LIBRA HY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 Of ILLINOIS 
 
 606.6 
 
 R43-J 
 
 1906 
 
 
 
 plip 
 
 ||M 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2019 with funding from 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign Alternates 
 
 * t 
 
 1 
 
 https://archive.org/details/ridpathlibraryof23ridp_0 
 

Photogravure — From a photograph. 
 Specially engraved for the Ridpath Library. 
 
JOHN ^ 
 CLARK. 
 RIDPATH 
 
 CLASSIC 
 
 EDITION DE LUXE 
 
 ‘fWEMTY FIVE VOLUMES 
 
 FIFTH AVENUE LIBRARY SOCIETY 
 NEW YORK 
 
 
 IUUI(< 
 
 
u 
 
 * Cj 
 
 X , 
 o i c 
 
 da * 0 
 
 f\ tO a 
 
 J 3ou 
 
 \l "> 
 
 3 
 
 Th e IxidpatK Library 
 
 oy 
 
 
 u 
 
 mversa 
 
 I Li 
 
 it era tare 
 
 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* 
 
2l6 
 
 PUBLIUS VERGILIUS MARO VIRGIL 
 
 “ 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, 
 
 
PUBLIUS V ERG I LIUS MARO VIRGIL 
 
 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 
 
2l8 
 
 PUBLIUS VERGILIUS MARO VIRGIL 
 
 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,” 
 
PUBLIUS VERGILIUS MARO VIRGIL 
 
 2IQ 
 
 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, 
 
220 
 
 PUBLIUS VERGILIUS MARO VIRGIL 
 
 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 
 
PUBLIUS VERGILIUS MARO VIRGIL 
 
 221 
 
 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, 
 
222 
 
 PUBLIUS VERGILIUS MARO VIRGIL 
 
 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! 
 
PUBLIUS VERGILIUS MARO VIRGIL 
 
 223 
 
 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, 
 
224 
 
 PUBLIUS VERGILIUS MARO VIRGIL 
 
 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 
 
PUBLIUS VERGILIUS MARO VIRGIL 
 
 225 
 
 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?” 
 
 Vol. XXIII.—15 
 
226 . PUBLIUS VERGILIUS MARO VIRGIL 
 
 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: 
 
PUBLIUS VERGILIUS MARO VIRGIL 
 
 227 
 
 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: 
 
228 
 
 PUBLIUS VERGILIUS MARO VIRGIL 
 
 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.” 
 
PUBLIUS VERGILIUS MARO VIRGIL 
 
 220 
 
 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 
 
PUBLIUS VERG1LIUS MARO VIRGIL 
 
 230 
 
 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, 
 
PUBLIUS V ERG I LIUS MARO VIRGIL 
 
 231 
 
 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. 
 
232 
 
 PUBLIUS VERGILIUS MARO VIRGIL 
 
 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, 
 
PUBLIUS V ERG I LI US MARO VIRGIL 
 
 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: 
 
234 
 
 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.” 
 
PUBLIUS VERGILIUS MARO VIRGIL 
 
 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. 
 
PUBLIUS VERGILIUS MARO VIRGIL 
 
 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: 
 
PUBLIUS V ERG l LI US MARO VIRGIL 
 
 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 
 
Publius vercilius maro virgil 
 
 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 
 
24-0 
 
 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 
 
242 
 
 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. 
 
PUBLIUS VERGILIUS MARO VIRGIL 
 
 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. 
 
244 
 
 PUBLIUS VERGILIUS MARO VIRGIL 
 
 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. 
 
246 
 
 PUBLIUS VERG 1 LIUS MARO VIRGIL 
 
 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 
 
- 
 
 MSgST? ' . ‘ * • . - - . , • * 
 
 . 
 
 ' ' ? 't!m \ 7 ;., ■■ .. , •'* .V f ‘ s 
 
 ■ 
 
 % ;■ • - - H/ <•* :;•*#. ■>. . 
 
 
 ■ £: Ww. m-- ' : $ 
 
 ■ 
 
 4 .- • » ; sF ■■ *>-."*■ • 'f; ■ 
 
 
 ■ 
 
 ■ -«■ ,V V V ' ; ‘.V* # - .. - ' 
 
 '' « ' . ; > £ : v' • ' -.f \ v ’- >5 . 
 
 • “f - . i C • • : 
 
 .VUiM.VA<V! 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 . ; . L , - • . & 
 
 ' v >• ;•:**•«* .V • 
 
 
 ‘ 
 
 v •• ;• ;• • '■ ■■■? : 5 
 
 
 
VOLTAIRE. 
 
 Photogravure—After the painting by Largilliere. 
 Specially engraved for the Ridpath Library. 
 
Wf 
 
 Ji- rc&T&SW«S»S*H&a* 
 
 ^iiia 
 
 iliii 
 
 »■ 
 
 IwKii 
 
 ftSlcWni'K! 
 

 
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. 
 

UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS-URBAN A 
 
 3 0112119672795 
 
 
 
 
 jy ;Jjr {JlfflF 
 
 W :4Ssis 
 
 
 
 uHW -jJxr jT. £*G^W> ;'j / .gUr ^c£3r i'jn& I