SEneas cries,
As to the roofs he lifts his eyes,
“ Whose promised walls already rise ! ”
Then enters, ’neath his misty screen,
And threads the crowd, of all unseen.
Midway within the city stood
A spreading grove of hallowed wood,
The spot where first the Punic train,
Fresh from the shock of storm and main,
The token Juno had foretold
Dug up, the head of charger bold;
Sign of a nation formed for strife
And born to years of plenteous life.
A temple there began to tower
To Juno, rich with many a dower
Of human wealth and heavenly power,
The oblation of the queen:
Brass was the threshold of the gate,
The posts were sheathed with brazen plate,
And brass the valves between.
First in that spot once more appears
A sight to soothe the traveler’s fears,
Illumes with hope ^Eneas’ eye,
And bids him trust his destiny.
As, waiting for the queen, he gazed
Around the fane with eyes upraised,
Much marvelling at a lot so blessed,
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At art by rival hands expressed,
And labor’s mastery confessed,
O wonder ! there is Ilium’s war,
And all those battles blazed afar:
Here stands Atrides, Priam here,
And chafed Achilles, either’s fear.
He starts: the tears rain fast and hot:
And “ Is there, friend,” he cries, “ a spot
That knows not Troy’s uphappy lot?
See Priam ! ay, praise waits on worth
E’en in this corner of the earth;
E’en here the tear of pity springs,
And hearts are touched by human things.
Dismiss your fear: we sure may claim
To find some safety in our fame.”
He said; and feeds his hungry heart
With shapes of unsubstantial art,
In fond remembrance groaning deep,
While briny floods his visage steep.
There spreads and broadens on his sight
The portraiture of Greece in flight,
Pressed by the Trojan youth; while here
Troy flies, Achilles in her rear.
Not far removed with tears he knows
The tents of Rhesus, white as snows,
Through which, by sleep’s first breath betrayed,
Tydides makes his murderous raid,
And camp-ward drives the fiery brood
Of coursers, ere on Trojan food
They browse, or drink of Xanthus’ flood.
Here Troilus, shield and lance let go,
Poor youth, Achilles’ ill-matched foe,
Fallen backward from the chariot seat,
Whirls on, yet clinging by his feet,
Still grasps the reins: his hair, his neck
Trail o’er the ground in helpless wreck.
And the loose spear he wont to wield
Makes dusty scoring on the field.
Meantime to partial Pallas’ fane
Moved with slow steps a matron train;
With smitten breasts, dishevelled, pale.
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Beseechingly they bore the veil:
She motionless as stone remained,
Her cruel eyes to earth enchained.
Thrice, to Achilles’ chariot bound,
Had Hector circled Ilium round,
And now the satiate victor sold
His mangled enemy for gold.
Deep groaned the gazer to survey
The spoils, the arms, the lifeless clay,
And Priam, with weak hands outspread
In piteous pleading for the dead.
Himself too in the press he knows,
Mixed with the foremost line of foes,
And swarthy Memnon, armed for war,
With followers from the morning star.
Penthesilea leads afield
The sisters of the moony shield,
One naked breast conspicuous shown,
By looping of her golden zone,
And burns with all the battle’s heat,
A maid, the shock of men to meet.
While thus with passionate amaze
PEneas stood in one set gaze,
Queen Dido with a warrior train
In beauty’s pride approached the fane.
As when upon Eurotas’ banks
Or Cynthus’ summits high
Diana leads the Oread ranks
In choric revelry,
Girt with her quiver, straight and tall,
Though all be gods, she towers o’er all;
Latona’s mild maternal eyes
Beam with unspoken ecstasies:
So Dido looked; so ’mid the throng
With joyous step she moved along,
As pressing on to antedate
The birthday of her nascent state.
Then, ’neath the temple’s roofing shell,
On stairs that mount the inner cell,
Throned on a chair of queenly state,
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233
Hemmed round by glittering arms, she sate.
Thus circled by religious awe
She gives the gathered people law,
By chance-drawn lot or studious care
Assigning each his labor’s share.
When lo! a concourse to the fane:
He looks: amid the shouting train
Lost Antheus and Sergestus pressed,
And brave Cloanthus, and the rest.
Driven by fierce gales the water o’er,
And landed on a different shore.
Astounded stand ’twixt fear and joy
Achates and the chief of Troy:
They burn to hail them and salute,
But wildering wonder keeps them mute.
So, peering through their cloudy screen.
They strive the broken tale to glean,
Where rest the vessels and the crew,
And wherefore thus they come to sue:
For every ship her chief had sent,
And clamoring towards the fane they went.
Then, audience granted by the queen,
Ilioneus spoke with placed mien:
“ Lady, whom gracious Jove has willed
A city in the waste to build,
And minds of savage temper school
By justice’ humanizing rule,
We, tempest-tost on every wave,
Poor Trojans, your compassion crave
From hideous flame our barks to save:
Commiserate our wretched case.
And war not on a pious race.
We come not, we, to spoil and slay
Your Libyan households, sweep the prey
Off to the shore, then haste away:
Meek grows the heart by misery cowed.
And vanquished souls are not so proud.
A land there is, by Greece of old
Known as Hesperia, rich its mould,
Its children brave and free:
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PUBLIUS VERGILIUS MARO VIRGIL
(Enotrians were its planters: Fame
Now gives the race their leader’s name,
And calls it Italy.
There lay our course, when, grief to tell,
Orion, rising with a swell,
Hurled us on shoals, and scattered wide
O’er pathless rocks along the tide
’Mid swirling billows: thence our crew
Drifts to your coast, a rescued few.
What tribe of human kind is here?
What barbarous region yields such cheer?
E’en the cold welcome of the sand
To travelers is barred and banned:
Ere earth we touch, they draw the sword.
And drive us from the bare sea-board.
If men and mortal arms ye slight,
Know there are Gods who watch o’er right.
SEneas was our king, than who
The breath of being none e’er drew,
More brave, more pious, or more true:
If he still looks upon the sun,
No spectre yet, our fears are done,
Nor need you doubt to assume the lead
In rivalry of generous deed.
Sicilia too, no niggard field,
Has towns to hold us, arms to shield,
And king Acestes, brave and good,
In heart a Trojan, as in blood.
Give leave to draw our ships ashore,
There smooth the plank and shape the oar:
So, should our friends, our king survive,
For Italy we yet may strive:
But if our hopes are quenched, and thee,
Best father of the sons of Troy,
Death hides beneath the Libyan sea,
Nor spares to us thy princely boy,
Yet may we seek Sicania’s land,
Her mansions ready to our hand,
And dwell where we were guests so late,
The subjects of Acestes’ state.”
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235
So spoke Ilioneus: and the rest
With shouts their loud assent expressed.
Then, looking downward, Dido said:
“Discharge you, Trojans, of your dread:
An infant realm and fortune hard
Compel me thus my shores to guard.
Who knows not of ^Eneas’ name,
Of Troy, her fortune and her fame,
And that devouring war ?
Our Punic breasts have more of fire,
Nor all so retrograde from Tyre
Doth Phoebus yoke his car.
Whate’er your choice, the Hesperian plain,
Or Eryx and Acestes’ reign,
My arms shall guard you in your way,
My treasuries your needs purvey.
Or would a home on Libya’s shores
Allure you more? this town is yours:
Lay up your vessels: Tyre and Troy
Alike shall Dido’s thoughts employ.
And would we had your monarch too.
Driven hither by the blast, like you,
The great Htneas ! I will send
And search the coast from end to end,
If haply, wandering up and down,
He bide in woodland or in town.”
In breathless eagerness of joy
Achates and the chief of Troy
Were yearning long the cloud to burst:
And thus Achates spoke the first:
“ What now, my chief, the thoughts that rise
Within you? see, before your eyes
Your fleet, your friends restored;
Save one, who sank beneath the tide
E’en in our presence: all beside
Confirms your mother’s word.”
Scarce had he said, the mist gives way
And purges brightening into day;
236 PUBLIUS VERG 1 LIUS MARO VIRGIL
^Eneas stood, to sight confest,
A very God in face and chest:
For Venus round her darling’s head
A length of clustering locks had spread,
Crowned him with youth’s purpureal light,
And made his eyes gleam glad and bright:
Such loveliness the hands of art
To ivory’s native hues impart:
So ’mid the gold around it placed
Shines silver pale or marble chaste.
Then in a moment, unforeseen
Of all, he thus bespeaks the queen:
“ Lo, him you ask for! I am he,
Aeneas, saved from Libya’s sea.
O, only heart that deigns to mourn
For Ilium’s cruel care!
That bids e’en us, poor relics, torn
From Danaan fury, all outworn
By earth and ocean, all forlorn.
Its home, its city share!
We cannot thank you; no, nor they,
Our brethren of the Dardan race,
Who, driven from their ancestral place.
Throughout the wide world stray.
May Heaven, if virtue claim its thought,
If justice yet avail for aught,
Heaven, and the sense of conscious right,
With worthier meed your acts requite!
What happy ages gave you birth ?
What glorious sires begat such worth?
While rivers run into the deep,
While shadows o’er the hillside sweep,
While stars in heaven’s fair pasture graze,
Shall live your honor, name, and praise,
Whate’er my destined home.” He ends,
And turns him to his Trojan friends;
Ilioneus with his right hand greets,
And with the left Serestus meets;
Then to the rest like welcome gave,
Brave Gyas and Cloanthus brave.
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237
Thus as she listened, first his mien,
His sorrow next, entranced the queen,
And “ Say,” cries she, “ what cruel wrong
Pursued you, goddess-born, so long?
What violence has your navy driven
On this rude coast, of all ’neath heaven?
And are you he, on Simois’ shore
Whom Venus to Anchises bore,
^Tineas? Well I mind the name,
Since Teucer first to Sidon came,
Driven from his home, in hope to gain
By Belus’ aid another reign,
What time my father ruled the land
Of Cyprus with a conqueror’s hand.
Then first the fall of Troy I knew,
And heard of Grecia’s kings, and you.
Oft, I remember, would he glow
In praise of Troy, albeit her foe;
Oft would he boast, with generous pride,
Himself to Troy’s old line allied.
Then enter, chiefs, these friendly doors;
I too have had my fate, like yours,
Which, many a suffering overpast,
Has willed to fix me here at last.
Myself not ignorant of woe,
Compassion I have learned to show.”
She speaks, and speaking leads the way
To where her palace stands,
And through the fanes a solemn day
Of sacrifice commands.
Nor yet unmindful of his friends,
Her bounty to the shore she sends,
A hundred bristly swine,
A herd of twenty beeves, of lambs
A hundred, with their fleecy dams,
And spirit-cheering wine.
And now the palace they array
With all the state that kings display,
And through the central breadth of hall
Prepare the sumptuous festival:
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238
!
There, wrought with many a fair design,
Rich coverlets of purple shine:
Bright silver loads hie boards, and gold
Where deeds of hero-sires are told,
From chief to chief in sequence drawn,
E’en from proud Sidon’s earliest dawn.
Meantime ^Eneas, loth to lose
The father in the king,
Sends down Achates to his crews:
“ Haste, to Ascanius bear the news,
Himself to Carthage bring.”
A father’s care, a father’s joy,
All centre in the darling boy.
Rich presents too he bids be brought,
Scarce saved when Troy’s last fight was fought,
A pall with stiffening gold inwrought,
A veil, the marvel of the loom,
Edged with acanthus’ saffron bloom
These Leda once to Helen gave,
And Helen from Mycenae bore,
What time to Troy she crossed the wave
With that her unblessed paramour;
The sceptre Priam’s eldest fair,
Ilione, was wont to bear;
Her necklace, and her coronet
With gold and ge *s in circle set.
Such mandate hastening to obey,
Achates takes his shore-ward way.
But Cytherea’s anxious mind
New arts, new stratagems designe„,
That Cupid, changed in mien and face.
Should come in sweet Ascanius’ place,
Fire with his gifts the royal dame,
And thread each leaping vein with flame.
The palace of deceit she fears,
The double tongues of Tyre;
Fell Juno’s form at night appears,
And burns her like a fire.
So to her will she seeks to move
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239
The winged deity of Love:
“ My son, my strength, my virtue born,
Who laugh’st Jove’s Titan bolts to scorn,
To thee for succor I repair,
And breathe the voice of suppliant prayer.
How Juno (drives from coast to coast
Thy Trojan brother, this thou know’st,
And oft hast bid thy sorrows flow
With mine in pity of his woe.
Him now this Tyrian entertains,
And with soft speech his stay constrains:
But I, I cannot brook with ease
Junonian hospitalities;
Nor, where our fortunes hinge and turn,
Can she long rest in unconcern.
Fain would I first ensnare the dame,
And wrap her leagured heart in flame;
So, ere she change by power malign,
/Eneas’ love shall bind her mine.
Such triumph how thou mayst achieve.
The issue of my thought receive.
To Sidon’s town the princely heir,
The darling motive of my care,
Sets out at summons of his sire,
With presents, saved from flood and fire.
Him, in the bands of slumber tied,
In high Cythera I will hide.
Or blest Idalia, safe and far,
Lest he perceive the plot, or mar.
Thou for one night supply his room,
Thyself a boy, the boy assume;
That when the queen, with rapture glowing,
While boards blaze rich, and wine is flowing,
Shall make thee nestle in her breast.
And to thy lips her lips are prest,
The stealthy plague thou mayst inspire,
And thrill her with contagious fire.”
Young Love obeyed, his plumage stripped,
And, laughing, like lulus tripped.
But Venus on her grandson strows
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PUBLIUS VERGILIUS MARO VIRGIL
The dewy softness of repose,
And laps him in her robe, and bears
To tall Idalia’s fragrant airs,
Where soft amaracus receives
And gently curtains him with leaves:
While Cupid, tutored to obey,
Beside Achates takes his way,
And bears the presents, blithe and gay.
Arrived, he finds the Tyrian queen
On tapestry laid of gorgeous sheen,
In central place, her guests between.
There lies iEneas, there his train,
All stretched at ease on purple grain.
Slaves o’er their hands clear water pour,
Deal round the bread from basket-store,
And napkins thick with wool:
Within full fifty maids supply
Fresh food, and make the hearths blaze high:
A hundred more of equal age,
Each with her fellow, girl and page.
Serve to the gathered company
The meats and goblets full.
The invited Tyrians throng the hall,
And on the broidered couches fall.
They marvel as the gifts they view,
They marvel at the bringer too,
The features where the God shines through,
The tones his mimic voice assumes,
The pall, the veil with saffron blooms.
But chiefly Dido, doomed to ill.
Her soul with gazing cannot fill,
And, kindling with delirious fires,
Admires the boy, the gift admires.
He, having hung a little space
Clasped in fEneas’ warm embrace,
And satisfied the fond desire
Of that his counterfeited sire,
Turns him to Dido. Heart and eye
She clings, she cleaves, she makes him lie
Lapped in her breast, nor knows, lost fair,
How dire a God sits heavy there.
PUBLIUS V ERG I LI US MARO VIRGIL
But lie, too studious to fulfill
His Acidalian mother’s will,
Begins to cancel trace by trace
The imprint of Sychseus’ face,
And bids a living passion steal
On senses long unused to feel.
Soon as the feast begins to lull,
And boards are cleared away,
They place the bowls, all brimming full,
And wreathe with garlands gay.
Up to the rafters mounts the din,
And voices swell and heave within :
From the gilt roof hang cressets bright,
And flambeau-fires put out the night.
The queen gives charge: a cup is brought
With massy gold and jewels wrought,
Whence ancient Belus quaffed his wine,
And all the kings of Belus’ line.
Then silence reigns: “ Great Jove, who know’st
The mutual rights of guest and host,
O make this day a day of joy
Alike to Tyre and wandering Troy,
And may our children’s children feel
The blessing of the bond we seal!
Be Bacchus, giver of glad cheer,
And bounteous Juno, present here !
And, Tyrians, you with frank good-will,
Our courteous purposes fulfil.”
She spoke, and on the festal board
The meed of due libation poured,
Touched with her lip the goblet's edge,
Then challenged Bitias to the pledge.
He grasped the cup with eager hold,
And drenched him with the foaming gold.
The rest succeed. Iopas takes
His gilded lyre, its chords awakes,
The long-haired bard, rehearsing sweet
The descant learned at Atlas’ feet.
He sings the wanderings of the moon,
The sun eclipsed in deathly swoon,
Vol. XXIII.—16
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PUBLIUS VERG 1 LIUS MARO VIRGIL
Whence humankind and cattle came,
And whence the rain-spout and the flame,
Arcturus and the two bright Bears,
And Hyads weeping showery tears,
Why winter suns so swiftly go,
And why the weary nights move slow.
With plaudits Tyre the minstrel greets,
And Troy the loud acclaim repeats.
And now discourse succeeds to song:
Poor Dido makes the gay night long,
Still drinking love-draughts, deep and strong:
Much of great Priam asks the dame,
Much of his greater son:
Now of Tydides’ steeds of flame,
Now in what armor Memnon came,
Now how Achilles shone.
“ Nay, guest,” she cries, “ vouchsafe a space
The tale of Danaan fraud to trace,
The dire misfortunes of your race,
These wanderings of your own:
For since you first ’gan wander o’er
Yon homeless world of sea and shore,
Seven summers nigh have flown.”
— The AEneid, Book I.
2ENEAS DOTH MANY GREAT DEEDS IN BATTLE.
No dull delay holds Turnus back; but fiercely doth he fall
With all his host, on them of Troy, and meets them on the
strand.
The war-horns sing. SEneas first breaks through the
field-folks’ band,
Fair omen of the fight — and lays the Latin folk alow.
Thero he slays most huge of men, whose own heart bade
him go
Against SEneas: through the links of brass the sword doth
fare,
And through the kirtle’s scaly gold, and wastes the side
laid bare.
Then Lichas smites he, ripped erewhile from out his
mother dead.
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243
And hallowed, Phoebus, unto thee, because his baby head
Had ’scaped the steel: nor far from thence he casteth
down to die
Hard Cissens, Gyas huge, who there beat down his com-'
pany
With might of clubs; naught then availed that Plerculean
gear,
Nor their stark hands, nor yet their sire Melampus,
though he were
Alcides’ friend so long as he on earth wrought heavy toil.
Lo, Pharo! while a deedless word lie flingeth ’mid the
broil,
The whirring of the javelin stays within his shouting
mouth.
Thou, Cydon, following lucklessly thy new delight, the
youth
Clytius, whose first of fallow down about his cheeks is
spread,
Art well-nigh felled by Dardan hand, and there hadst
thou lain dead,
At peace from all the many loves wherein thy life would
stray,
Had not thy brethren’s serried band now thrust across
the way,
E’en Phorcus’ seed: sevenfold of tale and sevenfold spears
they wield;
But some thereof fly harmless back from helmside and
from shield;
The rest kind Venus turned aside, that grazing past they
flew;
But therewithal ^Eneas spake unto Achates true.
— The TEneid, Book X.
THE UNDERWORLD.
Facing the porch itself, in the jaws of the gate of the
dead,
Grief, and Remorse the Avenger, have built their terrible
bed.
There dwells pale-cheeked Sickness, and Old Age sor¬
rowful-eyed.
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Fear, and the temptress Famine, and hideous Want at her
side,
Grim and tremendous shapes. There Death with Labor
is joined,
Sleep, half-brother of Death, and the Joys unclean of the
mind.
Murderous Battle is camped on the threshold. Fronting
The iron cell of the Furies, and frenzied Strife, evermore
the door
Wreathing her serpent tresses with garlands dabbled in
gore.
Thick with gloom, an enormous elm in the midst of the
way
Spreads its time-worn branches and limbs; false Dreams,
we are told,
Make their abode thereunder, and nestle to every spray.
Many and various monsters, withal, wild things to behold,
Lie in the gateway stabled — the awful Centaurs of old;
Scyllas with forms half-human; and there with his hun¬
dred hands
Dwells Briareus; and the shapeless ITydra of Lerna’s
lands,
Horribly yelling; in flaming mail the Chimaera arrayed;
Gorgons and Harpies, and one three-bodied and terrible
Shade.
Clasping his sword, zEneas in sudden panic of fear
Points its blade at the legion; and had not the Heaven-
taught seer
Warned him the phantoms are thin apparitions, clothed
m a vain
Semblance of form, but in substance a fluttering, bodiless
train,
Idly his weapon had slashed the advancing shadows in
twain.
Here is the path to the river of Acheron, ever by mud
Clouded, forever seething with wild, insatiated flood
Downward, and into Cocytus disgorging its endless sands.
Sentinel over its waters an awful ferryman stands,
PUBLIUS VERGILIUS MARO VIRGIL
245
Charon, grisly and rugged; a growth of centuries lies
Hoary and rough on his chin; as a flaming furnace his
eyes.
Hung in a loop from his shoulders a foul scarf round him
he ties;
Now with his pole impelling the boat, now trimming the
sail,
Urging his steel-gray bark with its burden of corpses pale.
Aged in years, but a god’s old age is unwithered and hale.
Down to the bank of the river the streaming shadows
repair,
Mothers, and men, and the lifeless bodies of those who
were
Generous heroes, boys that are beardless, maiden-s unwed,
Youths to the death pile carried before their fathers were
dead.
Many as forest leaves that in autumn’s earliest frost
Flutter and fall, or as birds in bevies flock to the coast
Over the sea’s deep hollows, when winter chilly and frore.
Drives them across far waters to land on a sunnier shore.
Yonder they stood, each praying for earliest passage, and
each
Eagerly straining his hands in desire of the opposite
beach.
Such as he lists to the vessel the boatman gloomy receives,
Far from the sands of the river the rest he chases and
leaves.
Moved at the wild uproar, Aineas, with riveted eyes:
“ Why thus crowd to the water the shadows, priestess ? ”
he cries;
“ What do the spirits desire ? And why go some from
the shore
Sadly away, while others are ferried the dark stream
o’er?”
Briefly the aged priestess again made answer and spake:
Son of Anchises, sprung most surely from gods upon
high,
Yon is the deep Cocytus marsh, and the Stygian lake.
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Even the Immortals fear to attest its presence and lie!
These are a multitude helpless, of spirits lacking a grave;
Charon, the ferryman; yonder the buried, crossing the
wave.
Over the awful banks and the hoarse-voiced torrents of
doom
None may be taken before their bones find rest in a tomb.
Hundreds of years they wander, and flit round river and
shore,
Then to the lake they long for are free to return once
more.”
, . . Feasting his eyes on the wand of the Fates,
Mighty oblation, unseen for unnumbered summers before,
Charon advances his dark-blue bows, and approaches the
shore;
Summons the rest of the spirits in row on the benches
who sate
Place to resign for the comers, his gangway clears, and
on board
Takes ^Eneas. The cobbled boat groans under his weight.
Water in streams from the marshes through every fissure
is poured.
Priestess and hero safely across Death’s river are passed,
Land upon mud unsightly, and pale marsh sedges, at last.
Here huge Cerberus bays with his triple paws through the
land,
Crouched at enormous length in his cavern facing the
strand.
Soon as the Sibyl noted his hair now bristling with snakes,
Morsels she flings him of meal, and of honeyed opiate
cakes.
Maddened with fury of famine his three great throats un¬
close ;
Fiercely he snatches the viand, his monstrous limbs in
repose
Loosens, and, prostrate laid, sprawls measureless over his
den.
While the custodian sleeps, iEneas the entrance takes,
247
EUGENE MELCHIOR DE VOGUE
Speeds from the bank of a stream no traveller crosses
again.
Voices they heard, and an infinite wailing, as onward they
bore,
Spirits of infinite sobbing at Death’s immediate door,
Whom, at a mother’s bosom, and strangers to life’s sweet
breath,
Fate’s dark day took from us, and drowned in untimeliest
death.
Near them are those who, falsely accused, died guiltless,
although
Not without trial, or verdict given, do they enter below;
Here, with his urn, sits Minos the judge, convenes from
within
Silent ghosts to the council, and learns each life and its
sin.
Near them inhabit the sorrowing souls, whose innocent
hands
Wrought on themselves their ruin, and strewed their lives
on the sands.
Hating the glorious sunlight. Alas! how willingly they
Now would endure keen want, hard toil, in the regions of
day!
Fate forbids it; the loveless lake with its waters of woe
Holds them, and nine times round them entwined, Styx
bars them below.
— The TEneid, Book VI.
Eugene Marie Melchior, Vicomte de,
a French critic and historian; born at Nice,
fVAA February 25, 1848. After having served in
the army during the Franco-Prussian war, he entered
the office of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs in 1871,
and was attached to the embassy at Constantinople in
1873, t0 the French Mission in Egypt in 1875, and to
248
EUGENE MELCHIOR DE VOGUE
the embassy at St. Petersburg in 1876. While at the
Winter Palace he married, in 1878, the daughter of
the Russian general, Annenkoff. He retired from the
diplomatic service in 1881, and thereafter devoted
himself to literature, writing much in the Revue des
Deux Mondes and the Journal des Debates. He be¬
came a Commander of the Legion of Honor in 1879,
and was elected a member of the French Academy
in 1888. His works in book form include Syrie, Pales¬
tine, Mont Athos, Voyage au Pays du Passe (1876) ;
Histoires Orientates, Chez les Pharaons, Boulacq et
Saqquarah (1879) ; Les Portraits due Siecle (1883) ;
Le Fils de Pierre le Grand (1884) ; Mazeppa (1884) ;
Un Changement due Regne (1884) ; Histoires d’Hiver
(1885) ; Le Roman Russe (1886) ; Souvenirs et Vis¬
ions (1887); Le Portrait du Louvre (1888); Re¬
marques sur rExposition Centenaire (1889) ; Le Man-
teau de Joseph Olenine (1890) ; Heures d’Histoire
(1893)-
THE HYMN OF THE GERMANS.
(September 1, 1870.)
The bivouacs of the victors starred with their fires all
the valley of the Moselle. From the fields where those
hundred thousand men were encamped, and where we
thought them heavy with sleep, exhausted by their vic¬
tory, a mighty voice arose — one single voice issuing from
those hundred thousand throats. It was Luthers’ choral.
The majestic prayer seemed to fill the heavens; it spread
over the horizon so far as there were German camp-fires
and German men. We heard it far into the night. It
thrilled us with its grandeur and beauty. Many of us
were young then, and little matured in reflection, yet we
recognized at that moment the power which had van¬
quished us: it was not the superior force of regiments, but
that one soul, made up of so many souls, tempered in
faith, national and divine, and firmly persuaded that its
EUGENE MELCHIOR DE VOGUE
249
God marched by its side to victory.— Translation of
Aline Gorren.
POPE LEO XIII.
The visitor is admitted in his turn into a small salon
draped with yellow silk; a crucifix hangs upon the wall;
several chairs are ranged along the two sides of the room;
at the back, beneath a canopy of crimson damask, a pale,
white form is seated on a gilded chair. It is the embod¬
iment of the spirit which animates all the spiritual gov¬
ernors spread over the planet; which unceasingly follows
them to each inquietude, to all the sufferings whose dis¬
tant plaint reaches his ear. So slight, so frail; like a soul
draped in a white shroud ! And yet, as one approaches
him, this incorporeal being, who appeared so feeble when
seen standing at the services of the Sistine Chapel, as¬
sumes an extraordinary intensity of existence. All the
life has centred in the hands grasping the arms of the
chair, in the piercing eyes, in the warmth and strength of
the voice. Seated and animated in conversation, Leo XIII
seems twenty years younger. He talks freely, easily; he
questions the speaker by word and look; eager for details
of the country under discussion, of its prominent men, of
public opinion. The Pope does not linger over the pueril¬
ities of piety; he introduces at once the serious problems
of human existence, real and vital interests. Soon he
grows animated in developing his favorite topics; pre¬
senting them with a few sweeping sentences, clear, con¬
cise, acceptable to all. “ We must go to the people,
conquer the hearts of the people. We must seek the
alliance of all honest folk, whatsoever their origin or
opinion. We must not lose heart. We will triumph over
prejudice, injustice, and error.” It is impossible to forget
the look, the gesture, the ring of the voice, with which he
follows you, as you retire backward, your fingers already
grasping the door-knob; his hand extended with a sudden
propelling of the whole body from the chair; the inflec¬
tion of those last words which linger in the ear of the
visitor returning to his own land: “ Courage ! Work!
Come back to see me again! ”—From The Forum.
250 CLAUDE-HENR1 FUSEE DE V01SEN0N
0 ISEN 0 N, Claude-Henri Fusee de, a French
dramatist; born at Voisenon, June 8, 1708;
died there, November 22, 1775. Brought up
to the ecclesiastical profession, he began with being
grand-vicar to the see of Boulogne; but having fought
a duel with an officer, and feeling himself in other re- #
spects little fitted for the clerical function, he limited
himself to the abbacy of Jard, and became a man of
the world and a writer for the stage. In the midst of
his dissolute life he was haunted incessantly with re¬
ligious scruples. His naturally weak constitution at
last broke down under his libertine indulgences; and,
apprehensive of death, he made a general confession,
but his confessor refused him absolution. Upon
promise of amendment of life, however, he was after¬
ward absolved; and then began a strange contrast of
ceremonial devotion with equally regular dissipation.
He was elected a member of the Academy in 1762.
His works consist of several romances, the best of
which is L’Histoire de la Felicite; a number of com¬
edies, notably Mariages Assortis and La Coquette
Fixee, and some poems. His CEuvres Completes were
published by Madame de Turpin, in five large vol¬
umes ; and Laharpe made from them an excellent se¬
lection in one small volume. Voisenon’s letters to his
friends give vivid descriptions of French life and
manners in the eighteenth century.
TRAVELING IN THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY.
We passed through Tours yesterday, where Madame la
Duchesse de Choiseul received all the honors due to the
gouVernante of the province. We entered by the mall,
which is planted with trees as beautiful as those of the
'CLAUDE-HENRl FI SEE DE VOISENON 251
Parisian boulevards. Here was found a mayor, who
came to harangue the duchess. It happened that M. Sain-
frais, during the harangue, had posted himself directly
behind the speaker, so that every now and then his horse,
which kept constantly tossing its head, as horses will do,
would give him a little tap on the back — a circumstance
which cut his phrases in half in the most ludicrous man¬
ner possible; because at every blow the orator would turn
round to see what was the matter, after which he would
gravely resume his discourse, while I was ready to burst
with laughter the whole time.
Two leagues further on we had another rich scene. An
ecclesiastic stopped the carriage and commenced a pom¬
pous harangue to M. Poisonnier, whom he kept calling
“Mon Prince.” M. Poisonnier replied, that he was more
than a prince, and that in fact the lives of all princes
depended on him, for he was a physician.
“ What! ” exclaimed the priest, “ are you not M. le
Prince de Talmont?”
“ He has been dead these two years,” replied the
Duchesse de Choiseul.
“But who, then, is in this carriage?”
“ It is Madame la Duchesse de Choiseul,” replied some
one.
Forthwith, not a whit disconcerted, he commenced an¬
other harangue, in which he lauded to the skies the excel¬
lent education she had bestowed upon her son.
“ But I have no son, monsieur,” replied the duchess,
quietly. “ Ah ! you have no son; I am very sorry for
that” ; and so saying, his reverence put his harangue in
his pocket and walked off. — From a letter to his friend
Fciv art, June 8, 1761.
252 CQNSTANTIN FRANCOIS VOLNEY
S OLNEY, Constantin Franqois de Chasse-
bceuf, a French historian and traveler; born at
Craon, February 3, 1757; died at Paris, April
25, 1820. The family name was Chasseboeuf, but his
father gave him that of Boisgiras, which he himself
changed to Volney, the only name by which he is known.
Having inerited a moderate fortune, he studied medi¬
cine, history, and the Oriental languages at Paris, and
when twenty-five years of age he went to Egypt and
Syria, where he resided several years. Upon his re¬
turn he was made Director-General of Agriculture
and Commerce in Corsica. In 1789 he was elected to
the States-General from his native province of An¬
jou. In 1793 he was imprisoned for several months
as a Girondist, and after his release in 1794 was ap¬
pointed Professor of History in the Normal School.
In 1795 he went to the United States, where he re¬
mained three years. Upon his return, he was made
a Senator, but declined the position of Minister of
the Interior. He was made a Count by Napoleon in
1808, and was created a Peer of France by Louis
XVIII. in 1814. The principal works of Volney are
Travels in Egypt and in Syria (1778) ; On the Chron¬
ology of Herodotus (1781) ; The Ruins t or Medita¬
tions on the Revolutions of Empires, in which he first
avowed those sceptical opinions with which his name
is specially connected (1791); Lessons of History
(1799) ; View of the Climate and Soil of the United
States of America (1803) ; New Researches in An¬
cient History (1815) ; The European Alphabet applied
to Asiatic Languages (1819).
CONSTANTIN FRANQOIS VOLNEY
253
THE MAMELUKES OF EGYPT.
The manners of the Mamelukes are such that although
I shall strictly adhere to the truth, I am almost afraid
I shall be suspected of prejudice and exaggeration. Born
for the most part in the rites of the Greek Church, and
circumcised the moment they are born, they are consid¬
ered by the Turks themselves as renegades, void of faith
and religion. Strangers to each other, they are not bound
by those natural ties which unite the rest of mankind.
Without parents, without children, the past has done
nothing for them, and they do nothing for the future.
Ignorant and superstitious from education, they become
ferocious from the murders they commit, perfidious from
frequent cabals, seditious from tumults, and base, deceit¬
ful, and corrupted by every species of debauchery.
Such are the men who at present (1785) govern and
decide the fate of Egypt. A few lucky strokes of the
sabre, a greater portion of cunning or audacity, have
conferred on them this pre-eminence. But it is not to
be imagined that in changing fortune these upstarts
change their character. They have still the meanness of
slaves, though advanced to the rank of monarchs. Sov¬
ereignty with them is not the difficult art of directing
to one common object the various passions of a numerous
society, but only the means of possessing more women,
more toys, more horses, and slaves, and satisfying all their
caprices. The whole administration, internal and ex¬
ternal, is conducted on this principle. It consists in man¬
aging the Court of Constantinople so as to elude the trib¬
ute or the menaces of the Sultan; and in purchasing a
number of slaves, multiplying partisans, countermining
plots, and destroying their secret enemies by the dagger
or by poison. Ever tortured by the anxiety of suspicion,
the chiefs live like the ancient tyrants of Syracuse.
Murad and Ibrahim sleep continually in the midst of car¬
bines and sabres. Nor have they any idea of police or
public order. Their only employment is to procure
money; and the method considered as the most simple is
to seize it wherever it is to be found; to wrest it by vio¬
lence from its possessor; and to impose arbitrary contribu-
254 FRANCOIS MARIE AROUET DE VOLTAIRE
tions every moment on the villages, and on the custom¬
house, which in its turn levies them again upon commerce.
We may easily judge that in such a country everything
is analogous to so wretched a government. The greater
part of the lands are in the hands of the Bey, the Mame¬
lukes, and the professors of the law. The number of
the other proprietors is extremely small, and their prop¬
erty is liable to a thousand impositions. Every moment
some contribution is to be paid, or some damage repaired.
There is no right of succession or inheritance for real
property; everything returns to the government, from
which everything must be repurchased. The peasants
are hired laborers, to whom no more is left than barely
suffices to sustain life. — Travels in Egypt and Syria.
S OLTAIRE, FRANgois Marie Arouet, de, a
French historian, satirist and poet; born at
Paris, November 21, 1694; died there, May
30, 1778. His father, who had been a notary at
Chatenay, received the somewhat lucrative post of
Paymaster of Fees to the Court of the Exchequer.
The son was educated at the Jesuit College of Louis
le Grand, and at seventeen was set by his father to
the study of law, for which he showed little inclina¬
tion. Pie was introduced into the gay society of
Paris, and made himself famous by his biting satires.
One of these, written at twenty-one, entitled I Have
Seen, excited the anger of the Regent, the Duke of
Orleans. “ Monsieur Arouet,” said the Duke to him,
“ I bet that I will make you see a thing you have
never seen.” Two days later the young man was
shut up in the Bastile, where he remained eleven
monfhs, and wrote the first part of his epic poem,
The Henriade . He describes his life in the Bastile
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Specially engraved for the Ridpath Library.
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FRANCOIS MARIE AROUET DE VOLTAIRE 255
in one of his cleverest poems. The Mare Rene apos¬
trophized at the close is M. d'Argenson, the Chief of
Police.
LIFE IN THE BASTILE.
I needs must go; I jog along in style,
With close-shut carriage, to the royal pile
Built in our father’s days, hard by St. Paul,
By Charles the Fifth. Oh, brethren, good men all,
In no such quarters may your lot be cast!
Up to my room I find my way at last.
A certain rascal with a smirking face
Exalts the beauties of my new retreat
So comfortable, so compact, so neat.
Says he, “ While Phoebus runs his daily race
He never casts one ray within this place.
Look at these walls, some ten feet thick or so;
You’ll find it all the cooler here, you know.”
Then bidding me admire the way they close
The triple doors and triple locks on those,
With gratings, bolts, and bars on every side,
“ It’s all for your security,” he cried.
At stroke of noon some porridge is brought in;
At noon some porridge is brought in;
Such fare is not so delicate as thin.
I am not tempted by the splendid food,
But what they tell me is: “ ’Twill do you good;
So eat in peace; no one will hurry you.”
Here in this doleful den I make ado,
Bastilled, imprisoned, cabined, cribbed, confined.
Nor sleeping, eating, drinking, to my mind;
Betrayed by every one — my mistress, too !
O Mare Rene ! whom Censor Cato’s ghost
Might have well chosen for his vacant post;
O Mare Rene ! through whom ’tis brought about
That so much people murmur here below,
To your kind word my durance vile I owe;
May the good God some fine day pay you out!
256 FRANCOIS MARIE ARQUET DE VOLTAIRE
Soon after being released from the Bastile Fran¬
cois Arouet took the name of Voltaire, from a small
estate belonging to the family. “ I have been too un¬
fortunate/’ he wrote, “ under my former name; I
mean to see whether this will suit me better.” The
tragedy CEdipe, which he had written in the Bastile,
was produced, and met with great favor. The Regent
Orleans made him a considerable present. “ Mon¬
seigneur,” said Voltaire, “ I should consider it very
kind if his Majesty would be pleased to provide hence¬
forth for my board; but I beseech your highness to
provide no more for my lodging.” Voltaire soon
produced the tragedies Artemise and Marianne, the
comedy L'lndiscret, continued The Elenriade, and put
forth numerous small poems. He became a favorite
even at Court, received a pension from the Queen,
and made money by speculating in stocks. In 1726
he became involved in a dispute with a disreputable
courtier, the Chevalier Rohan-Chabot, who caused
him to be severely cudgelled. Voltaire challenged
him to a duel. He procured the arrest of Voltaire and
his confinement in the Bastile, whence he was re¬
leased after a month on condition of leaving the coun¬
try. He went to England, where he remained three
years. Here he finished The Henriade, which was
published in London, under royal patronage. He
lived in that literary society in which Bolingbroke,
Pope, and Swift held sway. In 1729 he was per¬
mitted to return to France. Before three years had
passed he published the commencement of his His¬
tory of Charles XII. of Szveden; produced the trage¬
dies of Bruins, Eriphyle, The Death of Ccesar, and
Zaire, held to be the greatest of his dramas. But he
soon fell into disfavor at Court and among the clergy
FRANCOIS MARIE AROUET DE VOLTAIRE 257
by the publication of his Lettres Philosophiques sur
les Anglais, which was filled with satirical attacks
upon the clergy and upon some of the dogmas of the
Church. The Sorbonne directed the book to be
burned, and the Parlement of Paris ordered the ar¬
rest of the author. Voltaire managed to escape ar¬
rest, and took refuge in one place and another; some¬
times in a French province, sometimes in Switzerland,
Holland, or Lorraine. He wrote numerous works dur¬
ing these years, notable among which are the trage¬
dies of Alzire, Merope, and Mahomet, and the series
of essays on the Philosophy of History — the best of
all his prose works. He made innumerable enemies
in every quarter. The clergy were scandalized by his
attacks upon religion; the Court — which grew more
devout the more debauched it became — took sides
with the Church. In 1746 he barely succeeded in his
candidature for membership in the French Academy;
in 1750 he offered himself for the Academy of Sci¬
ences and the Academy of Inscriptions, and was re¬
jected by both. Other rebuffs were added, and he
resolved to shake the dust of France from his feet.
Frederick the Great of Prussia had long urged
Voltaire to take up his abode with him, offering him
a residence in a royal palace, the gold key of a Cham¬
berlain, the jewelled cross of a noble order, and a
liberal pension. This last was especially acceptable
to Voltaire, who had lost in stock-jobbing the con¬
siderable fortune which he had acquired by the same
means. He went to Berlin in 1750 — he being then
approaching three 7 score. His residence there con¬
tinued nearly four years. It forms a curious episode
in personal and literary biography, in which neither
of the parties played a creditable part. How the King
Vol. XXIII.—17
258 FRANCOIS MARIE AROUET DE VOLTAIRE
of Prussia and the King of Letters billed and cooed
and quarrelled, how they mutually blackguarded each
other, has been told in part by Macaulay in his paper
on “ Frederick the Great.”
Voltaire lived a quarter of a century after this
Prussian episode. He made another ample fortune
by new stock-jobbing operations, and finally took up
his residence at Ferney, on the lake of Geneva in
Switzerland. Within these years were written most
of his serious attacks upon religion; or, as he would
phrase it, against religious superstitions. These years
were also marked by many noble and benevolent actions
which of themselves would entitle him a high place
among philanthropists. He left Paris in 1750, and
never saw it again until 1778. He arrived at Paris
on February 10th. Never had a great writer received
such an ovation as awaited him. He died on May
30th. Flis last appearance in public was at the rep¬
resentation of his own tragedy of Irene.
The following poems exhibit him at his best:
THE GREAT EARTHQUAKE AT LISBON, 1 / 55 .
Can we conceive a God beneficent,
Upon His children’s happiness intent,
Yet on them sorrows sparing not to heap?
What eye can penetrate designs so deep?
Through the All-perfect how can ill befall,
Yet how have other source, since He rules all?
Still Evil’s everywhere; confusion dense !
Sad puzzle, still too hard for human sense !
A God came down to shed some calm around,
Surveyed the earth, and left it as He found !
His power to mend the sophist loud denies;
He wanted but the will, another cries.
And while the disputants their views proclaim,
Lisbon is perishing in gulfs of flame,
And thirty towns with ashes strew the lea —
FRANCOIS MARIE AROUET DE VOLTAIRE 259
From Tagus’ ravaged borders to the sea.
Does God with evil scourge a guilty race?
Or does the Lord of Being and of Space,
Unswayed by pity’s touch or anger’s force,
Of his fixed will just watch the changeless course?
Does from Him Matter, rebel to its lord,
Bear in itself the seeds of disaccord?
Maybe God proves us, and our sojourn here
Is but a passage to the eternal sphere.
Fleeting, though sharp, the griefs that on us press,
And Death, in ending them, but comes to bless.
Yet when we issue from His dreadful gate,
Who may presume to claim a happier fate ?
Tremble we must, howe’er the riddle’s read;
And knowing nothing, we have all to dread.
Nature is mute: we question her in vain,
And feel that God alone can make all plain.
None other can expound His mysteries,
Console the feeble, and illumine the wise.
Left guideless everywhere, no way is seen;
Man seeks in vain some reed on which to lean. . . .
What of all this can wisest minds explain?
Nothing: the Book of Fate must closed remain.
“ What am I ? whence have come, and whither go ? ”
Thus men still ask, and this can never know —
Atoms tormented on this heap of earth,
Whom Death devours, whom Fate finds stuff for mirth,
Yet atoms that can think; whose daring eyes,
Guided by thought, have measured out the skies;
Depths of the infinite our spirits sound,
But never pierce the veil that wraps us round.
This scene of pride and error and distress
With wretches swarms, who prate of happiness,
Waiting, they comfort seek; none wish to quit
This life, nor, quitting, would re-enter it.
Sometimes, while sighing our sad souls away,
We find some joy that sheds a passing ray;
But pleasure, wandering shadow, rests not long,
While griefs and failures come in endless throng.
Mournful the past, the present veiled in gloom
If life and thought be ended in the tomb.
260 FRANCOIS MARIE AROUET DE VOLTAIRE
“ One day all will be well! ” our hope these see.
“ All now is well! ”— behold a phantasy !
“ Humble in plaint, and patient to endure,
I doubt not Providence, because obscure,”
In strains less mournful did I erewhile raise,
As Pleasure’s bard, the song of praise.
But time brings change: taught by my lengthening span.
Sharing the feebleness of feeble man,
Amid the darknes seeking still for day,
I only know to suffer and obey.
Once on a time a Caliph, nigh to death,
To Heaven thus offered his expiring breath:
“ I bring, O sole King, almighty Lord !
All that thy boundless realm can e’er afford —
Sins, Ignorance, and Efforts vain ! ” —
He might have added “ Plope ! ” to cheer the pain.
— Translation of E. B. Hamley.
SESOSTRIS.
(Written in honor of Louis XVI.)
Each man a Guiding Spirit has, they say,
Whose province is to give him strength and light
Throughout life’s dark and devious way;
And though this Spirit may be hid from sight,
He will his presence oftentimes betray.
And they who search have made ’midst old and curi¬
ous things
Will recollect that times existed when
Good Genii lived and even talked with men,
And were kind friends especially to Kings.
Near Memphis, and beneath the palms that waved
Long since above the banks made sweet and green
By Nile’s old god, who kept them daily laved,
Young King Sesostris walked one quiet e’en
Alone, in order naught might intervene
To make his converse with his guide less free.
“ My friend,” said he, “ to be a King is much,
And of my kingdom I would worthy be;
What shall I do?” The Angel, with a touch
FRANCOIS MARIE AROUET BE VOLTAIRE 261
Said, “ Come ! To yonder labyrinth be our way,
And there to great Osiris homage pay;
Then thou shalt learn.”
Anxious his Guide to please
The Prince obeys; and in the court he sees
Two deities of very different mien:
The one a beauty of most dazzling sheen,
In smiles all wreathed; w r ith Loves, and Graces hover¬
ing round,
In deepest depths of dear delight all drowned.
Three worshippers stood some way from her throne,
Dry, pale, and trembling — naught but skin and bone.
The King, astonished, bids his guide confess.
“ Who is this nymph of such rare loveliness ?
And who these three of ugliness intense ?
His Guide, in whispered words, replies: “ My Prince,
This beauty knows you not, indeed? Tier fame
Is great at Court; there all for her evince
Profoundest love; and Pleasure is her name.
These haggard three, who give you so much pain,
March always close behind their Sovereign:
Disgust, Fatigue, Repentance, you must call
This trio — Pleasure’s horrid offspring all.”
Pained by the sight, and by the story grieved,
He turned, and then the other form perceived.
“ My friend, be pleased to let me know,” said he,
“ Yon goddess’ name, whom further off we see;
And who presents a much less tender mien,
Although her air, so noble and serene,
Delights me much. Close by her side appear
A sceptre made of gold, a sword, a sphere,
A balance, too, and in her hands she holds
A scroll, the which she reads as she unfolds;
Of every ornament her breast seems free,
Except a shield. A temple made of gold
Flies open at her voice; and there I see
Upon its front — oh, wondrous to behold ! —
These blazing words: ‘To Immortality!’
And may I enter there ? ”
“ Yes,” said the Guide;
262 FRANQOIS MARIE AROUET DE VOLTAIRE
“ But chiefly on yourself you must depend,
And obstacles encounter without end.
This goddess hath no facile, tender side
By which you may approach her grace to steal.
In Pleasure, though more charms may be descried,
The other will a truer love reveal;
To please this being of immortal birth
Both mind and heart must be of sterling worth.
Her name is Wisdom; and this brilliant fane,
Just shown to you, to glorious deeds she gives;
And he who lives well, here forever lives;
And here may you a dwelling-place obtain.
Then let your choice between the two be made;
True service to them both cannot be paid.”
The Prince replied: “ If mine, then, be the choice,
A single moment will I not defer.
I might in either of the twain rejoice.
The first a moment’s bliss could in me stir;
The second, through me others’ bliss command.” —
The first, then, greeting with a gracious word,
The Prince two kisses flung her from his hand,
And on the second all his love conferred.
— Translation of F. W. Ricord.
Voltaire’s theory of the aim and scope of history,
as set forth in his Philosophy of History, is better
than his execution of it, ether before or afterward.
His best work of this class — though by no means a
masterpiece — is the History of Charles XII. of Szue-
den.
ON HISTORY.
My object has been the history of the human intellect,
and not the detail of facts, nearly always distorted. It
was not intended, for instance, to inquire of what family
the lord of Puiset, or the lord of Montlheri may be, who
made war on the Kings of France; but to trace the grad¬
ual advancement from the barbarous rusticity of those
days to the polish of ours. . . .
FRANCOIS MARIE AROUET DE VOLTAIRE 263
There is no object in knowing in what year a prince
unworthy of remembrance succeeded a barbarous ruler in
a rude nation. The more important it is to know of the
great actions of sovereigns who have rendered their people
better and happier, the more we should ignore the herd
of kings who only load the memory. — The Philosophy of
History.
THE DEATH OF CHARLES XII. OF SWEDEN.
In October, 1718, Charles departed a second time for
the conquest of Norway. He hoped within six months to
make himself master of that kingdom. He chose rather
to go and conquer rocks amidst ice and snow in the depth
of winter than to retake his beautiful provinces in Ger¬
many from the hands of his enemies. These he expected
he should soon be able to recover in consequence of his
alliance with the Czar of Russia; and his vanity, more¬
over, was more flattered at ravishing a kingdom from his
victorious enemy, the King of Poland.
At the mouth of the River Tistendall stands Fred-
erickshall, a place of great strength and importance, and
considered as the key of the kingdom. Charles formed
the siege of this place in the month of December. The
soldiers, benumbed with cold, could scarcely turn up the
earth, which was so hardened by the frost that it was
almost as difficult to pierce it as if they had been opening
trenches in a rock; yet the Swedes could not be dis¬
heartened while they saw at their head their king, who
partook of all their fatigues. Charles had never before
undergone so many hardships. His constitution, hardened
by eighteen years of severe labors, was fortified to such
a degree that he slept in the open field in Norway, in
the midst of winter, without the least injury to his health.
On the nth of December he went at nine in the evening
to visit the trenches; and not finding the parallel so far
advanced as he expected, appeared very much displeased.
M. Megret, a French engineer who conducted the siege,
assured him that the place could be taken in eight' days.
“ We shall see,” said the king, and went on with the
engineer to survey the works. He stopped at a place
264 FRANQOIS MARIE AROUET DE VOLTAIRE
where a branch of the trenches formed an angle with
the parallel. Kneeling on the inner talus, and resting his
elbow on the parapet, he continued in that posture for
some time, to view the men who were carrying on the
trenches by starlight.
Almost half of the king’s body was exposed to a bat¬
tery of cannon, pointed directly against the angle where
he was. There was no one near his person at this time
but two Frenchmen, M. Sequier, his aide-de-camp, and
the engineer Megret. The cannon bred upon them, but
the king, being the least covered by the parapet, was
the most exposed. At some distance behind them was
Count Schwerin, who commanded in the trenches; Count
Posse, a captain of the guards, and an aide-de-camp named
Kulbert, were receiving orders from him.
Sequier and Megret saw the king the moment he fell,
which he did upon the parapet, with a deep sigh. They
immediately ran to him. He was already dead. A ball
of half a pound weight had struck him on the right tem¬
ple, and made a hole sufficient to receive three fingers
at once; his head was reclined upon the parapet; his left
eye beat in, and the right one entirely out of its socket.
The instant of his wounding had been that of his death;
but he had the force, whilst expiring in so sudden a
manner, to place his hand upon the hilt of his sword,
and he remained in that attitude. At the sight of this
spectacle Megret, a man of peculiar and callous disposi¬
tion, said nothing but these words: “ There! the play is
over; let us be off! ” Sequier ran immediately to inform
Count Schwerin. They all agreed to conceal the news
from the soldiers, till they could acquaint the Prince of
Hesse, the husband of Charles’s sister, with the death of
the king. They wrapped the body in a gray cloak; Siquier
put his hat and wig on the king’s head; and in this con¬
dition they carried Charles, under the name of one Cap¬
tain Carlberg, through the midst of the troops, who saw
their dead king pass them, without ever dreaming that it
was he. The Prince instantly gave orders that no one
should go out of the camp; and that all the passes to
.Sweden should be strictly guarded, that he might have
time to take the necessary measures for placing the crown
FRANQ0IS MARIE AROUET DE VOLTAIRE 265
on his wife’s head, and excluding the Duke of Holstein,
who might lay claim to it.
Thus fell Charles XII., King of Sweden, at the age of
thirty-six years and a half, after having experienced what¬
ever is most brilliant in prosperity, and all that is most
poignant in adversity, without having been enervated by
the one, or having wavered in the other. He carried all
the virtues of heroes to an excess at which they are as
dangerous as their opposite vices. His resolution, hard¬
ened into obstinacy, occasioned his misfortunes in the
Ukraine, and detained him five years in Turkey; his lib¬
erality, degenerating into profusion, ruined Sweden; his
courage, extending even to rashness, was the cause of his
death; his justice sometimes extended to cruelty; and
during the last years of his reign the means he employed
to support his authority differed little from tyranny.
His great qualities — any one of which would have
been sufficient to have immortalized another prince —■
proved the misfortune of his country. He never was
the aggressor; yet in taking vengeance he was more im¬
placable than prudent. He was the first man who ever
acquired the title of conqueror without the least desire
of enlarging his own dominions; and whose only end in
subduing kingdoms was to have the pleasure of giving
them away. His passion for glory, for war, for revenge,
prevented him from being a good politician: a quality
without which the world had never before seen any one
a conqueror. Before a battle and after a victory, he was
modest and humble; and after a defeat firm and un¬
daunted. Inflexible toward others as well as toward him¬
self; rating at nothing the fatigues of his subjects any
more than his own; rather an extraordinary than a great
man; and more worthy to be admired than imitated, his
life ought to be a lesson to kings how much a pacific and
happy government is preferable to so much glory. — His¬
tory of Charles XII.
266
JOOST VAN DEN VONDEL
8 0 NDEL, Joost van den, a Dutch poet; born
at Cologne, November 17, 1587; died at Am¬
sterdam, February 5, 1679. His parents were
Anabaptists, and removed to Amsterdam during his
childhood. He was the most celebrated Dutch poet
and dramatist of the seventeenth century. His works
include metrical translations of the Psalms, of Virgil,
of Ovid, and satires and tragedies. The most cele¬
brated plays are Gijsbrecht van Aemstel, Lucifer , and
Palamedes. { The best edition of his works contains
twenty-one volumes ( Amsterdam, 1820 ).
CHORUS FROM “ PALAMEDES.”
The thinly sprinkled stars surrender
To early dawn their dying splendor;
The shades of night are dim and far,
And now before the morning-star
The heavenly legions disappear:
The constellation’s charioteer
No longer in the darkness burns,
But backward his bright courser turns.
Now golden Titan, from the sea,
With azure steeds comes gloriously,
And shines o’er woods and dells and downs,
And soaring Ida’s leafy crowns.
O sweetly welcome break of morn !
Thou dost with happiness adorn
The heart of him who cheerily,
Contented, unwearily,
Surveys whatever Nature gives,
What beauty in her presence lives
And wanders oft the banks alone
Of some sweet stream with murmuring song.
Oh, more than regal is his lot,
Who, in some blest, secluded spot,
Remote from crowding cares and fears,
JOOST VAN DEN VONDEL
267
His loved, his cherished dwelling rears!
For empty praises never pining,
His wishes to his cot confining.
And listening to each cheerful bird
Whose animating song is heard:
When morning dews, with Zeph}w’s sigh
Has wafted, on the roses lie,
Whose leaves beneath the pearl-drops bend:
When thousand rich perfumes ascend,
And thousand hues adorn the bowers,
And form a rainbow of sweet flowers,
Or bridal-robe for Iris made
From every bud in sun and shade.
Contented there to plant or set,
Or snare the birds with crafty net;
To grasp his bending rod, and wander
Beside the banks where waves meander,
And thence their fluttering tenants take;
Or, rising ere the sun’s awake,
Prepare his steed, and scour the grounds,
And chase the hare with swift-paced hounds;
Or ride beneath the noontide rays,
Through peaceful glens and silent ways,
Which wind like Cretan labyrinth;
Or where the purple hyacinth
Is glowing on its bed; or where
The mead red-speckled daisies bear:
Whilst maidens milk the grazing cow,
And peasants toil beneath the plough,
Or reap the crops beneath their feet,
Or sow luxuiiant flax or wheat.
Here flourishes the waving corn,
Encircled by the wounding thorn;
There glides a bark by meadows green;
And there the village smoke is seen;
And there a castle meets the view,
Half-fading in the distance blue.
How hard, how wretched is his doom
Whom sorrows follow to the tomb
And who, from morn till quiet eve,
Distresses pain, and troubles grieve,
JOOST VAN DEN VONDEL
268
And cares oppress ! for these await
The slave, who, in a restless state,
Would bid the form of concord flee,
And call his object liberty:
He finds his actions all pursued
By envy or ingratitude.
The robe is honoring, I confess;
The cushion has its stateliness; —
But, oh, they are a burden, too!
And pains spring up, forever new,
Beneath the roof which errors stain,
And where the strife is — who shall reign?
But he who lives in rural ease
Avoids the cares that torture these:
No golden chalices invite
To quaff the deadly aconite;
Nor dreads he secret foes, who lurk
Behind the throne with coward dirk, —
Assassin friends — whose murderous blow
Lays all the pride of greatness low.
No fears his even life annoy,
Nor feels he pride, nor finds he joy
In popularity, that brings
A fickle pleasure, and then — stings.
He is not roused at night from bed,
With weary eyes and giddy head;
At morn, no long petitions vex him,
Nor scrutinizing looks perplex him:
He has no joys in others’ cares;
He bears — and while he bears, forbears;
And from the world he oft retreats
Where learning’s gentle smile he meets.
He heeds not priestcraft’s ban or praise,
But scorns the deep anathemas
Which he, who in his blindness errs,
Receives from these — God's messengers!
— Translation of Longfellow.
JOOST VAN DEN VONDEL
269
CHORUS OF ANGELS.
Who sits above heaven’s heights sublime,
Yet fills the grave’s profoundest place,
Beyond eternity or time
Or the vast round of viewless space:
Who on himself alone depends,
Immortal, glorious, but unseen,
And in his mighty being blends
What rolls around or flows within.
Of all we know not, ail we know,
Prime source and origin, a sea
Whose waters pour’d on earth below
Wake blessing’s brightest radiancy.
His power, love, wisdom, first exalted
And awaken’d from oblivion’s birth
Yon starry arch, yon palace vaulted,
Yon heaven of heavens, to smile on earth.
From this resplendent majesty
We shade us, ’neath our sheltering wings.
While awe-inspired and tremblingly
We praise the glorious King of Kings,
With sight and sense confused and dim.
O name, describe the Lord of Lords !
The seraphs’ praise shall hallow him —
Or is the theme too vast for words?
RESPONSE.
’Tis God! who pours the living glow
Of light, creation’s fountain-head:
Forgive the praise, too mean and low,
Or from the living or the dead!
No tongue Thy peerless name hath spoken;
No space can hold that awful Name;
The aspiring spirit’s wing is broken;
Thou wilt be, wert, and art the same.
Language is dumb; Imagination,
Knowledge, and Science helpless fall;
They are irreverent profanation,
And Thou, O God! art all in all.
270
JOHANN HEINRICH VOSS
How vain on such a thought to dwell!
Who knows Thee? Thee, the All-unknown
Can angels be Thy oracle,
Who art, who art Thyself alone?
None, none can trace Thy course sublime,
For none can catch a ray from Thee,
The splendor and the Source of Time,
The Eternal of Eternity !
The light of light outpour’d conveys
Salvation in its flight elysian,
Brighter than even Thy mercy’s rays;
But vainly would our feeble vision
Aspire to Thee. From day to day
Age steals on us, but meets Thee never.
Thy power is life’s support and stay —
We praise Thee, sing Thee, Lord ! forever.
Holy ! holy ! holy ! Praise,
Praise be Flis in every land !
Safety in His presence stays,
Sacred is His high command.
— Translation of John Bowring.
^-^OSS, Johann Heinrich, a German transla-
tor, poet and archaeologist; horn at Sommers-
dorf, Mecklenburg, February 20, 1751 ; died at
Heidelberg, March 29, 1826. He studied theology and
philology at Gottingen, where he was one of the
founders of the poetic brotherhood known as the Got¬
tingen Hainhund. In 1778 he was appointed rector
of the school at Ottendorf, and after occupying that
position some four years he removed to Eutin, and
occupied a similar office until failing health compelled
his resignation. In 1802 he went to Jena and three
years later to Heidelberg, where he spent the re-
JOHANN HEINRICH VOSS
271
mainder of his life. Voss’s literary fame rests chiefly
upon his translations of classic poetry, particularly
that of Homer; the Odyssey appeared in 1781 and the
Iliad in 1793. He translated Virgil in 1799, Horace
and Heisod in 1801, Theocritus Bion and Moschus in
1808, Tibullus in 1810 and Aristophanes in 1821.
With the assistance of his sons he translated Shake¬
speare in 1819-29. His principal original work is Luise
and Other Poems (1785), which was subsequently
republished with many additions. In these poems he
made a fairly successful attempt to apply the style
and method of classical poetry to the expression of
German thought and sentiment. In his Mytholo-
gische Briefe (1794), in which he attacked the ideas
of Heyne, and in his Antisymbolil (1824-26), written
in opposition to Creuzer, he made important contri¬
butions to the study of mythology. Sophronizon is
a powerful argument in favor of free judgment in
religion, and was inspired by the repudiation of Prot¬
estantism by his friend Friederich von Stolberg.
THE SPINNER.
As I sat spinning at the door
A youth advanced along the road;
His dark eye smiled at me, and o’er
His cheek a tint of crimson glowed:
I then looked up, in thought ’twas done,
And sat so bashfully and spun.
“ Good morrow, gentle maid,” he spoke,
Approaching with a timid grace;
I trembled, and the thread it broke;
My heart beat with a quicker pace.
Again the thread I fastened on,
And sat so bashfully and spun.
272 ETHEL LILLIAN BOOLE VOYNICH
With soft caress he pressed my hand,
And swore none could with it compare;
No! not the fairest in the land,
So white and round, so soft and fair.
Though by this praise my heart was won,
I sat so bashfully and spun.
Upon my chair he leant his arm,
And praised the fineness of the thread —
His lips so near, so red and warm,
How tenderly “ Sweet maid,” they said !
Thus none e’er looked at me, not one;
I sat so bashfully and spun.
Meanwhile his handsome countenance
Bent downward and approached my cheek,
My head encountered his by chance,
While bending the lost thread to seek.
He kissed me then, while I, undone,
Sat bashfully and spun and spun.
I turned to chide with earnest face,
But bolder still he then became,
He clasped me with a fond embrace,
And kissed my cheek, as red as flame.
Oh, tell me, sisters, tell me ! how
Could I to spin continue now?
Translation of A. Baskerville.
S OYNICH, Ethel Lillian Boole, an English
novelist; born at London in 1864. She was
married in 1886 to W. M. Voynich, a Polish
author residing in England. Her works include Rus¬
sian Humor (1890); Stories From Garshin (1895);
The Gadfly (1897): Jack Raymond (1901): and
Olive Latham (1904).
ETHEL LILLIAN BOOLE VOYNICH
273
WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN.
Olive, always reserved, grew more and more so under
the chilling influence of mystery and vague, cold disap¬
pointment. She was of a character essentially stable and
temperate. To fling aside the habits, the aims and pro¬
fessional ambitions of all her youth, and follow her lover
out into a menacing and unknown world, had been to her
an even harder thing than most women would have found
it; she lacked the perception of romance which might have
sustained many natures. And having taken so momentous
a step in the dark, she found that it had led her nowhere.
Notwithstanding the love between them, unclouded by an
instant’s doubt on either side, they seemed to be drifting
steadily further apart. She would have been content,
however hopeless her future looked to her, had she but
been able to feel that her presence was any real comfort
to him; but the bitter complaint: “ You don’t understand !
you don’t understand! ” drove her back upon herself, dis¬
couraged and bewildered. It was true; she understood
only that he suffered and that she could not help him.
He suffered, indeed, so much that all other things
were blotted out to him. The numbed life in him had
stirred again at her coming, and she had brought no help.
His days went by in a blank round of mechanical duties,
his nights in raging misery. He longed at times for the
beast to spring quickly, and have done with it; so mean,
so poor, so empty seemed the hours, any one of which
might be the last. He looked back over his past life; and
saw but ghostly processions of dreams unfulfilled, of
statues unmodelled, of joys untouched; tragic abortions of
the things that might have been. In the future waited
him drudgery, weariness, the old, hard, uncongenial duty,
the old, heavy chain to drag; then, perhaps, an obscure
and useless martyrdom for a faith that he had found
wanting and beyond that the black unknown. — Olive
Latham (Copyright, 1904, by Jo B. Lippincott Com¬
pany).
Vol. XXIII.—18
274
HUGO DE VRIES
RIES, Hugo de, a Dutch scientist and philos-
opher; born at Amsterdam in 1853. He was a
pupil of Sachs, Bunsen and Hofmeister. Dur¬
ing the course of his studies he has been a student, lec¬
turer and professor in universities in both Germany
and Holland, and he came to his self-appointed task
with a broad knowledge of physiological science ob¬
tained at first hand, and with the mental strength and
support that came from contact with the leaders in
biological thought in his earlier days, and with the
technical skill that is to be gained by experience in
many laboratories. He is Doctor of Philosophy of the
[University of Leyden; Professor of Botany in the Uni¬
versity of Amsterdam; and a profound student of
variation, heredity and evolution, whose studies have
exerted a lasting influence on the views of mankind
regarding the constitution of living matter and the
physical basis of inheritance. He is especially distin¬
guished as the author of a masterpiece of laborious and
exact research that has placed the general theory of
the origin of species on a new foundation. His prin¬
cipal work Species and Varieties; Their Origin by Mu¬
tation (1904-5) is a collection of lectures delivered at
the University of California. The contents of the
book include a readable and orderly recital of the facts
and details which furnish the basis for the mutation-
theory of the origin of species. All of the more im¬
portant phases of heredity and descent come in for a
clarifying treatment that renders the volume extremely
readable to the amateur as well as to the trained biolo¬
gist. The more reliable historical data are cited and
CJ
the results obtained by Professor de Vries in the
HUGO DE VRIES
HUGO DE VRIES
Botanical Garden at Amsterdam during twenty years
of observations are described. Not the least important
service rendered by Professor de Vries in the prepara¬
tion of these lectures consists in the indication of defi¬
nite specific problems that need investigation, many of
which may be profitably taken up by anyone in a small
garden. He has rescued the subject of evolution from
the thrall of polemics and brought it once more within
reach of the great mass of naturalists, any one of
whom may reasonably hope to contribute something
to its advancement by orderly observations. The text
of the lectures has been revised and rendered into a
form suitable for permanent record by Dr. D. T. Mac-
Dougal who has been engaged in researches upon the
subject for several years, and who has furnished sub¬
stantial proof of the mutation theory of the origin of
species by his experimental investigations carried on in
the New York Botanical Gardens.
ARTIFICIAL AND NATURAL SELECTION.
The comparison of artificial and natural selection has
furnished material support for the theory of descent, and
in turn been the object of constant criticism since the
time of Darwin. The criticisms, in greater part, have
arisen chiefly from an imperfect knowledge of both pro¬
cesses. By the aid of distinctions recently made possible,
the contrast between elementary species and improved
races has become much more vivid, and promises to yield
better results on which to base comparisons of artificial
and natural selection.
Elementary species, as we have seen in earlier lectures,
occur in wild and in cultivated plants. In older genera
and systematic species they are often present in small
numbers only, but many of the more recent wild types
and also many of the cultivated forms are very rich in
this respect. In culture the choice of the most adequate
276
HUGO DE VRIES
elementary forms for any special purpose is acknowledged
as the first step in the way of selection, and is designated
by the name of variety-testing, applying the term variety
to all the subdivisions of systematic species indiscrimi¬
nately. In natural processes it bears the title of survival
of species. The fact that recent type show large numbers,
and in some instances even hundreds of minor constant
forms, while the older genera are considerably reduced
in this respect, is commonly explained by the assumption
of extinction of species on a correspondingly large scale.
This extinction is considered to affect the unfit in a
higher measure than the fit. Consequently the former
vanish, often without leaving any trace of their existence,
and only those that prove to be adapted to the surround¬
ing external conditions, resist and survive.
This selection exhibits far-reaching analogies between
the artificial and the natural processes, and is in both
cases of the very highest importance. In nature the
dying out of unfit mutations is the result of the great
struggle for life. In a previous lecture we have com¬
pared its agency with that of a sieve. All elements which
are too small or too weak fall through, and only those
are preserved which resist the sifting process. Reduced
in number they thrive and multiply and are thus enabled
to strike out new mutative changes. These are again
submitted to the sifting tests, and the frequent repetition
of this process is considered to give a good explanation
of the manifold, highly complicated, and admirable struc¬
tures which strike the beginner as the only real adapta¬
tions in nature.
Exactly in the same way artificial selection isolates and
preserves some elementary species, while it destroys
others. Of course the time is not sufficient to secure new
mutations, or at least these are only rare at present, and
their occurrence is doubtful in historic periods. Apart
from this unavoidable difference the analogy between
natural and artificial selection appears to me to be very
striking.
This form of selection may be termed selection between
species. Opposed to it stands the selection within the ele¬
mentary species or variety. It has of late alone come to
HUGO DE VRIES
277
be known as selection, though in reality it does not de¬
serve this distinction. I have already detailed the his¬
torical evidence which gives preference to selection be¬
tween species. The process can best be designated by
the name of intra-specific selection, .if it is understood
that the term intra-specific is meant to apply to the con¬
ception of small or elementary species.
I do not wish to propose new terms, but I think that 1
the principal differences might better become understood
by the introduction of the word election into the discus¬
sion of questions of heredity. Election meant formerly
the preferential choice of single individuals, while the
derivation of the word selection points to a segregation
of assemblies into their larger parts. Or to state it in a
shorter way, individual selection is exactly what was for¬
merly termed selection. Choosing one man from among
thousands is to select him, but a select party is a group
of chosen persons. There would be no great difficulty
in the introduction of the word election, as breeders are
already in the habit of calling their choice individuals
“ elite,” at least in the case of beets and of cereals.
This intra-specific selection affords a second point for
the comparison between natural and artificial processes.
This case is readily granted to be more difficult than the
first, but there cannot be the slightest doubt that it is due
to strongly comparable causes. In practice this process
is scarcely second in importance to the selection between
species, and in numerous cases it rests upon it, and crowns
it, bringing the isolated forms up to their highest possible
degree of usefulness. In nature it does quite the same,
adapting strains of individuals to the local conditions of
their environment. Improved races do not generally last
very long in practice; sooner or later they are surpassed
by new selections. Exactly so we may imagine the agency
of natural intra-specific selection. It produces the local
races, the marks of which disappear as soon as the special
external conditions cease to act. It is responsible only
for the smallest lateral branches of the pedigree, but has
nothing in common with the evolution on the main stems.
It is of very subordinate importance.
These assertions, of course, are directly opposed to the
278
HUGO DE VRIES
current run of scientific belief, but they are supported by
facts. A considerable part of the evidence has already
been dealt with and for our closing discussion only an
exact comparison remains to be made between the two
detailed types of intra-specific selection. In coming to
this I will first dwell upon some intermediate types and
conclude with a critical discussion of the features of
artificial selection, which to my mind prove the invalidity
of the conclusions drawn from it in behalf of an explana¬
tion of the processes of nature.
Natural selection occurs not only in the wild state, but
is also- active in cultivated fields. Here it regulates the
struggle of the selected varieties and improved races with
the older types, and even with the wild species. In a
previous lecture I have detailed the rapid increase of the
wild-oats in certain years, and described the experiments
of Risler and Rimpau in the running out of select varie¬
ties. The agency is always the same. The preferred
forms, which gave a larger harvest, were formerly more
sensitive to injurious influences, more dependent on rich
manure and on adequate treatment. The native varieties
have therefore the advantage, when climatic or cultural
conditions are unfavorable for the fields at large. They
suffer in a minor degree, and are thereby enabled to
propagate themselves afterwards more rapidly and to
defeat the finer types. This struggle for life is a con¬
stant one, and can easily be followed, whenever the com¬
position of a strain is noted in successive years. It is
well appreciated by breeders and farmers, because it is
always liable to counteract their endeavors and to claim
their utmost efforts to keep their races pure. There can
be no doubt that exactly the same struggle exempt from
man’s intrusion is fought out in the wild state.
Local races of wild plants have not been the object
for field-observations recently. Some facts, however, are
known concerning them. On the East Friesian Islands in
the North Sea the flowers are strikingly larger and bright¬
er colored than those of the same species on the neigh¬
boring continent. This local • difference is ascribed by
Behrens to a more severe selection by the pollinating
insects in consequence of their lesser frequency on these
HUGO DE VRIES
2 79
very windy isles. Seeds of the pines from the Hima¬
layas yield cold-resisting young plants if gathered from
trees in a high altitude, while the seeds of the same spe¬
cies from lower regions yield more sensitive seedlings.
Similar instances are afforded by Rhododendron and other
mountain species. According to Cieslar corresponding
differences are shown by seeds of firs and larches from
alpine and lowland provinces.
Such changes are directly dependent on external in¬
fluences. This is especially manifest in experiments en¬
tailing extensive cultures in higher or in more northern
regions. The shorter summer is a natural agent of selec¬
tion; it excludes all individuals which cannot ripen their
seeds during so short a period. Only the short-lived
ones survive. Schiibeler made very striking experiments
with corn and other different cereals, and has succeeded
in making their culture possible in regions of Norway
where it formerly failed. In the district of Christiania,
corn had within some few years reduced its lifetime from
123 to 90 days, yielding smaller stems and fewer kernels,
but still sufficient to make its culture profitable under the
existing conditions. This change was not permanent,
but was observed to diminish rapidly and to disappear
finally, whenever the Norwegian strain was cultivated in
the southern part of Germany. It was a typical im¬
proved race, dependent on continual selection by the
short summers which had produced it. Similar results
have been reached by Von Wettstein in the compari¬
son of sports of flax from different countries. The an¬
alogy between such cultivated local races and the local
races of nature is quite striking. The practice of seed-
exchange rests for a large part on the experience that
the characters, acquired under the definite climatic and
cultural conditions of some select regions, hold good for
one or two, and sometimes even more generations, before
they decrease to practical uselessness. The Probstei, the
Hanna and other districts owe their wealth to this tem¬
porary superiority of their wheat and other cereals.
Leaving these intermediate forms of selection, we now
come to our principal point. It has already been dis¬
cussed at some length in our last lecture, but needs fur-
28 o
HUGO DE VRIES
ther consideration. It is the question whether intra¬
specific selection may be regarded as a cause of lasting
and ever-increasing improvement. This is assumed by
those biologists who consider fluctuating variability as
the main source of progression in the organic world.
But the experience of the breeders does not support this
view, since the results of practice prove that selection
according to a constant standard soon reaches a limit
which it is not capable of transgressing. In order to
attain further improvements the' method of selection itself
must be improved. A better and sharper method assures
the choice of more valuable representatives of the race,
even if these must be sought for in far larger numbers
of individuals, as is indicated by the law of Quetelet'.
Continuous or even prolonged improvement of a culti¬
vated race is not the result of frequently repeated selec¬
tion, but of the improvement of the standard of appre¬
ciation. Nature, as we know, changes her standard only
from time to time in consequence of the migrations of
the species, or of local changes of climate. Afterwards
the new standard remains unchanged for centuries.
Selection, according to a constant standard, reaches its
results in few generations. The experience of Van
Mons and other breeders of apples shows how soon the
limit of size and lusciousness may be attained. Vil-
morin’s experiments with wild carrots and those of Car-
riere with radishes lead to the same conclusion as re¬
gards roots. Improvements of flowers in size and color
are usually easy and rapid in the beginning, but an im¬
passable limit is soon reached. Numerous other instances
could be given.
Contrasted with these simple cases is the method of
selecting sugar-beets. More than once I have alluded
to this splendid example of the influence of man upon
domestic races, and tried to point out how little support
it affords to the current scientific opinion concerning the
power of natural selection. For this reason it is inter¬
esting to see how a gradual development of the methods
of selection has been, from the very outset, one of the
chief aims of the breeders. None of them doubts that an
improvement of the method alone is adequate to obtain
HUGO DE VRIES
281
results. This result, in the main, is the securing of a
few per cent, more of sugar, a change hardly compara¬
ble with the progress in evolution, which our theories are
destined to explain.
Vilmorin’s original method was a very simple one.
Polarization was still undiscovered at his time. He de¬
termined the specific weight of his beets, either by weigh¬
ing them as a whole, or by using a piece cut from the
base of the roots and deprived of its bark, in order to
weigh only the sugar-tissues. The pieces were floated in
solutions of salt, which were diluted until the pieces be¬
gan to sink. Their specific weight at that moment was
determined and considered to be a measure of the cor¬
responding value of the beet. This principle was after¬
wards improved in two ways. The first was a selection
after the salt-solution-method, but performed on a large
scale. After some few determinations, a solution was
made of such strength as to allow the greater number
of the beets to float, and only the best to sink down. In
large vessels thousands of beets could be tested in this
way, to select a few of the very heaviest. The alternate
improvement was the determination of the specific weight
of the sap, pressed out from the tissue. It was more
tedious and more expensive, but more direct, as the in¬
fluence of the air-cavities of the tissue was excluded.
It prepared the way for polarization.
This was introduced about the year 1874 in Germany,
and soon became generally accepted. It allowed the
amount of sugar to be measured directly, and with but
slight trouble. Thousands of beets could be tested yearly
by this method, and the best selected for the production
of seed. In some factories a standard percentage is de¬
termined by previous inquiries, and the mass of the beets
is tested only by it. In others the methods of taking
samples and clearing the sap have been improved so far
as to allow the exact determination of three hundred
thousand polarization-values of beets within a few weeks.
Such figures give the richest material for statistical stud¬
ies, and at once indicate the best roots, while they enable
the breeder to change his standard in accordance with
the results at any time. Furthermore they allow the
2 82
HUGO DE VRIES
mass of the beets to be divided into groups of different
quality, and to produce, besides the seeds for the con¬
tinuation of the race, a first-class and second-class product
and so on. In the factory of Messrs. Kuhn & Co., at
Naarden, Holland, the grinding machine has been marked¬
ly improved, so as to tear all cell-walls asunder, open
all cells, and secure the whole of the sap within less than
a minute, and without heating.
It would take too long to go into further details, or to
describe the simultaneous changes that have been ap¬
plied to the culture of the elite strains. The detailed
features suffice to show that the chief care of the breeder
in this case is a continuous amelioration of the method
of selecting. It is manifest that the progression of the
race is in the main due to great' technical improvements,
and not solely to the repetition of the selection.
Similar facts may be seen on all the great lines of
industrial selection. An increasing appreciation of all
the qualities of the selected plants is the common feature.
Morphological characters, and the capacity of yielding
the desired products, are the first points that strike the
breeder. The relation to climate and the dependence on
manure soon follow, but the physiological and chemical
sides of the problem are usually slow of recognition in
the methods of selection. When visiting Mr. de Vil-
morin at Paris some years ago, I inspected his labora¬
tory for the selection of potatoes. In the method in use,
the tubers were rubbed to pulp and the starch was ex¬
tracted and measured. A starch-percentage figure was
determined for each plant, and the selection of the tubers
for planting was founded upon this result. In the same
way wheat has been selected by Dippe at Quedlinburg,
first by a determination of its nitrogenous contents in
general, and secondly by the amount of the substances
which determine its value for baking purposes.
The celebrated rye of Schlanstedt was produced by the
late Mr. Rimpau in a similar manner and was put on the
market between 1880 and 1890 and was received with
great favor throughout central Europe, especially in Ger¬
many and in France. It is a tall variety, with vigorous
stems and very long heads, the kernels of which are
HUGO DE VRIES
283
nearly double the size of those of the ordinary rye, and
are seen protruding, when ripe, from between the scales
of the spikelets. It is unfit for poor soils, but is one of
the very best varieties for soils of medium fertility, in
a temperate climate. It is equal in the production of
grain to the best French sorts, but far surpassing them
in its amount of straw. It was perfected at the farm of
Schlanstedt very slowly, according to the current con¬
ceptions of the period. The experiment was started in
the year 1866, at which time Rimpau collected the most
beautiful heads from among his fields, and sowed their
kernels in his experiment-garden. From this first culture
the whole race was derived. Every year the best ears of
the strain were chosen for repeated culture, under ex¬
perimental care, while the remainder was multiplied in
a field to furnish the seeds for large and continually in¬
creasing areas of his farms.
Two or three years were required to produce the quan¬
tity of seed of each kind required for all the fields of
Schlanstedt. The experiment-garden, which through the
kindness of Mr. Rimpau I had the good fortune of visit¬
ing more than once between 1875 an d 1878, was situated
in the middle of his farm, at some distance from the
dwellings. Of course it was treated with more care, and
especially kept in better conditions of fertility than was
possible for the fields at large. A continued study of the
qualities and exigencies of the elite plants accompanied
this selection, and gave the means of gradually increasing
the standard. Resistance against disease was observed
and other qualities were ameliorated in the same manner.
Mr. Rimpau repeatedly told me that he was most anxious
not to overlook any single character, because he feared
that' if any of them might become selected in the wrong
way, perchance unconsciously, the whole strain might suf¬
fer to such a degree as to make all the other ameliorations
quite useless. With this purpose the number of plants
per acre was kept nearly the same as those in the fields,
and the size of the culture was large enough every year
to include the best kernels of quite a number of heads.
These were never separated, and exact individual pedi¬
grees were not included in the plan. This mixture seemed
284
HUGO DE VRIES
to have the advantage of keeping up an average value
of the larger number of the characters, which either
from their nature or from their apparent unimportance had
necessarily to be neglected.
After ten years of continuous labor, the rye of Rimpau
caught the attention of his neighbors, being manifestly
better than that of ordinary sowings. Originally he had
made his cultures for the improvement of his own fields
only. Gradually, however, he began to sell his product
as seed to others, though he found the difference still
very slight. After ten years more, about 1886, he was
able to sell all his rye as seed, thereby making of course
large profits. It is now acknowledged as one of the best
sorts, though in his last letter Mr. Rimpau announced
to me that the profits began to decline as other selected
varieties of rye became known. The limit of productive¬
ness was reached, and to surmount this, selection had
to be begun again from some new and better starting
point.
This new starting point invokes quite another principle
of selection, a principle which threatens to make the con¬
trast between artificial and natural selection still greater.
In fact it is nothing new, being in use formerly in the
selection of domestic animals, and having been applied
by Vilmorin to his sugar-beets more than half a century
ago. Why it should ever have been overlooked and neg¬
lected in the selection of sugar-beets now is not clear.
The principle in itself is very simple. It agrees that
the visible characters of an animal or a plant are only
an imperfect measure for its hereditary qualities, instead
of being the real criterion to be relied upon, as is the
current belief. It further reasons that a direct apprecia¬
tion of the capacity of inheritance can only be derived
from the observation of the inheritance itself. Hence it
concludes that the average value of the offspring is the
only real standard by which to judge the representatives
of a race and to found selection upon.
These statements are so directly opposed to views prev¬
alent among plant-breeders, that it seems necessary to
deal with them from the theoretical and experimental
as well as from the practical side.
HUGO DE VRIES
285
The theoretical arguments rest on the division of the
fluctuating variability into the two large classes of indi¬
vidual or embryonic, and of partial deviations. We have
dealt with this division at some length in the previous
lecture. It will be apparent at once, if we choose a defi¬
nite example. Let us ask what is the real significance
of the percentage-figure of a single plant in sugar-beets.
This value depends in the first place, on the strain or
family from which the beet has been derived, but this
primary point may be neglected here, because it is the
same for all the beets of any lot, and determines the
average, around which all are fluctuating.
The deviation of the percentage-figure of a single beet
depends on two main groups of external causes. First
come those that have influenced the young germs of the
plant during it's most sensitive period, when still an em¬
bryo within the ripening seed. They give a new limita¬
tion to' the average condition, which once and forever
becomes fixed for this special individual. In the second
place the young seedling is affected during the develop¬
ment of its crown, of leaves, and of its roots, by numerous
factors, which cannot change this average, but may in¬
duce deviations from it, increasing or decreasing the
amount of sugar, which will eventually be laid down in
the root. The best young beet may be injured in many
ways during periods of its lifetime, and produce less sugar
than could reasonably be expected from it. It may be
surpassed by beets of inferior constitution, but growing
under more favorable circumstances.
Considered from this point of view the result of the
polarization-test is not a single value, but consists of at
least two different factors. It may be equal to the sum
of these, or to their difference, according to the question
whether the external conditions on the field were locally
and individually favorable or unfavorable. A large
amount of sugar may be due to- high individual value,
with slight subsequent deviation from it, or to a less
prominent character combined with an extreme subordi¬
nate deviation.
Hence it is manifest that even the results of such a
highly improved technical method do not deserve the
HUGO DE VRIES
confidence usually put in them. They are open to doubt,
and the highest figures do not really indicate the best
representatives of the race. In order to convey this con¬
ception to you in a still stronger manner, let us consider
the partial variability as it usually shows itself. The
various leaves of a plant may noticeably vary in size, the
flowers in color, the fruits in flavor. They fluctuate
around an average, which assumes to nearly represent
the true value of the whole plant. But if we were allowed
to measure only one leaf, or to estimate only one flower
or fruit, and be compelled to conclude from it the worth
of the whole plant, what mistakes we could make ! We
might indeed hit upon an average case, but we might as
easily get an extreme, either in the way of increase or of
decrease. In both cases our judgment would be badly
founded. For who can assure us that the single root of
a given beet is an average representative of the partial
variability ? The fact that there is only one main root
does not prove anything. An annual plant has only one
stem, but a perennial species has many. The average
height of the last is a reliable character, but the casual
height of the former is very uncertain.
So it is with the beets. A beet may be divided by its
buds and give quite a number of roots, belonging to the
same individual. These secondary roots have been tested
for the amount of sugar, and found to exhibit a manifest
degree of variability. If the first root corresponded to
their average, it might be considered as reliable, but if
not anyone will grant that an average is more reliable
than a single determination. Deviations have as a fact
been observed, proving the validity of our assertion.
These considerations at once explain the disappoint¬
ment so often experienced by breeders. Some facts may
be quoted from the Belgian professor of agriculture at
Gembloux, the late Mr. Laurent. He selected two beets
from a strain, with the exceptional amount of 23 per
cent, sugar, but kept their offspring separate and analyzed
some sixty of each. In both groups the average was
only 11 — 12 per cent., the extremes not surpassing 14 —
15 per cent. Evidently the choice was a bad one, not¬
withstanding the high polarization value of the parent.
HUGO DE VRIES
287
Analogous cases are often observed, and my countrymen,
Messrs. Kuhn & Co., go so far as to doubt all excessive
variants, and to prefer beets with high but less extraor¬
dinary percentages. Such are to be had in larger num¬
bers and their average has a good chance of exemption
from a considerable portion of the doubts adhering to
single excessive cases.
It is curious to note here what Louis Vilmorin taught
concerning this point in the year 1850. I quote his own
words: “ I have observed that in experiments on heredi¬
ty it is necessary to individualize as much as possible.
So I have taken to the habit of saving and sowing sep¬
arately the seeds of every individual beet, and I have
always found that among the chosen parent-plants some
had an offspring with a better average yield than others.
At the end I have come to consider this character only
as a standard for amelioration.”
The words are clear and their author is the originator
of the whole method of plant-breeding selection. Yet
the principle has been abandoned, and nearly forgotten
under the impression that polarization alone was the su¬
preme guide to be relied upon. However, if I under¬
stand the signs rightly, the time is soon coming when
Vilmorin’s experience will become once more the founda¬
tion for progress in breeding.
Leaving the theoretical and historical aspects of the
problem, we will now recall the experimental evidence,
given in a former lecture, dealing with the inheritance
of monstrosities. I have shown that in many instances
monstrosities constitute double races, consisting of mon¬
strous and of normal individuals. At first sight one might
be induced to surmise that the monstrous ones are the
true representatives of the race, and that their seeds
should be exclusively sown, in order to keep the strain
up to its normal standard. One might even suppose that
the normal individuals, or the so-called atavists, had
really reverted to the original type of the species and
that their progeny would remain true to this.
My experiments, however, have shown that quite the
contrary is the case. No doubt, the seeds of the mon¬
strous specimens are trustworthy, but the seeds of the
288
HUGO DE VRIES
atavists are not less so. Fasciated hawkweeds and twist¬
ed teasels gave the same average constitution of the off¬
spring from highly monstrous, and from apparently
wholly normal individuals. In other words the fullest
development of the visible characteristic was not in the
slightest degree an indication of better hereditary ten¬
dencies. In unfavorable years a whole generation of a
fasciated race may exhibit exclusively normal plants,
without transmitting a trace of this anomaly to the fol¬
lowing generation. As soon as the suitable conditions
return, the monstrosity reassumes its full development.
The accordance of these facts with the experience of
breeders of domestic animals, and of Louis Vilmorin,
and with the result of the theoretical considerations con¬
cerning the factors of fluctuation has led me to suggest
the method of selecting, which I have made use of in
my experiments with tricotyls and syncotyls.
Seedling variations afford a means of counting many
hundreds of individuals in a single germinating pan. If
seed from one parent-plant is sown only in each pan, a
percentage-figure for the amount of deviating seedlings
may be obtained. These figures we have called the
hereditary percentages. I have been able to select the
parent-plants after their death on the sole ground of
these values. And the result has been that from varieties
which, on an average, exhibited 50 — 55 per cent, devi¬
ating seedlings, after one or two years of selection this
proportion in the offspring was brought up to about 90
per cent, in most of the cases. Phacelia and mercury
with tricotylous seedlings, and the common sunflower
with connate seed-leaves, may be cited as instances.
Besides these tests, others were performed, based only
on the visible characters of the seedlings. The result
was that this characteristic was almost useless as a cri¬
terion. The atavists gave, in the main, nearly the same
hereditary percentages as the tricotyls and syncotyls, and
their extremes were in each case far better constituted
than the average of the chosen type. Hence, for selec¬
tion purposes, the atavists must be considered to be in
no way inferior to the typical specimens.
If it had been possible to apply this principle to twisted
HUGO DE VRIES
289
and fasciated plants, and perhaps even to other monstrosi¬
ties, I think that it will readily be granted that the chance
of bringing even these races up to a percentage of 90
per cent, would have been large enough. But the large
size of the cultures required for the counting of numer¬
ous groups of offspring in the adult state has deterred
me from making such trials. Recently, however, I have
discovered the means of counting these anomalies in the
sowing pans, and so I hope soon to be able to give direct
experimental proofs of this assertion. The validity of the
hereditary percentage as a standard of selection has,
within the last few years, been recognized and defended
by two eminent breeders, W. M. Hays in this country
and Von Lochow in Germany. Both of them have start¬
ed from the experience of breeders of domestic animals.
Von Lochow applied the principle to rye. He first showed
how fallacious the visible characters often are. For in¬
stance the size of the kernels is often dependent on their
number in the head, and if this number is reduced by the
injurious varietal mark of lacunae (Liickigkeit), the
whole harvest will rapidly deteriorate by the selection
of the largest kernels from varieties which are not quite
free from this hereditary deficiency.
In order to estimate the value of his rye-plants, he
gathers the seed of each one separately and sows them
in rows. Each row corresponds to a parent-plant and
receives 200 or 150 seeds, according to the available
quantity. In this way from 700 to 800 parent-plants are
tested yearly. Each row is harvested separately. The
number of plants gives the average measure of resistance
to frost, this being the only important cause of loss.
Then the yield in grain and straw is determined and
calculated, and other qualities are taken into considera¬
tion. Finally one or more groups stand prominent above
all others and are chosen for the continuation of the
race. All other groups are wholly excluded from the
“ elite,” but among them the best groups and the very
best individuals from lesser groups are considered ade¬
quate for further cultivation, in order to produce the com¬
mercial product of the race. As a matter of fact the
rye of Von Lochow is now one of the best varieties, and
Vol. XXIII.—19
2QO
HUGO DE VRIES
even surpasses the celebrated variety of Schlanstedt. It
was only after obtaining proof of the validity of his
method that Von Lochow decided to give it to the public.
In this country W. M. Hays, of the Minnesota Agri¬
cultural Experiment Station, has made experiments with
wheat. He chose a hundred grains as a proper number
for the appreciation of each pdrent-plant, and hence has
adopted the name of “ centgener power ” for the heredi¬
tary percentage.
The average of the hundred offspring is the standard
to judge the parent by. Experience shows at once that
this average is not at all proportional to the visible
qualities of the parent. Hence the conclusion that the
yield of the parent-plant is a very uncertain indication
of its value as a parent for the succeeding generation.
Only the parents with the largest power in the centgener
of offspring are chosen, while all others are wholly dis¬
carded. Afterwards the seeds of the chosen groups are
propagated in the field until the required quantities of
seed are obtained.
This centgener power, or breeding-ability, is tested and
compared, for the various parent-plants as to yield, grade,
and percentage of nitrogenous content in the grain, and
as to the ability of the plant to stand erect, resist rust,
and other important qualities. It is evident that by this
test of a hundred specimens a far better and much more
reliable determination can be made than on the ground
of the minutest examination of one single plant. From
this point of view the method of Hays commands atten¬
tion. But the chief advantage lies in the fact that it is
a direct proof of that which it is desired to prove, while
the visible marks give only very indirect information.
Thus the results of the men of practice are in full
accordance with those of theory and scientific experi¬
ment, and there can be little doubt that they open the
way for a rapid and important improvement. Once at¬
tained, progress, however, will be dependent on the selec¬
tion principle, and the hereditary percentage, or cent¬
gener power, or breeding-ability must be determined in
each generation anew. Without this the race would soon
regress to its former condition.
HUGO DE VRIES
291
To return to our starting point, the comparison of arti¬
ficial and natural selection. Here we are at once struck
by the fact that it is hardly imaginable, how nature can
make use of this principle. In some measure the mem¬
bers of the best centgener will manifestly be at an ad¬
vantage, because they contain more fit specimens than
the other groups. But the struggle for existence goes on
between individuals, and not between groups of brethren
against groups of cousins. In every group the best
adapted individuals will survive, and soon the breeding-
differences between the parents vanish altogether. Mani¬
festly they can, as a rule, have no lasting result on the
issue of the struggle for existence.
If now we remember that in Darwin’s time the feature,
breeding-ability, enjoyed a far more general appreciation
than at present, and that Darwin must have given it full
consideration, it becomes at once clear that this old, but
recently revived principle, is not adequate to support the
current comparison between artificial and natural selec¬
tion.
In conclusion, summing up all our arguments, we may
state that there is a broad analogy between breeding-
selection in the widest sense of the word, including varie¬
ty-testing, race-improvement and the trial of the breeding-
ability on one side, and natural selection on the other.
This analogy, however, points to the importance of the
selection between elementary species, and the very subor¬
dinate role of intra-specific selection in nature. It strong¬
ly supports our view of the origin of species by muta¬
tion instead of continuous selection. Or, to put it in the
terms chosen lately by Mr. Arthur Harris in a friendly
criticism of my views: “Natural selection may explain
the survival of the fittest, but it cannot explain the arrival
of the fittest .”—Species and Varieties (Copyright 1904 by
the Open Court Publishing Company).
w
*§p*^j|^ACE, Robert, an English clergyman and poet;
born on the island of Jersey about 1124; died
at Caen, France, about 1174. His father was
one of the barons who accompanied William of Nor¬
mandy in his invasion of England, and seems to have
received large possessions in the conquered country.
He speaks of himself as a clerclisant , “ reading clerk,”
and seems to have resided mainly in France, though
sometimes in England, and near the close of his life
was made Canon of Bayeux by Henry II., great-
grandson of William the Conqueror. Wace wrote in
Norman-French, his principal poem being Le Roman
de Brut , “ The Romance of Brutus,” and Le Roman
de Ron, “ The Romance of Rollo,” the first Duke of
Normandy. The Roman de Brut is essentially a met¬
rical translation of the Latin History of Britain by
Geoffrey of Monmouth, in which the line of British
kings is traced down from the legendary Brutus of
Troy, grandson of Hfneas, to Cadwallader, King of
Wessex, who died a. d. 688,
Wace’s Brut was translated into Anglo-Saxon by
Layamon, a nearly contemporary ecclesiastic of Wor¬
cestershire, who also made large additions, more than
doubling the 15,000 lines of Wace’s poem. This Brut
(292)
ROBERT WACE
293
of Layamon, from which the subjoined is taken, is
of special philological interest as showing how the
Anglo-Saxon language was spoken in Middle England
about the year 1200. The accompanying rendering
into more modern English will serve the purpose of
a glossary. Layamon thus speaks of himself and his
master, Wace:
LAYAMON AND HIS PREFACE.
Lie nom tha Englisca hoc
He took the English book
Tha makede Seint Beda ;
That Saint Beda made;
An odier he nom on Latin,
Another he took in Latin,
Tha makede Seinte Albin,
That Saint Albin made,
And the feire Austin,
And the fair Austin,
The fulluht broute hider in.
That baptism brought hither in.
Boc he mom the thridde,
The third book he took,
Leid ther amidden,
Laid there in midst
Tha makede a Frenchis clerc,
That made a French clerk,
Wace was ihoten,
Wace was he flight,
The wel ccuthe writen;
That well could write;
And he hoc gef thare cethelen
And he it gave the noble
< 2 >
Aelinor, the wes Henries quene,
Eleanor that was Henry's queen,
Thes heyes kinges.
The high king's.
Layamon leide theos boc,
Layamon laid these books,
294
CHARLES WAGNER
And tha leaf wende.
And the leaves turned,
He heom leofliche bi-heold;
He then lovingly beheld;
Lithe him beo Drihten.
Merciful to him be the Lord.
Fetheren he nom mid fingren,
Feather he took with Ungers,
And fiede on boe-felle,
And wrote on book-skin,
And tha sothe word
Sette to-gathere
And tha thre boc
Thrumde to ane.
And the sooth words
Set together
And the three books
Compressed into one.
'AGNER, Charles, a Franco-German clergy¬
man and philosopher; born in Alsace in 1855.
He was graduated from the Sorbonne of
Strasburg, and studied at Gottingen. Since 1880 he
has resided in Paris, where as a liberal evangelical
preacher, he is a leader in an organization in France
called “ The Union for Moral Action/’ which he de¬
scribes as a “ laic militant order for private and social
duty.” His works include The Busy Life (1900) ;
The Voice of Nature (1901) ; The Simple Life
(1902); Wayside Sermons (1903); My Appeal to
America (1904) ; and Justice (1905).
Dr. Wagner won world-wide fame by the publica¬
tion of The Simple Life and in 1904-5 visited the
United States to more fully expound the doctrine of
CHARLES WAGNER
295
his philosophy. In the preface to The Simple Life
he says:
PREFACE TO THE SIMPLE LIFE.
The invalid, undermined by fever and devoured by
thirst, dreams during his sleep of a cool brook where he
bathes, or of a clear fountain where he drinks in great
mouthfuls. So, in the complicated agitation of modern
existence, our wearied souls dream of simplicity.
Is that which we call bv that beautiful name a bless-
ing disappeared forever? I do not think so. If sim¬
plicity had belonged to some exceptional circumstances,
known only in rare epochs, we might renounce its real¬
ization for the present. We cannot lead civilization back
to its origin any more than we can lead back the wide
troubled rivers to the tranquil valley where the alder
branches droop together over their source.
But simplicity does not depend upon any certain eco¬
nomic or social conditions. It is more of a spirit which
can animate and modify lives of very different kinds.
Far from being obliged to pursue it with impotent regrets
we may, I affirm it, make of it the object of our resolu¬
tions and the aim of our practical energy.
To aspire to the simple life is to rightly aspire to the
fulfilment of the highest human destiny. All the move¬
ments of humanity toward more justice and more light
have been at the same time movements toward a more
simple life. And the antique simplicity in arts, man¬
ners and ideas hold for us their incomparable value only
because it has been able to give a powerful relief to some
essential sentiments, to some fixed truths. We must love
that simplicity and guard it piously. But he will have
gone but the hundredth part of his road who holds to
exterior forms, and who does not seek to realize the spirit.
In fact, it is impossible for us to be simple in the same
ways as were our forbears, and we can only remain so,
or return to simplicity in the same spirit. We are walk¬
ing in other paths, but the aim of humanity is funda¬
mentally the same. It is always the polar star which
296
CHARLES WAGNER
directs the mariner, no matter whether he is embarked
on a sailing ship or a steamer.
To advance towards this aim with all the means of
which we can dispose is the most important thing, to-day
as ever. And it is because we have often been drawn
aside that we have confused and complicated our lives.
• ••••••••
If I could succeed in causing others to accept with me
that interior knowledge of simplicity, I shall not have
made a vain effort. Some readers will think that such an
idea should be incorporated in manners and education.
They will begin by cultivating it in themselves, and will
make the sacrifice of a few of those habits which hinder
us from being men.
Too many encumbering futilities separate us from our
ideal of truth, justice and kindness which should warm
and revive our hearts. All that brushwood, under the
pretext of furnishing us shelter, us and our happiness,
has ended by veiling our sunlight. When shall we have
the courage to oppose the deceptive temptations of a life
as complicated as unfruitful with the answer of the sage:
“ Get out of my sunlight! ”
— The Simple Life.
PRIDE AND SIMPLICITY IN SOCIAL RELATIONS.
It would, perhaps, be difficult to prove a subject better
qualified than pride to prove that the obstacles to a better
life, stronger and more peaceful, are more in ourselves
than in circumstances. The diversity and above all, the
contrast of social situations, inevitably cause all sorts of
conflicts to surge upon us. But how many of these rela¬
tions between members of the same society would not be,
in spite of all, simplified if we put another spirit in the
frame traced in external necessities! Let us be well per¬
suaded that it is not, after all the difference in classes,
functions, the so dissimilar forms of our destinies, which
embroil men. If that were the case we should see an
idyllic peace reign between colleagues, comrades, and all
men with analogous interests and similar destiny. Every
CHARLES WAGNER
2QfJ
one knows, on the contrary, that the bitterest quarrels
are those which arise among similar beings, and that
there is no war worse than civil war. But what hinders
men from living in accord is, before all, pride. Pride
makes man like a hedge hog, which cannot touch any one
without wounding him. Let us spea'k first of the pride of
the great ones.
What displeases me in the rich man who passes in Iris
carriage, is not his equipage, nor his toilette, nor the
number and swiftness of his domestic service. It is his
scorn. That he ha*s a great fortune does not wound me
unless I have a hateful disposition, but that he throws
mud on me, rides over my body, shows in his whole atti¬
tude that I count for nothing in his eyes because I am
not rich like him; that is where I feel the hurt, and with
good reason*. He imposes a suffering upon me, and aftei
all a suffering is quite useless. He insults me and humil¬
iates me gratuitously. It is not what is vulgar in him,
but what there is the noblest in me, which rises in face
of that wounding pride.. Do not accuse me of envy, for
I feel none. It is my dignity as man that is touched.
It is useless to seek far to illustrate one’s impressions.
All men who have seen life have had many experiences
which will justify our words in their eyes. In certain
centers devoted to material interests, pride of wealth dom¬
inates to such a point that men quote each other as they
quote values on the exchange. Esteem is measured ac¬
cording to the contents of the strong-box. Good society
is composed of big fortunes; the middle class, lesser for¬
tunes. Then come the people of little means, and those
of nothing. On all occasions they act upon that principle.
And he who, relatively rich, has shown his disdain for
those less opulent than himself, is watered, in his turn,
with the disdain of his superiors in fortune. Thus the
rage of comparison saps from summit to foundation.
Such a center is as though prepared to order for the cul¬
tivation of the worst sentiments; but it is not the riches,
it is the spirit they put into them that we should accuse.
Some rich men have not that coarse conception — above
all, those who, from father to son, are accustomed to ease.
But they forget that there is a certain delicacy in not
298
CHARLES WAGNER
causing the contrasts to be too marked. Supposing that
there is no harm in the enjoyment of a great superfluity,
is it indispensable to spread out this superfluity, to shock
the eyes of those who have not the necessaries, and to
affix this luxury close to poverty? Good taste and a sort
of modesty will always hinder a portly man from speaking
of his vigorous appetite, his peaceful slumber, of his joy
in living, by the side of some one who is fading away with
consumption. Many rich men lack tact, and sometimes
by that they lack even pity and prudence. Are they not
from then on badly inspired in complaining of the envy
of others, after having done all in their power to pro¬
voke it?
But what they lack most is discernment, when they put
their pride in their fortune, or when they let themselves
drift unconsciously with the seductions of luxury. Firstly,
it is to fall into a puerile confusion to consider riches a
personal quality. One could not mistake, in a fashion
more simple, between the reciprocal value of the envelope
and its contents. I do not wish to bear too heavily on
that question; it is too painful. And, yet, can one hinder
oneself from saying to those interested: “Take care; do
not confound what you possess with what you are. Learn
the seamy side of the splendors of the world, that you
may see the childishness and moral misery of them more
forcibly. Pride in truth lays traps too ridiculous for us.
We must suspect a companion which makes us hateful to
our neighbor and causes us to lose our clearness of
vision.”
Those who deliver themselves up to the pride of wealth
forget another point — and the most important of all —
which is, that to possess is a social function. Without
doubt, individual property is as legitimate as the existence
even of the individual and as his liberty. Those two
things are inseparable, and it is an Utopia, full of dangers,
to attack such elementary bases of all life. But the indi¬
vidual belongs to society with all his fibres, and all he
does should be done in view of the whole. To possess is,
therefore, less of a privilege, which it pleases him to
glorify, than a charge whose gravity he feels. Just as it
requires one to serve an apprenticeship, often difficult, to
CHARLES WAGNER
be able to exercise all the social functions, so does that
function which is called riches exact an apprenticeship.
The greater part of the people, poor or rich, imagine that
in opulence there is nothing to do but to let one’s self live.
That is why so few people know how to be rich. In the
hand of a too great number wealth is, according to a jovial
and redoubtable comparison of Luther’s, like a harp in a
donkey’s hoofs — they have no idea of how to use it.
• ••••••• •
So, when one meets a man, rich and simple at the same
time, that is to say, who considers his riches as a means
of filling his humane mission, we should respectfully salute
him, for he is certainly somebody. He has conquered
obstacles, surmounted trials, and triumphed in the vulgar
or subtile temptations. He does not confound the con¬
tents of his purse with those of his brains or his heart,
and it' is not in figures that he esteems his fellow-men.
His exceptional situation, far from lifting him up, humili¬
ates him, because he really feels all that he lacks to reach
the heights of his duty. He has remained a man, and
that is to say all. He is approachable, willing to help,
and, far from raising with his goods a barrier to separate
him from the rest of men, he makes of them a means of
drawing more near to them. Although the trade of being
rich has been singularly spoiled by so many men, proud
and egotistical, this one succeeds in making himself appre¬
ciated by whoever is not insensible to justice. Every
one, when approaching him and seeing his life, is obliged
to turn to himself and ask: “What would have become
of me under the same circumstances? Should I have that
modesty, that indifference, that probity, which causes one
to act with his own as if it belonged to another?” So
long as there is a world and a human society there will
be those harsh conflicts of interest; so long as envy and
egotism exist on earth, nothing will be more respectable
than riches filled with the spirit of simplicity. It will do
more than to win pardon; it will win love.
• •••••*••«
More malevolent than pride inspired by wealth, is that
inspired by power, and by power I mean here all powers
300
CHARLES WAGNER
which one man may have over another, whether it is great
or little. I see no way of avoiding that there should be
men in the world unequally powerful. All organization
supposes a hierarchy of forces. We can never go beyond
that. But I fear that if the taste for power is very widely
spread, the spirit of power will be lost. By understand¬
ing it badly and by misusing it, those who hold any parcel
of authority almost everywhere end by compromising it.
Power exercises a powerful influence over him who
holds it. It needs a strong hand not to be troubled by it.
This sort of dementia, which claimed the Roman emperors
in the days of their despotic power, is a universal malady,
whose symptoms have existed in all ages. A tyrant sleeps
in every man, and only waits a propitious occasion to
awaken. Now this tyrant is the worst enemy of authority,
because he furnishes us an intolerable caricature of it.
From there come a multitude of social complications, fric¬
tions and hatreds. All men who have said, “ You will do
this because it is my will,” or, better, “ because it is my
good pleasure,” do evil work. There is something in each
of us which invites us to resist personal power, and this
something is very respectable. For at bottom we are
equal, and there is no person who has the right to exact
obedience of me because he is he, and I am I. In this
case, his command abases me, and it is not permitted to
let one’s self be abased.
One must have lived in schools, studios, in the adminis¬
tration of public offices, to have followed closely the rela¬
tions between men and servants; to have stopped a little
everywhere where the supremacy of man is exercised over
man, to have an idea of what those do who practice their
power with arrogance. Of every free soul they make a
soul enslaved, that is to say, a soul in revolt. And it
seems that this terrible anti-social effect is more surely
produced when he who commands is near the condition
of the one who obeys. The most implacable tyrant is the
small tyrant. A foreman in a workshop, or an overseer,
puts more ferocity in his proceedings than the director or
the owner. Such a corporal is harder on his soldiers than
the colonel. In certain houses, where madame has not
much more education than her maid, the relations be-
CHARLES WAGNER
301
tween them are like those between a galley-slave and his
guard. Everywhere woe to whoever falls into the hands
of a subaltern, drunk with his authority.
We forget too much that the first duty of whoever ex¬
ercises power is humility. Grandeur is not the authority.
It is not we who are the law. The law is above all heads.
We interpret it only; but to make it valuable in the eyes
of others we must first be submissive to it ourselves. Com¬
mandment and obedience in human society are, after all,
but two forms of the same virtue, voluntary servitude.
The most of the time we are not obeyed because we have
not obeyed first.
The secret of moral ascendency belongs to those who
command with simplicity. They soften by the mind the
hardness of the fact. Their power is not in gold lace, nor
in the title, nor in disciplinary measures. They do not
require ferule or threats, and yet they obtain everything.
Why ? Because each one feels that is, himself, willing to
do anything. That which confers on one man the right to
ask a sacrifice of another man — his time, his money, his
passions, and even his life — is that not only is he re¬
solved to make all those sacrifices himself, but he has in¬
wardly made them in advance. In the order which is
given by a man animated by this spirit there is, I know
not what power, which is communicated to him who should
obey, and aids him to do his duty.
In all the walks of human activity there are chiefs who
inspire, sustain, electrify their soldiers. Under their direc¬
tion a troop does prodigies. They feel capable with them
of all efforts, ready to go through fire, according to the
popular expression, and with enthusiasm they would
pass through it.
• •• •••••
But there are not only the prides of the great; there are
also the prides of the small ones, that low morgue which
is the worthy pendant of the higher one. The root of these
two prides is identical. The man who says, “ The law is
me,” is not only that arrogant and imperious being who
provokes insurrection by his attitude alone; it is still the
subaltern, whose wooden head will not admit that there is
anything above him.
302
CHARLES WAGNER
There are positively a quantity of people whom all
superiority irritates. For them all advice is an offence;
all criticism an imposture; all orders an attempt on their
liberty. They will not accept any rules; to respect any¬
thing or any one seems to them like mental aberration.
They say in their manner, “ Aside from us there is no
place for any one.”
Of this haughty family are also those who are intracta¬
ble and susceptible to excess; who, in humbler conditions,
never succeed in being contented, and who fulfill their
duties with the airs of victims. At the bottom of these
grieving spirits there is a misplaced self-love. They do
not know how to keep their post simply; and they compli¬
cate their lives, and those of others, by ridiculous exac¬
tions and unjust after-thoughts.
When one takes the pains to study men at close range, •
one is surprised to find that pride has its haunts among
those whom we call humble. Such is the power of this
vice that it' succeeds in forming around the lives of those
who live in the most modest conditions a thick wall, which
isolates them from their neighbors. They are there in¬
trenched, barricaded in their ambitions and disdains, as
unattainable as the powerful ones of the earth behind their
aristocratic prejudices. Obscure or illustrious, pride
drapes itself in its sombre royalty of enmity to the human
kind. It is the same in its misery and its grandeur, pow¬
erless and solitary, distrusting everything and compli¬
cating everything. And we can never repeat enough,
that if there is so much hatred and hostility between the
different classes, it is less to the external fatalities than
to the inward fatality that we owe them. The antago¬
nism of interests and the contrasts of situations dig ditches
between us — no one can deny it — but pride transforms
those ditches into abysses, and in reality it is they only
who cry from one bank to the other, “ There is nothing
in common between you and us<*
00000*90
We have not yet finished with pride, but it is im¬
possible to picture it under all of its forms. I blame it,
above all, when it meddles with knowledge and sterilizes
WILHELM RICHARD WAGNER
30.3
it. We owe knowledge, like riches and power, to our
fellow-beings. It is a social force which should serve —
and it cannot, unless those who know remain in heart near
those who do not know. When knowledge transforms it¬
self into an instrument of ambition, it destroys itself.—•
The Simple Life.
AGNER, Wilhelm Richard, a German
poet and composer; born at Leipsic, May
22, 1813; died at Venice, Italy, February
13, 1883. He was educated at the Dresden Kreuz-
schule and at the Leipsic University. He studied
music under Weinlig; and became chorus-master at
the Wurzburg Theatre in 1833, and conductor at Mag¬
deburg in 1834. Here he produced his opera, Das
Liehesverhot, founded on Shakespeare’s Measure for
Measure. In 1836 he married; and two years later
he became music-director at Riga, Russia. He turned
his attention to the composing of Rienzi, an opera
in five acts, which, after having been refused in Paris,
was brought out at Dresden in 1842. From 1842 to
1849 he was Conductor of the Royal Opera at Dres¬
den. In 1843 Der Fliegende Hollander was composed
and performed; and two years afterward he produced
Tannhduser at Dresden. These works constitute Wag¬
ner’s early operas; and, being based upon the ac¬
cepted forms are held by many to be his best efforts.
A taste for politics now brought him into disgrace,
and he was exiled for complicity in the Dresden revo¬
lutionary movements. He fled to Zurich, where he
produced Lohengrin in 1850. From 1855 to 1863 he
conducted performances in Germany and Russia, and
304
WILHELM RICHARD WAGNER
a series of concerts in London. In 1864 he won the
ear of his famous patron, Ludwig II. of Bavaria, and
thereafter he wanted nothing that the extravagant
wealth of the royal amateur could command. He
now began Der Ring des Nibelungen ; and the first two
parts, Das Rhein gold and Die Walkiire , were given
at Munich in 1869 and 1870, respectively. This instal¬
ment of the great tetralogy, or opera in series, com¬
pleted by the production of the third and fourth parts,
Siegfried and the G otterdammerung, at Bayreuth in
1876, was the fulfilment of much of what Lohengrin
had only been the herald. Two other equally ad¬
vanced works, Tristan tend Isolde (1865) and Die
Meistersinger (1868), had already, however, em¬
bodied the Wagnerian theory of the importance of
dramatic truth as well as of musical beauty. Parsifal,
his last great work, was produced in 1882. In 1870
Wagner married again, this time Coshna von Billow,
nee Liszt, with whom he settled in 1872 at Bayreuth.
Here he built the large opera-house in which, in
1876, in the presentation of the complete Ring des
Nibelungen, his musical theories first found full ex¬
pression. In 1876 he visited London to conduct a
Wagner festival, and in 1883 he paid a visit to Italy,
where he breathed his last. The list of his operas
includes, besides the works already mentioned, Die
Hochzeit (1833), an unpublished fragment, and Die
Feen (1833). He also published numerous songs,
and wrote many articles, libretti and the like, not
contained in his collected writings, or cancelled. It is
by no means only as a musician that Wagner will
be remembered. His many prose writings, which
have been collected in ten volumes, show that he would
have made his mark as a philosophical and polemical
WILHELM RICHARD WAGNER
305
essayist, had not music itself supervened. He was
always his own librettist, and the text of his musical
works has a very considerable poetic value.
Der Fliegende Hollander is the second of Wagner’s
accepted operas; and marks the commencement of the
second period of his work. It is the first work in
which he permits his own personality to dominate sub¬
ject and treatment, and in which he is enabled to
carry out his theory of the necessity of joining dra¬
matic action with poetry and music. In it he has fre¬
quent opportunity for the display of the highest poetic
powers; and, as a recent critic has said, “ combining
grand and powerful descriptiveness with lyrical ten¬
derness and grace, this opera wields a charm few care
to resist. Its interest, as illustrative of Wagner’s
genius, belongs to the past, but as a work of art its
value is abiding and may increae as the necessity for
asserting the true principle upon which dramatic
poetry and music are associated becomes more press¬
ing.” “ With The Flying Dutchman,” says Wagner,
“ I entered upon a new course by becoming the ar¬
tistic interpreter of a subject which was given to me
only in the simple, crude form of a popular tale.
From this time I became, with regard to all my dra¬
matic works, first of all a poet; and only in the ulti¬
mate completion of the poem my faculty as a musician
was restored.”
It was during a fearful storm, while on a voyage to
London, that young Wagner, being driven toward the
Norwegian coast, had caught the legend of the “ Fly¬
ing Dutchman.” “ Here,” he says, “ amid the raging-
storms and conflicting waves, the gray Northern rocks
and the curious life on board a ship, the ancient
legendary figure of the Dutchman gained physiognomy
Vol. XXIII.—20
306 WILHELM RICHARD WAGNER
and color.” Except the idea, taken from Heine, of
giving salvation to the Dutchman bv means of a
woman, Wagner’s Fliegende Hollander tells the old
story of the captain who, for his profanity, was
doomed to beat against head-winds forever.
OVERTURE TO THE FLYING DUTCHMAN.
The Phantom Ship of the Flying Dutchman is driven
on by the fury of the gale. It approaches the shore,
and anchor is cast near the land, where the vessel’s
master hopes to find the promised release from the bur¬
den of his curse. We hear in the orchestra the com¬
passionate and sorrowful strains of the saving promise,
which interpret the idea of the promised deliverance,
and fill the heart as with the pathos of prayer and lam¬
entation. Gloomily, despairingly, the accursed Van der
Decken listens to these strains. Weary of life, yearn¬
ing for death, he paces the strand, while his exhausted
crew silently furl the sails, and make the ship secure for
its brief stay.
How often has the unfortunate captain neared the
land, with his heart full of this same melancholy long¬
ing ! How rfiany times has he directed the prow of his
vessel through storm and wave toward the dwellings of
men, which, once in every seven years, he is permitted
to visit! How often did he imagine that the end of his
woes had come; but, alas! how often, cruelly deceived,
was he again compelled to sail on his endless, hopeless
voyage! To bring about his own destruction, he in¬
vokes against himself the flood and the storm. In vain
he steers his ship into the yawning depths: in vain he
drives it on to the breakers — the storm and the rocks
harm him not. All the terrible dangers of the ocean at
which he laughed in his earlier days of wild and exuberant
love of adventure and daring now mock him, and he is
condemned to sail to all eternity on the ocean desert,
searching for treasures which give him no joy, never
finding that which can release him from his desolate ex¬
istence.
WILHELM RICHARD WAGNER
307
Gayly, joyously, a vessel passes by: he hears the laugh¬
ter and songs of the crew as they sail on toward their
home. He alone cannot share their joy. In his furious
career, as he rushes along on the wings of the storm,
he terrifies the sailors, who flee from him, awe-stricken
and aghast. From the depths of his fearful misery he
cries out aloud for deliverance. A faithful Woman alone
can free him from his accursed thraldom in the terrible
desert of his gloomy existence. Where? — in what land?
— lingers this deliverer? Where is the gentle heart that
shall be touched with the vastness of his suffering?
Where is she who shall not flee from him in terror and
dismay, like the coward sailors who lift up the crucifix at
his approach?
A bright light breaks in upon his night; like a light¬
ning flash it gleams upon his tormented soul, but again
it is suddenly extinguished. Once more it is revealed,
and the poor wanderer keeps the guiding star in sight,
and steers bravely through waves and storms toward
it. That which attracts him so powerfully is the com¬
passionate glance of a Woman, whose noble soul is filled
with pity and divine compassion, and who has given
her heart to him — a heart which has opened its infinite
depths to the awful sorrow of the accursed one, and
will sacrifice itself for his sake — will break in sorrow,
and end, with its own existence, his sufferings. Before
this heavenly appearance the accursed burden falls from
the unhappy man as his ship goes to pieces. The abyss
of ocean swallows the vessel; but, purified and free, he
rises from the waves, led upward by the hand of his
redemptress, and surrounded, as with a halo, by the dawn¬
ing of an imperishable Love.— From Der Fliegende Hol¬
lander.
senta’s song.
Yohohoe ! Yohohoe ! Hohohe !
Saw ye the ship on the raging deep —
Blood-red the canvas, black the mast?
On board unceasing watch doth keep
The vessel’s master, pale and ghast!
Hui! How roars the wind! Yohohoe !
308
WILHELM RICHARD WAGNER
Hui! How bends the mast! Yohohoe!
Hui! Like an arrow she flies,
Without aim, without goal, without rest!
Yet can the weary man be released from the curse in¬
fernal,
Finds he on earth a woman who’ll pledge him her love
eternal.
Ah, where canst thou, weary seaman, but find her?
Oh, pray to Heaven that she,
Unto death, faithful may be !
Once round the cape he wished to sail
’Gainst ’trary winds and raging sea;
He swore: “ Though hell itself prevail,
I’ll sail on till eternity ! ”
Hui! This Satan heard ! Yohohoe !
Hui ! Took him at his word ! Yohohoe!
Hui! And accursed he now sails.
Through the sea without aim, without rest!
But, that the weary man be freed from the curse infernal,
Heaven send him an angel to win him glory eternal!
Oh, couldst thou, weary seaman, but find her!
Oh, pray that Heaven may soon,
In pity, grant him this boon!
At anchor every seventh year,
A wife to woo, he wanders round;
Fie woo’d each seventh year, but ne’er
A faithful woman hath he found !
Hui! The sails are set! Yohohoe!
Hui! The anchor’s weighed ! Yohohoe l
Hui! False the love! False the troth!
" Where lingers still the Angel of Love from Heaven
descended?
Oh, where is she who faithful will be till his sad life be
ended? ”
Thou shalt be free; yea, through my heart’s devotion!
Oh, that God’s angel guidance gave him!
Here he shall find my love to save him!
— From Der Fliegende Hollander; translation of
John P. Jackson.
WILHELM RICHARD WAGNER
309
HISTORY OF “ PARSIFAL.”
Parsifal, called by its composer a sacred music-drama,
was the last of the long series of operatic works which
were the fruit of one of the great musical and dramatic
geniuses of the last century. It was performed first in
the Festspielhaus in Bayreuth on July 26, 1882, forty
years, lacking three months, after the production of
Rienzi in Dresden, forty years of unending labor and
tumultuous strife, of starvation and plenty, of great dis¬
appointments and great rewards. It is the work of an
old man who' is weary, but whose indomitable courage
will not allow him to give up.
The history of Parsifal is typical of Wagner’s method
of work. The germ of the drama was in his mind years
before he put pen to paper. As far back as 1857, while
living in Zurich, he made a sketch of the Good Friday
music. His final work was really the outcome of two
other dramas he had meditated. In 1848 he sketched a
tragedy which was to- be called Jesus of Nazareth. In
this he made Jesus a very human preacher and philoso¬
pher, who is tempted by Mary of Magdala. He realized,
however, that the world was not ready for the stage pre¬
sentation of the Saviour and he abandoned this work for
another, a Buddhistic drama, which, planned eight years
later, was to be called The Victors. In this Ananda and
Pakriti were to be the lovers who gained redemption by
renunciation.
Nothing came of this, and the next fifteen years he
worked on his Nihelungen dramas, his Tristan and Meis-
tersinger, and it was not until after the Ring was finished
and produced that he started seriously on Parsifal.
An omnivorous reader, he had become acquainted with
the Parzival of Wolfram von Eschenbach, a German
translation of Li Conte del Graal of Chretien ae Troyes,
the Der jungere Titurel of Albert von Scharffenburg, and
several other medieval poems of similar character. In
the Legend of the Floly Grail he found a theme which
later appealed peculiarly to him in its possibilities as a
vehicle for music, for stagecraft, and for the philosophic
3io
WILHELM RICHARD WAGNER
ideas which he then entertained. He saw the opportunity
to develop in it the idea of redemption by love and pity,
the motive of his Jesus of Nazareth side by side with the
ideas of renunciation and asceticism which were to have
been in his Buddhistic drama. In February of 1877 he
had finished the poem, and before the end of the year
had begun the music. At Christmas, 1878, the Meiningen
Court Orchestra played the Prelude at Wahnfried. The
piano rehearsals began in August, 1881, and the score
was finished the following January in Palermo. The
first performance took place on July 26. Winkelman was
Parsifal; Reichmann, Amfortas; Kindermann, Tituriel;
Hill, Klingsor; Scaria, Gurnemanz; and Materna, Kundry.
In the following February, the 13th, Wagner died in
Venice.
The subject Wagner used for his music-drama, the
Quest of the Holy Grail, was the most popular of all the
legends the middle ages have bequeathed to us. Fie first
became acquainted with it in his studies for Lohengrin,
and when one considers the nature of the man, it seems
inevitable that sooner or later he must have taken it for
a drama. Intensely romantic, legendary, full of the rich
imagination of the fertile medieval mind, it contained all
the elements necessary to Wagner’s scheme of music-
drama, and, as noted above, could easily be made to serve
as a vehicle for his philosophic ideas.
The beginnings of the legend are lost in the mists of
antiquity. The story in its main features is a develop¬
ment of the most ancient myths of the Indo-European
race, being one of the beautiful branches which have
grown from the hoary tree of primitive religio.us belief.
Even in its literary form it is difficult to trace it back of
the twelfth century, when, like an Athene, it sprang full
grown from the spirit of the age. There is no more
fascinating subject than the wonderful burst of literary
work which came almost simultaneously to all western
Europe in the last half of the twelfth century and the
first quarter of the thirteenth. It was, as it were, the
most gracious and beautiful result of the crusades which
had opened the eyes of the rude westerners to the opu-
WILHELM RICHARD WAGNER
3 11
lence and beauty of the Orient, its music, its poetry, and
its art.
Our direct heritage from this fruitful period is the
Arthurian cycle of legends, which have exerted constant¬
ly so enormous an influence on our literature. In Eng¬
land, France, Spain, Italy, Germany, Holland, Denmark,
and even in distant Iceland, Arthur and the heroes of
his Table-Round were sung by the minstrels and poets.
The older heroes, Charlemagne and his peers, Theodoric,
Attila, Siegfried, Hector, and Alexander, disappeared be¬
fore the onrush of the Celtic Knights. Arthur, from
an obscure British chieftain, whose memory was pre¬
served by the bards of Wales, Cornwall, and Brittany,
became a world-hero, a type-man, the model of all chiv¬
alry. His knights grew correspondingly in stature and
all the myths of the past, pagan and Christian, were clus¬
tered about them, and the poets strove their best to
give them more adventures of chivalry and honor.
Out of this inchoate mass of literature there emerges
one great theme which in both of its developments must
be taken as the true mirror of medieval life, customs, and
habits of thought, the Quest of the Holy Grail. Beside
it all the others, Tristan and Iseult, Lancelot, Merlin,
and the Arthurian saga themselves, take a subordinate
place. It not only mirrors for us chivalry at its highest
development, but has been made to embody the loftiest
religious ideals of the time.
Like several of the other great themes, the only forms
in which we have if show high development. With the
exception of a late Welsh manuscript which contains the
story of “ Peredur ” there is practically nothing to show
the early growth of the legend. There are authorities
who dispute the primitiveness of Peredur, although it is
altogether pagan in tone. As the idea that the legend
was invented by a single poet and copied and enlarged
by others has long since been abandoned, it must neces¬
sarily be that the legend, at least that which has to
do with the Quest, existed in some literary form, prob¬
ably short poems or “ lais,” long before the great poets
took it up.
The legend in one of its forms is composed of two
312
WILHELM RICHARD WAGNER
distinct parts of different origin. One has to do with
the bringing of the Grail, or the dish in which the blood
from Christ’s wounds fell, from Jerusalem to England
by Joseph of Arimathea. The other is the Quest proper.
Moreover, the legend as we have it has two distinct mo¬
tives. The first may be called the knightly, or chivalric
motive, the other, the monkish, or ascetic motive. To
the first belong the two great poems of medieval litera¬
ture, the unfinished Conte del Graal of Chretien de Troyes
and the Parzival of Wolfram von Eschenbach. To the
other belong the poems of Robert de Boron, one of the
earliest writers, and the bulky prose romances the
Grand Saint Graal and the Queste del Saint Graal, the
latter attributed to Walter Map, archdeacon of Oxford.
It should be noted that only in the second class do we
find the Grail represented as the holy dish brought from
Palestine by Joseph. Wagner, however, has incorporated
into his work this conception, while for the rest he has
leaned chiefly on Wolfram.
The version of the legend in this second class is that
found in Malory and in Tennyson. The Grail is the
dish in which was preserved the blood of the Lord.
Sometimes it is, as well, the Chalice from which Christ
drank at the last supper. It has wonderful magic quali¬
ties. It can sustain life and give forth prophecies. For
forty-two years it sustained Joseph in prison. At the
end of that time he brings it to England and bequeaths
it to his descendants. One of them sins, and great evils
fall on him and on the country. The sole cure is a
pure knight who shall come to the magic castle and ask
the rich Fisher King (for such he is called) about the
holy dish. Then shall end the “ enchantments of Brit¬
ain.” In the earlier versions of this particular form of
the legend the chosen hero is Perceval, who starts out on
the quest and finally succeeds. But later, when the
legend has been the more thoroughly identified with Ar¬
thur’s court, the chief hero is Galahad, son of Lancelot,
who starts out as his aid. This substitution of Galahad
for Perceval is one of the legend’s most' interesting fea¬
tures, and authorities are not yet unanimous as to its
cause. The most plausible theory is that in the earlier
WILHELM RICHARD WAGNER
3i3
forms of the legend, chastity was not a requirement in
the hero, and Perceval, the best of knights, none the
less lived the life of his time. Gradually, as the ascetic
and monkish ideals crept into the story and made wo¬
man the root of all evil, it became necessary, if the
hero was to be a virgin, that a new one be created.
Lancelot had suddenly come from obscurity to highest
popularity, but he was the lover of Guenivere. Con¬
sequently, Map, or whoever wrote the Queste del Saint
Graal, gave him a son and called him Galahad. To
him fell the successful quest of the Grail, and he de¬
parted with it. Perceval was permitted to gaze on it,
and died a holy hermit.
On the other hand, in Chretien and Wolfram, while
the story in outline is similar, its spirit is very different.
Chretien, as far as he goes, tells a story of knightly ad¬
venture. Perceval has been brought up in the forest by
his mother, who fears lest he become a knight and die in
battle, as his father did. While still a youth, he meets
a party of knights whom he takes for supernatural be¬
ings. He follows them to Carlisle, where King Arthur
has his court. Pie is insulted by Kay, the seneschal,
fights him and gets the armor he desires. An old knight,
Gonemans de Gelhert, instructs him in the usages of
chivalry, one of which is to ask no questions. Then be¬
gins the story of his Grail adventures. He comes to a
river on which is a skiff containing a fisherman. Asking
for shelter, he is directed to a nearby castle. In the hall
is a hearth large enough to contain four hundred men,
and before the fire lies a feeble old man, who turns out
to be the fisherman he had met at the river. At meal
time there enters a youth who carries a bleeding lance,
two more who carry branched candlesticks all aflame,
then a maiden who brings in a wonderful jewelled dish
(the Graal), from which food is served to all present.
The youth would ask the meaning of all this, but remem¬
bering Gonemans’s counsel refrains. The next morning
the castle is all silent. He leaves it, then tries to return;
but the drawbridge is up and no one answers his call.
He departs and comes across a maiden weeping on the
headless body of a man. She tells him that he has been
WILHELM RICHARD WAGNER
with the fisher king, so-called because fishing is his sole
amusement. He has been wounded in battle and cannot
be healed until a good knight asks about the spear, the
candlesticks and the graal.
After many adventures he returns to Arthur’s court,
and while there a Loathly Damsel, riding a mule, comes
to him and reproaches him bitterly for not having tried
to find the Grail Castle and relieve the king of his suf¬
ferings. Stricken with remorse, he starts out on his
quest. For five years he wanders. One Good Friday he
meets a hermit, confesses his sins (including his forget¬
fulness of the day, for a party of knights and ladies had
reminded him of it), and then he learns of the death of
his mother for sorrow of him, and is again reproached
for not having found the castle of the fisher king. He
learns of a hermit in the castle, his uncle and the fisher
king’s father, who is supported by the sacred dish.
Chastened in spirit, he starts out again to find the castle.
Here Chretien ends, so far as Perceval is concerned.
His various continuators finish the tale, and in some of
them may be found the monkish spirit of the other group
of legends. But the fact chiefly to be noted here is that
Chretien so far as he went gave practically no evidence
of the sacred attributes of the spear and the dish. They
were for him merely magic talismans.
Wolfram von Eschenbach is Germany’s greatest medie¬
val poet. A knight as well as a minstrel, he was born
not later than 1170, and wrote (or dictated) his Parzival,
a poem of 25,000 lines, about the beginning of the next
century, or twenty-five years after Chretien wrote his
Li Conte del Graal. About his debt to the French poet
a long controversy has been waged. He himself speaks
only with scorn of Chretien, asserting that the French¬
man distorted the legend. He himself, he says, got the
story from one Kiot of Provence, who in turn had found
it in an Arabic black letter manuscript in Toledo, and
had learned from it that Flegetanis, a heathen who was
born before Christ, had predicted the coming of a Grail
whose “ saver ” would be blest beyond all men. Kiot
wrote for the glory of the House of Anjou, but said noth-
WILHELM RICHARD WAGNER
315
ing of Parzival, and this Wolfram undertakes to cor¬
rect.
The poem is about equally divided between the adven¬
tures of Parzival and Gawain. Some of the latter’s ad¬
ventures which have no bearing on the Grail have been
taken by Wagner. Notably Klingsor’s magic castle with
its seductive women. In Wolfram the Grail is not even
the jeweled dish of Chretien. It is a jewel which was
struck from the crown of Lucifer by the archangel Mi¬
chael. It fell to earth and became the Grail, in the keep¬
ing of a companionship of knights called “ Templeisen.”
Except at the beginning, Wolfram’s story follows Chre¬
tien’s very closely. Perzival is the son of Gamuret and
Herzeleide. Plis father is killed while serving in the
army of the Caliph of Bagdad. Herzeleide takes her son
into the wilderness to bring him up in ignorance of men
and arms. Like Chretien’s Perceval, he is attracted to
King Arthur’s court, slays a knight, and receives instruc¬
tion from an old man, Gurnemanz — Chretien’s Gone-
mans. He aids a besieged city and marries Konduira-
mour, its beautiful queen. Then, like Perceval, he comes
to the castle of the fisher king, here Anfortas, and Wolf¬
ram gives a most vivid description of the procession and
feast and of Repanse de Schoie, who carries the Grail.
Anfortas, too, is a sufferer, and Parzival neglects to' ask
the magic questions. Like Perceval, he leaves a silent,
deserted castle, and after numerous adventures returns
to the court of Arthur, whither comes Kondrie, the sor¬
ceress, the Loathly Damsel of Chretien, who fiercely re¬
proaches him for not asking the questions at Monsal-
vasch, the Grail Castle. He vows never to sleep under
roof or to return to his wife until he has performed the
quest. After many adventures, on a Good Friday he
finds a hermit who tells him the story of the Grail and
how Anfortas, it's guardian, yielding to lust, received in
combat the wound from a poisoned lance which cannot
heal until a knight comes and of his own accord asks
about the king’s sufferings. Then will Anfortas be re¬
leased. The knight will reign in his stead and his com¬
panions will go to distant lands to right wrongs.
Parzival departs again and after many adventures
3i6
WILHELM RICHARD WAGNER
reaches the Grail Castle and asks the questions which
release Anfortas from his misery. He becomes the head
of the company, his wife joins him, bringing her two sons,
one of whom is Lohengrin, who shall rescue the inquisi¬
tive Elsa of Brabant, and, later, reign in Parzival’s
stead.
Of Gawain’s adventures, mention must be made of his
rescue of the imprisoned ladies from the castle of the
magician Klingsor, the Chateau Merveil, of his adventures
with the Lady Orgeluse, for Wagner has made use of
both of them.
This brings us to consider briefly the sources of the
legend. Within recent years most authorities have iden¬
tified the Quest with what is known in Celtic literature as
The Great Fool Tale. It is still told in the highlands of
Scotland, and variants are found in all branches of the
Aryan family of races. To one general class belong the
Siegfried legends of Scandinavia and Germany, the Per¬
seus legends of Greece, the Romulus legends of Rome,
the Cuchullin legends of Ireland, and the Perceval legends
of the Celts, or rather Kymry. Von Halm has found
fourteen stories which he groups under the general head
of the Aryan Expulsion and Return Formula, and many
variants have since been added. The Great Fool Tale,
of which the Quest is a direct descendant, is typical of
the class. A simple youth, brought up by his mother in
the wilderness, starts out to avenge his father’s murder,
and regain his inheritance, which he ultimately succeeds
in doing by means of a magic caldron. The old poets
tell us that “ Graal ” is a derivation of “ agreer,” that
which is pleasing. Later it' was thought that “ san-gral ”
was a corruption of “ sang real,” “ blood royal,” but it is
generally connected now with the Provenqal word “ gral,”
still used and meaning a dish. The grail is undoubtedly
the magic restorative vessel found in all folklore. It is
a companion to Almalthea’s horn of plenty, the basket of
Gwyddno, and caldron of Diwrnach in the Welsh Mab-
inogian tales, the magic caldron of Bran in Welsh tales,
the gold of the Nibelungs in the Norse saga. It is even
related to Aladdin’s lamp. As for the bleeding spear,
identified by some of the old writers with the spear of
WILHELM RICHARD WAGNER
3i 7
Longinus, who pierced with it the Saviour’s side, it
abounds in earliest Celtic lore, and Celtic authorities like
Alfred Nutt assert it is but a survival of the Welsh bardic
symbol of undying hatred of the Saxons.
Of the early history of the Grail there is less certainty.
Undoubtedly the false Gospel of Nicodemus, which was
very popular in the eleventh and twelfth centuries, had
a great influence. But here, too, the Celtic scholars are
claiming all for their own, Rhys asserting that the voyage
of Joseph of Arimathea is nothing but a Christianized
version of the Voyage of Bran, in Irish folklore. In a
similar way all the symbols and most of the incidents
used by Wagner in his drama are but reflections of old
world beliefs that have come to us in the folk tale.
However harshly Wagner may be criticized for the
dramatic defects of his Parsifal, it still remains a monu¬
mental achievement worthy to stand beside his huge trage¬
dy of the Nibelungs and his beautiful version of Tristan
and Iseult. To have taken these huge poems of the mid¬
dle ages, to have reduced them to their essence, to have
combined different parts of them, welding them together
with inventions of his own, and thus to have produced a
poem which contained the real spirit of medievalism while
yet surcharged with modern motives and thought, can
be regarded only as a work of a master mind. Failure
to agree with Wagner’s philosophy and beliefs, and in¬
clination to dwell on small slips in construction, cannot
diminish the glory of the achievement. It is as true of
Parsifal as it is of Der Ring des Nibelungen and Tristan
und Isolde.
In his drama Wagner employs six personages, Parsifal,
Amfortas, the king of the Grail Castle; Gurnemanz,
Klingsor, the magician, and Kundry. In addition to these
are unnamed knights, the Grail bearer and the Flower
maidens. The story is, in brief, as follows:
On a lofty mountain in the Pyrenees of Spain is the
castle of Montsalvat (Mont Sauvage), where, in the
keeping of King Amfortas and his company of knights,
is the Holy Grail, the Cup from which the Saviour drank
at the Last Supper, and the spear with which His side
was pierced by Longinus. In a near valley lies the Castle
3i8
WILHELM RICHARD WAGNER
of Klingsor, the magician, who is eternally at war with
the knights of the Grail. Once he had tried to become
a member of the order, and failing he vowed its destruc¬
tion and the possession of the sacred cup. By means of
seductive damsels he had from time to time lured to de¬
struction members of the companionship, and even the
king himself. Amfortas had fallen victim to the wales of
a siren, had sinned, and had lost his sacred spear. In
the vain struggle to rescue it he had been wounded by it
in the side and could not be cured except by a “ pure
fool,” moved by pity and made wise by fellow-suffering.
Each day must he preside over the ceremony of bringing
out the Grail, for it furnished food and drink to his com¬
panions and kept life in the body of his ancient father,
Titurel. Yet the unceiling of the sacred vessel increased
his suffering be}^ond endurance.
As Gurnemanz, the old knight, and some companions,
are waiting one morning in a glade of the forest for
Amfortas and his train to go to the lake, a wild, fantastic
creature, Kundry, appears with a balsam she has brought
for the king from Arabia. Then a swan falls pierced by
an arrow and there appears an uncouth youth who an¬
swers Gurnemanz’s reproach with boastful pride at the
accuracy of his aim. Questioned by Gurnemanz, he knows
not his father, his mother, or his name, yet after a little
confesses he remembers his mother and her goodness
and how he was lured away from her by the sight of
knights in armor and by the hope of becoming one of
them. Kundry tells him that his mother is dead and he
springs at her in wild rage. He is restrained by Gur¬
nemanz, who, thinking he may be the pure fool, takes
him to the castle for the unveiling of the Grail. Stupid
and dumb, the boy remains silent through the whole
ceremony and is finally turned away by Gurnemanz with
the words,
“ Leave all our sorrows for the future alone,
And seek thyself, gander, a goose.”
The second act discloses a tower in Klingsor’s Castle.
The magician is there waiting the coming of Parsifal,
WILHELM RICHARD WAGNER
319
whom he would have seduced. For this purpose he
summons Kundry, a woman who when herself is a
worker for good, but under his spell is an irresistible
enchantress, his slave because she is not pure, the cause
of Amfortas’s downfall and the one who will attempt
Parsifal’s seduction. Parsifal approaches the magician’s
garden, overthrows the knights on guard, repulses the
girls who would woo him, and comes into the presence
of Kundry, now a woman of supernatural beauty. She
would woo him by sympathy, by the recital of his moth¬
er’s, Herzeleide’s, sorrows brought on by him, and of her
death. She bids him learn what love is and presses a
long and passionate kiss on his lips. The kiss is his
awakening. He understands Amfortas’s temptation and
fall. The physical agony of the king becomes his men¬
tal anguish. He repulses Kundry, who summons Kling-
sor. The magician hurls the sacred spear at the boy,
but it hovers in mid-air over his head. He seizes it,
makes the sign of the cross and the castle and all its
inmates disappear in ruins.
Years, pass. Amfortas, unable longer to endure the
agony, refuses to unveil the Grail. The companions
wither and Titurel is dead. Gurnemanz, now old and
feeble, is a hermit. To him on a Good Friday morning
comes Kundry, sad and penitent, asking only to be a
servitor. Later comes Parsifal, clad in black armor,
carrying the sacred spear. Pie is searching for the Grail
Castle. Making himself known to Gurnemanz, he is
greeted as the saver. Kundry bathes his feet and anoints
his head and the three set off for the castle where the
obsequies of Titurel are about to be held. With the
spear-point he touches the wound of Amfortas and heals
it. He uncovers the Grail, of which he is now king and
keeper. Gurnemanz and Amfortas kneel before it and
Kundry, absolved of all her sins, sinks, dying, to the
floor.
The bald synopsis of the drama, taken in connection
with the synopsis of Chretien’s and Wolfram’s poems,
and the other versions of the legend, is sufficient to show
how freely Wagner took from all of them and adapted
incidents to his own end. Fully to appreciate this it
320
WILHELM RICHARD WAGNER
will be necessary to look at the characters and incidents
a little more in detail. He has changed Wolfram’s Par¬
zival to Parsifal, because a German scholar named Gor-
res derived the name from the Arabic “ Fal,” meaning
“foolish,” and “ parsi,” meaning “pure one.” Very
pretty, but altogether unacceptable. Whether or not he
knew it was wrong it suited Wagner’s purpose and he
adopted it. His conception of the character leans more
strongly toward the Boron-Map romances, since he em¬
phasizes the importance of his hero’s chastity. His idea
of the Grail being the Chalice of the Last Supper comes
also from that set of romances, and the identification of
the spear with that of Longinus he got from an intro¬
duction to Chretien’s poem, written by a later poet.
Amfortas is, of course, the Anfortas of Wolfram, and
for dramatic purposes he has changed the manner in
which the king was wounded. Titurel occupies much the
same position as his namesake in Wolfram and the un¬
named old king in Chretien. Gurnemanz in the first act
is the Gurnemanz of Wolfram, the government of Chre¬
tien, and in the last act is the old hermit in Wolfram
and Chretien, who shrives the knight on Good Friday.
In Klingsor Wagner has made many changes. In Wolf¬
ram the magician has nothing to do with Parzival. It
is Gawain who goes to his castle and releases the im¬
prisoned ladies, the Chateau Merveil which Wagner trans¬
formed into his magic castle. Likewise does he change
the cause of the magician’s mutilation.
But by far the most interesting of all is Kundry. De¬
rivatively she is the Kondrie of Wolfram, who reproaches
Parzival for his neglect to ask the questions, and tells
him of his mother, and the Lady Orgeluse who leads
Gawain into all kinds of adventures. In the drama,
however, she is a “ type-woman.” She is Herodias, and
because she laughed at Christ as he staggered up Cal¬
vary under the burden of the cross, she is doomed to
wander over the earth, condemned to endless laughter.
She is Gundryggia, a ruthless Valkyr of the Edda. She
is Mary Magdalen and Pakriti. Her prototypes are
found in all folk-lore under many forms, and she is the
essence of them all. Herself, she would work for good.
WILHELM RICHARD WAGNER 321
She scorns the earth to find a balm for the wounded king.
Under Klingsor’s spell she is the most dangerous and
most seductive of enchantresses. She is finally redeemed
by the divine pity of the hero.
As with the characters, so with the incidents. Wag¬
ner has taken them from all sources and moulded them
to suit his purpose. In the sense of modern revival of
an ancient legend, in the sense even as a drama pure and
simple, the work is an extraordinary tour de force.
In view of the controversy concerning the “ sacred¬
ness ” of the drama, it is worth while to quote from the
Parsifal and Wagner’s Christianity of David Irvine, the
extremest of Wagner worshippers. Says he: “Parsifal
is not Christ and the Grail precincts are not heaven; but
if the drama is the portrayal of a community lapsed from
a blessed condition on account of the sin of its authorita¬
tive source — namely, its king — and the temptation of
the chosen one who can restore the needed purity to this
source in his own person, the music reveals a more ideal
standpoint, and brings us into closer communion with
the spiritual world.” One more quotation, this from
Ernest Newman’s Study of Wagner: “ The work is a
veritable tour de force. To take these shadowy charac¬
ters and give them dramatic life, to set before us the
half-metaphysical poem of sin and redemption, with its
current of ethical psychology so remote from that many
of us, and yet to hold us as we are held perhaps no other
work of Wagner’s, to make us feel that Parsifal is in
many ways the most wonderful and impressive thing ever
done in music — this is surely genius of the highest and
rarest kind. . . . Altogether, just as Tristan and the
Ring are the dramatic embodiments of Wagner’s social
and ethical theories of earlier years, so Parsifal is the
dramatic embodiment of his latest theories of sin and
pity and redemption, the last fruit from an old tree.”
In this last sentence is to be found the key to the
whole mastery of the drama. All of Wagner’s works (it
is partly a source of their strength) are but reflections
of his convictions, philosophic, ethical, and social, at the
time he wrote them. Each one, even Rienzi, had its
purpose. Parsifal is but the reflection of Wagner wholly
Vol. XXIII.—21
322
WILHELM RICHARD WAGNER
possessed by Schopenhauer, of Wagner the foe of vivi¬
section, of Wagner the vegetarian, of Wagner whose
great creed then was “ enlightenment by pity, and re¬
demption through that enlightenment.” It is a vague,
misty, impalpable belief for most of us, but so filled with
it is he, so forcibly does he impress on us his convictions,
that while we are spectators of the work he convinces
us. The drama is symbolical of the agonies wrought
by the conscience of a sinner; of his redemption by the
pity of a pure one who through temptation withstood
understands such suffering. It is a plea for mental and
physical chastity, a depiction of the beauty of the renun¬
ciation of sensuality and the worthiness of repentance,
all these in the medieval, outworn monkish sense, to be
summed up in the one word “ asceticism.” In a sense
it is religious because its teachings are moral, like those
of the Ring, whether one agrees with them or not. In
another sense — in the commonly accepted meaning of
the word — it is not religious, for it does not deal with
things that are holy. It is a wonderful embodiment of a
beautiful legend, as the Ring is, and as Tristan is, and
it is nothing more.
It is impossible to say much of the music of Parsifal ,
which after all is the most important part- of the work.
No amount of analysis will convey its meaning and beauty
to the reader; nor would a column of themes and mo¬
tives hacked out of the score. The music represents the
highest point of Wagner’s development both in the per¬
fection of his system, and in the richness and variety
of his harmonic effects. Melodically, it marks his de¬
cadence. It is the work of an old and sick man whose
fount of inspiration is running dry. Yet there are pages
in the score of wondrous beauty, beauty which is now
uplifting and soaring, now reeking with sensuality. The
solemnity and dignity of the first act changes in the sec¬
ond to rich, glowing strains that give us the sensuality
of Tristan and the wickedness of the Venusberg. And
then again in the third act comes the peaceful joy of
Good Friday, and finally the exalted fervor of the closing
scene.
One does not find in Parsifal the melodic spontaneity
NANCY AMELIA WOODBURY WAKEFIELD 323
which characterizes the Ring, the wonderful and vivid
appropriateness of each theme which when heard con¬
vinces one that no other could be used to express the
same idea or emotion. Nor does one find the liquid
melody of Tristan and the Meistersinger. Yet the spell
woven by the Parsifal music is of subtle and great power,
as great in it's way as those of the earlier works.
Books in vast numbers exist which will guide one
through the labyrinth of motives and themes. Yet it is
to the score one should go for study, and then at the
performance, with a pair of attentive ears, one may
learn for himself its manifold and significant beauties.
And when it is finished, he will be willing to say of
Parsifal what Newman says of the man himself: “ The
muse of Poetry seems to have dipped her wings into the
lucid stream of music, disturbing it with suggestions of a
world it had never reflected before, deepening its beauty
by closer association with the actual world of men. This
was the brain of Wagner. There is none like him, none;
it is almost safe to say that there will be none like him
to the end of time.”
AKEFIELD, Nancy Amelia Woodbury
Priest, an American poet; born at Royal-
ton, Mass., in 1836; died at Winchendon,
Mass., in 1870. Her maiden name was Priest, and in
1865 she was married to Lieutenant Arlington C.
Wakefield. Her fame rests upon the popular poem,
Over the River, published in the Springfield Repub¬
lican in 1857. Her poems were published in 1871 by
her mother, Mrs. Francis D. Priest, with a Memoir
by the Rev. Abijah P. Marvin.
324 NANCY AMELIA WOODBURY WAKEFIELD
OVER THE RIVER.
Over the river they beckon to me —
Lov'd ones who’ve crossed to the further side;
The gleam of their snowy robes I see
But their voices are lost in the dashing tide.
There’s one with ringlets of sunny gold,
And eyes the reflection of heaven’s own blue;
He crossed in the twilight, gray and cold,
And the pale mist hid him from mortal view.
We saw not the angels that met him there,
The gate of the city we could not see,
Over the river — over the river,
My brother stands waiting to welcome me.
Over the river the boatman pale
Carried another — the household pet,
Her brown curls wav’d in the gentle gale —
Darling Minnie, I see her yet.
She crossed on her bosom her dimpled hands,
And fearlessly entered the phantom bark.
We felt it glide from the silver sands
And all of our sunshine grew strangely dark.
We know she is safe on the further side
Where all the ransomed angels be;
Over the river — the mystic river —
My childhood’s idol is waiting for me.
For none return from those quiet shores
Who cross with the boatman cold and pale;
We hear the dip of the golden oars,
And catch a gleam of the snowy sail.
And lo ! they have pass’d from our yearning hearts,
They cross the stream and are gone for aye,
We may not sunder the veil apart
That hides from our vision the gates of day;
We only know that their barks no more
May sail with us o’er life’s stormy sea,
Tet somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore
They watch and beckon and wait for me.
EDWARD LEWIS WAKEMAN
325
And I sit and think, when the sunset’s gold
Is flushing river and hill and shore,
I shall one day stand by the water cold
And list for the sound of the boatman’s oar;
I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail,
I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand;
I shall pass from sight with the boatman pale
To the better shore of the spirit-land;
I shall know the loved who have gone before,
And joyfully sweet will the meeting be
When over the river — the peaceful river —
The angel of death shall carry me.
AKEMAN, Edward Lewis, an American
traveler and poet; born near Harvard, Ill.,
August 23, 1848. In 1879 he founded The
Current at Chicago, Ill., and later traveled around the
world writing letters for leading American news¬
papers. He became widely known as the successor
of Bayard Taylor. He wanders about on foot and
alone and paints with so true a hand that to read
after him is to travel beside him and see and feel the
splendor and sadness of old-world life in marvelous
comprehensiveness. He is the highest living author¬
ity upon the gypsies. His studies of and companion¬
ship with the people of this strange and mysterious
race actually cover a period of over thirty years.
There are few fragmentary poems which equal his
Angelas.
THE ANGELUS.
The purple curtains of the West
Have almost hid the sunset’s fire,
Which, flaming Venice-ward, a crest,
326
EDWARD LEWIS WAKEMAN
Lights softly dome and cross and spire.
Deep lie the shadows in lagoons
Far as Chioggia’s sails and reeds;
The air with landward perfume swoons,
My oarsman bows and counts his beads.
Our craft rides silent on the stream;
And, floating thus, I idly dream.
And dream? Ah, fair queen of the sea,
Not all thy witchings can enthrall
And fold the wings of memory !
A thousand leagues one tone can call,
A thousand leagues one picture bring
In fadeless form and scene to me;
And though thy Angelus thrillful ring
Out o’er the Adriatic Sea,
I hear through all its rythmics rung
Those good old songs my mother sung!
O Angelus-hour to heart and soul,
O Angelus-hour of peace and calm,
When o’er the farm the evening stole,
Enfolding all in summer balm !
Without, the scents of fields — the musk
Of hedge, of corn, of winrowed hay —
The subtle attars of the dusk;
And glow-worms like some milky way;
Within as from an angel’s tongue,
Those dear old songs my mother sung:
“ From every stormy wind that blows;”
“Softly now the light of day;”
“ Thou hidden source of calm repose; ”
“I love to steal awhile away;”
“ My days are gliding swiftly by; ”
“ Depths of mercy there can be; ”
“ Jesus look with pitying eye; ”
“ Rock of ages cleft for me; ”
“ Savior, on me thy grace bestow; ”
“ Praise God from whom all blessings flow! ”
EDWARD LEWIS WAKEMAN
327
“Angelas Domini nuntiavit Marice!”
Sweet were the echoes that fell on my ear;
“Angelas Domini nuntiavit Marice!”
I worshiped betimes with my swarthy gondolier.
Three poems, Auf Wiederschen; Becalmed and In
Port, written by Wakeman during a voyage to Cuba;
the first, as the shores of his native land were disap¬
pearing, can never fade from American literature.
Here is
AUF WIEDERSEHEN.
The sun sweeps down behind the hills
As if the tired world scorning;
Worn Labor sighs and counts its ills
Increased, despite all hopes and wills,
While Night’s dread pall enfolds and chills;
But, ah, beyond those dark’ning hills
Remember it is morning.
The land fades quickly out of sight,
A thread of purple graven
Upon the bosom of the night,
And boundless waters in their might
Oppose and mock our good ships’ flight;
But far, oh, far beyond our sight
There smiles a waiting heaven.
O hearts hope on ! — the sun may hide,
Lands fade; but falter never.
The morning comes whate’er betide;
The haven waits though wild the tide;
Labor and Love at last shall glide
Safe to their Soul’s-rest, there to bide
In sweet-won peace forever.
My land is lost behind the sea —
O aching heart and burning!
God knows my soul was wrapt in thee;
No more wert thou, in all, to me,
328
LUCY BETHIA WALFORD
Than I would to thy future be,
And shall be ! — if the mighty sea
Give safe and sure returning.
[ALFORD, Lucy Bethia Colquhoun, an
English novelist; born at Portobello, April
17, 1845. *873 her first novel, Mr. Smith,
a Part of his Life, was sent anonymously to John
Blackwood, who published it immediately, and soon
requested its author to write for Blackwood’s Maga¬
zine. Her short stories, first published in the maga¬
zine, were subsequently issued collectively, under the
title Nan: a Summer Scene. Most of her novels have
first appeared serially in Blackwood’s; Good Words,
and other periodicals. Among them are Pauline
(1877); Cousins (1879); Troublesome Daughters
(1880); Dick Netherby (1881); The Baby’s Grand¬
mother (1885); The History of a Week (1885);
Without Blemish, The Bar-Sinister and The New
Man at Rossmere (1886) ; A Mere Child (1888) ; A
Sage of Sixteen (1889) ; A Garden Party (1890);
The Mischief of Mornica (1891) ; Twelve English
Authoresses (1892); The Match-maker (1894); The
Archdeacon (1899) : Sir Patrick, the Puddock (1900) :
and The Black Familiars (1904).
DISAPPOINTMENT.
A short, stout, gray man.
Mr. Smith.
The butcher was disappointed that he wasn’t a family.
All the time that house was building he had made up his
LUCY BETH1A WALFORD
329
mind that it was for a family. There was rooms in it as
ought to have been family rooms. There was rooms as
meant roast beef, and there was rooms as meant saddles
of mutton and sweetbreads. In his mind’s eye he had al¬
ready provided the servants’ hall with rounds, both fresh
and salt; and treated the housekeeper to private and con¬
fidential kidneys. He had seen sick children ordered
tender knuckles of veal, and growing ones strong soup.
He had seen his own car at the back door every morning
of the week.
After all, it was too provoking to come down to — Mr.
Smith.
The butcher set the example, and the grocer and the
baker were both ready enough to follow. They were sure
they thought there was a family. Somebody had told
them so. They couldn’t rightly remember who, but they
were sure it was somebody. It might have been Mr. Har-
rop or it might have been Mr. Jessamy.
Harrop was the innkeeper, and, with an innkeeper’s in¬
dependence, denied the imputation flat. He had never
said a word of the sort. He had never mentioned such a
thing as a family. Leastwise, it would be very queer if
he had, seeing as how he had never thought it. He al¬
ways knew Mr. Smith was Mr. Smith, a single gentle¬
man with no encumbrances; but he must' confess that, as
to the gentleman himself, he had been led to expect that
he was somehow or other different. Someone had told
him — he couldn’t rightly remember who at the moment
— that he was a young, dashing spark, who took a deal
of wine, and kept a many horses. Likewise, his in¬
formant had stated, he had a valet.
J. Jessamy, hairdresser and perfumer, 39 High Street,
corroborated the last statement. He didn’t know about his
being young, but he understood that he had been one as
cared about his appearance. At the very first sight of
Mr. Smith, with his thick iron-gray whiskers and clean¬
shaven lip, Jessamy threw down the box of sponges he
was arranging, and exclaimed aloud, “ A man can’t make
his bread off whiskers! ”
Mrs. Hunt, the doctor’s wife, from her window over
the way, saw the sponges fall, and caught sight of Mr.
330
LUCY BETHIA WALFORD
Smith. In her private mind she was very much of the
innkeeper’s opinion. The doctor might wish for a family,
but her desires took a different form. A Mr. Smith satis¬
fied them very well, but he should have been another sort
of Mr. Smith. A Mr. Smith of twenty or thirty, amiable,
handsome, unmarried, was the Mr. Smith she had fondly
hoped to welcome.
But this old gentleman? No. Neither Maria nor Clare
would ever look at him, she was sure of that; girls were
so foolish. Those silly Tolletons would laugh at him, as
they did at everybody, and Maria and Clare would join in
with them. Her face grew gloomy at the prospect, as she
looked after Mr. Smith walking down the street.
Many pairs of eyes followed Mr. Smith walking down
the street that day. He had arrived the previous night,
and had not been seen before. The disappointment was
universal. This Smith was not the man for them. That
*
was the conclusion each one arrived at for the present.
The future must take care of itself.
The short, stout, gray man entered the post-office, and
inquired if there were any letters for him.
“ What name, sir ? ”
“ Mr. Smith.”
Mr. Smith got his letters, and then the postmaster came
out to a lady who was sitting in her pony-carriage at the
door.
“ Beg pardon for keeping you, my lady, but had to get
such a number for Mr. Smith.”
“ So that is Mr. Smith,” thought she, taking her letters.
“ And very like a Mr. Smith, too.”
It was but a glance; but the glance which enabled her
to ascertain so much caused her to let slip a letter from
the budget, and it fell on the pavement. Mr. Smith, com¬
ing out at the moment, saw it fall. Slowly and somewhat'
stiffly, but still before the nimble groom could anticipate
him, he stooped and picked it up; then slightly raising
his hat, presented it, seal uppermost, to the lady in the
carriage.
Lady Sauffrenden felt a faint sensation of surprise.
There was nothing in the action, of course, but there
was something in the manner of performing it which
LUCY BETHIA WALFORD
33 *
was not that of a vulgar man; and a vulgar man she
had predetermined the new proprietor to be. She had
to pass the house on the Hill every time she drove into
the village, and when she heard that it was being built
by a Mr. Smith, and that Mr. Smith himself was coming
to live in it, she thought she knew exactly the sort of
person he would be — a short, stout, gray man, and vul¬
gar.
Then she saw him face to face, and he answered to the
the portrait precisely, except — no, not vulgar, odd.
After the affair of the letter she never called him
vulgar.
Others saw the incident, but it caused no change in
their opinions. It by no means altered Mrs. Hunt’s, for
instance. Mr. Smith looked none the younger when he
stooped down, and his age was her only objection to him.
The butcher recommenced his grumbling. What was a
Mr. Smith to him? He didn’t want no Mr. Smiths. Mr.
Smith, indeed ! Why, the very name Smith had a family
sound. A Mrs. Smith, a young Smith, the Miss Smiths,
Bobby Smith, Jack Smith, Joe Smith, the Smiths’ baby,
and the Smiths’ governess seemed to him the only proper
Smith connection.
Then the grocer and the baker recurred afresh to
their ideal, a Mr. Smith of servants. Children they set
little store by, except as they gave rise to servants. Har-
rop lamented anew the Mr. Smith of his imagination — a
mixture of the stable and the cellar; and Jessamy took
up his sponges with a sigh, and strove to efface from his
memory the lost anticipations of waxed mustachios and
scented pocket-handkerchiefs.
Dr. Hunt met Mr. Smith, and but that his house of
cards had long before this tumbled in the dust, it would
have done so on the spot. Here was the man whom he
had been looking to as the embodiment of human ail¬
ments ! The Mr. Smith of measles, whooping-cough, and
chicken-pox; winter sore throats, and summer chills;
a Mr. Smith of accidents, it might be; best of all, an in¬
creasing Mr. Smith. The family so ardently desired by
the villagers he would have been proud to present to
them.
332
JAMES BARR WALKER
/ There was the man, and where was such a prospect?
Tough as leather and as unimpressible. He would neither
prove a patient himself, nor take to him one who would.
A place like that, too! Why the practice of that house
on the Hill ought to have been a cool hundred a year in
his pocket. Pish! . . .
One thing, however, told in favor of the new-comer.
He was rich. He had not met their expectations in any
other way, but he had not failed in this. He really and
truly was rich. His fortune was there. It had not melt¬
ed, as money usually does, when too curiously pried into.
The amount, indeed, had been difficult to settle. At first
it was thirty, but it had passed through the different
gradations of twenty-five, and twenty, to ten thousand a
year. His servants deposed to its being ten. Several of
them had heard Mr. Smith say so.
Upon investigation, it proved to have been, not Mr.
Smith who said so, but his lawyer. The lawyer’s phrase
was, “ A man like you with ten thousand a year.” And
this, of course, as lawyer’s evidence, was even more con¬
clusive than if it had been given by their master him¬
self. The money was therefore secure, and they must'
make what they could out of it. It, at least, had not
cheated them. They bowed low to the fortune. Al¬
though it had been reported at thirty, it was held to
have stood the test well, when proved to be ten.— Mr.
Smith.
ALKER, James Barr, an American clergy¬
man and theologian; born at Philadelphia,
Pa., in 1805 ; died at Wheaton, Ill., March 6,
1887. He was a factory-hand, a store-boy, a printer in
Pittsburg, a clerk of M. M. Noah, a New York editor;
a teacher in New Durham, N. J.; a law-student in Ra¬
venna, O., and, in 1831, a graduate from Western Re¬
serve College. For a time he edited journals at Hud-
JAMES BARR WALKER
333
son and Cincinnati, O., and, in 1841, became a Pres¬
byterian minister. He established an orphan asylum
at Mansfield, O., acted as pastor at Sandusky; and was
lecturer on the relations of science and religion, at
Oberlin and the Chicago Theological Seminary.
About 1843 h e published The Philosophy of the Plan
of Salvation, which has been translated into five for¬
eign languages. His other works are God Revealed
in Nature and Christ (1855), opposing the develop¬
ment theory of that day; Philosophy of Scepticism and
Ultraism (1857) ; Philosophy of the Divine Operation
in the Redemption of Man (1862) ; Poems (1862) ;
Living Questions of the Age (1869) ; Doctrine of the
Holy Spirit (1870).
CHRISTIAN FAITH TEMPERS IMAGINATION.
There are few exercises of the mind fraught with so
much evil, and yet so little guarded, as that of an evil
imagination. Many individuals spend much of their time
in a labor of spirit which is vain and useless, and often
very hurtful to the moral character of the soul. The
spirit is borne off upon the wings of an active imagina¬
tion, and expatiates among ideal conceptions that are
improbable, absurd, and sinful. Some people spend about
as much time in day-dreams as they do in night-dreams.
Imaginations of popularity, pleasure, or wealth employ
the minds of worldly men; and perchance the Christian
dreams of wealth, and magnificent plans of benevolence,
or of schemes less pious in their character. It is diffi¬
cult to convey a distinct idea of the evil under considera¬
tion, without supposing a case like the following:
One day, while a young man was employed silently
about his usual pursuits, he imagined a train of circum¬
stances by which he supposed himself to be put in pos¬
session of great wealth; and then he imagined that he
would be the master of a splendid mansion, surrounded
with grounds devoted to profit and amusement — he
334
JAMES BARR WALKER
would keep horses and conveyances that would be per-
feet in all points, and servants that would want nothing
in faithfulness or affection; he would be great in the
eyes of men, and associate with the great among men,
and render himself admired or honored by his genera¬
tion. Thus his soul wandered, for hours, amid the ideal
creations of his own fancy.
Now, much of men’s time, when their attention might
be employed by useful topics of thought, is thus spent in
building “ castles in the air.” Some extraordinary cir¬
cumstance is thought of by which they might be enriched,
and then hours are wasted in foolishly imagining the
manner in which they would expend their imaginary
funds. Such excursions of the fancy may be said to be
comparatively innocent, and they are so, compared with
the more guilty exercises of a great portion of mankind.
The mind of the politician and the partisan divine is
employed in forming schemes of triumph over their op¬
ponents. The minds of the votaries of fashion, of both
sexes, are employed in imagining displays and triumphs
at home and abroad, and those of them who are vicious
at heart, not having their attention engaged by any use¬
ful occupation, pollute their souls by cherishing imagi¬
nary scenes of folly and lewdness. And not only the
worthless votaries of the world, but likewise the fol¬
lowers of the holy Jesus, are sometimes led captive by
an unsanctified imagination. Not that they indulge in
the sinful reveries which characterize the unregenerate
sons and daughters of time and sense; but their thoughts
wander to unprofitable topics, and wander at times when
they should be fixed on those truths which have a sanc¬
tifying efficacy upon the heart. In the solemn assem¬
blies of public worship, many of those whose bodies are
bowed and their eyes closed in token of reverence for
God, are yet mocking their Maker by assuming the ex¬
ternal semblance of worshippers, while their souls are
away wandering amid a labyrinth of irrelevant and sin¬
ful thought.
o
It is not affirmed that the exercises of the imagination
are necessarily evil. Imagination is one of the noblest
attributes of the human spirit; and there is something
JAMES BARR WALKER
335
in the fact that the soul has power to create, by its own
combinations, scenes of rare beauty, and of perfect hap¬
piness, unsullied by the imperfections which pertain to
earthly things, that indicates not only its nobility, but
perhaps its future life. When the imagination is em¬
ployed in painting the beauties of nature; or in collect¬
ing the beauties of sentiment and devotion, and in group¬
ing them together by the sweet measures of poetry, its
exercises have a benign influence upon the spirit. It is
like presenting “ apples of gold in pictures of silver ”
for the survey of the soul. The imagination may degrade
and corrupt, or it may elevate and refine the feelings of
the heart. The inquiry, then, is important. How may
the exercises of the imagination be controlled and di¬
rected so that their influence upon the soul shall not be
injurious, but ennobling and purifying? Would faith in
Christ turn away the sympathies of the soul from those
gifted but guilty minds,
“ Whose poisoned song
Would blend the bounds of right and wrong,
And hold, with sweet but cursed art,
Their incantations o’er the heart,
Till every pulse of pure desire
Throbs with the glow of passion’s fire,
And love, and reason’s mind control.
Yield to the simoom of the soul?”
When the conscience had become purified and quick¬
ened, it would be a check upon the erratic movements
of the imagination; and when the disposition was cor¬
rected it would be disinclined to every unholy exercise;
so that, in the believer, the disinclination of the will and
the disapprobation of the conscience would be powerful
aids in bringing into subjection the imaginative faculty.
But, more than this, faith in Christ would have a direct
influence in correcting the evils of the imagination. It
is a law of mind that the subject which interests an in¬
dividual most subordinates all other subjects to itself,
or removes them from, the mind and assumes their place.
As in a group of persons, who might be socially convers-
336
JAMES BARR WALKER
ing upon a variety of topics, if some venerable individ¬
ual should enter and introduce an absorbing subject in
which all felt interested, minor topics would be forgot¬
ten in the interest created by the master-subject, so
when “ Christ crucified ” enters the presence-chamber of
the believer’s soul, the high moral powers of the mind
bow around in obeisance, and every imagination folds
her starry wings around her face, and bows before Im¬
manuel. When the cross of Christ becomes the cen¬
tral subject of the soul, it has power to chasten the im¬
agination, and subdue its waywardness by the sublime
exhibition of the bleeding mercy in the atonement. The
apostle perceived the efficacy of the cross in subduing
vain reasoning and an evil imagination, and alludes to
it in language possessing both strength and beauty, as
“ casting down imaginations and every high thing that
exalteth itself against the knowledge of God and [mark]
bringing into captivity every thought to the obedience
of Christ.”
That these views are not idle speculations, but truth¬
ful realities, is affirmed by the experience of every Chris¬
tian. When the imagination is wandering to unprofit¬
able or forbidden subjects, all that is necessary in order
to break the chain of evil suggestion, and introduce into
the mind a profitable train of thought, is to turn the eye
of the soul upon the “ Lamb of God that taketh away
the sin of the world.” By the presence of this delight¬
ful and sacred idea every unworthy and hurtful thought
will be awed out of the mind. Thus does faith in the
blessed Jesus control and purify the imagination of be¬
lievers .—Philosophy of the Plan of Salvation, Enlarged
Edition.
NEED OF AN OBJECTIVE REVELATION.
Without aiding himself by written language, man can¬
not ascend even to the first stages of civilization. . . .
Man can receive moral culture only by the aid of signs
of moral truth embodied in written language. Man may
have by nature an intuition of the being of God, but he
has no knowledge of the character of God. . . . Both
faith and conscience look to God for authority; and
ALFRED RUSSEL WALLACE
337
until faith sees God in truth, conscience will not convict
the soul of disobedience. Hence, in the moral culture
of the soul, everything depends on the revealment of
the truth. But this truth must come to the soul, not as
human opinion, or as the utterances of philosophy, but
as truth which faith and conscience may recognize as
rendered obligatory upon man, but by the will and au¬
thority of God .—Philosophy of the Plan of Salvation, En¬
larged Edition.
ALLACE, Alfred Russel, an English nat¬
uralist and philosopher; born at Usk, Mon¬
mouthshire, January 8, 1822. After receiv¬
ing an education at the grammar school of Hertford,
he became a land-surveyor and architect. In 1848,
he traveled in the valley of the Amazon, and from
1854 to 1862, in the Malay Islands, where he inde¬
pendently originated the theory of natural selection.
His paper On the Tendency of Varieties to Depart In¬
definitely from the Original Type was read before the
Linnsean Society, July 1, 1888, on which occasion
was read Darwin’s, to the same effect. Dr. Wal¬
lace, however, magnanimously yielded to Darwin the
privilege of a first book on the subject. His books
are Travels on the Amazon and Rio Negro (1852) ;
Palm Trees of the Amazon, and their Uses, and The
Malay Archipelago (1869) ; Contributions to the
Theory of Natural Selection (1870) ; On Miracles
and Modern Spiritualism (1875); The Geographical
Distribution of Animals (1876); Tropical Nature
(1878); Island Life (1880); Land Nationalization
(1882) ; Forty Years of Registration Statistics; Prov¬
ing Vaccination to be Both Useless and Dangerous;
Vol. XXIII.— 22
ALFRED RUSSEL WALLACE
338
>
and Bad Times (1885); Darwinism (1889), a book
that sustains the extreme view of natural selection;
Australia and Nezv Zealand (1893); The Wonderful
Century (1898) ; Studies, Scientific and Social (1900) ;
and My Life (1904).
TROPICAL VEGETATION.
The primeval forests of the equatorial zone are grand
and overwhelming by their vastness and by the display
of a force of development and vigor of growth rarely or
never witnessed in temperate climates. Among their
best distinguishing features are the variety of forms and
species which everywhere meet and grow side by side,
and the extent to which parasites, epiphytes, and creepers
fill up every available station with peculiar modes of life.
If the traveller notices a peculiar species and wishes to
find more of It, he may often turn his eyes in vain in
every direction. Trees of varied forms, dimensions, and
colors are around him, but he rarely sees any one of
them repeated. Time after time he goes toward a tree
which looks like the one he seeks, but a closer examina¬
tion proves it to be distinct. He may at length, perhaps,
meet with a second specimen half a mile off, or may fail
altogether, till on another occasion he stumbles on one by
accident.
The absence of the gregarious or social habit so gen¬
eral in the forests of extra-tropical countries is probably
dependent on the extreme equability and permanence of
the climate. Atmospheric conditions are much more im¬
portant to the growth of plants than any others. Their
severest struggle for existence is against climate. As
we approach toward regions of polar cold or desert
aridity the variety of groups and species regularly di¬
minishes; more and more are unable to sustain the ex¬
treme climatal conditions, till at last we find only a few
specially organized forms which are able to maintain
their existence. In the extreme north, pine or birch
trees; in the desert, a few palms and prickly shrubs or
aromatic herbs, alone survive. In the equable equatorial
ALFRED RUSSEL WALLACE
339
zone there is no such struggle against climate. Every
form of vegetation has become alike adapted to its genial
heat and ample moisture, which has probably changed
little even throughout geological periods; and the never-
ceasing struggle for existence between various species in
the same area has resulted in a nice balance of organic
forces, 'which gives the advantage now to one, now to
another, species, and prevents any one type of vegetation
from monopolizing territory to the exclusion of the rest.
The same general causes have led to the filling up of
every place in nature with some specially adapted form.
Thus we find a forest of smaller trees adapted to grow
in the shade of greater trees. Thus we find every tree
supporting numerous other forms of vegetation, and some
so crowded with epiphytes of various kinds that their
forks and horizontal branches are veritable gardens.
Creeping-ferns and arums run up the smoothest trunks;
an immense variety of climbers hang in tangled masses
from the branches and mount over the highest tree-tops.
Orchids, bromelias, arums, and ferns grow from every
boss and crevice, and cover the falling and decaying
trunks with a graceful drapery. Even these parasites have
their own parasitical growth, their leaves often supporting
an abundance of minute creeping mosses and hepaticse.
But the uniformity of climate which has led to this rich
luxuriance and endless variety of vegetation is also the
cause of a monotony that in time becomes oppressive.—
Tropical Nature and Other Essays.
ORCHIDS.
These interesting plants, so well known from the ardor
with which they are cultivated on account of their beau¬
tiful and singular flowers, are pre-eminently tropical, and
are probably more abundant in the mountains of the
equatorial zone than in any other region. Here they are
almost omnipresent in some of their countless forms.
They grow on the stems, in the forks, or on the branches
of trees; they abound on fallen trunks; they spread over
rocks, or hang down the face of precipices; while some,
like our northern species, grow on the ground among
340
HORACE BINNEY WALLACE
grass and herbage. Some trees whose bark is especially
well adapted for their support are crowded with them,
and these form natural orchid-gardens. Some orchids
are particularly fond of the decaying leaf-stalks of palms
or of tree-ferns. Some grow best over water, others
must be elevated on lofty trees and well exposed to sun
and air. The wonderful variety in the form, structure,
and color of the dowers of orchids is well known; but
even our finest collections give an inadequate idea of the
numbers of these plants that exist in the tropics, because
a large proportion of them have quite inconspicuous
flowers and are not worth cultivation. More than thirty
years ago the number of known orchids was estimated
by Dr. Lindley at 3,000 species, and it is not improbable
that they now be nearly double. But whatever may be
the numbers of the collected and described orchids, those
that still remain to be discovered must be enormous. Un¬
like ferns, the species have a very limited range, and it
would require the systematic work of a good botanical col¬
lector during several years to exhaust any productive dis¬
trict— say such an island as Java — of its orchids. It is
not therefore at all improbable that this remarkable group
may ultimately prove to be the most numerous in species
of all the families of flowering plants.— Tropical Nature
and Other Essays.
|ALLACE, Horace Binney, an American
lawyer and essayist; born at Philadelphia,
Pa., February 26, 1817; died at Paris, De¬
cember 16, 1852. After graduation from Princeton in
1835, he studied medicine, chemistry, and law, but
never adopted a profession. He spent his time in
traveling and in study. Overwork produced insanity
and he committed suicide. He edited several law¬
books, and was the author of Stanley, or the Recollec -
HORACE BINNEY WALLACE
34i
tions of a Man of the World (1838) ; Art, Scenery,
and Philosophy in Europe, with Other Papers (1855) ;
Literary Criticism and Other Papers (1856. He
aided Rufus W. Griswold in preparing Napoleon and
the Marshals of the Empire (2 vols., 1847).
August Comte said of him: “ In him heart, in¬
tellect, and character united in so rare a combina¬
tion and harmony that, had he lived, he would have
aided powerfully in advancing the difficult transition
through which the nineteenth century has to pass.”
ASCENT OF VESUVIUS.
There is nothing which strikes you as different from
an ordinary mountain, until you are about half-way up,
when the masses of lava, which lie about the roots of
the volcano, black as death, come upon your view.
From that point, the spectacle that expands below you
on the other side, as you look away from the hill, is
one to which all the resources of the earth show noth¬
ing superior. I consider it as one of the great views
of the world. Beneath your feet rests the arching Bay
of Naples, defined by Misenum on the right and Sor¬
rento on the left. From Resina, toward Naples, and
on through it to Posilippo, the entire circuit of the
shore, which the Castel del’ Novo divides beautifully
into a double scallop is one unbroken, glittering range
of white buildings, presenting a grand and regular out¬
line. At that extremity of the line rise the pyramidal
masses of Ischia and Procida, and other headlands that
guard the retiring beauties of the voluptuous Baise.
Naples sparkled forth like a cluster of signet-gems set
in hills, with a range of loftier heights behind it. The
waters of the bay, near the circling beach — always blue
— looked more deeply so from the elevation at which I
stood; while on the opposite side, toward Sorrento, the
sun — itself hidden from us by clouds — streamed down
in blazing effulgence upon the water, and the isle of
Capri loomed up in the middle of the gulf, like an irregu-
342
HORACE BINNEY WALLACE
lar mass of bronze rising out of a sea of liquid gold. On
the right, behind Naples and Portici, to the line of the
distant mountains, extended a vast, hollow plain, in which
lay a dozen white and closely built villages, scattered
about, and, in the intermediate spaces, single houses,
peeping out like stars on the approach of evening; at the
first glancing look you might see none, but afterward,
at every point on which your eye might rest, a villa would
seem to reveal itself to your scrutiny. Beyond the hills
that etched a relieving background to the plain spread the
dark, broad waters of the Mediterranean, in the Gulf of
Gaeta. The air between the Bay of Naples and the
sky above it was one conflagration of azure light; upon
the plain, at the side, lay a purple atmosphere, deep
enough to color and illuminate the picture, not obscure
it. It seemed as if I had come at last upon the very
court, and home and dwelling-place of Aurora; and the
snowy villages, which sparkled with brighter show amid
a spectacle where all was brilliant, looked like garlands
of white flowers, which the early hours had scattered
beneath her forthgoing steps, and which still lay glitter¬
ing on the ground. It was a treasury of the glories of
earth and air.
The wind was blowing from us, and the circumstances
were favorable for viewing the cavity. It was filled
with a dense volume of white gas, which was whirling
and rapidly ascending; but the breeze occasionally
drove it to the opposite side and disclosed the depths
of the frightful chasm. It descended a prodigious dis¬
tance in the shape of an inverted truncated cone, and
then terminated in a circular opening. The mysteries
of the profound immensity beyond no human hand
might see, no human heart conceive. We hurled some
stones into the gulf, and listened till they struck below.
The guide gravely assured me that ten minutes elapsed
before the sound was heard; I found, by the watch,
that the interval was, in reality, something over three-
quarters of a minute — and that seems almost incredibly
long. When the vapor, at intervals, so far thinned away
that one could see across, as through a vista, the
opposite side of the crater, viewed athwart the mist,
LEWIS WALLACE
LEWIS WALLACE
343
seemed several miles distant, though in fact, but a few
hundred feet. The interior of the shelving crater was
entirely covered over with a bed of knob-like blossoms
of brilliant white, yellow, green, red, brown — the sul¬
phurous flowers of Hell. It was like death — which has
no similitudes in life. It' was like a vision of the second
death. As the sun gleamed at times through the white
breath that swayed and twisted about the maw of the
accursed monstrosity, there seemed to be an activity in
the vaulted depth, but it was the activity of shadows in
the concave of nothingness. It seemed the emblem of
destruction, itself extinct .—Art and Scenery in Europe.
ALLACE, Lewis (“Lew Wallace”), an
? American soldier and novelist; born at
Brookville, Ind., April io, 1827; died at
Crawfordsville, Ind., February 15, 1905. After re¬
ceiving a common-school education, he began the study
of law; but on the breaking out of the Mexican war
he volunteered in the army as lieutenant in an Indiana
company. I11 1848 he took up the practice of his
profession in his native State, and was elected to the
Legislature. Near the beginning of the civil war he
became colonel of a volunteer regiment; was made a
brigadier-general of volunteers in September, 1861,
and major-general in March, 1862. He was mustered
out of service in 1865 ; resumed the practice of law at
Crawfordsville, Ind.; was made Governor of Utah in
1878; Minister to Turkey in 1881; and in 1885 re¬
sumed the practice of law at Crawfordsville. The
works of General Wallace are The Fair God, a story of
the conquest of Mexico (1873) ; Ben-Hur, a Tale of the
Christ (1880) ; The Boyhood of Christ (1888) ; Life
344
LEWIS WALLACE
of General Benjamin Harrison (1888), and The Prince
of India (1893).
BEHOLD THE LAMB OF GOD !
“ Let us stay here,” said Ben-Huf to Balthasar; “ the
Nazarite may come this way.”
The people were too intent upon what they had heard,
and too busy in discussion to notice the new-comers.
When some hundreds had gone by, and it seemed the
opportunity to so much as see the Nazarite was lost to
the latter, up the river, and not far away, they beheld a
person coming toward them of such singular appearance
they forgot all else.
Outwardly the man was rude and uncouth, even sav¬
age. Over a thin, gaunt visage of the hue of brown
parchment, over his shoulders and down his back below
the middle, in witch-like locks, fell a covering of sun-
scorched hair. His eyes were burning bright. All his
right side was naked, and the color of his face, and
quite as meagre; a shirt of the coarsest cameks-hair —
coarse as Bedouin tent-cloth — clothed the rest of his
person to the knees, being gathered at the waist by a
broad girdle of untanned leather. His feet v/ere bare.
A scrip, also of untanned leather, was fastened to the
girdle. He used a knotted staff to help him forward.
His movement was quick, decided, and strangely watch¬
ful. Every little while he tossed the unruly hair from
his eyes, and peered around as if searching for some¬
body.
The fair Egyptian surveyed the son of the desert with
surprise, not to say disgust. Presently, raising the cur¬
tain of the howdah, he spoke to Ben-Hur, who sat his
horse near by:
“ Is that the herald of thy King? ”
“ It is the Nazarite,” he replied, without looking up.
In truth, he was himself more than disappointed.
Despite his familiarity with the ascetic colonists of En-
gedi — their dress, their indifference to all worldly opin¬
ion, their constancy to vows which gave them over to
LEIVIS WALLACE
345
every imaginable suffering of body, and separated them
from others of their kind as absolutely as if they had not
been bora like them — and notwithstanding he had been
notified oh the way to look for a Nazarite whose simple
description of himself was a Voice from the Wilderness
— still Ben-Hur’s dream of the King who was to be so
great, and do so much had colored all his thought of
him, so that he never doubted to find in the forerunner
some sign or token of the Royalty he was announcing.
Gazing at the savage figure before him, the long train
of courtiers whom he had been used to see in the ther¬
mae and imperial corridors at Rome arose before him,
forcing a comparison. Shocked, alarmed, he could only
answer:
“ It is the Nazarite.”
With Balthasar it was very different. The ways of
God, he knew, were not as men would have them. He
had seen the Saviour a child in the manger, and was
prepared by his faith for the rude and simple in connec¬
tion with the Divine reappearance. He was not expecting
a King.
In this time of such interest to the new-comers, and
in which they were so differently moved, another man
had been sitting by himself on a stone by the edge of
the river, thinking yet, probably, of the sermon he had
been hearing. Now, however, he arose and walked
slowly up from the shore, in a course to take him across
the line the Nazarite was pursuing, and bring him near
the camel.
And the two — the preacher and the stranger — kept
on till they came, the former within twenty yards of the
animal, the latter within ten feet. Then the preacher
stopped, and flung the hair from his eyes, looked at the
stranger, threw his hands up as a signal to all the people
in sight; and they also stopped, each in the pose of a
listener; and when the hush was perfect, slowly the staff
in the Nazarite’s right hand came down, pointed at the
stranger. All those who before were but listeners became
watchers also.
At the same instant, under the same impulse, Baltha¬
sar and Ben-Hur fixed their gaze upon the man pointed
34^
LEWIS WALLACE
out; and both took the same impression, only in a dif¬
ferent degree. He was moving slowly toward them in a
clear space a little to their front — a form slightly above
the average in stature, and slender, even delicate. His
action was calm and deliberate, like that habitual to men
much given to serious thought upon grave subjects; and
it well became his costume, which was an under-garment
full-sleeved and reaching to the ankles, and an outer
robe called the talitli; on his left arm he carried the
usual handkerchief for the head, the red fillet swinging,
loose, down his side. Except the fillet and a narrow
border of blue at the lower edge of the talith, his attire
was of linen, yellowed with dust and road-stains. Pos¬
sibly the exception should be extended to the tassels,
which were blue and white, as prescribed by law for
rabbis.
These points of appearance, however, the three be¬
holders observed briefly, and rather as accessories to the
head and face of the man, which — especially the latter —
were the real source of the spell they caught in common
with all who stood looking at him.
The head was open to the cloudless light, except as
it was draped with hair long and slightly waved, and
parted in the middle, and auburn in tint, with a tendency
to reddish golden where most strongly touched by the
sun. Under a broad, low forehead, under black, well-
arched brows, beamed eyes dark-blue and large, and soft¬
ened to exceeding tenderness by lashes of the great length
sometimes seen on children, but seldom if ever, on men.
As to the other features, it would have been difficult to
decide whether they were Greek or Jewish. The deli¬
cacy of the nostrils and mouth was unusual to the latter
type; and when it was taken into account with the gen¬
tleness of the eyes, the pallor of the complexion, the fine
texture of the hair, and the softness of the beard, which
fell in waves over his throat to his breast, never a soldier
but would have laughed at him in encounter, never a
woman who would not have confided in him at sight, never
a child that would not, with quick instinct, have given
him its hand and whole artless trust; nor might anyone
have said that he was not beautiful.
LEWIS WALLACE
347
The features, it should further be said, were ruled by
a certain expression which, as the viewer chose, might
with equal correctness have been called the effect of
intelligence, love, pity, or sorrow; though in better
speech, it was a blending of them all; a look easy to
fancy as a mark of a sinless soul doomed to the sight
and understanding of the utter sinfulness of those among
whom it was passing; yet withal no one would have ob¬
served the face with a thought of weakness in the man;
so, at least, would not they who know that the qualities
mentioned — love, sorrow, pity — are the results of con¬
sciousness of strength to bear suffering oftener than
strength to do. Such has been the might of martyrs and
devotees and the myriads written down in saintly calen¬
dars. And such indeed was the air of this one.
Slowly he drew near — nearer the three.
Now Ben-Hur, mounted and spear in hand, was an
object to claim the glance of a king; yet the eyes of the
man approaching were all the time raised above him, and
not to the loveliness of Iras, but to Balthasar — the old
and unserviceable.
The hush was profound. Presently the Nazarite, still
pointing with his staff, cried, in a loud voice:
“ Behold the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sin
of the world ! ”
The many standing still, arrested by the action of the
speaker, and listening for what might follow, were struck
with awe by words so strange and past their under¬
standing. Upon Balthasar they were overpowering. He
was there to see once more the Redeemer of men. The
faith which had brought him the singular privileges of
the time long gone abode yet in his heart; and if now it
gave to him a power of vision above that of his fellows —
a power to see and to know Him for whom he was look¬
ing— better than calling the power a miracle, let it be
thought of as a faculty of a soul not yet entirely released
from the divine relations to which it had been formerly
admitted, or as the fitting reward of a life in that age so
without examples of holiness — a life itself a miracle.
The ideal of his faith was before him, perfect in face,
form, dress, action, age; and he was in its view, and the
348 LEWIS WALLACE
I _
view was recognition. Ah ! now if something should hap¬
pen to identify the stranger beyond all doubt!
And that was what did happen. Exactly at the fitting
moment — as if to assure the trembling Egyptian — the
Nazarite repeated the outcry:
“ Behold the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sins
of the world ! ”
Balthasar fell upon his knees. For him there was no
need of explanation; and as if the Nazarite knew it, he
turned to those more immediately about him, staring in
wonder, and continued:
“ This is Lie of whom I said, After me cometh a man
which is preferred before me; for He was before me.
And I knew Him not: but that He should be manifest
to Israel, therefore am I come baptizing with water. I
saw the spirit descending from heaven like a dove, and it
abode upon Him. And I knew Him not: but He that
sent me to baptize with water said unto me, upon whom
thou shalt see the Spirit descending and remaining upon
him, the same is He that baptizeth with the Holy Ghost.
And I saw and bare record, that this —” he paused, his
staff still pointing to the stranger in the white garments,
as if to give a more absolute certainty both to his words
and to the conclusions intended —“ I bare record that this
is the Son of God! ”
“ It is Lie ! it is He ! ” Balthasar cried, with upraised
tearful eyes. Next moment he sank down insensible.
In this time, it should be remembered, Ben-Hur was
studying the face of the stranger, though with an in¬
terest entirely different. He was not' insensible to its
purity of feature, and its thoughtfulness, tenderness, hu¬
mility, and holiness; but just then there w r as room in his
mind for but one thought — Who is this man ? And
what? Messiah or King? Never was apparition more
unroyal. Nay, looking at that calm, benignant coun¬
tenance, the very idea of war and conquest and lust of
dominion smote him like a profanation. He said, as if
he were speaking to his own heart, “ This man has not
come to rebuild the throne of Solomon; he has neither
the nature nor the genius of Herod; king he may be, but
not of another and greater than Rome.”
LEWIS WALLACE
349
It should be understood now that this was not a con¬
clusion with Ben-Hur, but an impression merely; and
while it was forming — while yet he gazed at the wonder¬
ful countenance — his memory began to throe and strug¬
gle : “ Surely,” he said to himself, “1 have seen the
man; but where and when ? ” That the look, so calm
and peaceful, so loving, had somewhere in a past time
beamed upon him, as at that moment it was beaming
upon Balthasar, Lecame an assurance. Faintly at first
— at last a clear light, a burst of sunshine — the scene
by the well of Nazareth, what time the Roman was drag¬
ging him to the galleys, returned, and all his being was
thrilled. Those hands had helped him when he was
perishing. The face was one of the pictures he had
carried in his mind ever since. In the effusion of feel¬
ing excited, the explanation of the preacher was lost by
him — all but the last words — words so marvellous that
the world yet rings with them: “ This is the Son of
God! ”
Ben-Hur leaped from his horse to render homage to his
benefactor; but Iras cried to him, “ Help, son of Hur!
help, or my father will die ! ”
He stopped, looked back, then hurried to his assistance.
She gave him the cap; and leaving the slave to bring the
camel to its knees, he ran to the river for water. The
stranger was gone when he came back.
At last Balthasar was restored to consciousness.
Stretching forth his hands, he asked, feebly, “ Where is
He?”
“Who?” asked Iras.
An intense interest shone upon the good man’s face, as
if a last wish had been gratified, and he answered:
“ He — the Redeemer — the Son of God, whom I have
seen again.”
“ Believest thou so? ” Iras asked in a low voice of
Ben-Hur.
“ The time is full of wonders; let us wait,” was all he
said. . . .
And next day, while the three were listening to him, the
Nazarite broke off in mid-speech, saying reverently:
“ Behold the Lamb of God! ”
350
SUSAN ARNOLD ELSTON WALLACE
Looking to where he pointed, they beheld the stranger
again. As Ben-Hur surveyed the slender figure, and holy,
beautiful countenance compassionate to sadness, a new
idea broke upon him:
“Balthasar is right — so is Simonides. May not the
Redeemer be a King also?” and he asked one at his
side:
“Who is the man walking yonder?”
The other laughed mockingly, and replied: “ He is the
son of a carpenter over in Nazareth.’’— Ben-Hur.
LLACE, Susan Arnold Elston, an Amer¬
ican essayist and traveler ; born at Crawfords-
ville, Ind., in 1830. She has written largely
in periodicals, and several of her volumes are made up
from materials which had previously appeared in the
form of letters from various countries in which she has
sojourned from time to time. Her principal works
are: The Storied Sea (1884); Ginevra , or the Old
Oak Chest (1884) ; The Land of the Pueblos (1888) ;
The Repose in Egypt (1888).
SHOPPING IN DAMASCUS.
Cairo has been termed “ the heart of the Orient ”; but
since the changes there by Ismail Pacha, and the advent
of the locomotive, Damascus is the best place for the
coloring of Haroun Al-Raschid. The wealth of Damas¬
cus is immense, and there are hundreds of khans for
merchandise, built round a large covered court, where
kneeling and groaning camels deposit their loads. Two
galleries run round this space into which open store-rooms,
hardly larger than presses. The merchants, who sit cross-
legged in front of the meagre shops, and wait for cus¬
tomers, are dignified and reserved as patriarchs. One
SUSAN ARNOLD ELSTON WALLACE
35i
might suppose in the small stock of goods there is hardly
enough profit to make both ends meet, even with Oriental
frugality. Yet these silent, grave shopmen, seemingly so
poor, are worth their millions, and could you visit them
you would see palaces which make real the visions of
Aladdin. The houses of the city are alike; plastered with
yellow stucco, a dead wall to the street, giving a dreary
and forbidding aspect. Enter the carven doorway into
the court with tessellated pavement — a mosaic of bright
marbles, where fountains laugh and sing to overhanging
vines and blossoms, and the peculiar figs which made
the Roman epicure rejoice that ever he was born. One
such house was built of Italian marbles, brought' from
the coast on mules. It had balconies despoiled from
Saracenic carvings of Egypt, and was hung with shawls
of Hindustan.
But this does not interest the stranger like the bazaars
— shadowy, arched, and picturesque. When you become
used to dim lights and the gay confusion of colors, dis¬
cordant voices of men and animals, you will be delighted
with them. Not in a week or a month can you explore
the recesses where are gathered quaint rarities, new and
old, exquisitely finished, dazzling the sight. Uninviting
and evil-smelling though they be, here are heaped the
spoils of the East. Amber from the Baltic Sea, coral
from the Caspian, shell and gold work from Cairo, filigree
carvings in ivory and jade from China, coffee-cups of
native work crusted with precious gems, chains and suits
of armor inlaid with jewels. There are spices from
Arabia Felix, ointments from Moab, and alabaster boxes
from the country of its name; and such amulets of opal,
iridescent and glimmering, talismans of moonstone, and
turquoises of the mines of the Pharaohs, warranted to
keep off the evil eye; wonderful caskets hinting of in¬
estimable treasures, and ivory chests, delicate as frost¬
work.
In the dark, crowded chambers of the Turk are rugs
soft as down, changeable as feathers of tropic birds,
with tints toned completely as hues of the rainbow;
scarfs stained with sea-purple, barred and brocaded with
gold; vari-colored stuffs which always harmonize. No
352
SUSAN ARNOLD ELSTON WALLACE
magenta-reds and sunflower-yellows in the Damascus ba¬
zaars ; they would strike the eye as sharp discords pain
the ear attuned to music.
Then there is the Kaan-stand, where only the holy
volume may lie — the uncreated, the eternal word, sub¬
sisting on the essence of Deity, and inscribed with a
pencil of light on the table of His everlasting decrees.
The consecrated stands are shaped like the letter X,
and are made of cedar and mother-of-pearl. Hanging
overhead, in dust and gloom, are ostrich-eggs, quaintly
ornamented, and ringed with hoops of gold and gems,
to be suspended in sacred places — symbols of the resur¬
rection. There are the skins of the spotted leopard, of
the black-maned lion from the reedy coverts along the
banks of the Euphrates, and superb tiger-robes from the
Ganges, to be thrown on divans, or consecrated as prayer-
carpets. How can I tell of the Indian-work of screens
and cabinets; of fans, and of ancient arms, the mere
mention of which stirs the ghosts of dead and gone Cru¬
saders and Paladins? Here are wonderful peacocks, with
enamelled breasts, and jewels for the argus-eyes of the
sweeping tail; coffee-services of brass and silver set with
diamonds, in trays arabesque — old Moorish work; nar-
giles, with long ropes for smoking through water; amber¬
mouthed chibouks — every conceivable shape of pipe;
meerschaum and ambergris, rose-oil and musk; shawls,
silks, table-covers, fabrics of soft wool, furs, and leather-
work pliant' as silk.
The experienced and enthusiastic shopper goes mad
with delight in Damascus. And after the slow day’s bar¬
gaining comes the pure, sensuous enjoyment of cooling
breeze from the snowy mountain-tops, the pomp of sun¬
sets, the glow of starry skies, and the chirp of insect-life
in restful unison. All is poetry, picture: appeals to
memory and imagination such as are never found in the
raw newness of western cities without a history.— The
Repose in Egypt.
SUSAN ARNOLD ELSTON WALLACE
353
THE PUEBLOS AND THEIR COUNTRY.
The least observant traveler through the country of
the Pueblos must notice that it has changed for the worse
since the “ Great Houses ” were built. They stand on
the rim of the Colorado Desert, and if we accept the
theory of the geologists that this is the dry bed of an in¬
land sea, the climate must once have been very unlike
what it is now — waterless ten months of the year, and
at summer noon as hot and as stifling as the air of a
lime-kiln. Scientists unite in saying that the rainfall west
of the Rio Grande is much less than formerly. The
present streams are shrunken threads of those which once
flowed in their channels when forests were more abundant.
Northern Arizona has hills whose bases are covered with
dead cedar-trees, immense belts untouched by fire, proving
that the conditions friendly to the growth of vegetation
are restricted to narrowing limits. Spots that have been
productive are barren; springs gushed from the ground
which at present is dry and parched; and an agricultural
people has lived where now no living being could main¬
tain existence. Everything indicates that this region was
formerly better watered. Many rivers of years ago are
now rivers of sand; and the Gila, at its best, after gather¬
ing the confluent streams, San Pedro and Salado, is not
so large in volume as an Indiana creek.
Ethnologists try to prove that the town-builders came
from the extreme north — perhaps even from Kam¬
chatka — and that the adobe houses and Montezuma-
worship were of indigenous growth, founded by the mon¬
arch who bears the proudest name in Indian history.
There are no Pueblos north of the 37th parallel, and the
decline of the race began long before the Spanish inva¬
sion. It will be remembered that the Casas Grandes was
a roofless crumbling ruin more than three hundred years
ago. The Pueblos must have been a mightly nation in
the prime of their strength; and legends of their ancient
glory, before they passed under the hated Spanish yoke,
are cherished among the different tribes. Reduced as
they were in numbers and power, their battle was a long
Vol. XXIII.—23
354
SUSAN ARNOLD ELSTON WALLACE
and gallant struggle. They were finally brought into
subjection even to the Moquis, who lived perched in tiny
houses on scarred, seamed cliffs of volcanic rock, where
Nature’s fires are burned out, in a barren country, arid
and inhospitable, absolutely worthless to white men.
Never was life so lonely and cheerless as in the deso¬
late hovels of the Moquis. Their land is not a tender
solitude, but a forbidding desolation of escarped cliffs,
overlooking wastes of sand, where the winds wage war
on the small shrubs and venturesome grasses, leaving
to the drought such as they cannot uproot. A few
scrubby trees, spotting the edge of the plain as if they
had looked across the waterless waste, and crouched in
fear, furnish a little brushwood for the fires of the Mo¬
quis, who are fighting out the battle for existence that
is hardly worth the struggle. Fixed habitation any¬
where implies some sort of civilization. The flinty hills
are terraced, and by careful irrigation they manage to
raise corn enough to keep body and soul together. The
seven villages within a circuit of ten miles have been
isolated from the rest of the world through centuries,
yet they have so little intercourse with each other that
their tribal languages, everywhere subject to swift muta¬
tions, are entirely unlike.
Diminutive, low-set men, wrapped in blankets, pas¬
sively sitting on the bare, seared rocks in the sun, are the
ghastly proprietors of a reservation once the scene of
busy activities. They number only 1,600 souls — shreds
of tribes almost exhausted, surrounded by dilapidated
cities unquestionably of great antiquity. The sad heir¬
ship of fallen greatness is written in the emptiness of
their barren estates. Fragments of pottery are pro¬
fusely scattered about; and deeply-worn footpaths lead¬
ing from village to village, down the river-bank and
winding up the plain, mark the ancient thoroughfares,
which are now slightly trodden or utterly deserted.—
The Land of the Pueblos.
WILLIAM ROSS WALLACE
355
ALL ACE, William Ross, an American poet;
born at Lexington, Ky., in 1819; died
^ at New York, May 5, 1881. He was edu¬
cated at Bloomington and South Hanover College,
Ind., studied law at Lexington, and in 1841 removed
to New York, where he practiced his profession. He
engaged in literary work and published a poem, Per-
dita , in the Union Magazine, which was favorably
criticised. His works are Alban , a poetical romance
(1848), and Meditations in America and Other Poems
(1851). His most popular poems are The Sword of
Bunker Hill, a national hymn (1861); Keep Step
with the Music of the Union (1861), and The Liberty
Bell (1862).
THE LIBERTY BELL.
A sound like a sound of thunder rolled,
And the heart of a nation stirred —
For the bell of Freedom, at midnight tolled,
Through a mighty land was heard.
And the chime still rung
From its iron tongue
Steadily swaying to and fro;
And to some it came
Like a breath of flame —
And to some a sound of woe.
Above the dark mountain, above the blue wave,
It was heard by the fettered and heard by the brave —
It was heard in the cottage and heard in the hall —
And its chime gave a glorious summons to all.
The sabre was sharpened — the time-rusted blade
Of the Bond started out' in the pioneer’s glade
Like a herald of wrath; and the host was arrayed!
Along the dark mountain, along the blue wave
356 WILLIAM ROSS WALLACE
Swept the ranks of the Bond — swept the ranks of tlm
Brave;
And a shout as of v/aters went up to the dome,
When a star-blazing banner unfurled,
Like the wing of some Seraph flashed out from his
home,
Uttered freedom and hope to the world.
O’er the hill-top and tide its magnificent fold,
With a terrible glitter of azure and gold,
In the storm, in the sunshine, and darkness unrolled.
It blazed in the valley — it blazed on the mast —
It leaped with its eagle abroad on the blast;
And the eyes of whole nations were turned to its light;
And the heart of the multitude soon
Was swayed by its stars, as they shone through the night
Like an ocean when swayed by the moon.
Again through the midnight that Bell thunders out,
And banners and torches are hurried about :
A shout as of waters: a long-uttered cry!
How it leaps, how it leaps from the earth to the sky!
From the sky to the earth, from the earth to the sea,
Hear a chorus reechoed, the people are free !
That old Bell is still seen by the Patriot’s eye,
And he blesses it ever when journeying by;
Long years have passed o’er it, and yet every soul
Will thrill in the night to its wonderful roll —
For it speaks in its belfry, when kissed by the blast,
Like a glory-breathed tone, from the mystical Past.
Long years shall roll o’er it, and yet every chime
Shall unceasingly tell of an era sublime,
More splendid, more dear than the rest of all time.
Oh, yes ! if the flame on our altars should pale
Let its voice but be heard, and the Freeman shall start
To rekindle the fire, while he sees, on the gale,
All the Stars and the Stripes of the Flag of his heart!
WILLIAM ROSS WALLACE
357
THE SWORD OF BUNKER HILL.
He lay upon his dying bed,
His eyes were growing dim,
When with a feeble voice he called
His weeping son to him.
“ Weep not, my boy,” the veteran said,
“ I bow to Heaven’s high will,
But quickly from yon antlers bring
The Sword of Bunker Hill.”
The sword was brought; the soldier’s eyes
Lit with a sudden flame,
And as he grasped the ancient blade,
He murmured Warren’s name.
Then said: “ My boy, I leave you gold,
But what is better still,
I leave you, mark me, mark me now,
The Sword of Bunker Hill.
“ ’Twas on that dread, immortal day
We dared the British band,
A captain raised this sword on me,
I tore it from his hand.
And as the awful battle raged,
It lighted Freedom’s will;
For, boy, the God of Freedom blessed
The Sword of Bunker Hill.
“ O keep the sword, and should the foe
Again invade our land,
My soul will shout from Heaven to see
It flame in your right hand;
For ’twill be double sacrilege
If where sunk tyrant — ill
Power dare to strike Man’s rights won by
The Sword of Bunker Hill.
“ O keep the sword; you know what’s in
The handle’s hollow there:
358
EDMUND WALLER
It shrines, will always shrine, that lock
Of Washington’s own hair.
The terror of oppression’s here;
Despots! your own graves fill,
O’er Vernon’s gift God’s seal is on
The Sword of Bunker Hill.
“ O keep the sword ”— his accents broke;
A smile, and he was dead —
But his wrinkled hands still grasped the blade
Upon that dying bed.
The son remains, the sword remains,
Its glory growing still,
And fifty millions bless the sire
And Sword of Bunker Hill.
A hundred years have smiled o’er us
Since for the priceless gem
Of Might with Right that' moveless make
Our Nation’s diadem.
Putnam, Starke, Prescott, Warren fought
So centuries might thrill
To see the whole world made free by
The Sword of Bunker Hill.
ALLER, Edmund, an English poet; born at
Coleshill, Warwickshire, March 3, 1605;
died at Beaconsfield, October 21, 1687. At
eighteen years of age he entered Parliament. Promi¬
nent as a popular leader, he was nevertheless detected
in a Royalist plot, imprisoned, and heavily fined. On
his release, he lived in France, but returned and was
reconciled to Cromwell, whom he exalted in verse,
and, after the Restoration, execrated. At eighty years
of age he was still in Parliament, under James II.
EDMUND WALLER
359
His poems, published in 1645 and 1690, are some of
them sweet and simple, but are chiefly remarkable for
their polish, and as introducing a French style of
rhymed pentameter couplets (the “heroic”), which
was perfected by Dryden and Pope, but became a uni¬
versal fashion of tedious see-sawing, down to this
century. It has been exquisitely revived, however, in
some of the poems of Oliver Wendell Holmes. The
fourth selection is an example of this measure, from
Waller.
THE BUD.
Lately on yonder swelling bush,
Big with many a coming rose.
This early bud began to blush,
And did but half itself disclose;
I plucked it tnough no better grown,
And now you see how full ’tis blown.
Still, as I did the leaves inspire,
With such a purple light they shone
As if they had been made of fire,
And spreading so would flame anon.
All that was meant by air or sun,
To the young flower my breath has done.
If our loose breath so much can do,
What may the same in forms of love,
Of purest love and music, too,
When Flavia it aspires to move?
When that which lifeless buds persuades
To wax more soft’, her youth invades?
GO, LOVELY ROSE.
Go, lovely rose!
Tell her that' wastes her time and me,
That now she knows,
When I resemble her to thee,
How sweet and fair she seems to be.
36 o
EDMUND WALLER
Tell her that’s young,
And shuns to have her graces spied,
That, liadst thou sprung
In deserts, where no men abide,
Thou must have uncommended died.
Small is the worth
Of beauty from the light retired;
Bid her come forth,
Suffer herself to be desired,
And not blush so to be admired.
Then die! that she
The common fate of all things rare
May read in thee,
How small a part of time they share
That are so wondrous sweet and fair!
OLD AGE AND DEATH.
The seas are quiet when the winds give o’er:
So calm are we when passions are no more:
For then we know how vain it was to boast
Of fleeting things, too certain to be lost.
Clouds of affection from our younger eyes
Conceal that emptiness which age descries.
The soul’s dark cottage, battered and decayed,
Lets in new light through chinks that time has made
Stronger by weakness, wiser men become,
As they draw near to their eternal home.
Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view
That stand upon the threshold of the new.
FROM “ HIS majesty’s ESCAPE AT ST. ANDREWS.”
/
While to his harp divine Arion sings
The love and conquests of our Albion kings.
Of the fourth Edward was his noble song,
Fierce, goodly, valiant, beautiful, and young;
He rent the crown from vanquished Henry’s head,
EDMUND WALLER
361
Raised the white rose, and trampled on the red,
Till love, triumphing o'er the victor’s pride,
Brought Mars and Warwick to the conquered side —
Neglected Warwick, whose bold hand, like fate,
Gives and resumes the sceptre of our state,
Wooes for his Master, and with double shame,
Himself deluded, mocks the princely dame,
The Lady Bona, whom just anger burns;
And foreign war with civil rage, returns.
Ah ! spare your sword, where beauty is to blame,
Love gave the affront, and must repair the same,
When France shall boast of her, whose conquering eyes
Have made the best of English hearts their prize,
Have power to alter the decrees of fate,
And change again the counsels of our state.
ON A GIRDLE.
That which her slender waist confined
Shall now my joyful temples bind;
No monarch but would give his crown,
His arms might do what this hath done.
It was my heaven’s extremest sphere,
The pale which held that lovely deer;
My joy, my grief, my hope, my love.
Did all within this circle move.
A narrow compass! and yet there
Dwelt all that’s good, and all that’s fair.
Give me but what this ribbon bound,
Take all the rest the sun goes round!
ON LOVE.
Anger, in hasty words or blows,
Itself discharges on our foes;
And sorrow, too, finds some relief
In tears, which v/ait upon our grief
So every passion, but fond love,
Unto its own redress does move;
36 2
EDMUND WALLER
But that alone the wretch inclines
To what prevents his own designs,
Makes him lament, and sigh, and weep,
Disordered, tremble, fawn, and creep;
Postures which render him despised,
Where he endeavors to be prized.
For women — born to be controlled —
Stoop to the forward and the bold;
Affect the haughty and the proud,
The gay, the frolic, and the loud.
Who first the generous steed oppressed
Not kneeling did salute the beast;
But with high courage, life, and force,
Approaching, tamed th’ unruly horse.
Unwisely we the wiser East
Pity, supposing them oppressed
With tyrants’ force, whose law is will,
By which they govern, spoil, and kill;
Each nymph, but moderately fair,
Commands with no less rigour here.
Should some brave Turk, that walks among
Elis twenty lasses, bright and young,
Behold as many gallants here,
With modest guise and silent fear,
All to one female idol bend,
While her high pride does scarce descend
To mark their follies, he would swear
That these her guards of eunuchs were,
And that a more majestic queen,
Or humbler slaves, he had not seen.
All this with indignation spoke.
In vain I struggle with the yoke
Of mighty Love; that conquering look
When next beheld, like lightning strook
My blasted soul, and made me bow
Lower than those I pitied now.
So the tall stag, upon the brink
Of some smooth stream about to drink,
Surveying there his armed head,
With shame remembers that he fled
The scorned dogs, resolves to try
EDMUND WALLER
363
The combat next; but if their cry
Invades again his trembling ear,
He straight resumes his wonted care;
Leaves the untasted spring behind,
And, winged with fear, outflies the wind.
ON THE MARRIAGE OF THE DWARFS.
Design or chance makes others wive,
But nature did this match contrive:
Eve might as well have Adam fled,
As she denied her little bed
To him, for whom Heaven seemed to frame
And measure out this only dame.
Thrice happy is that humble pair,
Beneath the level of all care !
Over whose heads those arrows fly
Of sad distrust and jealousy.
Secured in as high extreme,
As if the world held none but them.
To him the fairest nymphs do shew
Like moving mountains topped with snow;
And every man a Polypheme
Does to his Galatea seem.
Ah ! Chloris, that kind Nature thus
From all the world had severed us;
Creating for ourselves us two,
As Love has me for only you!
FROM ‘ A PANEGYRIC TO MY LORD PROTECTOR.’
While with a strong and yet a gentle hand,
You bridle faction, and our hearts command,
Protect us from ourselves, and from the foe,
Make us unite, and make us conquer too ;
Let' partial spirits still aloud complain,
Think themselves injured that they cannot reign,
And own no liberty, but where they may
Without control upon their fellows prey.
EDMUND WALLER
Above the waves, as Neptune shewed his face,
To chide the winds, and save the Trojan race,
So has your Highness, raised above the rest,
Storms of ambition tossing us repressed.
Your drooping country, torn with civil hate
Restored by you, is made a glorious state;
The seat of empire, where the Irish come,
And the unwilling Scots, to fetch their doom.
The sea’s our own and now all nations greet,
With bending sails, each vessel of our fleet;
Your power extends as far as winds can blow,
Or swelling sails upon the globe may go.
Heaven, that hath placed this island to give law,
To balance Europe, and its states to awe,
In this conjunction doth on Britain smile,
The greatest leader, and the greatest isle!
Whether this portion of the world were rent
By the rude ocean from the continent,
Or thus created, it was sure designed
To be the sacred refuge of mankind.
Hither the oppressed shall henceforth resort,
Justice to crave, and succour at your court;
And then your Highness, not for ours alone,
But for the world’s Protector shall be known. . . .
Still as you rise, the state exalted too,
Finds no distemper while ’tis changed by you;
Changed like the world’s great scene! when, without
noise
The rising sun night’s vulgar lights destroys.
Had you, some ages past, this race of glory
Run, with amazement we should read }^our story;
But living virtue, all achievements past,
Meets envy still to grapple with at last.
EDMUND WALLER
365
This Caesar found; and that ungrateful age,
With losing him, went back to blood and rage;
Mistaken Brutus thought to break their yoke,
But cut the bond of union with that stroke.
That sun once set, a thousand meaner stars
Gave a dim light to violence and wars;
To such a tempest as now threatens all,
Did not your mighty arm prevent the fall.
If Rome’s great senate could not wield that sword,
Which of the conquered world had made them lord,
What hope had ours, while yet the power was new,
To rule victorious armies, but by you?
You, that had taught them to subdue their foes,
Could order teach, and their high sp’rits compose;
To every duty could their minds engage,
Provoke their courage, and command their rage.
So when a lion shakes his dreadful mane,
And angry grows, if he that first took pain
To tame his youth approach the haughty beast,
He bends to him but frights away the rest.
As the vexed world, to find repose, at last
Itself into Augustus’ arms did cast;
So England now does, with like toil opprest,
Her weary head upon your bosom rest.
Then let Muses, with such notes as these,
Instruct us what belongs unto our peace.
Your battles they hereafter shall indite,
And draw the image of our Mars in fight.
Tell of towns stormed, and armies overrun,
And mighty kingdoms by your conduct won:
How, while you thundered, clouds of dust did choke
Contending troops, and seas lay hid in smoke.
366
HORACE WALPOLE
Illustrious acts high raptures do infuse,
And every conqueror creates a Muse !
Here, in low strains, your milder deeds we sing,
But there, my lord, we’ll bays and olives bring
To crown your head; while you in triumph ride
O’er conquered nations, and the sea beside:
While all your neighbour Princes unto you,
Like Joseph’s sheaves, pay reverence and due.
ALPOLE, PIorace, Earl of Orford, an Eng¬
lish critic and wit; born at Houghton, Nor¬
folk, October 5, 1717; died at Strawberry
Hill, March 2, 1797. He was the son of Sir Rob¬
ert Walpole, who is called the foremost Englishman
of his time. He was educated at Eton and Cam¬
bridge, and traveled with the poet Gray. Returning,
he entered Parliament, and continued to be a mem¬
ber of it twenty-seven years. He built a nondescript
edifice at Twickenham, naming it Strawberry Hill,
and filled it with costly works of art and literature.
Plis fame rests on his letters, descriptive of people
and events of his time, and numbering nearly three
thousand. The first collection of these, by Cunning¬
ham (1857-59), filled nine large octavos. Scott and
Byron pronounced the letters incomparable. Besides
these, he was author of AEdes Walpoliance (1774),
describing his father’s pictures; The Castle of Otranto,
an extravagant romance; Anecdotes of Painting;
Catalogue of Engravers: Catalogue of Nohle and
Royal Authors; Historic Doubts on the Life and Reign
HORACE WALPOLE
rtf< *7
o'-v
l
of Richard III.; Reminiscences of the Courts of
George I. and* George II., and memoirs and journals
relating to the reigns of the second and third Georges.
THE BRITISH NAVY.
When Britain, looking with a just disdain
Upon this gilded majesty of Spain,
And knowing well that empire must decline
Whose chief support and sinews are of coin,
Our nation’s solid virtue did oppose
To the rich troublers of the world’s repose.
And now some months, encamping on the main,
Our naval army had besieged Spain:
They that the whole world’s monarchy designed,
Are to their ports by our bold fleet confined,
From whence our red cross they triumphant see,
Riding without a rival on the sea.
Others may use the ocean as their road,
Only the English make it their abode,
Whose ready sails with every wind can fly,
And make a covenant with the unconstant sky:
Our oaks secure, as if they there took root,
We tread on billows with a steady foot.
AT PENSHURST.
While in this park I sing, the listening deer
Attend my passion, and forget to fear;
When to the beeches I report my flame,
They bow their heads, as if they felt the same.
To gods appealing, when I reach their bowers
With loud complaints, they answer me in showers.
To thee a wild and cruel soul is given,
More deaf than trees, and prouder than the heaven !
Love’s foe professed! why dost thou falsely feign
Thyself a Sidney? from which noble strain
He sprung, that could so far exalt the name
Of Love, and warm our nation with his flame.
That all we can of love or high desire,
368
HORACE WALPOLE
Seems but the smoke of amorous Sidney’s fire.
Nor call her mother who so well does prove
One breast may hold both chastity and love.
Never can she, that so exceeds the spring
In joy and bounty, be supposed to bring
One so destructive. To no human stock
We owe this fierce unkindness, but the rock;
That cloven rock produced thee, by whose side
Nature, to recompense the fatal pride
Of such stern beauty, placed those healing springs
Which not more help than that destruction brings.
The heart no ruder than the rugged stone,
I might, like Orpheus, with my numerous moan
Melt to compassion; now my traitorous song
With thee conspires to do the singer wrong;
While thus I suffer not myself to lose
The memory of what augments my woes;
But with my own breath still foment the fire,
Which flames as high as fancy can aspire !
This last complaint the indulgent ears did pierce
Of just Apollo, president of verse;
Highly concerned that the Muse should bring
Damage to one whom he had taught to sing
Thus he advised me: ‘ On yon aged tree
Hang up thy lute, and hie thee to the sea,
That there with wonders thy diverted mind
Some truce, at least, may with this passion find.
Ah, cruel nymph ! from whom her humble swain
Flies for relief unto the raging main,
And from the winds and tempests does expect
A milder fate than from her cold neglect!
Yet there he’ll pray that the unkind may prove
Blest in her choice; and vows this endless love
Springs from no hope of what she can confer,
But from those gifts which Heaven has heaped on her
STRAWBERRY HILL.
You perceive that I have got into a new camp, and have
left my tub at Windsor. It is a little plaything house that
HORACE WALPOLE
369
I have got out of this Chevenix’s shop [Strawberry Hill
had been occupied by Mrs. Chevenix, a toy-woman!], and
is the prettiest bauble you ever saw. It is set in enam¬
elled meadows, with filigree hedges —
A small Euphrates through the piece is rolled,
And little fishes wave their wings of gold.
Two delightful roads, that you would call dusty, supply me
continually with coaches and chaises; and barges, as
solemn as barons of the Exchequer, move under my win¬
dow. Richmond Hill and Ham Walks bound my pros¬
pect ; but, thank God ! the Thames is between me and the
Duchess of Queensberry. Dowagers, as plenty as floun¬
ders, inhabit all around; and Pope’s ghost is just now,
.skimming under my window by a most poetical moonlight.
THE SCOTTISH REBELLION. — Nov. 15, I745.
I told you in my last what disturbance there had been
about the new regiments; the affair of rank was again
disputed on the report till ten at night, and carried by a
majority of twenty-three. The king had been persuaded
to appear for it, though Lord Granville made it a party-
point against Mr. Pelham. Winnington did not speak.
I was not there, for I could not vote for it, and yielded
not to give any hindrance to a public measure — or at
least what was called so—just now. The prince acted
openly, and influenced his people against it; but it only
served to let Mr. Pelham see what, like everything else,
he did not know — how strong he is. The prince will
scarce speak to him, and he cannot yet get Pitt into place.
The rebels are come into England; for two days we
believed them near Lancaster, but the ministry now own
that they don’t know if they have passed Carlisle. Some
think they will besiege that town, which has an old wall,
and all the militia in it of Cumberland and Westmore¬
land ; but as they can pass by it, I don’t see why they
should take it, for they are not strong enough to leave
garrisons. Several desert them as they advance south;
Vol. XXIII.—24
3/0
HORACE WALPOLE
and altogether, good men and bad, nobody believes them
ten thousand. By their marching westward to avoid
Wade, it is evident that they are not strong enough to
fight him. They may yet retire back into their moun¬
tains, but if once they get to Lancaster, their retreat is
cut off; for Wade will not stir from Newcastle till he
has embarked them deep into England, and then he will
be behind them. He has sent General Handasyde from
Berwick with two regiments to take possession of Edin¬
burgh. The rebels are certainly in a very desperate
situation; they dared not meet Wade; and if they had
waited for him, their troops would have deserted. Unless
they meet with great risings in their favour in Lan¬
cashire, I don’t see what they can hope, except from a
continuation of our neglect. That, indeed, has nobly
exerted itself for them. They were suffered to march
the whole length of Scotland, and take possession of the
capital, without a man appearing against them. Then
two thousand men sailed to them, to run from them. Till
the flight of Cope’s army, Wade was not sent. Two
roads still lay into England, and till they had chosen that
which Wade had not taken, no army was thought of
being sent to secure the other. Now Ligonier, with seven
old regiments, and six of the new, is ordered to Lan¬
cashire; before this first division of the army could get
to Coventry, they are forced to order it to halt, for fear
the enemy should be up with it before it was all assem¬
bled. It is uncertain if the rebels will march to the north
of Wales to Bristol, or towards London. If to the latter,
Ligonier must fight them; if to either of the other, which
I hope, the two armies may join and drive them into a
corner, where they must' all perish. They cannot subsist
in Wales but by being supplied by the papists in Ireland.
The best is, that we are in no fear from France; there
is no preparation for invasions in any of their ports.
Lord Clancarty, a Scotchman of great parts, but mad
and drunken, and whose family forfeited £90,000 a year
for King James, is made vice-admiral at Brest. The
Duke of Bedford goes in his little round person with
HORACE WALPOLE
37 r
his regiment; he now takes to the land, and says he is
tired of being a pen-and-ink man. Lord Gower insisted,
too, upon going with his regiment, but is laid up with
the gout.
With the rebels in England, you may imagine we have
no private news, nor think of foreign. From this ac¬
count you may judge that our case is far from desperate,
though disagreeable. The prince, while the princess
lies-in, has taken to give dinners, to which he asks two
of the ladies of the bed-chamber, two of the maids of
honour, &c., by turns, and five or six others. He sits at
the head of the table, drinks and harangues to all this
medley till nine at night; and the other day, after the
affair of the regiments, drank Mr. Fox’s health in a bum-
per, with three huzzas, for opposing Mr. Pelham:
“ Si qua fata aspera rumpas,
Tu Marcellus eris ! ”
[Ah! couldst thou break through Fate’s severe decree,
A new Marcellus shall arise in thee.— Dryden.~\
You put me in pain for my eagle, and in more for
the Chutes, whose zeal is very heroic, but very ill
placed. I long to hear that all my Chutes and eagles
are safe out of the Pope’s hands ! Pray, wish the Suar-
eses joy of all their espousals. Does the princess pray
abundantly for her friend the Pretender ? Is she ex¬
tremely abattue with her devotion? and does she fast till
she has got a violent appetite for simper? And then,
does she eat so long, that old Sarrasin is quite impatient
to go to cards again ? Good-night! I intend you shall
still be resident from King George.
PS. — I forgot to tell you that the other day I con¬
cluded the ministry knew the danger was all over; for
the Duke of Newcastle ventured to have the Pretender’s
declaration burnt at the Royal Exchange.
HORACE WALPOLE
NOV. 22, 1745.
For these two days we have been expecting news of a
battle. Wade marched last Saturday from Newcastle,
and must have got up with the rebels if they stayed for
him, though the roads are exceedingly bad, and great'
quantities of snow have fallen. But last night there was
some notice of a body of rebels being advanced to Pen¬
rith. We were put into great spirits by a heroic letter
from the mayor of Carlisle, who had fired on the rebels
and made them retire; he concluded with saying: “ And
so I think the town of Carlisle has done his majesty more
service than the great city of Edinburgh, or than all
Scotland together? But this hero, who was grown the
whole fashion for four-and-twenty hours, had chosen to
stop all other letters. The king spoke of him at his levee
with great encomiums; Lord Stair said: “Yes, sir;
Mr. Patterson has behaved very bravely.” The Duke of
Bedford interrupted him: “My lord, his name is not
Patterson; that is a Scotch name; his name is PattinsonC
But, alack! the next day the rebels returned, having
placed the women and children of the country in wagons
in front of their army, and forcing the peasants to fix the
scaling-ladders. The great Mr. Pattinson, or Patterson
— for now his name may be which one pleases — in¬
stantly surrendered the town, and agreed to pay two
thousand pounds to save it from pillage.
August 1, 1746.
I am this moment come from the conclusion of the
greatest and most melancholy scene I ever yet saw ! you
will easily guess it was the trials of the rebel lords. As
it was the most interesting sight, it was the most solemn
and fine; a coronation is a puppet-show, and all the
splendour of it, idle; but this sight at once feasted one’s
eyes and engaged all one’s passions. It began last Mon¬
day; three-parts of Westminster Hall were inclosed with
galleries, and hung with scarlet; and the whole ceremony
was conducted with the most awful solemnity and de¬
cency, except in the one point of leaving the prisoners
HORACE WALPOLE
373
at the bar, amidst the idle curiosity of some crowd, and
even with the witnesses who had sworn against them,
while the Lords adjourned to their own house to consult.
No part of the royal family was there, which was a
proper regard to the unhappy men who were become their
victims. One hundred and thirty-nine Lords were pres¬
ent, and made a noble sight on their benches frequent
and full! The Chancellor was Lord High Steward; but
though a most comely personage with a fine voice, his
behaviour was mean, curiously searching for occasion
to bow to the minister that is no peer, and consequently
applying to the other ministers, in a manner, for their
orders; and not even ready to the ceremonial. To the
prisoners he was peevish; and instead of keeping up to
the humane dignity of the law of England, whose char¬
acter it is to point out favour to the criminal, he crossed
them, and almost scolded at any offer they made towards
defence. I had armed myself with all the resolution I
could, with the thought of their crimes and of the danger
past, and was assisted by the sight of the Marquis of
Lothian in weepers for his son, who fell at Culloden —
but the first appearance of the prisoners shocked me;
their behaviour melted me ! Lord Kilmarnock and Lord
Cromartie are both past forty, but look younger. Lord
Kilmarnock is tall and slender, with an extreme fine per¬
son; his behavior is a most just mixture between dignity
and submission; if in anything to be reprehended, a little
affected, and his hair too exactly dressed for a man in
his situation; but when I say this, it is not to find fault
with him, but' to shew how little fault there was to be
found. Lord Cromartie is an indifferent figure, appeared
much dejected, and rather sullen: he dropped a few tears
the first day, and swooned as soon as he got back to his
cell. For Lord Balmerino, he is the most natural brave
old fellow I ever saw; the highest intrepidity, even to
indifference. At the bar he behaved like a soldier and
a man; in the intervals of form, with carelessness and
humour. He pressed extremely to have his wife, his
pretty Peggy, with him in the Tower. Lady Cromartie
only sees her husband through the grate, not choosing
to be shut up with him, as she thinks she can serve him
HORACE WALPOLE
better by her intercession without. When they were to
be brought from the Tower in separate coaches, there
was some dispute in which the axe must go — old Bab
merino cried, “ Come, come, put it with me.” At the bar,
he plays with his fingers upon the axe, while he talks
to the gentleman-jailer; and one day, somebody coming
up to listen, he took the blade and held it like a fan
between their faces. During the trial, a little boy was
near him, but not tall enough to see; he made room for
the child, and placed him near himself. . . .
When the peers were going to vote, Lord Foley with¬
drew, as too well a wisher; Lord Moray, as nephew of
Lord Balmerino — and Lord Stair, as, I believe, uncle to
his great-grandfather. Lord Windsor, very affectedly,
said, “ I am sorry I must say guilty upon my honour.”
Lord Stamford would not answer to the name of Henry,
having been christened Llarry — what a great way of
thinking on such an occasion ! I was diverted too with
old Norsa, an old Jew that kept a tavern. My brother,
as auditor of the exchequer, has a gallery along one
whole side of the court. I said, “ I really feel for the
prisoners ! ” Old Issachar replied, “ Feel for them ! pray,
if they had succeeded, what would have become of all
us?” When my Lad}^ Townshend heard her husband
vote, she said, “ I always knew my lord was guilty, but I
never thought he would own it upon his honour.” Lord
Balmerino said, that one of his reasons for pleading
not guilty, was, that so many ladies might not be disap¬
pointed of their show. . . . He said, “ They call me
Jacobite; I am no more a Jacobite than any that tried
me; but if the Great Mogul had set up his standard, I
should have followed it, for I could not starve.”
LONDON EARTHQUAKES AND LONDON GOSSIP. -Mar. II,
1751 -
Portents and prodigies are grown so frequent',
That they have lost their name.
My text is not literally true; but as far as earthquakes
go towards lowering the price of wonderful commodities,
HORACE WALPOLE
375
to be sure we are overstocked. We have had a second,
much more violent than the first'; and you must not be
surprised if, by next post, you hear of a burning moun¬
tain sprung up in Smithfield. In the night between
Wednesday and Thursday last — exactly a month since
the first shock — the earth had a shivering fit between
one and two, but so slight, that if no more had followed,
I don’t believe it would have been noticed. I had been
awake, and had scarce dozed again — on a sudden I felt
my bolster lift up my head; I thought somebody was get¬
ting from under my bed, but soon found it was a strong
earthquake, that lasted half a minute, with a violent vibra¬
tion and great roaring. I rang my bell; my servant came
in, frightened out of his senses; in an instant we heard
all the windows in the neighborhood flung up. I got up
and found people running into the streets, but saw no
mischief done: there has been some; two' old houses flung
down, several chimneys, and much china-ware. The bells
rung in several houses. Admiral Knowles, who has lived
long in Jamaica, and felt seven there, says this was more
violent than any of them: Francesco prefers it to the
dreadful one at Leghorn. The wise say, that if we have
not rain soon, we shall certainly have more. Several
people are going out of town, for it has nowhere reached
above ten miles from London: they say they are not
frightened, but that it is such fine weather, “ Lord! one
can’t help going into the country! ” The only visible
effect it has had was on the Ridotto, at which, being the
following night, there were but four hundred people. A
parson who came into White’s the morning of earth¬
quake the first, and heard bets laid on whether it was
an earthquake or the blowing up of powder-mills, went
away exceedingly scandalized, and said: “ I protest they
are such an impious set of people, that I believe if the
last trumpet was to sound, they would bet puppet-show
against Judgment.” If we get any nearer still to the
torrid zone, I shall pique myself on sending you a pres¬
ent of cedrati and orange-flower water; I am already
planning a terreno for Strawberry Hill.
The Middlesex election is carried against the court:
the Prince in a green frock — and I won’t swear but in a
376
HORACE WALPOLE
Scotch plaid waistcoat — sat under the park-wall in his
chair, and hallooed the voters on to Brentford. The
Jacobites are so transported, that they are opening sub¬
scriptions for all boroughs that shall be vacant — this is
wise ! They will spend their money to carry a few more
seats in a parliament where they will never have the
majority, and so have none to carry the general elections.
The omen, however, is bad for Westminster; the high-
bailiff went to vote for the opposition.
THE BURIAL OF GEORGE THE SECOND.
Do you know I had the curiosity to go to the burying
t’other night ? I had never seen a royal funeral; nay,
I walked as a rag of quality, which I found would be,
and so it was, the easiest way of seeing it. It is abso¬
lutely a noble sight. The Prince’s chamber, hung with
purple and a quantity of silver lamps, the coffin under
a canopy of purple velvet, and six vast chandeliers on high
stands, had a very good effect'. The ambassador from
Tripoli and his son were carried to see that chamber.
The procession, through a line of foot-guards, every sev¬
enth man bearing a torch, the horse-guards lining the
outside, their officers with drawn sabres and crape sashes
on horseback, the drums muffled, the fifes, bells tolling,
and minute-guns — all this was very solemn. But the
charm was the entrance of the Abbey, where we were
received by the Dean and Chapter in rich robes, the choir
and almsmen bearing torches; the whole Abbey so illu¬
minated, that one saw it to greater advantage than by
day; the tombs, long aisles, and fretted roof all appearing
distinctly, and with the happiest chiaroscuro. There
wanted nothing but incense, and little chapels here and
there, with priests saying masses for the repose of the
defunct; yet, one could not complain of its not being
Catholic enough. I had been in dread of being coupled
with some boy of ten years old; but the heralds were not
very accurate, and. I walked with George Grenville, taller
and older, to keep me countenance. When we came to
the chapel of Henry the Seventh, all solemnity and de-
HORACE WALPOLE
/ 7
corum ceased; no order was observed, people sat or stood
where they could or would; the yeoman of the guard
were crying out for help, oppressed by the immense
weight of the coffin; the Bishop read sadly, and blundered
in the prayers; the fine chapter, Man that is born of a
woman, was chanted, not read; and the anthem, besides
being immeasurably tedious, would have served as well
for a nuptial. The really serious part was the figure or
the Duke of Northumberland, heightened by a thousand
melancholy circumstances. He had a dark-brown adonis,
and a cloak of black cloth, with a train of five yards.
Attending the funeral of a father could not be pleasant;
his leg extremely bad, yet forced to stand upon it near
two hours; his face bloated and distorted with his late
paralytic stroke, which has affected, too, one of his eyes,
and placed over the mouth of the vault, into which, in all
probability, he himself so soon must descend; think how
unpleasant a situation ! He bore it all with a firm and
unaffected countenance. This grave scene was fully con¬
trasted by the burlesque Duke of Newcastle. He fell
into a fit of crying the moment he came into the chapel,
and flung himself back in a stall, the Archbishop hover¬
ing over him with a smelling-bottle; but in two minutes
his curiosity got the better of his hypocrisy, and he ran
about the chapel to spy who was or was not there, spy¬
ing with one hand, and mopping his eyes with the other.
Then returned the fear of catching cold; and the Duke
of Cumberland, who was sinking with heat, felt himself
weighed down, and turning round, found it was the Duke
of Newcastle, standing upon his train to avoid the chill
of the marble. (1760, November 13.)
THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE MARRIED TO GEORGE III.
Arlington Street, September 10, 1761.
When we least expected the Queen, she came, after
being ten days at sea, but without sickness for above
half an hour. She was gay the whole voyage, sung to
her harpsichord, and left the door of her cabin open.
378
HORACE WALPOLE
They made the coast of Suffolk last Saturday, and on
Monday morning she landed at Harwich; so prosper¬
ously has Lord Anson executed his commission. She lay
that night at your old friend Lord Abercorn’s, at Witham,
in Essex; and, if she judged by her host, must have
thought that she was coming to reign in the realm of
taciturnity. She arrived at St. James’s at a quarter after
three on Tuesday the 8th. When she first saw the palace
she turned pale; the Duchess of Hamilton smiled. “ My
dear Duchess,” said the Princess, “you may laugh; you
have been married twice; but it is no joke to me.” Is
this a bad proof of her sense? On the journey they
wanted her to curl her toupet. “ No, indeed,” said she,
“ I think it looks as well as those of the ladies who have
been sent for me; if the King would have me wear a peri¬
wig, I will; otherwise I shall let myself alone.” The
Duke of York gave her his hand at the garden-gate; her
lips trembled, but she jumped out with spirit. In the
garden the King met her: she would have fallen at his
feet; he prevented and embraced her, and led her into the
apartments, where she was received by the Princess of
Wales and Lady Augusta. These three Princesses only
dined with the King. At ten the procession went to the
chapel, preceded by unmarried daughters of peers and
peeresses in plenty. The new Princess was led by the
Duke of York and Prince William; the Archbishop mar¬
ried them; the King talked to her the whole time with
great good-humor, and the Duke of Cumberland gave her
away. She is not tall nor a beauty; pale and very thin;
but looks sensible, and is genteel. Her hair is darkish
and fine; her forehead low, her nose very well, except the
nostrils spreading too wide; her mouth has the same
fault, but her teeth are good. She talks a good deal, and
French tolerably; possesses herself, is frank, but with
great respect to the King. After the ceremony, the whole
company came into the drawing-room for about ten min¬
utes, but nobody was presented that night'. The Queen
was in white and silver; an endless mantle of violet-
colored velvet, lined with ermine, and attempted to be
fastened on her shoulders by a bunch of large pearls,
■ dragged itself and almost the rest of her clothes half-way
HORACE WALPOLE
379
down her waist. On her head was a beautiful little tiara
of diamonds; a diamond necklace, and a stomacher of
diamonds worth three score thousand pounds, which she
is to wear at the Coronation, too.
THE AMERICAN WAR.
The Cabinet have determined on a civil war. . . .
There is food for meditation! Will the French you con¬
verse with be civil and keep their countenances ? Pray
remember it is not decent to be dancing at Paris, when
there is civil war in your own country. You would be
like the country squire, who passed by with his hounds
when the battle of Edgehill began. (1775, January 22.)
I forgot to tell you that the town of Birmingham has
petitioned the Parliament to enforce the American Acts,
that is, make war; for they have a manufacture of swords
and muskets. (1775, January 27.)
The war with our Colonies, which is now declared, is
a proof how much influence jargon has on human af¬
fairs. A war on our own trade is popular! Both
Houses are as eager for it as they were for conquering
the Indies — which acquits them a little of rapine, when
they are as glad of what will impoverish them as of what
they fancied was to enrich them. (1775, February.)
You will not be surprised that I am what I always was,
a zealot for liberty in every part of the globe, and con¬
sequently that I most heartily wish success to the Amer¬
icans. They have hitherto not made one blunder; and
the Administration have made a thousand, besides two
capital ones, of first provoking, and then uniting the
Colonies. The latter seem to have as good heads as
hearts, as we want both. (1775, September 7.)— Letters.
LETTER TO SIR HORACE MANN.
Arlington Street, March 17, 1757.
Admiral Byng’s tragedy was completed on Monday —
a perfect tragedy, for there were variety of incidents,
villainy, murder, and a hero! His sufferings, persecu¬
tions, aspersions, disturbances, nay, the revolutions of
380
HORACE WALPOLE
his fate, had not in the least unhinged his mind; his
whole behavior was natural and firm. A few days be¬
fore, one of his friends standing by him, said, “ Which of
us is tallest?’’ He replied, “Why this ceremony? I
know what it means; let the man come and measure me
for my coffin.” He said, that being acquitted of coward¬
ice, and being persuaded on the coolest reflection that he
had acted for the best, and should act so again, he was
not unwilling to suffer. He desired to be shot on the
quarter-deck, not where common malefactors are; came
out at twelve, sat down in a chair, for he would not
kneel, and refused to have his face covered, that his
countenance might show whether he feared death; but
being told that it might frighten his executioners, he sub¬
mitted, gave the signal at once, received one shot through
the head, another through the heart, and fell. Do cow¬
ards live or die thus? Can that man want spirit who
only fears to terrify his executioners?
This scene is over ! what will be the next is matter of
great uncertainty. The new Ministers are well weary
of their situation; without credit at court, without in¬
fluence in the House of Commons, undermined every¬
where, I believe they are too sensible not to desire to be
delivered of their burden, which those who increase yet
dread to take on themselves. Mr. Pitt’s health is as bad
as his situation; confidence between the other factions
almost impossible; yet I believe their impatience will
prevail over their distrust. The nation expects a change
every day, and being a nation, I believe, desires it; and
being the English nation, will condemn it the moment
it is made. These are the politics of the week: the
diversions are balls, and the two Princes frequent them;
but the eldest nephew [afterward George IIP] remains
shut up in a room, where, as desirous as they are of
keeping him, I believe he is now and then incommode.
The Duke of Richmond has made two balls on his ap¬
proaching wedding with Lady Mary Bruce (Mr. Con¬
way’s daughter-in-law) : it is the perfectest match in the
world; youth, beauty, riches, alliances, and all the blood
of all the kings from Robert Bruce to Charles II. They
IZAAK WALTON 381
are the prettiest couple in England, except the father-
in-law and mother.
As I write so often to you, you must be content with
shorter letters, which, however, are always as long as I
can make them. This summer will not contract our
correspondence. Adieu! my dear Sir.
ALTON, Izaak, an English biographer and
essayist, known as the “ father of angling ”;
born at Stafford, August 9, 1593; died at
Winchester, December 15, 1683. He went to London
at an early age, where he entered into the business
of “ sempster,” or linen-draper, which he carried on
in a “ little shop seven feet and a half long, and five
feet wide.” At fifty he retired with a competency, and
passed the remaining forty years of his life in easy
quiet. Tradesman in a moderate way as he was, he
moved in intellectual society. His principal works
are Life of Dr. Donne (1640) ; Life of Sir Henry
Wotton (1651) ; The Complete Angler, or Contem¬
plative Man's Recreation (1655) 1 Life of Richard
Hooker (1662) ; Life of George Herbert (1670) ; Life
of Bishop Sanderson (1678), and two letters on The
Distempers of the Times (1680).
Walton’s great work is The Complete Angler, a
treatise on his favorite art of fishing, in which the
precepts for the sport are combined with such inimita¬
ble descriptions of English river scenery, such charm¬
ing dialogues, and so prevailing a tone of gratitude
for God’s goodness, that the book is absolutely unique
in literature. The passion of the English for all kinds
of field-sports and out-of-door amusements is closely
332
IZAAK WALTON
connected with sensibility to the loveliness of rural
nature; and the calm home-scenes of our national
scenery are reflected with a loving truth in Walton’s
descriptions of those quiet rivers and daisied meadows
which the good old man haunted, rod in hand. The
treatise, with a quaint gravity that adds to its charm,
is thrown into a ( series of dialogues, first between
Piscator Venator, and Auceps, each of whom in turn
proclaims the superiority of his favorite sport, and
afterwards between Piscator and Venator, the latter of
whom is converted by the angler, and becomes his dis¬
ciple. Mixed up with technical precepts, now become
a little obsolete, are an infinite number of descriptions
of angling-days, together with dialogues breathing the
sweetest sympathy with natural beauty and a pious phi¬
losophy that make Walton one of the most eloquent
teachers of virtue and religion. The expressions are
as pure and sweet and graceful as the sentiment; and
the occasional occurrence of a little touch of old-fash¬
ioned, innocent pedantry only adds to the indefinable
fascination of the work, breaking up its monotony
like a ripple upon the sunny surface of a stream. No
other literature possesses a book similar to The Com¬
plete Angler, the popularity of which seems likely to
last as long as the language.
The greater part in the conversation is borne by
Piscator, although the others have not a few pleasant
things to say about their respective crafts, as the sub¬
joined, by Auceps:
ENGLISH BIRDS OF SONG.
At first the lark, when she means to rejoice, to cheer
herself, and those that hear her, she then quits the
earth, and sings as she ascends higher into the air; and
IZAAK WALTON
3§3
having ended her heavenly employment, grows then,
mute and sad, to think she must descend to the dull
earth, which she would not touch but for necessity.
How do the blackbird and the throssel, with their me¬
lodious voices, bid welcome to the cheerful Spring, and
in their fixed mouths warble forth such ditties as no art
or instrument can reach to. Nay, the smaller birds do
the like in their particular seasons; as, namely, the
laverock, the titlark, the little linnet, and the honest
robin, that loves mankind, both alive and dead. But the
nightingale, another of my airy creatures, breathes such
sweet, loud music out of her little, instrumental throat
that it might make mankind to think miracles are not
ceased. He that at midnight, when the very laborer
sleeps securely, should hear — as I have very often — the
clear airs, the sweet descants, the natural rising and
falling, the doubling and redoubling of her voice, might
well be lifted above earth, and say: “ Lord, what music
hast Thou provided for the saints in heaven, when Thou
affordest to bad men such music upon earth! ”—The
Complete Angler.
To Izaak Walton angling is the chief end of man.
“ It is,” says he, “ something like poetry — men must
be borne to it.” The Saviour nowhere rebukes
anglers for their occupation, “ for He found that the
hearts of such men, by nature, were fitted for con¬
templation and quietness; men of mild, and sweet, and
peaceable spirits, as indeed most anglers are.” He
loves the fish which he catches, and even the live
bait by means of which they are caught; though the
frogs so used might have failed to appreciate his
benevolence.
TREATING TTIE BAIT-FROG.
And thus use your frog that he may continue long
alive; put your hook into his mouth, which you may
easily do from the middle of April till August; and then
384
1 ZAAK WALTON
the frog’s mouth grows up, and he continues so for
at least six months without eating, but is sustained none
but He whose name is Wonderful knows how. I say, put
your hook — I mean the arming-wire — through his
mouth and out at his gills; and with a fine needle and silk
sew the upper part of his leg, with only one stitch, to the
arming-wire of your hook; or tie the frog’s leg above
the upper joint to the arming-wire; and in so doing,
use him as though you loved him; that is, harm him as
little as possible, that he may live the longer.— The Com¬
plete Angler.
Piscator, who has succeeded in convincing Venator
of the superiority of angling, brings his converse with
him to a close by a long moral discourse which thus
concludes:
THANKFULNESS FOR WORLDLY BLESSINGS.
Well, scholar, having n6w taught you to paint your
rod, and we having still a mile to Tottenham High Cross,
I will, as we walk towards it in the cool shade of this
sweet honeysuckle-hedge, mention tO' you some of the
thoughts and joys that have possessed my soul since we
two met together. And these thoughts shall be told you,
that you also may join with me in thankfulness to the
Giver of every good and perfect gift for our happiness.
And that our present happiness may appear to be the
greater, and we the more thankful for it, I will beg you
to consider with me how many do, even at this very time,
lie under the torment of the stone, the gout, and tooth¬
ache ; and this we are free from. And every misery that
I miss is a new mercy; and therefore let us be thankful.
There have been, since we met, others that have met
disasters of broken limbs; some have been blasted, others
thunder-strucken; and we have been freed from these
and all those many other miseries that threaten human
nature: let us therefore rejoice and be thankful. Nay,
which is a far greater mercy, we are free from the un-
supportable burden of an accusing, tormenting conscience
IZAAK WALTON
385
— a misery that none can bear; and therefore let us
praise Him for his preventing grace, and say, Every mis¬
ery that I miss is a new mercy. Nay, let me tell you,
there be many that’ have forty times our estates, that
would give the greatest part of it to be healthful and
cheerful like us, who, with the expense of a little money,
have eat and drank, and laughed, and angled, and sung,
and slept securely; and rose next day, and cast away
care, and sung, and laughed, and angled again, which
are blessings rich men cannot purchase with all their
money. Let me tell you, scholar, I have a rich neighbor
that is always so busy that he has no leisure to laugh;
the whole business of his life is to get money, and more
money, that he may still get more and more money; he
is still drudging on, and says that Solomon says, “ The
hand of the diligent maketh richand it is true indeed:
but he considers not that it is not in the power of riches
to make a man happy: for it was wisely said by a man
of great observation, ‘ that there be as many miseries
beyond riches as on this side them/ And yet God de¬
liver us from pinching poverty, and grant that, having a
competency, we may be content and thankful! Let us
not repine, or so much as think the gifts of God un¬
equally dealt, if we see another abound with riches,
when, as God knows, the cares that are the keys that
keep those riches hang often so heavily at the rich man’s
girdle, that they clog him with weary days and restless
nights, even when others sleep quietly. We see but the
outside of the rich man’s happiness; few consider him to
be like the silkworm, that, when she seems to play, is at
the very same time spinning her own bowels, and con¬
suming herself; and this many rich men do, loading
themselves with corroding cares, to keep what they have
probably unconscionably got. Let us therefore be
thankful for health and competence, and, above all, for
a quiet conscience.
Let me tell you, scholar, that Diogenes walked on a
day, with his friend, to see a country fair, where he saw
ribbons, and looking-glasses, and nut-crackers, and fid¬
dles, and hobby-horses, and many other gimcracks; and
having observed them, and all the other finnimbruns that
Vol. XXIII.— 25
386
1 ZAAK WALTON
make a complete country fair, he said to his friend:
“ Lord, how many things are there in this world of
which Diogenes hath no need ! ” And truly it is so, or
might be so, with very many who vex and toil them¬
selves to get what they have no need of. Can any man
charge God that he hath not given him enough to make
his life happy? No, doubtless; for nature is content with
a little. And yet you shall hardly meet with a man that
complains not of some want, though he, indeed, wants
nothing but his will; it may be, nothing but his will of
his poor neighbor, for not worshipping or not flattering
him: and thus, when we might be happy and quiet, we
create trouble to ourselves. I have heard of a man that
was angry with himself because he was no taller; and
of a woman that broke her looking-glass because it would
not shew her face to be as young and handsome as her
next neighbor’s was. And I knew another to whom
God had given health and plenty, but a wife that nature
had made peevish, and her husband’s riches had made
purse-proud; and must, because she was rich, and for no
other virtue, sit in the highest pew in the church; which
being denied her, she engaged her husband into a conten¬
tion for it, and at last into a lawsuit with a dogged
neighbor, who was as rich as he, and had a wife as
peevish and purse-proud as the other; and this lawsuit
begot higher oppositions and actionable words, and more
vexations and lawsuits; for you must remember that both
were rich, and must therefore have their wills. Well,
this wilful purse-proud lawsuit lasted during the life of
the first husband, after which his wife vexed and chid,
and chid and vexed, till she also chid and vexed herself
into her grave; and so the wealth of these poor rich
people was cursed into a punishment, because they wanted
meek and thankful hearts, for those only can make us
happy. I knew a man that had health and riches, and
several houses, all beautiful and ready furnished, and
would often trouble himself and family to be removing
from one house to another; and being asked by a friend
why he removed so often from one house to another,
replied: “It was to find content in some one of them.”
But his friend knowing his temper, told him “ if he would
IZAAK WALTON
387
find content in any of his houses, he must leave himself
behind him; for content will never dwell but in a meek
and quiet soul.” And this may appear, if we read and
consider what our Saviour says in St. Matthew’s gospel,
for he there says: ‘‘Blessed be the merciful, for they
shall obtain mercy. Blessed be the pure in heart, for
they shall see God. Blessed be the poor in spirit, for
theirs is the kingdom of heaven. And blessed be the
meek, for they shall possess the earth.” Not that the
meek shall not also obtain mercy, and see God, and be
comforted, and at last come to the kingdom of heaven;
but, in the meantime, he, and he only, possesses the earth,
as he goes toward that kingdom of heaven, by being
humble and cheerful, and content with what his good
God has allotted him. He has no turbulent, repining,
vexatious thoughts that he deserves better; nor is vexed
when he sees others possessed of more honor or more
riches than his wise God has allotted for his share; but
he possesses what he has with a meek and contented
quietness, such a quietness as makes his very dreams
pleasing, both to God and himself.
My honest scholar, all this is told to incline you to
thankfulness; and, to incline you the more, let me tell
you, that though the prophet David was guilty of murder
and adultery, and many other of the most deadly sins, yet
he was said to be a man after God’s own heart, because
he abounded more with thankfulness than any other that'
is mentioned in holy Scripture,’ as may appear in his
book of Psalms, where there is such a commixture of
his confessing of his sins and unworthiness, and such
thankfulness for God’s pardon and mercies, as did make
him to be accounted, even by God himself, to be a man
after his own heart; and let us, in that, labour to be as
like him as we can: let not the blessings we receive
daily from God make us not to' value, or not praise Him,
because they be common: let' not us forget to praise Him
for the innocent mirth and pleasure we have met with
since we met together. What would a blind man give to
see the pleasant rivers and meadows, and flowers and
fountains, that we have met with since we met together!
I have been told, that if a man that was born blind could
388
IZAAK WALTON
obtain to have his sight for but only one hour during
his whole life, and should, at the first opening of his
eyes, fix his sight upon the sun when it was in his full
glory, either at the rising or setting of it, he would be so
transported and amazed, and so admire the glory of it,
that he would not willingly turn his eyes from that first
ravishing object to behold all the other various beauties
this world could present to him. And this and many
other like blessings we enjoy daily. And for most of
them, because they be so common, most men forget to
pay their praises; but let not us, because it is a sacrifice
so pleasing to Him that made that sun and us, and still
protects us, and gives us flowers, and showers, and stom¬
achs, and meat, and content, and leisure to go a-fishing.
Well, scholar, I have almost tired myself, and I fear,
more than almost tired you. But I now see Tottenham
High Cross, and our short walk thither will put a period
to my too long discourse, in which my meaning was, and
is, to plant that in your mind with which I labor to
possess my own soul — that is, a meek and thankful
heart. And to that end I have shewed you, that riches
without them (meekness and thankfulness) do not make
any man happy. But let me tell you that riches with
them remove many fears and cares. And therefore my
advice is, that you endeavor to be honestly rich, or con¬
tentedly poor; but be sure that your riches be justly got,
or you spoil all; for it is well said by Caussin: “ He
that loses his conscience has nothing left that is worth
keeping.” Therefore, be sure you look to that. And, in
the next place, look to your health; and if you have it,
praise God, and value it next to a good conscience; for
health is the second blessing that we mortals are capable
of — a blessing that money cannot buy — and therefore
value it, and be thankful for it. As for money, which
may be said to be the third blessing, neglect it not; but
note, that there is no necessity of being rich; for I told
you there be as many miseries beyond riches as on this
side them; and if you have a competence, enjoy it with
a meek, cheerful, thankful heart. I will tell you, scholar,
I have heard a grave divine say that God has two dwell¬
ings, one in heaven, and the other in a meek and thank-
IZAAK WALTON
389
ful heart; which Almighty God grant to me and to my
honest scholar ! And so you are welcome to Tottenham
High Cross.
Venator. Well, master, I thank you for all your good
directions, but for none more than this last, of thankful¬
ness, which I hope I shall never forget.
THE ANGLER’S WISH.
I in these flowery meads would be,
These crystal streams should solace me;
To whose harmonious, bubbling noise
I, with my angle, would rejoice,
Sit here, and see the turtle-dove
Court his chaste mate to acts of love;
Or, on that bank, feel the west-wind
Breathe health and plenty; please my mind,
To see sweet dew-drops kiss these flowers,
And then washed off by April showers;
Here, hear my kenna sing a song:
There, see a blackbird feed her young,
Or a laverock build her nest;
Here, give my weary spirits rest,
And raise my low-pitched thoughts above
Earth, or what poor mortals love.
Thus, free from lawsuits and the noise
Of princes’ courts, I would rejoice;
Or, with my Bryan* and a book,
Loiter long days near Shawford brook;
There sit by him, and eat my meat;
There see the sun both rise and set;
There bid good-morning to next day;
There meditate my time away;
And angle on; and beg to have
A quiet passage to a welcome grave.
* Supposed to be the name of his dog.
390
CLARENCE ALPHONSUS WALWORTH
iALWORTH, Clarence Alphonsus, an
American poet; born at Plattsburg, N. Y.,
May 30, 1820; died at New York, in 1900.
He was admitted to the bar in 184*1, but after a year’s
practice in Rochester he renounced the law for theolo¬
gy. He studied for three years at the Episcopal Gen¬
eral Theological Seminary in New York, but, becoming
a Roman Catholic, he went to Belgium, and studied
with the Redemptorists. He continued his theological
studies at Wittemberg, and was ordained there. After
several years of priestly duty in England, he returned
to the United States in 1850, to travel at large for
fifteen years, engaged in missionary work. He is one
of the founders of the Order of Paulists in the United
States. In 1864, his health failing, he returned to
his home at Saratoga, and later he was made rector
of St. Mary’s parish, Albany. His works include The
Gentle Skeptic (i860), on the inspiration of the Old
Testament Scriptures; The Doctrine of Hell (1874),
a discussion with William H. Burr ; and Andiatorocte,
or the Eve of Lady Day on Lake George, and Other
Poems, Hymns and Meditations in Verse (1888).
NIGHT-WATCHING.
The clock strikes Nine. I sink to rest
Upon a soft and bolstered bed:
Jesu, what pillow held Thy head,
What couch Thy breast?
The clock strikes Ten. With sleepless eye
I stare into a spaceless gloom:
Come hither, wandering soul; stay home —
Voices are nigh.
CLARENCE ALPHONSUS WALWORTH
39i
Eleven. Peace, needless monitor !
Oh ! when the heart looks through her tears,
To gaze upon the eternal years,
What is an hour?
’Tis Midnight. No: ’tis holy noon,
Love and sweet duty make the day;
Night rules, with these two suns away —
Night and no moon.
Another hour ! and yet no sleep;
The darkness grows with solemn light.
How full of language is the Night,
And life how deep !
Already Two o’clock! well, well;
Myself and I have met at last
After long absence, and the Past
Has much to tell.
Ring out! ring out! my watch I keep.
O Night, I feel thy sacred power —
How crowded is each holy hour,
Borrowed from sleep!
One, Two, Three, Four! Ye speak to ears
That hear, but heed not how ye roll;
The hours that measure for the soul
Are spaced by tears.
Strikes Five. Night’s solemn shroud of crape
Begins to fill with threads of gray,
And, stealing on those threads away,
My joys escape.
Oh, stay with me! I fear the light,
With all its sins and gay unrest.
Sweeter the calm and conscious breast
Of holy night.
— From Andiatorocte.
392 ELIOT BARTHOLOMEW WARBURTON
ARBURTON, Eliot Bartholomew George,
an Irish traveler and novelist; born near Tul-
lamore, in 1810; died at sea, January 4,
1852. He was educated at Queen’s College, and at
Trinity, Cambridge, and became a member of the Irish
bar, but gave up law for travel and literature. His
book The Crescent and the Cross (1844), first pub¬
lished as Episodes of Eastern Travel in the Dublin
University Magazine, made him widely known. Fol¬
lowing this, he published Hochelaga, or England in the
New World (1846), the title being the ancient name
of Canada; but Part II. pertaining to the United
States; Memoirs of Prince Rupert and the Cavaliers
(1849) 5 Darien, or the Merchant Prince, and Memoirs
of Horace Walpole and His Contemporaries (1851) ;
also Reginald Hastings, a Tale of 1640-50. He per¬
ished in the destruction of the West Indian mail-
steamer Amazon, lost off Land’s End. In Hochelaga
there is a sketch of the rebellions and invasions of
Canada in 1837-38.
His Crescent and the Cross, parts of which were
first published in the Dublin University Magazine,
under the title Episodes of Eastern Travel, attracted
wide-spread attention, and received praise from the
highest literary authorities, Sir Archibald Allison say¬
ing that the descriptions rivalled those of William
Beckford and that they were indelibly engraven on
the national mind.
MOOSE-HUNTING.
We pressed on rapidly over the brow of the hill, in the
direction of the dogs, and came upon the fresh track of
ELIOT BARTHOLOMEW WARBURTON
393
several moose. In my eagerness to get forward, I stum¬
bled repeatedly, tripped by the abominable snow-shoes,
and had great difficulty in keeping up with the Indians,
who, though also violently excited, went on quite at their
ease. The dogs were at a standstill, and, as we emerged
from the thick part of the wood, we saw them surround¬
ing three large moose, barking viciously, but not daring
to approach within reach of their hoofs or antlers.
When the deer saw us, they bolted away, plunging
heavily through the deep snow, slowly and with great
difficulty; at every step sinking to the shoulder, the curs
at their heels as near as they could venture. They all
broke in different directions; the captain pursued one,
I another, and one of the Indians the third; at first
they beat us in speed; for a few hundred yards mine kept
stoutly on, but his track became wider and more irreg¬
ular, and large drops of blood on the pure, fresh snow
showed that the poor animal was wounded by the hard,
icy crust of the old fall. We were pressing down the
hill through very thick “ bush ” and could not see him,
but his panting and crashing through the underwood
were plainly heard. On, on, the branches smash and
rattle, but just ahead of us the panting is louder and
closer, the track red with blood; the hungry dogs howl
and yell almost under our feet. On, on, through the
deep snow, among rugged rocks and the tall pines, we
hasten, breathless and eager. Swinging around a close
thicket, we open in a swampy valley with a few patri¬
archal trees rising from it, bare of branches to a hundred
feet in height; in the centre stands the moose, facing us;
his failing knees refuse to carry him any further through
the choking drifts; the dogs press upon him; whenever
his proud head turns, they fly away yelling with terror,
but with grinning teeth and hungry eyes rush at him
from behind.
He was a noble brute, standing at least seven feet
high; his large, dark eye was fixed, I fancied almost
imploringly, upon me as I approached. He made no
further effort to escape, or resist; I fired, and the ball
struck him in the chest. The wound roused him; in¬
furiated by the pain, he raised his huge bulk out of the
394
WILLIAM WARBURTON
snow, and plunged toward me. I fired the second bar¬
rel ; he stopped, and staggered, stretched out his neck,
and blood gushed in a stream from his mouth, his tongue
protruded, then slowly, as if lying down to rest, he fell
over in the snow. The dogs would not yet touch him;
nor would even the Indians; they said that this was the
most dangerous time — he might struggle yet; so we
watched cautiously till the large, dark eye grew dim
and glazed, and the sinewy limbs were stiffened out in
death; then we approached and stood over our fallen
foe.
When the excitement which had touched the savage
chord of love of destruction, to be found in every na¬
ture, was over, I felt ashamed, guilty^, self-condemned,
like a murderer; the snow defiled with the red stain;
the meek eye, a few moments before bright with healthy
life, now a mere filmy ball; the vile dogs, that had not
dared to touch him while alive, licked up the stream of
blood, and fastened on his heels. I was thoroughly dis¬
gusted with myself and the tame and cruel sport.
The Indians knocked down a decayed tree, rubbed
up some dry bark in their hands, applied a match to it,
and in a few moments made a splendid fire close by the
dead moose; a small space was trampled down, the sap¬
lings laid as usual, for a seat, from whence I inspected
the skinning and cutting up of the carcass; a part of
the proceeding which occupied nearly two hours. The
hide and the most valuable parts were packed on the
toboggans, and the remnant of the noble brute was left
for the wolves; then we returned to the cabin.— Hoche-
laga.
ARBURTON, William, an English critic and
theologian; born at Newark, December 24,
4 1698; died at Gloucester, June 7, 1779. He
was the son of an attorney and adopted his father’s
profession, but forsook it for the church, becoming
WILLIAM WARBURTON
395
rector of Brand Broughton, Lincolnshire, and rising
by preferments to the office of bishop. Among his
works were The Alliance Between Church and State
(1723), a defence of the same; The Divine Legation
of Moses (1738-41), a ponderous work of learning,
assuming and defending an omission of immortality
in the Old Testament, in reply to deists; Remarks on
RntherfortKs Essay on Virtue (1747) ; a defence of
Pope’s Essay on Man; The Principles of Natural and
Revealed Religion; and a View of Bolingbroke’s Phi¬
losophy ( 1755 ) ; a review of Hume’s Natural History
of Religion, and an edition of Shakespeare with com¬
ments. Pope bequeathed to him the copyright of his
poems and other works valued at £4,000. A volume
of the bishop’s letters was published anonymously by
Bishop Hurd (1809), entitled Letters from a Pre¬
late.
The arrogance and dogmatism of Warburton have
become almost proverbial. His great learning was
thrown away on paradoxical speculations, and none of
his theological or controversial works have in the
slightest degree benefited Christianity. His notes and
commentaries on Shakespeare and Pope are devoid of
taste and genius, but often display curious erudition
and ingenuity. His force of character and various
learning, always ostentatiously displayed, gave him a
high name and authority in his own day; but his con¬
temporary fame has failed to receive the impartial
award of posterity. Gibbon speaks of the Divine Le¬
gation as a brilliant ruin. The metaphor may be ap¬
plied to Warburton’s literary character and reputa¬
tion. The once formidable fabric is now a ruin — a
ruin not venerable from cherished associations, but
great, unsightly, and incongruous.
WILLIAM WARBURTON
3 96
THE GRECIAN MYTHOLOGY-THE VARIOUS LIGHTS IN
WHICH IT WAS REGARDED.
Here matters rested; and the vulgar faith seems to
have remained a long time undisturbed. But as the age
grew refined, and the Greeks became inquisitive and
learned, the common mythology began to give offence.
The speculative and more delicate were shocked at the
absurd and immoral stories of their gods, and scandalized
to find such things make an authentic part of their story.
It may, indeed, be thought matter of wonder how such
tales, taken up in a barbarous age, came not to sink into
oblivion as the age grew more knowing, from mere ab¬
horrence of their indecencies and shame of their absurdi¬
ties. Without doubt, this had been their fortune, but for
an unlucky circumstance. The great poets of Greece,
who had most contributed to refine the public taste and
manners, and were now grown into a kind of sacred
authority, had sanctified these silly legends by their writ¬
ings, which time had now consigned to immortality.
Vulgar paganism, therefore, in such an age as this,
lying open to the attacks of curious and inquisitive men,
would not, we may well think, be long at rest. It is
true, free-thinking then lay under great difficulties and
discouragements. To insult the religion of one’s country,
which is now the mark of learned distinction, was brand¬
ed in the ancient world with public infamy. Yet free¬
thinkers there were, who, as is their wont, together with
the public worship of their country, threw off all rever¬
ence, for religion in general. Amongst these were Euhe-
merus, the Messenian, and, by what we can learn, the
most distinguished of this tribe. This man, in mere
wantonness of heart, began his attacks on religion by
divulging the secret of the mysteries. But as it was
capital to do this directly and professedly, he contrived
to cover his perfidy and malice by the intervention of a
kind of Utopian romance. He pretended £ that in a cer¬
tain city, which he came to in his travels, he found this
grand secret, that the gods were dead men deified, pre¬
served in their sacred writings, and confirmed by monu-
WILLIAM WARBURTON
mental records inscribed to the gods themselves, who
were there said to be interred.’ So far was not amiss;
but then, in the genuine spirit of his class, who never
cultivate a truth but in order to graft a lie upon it, he
pretended ‘ that dead mortals were the first gods, and
that an imaginary divinity in these early heroes and
conquerors created the idea of a superior power, and
introduced the practice of religious worship amongst
men.’ Our freethinker is true to his cause, and endeav¬
ours to verify the fundamental principle of his sect, that
fear first made gods, even in that very instance where
the contrary passion seems to have been at its height,
the time when men made gods of their deceased bene¬
factors. A little matter of address hides the shame of so
perverse a piece of malice. He represents those foun¬
ders of society and fathers of their country under the
idea of destructive conquerors, who, by mere force and
fear, had brought men into subjection and slavery. On
this account it was that indignant antiquity concurred in
giving Euhemerus the proper name of atheist, which,
however, he would hardly have escaped, though he had
done no more than divulge the secret of the mysteries,
and not poisoned his discovery with this impious and
foreign addition, so contrary to the true spirit of that
secret.
This detection had been long dreaded by the orthodox
protectors of pagan worship; and they were provided of
a temporary defence in their intricate and properly per¬
plexed system of symbolic adoration. But this would do
only to stop a breach for the present, till a better could
be provided, and was too weak to stand alone against so
violent an attack. The philosophers, therefore, now took
up the defence of paganism where the priests had left it,
and to the others’ symbols added their own allegories,
for a second cover to the absurdities of the ancient myth¬
ology ; for all the genuine sects of philosophy, as we have
observed, were steady patriots, legislation making one
essential part of their philosophy; and to legislate with¬
out the foundation of a national religion was, in their
opinion, building castles in the air. So that we are not
to wonder they took the alarm, and opposed these insult-
398
WILLIAM WARBURTON
ers of public worship with all their vigour. But as they
never lost sight of their proper character, they so con¬
trived that the defence of the national religion should
terminate in a recommendation of their philosophic spec¬
ulations. Hence, their support of the public worship,
and their evasion of Euhemerus’s charge, turned upon
this proposition, “ That the whole ancient mythology was
no other than the vehicle of physical, moral, and divine
knowledge.’ And to this it is that the learned Eusebius
refers, where he says: ‘ That a new race of men refined
their old gross theology, and gave it an honester look,
and brought it nearer to the truth of things.’
However, this proved a troublesome work, and after
all, ineffectual for the security of men’s private morals,
which the example of the licentious story according to
the letter would not fail to influence, how well soever
the allegoric interpretation was calculated to cover the
public honour of religion; so that the more ethical of the
philosophers grew peevish with what gave them so much
trouble, and answered so little to the interior of religious
practice. This made them break out, from time to time,
into hasty resentments against their capital poets; un¬
suitable, one would think, to the dignity of the authors
of such noble recondite truths as they would persuade us
to believe were treasured up in their writings. Hence it
was that Plato banished Homer from his republic, and
that Pythagoras, in one of his extramundane adventures,
saw both Homer and Plesiod doing penance in hell, and
hung up there for examples, to be bleached and purified
from the grossness and pollution of their ideas.
The first of these allegories, as we learn from Laertius,
was Anaxagoras, who, with his friend Metrodorus, turned
Homer’s mythology into a system of ethics. Next came
Hereclides Ponticus, and of the same fables made as good
a system of physics. And last of all, when the necessity
became more pressing, Proclus undertook to shew that
all Homer’s fables were no other than physical, ethical
and moral allegories.— The Divine Legation.
WILLIAM WARBURTON
399
IS LUXURY A PUBLIC BENEFIT?
To the lasting opprobrium of our age and country,
we have seen a writer publicly maintain, in a book so
entitled, that private vices were public benefits. . . .
In his proof of it, he all along explains it by vice only
in a certain measure, and to a certain degree. . . .
The author, descending to the enumeration of his proofs,
appears plainly to have seen that vice in general was
only accidentally productive of good: and therefore
avoids entering into an examination of particulars; but
selects, out of his favorite tribe, luxury, to support his
execrable paradox; and on this alone rests his cause.
By the assistance of this ambiguous term, he keeps
something like an argument on foot, even after he hath
left all the rest of his city-crew to shift for themselves.
First, in order to perplex and obscure our idea of lux¬
ury, he hath labored, in a previous dissertation, on the
origin of moral virtue, to destroy those very principles,
by whose assistance we are only able to clear up and
ascertain that idea: where he decries and ridicules the
essential difference of things, the eternal notions of
right and wrong; and makes virtue, which common
moralists deduce from thence, the offspring of craft and
pride.
Nothing now being left to fix the idea of luxury but
the positive precepts of Christianity, and he having stript
these of their only true and infallible interpreter, the
principles of natural religion, it was easy for him to
make those precepts speak in favor of any absurdities
that would serve his purpose, and as easy to find such
absurdities supported by the superstition and fanaticism
of some or other of those many sects and parties of
Christianity, who, despising the principles of the religion
of Nature as the weak and beggarly elements, soon came
to regard the natural appetites as the graceless furniture
of the old man, with his affections and lusts.
Having got Christianity at this advantage, he gives
us for Gospel that meagre phantom begot by the hy¬
pocrisy of monks on the misanthropy of ascetics; which
400
WILLIAM WARBURTON
cries out, An abuse! whenever the gifts of Providence
are used further than for the bare support of nature.
So that by this rule everything becomes luxury which is
more than necessary. An idea of luxury exactly fitted
to our author’s hypothesis: for if no state can be rich
and powerful while its members seek only a bare sub¬
sistence, and, if what is more than a bare subsistence be
luxury, and luxury be vice, the consequence, we see,
comes in pat — private vices are public benefits. Here
you have the sole issue of all this tumor of words. . . .
But the Gospel is a very different thing from what
bigots and fanatics are wont to represent it. It enjoins
and forbids nothing in moral practice but what natural
religion had before enjoined and forbid. Neither could
it, because one of God’s revelations, whether ordinary
or extraordinary, cannot contradict another; and because
God gave us the first, to judge the others by it. . . .
The religion of nature, then, being restored, and made
the rule to explain and interpret the occasional precepts
of Christianity; what is luxury by natural religion, that,
and that only, must be luxury by revealed. So a true
and precise definition of it, which this writer (triumph¬
ing in the obscurity which, by these arts, he hath thrown
over the idea) thinks it impossible to give, so as not to
suit with his hypothesis, is easily settled. Luxury is
the using of the gifts of Providence to the injury of the
user, either in person or his fortune; or to the in¬
jury of any other, toward whom the user stands in any
relation, which obliges him to aid and assist.
Now it is evident, even from the instances this writer
brings of the public advantages of consumption, which
he indiscriminately, and therefore falsely, calls luxury,
that the utmost consumption may be made, and so all
the ends of a rich and powerful Society served, and
without injury to the user, or anyone, to whom he stands
related; consequently without luxury, and without vice.
When the consumption is attended with such injury, then
it becomes luxury, then it becomes vice. But then let us
take notice that this vice, like all others, is so far from
being advantageous to Society, that it is the most cer-
ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS WARD
40 T
tain ruin of it. It was this luxury which destroyed
Rome.— The Divine Legation of Moses, Vol L, Book I
ARD, Elizabeth Stuart Phelps, an Ameri-
novelist and poet; born at Andover,
can
Mass., August 13, 1844. Her grandfather,
Moses Stuart, and her father, Austin Phelps, were
'professors in the Theological Seminary at Andover,
and both contributed largely to religious literature.
Her mother wrote several popular books, among which
is Sunny Side (1851). The daughter commenced
writing at an early age. Her works — some of
which had already appeared in periodicals, are:
Ellen’s Idol (1864) ; Up Hill (1865) ; Mercy Gliddon’s
Work (1866) ; Tiny Stories (4 vols., 1866-69) 1 Gipsy
Stories (4 vols., 1866-69) 1 The Gates Ajar (1868) ;
Men, Women and Ghosts (1869) ; The Silent Partner
(1870); Trotty’s Wedding Tour (1873); The Good-
Aim Series (1874) ; Poetic Studies (1875) ; The Story
of Avis (1877) ; My Cousin and I (1879) ; Old Maid’s
Paradise (1879) ; Sealed Orders (1879) ; Friends, a
Duet (1881) ; Beyond the Gates (1883) ; Songs of the
Silent World (1884); Dr. Zay (1884); Burglars in
Paradise (1886) ; The Gates Between (1887) ; Jack the
Fisherman (1887); The Struggle for Immortality
(1889) ; Memoirs of Austin Phelps, her father (1891) ;
Donald Marcy (1893) ; Hedged In; The Supply at
Saint Agatha’s; A Singular Life (1896) ; The Life of
Christ (1897); The Gates Ajar (1903); and Trixy
(1904). In 1888 Miss Phelps married Mr. Herbert D.
Ward. They have published two novels in collabora-
Vol. XXIII.—26
402 ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS WARD
tion, The Master of the Magicians and Come Forth
(1890).
THE “ HANDS ” AT HAYLE AND KELSO’S.
If you are one of the “ hands ” in the Hayle and
Kelso Mills, you go to your work, as is well known,
from the hour of half-past six to seven, according to
the turn of the season. Time has been when you went
at half-past four. The Senior forgot this the other day
in a little talk which he had with his Silent Partner
very naturally, the time having been so long past. But
the time has been, is now yet, in places. Mr. Hayle can
tell you of mills he saw in New Hampshire, where they
ring them up, winter and summer, in and out, at half-past
four in the morning. Oh, no, never let out before six
as a matter of course. Mr. Hayle disapproves of this;
Mr. Hayle thinks it not human; Mr. Hayle is confident
that you would find no mission Sunday-school connected
with that concern.
If you are one of the “ hands,” you are so dully used
to this classification that you were never known to cul¬
tivate an objection to it, are scarcely found to notice
either its use or disuse: being neither head nor heart,
what else remains? Scarcely conscious from bell to bell,
from sleep to sleep, from day to dark, of either head or
heart, there seems a singular appropriateness of the
word with which you are dimly struck. Hayle and
Kelso label you. There you are. The world thinks,
aspires, creates, enjoys. There you are. You are the
fingers of the world. You take your patient place. The
world may have read of you; but only that it may think,
aspire, create, enjoy. It needs your patience as well
as your place. You take both, and the world is used to
both; and so, having put the label on for safety’s sake,
lest you should be mistaken for a thinking, aspiring,
creating, enjoying compound, and so someone be poisoned,
shoves you into your place upon its shelf, and shuts its
cupboard door upon you.
If you are one of the “ hands,” then, in Hayle and
Kelso’s, you have a breakfast of bread and molasses
ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS WARD 403
probably; you are apt to eat it while you dress. Some¬
body is heating the kettle, but you cannot wait for it.
Somebody tells you that you have forgotten your shawl;
you throw it over one shoulder and step out, before it is
fastened, into the sudden raw air. You left lamplight
indoors, you find moonlight without. The night seems
to have overslept itself; you have a fancy for trying to
wake it — would like to shout at it or cry through it, but
feel very cold, and leave that for the bells to do by and
by. You and the bells are the only waking things in
life. The great brain of the world is in serene repose;
the great heart of the world lies warm to the core with
dreams; the great hands of the world, the patient, the
perplexed — one almost fancies at times, just for fancy
— seeing you here by the morning moon, the dangerous
hands alone are stirring in the dark.
You hang up your shawl and your crinoline, and
understand, as you go shivering by gaslight to your
looms, that you are chilled to the heart, and that you
were careless about your shawl, but do not consider
carefulness worth your while, by nature or by habit; a
little less shawl means a few less winters in which to
require shawling. You are a godless little creature, but
you cherish a stolid leaning, in those morning moons,
toward making an experiment of death and a wadded
coffin.
By the time the gas is out, you cease perhaps — though
you cannot depend upon that — to shiver, and incline
less and less to the wadded coffin, and more to a chat
with your neighbor in the alley. Your neighbor is of
either sex and any description, as the case may be. In
any event — warming a little with the warming day —
you incline more and more to chat.
If you chance to be a cotton-weaver, you are presently
warm enough. It is quite warm enough in the weaving-
room. The engines respire into the weaving-room; with
every throb of their huge lungs you swallow their breath.
The weaving-room stifles with steam. The window-sills
are guttered to prevent the condensed steam from run¬
ning in streams along the floor; sometimes they over¬
flow, and the water stands under the looms. The walls
404 ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS WARD
perspire profusely; on a damp day drops will fall from
the roof. The windows of the weaving-room are closed.
They must be closed; a stir in the air will break your
threads. There is no air to stir; you inhale for a sub¬
stitute a motionless, hot moisture. If you chance to be
a cotton-weaver it is not in March that you think most
about your coffin.
Being a “ hand ” in Hayle and Kelso’s, you are used to
eating cold luncheon in the cold at noon; or you walk,
for the sake of a cup of soup or coffee, half a mile,
three-quarters, a mile and a half, and back. You are
allowed three-quarters of an hour to do this. You go
and come upon the jog-trot.
You grow moody, being a “ hand ” at Hayle and Kel¬
so’s, with the declining day, are inclined to quarrel or
to confidence with your neighbor in the alley; find the
overseer out of temper, and the cotton full of flaws;
find pains in your feet, your back, your eyes, your arms;
feel damp and sticky lint in your hair, our neck, your
ears, your throat, your lungs; discover a monotony in
the process of breathing hot moisture. You lower your
window at your risk; are bidden by somebody whose
threads you have broken to put it up; and put it up.
You are conscious that your head swims, your eyeballs
burn, your breath quickens. You yield your preference
for a wadded coffin, and consider whether the river
would not be the comfortable thing. You cough a little,
cough a great deal; lose your balance in a coughing-fit,
snap a thread, and take to swearing roundly.
From swearing you take to singing; both, perhaps,
are equal relief — active and diverting. There is some¬
thing curious about that singing of yours. The time,
the place, the singers, characterize it sharply: the wan¬
ing light, the rival din, the girls with tired faces. You
start some little thing with a refrain, and a ring to it.
A hymn, it is not unlikely; something of a River, and of
Waiting, and of Toil and Rest, or Sleep, or Crowns, or
Harps, or Home, or Green Fields, or Flowers, or Sor¬
row, or Repose, or a dozen things; but always it will be
noticed, of simple, spotless things, such as will surprise
the listener who caught you at your oath of five minutes
ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS WARD
405
past. You have other songs, neither simple nor spot¬
less, it may be; but you never sing them at your work
when the waning day is crawling out from spots be¬
neath your loom, and the girls lift up their tired faces
to catch and keep the chorus in the rival din.
You like to watch the contest between the chorus
and the din; to see — you seem almost to see — the
struggle of the melody from loom to loom, from dark¬
ening wall to darkening wall, from lifted face to lifted
face; to see — for you are very sure you see — the ma¬
chinery fall into a fit of rage; that is a sight! You
would never guess, unless you had watched it just as
many times you have, how that machinery will rage;
how it throws its arms about; what fists it can clench;
how it shakes at the elbows and knees; what teeth it
knows how to gnash; how it writhes and roars; how
it clutches at the leaky gas-lights; and how it bends
its impudent black head; always, at last without fail,
and your song sweeps triumphant over it! With this
you are very much pleased, though only a “ hand ” in
Hayle and Kelso’s.
You are singing when the bell strikes, and singing
still when you clatter down the stairs. Something of
the simple spotlessness of the little song is on your face
when you dip into the wind and dusk. Perhaps you
have only pinned your shawl or pulled your hat over
your face, or knocked against a stranger on the walk.
But it passes; it passes, and is gone. It is cold and you
tremble, direct from the morbid heat in which you have
stood all day; or you have been cold all day, and it is
colder and you shrink. Or you are from the weaving-
room, and the wind strikes you faint; or you stop to
cough, and the girls go on without you. The town is
lighted, and the people are out in their best clothes.
You pull your dingy veil about your eyes. You are
weak and heart-sick all at once. You don’t care to go
home to supper. The pretty song creeps back for the
engine in the deserted dark to crunch. You are a miser¬
able little factory-girl with a dirty face. — The Silent
Partner.
4 o6 ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS WARD
AFTERWARD.
There is no vacant chair. The loving meet —
A group unbroken — smitten who knows how ?
One sitteth silent only, in his usual seat;
We gave him once that freedom. Why not now?
Perhaps he is too weary, and needs rest;
He needed it too often, nor could we
Bestow. God gave it, knowing how to do so best.
Which of us would disturb him? Let him be.
There is no vacant chair. If he will take
The mood to listen mutely, be it done.
By his least mood we crossed, for which the heart must
ache,
Plead not nor question ! Let him have this one.
Death is a mood of life. It is no whim
By which life’s Giver mocks a broken heart.
Death is life’s reticence. Still audible to Him,
The hushed voice, happy, speaketh on, apart.
There is no vacant chair. To love is still
To have. Nearer to memory than to eye,
And dearer yet to anguish than to comfort, will
We hold him by our love, that shall not die.
For while it doth not, thus he cannot. Try !
Who can put out the motion or the smile ?
The old ways of being noble all with him laid by ?
Because we love, he is. Then trust awhile.
— Songs of the Silent World.
NEW NEIGHBORS.
Within the window’s scant recess,
Behind a pink geranium flower,
She sits and sews, and sews and sits,
From patient hour to patient hour.
ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS WARD
407
As woman-like as marble is,
Or as a lovely death might be —
A marble death condemned to make
A feint at life perpetually.
Wondering, I watch to pity her;
Wandering, I go my restless ways;
Content, I think the untamed thoughts
Of free and solitary days.
Until the mournful dusk begins
To drop upon the quiet street,
Until, upon the pavement far,
There falls the sound of coming feet:
A happy, hastening, ardent sound,
Tender as kisses on the air —
Quick, as if touched by unseen lips
Blushes the little statue there;
And woman-like as young life is,
And woman-like as joy may be ;
Tender with color, lithe with love,
She starts, transfigured gloriously.
Superb in one transcendent glance —
Her eyes, I see, are burning black —
My little neighbor, smiling, turns,
And throws my unasked pity back.
I wonder, is it worth the while,
To sit and sew from hour to hour —
To sit and sew with eyes of black,
Behind a pink geranium flower?
— Songs of the Silent World.
408
MARY AUGUSTA ARNOLD WARD
ARD, Mary Augusta Arnold (“ Mrs. Hum¬
phry Ward”), an English novelist; born
at Elobart, Tasmania, June n, 1851. Her
father, Thomas — a younger brother of Matthew Ar¬
nold—was a government officer in Tasmania. He
became afterward a professor in the Roman Catho¬
lic University of Dublin, settled at Oxford, edited
books, and wrote a manual of English Literature.
The daughter married Thomas Humphry Ward, au¬
thor of English Poets; Men of the Reign; The Reign
of Queen Victoria , etc. Mrs. Ward is the author of
Milly and Ollie, or a Holiday Among the Mountains
(1880) ; Miss Bretherton (1884) ; a translation of
AmieTs Journal (1885) ; a critical estimate of Mrs.
Browning; Robert Elsmere, a novel (1888), by which
she is best known; David Grieve (1892) ; Marcella
(1894) ; Sir George Tressady (1895) ; The Story of
Bessie Costrell (1895) ; Helbeck of Bannisdale
(1898) ; Eleanor (1900) ; Lady Rose’s Daughter
(1902) ; The Marriage of William Ashe (1905) ; and
Fenzmcke’s Career (1906).
Of Robert Elsmere, William Sharp says: “ All that
the critic of fiction commonly looks to — incident, evo¬
lution of plot, artistic sequence of events, and so
forth — seems secondary when compared with the
startlingly vivid presentment of a human soul in the
storm and stress incidental to the renunciation of past
spiritual domination and the acceptance of new hopes
and aspirations. . . . Merely as a tale of contem¬
porary English life, a fictitious record of the joys
and sorrows, loves and antagonisms, fortune and mis¬
fortune, of men and women more or less like individ-
MRS. HUMPHREY WARD
MARY AUGUSTA ARNOLD WARD
409
uals whom most of us know, it is keenly interest¬
ing. . . . Mrs. Ward’s literary method is that of
George Eliot; indeed, there is a curious affinity in
Robert Elsmere to Adam Bede — though there is per¬
haps not an incident, possibly no play of character,
or acute side-light or vivifying suggestion that could
be found in both, while the plot and general scheme
are entirely dissimilar.”
OXFORD.
The weather was all that the heart of man could de¬
sire, and the party met on Paddington platform with
every prospect of another successful day. Forbes turned
up punctual to the moment, and radiant under the com¬
bined influence of the sunshine and of Miss Bretherton’s
presence; Wallace had made all the arrangements per¬
fectly, and the six friends found themselves presently
journeying along to Oxford. ... At last the
“ dreaming spires ” of Oxford rose from the green, river-
threaded plain, and they were at their journey’s end.
A few more minutes saw them alighting at the gate of
the new Balliol, where stood Herbert Sartoris looking
out for them. He was a young don with a classical
edition on hand which kept him working up after term,
within reach of the libraries, and he led the way to some
pleasant rooms overlooking the inner quadrangle of
Balliol, showing in his well-bred look and manner an
abundant consciousness of the enormous good fortune
which had sent him Isabel Bretherton for a guest. For
at that time it was almost as difficult to obtain the
presence of Miss Bretherton at any social festivity as it
was to obtain that of royalty. Her Sundays were the
objects of conspiracies for weeks beforehand on the
part of those persons in London society who were least
accustomed to have their invitations refused, and to have
and to hold the famous beauty for more than an hour
in his own rooms, and then to enjoy the privilege of
spending five or six long hours on the river with her,
were delights which, as the happy young man felt, would
4io
MARY AUGUSTA ARNOLD WARD
render him the object of envy to all — at least of his
fellow-dons below forty.
In streamed the party, filling up the book-lined rooms
and starting the two old scouts in attendance into un¬
wonted rapidity of action. Miss Bretherton wandered
around, surveyed the familiar Oxford luncheon-table,
groaning under the time-honored summer fare, the books,
the engravings, and the sunny, irregular quadrangle out¬
side, with its rich adornings of green, and threw herself
down at last on to the low window-seat with a sigh of
satisfaction.
“ How quiet you are ! how peaceful; how delightful it
must be to live here ! It seems as if one were in another
world from London. Tell me what that building is over
there; it’s too new, it ought to be old and gray like the
colleges we saw coming up here. Is everybody gone
away—‘gone down,’ you say? I should like to see all
the learned people walking about for once.”
“ I could show you a good many if there were time,”
said young Sartoris, hardly knowing, however, what he
was saying, so lost was he in admiration of that mar¬
vellous changing face. “ The vacation is the time they
show themselves; it’s like owls coming out at night.
You see, Miss Bretherton, we don’t keep many of them;
they are in the way in term-time. But in vacation they
have the colleges and the parks and the Bodleian to them¬
selves and their umbrellas, under the most favorable
conditions.”
“ Oh, yes,” said Miss Bretherton, with a little scorn,
“ people always make fun of what they are proud of.
But I mean to believe that you are all learned, and that
everybody here works himself to death, and that Oxford
is quite, quite perfect! ”
“ Did you hear what Miss Bretherton was saying, Mrs.
Stuart?” said Forbes, when they were seated at lunch¬
eon. “Oxford is perfect, she declares already; I don’t
think I quite like it; it’s too hot to last.”
“Am I such a changeable creature, then?” said Miss
Bretherton, smiling at him. “ Do you generally find my
enthusiasms cool down ? ”
“ You are as constant' as you are kind,” said Forbes,
MARY AUGUSTA ARNOLD WARD 41 1
bowing to her. . . . “ Oh! the good times I’ve had
up here — much better than he ever had ”— nodding
across at Kendal, who was listening. “ He was too
properly behaved to enjoy himself; he got all the right
things, all the proper first-classes and prizes, poor fellow !
But, as for me, I used to scribble over my notebooks all
lecture-time, and amuse myself the rest of the day. And
then, you see, I was up twenty years earlier than he was,
and the world was not as virtuous then as it is now, by
a long way.”
Kendal was interrupting, when Forbes, who was in
one of his maddest moods, turned around upon his chair
to watch a figure passing along the quadrangle in front
of the bay-window.
“ I say, Sartoris, isn’t that Camden, the tutor who was
turned out of Magdalen a year or two ago for that
atheistical book of his, and whom you took in, as you do
all the disreputables? Ah, I knew it!
“ ‘ By the pricking of my thumbs
Something wicked this way comes.’
That’s not mine, my dear Miss Bretherton; it’s Shake¬
speare’s first, Charles Lamb’s afterward. But look at
him well — he’s a heretic, a real, genuine heretic.
Twenty years ago it would have been a thrilling sight;
but now, alas ! it’s so common that it’s not the victim but
the persecutors who are the curiosity.”
“ I don’t know that,” said young Sartoris. “ We liber¬
als are by no means the cocks of the walk that we were
a few years ago. You see, now we have got nothing to
pull against, as it were. So long as we had two or three
good grievances, we could keep the party together, and
attract all the young men. We were Israel going up
against the Philistines, who had us in their grip. But
now, things are changed; we’ve got our way all round,
and it’s the Church party who have the grievances and
the cry. It is we who are the Philistines, and the
oppressors in our turn, and, of course, the young men
as they grow up are going into the opposition.”
“ And a very good thing, too! ” said Forbes. “ It’s
412
MARY AUGUSTA ARNOLD WARD
the only thing that prevents Oxford becoming as dull as
the rest of the world. All your picturesqueness, so to
speak, has been struck out of the struggle between the
two forces. The Church force is the one that has given
you all your buildings and your beauty, while as for you
liberals, who will know such a lot of things that you’re
none the happier for knowing — well, I suppose you
keep the place habitable for the plain man who doesn’t
want to be bullied. But it’s a very good thing the other
side are strong enough to keep you in order.” . . .
Then they strolled into the quiet cathedral, delighted
themselves with its irregular, bizarre beauty, its unex¬
pected turns and corners, which gave it a capricious,
fanciful air, for all the solidity and business-like strength
of its Norman framework*; and as they rambled out
again, Forbes made them pause over a window in the
northern aisle — a window by some Flemish artist of the
fifteenth century, who seems to have embodied in it at
once all his knowledge and all his dreams. In front
sat Jonah under his golden-tinted gourd — an ill-tem¬
pered Flemish peasant — while behind him the indented
roofs of the Flemish town climbed the whole height of
the background. It was probably the artist’s native town;
some roofs among those carefully outlined gables shel¬
tered his household Lares. But the hill on which the
town stood, and the mountainous background and the
purple sea, were the hills and the sea not of Belgium,
but of a dream-country — of Italy, perhaps, the mediaeval
artist’s paradise.
“ Flappy man ! ” said Forbes, turning to Miss Brether-
ton; “ look, he put it together four centuries ago — all
he knew and all he dreamt of. And there it is to this
day, and beyond the spirit of that window there is no
getting. For all our work, if we do it honestly, is a
compound of what we know and what we dream.” . . .
They passed out into the cool and darkness of the
cloisters, and through the new buildings, and soon they
were in the Broad Walk, trees as old as the Common¬
wealth bending overhead, and in front the dazzling green
of the June meadows, the shining river in the distance,
MARY AUGUSTA ARNOLD WARD
4i3
and the sweep of cloud-flecked blue arching in the whole.
— Miss Bretherton.
HAWTHORNE.
How many instances might be given of the romantic
temper in Hawthorne!—the wonderful passage in The
House of the Seven Gables , where Phoebe, before her eyes
perceived him, is conscious in the shadowed room of
Clifford’s return; the grim vengeance of Roger Chilling-
worth ; the appearance in the Catacombs of Miriam’s
mysterious persecutor; that swift murder on the Tar-
peian rock; Hilda’s confession in St. Peter’s; and a hun¬
dred more — not to speak of such things as Roger
Malvin’s Burial or The Ambitious Guest or Rappacini’s
Daughter, each of them a romantic masterpiece which
may match with any other of a similar kind from the
first or second generation of the European Romantics.
Surprise, invention, mystery, a wide-ranging command,
now of awe, horror, and magnificence, and now a grace,
half-toned and gentle as a Spring day, combined with
that story teller’s resource which is the gift of the gods
alone — these things we shall find in Hawthorne, just
as we find them — some or all of them — in Hugo or
Musset, in Gautier or Merimee.
But what a marvel of genius that it should be so!
For while Victor Hugo’s childhood and youth were
passed first in Naples, then in Spain, and finally in the
Paris of the Restoration, amid all that might fitly nourish
the great poet who came to his own in 1830, Hawthorne’s
youth and early manhood, before the Brook Farm expe¬
rience, were passed, as he himself tells us, in a country
where there were “ no shadows, no antiquity, no mystery,
no picturesque and gloomy wrong, nor anything but a
commonplace prosperity in broad and simple daylight,”
in a town and a society which had and could have noth¬
ing— or almost nothing — of those special incitements
and provocations which, in the case of his European
contemporaries, were always present. As to the books
which may have influenced him, they do not seem to be
easy to trace. But I remember a mention of Burger’s
4M
NATHANIEL WARD
Lenore in the Note Books, which links him with Scott’s
beginnings; and a reference to a translation he was mak-
ing of a tale by Tieck gives me particular pleasure, be¬
cause it connects him with our great English Romantic,
Emily Bronte, who was reading Tieck about the same
time. Naturally, in the thirties and forties, a man of
fine literary capacity, commanding French and German,
and associated with Emerson, Longfellow, and Margaret
Fuller, must have read the European books of the mo¬
ment, and must have been stirred by the European ideas
and controversies then affecting his craft. And indeed
the love of the past, the love of nature, curiosity, free¬
dom, truth, daring — all these Romantic traits are Haw¬
thorne’s.— The Cornhill Magazine.
ARD, Nathaniel, an English clergyman and
satirist; born at Haverhill, Suffolk, in 1578;
died at Shenfield, Essex, in 1652. He was
the son of John Ward, a famous Puritan minister, was
graduated at Cambridge in 1603, studied law, which
he practiced in England, and traveled extensively.
He entered the ministry, and on his return to England
held a pastorate in Sussex. In 1631 he was tried for
nonconformity by Archbishop Laud, and, though he
escaped excommunication, was deprived of his charge.
In 1634 he sailed for New England, and became col¬
league to the Rev. Thomas Parker at Ipswich. He re¬
signed in 1636, but resided at Ipswich and compiled
for the colony of Massachusetts The Body of Liberties,
which was adopted by the General Court in 1641, and
which was the first code of laws established in New
England. In 1646 he returned to England, and be¬
came pastor of a church in Shenfield, which post he
NATHANIEL WARD
415
held until his death. While in America he published
The Simple Cobbler of Agawam In America, Willing
to Help Mend His Native Country, Lamentably Tat¬
tered Both in the Upper-Leather and the Sole. His
Simple Cobbler’s Boy with His Lap-full of Caveats,
was written in America and published under the pen-
name of Theodore de la Guard in 1646. Two Ameri¬
can editions were issued, one in Boston in 1718, the
other, edited by David Pulsifer, in 1843.
TO THE NEEDLESSE TAYLOR.
From his working ( im —) posture.
Let him beware that his dispositions be not more crosse
than his legges or sheeres.
If he will be a Church member, he must remember to
away with his crosse -f- members. For Churches must
have no Crosses, nor kewcaws. Againe,
He must not leap from the Shop-board into the Pulpit
to make a sermon without tayle or head, nor with a
Taylor’s head.
From the patch.
Let him take heed he make not a Sermon like a Beg¬
gar’s cloak pacht up of a thousand ragges, most dou-
terty, nor, like his own fundamentall Cushion, boch’t up
of innumerable shreds, and every one of a several colour
(not a couple of parishioners among them) and stuft
with nothing but bran, chaffe, and the like lumber, scarce
fit for the streete.
Let him not for a Needle mistake a Pen, and write
guil-lets, making a Goose of himself.
Take heede of the hot Iron there.
Let him not insteed of pressing cloth oppresse truth,
nor put errors into the Presse.
The Hand and Sheeres do speak this cutting language.
Keep to thy Calling Mr. and cut thy coat according
416
NATHANIEL WARD
to thy cloth. Neglect not to use thy brown thread, lest
thy Family want browne bread, and suffer a sharp stitch.
The Breeches with wide nostrils do Promulgate this
Canon-law.
That the Taylor (when he preaches) be sure to ex¬
claim against the new Fashions (a disease incident unto
Florses and Asses) that so he live not by others pride,
while he exhorts to humility. The Tub of shreds utters
Ferking advice That he do not filch Cloths, Silkes, Vel¬
vets, Sattins, etc., in private nor pilfer Time from others
in publike, nor openly rob Ministers of their employment,
nor secretly tell any secret lye.
From the out (side) facings counsaile that he do not
cloak-over any tattered suit of hypocrital knavery with
a fair-facing of an outside profession.
Well to the Point.
That he consider that as a Needle, the thread or silk,,
so a Schismatick, drawes a long traine of folly-followers
after him, when he deales in points by the dozen.
From the Seame-rippings.
That Hereticall opinions, unlesse they be ript open,
are of as dangerous consequence as an hempen collar,
etc., a man were better be hanged, than to have his im¬
mortal soul stifled therewith.— The Simple Cobbler’s Boy.
MINISTERS.
A profound Heretick is like a huge Tub full of sirrup,
his followers are like Wasps and Gadflies that buz and
frisk about him, and sting at them that would keep them
off: but at last they are so entangled in the slimy pap,
that it is a thousand unto one if ever they returne safe,
but there they dve and make the sirrup of their Tenets
to stink intolerably.
But a Godly and learned Minister is like a Master-
NATHANIEL WARD
417
Bee, the Word and the World are his Garden and Field,
the works of God and his Divine truths are his Flowers;
Peace of Conscience, Joy in the Holy-Ghost, the con¬
solations of Christ are his Honey; his Heart is an Hive,
his Head is an Honey-Comb; reproof is his sting where¬
with he spurs on, or spumes away the sluggish Drone,
Ignavum fucos Pecus, etc. The Bee was born a Con¬
fectioner, and though he make but one sort of confection,
yet it easily transcends all the Art of man:
For,
The Bees’ work is pure, unmixt, Virgin honey; man’s
knick-knacks are jumbled and blended. I apply it God’s
Word is pure, man’s invention is mixt.
Then if in Manna you will trade,
You must boyle no more Marmolade.
Lay by your Diet-bread and slicing-knife,
If you intend to break the Bread of Life.
— The Simple Cobbler's Boy.
ON THE FRIVOLITIES OF FASHION.
Should I not keep promise in speaking a little to
women’s fashions, they would take it unkindly. I was
loath to pester better matter with such stuff; I rather
thought it meet to let them stand by themselves, like the
■Qnce Genus in the grammar, being deficients, or redun-
dants, not to be brought under any rule: I shall therefore
make bold for this once, to borrow a little of their loose-
tongued Liberty, and misspend a word or two upon their
long-waisted, but short-skirted Patience: a little use of
my stirrup will do no harm.
Ridentem die ere vemm, quid prohibet?
Gray Gravity itself can well beteem,
That language be adapted to the theme.
He that to parrots speaks must parrotise:
He that instructs a fool may act th’ unwise.
It is known more than enough that I am neither nig¬
gard, nor cynic, to the due bravery of the true gentry.
Vol. XXIII.—27
4 i8
NATHANIEL WARD
I honor the woman that can honor herself with her attire;
a good text always deserves a fair margin; I am not
much offended if I see a trim far trimmer than she wears
it. In a word, whatever Christianity or civility will
allow, I can afford with London measure: but when I
hear a nugiperous gentledame inquire what dress the
Queen is in this week: what the nudiustertian fashion
of the Court, with egg to be in it in all haste, whatever
it be, I look at her as the very gizzard of a trifle, the
product of a quarter of a cipher, the epitome of nothing,
fitter to be kicked, if she were of a kickable substance,
than either honored or humored.
To speak moderately, I truly confess it is beyond the
ken of my understanding to conceive how these women
should have any true grace, or valuable virtue, that have
so little wit, as to disfigure themselves with such exotic
garbs, as not only dismantles their native lovely lustre,
but transclouts them into gantbar-geese, ill-shapen, shell¬
fish, Egyptian hieroglyphics, or at least into French
flurts of the pastery, which a proper English woman
should scorn with her heels. It is no marvel they wear
drailes on the hinder part of their heads, having nothing,
as it seems, in the fore-part, but a few squirrels’ brains
to help them frisk from one ill-favored fashion to another.
These whimnT Crown’d shees, these fashion-fancying
wits,
Are empty thin brained shells, and fiddling Kits,
the very troublers and impoverishes of mankind. I can
hardly forbear to commend to the world a saying of a
Lady living some time with the Queen of Bohemia; I
know not where she found it, but it is a pity it should
be lost.
The world is full of care, much like unto a bubble,
Women and care, and care and women, and women and
care and trouble.
The verses are even enough for such odd pegma. I
can make myself sick at any time, with comparing the
NATHANIEL WARD
419
dazzling splendor wherewith our gentlewomen were em¬
bellished in some former habits, with the gutfounered
goosedcm, wherewith they are now surcingled and de¬
bauched. We have about five or six of them in our
colony; if I see any of them accidentally, I cannot
cleanse my fancy of them for a month after. I have
been a solitary widower almost twelve years, purposed
lately to make a step over to my native country for a
ycke-fellow: but when I consider how women there have
tripe-wifed themselves with their cladments, I have no
heart for the voyage, lest their nauseous shapes and the
sea should work too sorely upon my stomach. I speak
sadly; methinks it should break the hearts of English
men, to see so many goodly English women imprisoned
in French cages, peering out of their hood holes for
some of mercy to help them with a little wit, and nobody
relieves them.
It is a more common than convenient saying, that nine
tailors make a man: it were well if nineteen could make
a woman to her mind. If tailors were men indeed well
furnished but with mere moral principles, they would
disdain to be led about like apes by such mimic marmo¬
sets. It is a most unworthy thing for men that have
bones in them to spend their lives in making fiddle-cases
for futilous women’s fancies; which are the very pettitoes
of infirmity, the giblets of perquisquilian toys. I am
so charitable to think that most of that mystery would
work the cheerfuller while they live, if they might be well
discharged of the tiring slavery of misfiring women. It'
is no little labor to be continually putting up English
women into outlandish casks; who if they be not shifted
anew, once in a few months, grow too sour for their
husbands. What this trade will answer for themselves
when God shall take measure of tailors’ consciences is
beyond my skill to imagine.
There was a time when
The joining of the Red Rose with the White,
Did set our State into a Damask plight.
But now our roses are turned to flore de lices, our
420
NATHANIEL WARD
carnations to tulips, our gillyflowers to daisies, our city
dames to an indenominable quaemalry of overturcased
things. He that makes coats for the moon had need take
measures every noon: and he that makes for women, as
often, to keep them from lunacy.
I have often heard divers ladies vent loud feminine
complaints of the wearisome varieties and chargeable
changes of fashions: I marvel themselves prefer not a
Bill of redress. I would Essex ladies would lead the
chore, for the honor of their country and persons; or
rather the thrice honorable ladies of the court, whom it
best beseems: who may well presume of a Le Roy le
veult from our sober king, a Les Seigneurs ont assentus
from our prudent peers, and the like assentus , from our
considerate, I dare not say wife-worn Commons; who I
believe had much rather pass one such bill than pay so
many tailors’ bills as they are forced to do.
Most dear and unparalleled Ladies, be pleased to at¬
tempt it: as you have the precedency of the women of
the world for beauty and feature, so assume the honor
to give, and not take law from any, in matter of attire.
If ye can transact so fair a motion among yourselves
unanimously, I dare say they that most renite will least
repent. What greater honor can your Honors desire
than to build a promontory precedent to all foreign ladies,
to deserve so eminently at the hands of all the English
gentry present and to come: and to confute the opinion
of all the wise men in the world; who never thought it
possible , for women to do so good a w r ork.
If any man think I have spoken rather merrily than
seriously, he is much mistaken, I have written what I
write with all the indignation I can, and no more than I
ought. I confess I veered my tongue to this kind of
language de indnstria, though unwillingly, supposing those
I speak to are uncapable of grave and rational arguments.
I desire all ladies and gentlewomen to understand that
all this while I intend not such as, through necessary
modesty to avoid morose singularity, follow fashions
slowly, a flight shot or two off, showing by their modera¬
tion that they rather draw countermont with their hearts
than put on by their examples.
NATHANIEL WARD
421
I point my pen only against the light-heeled beagles
that lead the chase so fast that they run all civility out
of breath, against these ape-headed pullets which invent
antique fool-fangles, merely for fashion and novelty sake.
In a word, if I begin once to declaim against fashions,
let men and women look well about them, there is some¬
what in the business; I confess to the world, I never
had grace enough to be strict in that kind; and of late
years, I have found syrup of pride very wholesome in
a due dose, which makes me keep such store of that drug
by me, that if anybody comes to me for a question-full or
two about fashions, they never complain of me for giving
them hard measure, or under weight.
But I address myself to those who can both hear and
mend all if they please: I seriously fear, if the Pious
Parliament do not find time to state fashions, as ancient
Parliaments have done in a part, God will hardly find a
time to state religion or peace. They are the sur-
quedryes of pride, the wantonness of idleness, provoking
sins, the certain prodromies of assured judgment.— Zeph.
i. 7, 8.
It is beyond all account how many gentlemen’s and
citizens’ estates are deplumed by their fether-headed
wives, what useful supplies the pannage of England
would afford other countries, what rich returns to itself,
if it were not sliced out into male and female fripperies;
and what a multitude of misemployed hands might be
better improved in some more manly manufactures for
the public weal. It is not easily credible, what may be
said of the preterpluralities of tailors in London: I have
heard an honest man say that not long since there were
numbered between Temple-bar and Charing-Cross eight
thousand of that trade; let it be conjectured by that pro¬
portion how many there are in and about London, and in
all England they will appear to be very numerous. If
the Parliament would please to mend women, which their
husbands dare not do, there need not so many men to
make and mend as there are. I hope the present doleful
estate of the realm will persuade more strongly to some
considerate course herein than I now can.
Knew I how to bring it in, I would speak a word to
422
NATHANIEL WARD
long hair, whereof I will say no more hut this: if God
proves not such a barber to it as he threatens, unless it
be amended, Isai. vii. 20, before the peace of the State
and Church be well settled, then let my prophecy be
scorned, as a sound mind scorns the riot of that sin,
and more it needs not. If those who are termed rattle-
heads and impuritans would take up a resolution to begin
in moderation of hair to the just reproach of those
that are called Puritans and Roundheads, I would honor
their manliness as much as the others’ godliness, so long
as I knew what man or honor meant: if neither can find
a barber’s shop, let them turn in, to Psalm lxviii: 21,
Jer. vii. 29, 1 Cor. xi. 14. If it' be thought no wisdom
in men to distinguish themselves in the field by the
scissors, let it be thought no injustice in God not to
distinguish them by the sword. I had rather God should
know me by my sobriety than mine enemy not know me
by my vanity. He is ill kept that is kept by his own
sin. A short promise is a far safer god than a long
lock: it is an ill distinction which God is loath to look
at.— The Simple Cobbler of Agawam.
SIX HOBNAILS.
I pray let me drive in half a dozen plain honest country
hobnails, such as the martyrs were wont to wear, to
make my work hold the surer, and I have done:
There lives cannot be good,
There faith cannot be sure
Where truth cannot be quiet,
Nor ordinances pure.
No King can king it right,
Nor rightly sway his rod,
Who truly loves not Christ,
And truly fears not God.
He cannot rule a land,
As lands should ruled been,
That lets himself be rul’d
By a ruling Roman Queen.
'
EUGENE FITCH WARE.
EUGENE FITCH WARE
423
No earthly man can be
True subject to this State,
Who makes the Pope his Christ,
A11 heretic his mate.
There Peace will go to war,
And Silence make a noise,
Where upper things will not
With nether equipoise.
The upper world shall rule,
While stars will run their race:
The nether World obey,
While people keep their place.
THE CLENCH.
If any of these come out
So long’s the world do last
Then credit not a word
Of what is said and past.
— The Simple Cobbler of Agawam.
ARE, Eugene Fitch (“ Ironquill ”), an
American poet; born in Connecticut in 1841.
He removed to the West as a youth and later
engaged in journalism in Kansas and Nebraska.
From 1902 to 1904 he was United States Pension
Commissioner. He has published Rhymes of Iron-
quill and has contributed many popular poems to mag¬
azines and newspapers.
THE WASHERWOMAN’S FRIEND.
In a very humble cot,
In a rather quiet spot,
424
EUGENE FITCH WARE
In the suds and in the soap,
Worked a woman full of hope,
Working, singing, all alone,
In a sort of undertone —
“ With a Saviour for a friend,
He will keep me to the end.”
Sometimes happening along,
I had heard the semi-song,
And I often used to smile
More in sympathy than guile;
But I never said a word
In regard to what I heard,
As she sang about her friend
Who would keep her to the end.
Not in sorrow nor in glee,
Working all day long was she,
As her children, three or four,
Played around her on the floor;
But in monotones the song
She was humming all day long.
“ With a Saviour for a friend,
He will keep me to the end.”
Just a trifle lonesome she,
Just as poor as poor could be;
But her spirits always rose,
Like the bubbles in the clothes,
And, though widowed and alone,
Cheered her with the monotone
Of a Saviour and a friend
Who would keep her to the end.
I have seen her rub and scrub
On the washboard in the tub,
While the baby, sopped in suds,
Rolled and tumbled in the duds;
Or was paddling in the pools
With old scissors stuck in spools —
EUGENE FITCH WARE
425
She still humming of her friend
Who would keep her to the end.
Human hopes and human creeds
Have their root in human needs;
And I would not wish to strip
From that washerwoman’s lip
Any song that she can sing,
Any hope that songs can bring;
For the woman has a friend
Who will keep her to the end.
UPSIDE DOWN.
Once a Kansas zephyr strayed
Where a brass-eyed bull pup played,
And that foolish canine bayed,
At that zephyr in a gay,
Semi-idiotic way.
Then that zephyr in about
Half a jiffy took that pup
Tipped him over wrong side up!
Then it turned him wrong side out,
And it calmly journeyed thence,
With a barn and string of fence.
MORAL.
When communities turn loose,
Social forces that produce,
The disorders of a gale;
Act upon a well-known law,
Face the breeze, but close your jaw —
It’s a rule that will not fail,
If you bay it in a gay,
Self-sufficient sort of way,
It will land you, without doubt,
Upside down and wrong side out.
426
WILLIAM WARE
( ARE, William, an American novelist; born
at Hingham, Mass., August 3, 1797; died
at Cambridge, Mass., February 19, 1852.
He was the grandson of Henry Ware, prominent in
the Unitarian controversy, and was one of a family of
authors. Graduating from Harvard in 1816, and the
Divinity School in 1819, he was pastor in Northboro,
Waltham, and West Cambridge, Mass., and from 1821
to 1836 in New York City. His Letters from Pal¬
myra (1837) were published in 1868, as Zenobia, or
the Fall of Palmyra. Probus (1838), was afterward
entitled Aurelian. These, with Julian, or Scenes in
Judea (1841), gained him considerable reputation as
an historical novelist. His other works are American
Unitarian Biography (1850) ; Sketches of European
Capitals (1851); Lectures on the Works and Genius
of Washington Allston (1852) ; Memoir of Nathaniel
Bacon in Sparks's American Biography (1841).
From 1839 to 1844 he edited the Christian Examiner.
PALMYRA.
It was several miles before we reached the city, that
we suddenly found ourselves — landing as it were from
a sea upon an island or continent — in a rich or thickly
peopled country. The roads indicated an approach to
a great capital, in the increasing numbers of those who
thronged them, meeting and passing us, overtaking us,
or crossing our way. Elephants, camels, and the drom¬
edary, which I had before seen only in the amphithe¬
atres, I here beheld as the native inhabitants of the soil.
Frequently villas of the rich and luxurious Palmyrenes,
to which they retreat from the greater heats of the city,
now threw a lovely charm over the scene. Nothing can
exceed the splendor of those sumptuous palaces. Italy
WILLIAM WARE
4 27
itself has nothing which surpasses them. The new and
brilliant costumes of the persons whom we met, together
with the rich housings of the animals they rode, served
greatly to add to all this beauty. I was still entranced,
as it were, by the objects around me, and buried in
reflection; when I was roused by the shout of those
who led the caravan, and who had attained the summit
of a little rising ground, saying, “ Palmyra ! Palmyra ! ”
I urged forward my steed, and in a moment the most
wonderful prospect I ever beheld — no, I cannot except'
even Rome — burst upon my sight. Flanked by hills of
considerable elevation on the east, the city filled the
whole plain below as far as the eye could reach, both
toward the north and toward the south. This immense
plain was all one vast and boundless city. It seemed
to me to be larger than Rome. Yet I knew very well
that it could not be — that it was not. And it was some
time before I understood the true character of the scene
before me, so as to separate the city from the country,
and the country, from the city, which here wonderfully
interpenetrate each other and so confound and deceive
the observer. For the city proper is so studded with
groups of lofty palm-trees, shooting up among its tem¬
ples and palaces, and on the other hand, the plain in its
immediate vicinity is so thickly adorned with magnifi¬
cent structures of the purest marble, that it is not easy,
nay, it is impossible, at the distance at which I contem¬
plated the whole, to distinguish the line which divided
the one from the other. It was all city and all country,
all country and all city. Those which lay before me I
was ready to believe were the Elysian Fields. I im¬
agined that I saw under my feet the dwellings of purified
men and of gods. Certainly they were too glorious for
the mere earth-born. There was a central point, how¬
ever, which chiefly fixed my attention, where the vast
Temple of the sun stretched upward its thousand columns
of polished marble to the heavens, in its matchless beauty
casting into the shade every other work of art of which
the world can boast. I have stood before the Parthenon,
and have almost worshipped that divine achievement of
the immortal Phidias. But it is a toy by the side of this
428
WILLIAM WARE
bright crown of the Eastern capital. I have been at
Milan, at Ephesus, at Alexandria, at Antioch; but in
neither of these renowned cities have I beheld anything
that I can allow to approach in united extent, grandeur,
and most consummate beauty this almost more than
work of man. On each side of this, the central point,
there rose upward slender pyramids — pointed obelisks —
domes of the most graceful proportions, columns, arches,
and lofty towers, for numbers and for form, beyond my
power to describe. These buildings, as well as the walls
of the city, being all either of white marble, or of some
stone as white, and being everywhere in their whole ex¬
tent interspersed, as I have already said, with multitudes
of overshadowing palm-trees, perfectly filled and satis¬
fied my sense of beauty, and made me feel, for the
moment, as if in such a scene I should love to dwell,
and there end my days.
ZENOBIA THE CAPTIVE.
And it was the ninth hour before the alternate shouts
and deep silence of the multitudes announced that the
conqueror was drawing near the capitol. As the first
shout arose, I turned toward the quarter whence it
came, and beheld, not Aurelian, as I expected, but the
Gallic Emperor Tetricus — yet slave of his army and of
Victoria — accompanied by the prince his son, and fol¬
lowed by other illustrious captives from Gaul. All eyes
were turned with pity upon him, and with indignation
too that Aurelian should thus treat a Roman, and once
a Senator. But sympathy for him was instantly lost
in a stronger feeling of the same kind for Zenobia, who
came immediately after. You can imagine, Fausta, better
than I can describe them, my sensations, when I saw
our beloved friend — her whom I had seen treated never
otherwise than as a sovereign Queen, and with all the
imposing pomp of the Persian ceremonial — now on foot,
and exposed to the rude gaze of the Roman populace —
toiling beneath the rays of a hot sun, and the weight of
jewels such as both for richness and beauty, were never
before seen in Rome — and of chains of gold, which,
WILLIAM WARE
429
first passing around her neck and arms, were then borne
up by attendant slaves. I could have wept to see her
go — yes, and did. My impulse was to break through
the crowd and support her almost fainting form — but
I well knew that my life would answer for the rashness
on the spot. I could only, therefore, like the rest, wonder
and gaze. And never did she seem to me, not even in
the midst of her own court, to blaze forth with such
transcendent beauty — yet touched with grief. Her look
was not that of dejection, of one who was broken and
crushed by misfortune — there was no blush of shame.
It was rather one of profound, heart-breaking melan¬
choly. Her full eyes looked as if privacy only was
wanted for them to overflow with floods of tears. But
they fell not. Her gaze was fixed on vacancy, or else
cast toward the ground. She seemed like one unob¬
servant of all around her, and buried in thoughts to which
all else were strangers, and had nothing in common with.
They were in Palmyra, and with her slaughtered multi¬
tudes. Yet though she wept not, others did; and one
could see all along, wherever she moved, the Roman hard¬
ness yielding to pity, and melting down before the all-
subduing presence of this wonderful woman. The most
touching phrases of compassion fell constantly upon my
ear. And ever and anon as in the road there would
happen some rough or damp place, the kind souls would
throw down upon it whatever of their garments they
could quickest divest themselves of, that those feet, little
used to such encounters, might receive no harm. And
as when other parts of the procession were passing by,
shouts of triumph and vulgar joy frequently arose from
the motley crowds, yet when Zenobia appeared a death¬
like silence prevailed, or it was interrupted only by ex¬
clamations of admiration or pity, or of indignation at
Aurelian for so using her. But this happened not long.
For when the Emperor’s pride had been sufficiently
gratified, and just there where he came over against
the steps of the capitol, he himself, crowned as he was
with the diadem of universal empire, descended from
bis chariot, and unlocking the chains of gold that bound
the limbs of the Queen, led and placed her in her own
43 °
WILLIAM WARE
chariot — that chariot in which she had fondly hoped her¬
self to enter Rome in triumph — between Julia and Livia.
Upon this the air was rent with the grateful acclama¬
tions of the countless multitudes. The Queen’s coun-
tenance brightened for a moment as if with the ex¬
pressive sentiment, “ The gods bless you! ” and was
then buried in the folds of her robe. And when after
the lapse of many minutes it was again raised and turned
toward the people, everyone might' see that tears burn¬
ing hot had coursed her cheeks, and relieved a heart
which else might well have burst with its restrained
emotion.— Zenobia.
ZENOBIA SAVED.
A sound as of a distant tumult, and the uproar of a
multitude, caught the ears of all within the tent.
“What mean these tumultuous cries?” inquired Aure-
lian of his attending guard. “ They increase and ap¬
proach.”
“ It may be but the soldiers at their game with An-
tiochus,” replied Probus.
But it was not so. At the moment a Centurion,
breathless, and with his head bare, rushed madly into
the tent.
“ Speak,” said the Emperor; “ what is it ? ”
“ The legions! ” said the centurion, as soon as he
could command his words, “ the legions are advancing,
crying out for the Queen of Palmyra ! They have broken
from their camp and from their leaders, and in one
mixed body come to surround the Emperor’s tent.”
As he ended, the fierce cries of the enraged soldiery
were distinctly heard, like the roaring of a forest torn
by a tempest. Aurelian, bearing his sword, and calling
upon his friends to do the same, sprang toward the en¬
trance of the tent. They were met by the dense throng
of the soldiers, who now pressed against the tent, and
whose savage yells could now be heard:
“ The head of Zenobia.” “ Deliver the Queen to our
will.” “ Throw out the head of Zenobia, and we will
return to our quarters.” “ She belongs to us.”
WILLIAM WARE
431
At the same moment the sides of the tent were thrown
tip, showing the whole plain filled with the heaving mul¬
titude, and being itself instantly crowded with the ring¬
leaders and their more desperate associates. Zenobia,
supporting the Princess, who clung to her, and pale
through a just apprehension of every horror, but other¬
wise firm and undaunted, cried out to Aurelian, “ Save
us, O Emperor, from this foul butchery ! ”
“We will die else!” replied the Emperor; who with
a word sprang upon a soldier making toward the Queen,
and with a blow clove him to the earth. Then swing¬
ing round him that sword which had drunk the blood of
thousands, and followed by the gigantic Sandarion by
Probus, and Carus, a space around the Queen was soon
cleared.
“ Back, ruffians,” cried Aurelian, in a voice of thunder,
“ for you are no longer Romans ! back to the borders of
the tent. There I will hear your complaints.” The
soldiers fell back and their ferocious cries ceased.
“ Now,” cried the Emperor, addressing them, “ what is
your will that thus in wild disorder you throng my tent ? ”
One from the crowd replied: “ Our will is that the
Queen of Palmyra be delivered to us as our right, in¬
stantly. Thousands and thousands of our bold companions
lie buried upon these accursed plains, slain by her and
her fiery engines. We demand her life. It is but justice,
and faint justice, too.”
“ Her life! ” “ Pier life! ” arose in one shout from
the innumerable throng.
The Emperor raised his hand, waving his sword, drip¬
ping with the blood of the slain soldier; the noise sub¬
sided ; and his voice, clear and loud like the tone of a
trumpet, went to the farthest bounds of the multitude.
“Soldiers,” he cried, “you ask for justice; and justice
you shall have.” “Aurelian is ever just!” cried many
voices. “ But you shall not have the life of the Queen
of Palmyra ”— he paused; a low murmur went through
the crowd—“or you must first take the life of your
Emperor, and of those who stand with him.” The sol¬
diers were silent. “ In asking the life of Zenobia,” he
continued, “ you know not what you ask. Are any here
432
WILLIAM WARE
who went with Valerian to the Persian war?” A few
voices responded, “ I was there — and I — and I.” “ Are
there any here whose parents, or brothers, or friends,
fell into the tiger clutches of the barbarian Sapor, and
died miserably in hopeless captivity?” Many voices
everywhere throughout the crowd were heard in reply,
“ Yes, yes; mine were there, and mine.” “Did you ever
hear it said,” continued Aurelian, “ that Rome lifted a
finger for their rescue, or for that of the good Valerian? ”
They were silent, some crying, “ No, no.” “ Know then,
that when Rome forgot her brave soldiers and her Em¬
peror, Zenobia remembered and avenged them; and
Rome, fallen into contempt with the Persian, was raised
to her ancient renown by the arms of her ally, the brave
Zenobia, and her dominions throughout the East saved
from the grasp of Sapor only by her valor. While Gal-
lienus wallowed in sensuality and forgot Rome, and even
his own great father, the Queen of Palmyra stood forth,
and with her royal husband, the noble Odenatus, was in
truth the savior of the empire. And is it her life you
would have? Were that a just return? Were that
Roman magnanimity? And grant that thousands of your
brave companions lie buried upon these plains: it is but
the fortune of war. Were they not slain in honorable
fight, in the siege of a city, for its defence unequalled in
all the annals of war? Cannot Romans honor courage
and conduct, though in an enemy? But you ask for
justice. I have said you shall have justice. You shall.
It is right that the heads and advisers of this revolt, for
such the Senate deems it, should be cut off. It is the
ministers of princes who are the true devisers of a na¬
tion’s acts. These, when in our power, shall be yours.
And now, who, soldiers ! stirred up with mutiny, bringing
inexpiable shame upon our brave legions — who are the
leaders of the tumult ? ”
Enough were found to name them:
“ Firmus ! Carinus ! the Centurions Plancus ! Tatius!
Burrhus ! Valens ! Crispinus ! ”
“ Guards ! seize them and hew them down. Soldiers!
to your tents. The legions fell back as tumultuously as
CY WARMAN
433
they had come together; the faster, as the dying groans
of the slaughtered ringleaders fell upon their ears.
The tent of the Emperor was once more restored to
order. After a brief conversation, in which Aurelian
expressed his shame for the occurrence of such dis¬
orders in the presence of the Queen, the guard were
commanded to convey back to the palace of Seleucus,
whence they had been taken, Zenobia and the Princess.
— Zenobia.
'ARMAN, Cy, an American journalist, essay¬
ist and poet; born at Greenup, Ill., June 22,
1855. In 1880 he removed to Colorado,
where he became engaged in journalism. He was edi¬
tor of The Western Railway in 1888, and of the Creede
Chronicle in 1892. He became known as “ the poet of
the Rockies ” and won fame as author of Siveet Marie,
a popular song. In 1893 he removed to New York
and later took up his residence at London, Canada.
He has published Tales of an Engineer (1895);
Snow on the Headlight (1899) ; Short Rails (1900).
Mr. Warman in a delightful sketch tells how he
came to write Sweet Marie.
HOW “ SWEET MARIE ” WAS WRITTEN.
The sun had just gone down behind the hoary hills,
flooding the June twilight with it's gold and glory. Hav¬
ing finished my dinner, I had strolled out to take a turn
beneath the maple trees that line the walk about the
courthouse. Honey laden, homeward bound, belated bees
droned in the trees, and all the world seemed filled with
the sound and scent of summer.
Here would I walk and watch out the dying day, and
breathe the pure air fresh from the snow fields of the
Vol. XXIII.—28
434
CY WARMAN
north. Here, too, I hoped to win a good night smile, for
down this way she was to pass to the theater — with
another man. I was turning the corner when she came.
Face to face we met, and such a smile ! There was a
world of tenderness in it, and, with a man’s conceit, I
fancied there was something back of it.
I wondered, too, if she had guessed my secret, and
while the sound of her carriage wheels were still in my
ears I said, half aloud:
I’ve a secret in my heart,
Sweet Marie;
A tale I would impart
Love, to thee.
And then, as a man having been drunk with wine im¬
agines that everybody knows it, I felt that my secret was
out, and I had gone less than a dozen yards when I
finished the half stanza:
Every daisy in the dell
Knows my secret — knows it well,
And yet I dare not tell Sweet Marie.
Then the whole song same rushing upon me like a
mountain stream after a cloudburst. Like a gleam of
glory in a gob of gloom it came fast, and flooded my soul
and filled me with lustless joy. On I walked, sang my
new song and gloried in it as a happy mother glories in
the first faint smile of a new born babe.
When more people and the stars came out, and there
was no longer room for the wide wings of my muse, I
boarded a cable car and went out to the very shadows of
the hills. Then the white moon came up from the plains,
making one of those matchless moonlit nights that in¬
variably follow a perfect day in Denver. The tired lawn
mower that had struggled all day against a vigorous brass
band, at last lay down, and the mellow notes of the t'u bah
came faint and far away.
Far into the night I sat there, saying it o’er and o’er,
till every line was registered in my memory.
CY WARMAN
435
The following summer I gave the poem to General
David S. Stanley. He submitted it to Mr. Dana; it was
accepted, and on the following Sunday received some
editorial mention, and I rejoiced anew.
I think it was ex-Congressman Belford, the “ Red
Headed Rooster of the Rockies,” as he was known in the
House, who first advised me to have the verses set to
music.
Raymon Moore was in Denver at the time and I per¬
suaded him to call at my office. When I read the song
to him he snapped his fingers — tears of enthusiasm
stood in his eyes as he declared that it would make “ the
sweetest song ever sung.”
Out of the third stanza, which begun originally:
Not the sun-glints in your hair,
Sweet Marie,
Nor because your face is fair,
Love, to see;
I made a chorus, had my stenographer copy it, then hold¬
ing the revised copy in his hand he began to hum.
“ Something sweet and slow,” he said, “ like this;” then
he sang exactly as a million mouths have sung since:
“ Come to me, Sweet Marie,
Sweet Marie, come to me.”
I repeated and remembered the notes he sang, and when
a year later Will T. Carleton came to the footlights in the
Broadway Theater and sang the song, I was glad to note
that Mr. Moore had not varied a shadow from his first'
inspiration.
It happened that about the time the first faint echoes
of the song reached the Rocky Mountains we started East,
and listened with eager ears to hear it sung.
The black boy on the Burlington husked his pillows
and hummed that tune. At Chicago we hear it after.
At Cleveland a man pounded the wheels with a hard
hammer and sang softly, as to himself.
As we sat at dinner in the Imperial in New York the
436
CY WARMAN
orchestra played it, and where we shopped the shop girls
sang it, and even as we exchanged congratulatory smiles
a wild toned street piano played Sweet Marie in the street.
At Manhattan Beach we had the great joy of hearing
Sousa’s Band play it; heard Raymon sing it in a theater
in town; then Mr. Moore and I went over to see the
publishing company. From there we went to Broad
street, where each received a check for more money, we
thought, than there was in the world.
“How’ll you have it?” asked a cheery voice, as we
faced the paying teller in a Nassau street bank.
“ Big pieces,” said I.
“And you?”
“ Two one thousand, two five hundred and the rest in
ones,” said Raymon. And as the money man began to
slide out the notes, he said, “ I’ve a secret in my heart.”
But that was as far as he got, for we both laughed — not
at him, of course, but it was time to laugh.
“ GIVE ME NOT RICHES.”
I want to find a place for me
Where nature’s harps are all in tune,
A calm, or a still, on life’s rough sea,
A place where it’s always afternoon;
A quiet, peaceful place somewhere
Between the tramp and the millionaire.
Where it’s not all joy and not all pain;
Not too much shine, nor too much shade;
Just a place to hide me from the rain;
An easy place where the rent is paid,
And not too close to the man of care,
And not too far from the millionaire.
THE ISOLATION OF A CHILD.
I once knew a dear little mother,
With a beautiful, blue-eyed boy.
She constantly bathed and brushed him,
CY WARMAN
437
And when he had tired of a toy
She would take it and scald it and scrape it
And lay it away in the sun,
And that is the way she took care of
His playthings, every one.
Pent up in his own little playhouse,
The baby grew peaked and pale,
And there were the neighbors’ children
All dirty and happy and hale.
If the baby went out for an airing,
The nurse was to understand
That none of the neighbors’ children
Was ever to touch his hand.
But they did, and the injured mother
Brought the dear baby inside
And shut him up in his playhouse,
Where the little one fretted and died.
Then the torn heart turned to the Virgin,
And this was the weight of the prayer:
“ Oh, mother, dear, don’t let him play with
The other angels up there ! ”
SONG OF A SERENADE.
One night beneath my window, when the stars were
bright above,
The music of a mandolin, blent with a lay of love,
Came stealing through the stillness like the balmy breath
of spring;
I opened up my window blinds and heard a singer sing:
“ Cupid is an archer, and his arrow’s ever set,
And swift and sure the arrow flies, as from a falconet;
His bow is ever trusty and his aim is ever true,
Be wary of the archer when his arrow’s aimed at you ! ”
At first I only lingered there to listen for a while,
And thought the singer only sang the hours to beguile.
My heart began to tremble with the touch of every string,
438 ANNA BARTLETT WARNER
I opened wide my window blinds and heard the singer
sing:
“ Cupid is an archer, and his arrow’s ever set,
And swift and sure the arrow flies, as from a falconet;
His bow is ever trusty and his aim is ever true,
Be wary of the archer when his arrow’s aimed at you! ”
The weary day I’m waiting for the twilight shades to fall,
And where the tangled woodland waves I hear the lone
dove call.
The song of running brooklets and a thousand birds
a-wing
My eager ears will hear not, when my love begins to sing:
“ Cupid is an archer, and his arrow’s ever set,
And swift and sure the arrow bies, as from a falconet;
His bow is ever trusty and his aim is ever true.
Be wary of the archer when his arrow’s aimed at you! ”
ARNER, Anna Bartlett (“Amy Loth-
rop'’), an American novelist, sister of
4 Susan Warner; born at New York in 1820.
Besides the works written in conjunction with her sis¬
ter, Susan Warner, she is the author of several novels,
and many works designed for juvenile readers.
Among these are Dollars and Cents (1S53) ; My
Brother's Keeper (1855) ; Three Little Spades (1870) ;
Stories of Vinegar Hill (1871); The Fourth Watch
(1872) ; Gardening by Myself (1872) ; The Other
Shore (1873) j Miss TitlePs Vegetable Garden (1875) ;
A Bag of Stories (1883) ; Daisy Plains (1886) ; Cross
Corners (1887) > Patience (1891) ; Up and Down the
House (1892), and several volumes of poems.
ANNA BARTLETT WARNER
439
THE FLOWER GIFTS
Nothing had been heard of little Dick’s garden for
some time, and though Clover had been very anxious to
see it, she had not dared to say a word. But one day,
after the dry weather had passed by, and the showers
had come to make everything look fresh, Sam proposed
that they should take a walk that way, and see Dick’s
balsams.
“ We’ll see if they look like yours, Clover,” said little
Primrose.
“But has Dick got any heart’s-ease, Sam?” said little
Primrose.
“ I think not.”
“ Then I’d better take him some,” said Prim, with a
very grave face.
“ But you’ll kill the plants, dear, if you take them up
now, when they are all full of flowers,’’ said Clover;
“ or at least kill the flowers.”
“ It’s only the flowers I mean to take,” replied Prim¬
rose, as gravely as before. “ I’ll take Dick a bunch of
’em.”
“ What’s that for ? ” said Sam, putting his hand under
her chin, and bringing her little sober face into view.
“ Because,” said Prim, “ I’ve been thinking about it a
great deal — about what mamma said. And if God asked
me what I had done with my heart’s-ease, I shouldn’t
like to say I’d never given Dick one.”
“ Oh, if that’s all,” said Lily, “ I can pick him a great
bunch of petunias. Do ’em good, too — they want cut¬
ting.” .
While Lily flew down to her garden and began to pull
off the petunias with an unsparing hand, Primrose
crouched down by her patch of heart’s-ease, carefully
cutting one of each shade and tint that she could find,
putting them lovingly together, with quite an artistic
arrangement of colors.
“Exquisite!” said Sam, watching her. Prim started
up and smiled.
“ Dear me, how splendid! ” said Lily, running up, with
440
ANNA BARTLETT WARNER
her hands full of petunias; “but just look at these!
What will you take, Clover?”
“ I think — I shall not take anything,” said Clover,
slowly.
“ Nothing! out of all your garden! ” said Lily. Clover
flushed crimson.
“ I’m not sure that Dick would care to have me bring
any of my flowers,” she said, in a low voice. “ Maybe I
can find-” And she hurried off, coming back pres¬
ently with a half-open rosebud, which she quietly put in
Prim’s hand, to go with the heart’s-ease. Then they
set off.
Dick, of course, was in his garden — he was always
there when it did not rain, and sometimes when it did;
and visitors were a particularly pleasant thing to him
now that' he had flowers to show. He welcomed them
very joyfully, beginning at once to display his treasures.
Great was the surprise of Lily and Primrose to see the
very same flowers in Dick’s garden that there were in
Clover’s — the beautiful camelia-flowered balsams and
the graceful amaranths and the showy zinnias; even a
canary-vine was there, fluttering over the fence.
“ But where did you get them all ? ” cried Lily.
“ A lady,” said Dick. “ She’s a good one; and that’s
all I know.”
“Where does she live?” inquired Sam.
“ Don’t know, sir,” said Dick. “ Nobody didn’t tell
me that. Man that fetched ’em — that’s the seeds and
little green things — he said, says he, ‘ These be out of
the young lady’s own garden,’ says he.”
“Young lady!” said Lily. “Oh, I dare say it was
Maria Jarvis. You know, Clover, she’s got such loads
of flowers in her garden, and a man to take care of ’em
and all.”
But Clover did not answer, and seemed rather in haste
to get away, opening the little gate, and stepping out
upon the road, and when Sam looked at her he saw that
she was biting her lips very hard to keep from laughing.
It must have pleased him — Clover’s face, or the laugh¬
ing. or the flowers, or something—for the first thing
he did when they were all outside the gate was to put
4
CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER
CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER
441
his arm around Clover and give her a good hearty kiss.
Little Prim all this while had said scarcely a word,
looking on with all her eyes, as we say. But when Prim
was going to bed that night, and Mrs. May bent over
her for a parting embrace, Prim said:
“ Mamma, I don’t think God will ever ask Clover
what she’s done with her flowers.”
“ Why not ? ” asked her mother.
“ Because,” answered Primrose, sedately, “ I think Pie
told her what to do with ’em — and I think she’s done it.”
— Three Little Spades.
ARNER, Charles Dudley, an American
journalist, essayist and novelist; born at
Plainfield, Mass., September 12, 1829; died
at Hartford, Conn., October 20, 1900. He studied at
the Oneida Conference Seminary at Cazenovia, and
entered Hamilton College, where he was graduated in
1851. Subsequently he studied law at Philadelphia in
1856, and practiced his profession at Chicago until
i860. But the bent of his mind was toward literary
rather than legal pursuits, and just before the breaking
out of the civil war he became assistant editor of the
Evening Post, at Hartford, Conn. This journal was
in 1867 united with the Hartford C our ant, of which
he became editor and part proprietor. Still retaining
this position, he became in 1884 editorially connected
with Harper's Magazine. His principal works are:
My Summer in a Garden (1870) ; Saunierings, remi¬
niscences of a European trip (1872) : Backlog Studies
(1872); Baddeck and That Sort of Thing (1874);
My Winter on the Nile (1876) ; In the Levant (1877) ;
Being a Boy (1877) ; Life of Captain John Smith
44-
CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER
(1877) ; In the Wilderness (1878) ; Life of Washing¬
ton Irving (1880) ; Roundabout Journey (1883) ;
Their Pilgrimage (1886) ; Book of Eloquence (1886) ;
On Horseback (1888) ; A Little Journey in the World
and Studies in the South and West (1889); As We
Were Saying (1892) ; As We Go (1893) ; The Work
of Washington Irving (1893); The Golden House
(1895) ; The Relation of Literature to Life (1896) ;
and The People for Whom Shakespeare Wrote. In
1873 he wrote The Gilded Age, in conjunction with
“ Mark Twain.”
THE MORAL QUALITIES OF VEGETABLES.
I am more and more impressed with the moral quali¬
ties of vegetables, and contemplate forming a science
which will rank with comparative philology — the science
of Comparative Vegetable Morality. We live in an age
of Protoplasm. And, if life-matter is essentially the
same in all forms of life, I propose to begin early, and
ascertain the nature of the plants for which I am re¬
sponsible. I will not associate with any vegetable which
is disreputable, or has not some quality which can con¬
tribute to my moral growth. . . .
Why do we respect some vegetables, and despise others,
when all of them come to an equal honor or ignominy
on the table ? The bean is a graceful, confiding, engag¬
ing vine; but you can never put beans into poetry, nor
into the highest sort of prose. There is no dignity in
the bean. Corn — which in my garden grows alongside
the bean, and, so far as I can see, with no affectation
of superiority — is, however the child of song. It waves
in all literature. But mix it with beans, and its high
tone is gone. Succotash is vulgar. It is the bean in it.
The bean is a vulgar vegetable, without culture, or any
flavor of high society among vegetables.
Then there is the cool cucumber — like so many peo¬
ple, good for nothing when it is ripe, and the wildness
has gone out of it. How inferior to the melon, which
CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER
grows upon a similar vine, is of a like watery consist¬
ency, but is not half so valuable. The cucumber is a
sort of low comedian in a company where the melon is
a minor gentleman. I might also contrast the celery
with the potato. The associations are as opposite as
the dining-room of the duchess and the cabin of the
peasant. I admire the potato both in vine and blossom;
but it is not aristocratic. . . .
The lettuce is to me a most interesting study. • Let¬
tuce is like conversation: it must be fresh and crisp, so
sparkling that you scarcely notice the bitter in it. Let¬
tuce, like most talkers, is however apt to run rapidly to
seed. Blessed is that sort which comes to a head, and
so remains — like a few people I know — growing more
solid and satisfactory and tender at the same time, and
whiter at the centre, and crisp in their maturity. Let¬
tuce, like conversation, requires a good deal of oil, to
avoid friction, and keep the company smooth; a pinch
of Attic salt, a dash of pepper, a quantity of mustard
and vinegar, by all means — but so mixed that you will
notice no sharp contrasts — and a trifle of sugar. You
can put anything — and the more things the better — into
salad, as into conversation; but everything depends upon
the skill in mixing. I feel that I am in the best society
when I am with lettuce. It is in the select circle of
vegetables. The tomato appears well on the table; but
you do not want to ask its origin. It is a most agreeable
parvenu.
Of course, I have said nothing about the berries.
They live in another and more ideal region; except per¬
haps the currant. Here we see that even among berries
there are degrees of breeding. The currant is well
enough, clear as truth, and exquisite in color; but I ask
you to notice how far it is from the exclusive hauteur
of the aristocratic strawberry, and the native refinement
of the quietly elegant raspberry.
I do not know that chemistry, searching for proto¬
plasm, is able to discover the tendency of vegetables.
It can only be found out by outward observation. I
confess that I am suspicious of the bean, for instance.
There are signs in it of an unregulated life. I put up
444
CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER
the most attractive sort of poles for my Limas. They
stand high and straight like church-spires, in my theo¬
logical garden — lifted up; and some of them have even
budded, like Aaron’s rod. No church-steeple in a New
England village was ever better fitted to draw to it the
rising generation on Sunday than those poles to lift up
my beans toward heaven. Some of them did run up
the sticks seven feet, and then straggled off into the air
in a wanton manner; but more than half of them went
gallivanting off to the neighboring grape-trellis, and
wound their tendrils with the tendrils of the grape, with
a disregard of the proprieties of life which is a satire
upon human nature. And the grape is morally no better.
I think the ancients, who were not troubled with the
recondite mysteries of protoplasm, were right in the
mythic union of Bacchus and Venus.
Talk about' the Darwinian theory of development, and
the principle of natural selection! I should like to see
a garden let to run in accordance with it. If I had left
my vegetables and weeds to a free fight, in which the
strongest specimens only should come to maturity, and
the weaker go to the wall, I can clearly see that I should
have had a pretty mess of it. It would have been a
scene of passion and license and brutality. The “ pus-
ley ” would have strangled the strawberry; the upright
corn, which has now ears to hear the guilty beating of
the hearts of the children who steal the raspberries,
would have been dragged to the earth by the wander¬
ing bean; the snake-grass would have left no place for
the potatoes under ground; and the tomatoes would
have been swamped by the lusty weeds. With a firm
hand I have had to make my own “ natural selection.”
Nothing will so well bear watching as a garden, ex¬
cept a family of children next door. Their power of
selection beats mine. If they could read half as well as
they can “ steal awhile away,” I should have put up a
notice —“ Children, beware! There is Protoplasm
here! ” But I suppose it would have no effect. I be¬
lieve that they would eat protoplasm as quick as any¬
thing else, ripe or green. I wonder if this is going to
be a cholera-year. Considerable cholera is the only
CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER
445
thing that would let my apples and pears ripen. Of
course, I do not care for the fruit; but I do not want to
take the responsibility of letting so much “ life-matter,”
full of crude and even disreputable vegetable-human
tendencies pass into the composition of the neighbor’s
children, some of whom may be as immortal as snake-
grass.— My Summer in a Garden .
A COMMERCIAL TRANSACTION IN ORANGES.
One of our expeditions illustrates the Italian love of
bargaining, and their notion of a sliding scale of prices.
One of our expeditions to the hills was making its long,
straggling way through the narrow streets of a little
village, when I lingered behind my companions, attracted
by a hand-cart with several large baskets of oranges.
The cart stood in the middle of the street; and select¬
ing a large orange, which would measure twelve inches
in circumference, I turned to look for the owner. After
some time the fellow got from the neighboring cobbler’s
shop, where he sat with his lazy cronies, listening to the
honest gossip of the follower of St. Crispin, and saun¬
tered toward me.
“ How much for this? ” I ask.
“ One franc, Signor,” says the proprietor, with a polite
bow, holding up one finger.
I shake my head, and intimate that this is altogether
too much. The proprietor is very indifferent, and
shrugs his shoulders in an amiable manner. He picks
up a fair, handsome orange, weighs it in his hands, and
holds it up temptingly. That also is one franc. I sug¬
gest one sou as a fair price — a suggestion which he only
receives with a smile of slight pity, and, I fancy, a little
disdain. A woman joins him, and also holds up this and
that gold-skinned one for my admiration.
As I stand sorting over the fruit, trying to please my¬
self with the size, color, and texture, a little crowd has
gathered round; and I see by a glance that all the occu¬
pations in that neighborhood, including loafing, are tem¬
porarily suspended to witness the trade. The interest
of the circle visibly increases; and others take such a
446
CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER
part in the transaction, that I begin to doubt if the first
man is, after all, the proprietor.
At length I select two oranges, and again demand the
price. There is a little consultation and jabber, when
I am told that I can have both for a franc. I, in turn,
sigh, shrug my shoulders, and put down the oranges
amid a chorus of exclamations over my graspingness.
My offer of two sous is met with ridicule, but not with
indifference. I can see that it has made a sensation.
These simple, idle children of the sun begin to show a
little excitement. I at length determine upon a bold
stroke, and resolve to show myself the Napoleon of
oranges, or to meet my Waterloo. I pick out four of the
largest oranges in the basket, while all eyes are fixed
upon me intently, and for the first time pull out a piece
of money. It is a two-sous piece. I offer it for the
four oranges.
“ No, no, no, Signor ! Ah, Signor ! Ah, Signor ! ” in
a chorus from the whole crowd.
I have struck bottom at last, and perhaps got some¬
where near the value; and all calmness is gone. Such
protestations, such indignation, such sorrow, I have
never seen before from so small a cause. “ It cannot be
thought of! It is mere ruin ! ” I am, in turn, as firm,
and nearly as excited in seeming. I hold up the fruit,
and tender the money.
“No, never, never! The Signor cannot be in ear¬
nest ! ”
Looking round me for a moment, and assuming a
theatrical manner befitting the gestures of those about
me, I fling the fruit down, and with a sublime renuncia¬
tion stalk away. There is instantly a buzz and a clamor.
I have not proceeded far when a skinny old woman runs
after me and begs me to return. I go back, and the
crowd parts to receive me.
The proprietor has a new proposition, the effect of
which upon me is intently watched. He proposes to
give me five big oranges for four sous. I receive it with
utter scorn, and a laugh of derision. I will give two
sous for the original four and not a centissimo more.
That' I solemnly say, and am ready to depart. Hesita-
CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER
447
tion, and renewed conference; but at last the proprietor
relents; and, with the look of one who is ruined for
life, and who yet is willing to sacrifice himself, he hands
me the oranges. Instantly the excitement is dead; the
crowd disperses; and the street is as quiet as ever when
I walk away, bearing my hard-won treasures.
A little while after, as I sat upon the Camaldoli, with
my feet hanging over, these same oranges were taken
from my pockets by Americans; so that I am prevented
from making any moral reflections upon the honesty of
the Italians.— Saunterings.
A YANKEE PHILOSOPHER.
I confess that I have a soft place in my heart for that
rare character in our New -England life who is content
with the world as he finds it; and who does not at¬
tempt to appropriate any more of it to himself than he
absolutely needs from day to day. He knows from the
beginning that the world could get on without him, and
he has never had any anxiety to leave any result behind
him — any legacy for the world to quarrel over. He is
really an exotic in our New England climate and so¬
ciety; and his life is perpetually misunderstood by his
neighbors, because he shares none of their anxiety about
“ getting on in life.” He is even called “ lazy,” “ good-
for-nothing,” and “shiftless”—the final stigma that we
put upon a person who has learned to wait without' the
exhausting process of laboring.
I made his acquaintance last summer in the country;
and I have not for a long time been so well pleased with
any of our species. He had always been from boyhood
of a contented and placid mind; slow in his movements,
slow in his speech. I think he never cherished a hard
feeling toward anybody, nor envied anyone — least of
all the rich and prosperous, about' whom he liked to
talk. Indeed, his talk was a good deal about wealth,
especially about his cousin who had been down South,
and “ got fore-handed ” within a few years. But he had
no envy in him, and he evinced no desire to imitate him.
I inferred from all his conversation about “ piling it
448
CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER
up ” (of which he spoke with a gleam of enthusiasm in
his eye), that there were moments when he would like
to be rich himself; but it was evident that he would
never make the least effort to be so; and I doubt if he
could even overcome that delicious inertia of mind and
body called laziness, sufficiently to inherit.
Wealth seemed to have a far and peculiar fascination
for him; and I suspect he was a visionary in the midst
of his poverty. Yet I suppose he had hardly the per¬
sonal property which the law exempts from execution.
He had lived in a great many towns, moving from one
to another with his growing family by easy stages, and
was always the poorest man in the town, and lived on
the most niggardly of its rocky and bramble-grown
farms, the productiveness of which he reduced to zero
in a couple of years by his careful neglect of culture.
The fences of his hired domain always fell into ruins un¬
der him, perhaps because he sat upon them so much,
and the hovels he occupied rotted down during his
placid residence in them. He moved from desolation to
desolation; but carried always with him the equal mind
of a philosopher. Not even the occasional tart remarks
of his wife about their nomadic life, and his serenity in
the midst of discomfort, could ruffle his smooth spirit.
He was in every respect a most worthy man; truth¬
ful, honest, temperate, and, I need not say, frugal. He
had no bad habits; perhaps he never had energy enough
to acquire any. Nor did he lack the knack of the Yan¬
kee race. He could make a shoe, or build a house, or
doctor a cow; but it never seemed to him, in this brief
existence, worth the while to do any of these things.
He was an excellent angler, but he rarely fished; partly
because of the shortness of the days, partly on account
of the uncertainty of bites, but principally because the
trout-brooks were all arranged lengthwise, and ran over
so much ground. But no man liked to look at a string
of trout better than he did; and he was willing to sit
down in a sunny place and talk about trout-fishing half
a day at a time; and he would talk pleasantly and well,
too, though his wife might be continually interrupting
him by a call for firewood.
CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER
449
I should not do justice to his own idea of himself if I
did not add that he was most respectably connected,
and that he had a justifiable though feeble pride in his
family. It helped his self-respect, which no ignoble
circumstance could destroy. He was — as must appear
by this time — a most intelligent man, and he was a
well-informed man. That is to say, he read the weekly
newspapers when he could get them; and he had the
average country information about Beecher, and Gree¬
ley, and the Prussian war (“ Napoleon is gittin’ on’t,
ain’t he ”) and the general prospect of the election cam¬
paigns. Indeed, he was warmly — or, rather, lukewarm¬
ly — interested in politics. He liked to talk about the
“ inflated currency ”; and it seemed plain to him that
his condition would somehow be improved if we could
get to a “ specie basis.” He was, in fact, a little
troubled about the National Debt; it seemed to press on
him somehow, while his own never did. He exhibited
more animation over the affairs of the government than
he did over his own — an evidence at once of his disin¬
terestedness and his patriotism.
He had been an old Abolitionist, and was strong on
the rights of “ free labor ”; though he did not care to
exercise his privilege much. Of course he had the
proper contempt for the “ poor whites ” down South. I
never saw a person with more correct notions on such
a variety of subjects. He was perfectly willing that
churches (being himself a member), and Sunday-schools,
and missionary enterprises should go on. In fact, I do
not believe he ever opposed anything in his life. No one
was more willing to vote town-taxes and road-repairs
and school-house than he. If you could call him spirited
at all, he was public-spirited.
And with all this, he was never “ very well ”; he had
from boyhood “ enjoyed poor health.” You would say
he was not a man who would ever catch anything — not
even an epidemic; but he was a person whom diseases
would be likely to overtake — even the slowest of slow
fevers. And he wasn’t a man to shake off anything.
And yet sickness seemed to trouble him no more than
poverty. He was not discontented; he never grumbled.
Vol. XXIII.— 29
450
CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER
I am not sure but that he relished a “ spell of sickness ’’
in haying-time.
An admirably balanced man, who accepts the world
as it is, and evidently lives on the experience of others.
I have never seen a man with less envy or more cheer¬
fulness, or so contented, with as little reason for being
so. The only drawback to his future is that rest beyond
the grave will not be much change for him, and he has
no works to follow him.— Backlog Studies.
A BOY ON A FARM.
Say what you will about the general usefulness of boys,
it is my impression that a farm without a boy would
very soon come to grief. What the boy does is the life
of the farm. He is the factotum, always in demand,
always expected to do the thousand indispensable things
that nobody else will do. Upon him fall all the odds
and ends, the most difficult things.
After everybody else is through, he has to finish up.
His work is like a woman’s,— perpetually waiting on
others. Everybody knows how much easier it is to eat
a good dinner than it is to wash the dishes afterwards.
Consider what a boy on a farm is required to do; things
that must be done, or life would actually stop.
It is understood, in the first place, that he is to do all
the errands, to go to the store, to the post-office, and
to carry all sorts of messages. If he had as many legs
as a centiped, they would tire before night. His two
short limbs seem to him entirely inadequate to the task.
He would like to have as many legs as a wheel has
spokes, and rotate about in the same way.
This he sometimes tries to do; and the people who
have seen him “ turning cart-wheels ” along the side of
the road, have supposed that he was amusing himself and
idling his time; he was only trying to invent a new mode
of locomotion, so that he could economize his legs, and
do his errands with greater dispatch.
He practices standing on his head, in order to accus¬
tom himself to any position. Leap-frog is one of his
methods of getting over the ground quickly. He would
SUSAN WARNER
45 t
willingly go an errand any distance if he could leap¬
frog it with a few other boys.
He has a natural genius for combining pleasure with
business. This is the reason why, when he is sent to the
spring for a pitcher of water, he is absent so long; for
he stops to poke the frog that sits on the stone, or, if
there is a pen-stock, to put his hand over the spout, and
squirt the water a little while.
He is the one who spreads the grass when the men
have cut it; he mows it away in the barn; he rides the
horse, to cultivate the corn, up and down the hot, weary
rows; he picks up the potatoes when they are dug; he
drives the cows night and morning; he brings wood and
water, and splits kindling; he gets up the horse, and puts
out' the horse; whether he is in the house or out of it,
there is always something for him to do.
Just before the school in winter he shovels paths; in
summer he turns the grindstone. He knows where there
are lots of wintergreens and sweet-flags, but, instead of
going for them, he is to stay in doors and pare apples,
and stone raisins, and pound something in a mortar.
And yet, with his mind full of schemes of what he would
like to do, and his hands full of occupations, he is an
idle boy, who has nothing to busy himself with but school
and chores!
He would gladly do all the work if somebody else
would do the chores, he thinks; and yet I doubt if any
boy ever amounted to anything in the world, or was of
much use as a man, who did not enjoy the advantages of
a liberal education in the way of chores.
ARNER, Susan, an American novelist; born
at New York, July n, 1819; died at High¬
land Falls, N. Y., March 17, 1885. Her first
novel, The Wide , Wide World, was published in 1851,
under the pseudonym of “ Elizabeth Wetherell.” Her
452
SUSAN WARNER
other works are Queechy (1852); The Law and the
Testimony (1853) ; The Hills of the Shatemuc
(1856) The Old Helmet (1863); Melbourne House
(1864) ; Daisy (1868) ; A Story of Small Beginnings
(1872); the Say and Do series (1875); Diana
(1876); My Desire (1877); The Broken Walls of
Jerusalem (1878); The Kingdom of Judah (1878);
The End of a Coil (1880) ; The Letter of Credit
(1881); Stephen, M.D. (1883). In conjunction with
her sister, Anna Bartlett, she wrote Say and Seal
(i860); Ellen Montgomery’s Book-Shelf (1863-69);
Books of Blessing (1868) ; Wych-Hazel (1876).
AUTUMN NUTS AND LEAVES.
In a hollow, rather a deep hollow — behind the crest
of the hill, as Fleda had said, they came at last to a
noble group of large hickory-trees, with one or two
chestnuts standing in attendance on the outskirts; and
also, as Fleda had said, or hoped, the place was so far
from convenient access that nobody had visited them;
they were thick hung with fruit. If the spirit of the
game had been wanting or failing in Mr. Carleton, it
must have been roused again into full life at the joyous
heartiness of Fleda’s exclamations. At any rate, no boy
could have taken to the business better. He cut, with
her permission, a long, stout pole in the woods; and
swinging himself lightly into one of the trees, showed
that he was master of the art of whipping them. Fleda
was delighted, but not surprised; for from the first mo¬
ment of Mr. Carleton’s proposing to go with her she had
been privately sure that he would not prove an inactive
or inefficient ally. By whatever slight tokens she might
read this, in whatever fine characters of the eye or speech
or manner, she knew it; and knew it just as well before
they reached the hickory-trees as she did afterward.
When one of the trees was well stripped, the young
gentleman mounted into another, while Fleda set her¬
self to hull and gather up the nuts under the one first
SUSAN WARNER
453
beaten. She could make but little headway, however,
compared with her companion; the nuts fell a great
deal faster than she could put them in her basket. The
trees were heavy laden, and Mr. Carleton seemed deter¬
mined to have the whole crop; from the second tree
he went to the third. Fleda was bewildered with her
happiness; this was doing business in style. She tried
to calculate what the whole quantity would be, but it
went beyond her; one basketful would not take it, nor
two, nor three. “ It wouldn’t begin to,” said Fleda to
herself. She went on hulling and gathering with all pos¬
sible industry.
After the third tree was finished, Mr. Carleton threw
down his pole, and resting himself upon the ground at
the foot, told Fleda he would wait a few moments before
he began again. Fleda thereupon let off her work, too,
and going for her little tin pail presently offered it to
him, temptingly stocked with pieces of apple-pie. When
he had smilingly taken one, she next brought him a sheet
of white paper with slices of young cheese.
“ No, thank you,” said he.
“ Cheese is very good with apple-pie,” said Fleda, com-
petently.
± -
“Is it?” said he, laughing. “Well, upon that, I think
you would teach me a good many things, Miss Fleda, if
I were to stay here long enough.”
“ I wish you would stay and try, sir,” said Fleda, who
did not know exactly what to make of the shade of
seriousness which crossed his face. It was gone almost
instantly.
“ I think anything is better eaten out in the woods than
it is at home,” said Fleda.
“ Well, I don’t know,” said her friend. “ I have no
doubt that this is the case with cheese and apple-pie,
and especially under hickory-trees which one has been
contending with pretty sharply. If a touch of your
wand, Fairy, could transform one of these shells into a
p-oblet of Lafitte or Amontillado we should have nothing
to wish for.”
“ Amontillado ” was unintelligible to Fleda, but “ gob¬
let ” was intelligible.
454
SUSAN WARNER
“ I am sorry,” she said, “ I don’t know where there is
any spring up here; but we shall come to one going
down the mountain.”
“ Do you know where all the springs are ? ”
“ No, not all, I suppose,” said Fleda, “ but I know a
good many. I have gone about through the woods so
much, and I always look for the springs.” . . .
They descended the mountain now with hasty step,
for the day was wearing well on. At' the spot where he
had stood so long when they went up, Mr. Carleton
paused again for a minute. In mountain scenery every
hour makes a change. The sun was lower now, and the
lights and shadows more strongly contrasted; the sky
of a yet calmer blue, cool and clear toward the horizon.
The scene said still the same thing it had said a few
hours before, with a touch more of sadness; it seemed
to whisper, “ All things have an end; thy time may
not be forever; do what thou wouldst do; ‘ while ye have
light, believe in the light that ye may be children of the
light.’ ”
Whether Mr. Carleton read it so or not, he stood for a
minute motionless, and went down the mountain looking
so grave that Fleda did not venture to speak to him till
they reached the neighborhood of the spring.
“What are you searching for, Miss Fleda?” said her
friend.
She was making a busy quest here and there by the
side of the little stream.
“ I was looking to see if I could find a mullein-leaf,”
said Fleda.
“A mullein-leaf? What do you want it for?”
“ I want it to make a drinking-cup of,” said Fleda, her
intent bright eyes peering keenly about in every direc¬
tion.
“ A mullein-leaf! that is too rough; one of these
golden leaves — what are they — will do better, won’t
it?”
“ That is hickory,” said Fleda. “ No; the mullein-
leaf is the best, because it holds the water so nicely.
Here it is.”
JOHN BYRNE LEICESTER WARREN
455
And folding up one of the largest leaves into a most
artist-like cup, she presented it to Mr. Carleton.
“ For me was all that trouble? ” said he. “ I don’t de¬
serve it.”
“ You wanted something, sir,” said Fleda. “ The wa¬
ter is very cold and nice.”
He stooped to the bright little stream, and filled his
rural goblet several times.
“ I never knew what it was to have a Fairy for my
cup-bearer before,” said he. “ That was better than any¬
thing Bordeaux or Xeres ever sent forth.”
He seemed to have swallowed his seriousness, or
thrown it away with the mullein-leaf.
“ This is the best spring in all grandpa’s ground,” said
Fleda. “ The water is as good as can be.”
“How came you to be such a wood and water spirit?
You must live out of doors. Do the trees ever talk to
you? I sometimes think they do to me.”
“ I don’t know. I think I talk to them,” said Fleda.
“ It’s the same thing,” said her companion, smiling.
“ Such beautiful woods ! ”
“Were you never in the country in the fall, sir?”
“Not here; in my own country often enough. But
the woods in England do not put on such a gay face,
Miss Fleda, when they are going to be stripped of their
summer dress; they look sober upon it; the leaves
wither and grow brown and the woods have a dull russet
color. Your trees are true Yankees — they ‘never say
die !’ ”— Queechy.
JARREN, John Byrne Leicester, third Baron
De Tabley, an English poet; born at Tabley
House, Cheshire, April 26, 1835; died at
Ryde, Isle of Wight, November 22, 1895. Fie was
educated at Eton and Oxford, was called to the bar,
and after a short diplomatic experience, devoted him-
JOHN BYRNE LEICESTER WARREN
456
self to literature. His life was passed in seclusion,
although he numbered Tennyson, Browning, Glad¬
stone, and other eminent men of his day, among his
personal friends. His poetry reveals much depth of
thought and appeals to the cultivated few, rather than
the general public. His first work appeared with the
signature “ G. F. Preston” (1858-62), but later he
used the pseudonym “ William Lancaster.” After
1873 his work appeared with his own name, John
Leicester Warren. In 1893 he published Poems, Dra¬
matic and Lyrical, by Lord De Tabley, and in 1895 a
second series appeared. Both met with qualified suc¬
cess. Among his other volumes of verse are Phil-
octetes (1867); Orestes (1868); Prceterita (1870);
Rehearsals (1870); Searching the Net (1873). He
wrote two novels, A Screw Loose (1868), and Ropes
of Sand (1869).
A SONG OF FAITH FORESWORN.
Take back your suit.
It came when I was weary and distraught
With hunger. Could I guess the fruit you brought?
I ate in mere desire of any food,
Nibbled its edges, and nowhere found it good.
Take back your suit.
Take back your love.
It is a bird poach’d from my neighbor’s wood:
Its wings are wet with tears, its beak with blood.
’Tis a strange fowl with feathers like a crow:
Death’s raven, it may be, for all we know.
Take back your love.
Take back your gifts.
False is the hand that gave them; and the mind
That plann’d them, as a hawk spread in the wind
To poise and snatch the trembling mouse below,
JOHN BYRNE LEICESTER WARREN
45 7
To ruin where it dares — and then to go.
Take back your gifts.
Take back your vows.
Elsewhere you trimnTd and taught these lamps to burn;
You bring them stale and dim to serve my turn.
You lit those candles in another shrine,
Gutter'd and cold you offer them on mine
Take back your vows
Take back your words.
What is your love? Leaves on a woodland plain,
Where some are running and where some remain.
What is your faith? Straws on a mountain height,
Dancing like demons on Walpurgis night.
Take back your words.
Take back your lies.
Have them again: they wore a rainbow face,
Hollow with sin and leprous with disgrace;
Their tongue was like a mellow turret bell
To toll hearts burning into wide-lipp’d hell —
Take back your lies.
Take back your kiss.
Shall I be meek, and lend my lips again
To let this adder daub them with his stain?
Shall I turn cheek to answer, when I hate?
You kiss like Judas at the garden gate !
Take back your kiss
Take back delight
A paper boat launch’d on a heaving pool
To please a child, and folded by a fool;
The wild elms roar’d; it sail’d — a yard or more.
Out went our ship, but never came to shore.
Take back delight.
Take back your wreath.
Has it done service on a fairer brow?
45§
SAMUEL WARREN
Fresh, was it folded round her bosom snow?
Her cast-off weed my breast will never wear;
Your word is “Love me;” my reply, “Despair!”
Take back your wreath.
■ ARREN, Samuel, an English novelist; born
in Denbighshire, Wales, May 23, 1807; died
at London, July 29, 1877. He began the
study of medicine in Edinburgh, but entered Lincoln’s
Inn, London, as a student of law; was called to the bar
in 1837, and made a queen’s counsel in 1851. In 1854
he became Recorder of Hull, retaining that position
until 1874. In 1856 he was returned to Parliament
for Medhurst, but resigned his seat in 1859 upon ac¬
cepting the appointment of one of the two Masters
in Lunacy. His first notable work was the Passages
from the Diary of a Late Physician , which appeared
in Blackwood's Magazine in 1830-31. These narra¬
tives were told with such apparent verisimilitude that
they were generally supposed to be records of the
actual experience of the author, and it is not easy to
believe but that some of them at least had a founda¬
tion in fact. They certainly bear traces of the early
medical studies of the young lawyer, and are of higher
value than any of his later writings. The long novel,
Ten Thousand a Year (1839), contains many striking
delineations of legal and aristocratic life, but is marred
by broad caricature of the lower classes. The shorter
novel, Now and Then (1847), on which he prided
himself, met with less favor than it deserved, and was
his last work of fiction. In 1851, upon occasion of the
SAMUEL WARREN
459
great exhibition in London, he published a rhapsodical
apologue, The Lily and the Bee, of very slight merit.
He also published at various times many works upon
legal and social topics. Among these are Introduction
to Law Studies (1835) ; an annotated edition of a por¬
tion of Blackstone’s Commentaries (1836) ; The Opium
Question (1840); Moral, Social and Professional
Duties of Attorneys and Solicitors (1848) ; The In¬
tellectual and Moral Improvement of the Present Age
(1853); Labor, Its Rights, Difficulties, Dignity, and
Consolations (1856).
A SLIGHT COLD.
Consider a “ Slight Cold ” to be in the nature of a
chill, caught by a sudden contact with your grave; or
as occasioned by the damp finger of Death laid upon
you, as it were, to mark you for his, in passing to the
more immediate object of his commission. Let this be
called “ croaking,” and laughed at as such by those who
are “ awearied of the painful round of life,” and are on
the lookout for their dismissal from it; but let it be
learnt by heart, and be remembered as having the force
and truth of gospel by all those who would “ measure
out their span upon the earth,” and are conscious of any
constitutional flaw or feebleness; who are distinguished
by any such tendency deathward as long necks, narrow
chicken-chests, fair complexions, exquisite sympathy
with atmospheric variations; or, in short, exhibit any
symptoms of an asthmatic or consumptive character —
if they choose to neglect a Slight Cold.
Let not those complain of being bitten by a reptile
which they have cherished to maturity in their very
bosoms, when they might have crushed it in the egg!
Now if we call a “ Slight Cold,” the egg, and Pleurisy,
Inflammation of the Lungs, Asthma, Consumption, the
venomous reptile, the matter will be no more than cor¬
rectly figured. There are many ways in which this
“ egg ” may be deposited and hatched: Going suddenly,
slightly clad, from a heated into a cold atmosphere —■
JOSEPH WARTON
460
especially if you can contrive to be in a state of per¬
spiration ; sitting or standing in a draught, however slight
— it is the breath of Death, reader, and laden with the
vapors of the grave. Lying in damp beds — for there
his cold arms shall embrace you; continuing in wet
clothing, and neglecting wet feet — these, and a hundred
others, are some of the ways in which you may, slowly,
imperceptibly, but surely, cherish the creature that shall,
at last creep inextricably inward, and lie coiled about
your vitals. Once more — again — again — again — I
would say, Attend to this all ye who think it a small
matter to neglect a Slight Cold.— Passages from the
Diary of a Late Physician.
j^ARTON, Joseph, an English critic and poet;
born at Dunsford, Surrey, in 1722; died at
Wickham in 1800. He was educated at Win¬
chester and Oxford. He was successively curate at
Basingstoke, rector of Winslade, then of Tunworth,
master at Winchester, prebendary of St. Paul’s and of
Winchester. Besides translations of Virgil, he wrote
an Essay on the Writings and Genius of Pope, and
numerous critical papers in The Adventurer; he also
edited the works of Pope and of Dryden. His Odes
on Various Subjects (1746) show how slight a foun¬
dation was required in his day for a poetic reputation.
The following selection from what is regarded as the
best of his odes illustrates his degree of pictorial abil¬
ity, and also the versifying affectations that were then
termed “ elegant.”
TO FANCY.
O lover of the desert, hail!
Say in what deep and pathless vale,
JOSEPH WART ON
461
Or on what hoary mountain’s side,
’Midst falls of water, you reside;
’Midst broken rocks a rugged scene,
With green and grassy dales between;
’Midst forests dark of aged oak,
Ne’er echoing with the woodman’s stroke,
Where never human heart appeared,
Nor e’er one straw-roofed cot was reared,
Where Nature seemed to sit alone,
Majestic on a craggy throne;
Tell me the path, sweet wand’rer, tell,
To thy unknown, sequestered cell,
Where woodbines cluster round the door,
Where shells and moss o’erlay the floor.
And on whose top a hawthorn blows,
Amid whose thickly woven boughs
Some nightingale still builds her nest.
Each evening warbling thee to rest;
Then lay me by the haunted stream,
Rapt in some wild, poetic dream,
In converse while methinks I rove
With Spenser through a fairy grove;
Till suddenly awaked, I hear
Strange whispered music in my ear,
And my glad soul in bliss is drowned
By the sweetly soothing sound. . . .
Yet not these flowery fields of joy
Can long my pensive mind employ;
Haste, Fancy, from these scenes of folly,
To meet the matron Melancholy,
Goddess of the tearful eye,
That loves to fold her arms and sigh!
Let us with silent footsteps go
To charnels and the house of woe,
To Gothic churches, vaults, and tombs,
Where each sad night some virgin comes
With throbbing breast, and faded cheek.
Her promised bridegroom’s urn to seek;
Or to some abbey’s mouldering towers,
Where to avoid cold winter’s showers,
The naked beggar shivering lies
462
THOMAS WARTON
Whilst whistling tempest's round her rise,
And trembles lest the tottering wall
Should on her sleeping infants fall.
Now let us louder strike the lyre,
For my heart glows with martial fire;
I feel, I feel, with sudden heat,
My big, tumultuous bosom beat!
The trumpet’s clangors pierce my ear,
A thousand widows’ shrieks I hear;
“ Give me another horse,” I cry,
Lo! the base Gallic squadrons fly. . . .
When young-eyed Spring profusely throws
From her green lap the pink and rose;
When the soft turtle of the dale
To summer-tells her tender tale;
When Autumn cooling caverns seeks,
And stains with wine his jolly cheeks;
When Winter, like poor pilgrim old,
Shakes his silver beard with cold —
At every season let my ear
Thy solemn whispers, Fancy, hear.
ARTON, Thomas, an English essayist; born
at Basingstoke in 1728; died May 21, 1790,
He was a son of Thomas Warton, a profes¬
sor of poetry at Oxford, and a brother of Joseph, and
was himself appointed to the same professorship in
1757, also occupying a curacy and vicarship. His
great work was a learned History of English Poetry,
from the Eleventh to the Seventeenth Century (1774-
78). Besides this, he wrote an elaborate essay on
Spenser’s Faerie Queene, and edited the minor poems
of Milton, with abundant notes. He enjoyed the dis¬
tinction of being poet-laureate.
THOMAS WARTON
463
Of his History of English Poetry, Sir Walter Scott
says: “ A work of great size, and, poetically speak¬
ing, of great interest, from the perusal of which we
rise, our fancy delighted with beautiful imagery and
with the happy analysis of ancient tale and song, but
certainly with very vague ideas of the history of
English poetry. The error seems to lie in a total neg¬
lect of plan and system; for, delighted with every
interesting topic which occurred, the historical poet
pursued it to its utmost verge, without considering
that these digressions, however beautiful and interest¬
ing in themselves, abstracted alike his own attention
and that of the reader from the professed purpose of
his book. Accordingly Warton’s History of English
Poetry has remained, and will always remain, an im¬
mense commonplace book of memoirs to serve for
such an history.”
ON REVISITING THE RIVER LODDON.
Ah ! what a weary race my feet have run
Since first I trod thy banks, with alders crowned,
And thought my way was all through fairy ground,
Beneath the azure sky and golden sun —
When first my muse to lisp her notes begun !
While pensive memory traces back the round
Which fills the varied interval between;
Much pleasure, more of sorrow, marks the scene.
Sweet native stream! those skies and suns so pure,
No more return to cheer my evening road!
Yet still one joy remains, that not obscure
Nor useless, all my vacant days have flowed
From youth’s gay dawn to manhood’s prime mature
Nor with the muse’s laurel unbestowed.
WRITTEN IN A BLANK LEAF OF DUGDALE’s MONASTICON.
Deem not devoid of elegance the sage,
By Fancy’s genuine feelings unbeguiled
464
THOMAS WARTON
Of painful pedantry, the poring child,
Who turns of these proud domes the historic page,
Now sunk by time, and Henry’s fiercer rage.
Think’st thou the warbling muses never smiled
On his lone hours? Ingenious views engage
His thoughts on themes unclassic, falsely styled,
Intent. While cloistered piety displays
Her mouldering roll, the piercing eye explores
New manners, and the pomp of elder days,
Whence culls the pensive bard his pictured stores.
Not rough nor barren are the winding ways
Of hoar antiquity, but strewn with flowers.
ANCIENT ENGLISH ROMANCE.
The most ancient English metrical romance which I
can discover is entitled the Geste of King Horne. It was
evidently written after the crusades had begun, is men¬
tioned by Chaucer, and probably still remains in its
original state. I will first give the substance of the
story, and afterward add some specimens of the com¬
position. But I must premise, that this story occurs in
very old French metre in the MSS. of the British Mu¬
seum, so that probably it is a translation: a circum¬
stance which will throw light on an argument pursued
hereafter, proving that most of our metrical romances
are translated from the French. [But notice Saxon
names.]
Mury, King of the Saracens, lands in the kingdom of
Suddene, where he kills the king named Allof. The
queen, Godylt, escapes; but Mury seizes on her son
Horne, a beautiful youth aged fifteen years, and puts
him into a galley, with two of his playfellows, Achulph
and Fykenyld: the vessel being driven on the coast of
the kingdom of Westnesse, the young prince is found
by Aylmar, king of that country, brought to court, and
delivered by Athelbrus his steward, to be educated in
hawking, harping, tilting, and other courtly accomplish¬
ment's. Here the princess Rymenild falls in love with
him, declares her passion, and is betrothed. Horne, in
consequence of this engagement, leaves the princess for
BOOKER TALIAFERRO WASHINGTON 465
seven years, to demonstrate, according to the ritual of
chivalry, that by seeking and accomplishing dangerous
enterprises he deserved her affection. He proves a most
valorous and invincible knight; and at the end of seven
years, having killed King Mury, recovered his father’s
kingdom, and achieved many signal exploits, recovers
the Princess Rymenild from the hands of his treacherous
knight and companion Fykenyld. . . .
The poem itself begins and proceeds thus:
Alie hes ben blythe, that to my songe ylythe:
A songe yet ulle ou singe of Allof the god kynge,
Kynge he was by weste the whiles hit y leste;
And Godylt his gode quene, no feyrore myht'e bene,
And huere sone hibte Horne, feyrore childe ne myht be
borne:
For reyne ne myhte by ryne ne sonne myhte shine
Feyror childe than he was, bryht so ever eny glas,
So whyte so eny lilye floure, so rose red was his colour;
He was feyre ant eke bold, and of fyfteene wynter old,
This non his yliche in none kinges ryche.
— History of English Poetry.
ASHINGTON, Booker Taliaferro, an
American educator; born a slave in Hale’s
Ford, Va., about 1859. After the Civil War
he removed with his mother to West A T irginia, where
he worked in the mines, attending school in the winter.
In 1875 was graduated with honors at the Hamp¬
ton Institute, Va.; was a teacher there till in 1881,
when he was elected by the State authorities of Ala¬
bama principal of the Tuskegee Normal and Industrial
Institute, which he organized and built up. He re¬
ceived the decree of A. M. from Howard Universitv
in 1896; was a speaker on educational and racial sub-
Vol. XXIII.—30
466 BOOKER TALIAFERRO WASHINGTON
jects, and wrote: Sowing and Reaping (1900); Up
From Slavery (1901) ; Character Building (1902) ;
The Negro Problem (1903).
The following paper on “ Negro Education ” was
written by Mr. Washington for the Encyclopedia
Americana.
NEGRO EDUCATION.
The negro race in America has grown from twenty
native Africans imported into the country as chattel
slaves in 1619, to 10,000,000 of free men, entitled under
the Federal constitutions to all the rights, privileges and
immunities of citizens of the United States, in 1904. The
great task of educating these millions has been a phe¬
nomenal undertaking, and the results have been still more
phenomenal.
It was the general policy of the sixteen slave-holding
States of the South to prohibit by fine, imprisonment
and whipping the giving of instruction to blacks, mulat-
toes or other descendants of African parentage, and this
prohibition was extended in most of the slave States to
“ free persons of color ” as well as to slaves.
But it has been the general policy of the slave system
in all ages to keep the slaves in ignorance as the safest
way to perpetuate itself. In this respect the American
slave system followed the beaten path of history, and
thus furnished the strongest argument for it's own un¬
doing. The ignorance of the slave is always' the best
safeguard of the system of slavery, but no such theory
could long prevail in a democracy like ours. There were
able and distinguished men among the slaveholders them¬
selves who rebelled against the system and the theories
by which it sought to perpetuate itself. Such southern
men as Thomas Jefferson, Henry Clay, Cassius M. Clay,
and hundreds of others, never became reconciled to the
system of slavery and the degradation of the slave.
The general character of the laws enacted on this
subject by the slave states can be inferred from the law,
passed by the state of Georgia in 1829.
BOOKER TALIAFERRO WASHINGTON . 46/
There were no laws in the slave code more rigidly
enforced than those prohibiting the giving or receiving-
instruction by the slaves or “ free persons of color.” And
yet in nearly all the large cities of the southern states —
notably in Charleston, Savannah and New Orleans —
there were what were styled “ clandestine schools,” where
such instruction was given. Those who maintained them
and those who patronized them were constantly watched
and often apprehended and “ beaten with many stripes,”
but the good work went on in some sort until i860, when
the war that was to be “ the beginning of the end ” of
the whole system of slavery, put a stop to all such efforts
for the time being.
There is no more heroic chapter in history than that
which deals with the persistence with which the slaves
and “ free persons of color ” in the slave States sought
and secured a measure of intellectual and religious in-
struction; for they were prohibited from preaching or
receiving religious instruction except by written permit
and when at least five “ white men of good reputation ”
were present at such gatherings. But there has never
been a time in the history of mankind when repressive
laws, however rigidly enforced, could shut out the light
of knowledge or prevent communion with the Supreme
Ruler of the universe by such as were determined to
share these noblest of human enjoyments. True, only a
few, a very few, of the blacks and “ free people of color ”
were able to secure any appreciable mental instruction;
but the fact that so many of them sought it diligently in
defiance of fines and penalties is worthy of notice and
goes far towards explaining the extraordinary manner
in which those people crowded into every school that
was opened to them after the War of the Rebellion had
swept away the slave system and placed all the children
of the republic upon equality under the Federal constitu¬
tion. Nor was this yearning for mental instruction spas¬
modic ; thirty-four years after the war all the school
houses, of whatever sort, opened for these people, are as
crowded with anxious pupils as were the modest log
school houses planted by New England men and women
while the soldiers of the disbanded armies of the north
468 BOOKER TALIAFERRO WASHINGTON
and south were turning their faces homeward. A race
so imbued with a love of knowledge, displayed in slavery
and become the marvel of mankind in freedom, must have
reserved for it some honorable place in our national life
which God has not made plain to our understanding.
In the free states of the north very little more pro¬
vision was made, as late as 1830, by the state for the
education of the Negro population than by the slave
states. There was no prohibition by the state against
such instruction, but there was a very pronounced pop¬
ular sentiment against it, when prosecuted by benevolent
corporations and individuals. In 1833 the Connecticut
legislature enacted a black law, for the purpose of sup¬
pressing a “ school for colored misses ” which Miss Prud¬
ence Crandall had been forced to open in self-defense, at
Canterbury.
The cause of this law was the acceptance by Miss
Crandall of a young colored girl into her select school
for 3/oung ladies. The parents of the white students
insisted upon the dismissal of Miss Harris, the bone of
contention, but Miss Crandall refused to do so, when
the white students were withdrawn. Miss Crandall then
announced that she would open her school for “ young
ladies and little misses of color.” The people of Canter¬
bury protested against this course, and persecuted legally
and otherwise Miss Crandall and her twenty pupils.
When they found that they could not intimidate the brave
woman the legislature was appealed to, and the law was
enacted. Under it Miss Crandall was arrested and nlaced
in the common jail. The case was tried three times in
the inferior courts, and was argued on appeal before the
Court of Errors July 22, 1834. The court reserved its
decision and has not yet rendered it. The obnoxious law
was repealed in 1838.
Schools established for the education of Negro youth
were assaulted and wrecked in free states, but the good
work steadily progressed. Private schools sprang up in
all the middle and New England states, Pennsylvania,
New York and Massachusetts leading in the work, their
white citizens contributing largely to their support.
There were many of these schools, some of them of splen-
BOOKER TALIAFERRO WASHINGTON 469
did character, in Boston, Providence, New York, Phila¬
delphia, Washington and Cincinnati. They were grad¬
ually absorbed into the public school system, and none
of them now exist in an independent character, except
the Institute for colored youth at Philadelphia, Lincoln
University, in Chester County, and Avery Institute, at
Allegheny City, all in Pennsylvania.
In 1837 Richard Humphreys left $10,000 by will, with
which the Institute for colored youth was started, thirty
members of the Society of Friends forming themselves
into an association for the purpose of carrying out the
wishes and plans of Mr. Humphreys.
The measure of progress which has been made in
public opinion and in the educational status of the Negro
race in the middle and New England states can easily
be estimated by the fact that as recently as 1830 no
Negro could matriculate in any of the colleges and other
schools of this splendid group of states, and that now
not one of them is closed against a black person, except
Girard College at Philadelphia, whose founder made a
perpetual discrimination against people of African de¬
scent in devising his benefaction; that Negro children
stand on the same footing with white children in all
public school benefits; that the separate school system
has broken down entirely in the New England States and
is gradually breaking down in the middle states, New
Jersey and Pennsylvania being the only states in the
latter group which still cling to the principle; and that
in many of the public schools of both groups of states
Negro teachers are employed and stand on the same foot¬
ing as white teachers. Indeed, Miss Maria L. Baldwin,
an accomplished black woman, is principal of the Agas¬
siz School, at Cambridge, Mass., and in the large corps
of teachers under her not one of them is a member of
her own race.
All this is a very long stride from the condition of
the public mind in the middle and New England states
when Negro children were not allowed to attend any
public school or college, and when a reputable white
woman was persecuted, jailed and her property destroyed,
in 1834, for accepting a young colored woman into her
470 BOOKER TALIAFERRO WASHINGTON
select' school. This remarkable change in public senti¬
ment argues well for the future of the Negro race and
for the republic, which for more than a century has
agonized over this race problem, and is still anxious about
it in the sixteen southern states, where a large majority
of the negroes reside, and will, in all probability, con¬
tinue to reside for all time to come.
A revival was begun in public or common school ed¬
ucation, in 1870, which is still in progress, such as swept
over New England and the Middle States from 1830
to i860. Broken in fortune and bowed with defeat in
a great civil war, the South pulled itself together as a
giant rouses from slumber and shakes himself and began
to lay the basis of a new career and a new prosperity
in a condition of freedom of all the people and in the
widest diffusion of education among the citizens through
the medium of the common schools. Perhaps no people
in history ever showed a more superb public spirit and
self-sacrifice under trying circumstances than the people
of the South have displayed in the gradual building up
of their public school system upon the ruins of the aris¬
tocratic academy system. The work had to be done from
the ground up, from the organization of the working
force to the building of the school houses and the mar¬
shaling of the young hosts. The work has required in
the aggregate, perhaps, the raising by taxation of $514,-
922,268, $100,000,000 having been expended in maintain¬
ing the separate schools for the Negro race. This must
be regarded as a marvelous showing when the impover¬
ished condition in which the war left the South in 1865
is considered. But it is a safe, if a time-honored saying,
that “ where there is a will there is a way.” The south¬
ern people found a way because they had a will to do it;
and it is not too much to claim that the industrial pros¬
perity which the South is now enjoying is intimately
connected with the effort and money expended in popular
education since 1870.
The total enrollment of the sixteen southern states and
the District of Columbia for the year 1896-97 was 5,398,-
076, the number of negro children being 1,460,084; the
number of white children 3,937,992. The estimated num-
BOOKER TALIAFERRO WASHINGTON
47i
ber of children in the South from five to eighteen years
of age was 8,625,770, of which 2,816,340, or 32.65 per
cent were children of the Negro race, and 5,809,430 or
67.35 P er cen t were white children. The number of
Negro children enrolled was 51.84 per cent of the Negro
population and 67.79 P er cent the white population.
When the relative social and material condition of the
former is contrasted with that of the latter it must be
admitted that the children of the former slaves are tread¬
ing closely upon the heels of the children of the former
master class in the pursuit of knowledge as furnished in
the public school system.
During the year 1897 it is estimated that $31,144,801
was expended in public school education in the sixteen
southern states and the District of Columbia, of which,
it is estimated, $6,575,000 was expended upon the Negro
schools. Since 1870 it is estimated that $514,922,268
have been expended in the maintenance of the public
school system of the southern states, and that at least
$100,000,000 have been expended for the maintenance of
the separate public schools for Negroes.
The significance of the facts contained in the two fore¬
going paragraphs will be appreciated by Europeans as
well as Americans. The fact that 2,816,340 children of
former slaves were in regular attendance in the public
schools of the late slave-holding states of the South
during the year ..nd that $6,575,000 was expended for
their maintenance, gathered entirely from public taxation
and funds for educational purposes controlled by the
states, should be regarded as the strongest arguments
that could be presented to Americans or to foreigners
to prove that the race problem in the United States is
in satisfactory process of solution. The people of the
southern states, the old slave-holding class, have not only
accepted in good faith the educational burden placed
upon them in the addition of 8,000,000 of people to their
citizenship, but they have discharged that burden in a
way that must command the admiration of the world.
That my own people are discharging their part of the
obligation is shown in the statistics of school attendance,
o 7
and in the further fact that it is estimated they have
4/2
BOOKER TALIAFERRO WASHINGTON
amassed, since their emancipation $300,000,000 of tax¬
able property. While this may seem small as a taxable
value as compared to the aggregate of taxable values in
the southern states, it is large, indeed, when the poverty
of the Negro race in 1865, with all the advantages and
disadvantages of slave education and tradition to contend
with, are considered. When a race starts empty-handed
in the serious business of life, what it inclines to and
amasses in a given period is valuable almost wholly as
a criterion upon which to base a reasonable deduction as
to its ultimate future. The Negro race is compelled to
go forward in the social scale because it is surrounded by
forces which will not permit it to go backwards without
crushing the life out of it, as they crushed the life out
of the unassimilable aboriginal Indian races of North
America. It is clear that the Negro race, in its desire
to American education, possesses the prime element of
assimilation into the warp and woof of American life,
and if its desire for the Christian religion be added we
have the three prime elements of homogeneous citizen¬
ship as defined by Prof. Aldrini, namely, habitat, language
and religion.
It seems well to say this much, adduced from the sta¬
tistics of common school education in the late slave states
of the sixteen southern states and the District of Colum¬
bia, where the bulk of the Negro people reside, as a
logical conclusion in a problematical situation, concern¬
ing which many wise men are disposed to indulge a
pessimism which confuses them as well as those who
have to deal immediately with the perplexing condition
of affairs. The common school statistics of the south¬
ern states leave no room for doubt as to the ultimate
well-being of the Negroes residing in those states.
The extraordinary development of the public school
system of the sixteen southern states and the District
of Columbia has been hastily recorded since 1870. It is
a record worthy of the proud people who made it —
people who have from the foundation of the republic
been resourceful, courageous, self-reliant; rising always
equal to any emergency presented in their new and trying
circv ^stances, surrounded on every side, as they were,
BOOKER TALIAFERRO WASHINGTON
4 73
by a vast undeveloped territory, and by a hostile Indian
population, and fatally handicapped by a system of Afri¬
can slavery, which proved a millstone about the neck of
the people until it was finally abolished, amid the smoke
and flame and death of a hundred battles, in 1865. There
are none so niggardly as to deny to the southern people
the full measure of credit which they deserve for the
splendid spirit with which they put aside their prejudices
of more than two centuries against popular common
school education on the one hand, and their equally pre¬
scriptive prejudice against the education of the Negro
race under any circumstances on the other.
But the public school system of the southern states had
to have other and more substantial foundation than was
offered at the close of the War of the Rebellion, in 1865,
by the academy and college system which had been fos¬
tered and developed as best adapted to a social condition
whose cornerstone was the slave system. Without this
foundation, firmly and wisely laid in the fateful years
from 1865 to 1870, by the initiative of the Federal gov¬
ernment, magnificently sustained by the philanthropy and
missionary consecration of the people of the New Eng¬
land and middle states, the results which we have secured
in the public school system of the South from 1870 to
the present time would not have been possible. All the
facts in the situation sustain this view.
It is creditable to the people of the New England and
middle states that they, who had been engaged for four
years in a Titanic warfare with their brethren of the
southern states, should enter the southern states in the
person of their sons and daughters, and with a voluntary
gift of $40,000,000, or more, to plant common schools and
academies and colleges, in the devastation wrought by
the Civil War, upon the sites where the slave auction
block had stood for 250 years, thereby lifting the glorious
torch of knowledge in the dense mental darkness with
which the slave system had sought to hedge its power;
nor is it less creditable that the southern people accepted
this assistance and builded upon it a public school system
which promises to equal that in any of the other sections
of the republic.
BOOKER TALIAFERRO WASHINGTON
After thirty years of effort there are 25,615 Afro-
American teachers in the schools of the South, where
there was hardly one when the work began; some 4,000
men have been prepared, in part or in whole, for the
work of the Christian ministry, and a complete revolution
has been effected in the mental and moral character of
Afro-American preachers, a service which no one can
estimate who is not intimately informed of the tremen¬
dous influence which these preachers exercise every¬
where over the masses of their race; the professions
of law and medicine have been so far supplied that
one or more representatives are to be found in every
large community of the South, as well as in the
North and West, graduates for the most part of the
schools of the South; and all over the South are
men engaged in trade occupations whose intellects and
characters were shaped for the battle of life by the
New England pioneers who took up the work where their
soldier brothers laid it down at the close of the war.
But the influence of these teachers upon the character,
the home life of the thousands who are neither teach¬
ing, preaching nor engaged in professional or commercial
pursuits, but are devoted to the making of domestic com¬
fort and happiness for their husbands and children, in
properly training the future citizens of the republic, was
one of the most necessary and far-reachinp- that' was ex-
ercised, and the one which to-day holds out the promise
for the best results in the years to come.”
It was these New England men and women who
labored all over the South from 1865 to 1870 who made
possible the splendid public school results. Their labors
did not end in the field of primary education in 1870;
they remained at their posts until they had prepared
the 25,000 Negroes necessary to take their places. And
even unto to-day hundreds of them are laboring in some
one of the 169 schools of secondary and higher educa¬
tion maintained for the freed people.
GEORGE WASHINGTON
475
'ASHINGTON, George, an American soldier
and statesman, first President of the United
States; born at Bridge’s Creek, Westmore¬
land County, Va., February 22, 1732; died at Mount
Vernon, Va., December 14, 1799. The Life of Wash¬
ington has been ably written by John Marshall
(1805), succinctly by Jared Sparks, as a prefix
to The Writings of Washington (1834), and best
of all, upon the whole, by Washington Irving (1855).
There are numerous other Lives of Washington,
among which is a curious Vita Washingtonii, written
in Latin by Francis Glass, an obscure schoolmaster in
Ohio (1835). Washington deserves a place in the
history of literature, although he wrote nothing espe¬
cially designed for publication except his £C Farewell
Address ” to the American people, and this, though
drawn up from his own memoranda, submitted to his
revisal, and copied out by himself, was, as a compo¬
sition, essentially the work of Alexander Hamilton.
The Writings of George Washington, selected and
edited by Jared Sparks (12 vols., 1838), consist in
great part of letters of a public or private nature, and
are of special historical and biographical value. The
Writings of George Washington, Including His Dia¬
ries and Correspondence, edited by Worthington C.
Ford, appeared in 1889.
RESPECTING HIS STEP-SON, JOHN PARK CUSTIS.
I write to you on a subject of importance, and of no
small embarrassment to me. My son-in-law and ward,
Mr. Custis, has, as I have been informed, paid his ad¬
dresses to your second daughter; and, having made some
progress in her affections, has solicited her in marriage.
476
GEORGE WASHINGTON
How far a union of this sort may be agreeable to you,
you best can tell; but I should think myself wanting in
candor were I not to confess that Miss Nelly’s amiable
qualities are acknowledged on all hands, and that
an alliance with your family will be pleasing to his.
This acknowledgment being made, you must permit me
to add, sir, that at this, or in any short time, his youth,
inexperience, and unripened education are, and will be,
insuperable obstacles, in my opinion, to the completion
of the marriage.
As his guardian, I conceive it my indispensable duty
to endeavor to carry him through a regular course of
education (many branches of which, I am sorry to say,
he is totally deficient in), and to guide his youth to a
more advanced age, before an event on which his own
peace and the happiness of another depend takes
place.
If the affection which they have avowed for each other
is fixed upon a solid basis, it will receive no diminution
in the course of two or three years; in which time he
may prosecute his studies, and thereby render himself
more deserving of the young lady, and useful to society.
If, unfortunately — as they are both young — there
should be an abatement of affection on either side, or
both, it had better precede than follow marriage.
Delivering my sentiments thus freely will not, I hope,
lead you into a belief that I am desirous of breaking
off the match. To postpone it is all I have in view; for
I shall recommend to the young gentleman, with the
warmth that becomes a man of honor, to consider him¬
self engaged to your daughter as if the indissoluble
knot were tied; and as the surest means of effecting
this, to apply himself closely to his studies; by which
he will in a great measure avoid those little flirtations
with other young ladies, that may, by dividing the atten¬
tion, contribute not a little to divide the affection.— To
Mr. Calvert: 1773.
Washington's headquarters, newburgh
GEORGE WASHINGTON
4 77
ON THE EARLY DISPUTES WITH GREAT BRITAIN.
At a time when our lordly masters in Great Britain
will be satisfied with nothing less than the deprivation
of American freedom, it seems necessary that something
should be done to avert the stroke, and maintain the
liberty which we have derived from our ancestors. But
the manner of doing it, to answer the purpose effectual¬
ly, is the point in question. That no man should scruple
or hesitate a moment in defence of so valuable a bless¬
ing, is clearly my opinion; 3^et arms should be the last
recourse — the dernier rcssort. We have already, it is
said, proved the inefficacy of addresses to the throne,
and remonstrances to Parliament. How far their atten¬
tion to our rights and interests is to be awakened, or
alarmed, by starving their trade and manufactures, re¬
mains to be tried. The Northern Colonies, it appears,
are endeavoring to adopt this scheme. In my opinion,
it is a good one, and must be attended with salutary
effects, provided it can be carried pretty generally into
execution. . . .
That there will be a difficulty attending it everywhere
from clashing interests, and selfish, designing men ever
attentive to their own gain and watchful of every turn
that can assist their designing views; and in the tobacco
colonies, where the trade is so diffused, and in a man¬
ner wholly conducted by factors for their principals at
home, these difficulties are considerably enhanced, but
I think not insurmountably increased, if the gentlemen
in their several counties will be at some pains to ex¬
plain matters to the people, and stimulate them to pur¬
chase none but certain enumerated articles out of any
of the stores, after a definite period, and neither import
or purchase any themselves. . . .
I can see but one class of people — the merchants ex¬
cepted— who will not, or ought not, to wish well to the
scheme: namely they who live genteelly and hospitably
on their estates. Such as these, were they not to con¬
sider the valuable object in view, and the good of others,
4/8
GEORGE WASHINGTON
might think it hard to be curtailed in their living and
enjoyments.— To George Meson: 1769.
ACCEPTING THE COMMAND OF THE ARMY.
You may believe me, when I assure you in the most
solemn manner that, so far from seeking this employ¬
ment, I have used every effort in my power to avoid it,
not only from my unwillingness to part with you and
the family, but from a consciousness of its being a trust
too great for my capacity; and I should enjoy more
real happiness in one month with you at home than I
have the most distant prospect of finding abroad, if my
stay were to be seven times seven years. But as it has
been a kind of destiny that has thrown me upon this
service, I shall hope that my undertaking it is designed
to answer some good purpose. . . .
I shall rely confidently on that Providence which has
heretofore preserved and been bountiful to me, not doubt¬
ing but that I shall return safe to you in the fall.
I shall feel no pain from the toil or danger of the cam¬
paign ; my unhappiness will flow from the uneasiness I
know you will feel from being left alone. I therefore
beg that you will summon your whole fortitude, and
pass your time as agreeably as possible. Nothing will
give me so much sincere satisfaction as to hear this,
and to hear it from your own pen.— To His Wife:
June, 1775.
ON PROFANITY IN THE ARMY.
That' the troops may have an opportunity of attend¬
ing public worship, as well as to take some rest after
the great fatigue they have gone through, the General
in future excuses them from fatigue-duty on Sundays,
except at the ship-yards, or on special occasions, until
further orders. The General is sorry to be informed
that the foolish and wicked practice of profane swear¬
ing— a vice heretofore little known in an American
army — is growing into fashion. He hopes the officers
will, by example as well as influence, endeavor to check
GEORGE WASHINGTON
479
it; and that both they and the men will reflect that we
can have little hope of the blessing of Heaven upon
our arms if we insult it by our impiety and folly. Added
to this, it is a vice so mean and low, without any temp¬
tation, that every man of sense and character detests it.
— General Order, August 3, 1775 '
GOD RULING THE AFFAIRS OF NATIONS.
It would be peculiarly improper to omit in this first
official act my fervent supplications to that Almighty
Being Who rules over the universe, Who presides in the
councils of nations, and Whose Providential aids can
supply every human defect, that His benediction may
consecrate to the liberties and happiness of the people
of the United States a government instituted by them¬
selves for these essential purposes ' and may enable
every instrument employed in the administration to ex¬
ecute with success the functions allotted to its charge.
In tendering this homage to the Great Author of
every public and private good, I assure myself that it
expresses your sentiments not less than my own, nor
those of my fellow-citizens less than either. No people
can be bound to acknowledee and adore the invisible
hand which conducts the affairs of men more than the
people of the United States. Every step by which they
have advanced to the character of an independent na¬
tion seems to have been distinguished by some token
of Providential agency, and in the important revolution
just accomplished in the system of their united govern¬
ment the tranquil deliberations and voluntary consent
of so many distinct communities from which the event
has resulted, cannot be compared with the means by
which most governments have been established with¬
out some return of pious gratitude, along with an hum¬
ble anticipation of the future blessing which the past
seems to presage.— Inaugural Address, April 30, 1789.
TO LAFAYETTE, ON SLAVERY.
The scheme which you propose, as a precedent to
encourage the emancipation of the black people in this
480
GEORGE WASHINGTON
country from the state of bondage in which they are
held, is a striking evidence of the benevolence of your
heart, and I shall be happy to join you in so laudable a
work. Your purchase of an estate in the colony of
Cayenne, with a view of emancipating the slaves on it,
is a generous and noble proof of your humanity. Would
to God a like spirit might diffuse itself generally into
the minds of the people of this country ! But I despair
of seeing it. There is not a man living who wishes
more earnestly than I do to see a plan adopted for the
abolition of it. But there is only one proper and ef¬
fectual mode by which it can be accomplished; and that
is by legislative authority; and this, as far as my suf¬
frage will go, shall never be wanting. I never mean,
unless some particular circumstances should compel me
to it, to possess another slave by purchase; it being
among my first wishes to see some plan adopted by which
slavery in this country may be abolished by law.
TESTAMENTARY EMANCIPATION OF HIS SLAVES.
I, George Washington, of Mount Vernon, a citizen of
the United States, and lately President of the same, do
make, ordain, and declare this instrument, which is
written with my own hand, and every page thereof sub¬
scribed with my name, to be my last Will and Testa¬
ment, revoking all others. . . .
Item. Upon the decease of my wife, it is my will
and desire that all the slaves whom I hold in my own
right shall receive their freedom. To emancipate them
during her life would, though earnestly wished by me,
be attended by such insuperable difficulties, on account
of their intermixture by marriage, with the dower ne¬
groes, as to excite the most painful sensations, if not
disagreeable consequences to the latter, while both de¬
scriptions are in the occupancy of the same proprietor;
it not being in my power, under the tenure by which
the dower negroes are held, to emancipate them. And
whereas, among those who will receive freedom accord¬
ing to this devise, there may be some who, from old
age or bodily infirmities, and others on account of their
GEORGE WASHINGTON
4 '3 r
infancy, be unable to support themselves, it' is my will
and desire that all who come under the first and second
description shall be comfortably clothed and fed by my
heirs while they live; and* that such of the latter de¬
scription as have no parents living, or, if living, are
unable or unwilling to provide for them, shall be bound
by the Court until they arrive at the age of twenty-five
years; and, in cases where no record can be produced
whereby their ages can be ascertained, the judgment of
the court, upon its own view of the subject, shall be
adequate and final.
The negroes thus bound are (by their masters or mis¬
tresses) to be taught to read and write, and to be
brought up to some useful occupation, agreeably to the
laws of the Commonwealth of Virginia, providing for
the support of orphan and other poor children. And I
do expressly forbid the sale or transportation out of
the said Commonwealth of any slave I may die possessed
of, under any pretence whatsoever. And so I do, more¬
over, most pointedly and most solemnly enjoin it upon
my executors hereafter named, or the survivors of them,
to see that this clause respecting slaves, and every part
thereof, be religiously fulfilled at the epoch at which it is
directed to take place, without evasion, neglect, or delay,
after the crops which are then on the ground are har¬
vested, particularly as respects the aged or infirm; see¬
ing that a regular and permanent fund be established for
their support, as long as there are subjects requiring it;
not trusting to the uncertain provision to be made by
individuals.
And to my mulatto man, William, calling himself
William Lee, I give immediate freedom, or, if he should
prefer (on account of the accidents which have befallen
him, and which have rendered him incapable of walking
or of any active employment), to remain in the situation
he now is, it shall be optional in him to do so; in either
case, however, I allow him an annuity of thirty dollars,
during his natural life, which shall be independent of
the victuals and clothes he has been accustomed to re¬
ceive, if he chooses the last alternative; but in full with
his freedom, if he prefers the first; and this I give him
Vol. XXIII.—31
GEORGE WASHINGTON
482
as a testimony of my sense of his attachment to me, and
for his faithful services during the Revolutionary War.
Besides the slaves which Washington held in his
own right there were some thirty or forty belonging
to the estate of Bartholomew Dandridge, the deceased
brother of Mrs. Washington; these had been levied
upon by execution, and bought in by Washington,
who had suffered them to remain in the possession of
Bartholomew’s widow during her life; upon her death
they were also to be manumitted in a manner similar
to those already provided for. The will is a very long
one, as there was much property of various kinds to
be devised; and the will had been drawn up by him¬
self, “ no professional character having been consulted,
or having had any agency in the draft.” It closes
with a provision designed to prevent any possible liti¬
gation in respect to its provisions.
FORESTALLING LITIGATION.
I hope and trust that no disputes will arise. But if,
contrary to expectation, the case should be otherwise,
from the want of legal expressions or the usual technical
terms, or because too much has been said on any of the
devises to be consonant with law, my will and direction
expressly is, that all disputes (if unhappily any should
arise) shall be decided by three impartial and intelligent
men, known for their probity and good understanding,
two to be chosen by the disputants, each having the
choice of one, and the third by those two; which three
men, thus chosen, shall, unfettered by law or legal con¬
structions, declare their sense of the testator’s intention;
and such decision is, to all intents and purposes, to be
as binding on the parties as if it had been given in the
Supreme Court of the United States.
This will, which, as Washington says, “ had occu-
MOUNT VERNON.
DAVID ATWOOD WASSON
483
pied many of my leisure hours,” was executed on July
9, 1799. He had entered upon his sixty-seventh year;
but there was every reason to anticipate for him sev¬
eral years more of earthly life, instead of the six
months which were allotted to him.
| AS SON, David Atwood, an American essay¬
ist and poet; born at Brooksville, Me., May
14, 1823; died at West Medford, Mass.,
January 21, 1887. He was educated at North Yar¬
mouth, Phillips Academy at Andover, Bowdoin Col¬
lege, and the Theological Seminary at Bangor. In
1851 he became a Unitarian pastor at Groveland,
Mass. The next year, having departed from the an¬
cient faith, he undertook a new independent church
in the same place. Several years after this he became
colleague of the Rev. T. W. Higginson at Worcester,
then traveled abroad, resided in Concord, was minis¬
ter of Theodore Parker’s Society in Boston (1865-
67), passed some years in Germany, and retired to
West Medford, Mass. His remarkably vigorous es¬
says and reviews appeared mostly in the Christian
Examiner and Atlantic Monthly. A selection, with
Memoir, has been published by the Rev. O. B. Froth-
ingham (1889), also a volume of Poems.
SUFFRAGE A TRUST.
The moral right to assume any controlling or im¬
portant function in society cannot be rationally con¬
ceived of otherwise than as contingent upon the ability
to exercise it with good effect to all concerned. Doubt¬
less there may be a natural right of every man to put a
4 S 4
DAVID ATWOOD WASSON
written or printed name into a wooden box, if such be
his pleasure; but that which distinguishes a vote is its
acknowledged power to bind the community as a whole;
and this power is no property of the individual simply
as such. Whence this power? To answer the question
were to write or recite a primary chapter in political
philosophy, for which this is not the place. But the
upshot of the matter is simply this: Suffrage is a means
to an end, and legitimate only as it serves toward an
end. Moreover, it is an instituted means, one part of
the entire political system, and grounded, like every other
part, in the Constitution of the State. It implies, not
indeed a formal contract, but a moral engagement, to
which the corporate community in its wholeness, includ¬
ing men, women, and minors, is one party, the in¬
dividual voter another. He is engaged to promote the
public welfare, and the corporate community is engaged
to acknowledge his expression of choice as authoritative.
Hence the voter is a political functionary, and in a
place of trust, no less truly than the governor of the
Commonwealth. Governor Butler is in his place to act
under the Constitution for the Commonwealth of Massa¬
chusetts, to the end that it may be ordered in justice,
and wisely provided for; and every man who voted for
or against him was at the polls to act under the same
Constitution for the same corporate body and to the
same end. One of the remonstrants before the com¬
mittee said that suffrage is not a private right, but a
political privilege. He was thinking toward the truth,
but “ privilege ” is not the word, for it signifies a some¬
what conferred or conceded for the particular benefit'
of the recipient. Suffrage is a functional trust, insti¬
tuted and assigned not for the particular benefit of the
voter, or the voting class, but for that of the civil com¬
munity in its present wholeness and historic continuity.
No other conception of it is either rational or moral.
When, therefore, someone comes forward to say, “ I
claim suffrage as my right,” let our legislators remember
that there is another right, of which they are the present
custodians, and which is not merely putative or asserted,
but as unquestionable as it is important. It is the grand
DAVID ATWOOD WASSON
485
right of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts to be or¬
dered and ruled in the best way without injurious or
needless costs. Here is a right worth talking of, a
right to which every possible right to vote is subsidiary,
and one, too, which appertains to the infant in the cradle
no less than to any adult, male or female.
IDEALS.
Angels of growth, of old, in that surprise
Of your first vision, wild and sweet,
I poured in passionate sighs
My wish unwise
That ye descend my heart to meet —
My heart so slow to rise.
Now thus I pray: Angelic be to hold
In Heaven your shining poise afar,
And to my wishes bold
Reply with cold,
Sweet invitation, like a star
Fixed in the heavens old.
Did ye descend, what were ye more than I?
Is’t not by this ye are divine —
That, native to the sky,
Ye cannot hie
Downward, and give low hearts the wine
That should reward the high?
Weak, yet in weakness I no more complain
Of your abiding in your places:
Oh, still, howe’er my pain
Wild prayers may rain,
Keep pure on high the perfect graces
That stooping could but stain.
Not to content your lowness, but to lure
And lift us to your angelhood,
Do your surprises pure
Dawn far and sure
486
CLARA ERSKINE CLEMENT WATERS
Above the tumult of young blood,
And starlike there endure.
Wait there ! wait, and invite me while I climb
For, see, I come! but slow, but slow!
Yet ever as your chime,
Soft and sublime,
Lifts at my feet, they move, they go
Up the great stair of Time.
’ATERS, Clara Erskine Clement, an Amer-
* 1 ican novelist and essayist; born at St. Louis,
Mo., August 28, 1834. Clement was the
name of her first husband, and her books still bear
that name; she afterward married Edwin F. Waters,
and went to live in Cambridge, Mass. She traveled
much in Europe and the Orient, and made a voyage
around the world. Her Simple Story of the Orient
appeared in 1869; Eleanor Maitland, a novel, and
Egypt in 1881; Charlotte Cushman, in 1882; The
Queen of the Adriatic (1893); Naples the City of
Parthenope (1894). Her valuable publications on the
Fine Arts are Handbook of Legendary and Mytho¬
logical Art (1871) ; Painters, Sculptors, Architects,
Engravers, and Their Works (1873); Artists of the
Nineteenth Century, Lawrence Hutton, co-author
(1879) ; Outline History of Painting for Young Peo¬
ple and Students (1883); Outline History of Sculp¬
ture for Young People and Students (1885) ; Chris¬
tian Symbols and Stories of the Saints (1886) ; Sto¬
ries of Art and Artists (1866) ; Women Artists in
Europe and America (1903) ; Handbook of Christian
CLARA ERSKINE CLEMENT WATERS 487
Symbols, Katherine E. Conway, co-author. Besides
these works, Mrs. Waters has translated a volume of
Renan's lectures, and Henri Greville’s Dosias Dough-
ter, and edited Carl von Lutzow’s Treasures of Italian
Art.
SIR EDWIN LANDSEER.
John Landseer taught his son to look to Nature above
all else as his model, and Haydon, the painter, who
instructed his brothers, advised Edwin to dissect animals
as other artists dissected their subjects. These two
pieces of advice may be said to have been the only
important teaching which Edwin Landseer received; he
followed them both faithfully, and when thirteen years
old made his first exhibition at the Royal Academy.
During fifty-eight years there were but six in which he
did not send his pictures there. When fourteen he en¬
tered the Academy schools, and divided his time between
sketching from the wild beasts at Exeter Change and
drawing in the classes. He was a handsome, manly boy,
and the keeper, Fuseli, was very fond of him, calling
him, as a mark of affection, “ My little dog-boy.’’
He was very industrious, and painted many pictures;
the best one of what are known as his early works is
the “ Cat’s-Paw,” and represents a monkey using the
paw of a cat to push hot chestnuts from the top of a
stove: the struggles of the cat are unavailing. . . .
Up to this time the master seems to have thought
only of making exact likenesses of animals, just as other
painters had done before him; but he now began to put
something more into his works and to show the peculiar
power which made him so remarkable — a power which
he was the first to manifest in his pictures. I mean
that he began to paint animals in their relation to man,
and to show how they are his imitators, his servants,
friends, and companions. . . .
Sir Walter Scott was in London when the “ Cat’s-
Paw ” was exhibited, and was so pleased by the picture
that he sought out the young painter and invited him
to go home with him. Sir Walter’s well-known love for
4 8 S CLARA ERSKINE CLEMENT WATERS
dogs was a foundation for the intimate affection which
grew up between himself and Landseer. In 1824 the
painter first saw Scotland, and during fifty years he
studied its people, its scenery, its customs; he loved them
all, and could ever draw new subjects and new en¬
thusiasm from the breezy North. Sir Walter wrote in
his journal: “Landseer’s dogs are the most magnifi¬
cent things I ever saw; leaping and bounding and grin¬
ning all', over the canvas.” The friendship of Sir Walter
had a great effect upon the young painter; it developed
the imagination and romance of his nature, and he was
affected by the human life of Scotland, so that he
painted the shepherd, the gillie, and the poacher, and
made his pictures speak the tenderness and truth, as
well as the fearlessness and the hardihood, of the Gaelic
race. The free, vigorous Northern life brought to the
surface that which the habits of a London gentleman
in brilliant society never could have developed. One
critic has said: “It taught him true power; it freed
his imagination; it braced up all his loose ability; it
elevated and refined his mind; it developed his latent
poetry; it completed his education.” . . .
Between 1835 and 1866 he painted almost numberless
pictures of the Oueen, of various members of her family,
and of the pets of the royal household. In 1850 he was
knighted, and was at the very height of his popularity
and success.
An anecdote of Sydney Smith relates that when some¬
one asked him to sit to Landseer for his portrait, he re¬
plied : “ Is thy servant a dog, that he should do this
great thing! ”
Landseer had an extreme fondness for studying and
making pictures’of lions; and from the time when, as a
boy, he dissected one, he tried to obtain the body of
every lion that died in London. Dickens was in the
habit of relating that on one occasion, when he and others
were dining with the artist, a servant entered and asked:
“Did you order a lion, sir?” as if it were the most
natural thing in the world. The guests feared that a
living lion was about to enter; but it turned out to be
CHARLES WATERTON
4S9
only the body of the dead “ Nero ” of the Zoological
Gardens, which had been sent as a gift to Sir Edwin.
His skill in drawing was marvellous, and was once
shown in a rare way at an evening-party. Facility in
drawing had been the theme of conversation, when a
lady declared that no one had yet drawn two objects at
the same moment. Landseer would not admit that this
could not be done, and immediately took two pencils
and drew a horse’s head with one hand, and at precisely
the same time a stag’s head with antlers with the other.
— Stories of Art and Artists.
I^ATERTON, Charles, an English naturalist
and traveler; born at Walton Hall, Wake¬
field, June 3, 1782; died at London, May 27,
1865. Mr. Waterton set out from his seat of Walton
Hall, Wakefield, in 1812, to wander through the wilds
of Demerara and Essequibo, with the view to reach
the inland frontier fort of Portuguese Guiana; to
collect a quantity of the strongest Wourali poison;
and to catch and stuff the beautiful birds which abound
in that part of South America. He made two more
journeys to the same territories — in 1816 and 1820
— and in 1825 published his Wanderings in South
America, the North-west of the United States, and
the Antilles. His fatigues and dangers were nume¬
rous. In telling of his travels he says:
“ In order to pick up matter for natural history, I have
wandered through the wildest part's of South America’s
equinoctial regions. I have attacked and slain a modern
python, and rode on the back of a cayman close to the
water’s edge; a very different situation from that of a
490
CHARLES W ALERT ON
Hyde-Park dandy on his Sunday prancer before the
ladies. Alone and barefoot I have pulled poisonous
snakes out of their lurking-places; climbed up trees to
peep into holes for bats and vampires; and for days
together hastened through sun and rain to the thickest
parts of the forest to procure specimens I had never
seen before.”
The adventures of the python and cayman — or the
snake and crocodile — made much noise and amusement
at the time, and the latter feat formed the subject of a
caricature. Mr. Waterton had long wished to obtain
one of those enormous snakes called Coulacanara, and
at length he saw one coiled up i ' his den. He advanced
towards it stealthily, and with his lance struck it behind
the neck and fixed it to the ground.
ADVENTURE WITH THE SNAKE.
That moment the negro next to me seized the lance
and held it firm in its place, while I dashed head fore¬
most into the den to grapple with the snake, and to get
hold of his tail before he could do any mischief.
On pinning him to the ground with the lance, he gave
a tremendous loud hiss, and the little dog ran away,
howling as he went. We had a sharp fray in the den,
the rotten sticks flying on all sides, and each party strug¬
gling for the superiority. I called out to the second
negro to throw himself upon me, as I found I was not'
heavy enough. He did so, and his additional weight was
of great service. I had now got firm hold of his tail,
and after a violent struggle or two he gave in, finding
himself overpowered. This was the moment to secure
him. So while the first negro continued to hold the lance
firm to the ground, and the other was helping me, I
contrived to unloosen my braces, and with them tied up
the snake’s mouth.
The snake, now finding himself in an unpleasant situa¬
tion, tried to better himself, and set resolutely to work,
but we overpowered him. [It measured fourteen feet,
and was of great thickness.] We contrived to make him
twist himself round the shaft of the lance, and then
CHARLES W ALERT ON
491
prepared to convey him out of the forest. I stood at his
head and held it firm under my arm, one negro supported
the belly, and the other the tail. In this order we began
to move slowly towards home, and reached it after rest¬
ing ten times.
On the following day, Mr. Waterton killed the animal,
securing its skin for Walton Hall. The crocodile was
seized on the Essequibo. He had been tantalized for
three days with the hope of securing one of the animals.
He baited a shark-hook with a large fish, and at last
was successful. The difficulty was to pull him up. The
Indians proposed shooting him with arrows; but this the
“ Wanderer ” resisted. “ I had come about three hun¬
dred miles on purpose to catch a cayman uninjured, and
not to carry back a mutilated specimen.” The men
pulled, and out he came — Mr. Waterton standing armed
with the mast of the canoe, which he proposed to force
down the animal’s throat.
RIDING ON A CROCODILE.
By the time the cayman was within two yards of me,
I saw he was in a state of fear and perturbation; I in¬
stantly dropped the mast, sprung up and jumped on his
back, turning half round as I vaulted, so that I gained
my seat with my face in a right position. I immediately
seized his fore-legs, and by main force twisted them on
his back; thus they served me for a bridle. He now
seemed to have recovered from his surprise, and, probably
fancying himself in hostile company, he began to plunge
furiously, and lashed the sand with his long and powerful
tail. I was out of reach of the strokes of it, by being
near his head. He continued to plunge and strike, and
made my seat very uncomfortable. It must have been
a fine sight for an unoccupied spectator. The people
roared out in triumph, and were so vociferous, that it
was some time before they heard me tell them to pull me
and my beast of burden further inland. I was appre¬
hensive the rope might break, and then there would have
been every chance of going down to the regions under
492
CHARLES WATERTON
water with the cayman. That would have been more
perilous than Arion’s marine morning ride —
Delphini insidens, vada cseurula sulcat Arion.
The people now dragged us above forty yards on the
sand; it was the first and last time I was ever on a
cayman’s back. Should it be asked how I managed to
keep my seat, I would answer, I hunted some years with
Lord Darlington’s fox-hounds.
The cayman, killed and stuffed, was also added to
the curiosities of Walton Hall. Mr. Waterton’s next
work was Essays on Natural History, chiefly Orni¬
thology, with an Autobiography of the Author and a
view of Walton Hall 1838 — reprinted with additions
in 1851. His account of his family — an old Roman
Catholic family that had suffered persecution from
the days of Henry VIII. downwards — is a quaint,
amusing chronicle.
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