Library of the World's Best Literature, Ancient and Modern

Library of the World's Best Literature, Ancient and Modern — Volume 3

The following sections of this BookRags Literature Study Guide is offprint from Gale's For Students Series:Presenting Analysis, Context, and Criticism on Commonly Studied Works: Introduction, Author Biography, PlotSummary, Characters, Themes, Style, Historical Context, Critical Overview, Criticism and Critical Essays, MediaAdaptations, Topics for Further Study, Compare & Contrast, What Do I Read Next?, For Further Study, and Sources.

The following sections, if they exist, are offprint from Beacham's Encyclopedia of Popular Fiction: "Social Concerns","Thematic Overview", "Techniques", "Literary Precedents", "Key Questions", "Related Titles", "Adaptations","Related Web Sites". (c)1994-2005, by Walton Beacham.

The following sections, if they exist, are offprint from Beacham's Guide to Literature for Young Adults: "Aboutthe Author", "Overview", "Setting", "Literary Qualities", "Social Sensitivity", "Topics for Discussion", "Ideasfor Reports and Papers". (c)1994-2005, by Walton Beacham.

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Table of Contents
Section	Page

Start of eBook	1
VOL. III	1
AVERROES 1126-1198	1
	2
	3
FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS	3
VIGNETTE PORTRAITS	3
(Continued from Volume II)	3
THE FIRST FALSE STEP	6
THE NEW HOME AND THE OLD ONE	9
THE COURT PHYSICIAN’S PHILOSOPHY	17
IN COUNTESS IRMA’S DIARY	20
EMILE AUGIER	25
A CONVERSATION WITH A PURPOSE	26
A SEVERE YOUNG JUDGE	30
A CONTENTED IDLER	31
THE FEELINGS OF AN ARTIST	33
A CONTEST OF WILLS	35
ST. AUGUSTINE OF HIPPO	37
BY SAMUEL HART	37
THE GODLY SORROW THAT WORKETH REPENTANCE	39
CONSOLATION	40
THE FOES OF THE CITY	41
THE PRAISE OF GOD	42
A PRAYER	42
MARCUS AURELIUS ANTONINUS	43
BY JAMES FRASER GLUCK	43
EXCERPTS FROM THE ‘MEDITATIONS’	49
THE SUPREME NOBILITY OF DUTY	50
THE FUTURE LIFE. IMMORTALITY	50
THE UNIVERSAL BEAUTY OF THE WORLD	52
THE GOOD MAN	52
THE BREVITY OF LIFE	53
VANITY OF LIFE	53
DEATH	54
FAME	54
PRAYER	54
FAITH	55
PAIN	55
LOVE AND FORGIVENESS FOR THE EVIL-DOER	55
ETERNAL CHANGE THE LAW OF THE UNIVERSE	55
THE PERFECT LIBERTY OF THE GOOD MAN	56
THE HARMONY AND UNITY OF THE UNIVERSE	56
THE CONDUCT OF LIFE	56
JANE AUSTEN	61
AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE	66
MOTHER AND DAUGHTER	69
A LETTER OF CONDOLENCE	71
MR. COLLINS TO MR. BENNET, ON HIS DAUGHTER’S ELOPEMENT WITH A RAKE	71
A WELL-MATCHED SISTER AND BROTHER	72
FAMILY DOCTORS	77
FAMILY TRAINING	81
PRIVATE THEATRICALS	83
FRUITLESS REGRETS AND APPLES OF SODOM	85
AVERROES	89
THE AVESTA	93
BY A.V. WILLIAMS JACKSON	93
A PSALM OF ZOROASTER: YASNA 30	97
A PRAYER FOR KNOWLEDGE	100
THE ANGEL OF DIVINE OBEDIENCE	101
TO THE FIRE	101
THE GODDESS OF THE WATERS	102
GUARDIAN SPIRITS	102
AN ANCIENT SINDBAD	103
THE WISE MAN	103
INVOCATION TO RAIN	103
A PRAYER FOR HEALING	104
FRAGMENT	104
AVICEBRON	104
ON MATTER AND FORM	107
ROBERT AYTOUN	110
WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN	112
A BALL IN THE UPPER CIRCLES	122
A HIGHLAND TRAMP	124
MASSIMO TAPARELLI D’AZEGLIO	126
A HAPPY CHILDHOOD	127
THE PRIESTHOOD	130
MY FIRST VENTURE IN ROMANCE	133
BABER	135
BY EDWARD S. HOLDEN	135
FROM BABER’S ‘MEMOIRS’	136
BABRIUS	140
FRANCIS BACON	146
BY CHARLTON T. LEWIS	146
OF TRUTH	160
OF REVENGE	161
OF SIMULATION AND DISSIMULATION	162
OF TRAVEL	164
OF FRIENDSHIP	166
DEFECTS OF THE UNIVERSITIES	171
TO MY LORD TREASURER BURGHLEY	175
IN PRAISE OF KNOWLEDGE	176
TO THE LORD CHANCELLOR, TOUCHING THE HISTORY OF BRITAIN	179
TO VILLIERS ON HIS PATENT AS VISCOUNT	181
CHARGE TO JUSTICE HUTTON	182
A PRAYER, OR PSALM	183
FROM THE ‘APOPHTHEGMS’	184
WALTER BAGEHOT	186
BY FORREST MORGAN	186
THE VIRTUES OF STUPIDITY	192
REVIEW WRITING	193
LORD ELDON	194
TASTE	194
CAUSES OF THE STERILITY OF LITERATURE	195
THE SEARCH FOR HAPPINESS	196
ON EARLY READING	197
THE CAVALIERS	199
MORALITY AND FEAR	200
THE TYRANNY OF CONVENTION	201
HOW TO BE AN INFLUENTIAL POLITICIAN	202
CONDITIONS OF CABINET GOVERNMENT	203
WHY EARLY SOCIETIES COULD NOT BE FREE	204
BENEFITS OF FREE DISCUSSION IN MODERN TIMES	207
ORIGIN OF DEPOSIT BANKING	210
JENS BAGGESEN	212
A COSMOPOLITAN	214
PHILOSOPHY ON THE HEATH	215
PHILIP JAMES BAILEY	218
JOANNA BAILLIE	225
HENRY MARTYN BAIRD	237
THE BATTLE OF IVRY	238
SIR SAMUEL WHITE BAKER	241
HUNTING IN ABYSSINIA	242
THE SOURCES OF THE NILE	248
ARTHUR JAMES BALFOUR	249
THE PLEASURES OF READING	250
THE BALLAD	264
BY F.B. GUMMERE	264
HONORE DE BALZAC	292
BY WILLIAM P. TRENT	292
THE MEETING IN THE CONVENT	310
A PASSION IN THE DESERT	337
FROM ‘THE COUNTRY DOCTOR’	347
GEORGE BANCROFT	363
BY AUSTIN SCOTT	363
THE BEGINNINGS OF VIRGINIA	368
MEN AND GOVERNMENT IN EARLY MASSACHUSETTS	370
KING PHILIP’S WAR	372
THE NEW NETHERLAND	373
FRANKLIN	375

VOL. III

&nb
sp;Lived
Berthold Auerbach—Continued: 1812-1882
The First False Step (’Onthe Heights’)
The New Home and the Old One (same)
The Court Physician’s Philosophy(same)
In Countess Irma’s Diary (same)

Emile Augier 1820-1889
A Conversation with a Purpose (’Giboyer’sBoy’)
A Severe Young Judge (’TheAdventuress’)
A Contented Idler (’M.Poirier’s Son-in-Law’)
Feelings of an Artist (same)
A Contest of Wills (’The Fourchambaults’)

St. Augustine of hippo (by SamuelHart) 354-430
The Godly Sorrow that Worketh Repentance(’The Confessions’)
Consolation (same)
The Foes of the City (’TheCity of God’)
The Praise of God (same)
A Prayer (’The Trinity’)

Marcus Aurelius antoninus A.D. 121-180
Reflections

Jane Austen 1775-1817
An Offer of Marriage (’Prideand Prejudice’)
Mother and Daughter (same)
A Letter of Condolence (same)
A Well-Matched Sister and Brother(’Northanger Abbey’)
Family Doctors (’Emma’)
Family Training (’MansfieldPark’)
Private Theatricals (same)
Fruitless Regrets and Apples ofSodom (same)

AVERROES 1126-1198

The avesta (by A.V. Williams Jackson)
Psalm of Zoroaster
Prayer for Knowledge
The Angel of Divine Obedience
To the Fire
The Goddess of the Waters
Guardian Spirits
An Ancient Sindbad
The Wise Man
Invocation to Rain
Prayer for Healing
Fragment

Avicebron 1028-?1058
On Matter and Form (’The Fountainof Life’)

Robert Aytoun 1570-1638
Inconstancy Upbraided
Lines to an Inconstant Mistress(with Burns’s Adaptation)

William EDMONSTOUNE Aytoun 1813-1865
Burial March of Dundee (’Laysof the Scottish Cavaliers’)
Execution of Montrose (same)
The Broken Pitcher (’Bon GaultierBallads’)
Sonnet to Britain. “Bythe Duke of Wellington” (same)
A Ball in the Upper Circles (’TheModern Endymion’)
A Highland Tramp (’NormanSinclair’)

Massimo Taparelli D’AZEGLIO 1798-1866
A Happy Childhood (’My Recollections’)
The Priesthood (same)
My First Venture in Romance (same)

Baber (by Edward S. Holden) 1482-1530
From Baber’s ‘Memoirs’

Babrius First Century A.D.
The North Wind and the Sun
Jupiter and the Monkey
The Mouse that Fell into the Pot
The Fox and the Grapes
The Carter and Hercules
The Young Cocks
The Arab and the Camel
The Nightingale and the Swallow
The Husbandman and the stork
The Pine
The Woman and Her Maid-Servants
The Lamp
The Tortoise and the Hare

Francis Bacon (by Charlton T. Lewis) 1561-1626
Of Truth (’Essays’)
Of Revenge (same)
Of Simulation and Dissimulation(same)
Of Travel (same)
Of Friendship (same)
Defects of the Universities (’TheAdvancement of Learning’)
To My Lord Treasurer Burghley
In Praise of Knowledge
To the Lord Chancellor
To Villiers on his Patent as a Viscount
Charge to Justice Hutton
A Prayer, or Psalm
From the ‘Apophthegms’
Translation of the 137th Psalm
The World’s a Bubble

Walter bagehot (by Forrest Morgan) 1826-1877
The Virtues of Stupidity (’Letterson the French Coup
d’Etat’)
Review Writing (’The FirstEdinburgh Reviewers’)
Lord Eldon (same)
Taste (’Wordsworth, Tennyson,and Browning’)
Causes of the Sterility of Literature(’Shakespeare’)
The Search for Happiness (’WilliamCowper’)
On Early Reading (’EdwardGibbon’)
The Cavaliers (’Thomas BabingtonMacaulay’)
Morality and Fear (’BishopButler’)
The Tyranny of Convention (’SirRobert Peel’)
How to Be an Influential Politician(’Bolingbroke’)
Conditions of Cabinet Government(’The English Constitution’)
Why Early Societies could not beFree (’Physics and
Politics’)
Benefits of Free Discussion in ModernTimes (same)
Origin of Deposit Banking (’LombardStreet’)

Jens Baggesen 1764-1826
A Cosmopolitan (’The Labyrinth’)
Philosophy on the Heath (same)
There was a Time when I was VeryLittle

Philip James Bailey 1816-
From “Festus”:Life: The Passing-Bell; Thoughts;
Dreams; Chorus of the Saved

Joanna Baillie 1762-1851
Woo’d and Married and A’
It Was on a Morn when We were Thrang
Fy, Let Us A’ to the Wedding
The Weary Pund o’ Tow
From ‘De Montfort’
To Mrs. Siddons
A Scotch Song
Song, ‘Poverty Parts GoodCompany’
The Kitten

HENRY MARTYN BAIRD 1832-The Battle of Ivry (’The Huguenots and Henry of Navarre’)

Sir Samuel white baker 1821-1893
Hunting in Abyssinia (’TheNile Tributaries of Abyssinia’)
The Sources of the Nile (’TheAlbert Nyanza’)

ARTHUR JAMES BALFOUR 1848-The Pleasures of Reading (Rectorial Address)

The ballad (by F.B. Gummere)
Robin Hood and Guy of Gisborne
The Hunting of the Cheviot
Johnie Cock
Sir Patrick Spens
The Bonny Earl of Murray
Mary Hamilton
Bonnie George Campbell
Bessie Bell and Mary Gray
The Three Ravens
Lord Randal
Edward
The Twa Brothers
Babylon
Childe Maurice
The Wife of Usher’s Well
Sweet William’s Ghost

Honore de Balzac (by William P. Trent) 1799-1850
The Meeting in the Convent (’TheDuchess of Langeais’)
An Episode Under the Terror
A Passion in the Desert
The Napoleon of the People (’TheCountry Doctor’)

George Bancroft (by Austin Scott) 1800-1891
The Beginnings of Virginia (’Historyof the United
States’)
Men and Government in Early Massachusetts(same)
King Philip’s War (same)
The New Netherland (same)
Franklin (same)

FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS

Volume iii.

* * * * *

PageAncient Irish Miniature (Colored Plate) Frontispiece“St. Augustine and His Mother” (Photogravure) 1014Papyrus, Sermons of St. Augustine (Fac-simile) 1018Marcus Aurelius (Portrait) 1022The Zend Avesta (Fac-simile) 1084Francis Bacon (Portrait) 1156“The Cavaliers” (Photogravure) 1218Honore de Balzac (Portrait) 1348George Bancroft (Portrait) 1432

VIGNETTE PORTRAITS

Emile Augier
Jane Austen
Robert Aytoun
Walter Bagehot
Jens Baggesen
Philip James Bailey
Joanna Baillie
Henry Martyn Baird
Sir Samuel White Baker
Arthur James Balfour

(Continued from Volume II)

“Do you imagine that every one is kindly disposedtowards you? Take my word for it, a palace containspeople of all sorts, good and bad. All the vicesabound in such a place. And there are many othermatters of which you have no idea, and of which youwill, I trust, ever remain ignorant. But allyou meet are wondrous polite. Try to remain justas you now are, and when you leave the palace, letit be as the same Walpurga you were when you camehere.”

Walpurga stared at her in surprise. Who couldchange her?

Word came that the Queen was awake and desired Walpurgato bring the
Crown Prince to her.

Accompanied by Doctor Gunther, Mademoiselle Kramer,and two waiting-women, she proceeded to the Queen’sbedchamber. The Queen lay there, calm and beautiful,and with a smile of greeting, turned her face towardsthose who had entered. The curtains had been partiallydrawn aside, and a broad, slanting ray of light shoneinto the apartment, which seemed still more peacefulthan during the breathless silence of the previousnight.

“Good morning!” said the Queen, with avoice full of feeling. “Let me have mychild!” She looked down at the babe that restedin her arms, and then, without noticing any one inthe room, lifted her glance on high and faintly murmured:—

“This is the first time I behold my child inthe daylight!”

All were silent; it seemed as if there was naughtin the apartment except the broad slanting ray oflight that streamed in at the window.

“Have you slept well?” inquired the Queen.Walpurga was glad the Queen had asked a question,for now she could answer. Casting a hurried glanceat Mademoiselle Kramer, she said:—

“Yes, indeed! Sleep’s the first,the last, and the best thing in the world.”

“She’s clever,” said the Queen,addressing Doctor Gunther in French.

Walpurga’s heart sank within her. Whenevershe heard them speak French, she felt as if they werebetraying her; as if they had put on an invisiblecap, like that worn by the goblins in the fairy-tale,and could thus speak without being heard.

“Did the Prince sleep well?” asked theQueen.

Walpurga passed her hand over her face, as if to brushaway a spider that had been creeping there. TheQueen doesn’t speak of her “child”or her “son,” but only of “the CrownPrince.”

Walpurga answered:—

“Yes, quite well, thank God! That is, Icouldn’t hear him, and I only wanted to saythat I’d like to act towards the—”she could not say “the Prince”—“thatis, towards him, as I’d do with my own child.We began on the very first day. My mother taughtme that. Such a child has a will of its own fromthe very start, and it won’t do to give way toit. It won’t do to take it from the cradle,or to feed it, whenever it pleases; there ought tobe regular times for all those things. It’llsoon get used to that, and it won’t harm iteither, to let it cry once in a while. On thecontrary, that expands the chest.”

“Does he cry?” asked the Queen.

The infant answered the question for itself, for itat once began to cry most lustily.

“Take him and quiet him,” begged the Queen.

The King entered the apartment before the child hadstopped crying.

“He will have a good voice of command,”said he, kissing the Queen’s hand.

Walpurga quieted the child, and she and MademoiselleKramer were sent back to their apartments.

The King informed the Queen of the dispatches thathad been received, and of the sponsors who had beendecided upon. She was perfectly satisfied withthe arrangements that had been made.

When Walpurga had returned to her room and had placedthe child in the cradle, she walked up and down andseemed quite agitated.

“There are no angels in this world!” saidshe. “They’re all just like the restof us, and who knows but—” She wasvexed at the Queen: “Why won’t shelisten patiently when her child cries? We musttake all our children bring us, whether it be joyor pain.”

She stepped out into the passage-way and heard thetones of the organ in the palace-chapel. Forthe first time in her life these sounds displeasedher. “It don’t belong in the house,”thought she, “where all sorts of things aregoing on. The church ought to stand by itself.”

When she returned to the room, she found a strangerthere. Mademoiselle Kramer informed her thatthis was the tailor to the Queen.

Walpurga laughed outright at the notion of a “tailorto the Queen.” The elegantly attired personlooked at her in amazement, while Mademoiselle Kramerexplained to her that this was the dressmaker to herMajesty the Queen, and that he had come to take hermeasure for three new dresses.

“Am I to wear city clothes?”

“God forbid! You’re to wear the dressof your neighborhood, and can order a stomacher inred, blue, green, or any color that you like best.”

“I hardly know what to say; but I’d liketo have a workday suit too. Sunday clothes onweek-days—that won’t do.”

“At court one always wears Sunday clothes, andwhen her Majesty drives out again you will have toaccompany her.”

“A11 right, then. I won’t object.”

While he took her measure, Walpurga laughed incessantly,and he was at last obliged to ask her to hold still,so that he might go on with his work. Puttinghis measure into his pocket, he informed MademoiselleKramer that he had ordered an exact model, and thatthe master of ceremonies had favored him with severaldrawings, so that there might be no doubt of success.

Finally he asked permission to see the Crown Prince.Mademoiselle Kramer was about to let him do so, butWalpurga objected.

“Before the child is christened,” saidshe, “no one shall look at it just out of curiosity,and least of all a tailor, or else the child willnever turn out the right sort of man.”

The tailor took his leave, Mademoiselle Kramer havingpolitely hinted to him that nothing could be donewith the superstition of the lower orders, and thatit would not do to irritate the nurse.

This occurrence induced Walpurga to administer thefirst serious reprimand to Mademoiselle Kramer.She could not understand why she was so willing tomake an exhibition of the child. “Nothingdoes a child more harm than to let strangers lookat it in its sleep, and a tailor at that.”

All the wild fun with which, in popular songs, tailorsare held up to scorn and ridicule, found vent in Walpurga,and she began singing:—

“Just list, yebraves, who love to roam!
A snail was chasinga tailor home.
And if Old Shears hadn’trun so fast,
The snail would surelyhave caught him at last.”

Mademoiselle Kramer’s acquaintance with thecourt tailor had lowered her in Walpurga’s esteem;and with an evident effort to mollify the latter,Mademoiselle Kramer asked:—

“Does the idea of your new and beautiful clothesreally afford you no pleasure?”

“To be frank with you, no! I don’twear them for my own sake, but for that of others,who dress me to please themselves. It’sall the same to me, however! I’ve givenmyself up to them, and suppose I must submit.”

“May I come in?” asked a pleasant voice.Countess Irma entered the room. Extending bothher hands to Walpurga, she said:—

“God greet you, my countrywoman! I am alsofrom the Highlands, seven hours distance from yourvillage. I know it well, and once sailed overthe lake with your father. Does he still live?”

“Alas! no: he was drowned, and the lakehasn’t given up its dead.”

“He was a fine-looking old man, and you arethe very image of him.”

“I am glad to find some one else here who knewmy father. The court tailor—I meanthe court doctor—knew him too. Yes,search the land through, you couldn’t have founda better man than my father, and no one can help butadmit it.”

“Yes: I’ve often heard as much.”

“May I ask your Ladyship’s name?”

“Countess Wildenort.”

“Wildenort? I’ve heard the name before.Yes, I remember my mother’s mentioning it.Your father was known as a very kind and benevolentman. Has he been dead a long while?”

“No, he is still living.”

“Is he here too?”

“No.”

“And as what are you here, Countess?”

“As maid of honor.”

“And what is that?”

“Being attached to the Queen’s person;or what, in your part of the country, would be calleda companion.”

“Indeed! And is your father willing tolet them use you that way?”

Irma, who was somewhat annoyed by her questions, said:—

“I wished to ask you something—Canyou write?”

“I once could, but I’ve quite forgottenhow.”

“Then I’ve just hit it! that’s thevery reason for my coming here. Now, wheneveryou wish to write home, you can dictate your letterto me, and I will write whatever you tell me to.”

“I could have done that too,” suggestedMademoiselle Kramer, timidly; “and your Ladyshipwould not have needed to trouble yourself.”

“No, the Countess will write for me. Shallit be now?”

“Certainly.”

But Walpurga had to go to the child. While shewas in the next room, Countess Irma and MademoiselleKramer engaged each other in conversation.

When Walpurga returned, she found Irma, pen in hand,and at once began to dictate.

Translation of S.A. Stern.

THE FIRST FALSE STEP

From ‘On the Heights’

The ball was to be given in the palace and the adjoiningwinter garden. The intendant now informed Irmaof his plan, and was delighted to find that she approvedof it. At the end of the garden he intended toerect a large fountain, ornamented with antique groups.In the foreground he meant to have trees and shrubberyand various kinds of rocks, so that none could approachtoo closely; and the background was to be a Grecianlandscape, painted in the grand style.

Irma promised to keep his secret. Suddenly sheexclaimed, “We are all of us no better thanlackeys and kitchen-maids. We are kept busy stewing,roasting, and cooking for weeks, in order to preparea dish that may please their Majesties.”

The intendant made no reply.

“Do you remember,” continued Irma, “how,when we were at the lake, we spoke of the fact thatman possessed the advantage of being able to changehis dress, and thus to alter his appearance? Whileyet a child, masquerading was my greatest delight.The soul wings its flight in callow infancy.A bal costume is indeed one of the noblest fruitsof culture. The love of coquetry which is innatewith all of us displays itself there undisguised.”

The intendant took his leave. While walking away,his mind was filled with his old thoughts about Irma.

“No,” said he to himself, “sucha woman would be a constant strain, and would requireone to be brilliant and intellectual all day long.She would exhaust one,” said he, almost aloud.

No one knew what character Irma intended to appearin, although many supposed that it would be as “Victory,”since it was well known that she had stood for themodel of the statue that surmounted the arsenal.They were busy conjecturing how she could assume thatcharacter without violating the social proprieties.

Irma spent much of her time in the atelier, and workedassiduously. She was unable to escape a feelingof unrest, far greater than that she had experiencedyears ago when looking forward to her first ball.She could not reconcile herself to the idea of preparingfor the fete so long beforehand, and wouldlike to have had it take place in the very next hour,so that something else might be taken up at once.The long delay tried her patience. She almostenvied those beings to whom the preparation for pleasureaffords the greatest part of the enjoyment. Workalone calmed her unrest. She had something todo, and this prevented the thoughts of the festivalfrom engaging her mind during the day. It wasonly in the evening that she would recompense herselffor the day’s work, by giving full swing toher fancy.

The statue of Victory was still in the atelier andwas almost finished. High ladders were placedbeside it. The artist was still chiseling atthe figure, and would now and then hurry down to observethe general effect, and then hastily mount the ladderagain in order to add a touch here or there.Irma scarcely ventured to look up at this effigy ofherself in Grecian costume—transformed andyet herself. The idea of being thus translatedinto the purest of art’s forms filled her witha tremor, half joy, half fear.

It was on a winter afternoon. Irma was workingassiduously at a copy of a bust of Theseus, for itwas growing dark. Near her stood her preceptor’smarble bust of Doctor Gunther. All was silent;not a sound was heard save now and then the pickingor scratching of the chisel.

At that moment the master descended the ladder, anddrawing a deep breath, said:—

“There—that will do. One cannever finish. I shall not put another stroketo it. I am afraid that retouching would onlyinjure it. It is done.”

In the master’s words and manner, strugglingeffort and calm content seemed mingled. He laidthe chisel aside. Irma looked at him earnestlyand said:—

“You are a happy man; but I can imagine thatyou are still unsatisfied. I don’t believethat even Raphael or Michael Angelo was ever satisfiedwith the work he had completed. The remnant ofdissatisfaction which an artist feels at the completionof a work is the germ of a new creation.”

The master nodded his approval of her words.His eyes expressed his thanks. He went to thewater-tap and washed his hands. Then he placedhimself near Irma and looked at her, while tellingher that in every work an artist parts with a portionof his life; that the figure will never again inspirethe same feelings that it did while in the workshop.Viewed from afar, and serving as an ornament, no regardwould be had to the care bestowed upon details.But the artist’s great satisfaction in his workis in having pleased himself; and yet no one can accuratelydetermine how, or to what extent, a conscientious workingup of details will influence the general effect.

While the master was speaking, the King was announced.Irma hurriedly spread a damp cloth over her clay model.

The King entered. He was unattended, and beggedIrma not to allow herself to be disturbed in her work.Without looking up, she went on with her modeling.The King was earnest in his praise of the master’swork.

“The grandeur that dwells in this figure willshow posterity what our days have beheld. I amproud of such contemporaries.”

Irma felt that the words applied to her as well.Her heart throbbed. The plaster which stood beforeher suddenly seemed to gaze at her with a strangeexpression.

“I should like to compare the finished workwith the first models,” said the king to theartist.

“I regret that the experimental models are inmy small atelier. Does your Majesty wish me tohave them brought here?”

“If you will be good enough to do so.”

The master left. The King and Irma were alone.With rapid steps the King mounted the ladder, andexclaimed in a tremulous voice:—

“I ascend into heaven—I ascend toyou. Irma, I kiss you, I kiss your image, andmay this kiss forever rest upon those lips, enduringbeyond all time. I kiss thee with the kiss ofeternity.” He stood aloft and kissed thelips of the statue. Irma could not help lookingup, and just at that moment a slanting sunbeam fellon the King and on the face of the marble figure,making it glow as if with life.

Irma felt as if wrapped in a fiery cloud, bearingher away into eternity.

The King descended and placed himself beside her.His breathing was short and quick. She did notdare to look up; she stood as silent and as immovableas a statue. Then the King embraced her—andliving lips kissed each other.

Translation of S.A. Stern.

THE NEW HOME AND THE OLD ONE

From ‘On the Heights’

Hansei received various offers for his cottage, andwas always provoked when it was spoken of as a ‘tumble-downold shanty.’ He always looked as if hemeant to say, “Don’t take it ill of me,good old house: the people only abuse you sothat they may get you cheap.” Hansei stoodhis ground. He would not sell his home for apenny less than it was worth; and besides that, heowned the fishing-right, which was also worth something.Grubersepp at last took the house off his hands, withthe design of putting a servant of his, who intendedto marry in the fall, in possession of the place.

All the villagers were kind and friendly to them,—doublyso since they were about to leave,—andHansei said:—

“It hurts me to think that I must leave a singleenemy behind me, I’d like to make it up withthe innkeeper.”

Walpurga agreed with him, and said that she wouldgo along; that she had really been the cause of thetrouble, and that if the innkeeper wanted to scoldany one, he might as well scold her too.

Hansei did not want his wife to go along, but sheinsisted upon it.

It was in the last evening in August that they wentup into the village. Their hearts beat violentlywhile they drew near to the inn. There was nolight in the room. They groped about the porch,but not a soul was to be seen. Dachsel and Wachsel,however, were making a heathenish racket. Hanseicalled out:

“Is there no one at home?”

“No. There’s no one at home,”answered a voice from the dark room.

“Well, then tell the host, when he returns,that Hansei and his wife were here, and that theycame to ask him to forgive them if they’ve donehim any wrong; and to say that they forgive him too,and wish him luck.”

“A11 right: I’ll tell him,”said the voice. The door was again slammed to,and Dachsel and Wachsel began barking again.

Hansei and Walpurga returned homeward.

“Do you know who that was?” asked Hansei.

“Why, yes: ’twas the innkeeper himself.”

“Well, we’ve done all we could.”

They found it sad to part from all the villagers.They listened to the lovely tones of the bell whichthey had heard every hour since childhood. Althoughtheir hearts were full, they did not say a word aboutthe sadness of parting. Hansei at last broke silence:—“Ournew home isn’t out of the world: we canoften come here.”

When they reached the cottage they found that nearlyall of the villagers had assembled in order to bidthem farewell, but every one added, “I’llsee you again in the morning.”

Grubersepp also came again. He had been proudenough before; but now he was doubly so, for he hadmade a man of his neighbor, or at all events had helpedto do so. He did not give way to tender sentiment.He condensed all his knowledge of life into a fewsentences, which he delivered himself of most bluntly.

“I only want to tell you,” said he, “you’llhave lots of servants now. Take my word for it,the best of them are good for nothing; but somethingmay be made of them for all that. He who wouldhave his servants mow well, must take the scythe inhand himself. And since you got your riches soquickly, don’t forget the proverb: ’Lightcome, light go.’ Keep steady, or it’llgo ill with you.”

He gave him much more good advice, and Hansei accompaniedhim all the way back to his house. With a silentpressure of the hand they took leave of each other.

The house seemed empty, for quite a number of chestsand boxes had been sent in advance by a boat thatwas already crossing the lake. On the followingmorning two teams would be in waiting on the otherside.

“So this is the last time that we go to bedin this house,” said the mother. They wereall fatigued with work and excitement, and yet noneof them cared to go to bed. At last, however,they could not help doing so, although they sleptbut little.

The next morning they were up and about at an earlyhour. Having attired themselves in their bestclothes, they bundled up the beds and carried theminto the boat. The mother kindled the last fireon the hearth. The cows were led out and putinto the boat, the chickens were also taken alongin a coop, and the dog was constantly running to andfro.

The hour of parting had come.

The mother uttered a prayer, and then called all ofthem into the kitchen. She scooped up some waterfrom the pail and poured it into the fire, with thesewords:—“May all that’s evilbe thus poured out and extinguished, and let thosewho light a fire after us find nothing but healthin their home.”

Hansei, Walpurga, and Gundel were each of them obligedto pour a ladleful of water into the fire, and thegrandmother guided the child’s hand while itdid the same thing.

After they had all silently performed this ceremony,the grandmother prayed aloud:—

“Take from us, O Lord our God, all heartacheand home-sickness and all trouble, and grant us healthand a happy home where we next kindle our fire.”

She was the first to cross the threshold. Shehad the child in her arms and covered its eyes withher hands while she called out to the others:—

“Don’t look back when you go out.”

“Just wait a moment,” said Hansei to Walpurgawhen he found himself alone with her. “Beforewe cross this threshold for the last time, I’vesomething to tell you. I must tell it. Imean to be a righteous man and to keep nothing concealedfrom you. I must tell you this, Walpurga.While you were away and Black Esther lived up yonder,I once came very near being wicked—andunfaithful—thank God, I wasn’t.But it torments me to think that I ever wanted tobe bad; and now, Walpurga, forgive me and God willforgive me, too. Now I’ve told you, andhave nothing more to tell. If I were to appearbefore God this moment, I’d know of nothingmore.”

Walpurga embraced him, and sobbing, said, “You’remy dear good husband!” and they crossed thethreshold for the last time.

When they reached the garden, Hansei paused, lookedup at the cherry-tree, and said:—

“And so you remain here. Won’t youcome with us? We’ve always been good friends,and spent many an hour together. But wait!I’ll take you with me, after all,” criedhe, joyfully, “and I’ll plant you in mynew home.”

He carefully dug out a shoot that was sprouting upfrom one of the roots of the tree. He stuck itin his hat-band, and went to join his wife at theboat.

From the landing-place on the bank were heard themerry sounds of fiddles, clarinets, and trumpets.

Hansei hastened to the landing-place. The wholevillage had congregated there, and with it the fullband of music. Tailor Schneck’s son, hewho had been one of, the cuirassiers at the christeningof the crown prince, had arranged and was now conductingthe parting ceremonies. Schneck, who was scrapinghis bass-viol, was the first to see Hansei, and calledout in the midst of the music:—

“Long live farmer Hansei and the one he lovesbest! Hip, hip, hurrah!”

The early dawn resounded with their cheers. Therewas a flourish of trumpets, and the salutes firedfrom several small mortars were echoed back from themountains. The large boat in which their householdfurniture, the two cows, and the fowls were placed,was adorned with wreaths of fir and oak. Walpurgawas standing in the middle of the boat, and with bothhands held the child aloft, so that it might see thegreat crowd of friends and the lake sparkling in therosy dawn.

“My master’s best respects,” saidone of Grubersepp’s servants, leading a snow-whitecolt by the halter: “he sends you this toremember him by.”

Grubersepp was not present. He disliked noiseand crowds. He was of a solitary and self-containedtemperament. Nevertheless he sent a present whichwas not only of intrinsic value, but was also a mostflattering souvenir; for a colt is usually given bya rich farmer to a younger brother when about to depart.In the eyes of all the world—that is tosay, the whole village—Hansei appeared asthe younger brother of Grubersepp.

Little Burgei shouted for joy when she saw them leadingthe snow-white foal into the boat. Gruberwaldl,who was but six years old, stood by the whinnyingcolt, stroking it and speaking kindly to it.

“Would you like to go to the farm with me andbe my servant?” asked Hansei of Gruberwaldl.

“Yes, indeed, if you’ll take me.”

“See what a boy he is,” said Hansei tohis wife. “What a boy!”

Walpurga made no answer, but busied herself with thechild.

Hansei shook hands with every one at parting.His hand trembled, but he did not forget to give acouple of crown thalers to the musicians.

At last he got into the boat and exclaimed:—

“Kind friends! I thank you all. Don’tforget us, and we shan’t forget you. Farewell!may God protect you all.”

Walpurga and her mother were in tears.

“And now, in God’s name, let us start!”The chains were loosened; the boat put off. Music,shouting, singing, and the firing of cannon resoundedwhile the boat quietly moved away from the shore.The sun burst forth in all his glory.

The mother sat there, with her hands clasped.All were silent. The only sound heard was theneighing of the foal.

Walpurga was the first to break the silence.“O dear Lord! if people would only show eachother half as much love during life as they do whenone dies or moves away.”

The grandmother, who was in the middle of a prayer,shook her head. She quickly finished her prayerand said:—

“That’s more than one has the right toask. It won’t do to go about all day longwith your heart in your hand. But remember, I’vealways told you that the people are good enough atheart, even if there are a few bad ones among them.”

Hansei bestowed an admiring glance upon his wife,who had so many different thoughts about almost everything.He supposed it was caused by her having been awayfrom home. But his heart was full, too, althoughin a different way.

“I can hardly realize,” said Hansei, takinga long breath and putting the pipe, which he had intendedto light, back into his pocket, “what has becomeof all the years that I spent there and all that Iwent through during the time. Look, Walpurga!the road you see there leads to my home. I knowevery hill and every hollow. My mother’sburied there. Do you see the pines growing onthe hill over yonder? That hill was quite bare;every tree was cut down when the French were here;and see how fine and hardy the trees are now.I planted most of them myself. I was a littleboy about eleven or twelve years old when the foresterhired me. He had fresh soil brought for the wholeplace and covered the rocky spots with moss.In the spring I worked from six in the morning tillseven in the evening, putting in the little plants.My left hand was almost frozen, for I had to keepputting it into a tub of wet loam, with which I coveredthe roots. I was scantily clothed into the bargain,and had nothing to eat all day long but a piece ofbread. In the morning it was cold enough to freezethe marrow in one’s bones, and at noon I was

almost roasted by the hot sun beating on the rocks.It was a hard life. Yes, I had a hard time ofit when I was young. Thank God, it hasn’tharmed me any. But I shan’t forget it; andlet’s be right industrious and give all we canto the poor. I never would have believed thatI’d live to call a single tree or a handful ofearth my own; and now that God has given me so much,let’s try and deserve it all.”

Hansei’s eyes blinked, as if there was somethingin them, and he pulled his hat down over his forehead.Now, while he was pulling himself up by the rootsas it were, he could not help thinking of how thoroughlyhe had become engrafted into the neighborhood by thework of his hands and by habit. He had felledmany a tree, but he knew full well how hard it wasto remove the stumps.

The foal grew restive. Gruberwaldl, who had comewith them in order to hold it, was not strong enough,and one of the boatmen was obliged to go to his assistance.

“Stay with the foal,” said Hansei.“I’ll take the oar.”

“And I too,” cried Walpurga. “Whoknows when I’ll have another chance? Ah!how often I’ve rowed on the lake with you andmy blessed father.”

Hansei and Walpurga sat side by side plying theiroars in perfect time. It did them both good tohave some employment which would enable them to workoff the excitement.

“I shall miss the water,” said Walpurga;“without the lake, life’ll seem so dulland dry. I felt that, while I was in the city.”

Hansei did not answer.

“At the summer palace there’s a pond withswans swimming about in it,” said she, but stillreceived no answer. She looked around, and afeeling of anger arose within her. When she saidanything at the palace, it was always listened to.

In a sorrowful tone she added, “It would havebeen better if we’d moved in the spring; itwould have been much easier to get used to things.”

“Maybe it would,” replied Hansei, at last,“but I’ve got to hew wood in the winter.Walpurga, let’s make life pleasant to each other,and not sad. I shall have enough on my shoulders,and can’t have you and your palace thoughtsbesides.”

Walpurga quickly answered, “I’ll throwthis ring, which the Queen gave me, into the lake,to prove that I’ve stopped thinking of the palace.”

“There’s no need of that. The ring’sworth a nice sum, and besides that it’s an honorablekeepsake. You must do just as I do.”

“Yes; only remain strong and true.”

The grandmother suddenly stood up before them.Her features were illumined with a strange expression,and she said:—

“Children! Hold fast to the good fortunethat you have. You’ve gone through fireand water together; for it was fire when you weresurrounded by joy and love and every one greeted youwith kindness—and you passed through thewater, when the wickedness of others stung you tothe soul. At that time the water was up to yourneck, and yet you weren’t drowned. Nowyou’ve got over it all. And when my lasthour comes, don’t weep for me; for through youI’ve enjoyed all the happiness a mother’sheart can have in this world.”

She knelt down, scooped up some water with her hand,and sprinkled it over Hansei’s and also overWalpurga’s face.

They rowed on in silence. The grandmother laidher head on a roll of bedding and closed her eyes.Her face wore a strange expression. After a whileshe opened her eyes again, and casting a glance fullof happiness on her children, she said:

“Sing and be merry. Sing the song thatfather and I so often sang together; that one verse,the good one.”

Hansei and Walpurga plied the oars while they sang:—

“Ah, blissfulis the tender tie
That bindsme, love, to thee;
And swiftly speed thehours by,
When thouart near to me.”

They repeated the verse again, although at times thejoyous shouting of the child and the neighing of thefoal bade fair to interrupt it.

* * * * *

As they drew near the house, they could hear the neighingof the white foal.

“That’s a good beginning,” criedHansei.

The grandmother placed the child on the ground, andgot her hymn-book out of the chest. Pressingthe book against her breast with both hands, she wentinto the house, being the first to enter. Hansei,who was standing near the stable, took a piece ofchalk from his pocket and wrote the letters C.M.B.,and the date, on the stable door. Then he toowent into the house,—his wife, Irma, andthe child following him.

Before going into the sitting-room the grandmotherknocked thrice at the door. When she had enteredshe placed the open hymn-book upon the open window-sill,so that the sun might read in it. There were notables or chairs in the room.

Hansei shook hands with his wife and said, “Godbe with you, freeholder’s wife.”

From that moment Walpurga was known as the “freeholder’swife,” and was never called by any other name.

And now they showed Irma her room. The view extendedover meadow and brook and the neighboring forest.She examined the room. There was naught but agreen Dutch oven and bare walls, and she had broughtnothing with her. In her paternal mansion, andat the castle, there were chairs and tables, horsesand carriages; but here—None of these followthe dead.

Irma knelt by the window and gazed out over meadowand forest, where the sun was now shining.

How was it yesterday—was it only yesterdaywhen you saw the sun go down?

Her thoughts were confused and indistinct. Shepressed her hand to her forehead; the white handkerchiefwas still there. A bird looked up to her fromthe meadow, and when her glance rested upon it it flewaway into the woods.

“The bird has its nest,” said she to herself,“and I—”

Suddenly she drew herself up. Hansei had walkedout to the grass plot in front of Irma’s window,removed the slip of the cherry-tree from his hat,and planted it in the ground.

The grandmother stood by and said, “I trustthat you’ll be alive and hearty long enoughto climb this tree and gather cherries from it, andthat your children and grandchildren may do the same.”

There was much to do and to set to rights in the house,and on such occasions it usually happens that thosewho are dearest to one another are as much in eachother’s way as closets and tables which havenot yet been placed where they belong. The bestproof of the amiability of these folks was that theyassisted each other cheerfully, and indeed with jestand song.

Walpurga moved her best furniture into Irma’sroom. Hansei did not interpose a word. “Aren’tyou too lonely here?” asked Walpurga, aftershe had arranged everything as well as possible inso short a time.

“Not at all. There is no place in all theworld lonely enough for me. You’ve so muchto do now; don’t worry about me. I mustnow arrange things within myself. I see how goodyou and yours are; fate has directed me kindly.”

“Oh, don’t talk in that way. If youhadn’t given me the money, how could we havebought the farm? This is really your own.”

“Don’t speak of that,” said Irma,with a sudden start. “Never mention thatmoney to me again.”

Walpurga promised, and merely added that Irma needn’tbe alarmed at the old man who lived in the room abovehers, and who at times would talk to himself and makea loud noise. He was old and blind. The childrenteased and worried him, but he wasn’t bad andwould harm no one. Walpurga offered at all eventsto leave Gundel with Irma for the first night; butIrma preferred to be alone.

“You’ll stay with us, won’t you?”said Walpurga hesitatingly. “You won’thave such bad thoughts again?”

“No, never. But don’t talk now:my voice pains me, and so does yours too. Good-night!leave me alone.”

Irma sat by the window and gazed out into the darknight. Was it only a day since she had passedthrough such terrors? Suddenly she sprang fromher seat with a shudder. She had seen Black Esther’shead rising out of the darkness, had again heard herdying shriek, had beheld the distorted face and thewild black tresses.—Her hair stood on end.Her thoughts carried her to the bottom of the lake,where she now lay dead. She opened the windowand inhaled the soft, balmy air. She sat by theopen casement for a long while, and suddenly heardsome one laughing in the room above her.

“Ha! ha! I won’t do you the favor!I won’t die! I won’t die! Pooh,pooh! I’ll live till I’m a hundredyears old, and then I’ll get a new lease oflife.”

It was the old pensioner. After a while he continued:—

“I’m not so stupid; I know that it’snight now, and the freeholder and his wife are come.I’ll give them lots of trouble. I’mJochem. Jochem’s my name, and what thepeople don’t like, I do for spite. Ha! ha!I don’t use any light, and they must make mean allowance for that. I’ll insist on it,if I have to go to the King himself about it.”

Irma started when she heard the King mentioned.

“Yes, I’ll go to the King, to the King!to the King!” cried the old man overhead, asif he knew that the word tortured Irma.

She heard him close the window and move a chair.The old man went to bed.

Irma looked out into the dark night. Not a starwas to be seen. There was no light anywhere;nothing was heard but the roaring of the mountainstream and the rustling of the trees. The nightseemed like a dark abyss.

“Are you still awake?” asked a soft voicewithout. It was the grandmother.

“I was once a servant at this farm,” saidshe. “That was forty years ago; and nowI’m the mother of the freeholder’s wife,and almost the head one on the farm. But I keepthinking of you all the time. I keep trying tothink how it is in your heart. I’ve somethingto tell you. Come out again. I’lltake you where it’ll do you good to be.Come!”

Irma went out into the dark night with the old woman.How different this guide from the one she had hadthe day before!

The old woman led her to the fountain. She hadbrought a cup with her and gave it to Irma. “Come,drink; good cold water’s the best. Watercomforts the body; it cools and quiets us; it’slike bathing one’s soul. I know what sorrowis too. One’s insides burn as if they wereafire.”

Irma drank some of the water of the mountain spring.It seemed like a healing dew, whose influence wasdiffused through her whole frame.

The grandmother led her back to her room and said,“You’ve still got the shirt on that youwore at the palace. You’ll never stop thinkingof that place till you’ve burned that shirt.”

The old woman would listen to no denial, and Irmawas as docile as a little child. The grandmotherhurried to get a coarse shirt for her, and after Irmahad put it on, brought wood and a light and burnt theother at the open fire. Irma was also obligedto cut off her long nails and throw them into thefire. Then Beate disappeared for a few moments,and returned with Irma’s riding-habit.“You must have been shot; for there are ballsin this,” said she, spreading out the long bluehabit.

A smile passed over Irma’s face, as she feltthe balls that had been sewed into the lower partof the habit, so that it might hang more gracefully.Beate had also brought something very useful,—adeerskin. “Hansei sends you this,”said she. “He thinks that maybe you’reused to having something soft for your feet to reston. He shot the deer himself.”

Irma appreciated the kindness of the man who couldshow such affection to one who was both a strangerand a mystery to him.

The grandmother remained at Irma’s bedside untilshe fell asleep. Then she breathed thrice onthe sleeper and left the room.

It was late at night when Irma awoke.

“To the King! to the King! to the King!”The words had been uttered thrice in a loud voice.Was it hers, or that of the man overhead? Irmapressed her hand to her forehead and felt the bandage.Was it sea-grass that had gathered there? Wasshe lying alive at the bottom of the lake? Graduallyall that had happened became clear to her.

Alone, in the dark and silent night, she wept.And these were the first tears she had shed sincethe terrible events through which she had passed.

It was evening when Irma awoke. She put her handto her forehead. A wet cloth had been bound roundit. She had been sleeping nearly twenty-fourhours. The grandmother was sitting by her bed.

“You’ve a strong constitution,”said the old woman, “and that helped you.It’s all right now.”

Irma arose. She felt strong, and guided by thegrandmother, walked over to the dwelling-house.

“God be praised that you’re well again,”said Walpurga, who was standing there with her husband;and Hansei added, “yes, that’s right.”

Irma thanked them, and looked up at the gable of thehouse. What words there met her eye?

“Don’t you think the house has a goodmotto written on its forehead?” asked Hansei.

Irma started. On the gable of the house she readthe following inscription:—

Eat and drink: Forget notgod: Thine honor guard:
Of all thystore,
THOU’LT carryhence
A winding-sheet
and nothingmore.

Translation of S.A. Stern.

THE COURT PHYSICIAN’S PHILOSOPHY

From ‘On the Heights’

Gunther continued, “I am only a physician, whohas held many a hand hot with fever or stiff in deathin his own. The healing art might serve as anillustration. We help all who need our help, anddo not stop to ask who they are, whence they come,or whether when restored to health they persist intheir evil courses. Our actions are incomplete,fragmentary; thought alone is complete and all-embracing.Our deeds and ourselves are but fragments—thewhole is God.”

“I think I grasp your meaning [replied the Queen].But our life, as you say, is indeed a mere fractionof life as a whole; and how is each one to bear upunder the portion of suffering that falls to his individuallot? Can one—I mean it in its bestsense—always be outside of one’sself?”

“I am well aware, your Majesty, that passionsand emotions cannot be regulated by ideas; for theygrow in a different soil, or, to express myself correctly,move in entirely different spheres. It is buta few days since I closed the eyes of my old friendEberhard. Even he never fully succeeded in subordinatinghis temperament to his philosophy; but in his dyinghour he rose beyond the terrible grief that broke hisheart—grief for his child. He summonedthe thoughts of better hours to his aid,—hourswhen his perception of the truth had been undimmedby sorrow or passion,—and he died a noble,peaceful death. Your Majesty must still liveand labor, elevating yourself and others, at one andthe same time. Permit me to remind you of the

moment when, seated under the weeping ash, your heartwas filled with pity for the poor child that fromthe time it enters into the world is doubly helpless.Do you still remember how you refused to rob it ofits mother? I appeal to the pure and genuineimpulse of that moment. You were noble and forgivingthen, because you had not yet suffered. You castno stone at the fallen; you loved, and therefore youforgave.”

“O God!” cried the Queen, “and whathas happened to me? The woman on whose bosommy child rested is the most abandoned of creatures.I loved her just as if she belonged to another world—aworld of innocence. And now I am satisfied thatshe was the go-between, and that her naivete was amere mask concealing an unparalleled hypocrite.I imagined that truth and purity still dwelt in thesimple rustic world—but everything is pervertedand corrupt. The world of simplicity is base;aye, far worse than that of corruption!”

“I am not arguing about individuals. Ithink you mistaken in regard to Walpurga; but admittingthat you are right, of this at least we can be sure:morality does not depend upon so-called education orignorance, belief or unbelief. The heart andmind which have regained purity and steadfastnessalone possess true knowledge. Extend your viewbeyond details and take in the whole—thatalone can comfort and reconcile you.”

“I see where you are, but I cannot get up there.I can’t always be looking through your telescopethat shows naught but blue sky. I am too weak.I know what you mean; you say in effect, ’Riseabove these few people, above this span of space knownas a kingdom: compared with the universe, theyare but as so many blades of grass or a mere clodof earth.’”

Gunther nodded a pleased assent: but the Queen,in a sad voice, added:—

“Yes, but this space and these people constitutemy world. Is purity merely imaginary? Ifit be not about us, where can it be found?”

“Within ourselves,” replied Gunther.“If it dwell within us, it is everywhere; ifnot, it is nowhere. He who asks for more has notyet passed the threshold. His heart is not yetwhat it should be. True love for the things ofthis earth, and for God, the final cause of all, doesnot ask for love in return. We love the divinespark that dwells in creatures themselves unconsciousof it: creatures who are wretched, debased, andas the church has it, unredeemed. My Master taughtme that the purest joys arise from this love of Godor of eternally pure nature. I made this truthmy own, and you can and ought to do likewise.This park is yours; but the birds that dwell in it,the air, the light, its beauty, are not yours alone,but are shared with you by all. So long as theworld is ours, in the vulgar sense of the word, wemay love it; but when we have made it our own, ina purer and better sense, no one can take it fromus. The great thing is to be strong and to knowthat hatred is death, that love alone is life, andthat the amount of love that we possess is the measureof the life and the divinity that dwells within us.”

Gunther rose and was about to withdraw. He fearedlest excessive thought might over-agitate the Queen,who, however, motioned him to remain. He satdown again.

“You cannot imagine—” saidthe Queen after a long pause, “—butthat is one of the cant phrases that we have learnedby heart. I mean just the reverse of what I havesaid. You can imagine the change that your wordshave effected in me.”

“I can conceive it.”

“Let me ask a few more questions. I believe—nay,I am sure—that on the height you occupy,and toward which you would fain lead me, there dwellseternal peace. But it seems so cold and lonelyup there. I am oppressed with a sense of fear,just as if I were in a balloon ascending into a rareratmosphere, while more and more ballast was ever beingthrown out. I don’t know how to make mymeaning clear to you. I don’t understandhow to keep up affectionate relations with those aboutme, and yet regard them from a distance, as it were,—lookingupon their deeds as the mere action and reaction ofnatural forces. It seems to me as if, at thatheight, every sound and every image must vanish intothin air.”

“Certainly, your Majesty. There is a realmof thought in which hearing and sight do not exist,where there is pure thought and nothing more.”

“But are not the thoughts that there aboundprojected from the realm of death into that of life,and is that any better than monastic self-mortification?”

“It is just the contrary. They praise death,or at all events extol it, because after it life isto begin. I am not one of those who deny a futurelife. I only say, in the words of my Master, ’Ourknowledge is of life and not of death,’ andwhere my knowledge ceases my thoughts must cease.Our labors, our love, are all of this life. Andbecause God is in this world and in all that existin it, and only in those things, have we to liberatethe divine essence wherever it exists. The lawof love should rule. What the law of nature isin regard to matter, the moral law is to man.”

“I cannot reconcile myself to your dividingthe divine power into millions of parts. Whena stone is crushed, every fragment still remains astone; but when a flower is torn to pieces, the partsare no longer flowers.”

“Let us take your simile as an illustration,although in truth no example is adequate. Theworld, the firmament, the creatures that live on theface of the earth, are not divided—theyare one; thought regards them as a whole. Takefor instance the flower. The idea of divinitywhich it suggests to us, and the fragrance which ascendsfrom it, are yet part and parcel of the flower; attributeswithout which it is impossible for us to conceiveof its existence. The works of all poets, allthinkers, all heroes, may be likened to streams offragrance wafted through time and space. It isin the flower that they live forever. Althoughthe eternal spirit dwells in the cell of every treeor flower and in every human heart, it is undividedand in its unity fills the world. He whose thoughtsdwell in the infinite regards the world as the mightycorolla from which the thought of God exhales.”

Translation of S.A. Stern.

IN COUNTESS IRMA’S DIARY

From ‘On the Heights’

Yesterday was a year since I lay at the foot of therock. I could not write a word. My brainwhirled with the thoughts of that day; but now itis over.

* * * * *

I don’t think I shall write much more.I have now experienced all the seasons in my new world.The circle is complete. There is nothing newto come from without. I know all that exists aboutme, or that can happen. I am at home in my newworld.

* * * * *

Unto Jesus the Scribes and Pharisees brought a womanwho was to be stoned to death, and He said unto them,“Let him that is without sin among you castthe first stone.”

Thus it is written.

But I ask: How did she continue to live—shewho was saved from being stoned to death; she whowas pardoned—that is, condemned to live?How did she live on? Did she return to her home?How did she stand with the world? And how withher own heart?

No answer. None.

I must find the answer in my own experience

* * * * *

“Let him that is without sin among you castthe first stone.” These are the noblest,the greatest words ever uttered by human lips, or heardby human ear. They divide the history of thehuman race into two parts. They are the “Letthere be light” of the second creation.They divide and heal my little life too, and createme anew.

Has one who is not wholly without sin a right to offerprecepts and reflections to others?

Look into your own heart. What are you?

Behold my hands. They are hardened by toil.I have done more than merely lift them in prayer.

* * * * *

Since I am alone I have not seen a letter of print.I have no book and wish for none; and this is notin order to mortify myself, but because I wish tobe perfectly alone.

* * * * *

She who renounces the world, and in her lonelinessstill cherishes the thought of eternity, has assumeda heavy burden.

Convent life is not without its advantages. Thedifferent voices that join in the chorale sustaineach other; and when the tone at last ceases, it seemsto float away on the air and vanish by degrees.But here I am quite alone. I am priest and church,organ and congregation, confessor and penitent, allin one; and my heart is often so heavy, asif I must needs have another to help me bear the load.“Take me up and carry me, I cannot go further!”cries my soul. But then I rouse myself again,seize my scrip and my pilgrim’s staff and wanderon, solitary and alone; and while I wander, strengthreturns to me.

* * * * *

It often seems to me as if it were sinful thus tobury myself alive. My voice is no longer heardin song, and much more that dwells within me has becomemute.

Is this right?

If my only object in life were to be at peace withmyself, it would be well enough; but I long to laborand to do something for others. Yet where andwhat shall it be?

* * * * *

When I first heard that the beautifully carved furnitureof the great and wealthy is the work of prisoners,it made me shudder. And now, although I am notdeprived of freedom, I am in much the same condition.Those who have disfigured life should, as an act ofexpiation, help to make life more beautiful for others.The thought that I am doing this comforts and sustainsme.

* * * * *

My work prospers. But last winter’s woodis not yet fit for use. My little pitchman hasbrought me some that is old, excellent, and well seasoned,having been part of the rafters of an old house thathas just been torn down. We work together cheerfully,and our earnings are considerable.

* * * * *

Vice is the same everywhere, except that here it ismore open. Among the masses, vice is characterizedby coarseness; among the upper classes, by meanness.

The latter shake off the consequences of their evildeeds, while the former are obliged to bear them.

* * * * *

The rude manners of these people are necessary, andare far preferable to polite deceit. They mustneeds be rough and rude. If it were not for itscoarse, thick bark, the oak could not withstand thestorm.

I have found that this rough bark covers more tendernessand sincerity than does the smoothest surface.

* * * * *

Jochem told me, to-day, that he is still quite a goodwalker, but that a blind man finds it very troublesometo go anywhere; for at every step he is obliged togrope about, so that he may feel sure of his groundbefore he firmly plants his foot on the earth.

Is it not the same with me? Am I not obligedto be sure of the ground before I take a step?

Such is the way of the fallen.

Ah! why does everything I see or hear become a symbolof my life?

* * * * *

I have now been here between two and three years.I have formed a resolve which it will be difficultto carry out. I shall go out into the world oncemore. I must again behold the scenes of my pastlife. I have tested myself severely.

May it not be a love of adventure, that genteel yetvulgar desire to undertake what is unusual or fraughtwith peril? Or is it a morbid desire to wanderthrough the world after having died, as it were?

No; far from it. What can it be? An intenselonging to roam again, if it be only for a few days.I must kill the desire, lest it kill me.

Whence arises this sudden longing?

Every tool that I use while at work burns my hand.

I must go.

I shall obey the impulse, without worrying myselfwith speculations as to its cause. I am subjectto the rules of no order. My will is my onlylaw. I harm no one by obeying it. I feelmyself free; the world has no power over me.

I dreaded informing Walpurga of my intention.When I did so, her tone, her words, her whole manner,and the fact that she for the first time called me“child,” made it seem as if her motherwere still speaking to me.

“Child,” said she, “you’reright! Go! It’ll do you good.I believe that you’ll come back and will staywith us; but if you don’t, and another lifeopens up to you—your expiation has beena bitter one, far heavier than your sin.”

Uncle Peter was quite happy when he learned that wewere to be gone from one Sunday to the Sunday following.When I asked him whether he was curious as to wherewe were going, he replied:—

“It’s all one to me. I’d travelover the whole world with you, wherever you’dcare to go; and if you were to drive me away, I’dfollow you like a dog and find you again.”

I shall take my journal with me, and will note downevery day.

* * * * *

[By the lake.]—I find it difficult to writea word.

The threshold I am obliged to cross, in order to goout into the world, is my own gravestone.

I am equal to it.

How pleasant it was to descend toward the valley.Uncle Peter sang; and melodies suggested themselvesto me, but I did not sing. Suddenly he interruptedhimself and said:—

“In the inns you’ll be my niece, won’tyou?”

“Yes.”

“But you must call me ‘uncle’ whenwe’re there?”

“Of course, dear uncle.”

He kept nodding to himself for the rest of the way,and was quite happy.

We reached the inn at the landing. He drank,and I drank too, from the same glass.

“Where are you going?” asked the hostess.

“To the capital,” said he, although Ihad not said a word to him about it. Then hesaid to me in a whisper:—

“If you intend to go elsewhere, the people needn’tknow everything.”

I let him have his own way.

I looked for the place where I had wandered at thattime. There—there was the rock—andon it a cross, bearing in golden characters the inscription:—

Here perished

Irma, countessVon Wildenort,

In the twenty-firstyear
of her life.

Traveler, pray for her and honorher memory.

I never rightly knew why I was always dissatisfied,and yearning for the next hour, the next day, thenext year, hoping that it would bring me that whichI could not find in the present. It was not love,for love does not satisfy. I desired to livein the passing moment, but could not. It alwaysseemed as if something were waiting for me withoutthe door, and calling me. What could it havebeen?

I know now; it was a desire to be at one with myself,to understand myself. Myself in the world, andthe world in me.

* * * * *

The vain man is the loneliest of human beings.He is constantly longing to be seen, understood, acknowledged,admired, and loved.

I could say much on the subject, for I too was oncevain. It was only in actual solitude that I conqueredthe loneliness of vanity. It is enough for methat I exist.

How far removed this is from all that is mere show.

* * * * *

Now I understand my father’s last act.He did not mean to punish me. His only desirewas to arouse me; to lead me to self-consciousness;to the knowledge which, teaching us to become differentfrom what we are, saves us.

* * * * *

I understand the inscription in my father’slibrary:—“When I am alone, then amI least alone.”

Yes; when alone, one can more perfectly lose himselfin the life universal. I have lived and havecome to know the truth. I can now die.

* * * * *

He who is at one with himself, possesses all....

I believe that I know what I have done. I haveno compassion for myself.
This is my full confession.

I have sinned—not against nature, but againstthe world’s rules. Is that sin? Lookat the tall pines in yonder forest. The higherthe tree grows, the more do the lower branches dieaway; and thus the tree in the thick forest is protectedand sheltered by its fellows, but can neverthelessnot perfect itself in all directions.

I desired to lead a full and complete life and yetto be in the forest, to be in the world and yet insociety. But he who means to live thus, mustremain in solitude. As soon as we become membersof society, we cease to be mere creatures of nature.Nature and morality have equal rights, and must forma compact with each other; and where there are twopowers with equal rights, there must be mutual concessions.

Herein lies my sin.

He who desires to live a life of nature alone,must withdraw himself from the protection of morality.I did not fully desire either the one or the other;hence I was crushed and shattered.

My father’s last action was right. He avengedthe moral law, which is just as human as the law ofnature. The animal world knows neither fathernor mother, so soon as the young is able to take careof itself. The human world does know them andmust hold them sacred.

I see it all quite clearly. My sufferings andmy expiation are deserved. I was a thief!I stole the highest treasures of all: confidence,love, honor, respect, splendor.

How noble and exalted the tender souls appear to themselveswhen a poor rogue is sent to jail for having committeda theft! But what are all possessions which canbe carried away, when compared with those that areintangible!

Those who are summoned to the bar of justice are notalways the basest of mankind.

I acknowledge my sin, and my repentance is sincere.

My fatal sin, the sin for which I now atone, was thatI dissembled, that I denied and extenuated that whichI represented to myself as a natural right. Againstthe Queen I have sinned worst of all. To me sherepresents that moral order which I violated and yetwished to enjoy.

To you, O Queen, to you—lovely, good, anddeeply injured one—do I confess all this!

If I die before you,—and I hope that Imay,—these pages are to be given to you.

* * * * *

I can now accurately tell the season of the year,and often the hour of the day, by the way in whichthe first sunbeams fall into my room and on my work-benchin the morning. My chisel hangs before me on thewall, and is my index.

The drizzling spring showers now fall on the trees;and thus it is with me. It seems as if therewere a new delight in store for me. What can itbe? I shall patiently wait!

* * * * *

A strange feeling comes over me, as if I were liftedup from the chair on which I am sitting, and wereflying, I know not whither! What is it?I feel as if dwelling in eternity.

Everything seems flying toward me: the sunlightand the sunshine, the rustling of the forests andthe forest breezes, beings of all ages and of allkinds—all seem beautiful and rendered transparentby the sun’s glow.

I am!

I am in God!

If I could only die now and be wafted through thisjoy to dissolution and redemption!

But I will live on until my hour comes.

Come, thou dark hour, whenever thou wilt! Tome thou art light!

I feel that there is light within me. O EternalSpirit of the universe,
I am one with thee!

I was dead, and I live—I shall die andyet live.

Everything has been forgiven and blotted out.—Therewas dust on my wings.—I soar aloft intothe sun and into infinite space. I shall diesinging from the fullness of my soul. Shall Ising!

Enough.

* * * * *

I know that I shall again be gloomy and depressedand drag along a weary existence; but I have oncesoared into infinity and have felt a ray of eternitywithin me. That I shall never lose again.I should like to go to a convent, to some quiet, cloisteredcell, where I might know nothing of the world, andcould live on within myself until death shall callme. But it is not to be. I am destined tolive on in freedom and to labor; to live with my fellow-beingsand to work for them.

The results of my handiwork and of my powers of imaginationbelong to you; but what I am within myself is minealone.

* * * * *

I have taken leave of everything here; of my quietroom, of my summer bench; for I know not whether Ishall ever return. And if I do, who knows butwhat everything may have become strange to me?

* * * * *

(Last page written in pencil.)—It is mywish that when I am dead, I may be wrapped in a simplelinen cloth, placed in a rough unplaned coffin, andburied under the apple-tree, on the road that leadsto my paternal mansion. I desire that my brotherand other relatives may be apprised of my death atonce, and that they shall not disturb my grave bythe wayside.

No stone, no name, is to mark my grave.

EMILE AUGIER

(1820-1889)

As an observer of society, a satirist, and a painterof types and characters of modern life, Emile Augierranks among the greatest French dramatists of thiscentury. Critics consider him in the line of directdescent from Moliere and Beaumarchais. His collectedworks (’Theatre Complet’) number twenty-sevenplays, of which nine are in verse. Eight of thesewere written with a literary partner. Three arenow called classics: ‘Le Gendre de M. Poirier’(M. Poirier’s Son-in-Law), ‘L’Aventuriere’(The Adventuress), and ‘Fils de Giboyer’(Giboyer’s Boy). ‘Le Gendre de M.Poirier’ was written with Jules Sandeau, butthe admirers of Augier have proved by internal evidencethat his share in its composition was the greater.It is a comedy of manners based on the old antagonismbetween vulgar ignorant energy and ability on the oneside, and lazy empty birth and breeding on the other;embodied in Poirier, a wealthy shopkeeper, and M.de Presles, his son-in-law, an impoverished nobleman.Guillaume Victor Emile Augier was born in Valence,France, September 17th, 1820, and was intended forthe law; but inheriting literary tastes from his grandfather,Pigault Lebrun the romance writer, he devoted himselfto letters. When his first play, ’La Cigue’(The Hemlock),—in the preface to which hedefended his grandfather’s memory,—waspresented at the Odeon in 1844, it made the authorfamous. Theophile Gautier describes it at lengthin Vol. iii. of his ‘Art Dramatique,’and compares it to Shakespeare’s ’Timonof Athens.’ It is a classic play, and thehero closes his career by a draught of hemlock.

Augier’s works are:—’Un Hommede Bien’ (A Good Man); ‘L’Aventuriere’(The Adventuress); ‘Gabrielle’; ‘LeJoueur de Flute’ (The Flute Player); ‘Diane’(Diana), a romantic play on the same theme as VictorHugo’s ‘Marion Delorme,’ writtenfor and played by Rachel; ’La Pierre de Touche’(The Touchstone), with Jules Sandeau; ‘Philberte,’a comedy of the last century; ‘Le Mariage d’Olympe’(Olympia’s Marriage); ’Le Gendre de M.Poirier’ (M. Poirier’s Son-in-Law);‘Ceinture Doree’ (The Golden Belt), withEdouard Foussier; ‘La Jeunesse’ (Youth);’Les Lionnes Pauvres’ (Ambition and Poverty),—abold story of social life in Paris during the SecondEmpire, also with Foussier; ‘Les Effrontes’(Brass), an attack on the worship of money; ‘LeFils de Giboyer’ (Giboyer’s Boy), thestory of a father’s devotion, ambitions, and

self-sacrifice; ’Maitre Guerin’ (Guerinthe Notary), the hero being an inventor; ‘LaContagion’ (Contagion), the theme of which isskepticism; ‘Paul Forestier,’ the storyof a young artist; ‘Le Post-Scriptum’ (ThePostscript); ’Lions et Renards’ (Lionsand Foxes), whose motive is love of power; ’JeanThommeray,’ the hero of which is drawn from Sandeau’snovel of the same title; ‘Madame Caverlet,’hinging on the divorce question; ’Les Fourchambault’(The Fourchambaults), a plea for family union; ’LaChasse au Roman’ (Pursuit of a Romance), and‘L’Habit Vert’ (The Green Coat),with Sandeau and Alfred de Musset; and the librettofor Gounod’s opera ‘Sappho.’Augier wrote one volume of verse, which he modestlycalled ‘Parietaire,’ the name of a commonlittle vine, the English danewort. In 1858 hewas elected to the French Academy, and in 1868 becamea Commander of the Legion of Honor. He died atCroissy, October 25th, 1889. An analysis of hisdramas by Emile Montegut is published in the Revuede Deux Mondes for April, 1878.

A CONVERSATION WITH A PURPOSE

From ‘Giboyer’s Boy’

Marquis—Well, dear Baroness, whathas an old bachelor like me done to deserve so charminga visit?

Baroness—That’s what I wondermyself, Marquis. Now I see you I don’tknow why I’ve come, and I’ve a great mindto go straight back.

Marquis—Sit down, vexatious one!

Baroness—No. So you close yourdoor for a week; your servants all look tragic; yourfriends put on mourning in anticipation; I, disconsolate,come to inquire—and behold, I find you attable!

Marquis—I’m an old flirt,and wouldn’t show myself for an empire whenI’m in a bad temper. You wouldn’trecognize your agreeable friend when he has the gout;—that’swhy I hide.

Baroness—I shall rush off to reassureyour friend.

Marquis—They are not so anxiousas all that. Tell me something of them.

Baroness—But somebody’s waitingin my carriage.

Marquis—I’ll send to ask himup.

Baroness—But I’m not surethat you know him.

Marquis—His name?

Baroness—I met him by chance.

Marquis—And you brought him by chance.[He rings.] You are a mother to me. [ToDubois.] You will find an ecclesiastic in Madame’scarriage. Tell him I’m much obliged forhis kind alacrity, but I think I won’t die thismorning.

Baroness—O Marquis! what would ourfriends say if they heard you?

Marquis—Bah! I’m theblack sheep of the party, its spoiled child; that’staken for granted. Dubois, you may say also thatMadame begs the Abbe to drive home, and to send hercarriage back for her.

Baroness—Allow me—

Marquis—Go along, Dubois.—Nowyou are my prisoner.

Baroness—But, Marquis, this is veryunconventional.

Marquis [kissing her hand]—Flatterer!Now sit down, and let’s talk about serious things.[Taking a newspaper from the table.] The gouthasn’t kept me from reading the news. Doyou know that poor Deodat’s death is a seriousmishap?

Baroness—What a loss to our cause!

Marquis—I have wept for him.

Baroness—Such talent! Suchspirit! Such sarcasm!

Marquis—He was the hussar of orthodoxy.He will live in history as the angelic pamphleteer.And now that we have settled his noble ghost—

Baroness—You speak very lightlyabout it, Marquis.

Marquis—I tell you I’ve weptfor him.—Now let’s think of some oneto replace him.

Baroness—Say to succeed him.Heaven doesn’t create two such men at the sametime.

Marquis—What if I tell you thatI have found such another? Yes, Baroness, I’veunearthed a wicked, cynical, virulent pen, that spitsand splashes; a fellow who would lard his own fatherwith epigrams for a consideration, and who would eathim with salt for five francs more.

Baroness—Deodat had sincere convictions.

Marquis—That’s because hefought for them. There are no more mercenaries.The blows they get convince them. I’ll givethis fellow a week to belong to us body and soul.

Baroness—If you haven’t anyother proofs of his faithfulness—

Marquis—But I have.

Baroness—Where from?

Marquis—Never mind. I haveit.

Baroness—And why do you wait beforepresenting him?

Marquis—For him in the first place,and then for his consent. He lives in Lyons,and I expect him to-day or to-morrow. As soonas he is presentable, I’ll introduce him.

Baroness—Meanwhile, I’ll tellthe committee of your find.

Marquis—I beg you, no. Withregard to the committee, dear Baroness, I wish you’duse your influence in a matter which touches me.

Baroness—I have not much influence—

Marquis—Is that modesty, or theexordium of a refusal?

Baroness—If either, it’s modesty.

Marquis—Very well, my charming friend.Don’t you know that these gentlemen owe youtoo much to refuse you anything?

Baroness—Because they meet in myparlor?

Marquis—That, yes; but the true,great, inestimable service you render every day isto possess such superb eyes.

Baroness—It’s well for youto pay attention to such things!

Marquis—Well for me, but betterfor these Solons whose compliments don’t exceeda certain romantic intensity.

Baroness—You are dreaming.

Marquis—What I say is true.That’s why serious societies always rally inthe parlor of a woman, sometimes clever, sometimesbeautiful. You are both, Madame: judge thenof your power!

Baroness—You are too complimentary:your cause must be detestable.

Marquis—If it was good I could winit for myself.

Baroness—Come, tell me, tell me.

Marquis—Well, then: we mustchoose an orator to the Chamber for our Campaign againstthe University. I want them to choose—

Baroness—Monsieur Marechal?

Marquis—You are right.

Baroness—Do you really think so,Marquis? Monsieur Marechal?

Marquis—Yes, I know. But wedon’t need a bolt of eloquence, since we’llfurnish the address. Marechal reads well enough,I assure you.

Baroness—We made him deputy on yourrecommendation. That was a good deal.

Marquis—Marechal is an excellentrecruit.

Baroness—So you say.

Marquis—How disgusted you are!An old subscriber to the Constitutionnel, a liberal,a Voltairean, who comes over to the enemy bag andbaggage. What would you have? Monsieur Marechalis not a man, my dear: it’s the stout bourgeoisieitself coming over to us. I love this honestbourgeoisie, which hates the revolution, sincethere is no more to be gotten out of it; which wantsto stem the tide which brought it, and make over alittle feudal France to its own profit. Let itdraw our chestnuts from the fire if it wants to.This pleasant sight makes me enjoy politics.Long live Monsieur Marechal and his likes, bourgeoisof the right divine. Let us heap these preciousallies with honor and glory until our triumph shipsthem off to their mills again.

Baroness—Several of our deputiesare birds of the same feather. Why choose theleast capable for orator?

Marquis—It’s not a questionof capacity.

Baroness—You’re a warm patronof Monsieur Marechal!

Marquis—I regard him as a kind offamily protege. His grandfather was farmer tomine. I’m his daughter’s guardian.These are bonds.

Baroness—You don’t tell everything.

Marquis—All that I know.

Baroness—Then let me complete yourinformation. They say that in old times you fellin love with the first Madame Marechal.

Marquis—I hope you don’t believethis silly story?

Baroness—Faith, you do so much toplease Monsieur Marechal—

Marquis—That it seems as if I musthave injured him? Good heavens! Who is safefrom malice? Nobody. Not even you, dear Baroness.

Baroness—I’d like to knowwhat they can say of me.

Marquis—Foolish things that I certainlywon’t repeat.

Baroness—Then you believe them?

Marquis—God forbid! That yourdead husband married his mother’s companion?It made me so angry!

Baroness—Too much honor for suchwretched gossip.

Marquis—I answered strongly enough,I can tell you.

Baroness—I don’t doubt it.

Marquis—But you are right in wantingto marry again.

Baroness—Who says I want to?

Marquis—Ah! you don’t treatme as a friend. I deserve your confidence allthe more for understanding you as if you had givenit. The aid of a sorcerer is not to be despised,Baroness.

Baroness [sitting down by the table]—Proveyour sorcery.

Marquis [sitting down opposite]—Willingly!Give me your hand.

Baroness [removing her glove]—You’llgive it back again.

Marquis—And help you dispose ofit, which is more. [Examining her hand.] Youare beautiful, rich, and a widow.

Baroness—I could believe myselfat Mademoiselle Lenormand’s!

Marquis—While it is so easy, notto say tempting, for you to lead a brilliant, frivolouslife, you have chosen a role almost austere with itsirreproachable morals.

Baroness—If it was a role, you’lladmit that it was much like a penitence.

Marquis—Not for you.

Baroness—What do you know aboutit?

Marquis—I read it in your hand.I even see that the contrary would cost you more,for nature has gifted your heart with unalterablecalmness.

Baroness [drawing away her hand]—Sayat once that I’m a monster.

Marquis—Time enough! The credulousthink you a saint; the skeptics say you desire power;I, Guy Francois Condorier, Marquis d’Auberive,think you a clever little German, trying to build athrone for yourself in the Faubourg Saint-Germain.You have conquered the men, but the women resist you:your reputation offends them; and for want of a betterweapon they use this miserable rumor I’ve justrepeated. In short, your flag’s inadequateand you’re looking for a larger one. HenryIV. said that Paris was worth a mass. You thinkso too.

Baroness—They say sleep-walkersshouldn’t be contradicted. However, dolet me say that if I really wanted a husband—withmy money and my social position, I might already havefound twenty.

Marquis—Twenty, yes; but not one.You forget this little devil of a rumor.

Baroness [rising]—Only fools believethat.

Marquis [rising]—There’s thehic. It’s only very clever men, tooclever, who court you, and you want a fool.

Baroness—Why?

Marquis—Because you don’twant a master. You want a husband whom you cankeep in your parlor, like a family portrait, nothingmore.

Baroness—Have you finished, deardiviner? What you have just said lacks common-sense,but you are amusing, and I can refuse you nothing.

Marquis—Marechal shall have theoration?

Baroness—Or I’ll lose my name.

Marquis—And you shall loseyour name—I promise you.

A SEVERE YOUNG JUDGE

From ‘The Adventuress’

Clorinde [softly]—Here’sCelie. Look at her clear eyes. I love her,innocent child!

Annibal—Yes, yes, yes! [He sitsdown in a corner.]

Clorinde [approaching Celie, who has pausedin the doorway]—My child, you wouldnot avoid me to-day if you knew how happy you makeme!

Celie—My father has ordered me tocome to you.

Clorinde—Ordered you? Did youneed an order? Are we really on such terms?Tell me, do you think I do not love you, that you shouldlook upon me as your enemy? Dear, if you couldread my heart you would find there the tenderest attachment.

Celie—I do not know whether youare sincere, Madame. I hope that you are not,for it distresses one to be loved by those—

Clorinde—Whom one does not love?They must have painted me black indeed, that you areso reluctant to believe in my friendship.

Celie—They have told me—whatI have heard, thanks to you, Madame, was not fit formy young ears. This interview is cruel—Pleaselet me—

Clorinde—No, no! Stay, Mademoiselle.For this interview, painful to us both, neverthelessconcerns us both.

Celie—I am not your judge, Madame.

Clorinde—Nevertheless you do judgeme, and severely! Yes, my life has been blameworthy;I confess it. But you know nothing of its temptations.How should you know, sweet soul, to whom life is happyand goodness easy? Child, you have your familyto guard you. You have happiness to keep watchand ward for you. How should you know what povertywhispers to young ears on cold evenings! You,who have never been hungry, how should you understandthe price that is asked for a mouthful of bread?

Celie—I don’t know the pleadingsof poverty, but one need not listen to them.There are many poor girls who go hungry and cold andkeep from harm.

Clorinde—Child, their courage issublime. Honor them if you will, but pity thecowards.

Celie—Yes, for choosing infamy ratherthan work, hunger, or death! Yes, for losingthe respect of all honest souls! Yes, I can pitythem for not being worthier of pity.

Clorinde—So that’s your Christiancharity! So nothing in the world—bitterrepentance or agonies of suffering, or vows of sanctityfor all time to come—may obliterate thepast?

Celie—You force me to speak withoutknowledge. But—since I must give judgment—whoreally hates a fault will hate the fruit of it.If you keep this place, Madame, you will not expectme to believe in the genuineness of your renunciations.

Clorinde—I do not dishonor it.There is no reason why I should leave it. I havealready proved my sincerity by high-minded and generousacts. I bear myself as my place demands.My conscience is at rest.

Celie—Your good action—forI believe you—is only the beginning ofexpiation. Virtue seems to me like a holy temple.You may leave it by a door with a single step, butto enter again you must climb up a hundred on yourknees, beating your breast.

Clorinde—How rigid you all are,and how your parents train their first-born neverto open the ranks! Oh, fortunate race! impenetrablephalanx of respectability, who make it impossible forthe sinner to reform! You keep the way of repentanceso rough that the foot of poor humanity cannot treadit. God will demand from you the lost souls whomyour hardness has driven back to sin.

Celie—God, do you say? Whengood people forgive they betray his justice.For punishment is not retribution only, but the acknowledgmentand recompense of those fighting ones that brave hungerand cold in a garret, Madame, yet do not surrender.

Clorinde—Go, child! I cannotbear more—

Celie—I have said more than I meantto say. Good-by. This is the first and lasttime that I shall ever speak of this.

[She goes.]

A CONTENTED IDLER

From ‘M. Poirier’s Son-in-Law’

[The party are leaving the dining-room.]

Gaston—Well, Hector! What doyou think of it? The house is just as you seeit now, every day in the year. Do you believethere is a happier man in the world than I?

Duke—Faith! I envy you; youreconcile me to marriage.

Antoinette [in a low voice to Verdelet]—Monsieurde Montmeyran is a charming young man!

Verdelet [in a low voice]—Hepleases me.

Gaston [to Poirier, who comes in last]—MonsieurPoirier, I must tell you once for all how much I esteemyou. Don’t think I’m ungrateful.

Poirier—Oh! Monsieur!

Gaston—Why the devil don’tyou call me Gaston? And you, too, dear MonsieurVerdelet, I’m very glad to see you.

Antoinette—He is one of the family,Gaston.

Gaston—Shake hands then, Uncle.

Verdelet [aside, giving him his hand]—He’snot a bad fellow.

Gaston—Agree, Hector, that I’vebeen lucky. Monsieur Poirier, I feel guilty.You make my life one long fete and never give me achance in return. Try to think of something Ican do for you.

Poirier—Very well, if that’sthe way you feel, give me a quarter of an hour.I should like to have a serious talk with you.

Duke—I’ll withdraw.

Poirier—No, stay, Monsieur.We are going to hold a kind of family council.Neither you nor Verdelet will be in the way.

Gaston—The deuce, my dear father-in-law.A family council! You embarrass me!

Poirier—Not at all, dear Gaston.Let us sit down.

[They seat themselves around the fireplace.]

Gaston—Begin, Monsieur Poirier.

Poirier—You say you are happy, dearGaston, and that is my greatest recompense.

Gaston—I’m willing to doubleyour gratification.

Poirier—But now that three monthshave been given to the joys of the honeymoon, I thinkthat there has been romance enough, and that it’stime to think about history.

Gaston—You talk like a book.Certainly, we’ll think about history if youwish. I’m willing.

Poirier—What do you intend to do?

Gaston—To-day?

Poirier—And to-morrow, and in thefuture. You must have some idea.

Gaston—True, my plans are made.I expect to do to-day what I did yesterday, and to-morrowwhat I shall do to-day. I’m not versatile,in spite of my light air; and if the future is onlylike the present I’ll be satisfied.

Poirier—But you are too sensibleto think that the honeymoon can last forever.

Gaston—Too sensible, and too goodan astronomer. But you’ve probably readHeine?

Poirier—You must have read that,Verdelet?

Verdelet—Yes; I’ve read him.

Poirier—Perhaps he spent his lifeat playing truant.

Gaston—Well, Heine, when he wasasked what became of the old full moons, said thatthey were broken up to make the stars.

Poirier—I don’t understand.

Gaston—When our honeymoon is old,we’ll break it up and there’ll be enoughto make a whole Milky Way.

Poirier—That is a clever idea, ofcourse.

Gaston—Its only merit is simplicity.

Poirier—But seriously, don’tyou think that the idle life you lead may jeopardizethe happiness of a young household?

Gaston—Not at all.

Verdelet—A man of your capacitycan’t mean to idle all his life.

Gaston—With resignation.

Antoinette—Don’t you thinkyou’ll find it dull after a time, Gaston?

Gaston—You calumniate yourself,my dear.

Antoinette—I’m not vain enoughto suppose that I can fill your whole existence, andI admit that I’d like to see you follow the exampleof Monsieur de Montmeyran.

Gaston [rising and leaning against the mantelpiece]—Perhapsyou want me to fight?

Antoinette—No, of course not.

Gaston—What then?

Poirier—We want you to take a positionworthy of your name.

Gaston—There are only three positionswhich my name permits me: soldier, bishop, orhusbandman. Choose.

Poirier—We owe everything to France.France is our mother.

Verdelet—I understand the vexationof a son whose mother remarries; I understand whyhe doesn’t go to the wedding: but if hehas the right kind of heart he won’t turn sulky.If the second husband makes her happy, he’llsoon offer him a friendly hand.

Poirier—The nobility cannot alwayshold itself aloof, as it begins to perceive.More than one illustrious name has set the example:Monsieur de Valcherriere, Monsieur de Chazerolles,Monsieur de Mont Louis—

Gaston—These men have done as theythought best. I don’t judge them, but Icannot imitate them.

Antoinette—Why not, Gaston?

Gaston—Ask Montmeyran.

Verdelet—The Duke’s uniformanswers for him.

Duke—Excuse me, a soldier has butone opinion—his duty; but one adversary—theenemy.

Poirier—However, Monsieur—

Gaston—Enough, it isn’t amatter of politics, Monsieur Poirier. One maydiscuss opinions, but not sentiments. I am boundby gratitude. My fidelity is that of a servantand of a friend. Not another word. [To theDuke.] I beg your pardon, my dear fellow.This is the first time we’ve talked politicshere, and I promise you it shall be the last.

The Duke [in a low voice to Antoinette]—You’vebeen forced into making a mistake, Madame.

Antoinette—I know it, now that it’stoo late.

Verdelet [softly, to Poirier]—Nowyou’re in a fine fix.

Poirier [in same tone]—He’srepulsed the first assault, but I don’t raisethe siege.

Gaston—I’m not resentful,Monsieur Poirier. Perhaps I spoke a little toostrongly, but this is a tender point with me, and unintentionallyyou wounded me. Shake hands.

Poirier—You are very kind.

A Servant—There are some peoplein the little parlor who say they have an appointmentwith Monsieur Poirier.

Poirier—Very well, ask them to waita moment. [The servant goes out.] Your creditors,son-in-law.

Gaston—Yours, my dear father-in-law.I’ve turned them over to you.

Duke—As a wedding present.

THE FEELINGS OF AN ARTIST

From ‘M. Poirier’s Son-in-Law’

Poirier [alone]—How vexatioushe is, that son-in-law of mine! and there’sno way to get rid of him. He’ll die a nobleman,for he will do nothing and he is good for nothing.—There’sno end to the money he costs me.—He ismaster of my house.—I’ll put a stopto it. [He rings. Enter a servant.] Sendup the porter and the cook. We shall see my son-in-law!I have set up my back. I’ve unsheathed myvelvet paws. You will make no concessions, eh,my fine gentleman? Take your comfort! Iwill not yield either: you may remain marquis,and I will again become a bourgeois. Atleast I’ll have the pleasure of living to myfancy.

The Porter—Monsieur has sent forme?

Poirier—Yes, Francois, Monsieurhas sent for you. You can put the sign on thedoor at once.

The Porter—The sign?

Poirier—“To let immediately,a magnificent apartment on the first floor, with stablesand carriage houses.”

The Porter—The apartment of Monsieurle Marquis?

Poirier—You have said it, Francois.

The Porter—But Monsieur le Marquishas not given the order.

Poirier—Who is the master here,donkey? Who owns this mansion?

The Porter—You, Monsieur.

Poirier—Then do what I tell youwithout arguing.

The Porter—Yes, Monsieur. [EnterVatel.]

Poirier—Go, Francois. [Exit Porter.]Come in, Monsieur Vatel: you are getting up abig dinner for to-morrow?

Vatel—Yes, Monsieur, and I ventureto say that the menu would not be disowned by my illustriousancestor himself. It is really a work of art,and Monsieur Poirier will be astonished.

Poirier—Have you the menu with you?

Vatel—No, Monsieur, it is beingcopied; but I know it by heart.

Poirier—Then recite it to me.

Vatel—Le potage aux ravioles a l’Italienneet le potage a l’orge a la Marie Stuart.

Poirier—You will replace these unknownconcoctions by a good meat soup, with some vegetableson a plate.

Vatel—What, Monsieur?

Poirier—I mean it. Go on.

Vatel—Releve. La carpe du Rhina la Lithuanienne, les poulardes a la Godard—lefilet de boeuf braise aux raisins a la Napolitaine,le jambon de Westphalie, rotie madere.

Poirier—Here is a simpler and farmore sensible fish course: brill with caper sauce—thenBayonne ham with spinach, and a savory stew of bird,with well-browned rabbit.

Vatel—But, Monsieur Poirier—Iwill never consent.

Poirier—I am master—doyou hear? Go on.

Vatel—Entrees. Les filets devolaille a la concordat—les croustadesde truffe garnies de foies a la royale, le faison etoffea la Montpensier, les perdreaux rouges farcis a labohemienne.

Poirier—In place of these side disheswe will have nothing at all, and we will go at onceto the roast,—that is the only essential.

Vatel—That is against the preceptsof art.

Poirier—I’ll take the blameof that: let us have your roasts.

Vatel—It is not worth while, Monsieur:my ancestor would have run his sword through his bodyfor a less affront. I offer my resignation.

Poirier—And I was about to ask forit, my good friend; but as one has eight days to replacea servant—

Vatel—A servant, Monsieur?I am an artist!

Poirier—I will fill your place bya woman. But in the mean time, as you still haveeight days in my service, I wish you to prepare mymenu.

Vatel—I will blow my brains outbefore I dishonor my name.

Poirier [aside]—Another fellowwho adores his name! [Aloud.] You may burnyour brains, Monsieur Vatel, but don’t burn yoursauces.—Well, bon jour! [ExitVatel.] And now to write invitations to my oldcronies of the Rue des Bourdonnais. Monsieur leMarquis de Presles, I’ll soon take the starchout of you.

[He goes out whistling the first couplet of ’Monsieurand Madame Denis.’]

A CONTEST OF WILLS

From ‘The Fourchambaults’

Madame Fourchambault—Why do youfollow me?

Fourchambault—I’m not followingyou: I’m accompanying you.

Madame Fourchambault—I despise you;let me alone. Oh! my poor mother little thoughtwhat a life of privation would be mine when she gaveme to you with a dowry of eight hundred thousand francs!

Fourchambault—A life of privation—becauseI refuse you a yacht!

Madame Fourchambault—I thought mydowry permitted me to indulge a few whims, but itseems I was wrong.

Fourchambault—A whim costing eightthousand francs!

Madame Fourchambault—Would you haveto pay for it?

Fourchambault—That’s the kindof reasoning that’s ruining me.

Madame Fourchambault—Now he saysI’m ruining him! His whole fortune comesfrom me.

Fourchambault—Now don’t getangry, my dear. I want you to have everythingin reason, but you must understand the situation.

Madame Fourchambault—The situation?

Fourchambault—I ought to be a richman; but thanks to the continual expenses you incurin the name of your dowry, I can barely rub alongfrom day to day. If there should be a sudden fallin stocks, I have no reserve with which to meet it.

Madame Fourchambault—That can’tbe true! Tell me at once that it isn’ttrue, for if it were so you would be without excuse.

Fourchambault—I or you?

Madame Fourchambault—This is toomuch! Is it my fault that you don’t understandbusiness? If you haven’t had the wit tomake the best use of your way of living and your familyconnections—any one else—

Fourchambault—Quite likely!But I am petty enough to be a scrupulous man, andto wish to remain one.

Madame Fourchambault—Pooh!That’s the excuse of all the dolts who can’tsucceed. They set up to be the only honest fellowsin business. In my opinion, Monsieur, a timidand mediocre man should not insist upon remainingat the head of a bank, but should turn the positionover to his son.

Fourchambault—You are still harpingon that? But, my dear, you might as well buryme alive! Already I’m a mere cipher in myfamily.

Madame Fourchambault—You do notchoose your time well to pose as a victim, when likea tyrant you are refusing me a mere trifle.

Fourchambault—I refuse you nothing.I merely explain my position. Now do as you like.It is useless to expostulate.

Madame Fourchambault—At last!But you have wounded me to the heart, Adrien, andjust when I had a surprise for you—

Fourchambault—What is your surprise?[Aside: It makes me tremble.]

Madame Fourchambault—Thanks to me,the Fourchambaults are going to triumph over the Duhamels.

Fourchambault—How?

Madame Fourchambault—Madame Duhamelhas been determined this long time to marry her daughterto the son of the prefect.

Fourchambault—I knew it. Whatabout it?

Madame Fourchambault—While she wasmaking a goose of herself so publicly, I was quietlynegotiating, and Baron Rastiboulois is coming to askour daughter’s hand.

Fourchambault—That will never do!I’m planning quite a different match for her.

Madame Fourchambault—You? Ishould like to know—

Fourchambault—He’s a finefellow of our own set, who loves Blanche, and whomshe loves if I’m not mistaken.

Madame Fourchambault—You are entirelymistaken. You mean Victor Chauvet, Monsieur Bernard’sclerk?

Fourchambault—His right arm, rather.His alter ego.

Madame Fourchambault—Blanche didthink of him at one time. But her fancy was justa morning mist, which I easily dispelled. Shehas forgotten all about him, and I advise you to followher example.

Fourchambault—What fault can youfind with this young man?

Madame Fourchambault—Nothing andeverything. Even his name is absurd. I neverwould have consented to be called Madame Chauvet, andBlanche is as proud as I was. But that is onlya detail; the truth is, I won’t have her marrya clerk.

Fourchambault—You won’t have!You won’t have! But there are two of us.

Madame Fourchambault—Are you goingto portion Blanche?

Fourchambault—I? No.

Madame Fourchambault—Then you seethere are not two of us. As I am going to portionher, it is my privilege to choose my son-in-law.

Fourchambault—And mine to refusehim. I tell you I won’t have your littlebaron at any price.

Madame Fourchambault—Now it is yourturn. What fault can you find with him, excepthis title?

Fourchambault—He’s fast, agambler, worn out by dissipation.

Madame Fourchambault—Blanche likeshim just as he is.

Fourchambault—Heavens! He’snot even handsome.

Madame Fourchambault—What does thatmatter? Haven’t I been the happiest ofwives?

Fourchambault—What? One wordis as good as a hundred. I won’t have him.Blanche need not take Chauvet, but she shan’tmarry Rastiboulois either. That’s all Ihave to say.

Madame Fourchambault—But, Monsieur—

Fourchambault—That’s all Ihave to say.

[He goes out.]

ST. AUGUSTINE OF HIPPO

(354-430)

BY SAMUEL HART

St. Augustine of Hippo (Aurelius Augustinus) was bornat Tagaste in Numidia, November 13th, 354. Thestory of his life has been told by himself in thatwonderful book addressed to God which he called the‘Confessions’. He gained but littlefrom his father Patricius; he owed almost everythingto his loving and saintly mother Monica. Thoughshe was a Christian, she did not venture to bringher son to baptism; and he went away from home withonly the echo of the name of Jesus Christ in his soul,as it had been spoken by his mother’s lips.He fell deeply into the sins of youth, but found nosatisfaction in them, nor was he satisfied by thestudies of literature to which for a while he devotedhimself. The reading of Cicero’s ‘Hortensius’partly called him back to himself; but before he wastwenty years old he was carried away into Manichaeism,a strange system of belief which united traces of Christianteaching with Persian doctrines of two antagonisticprinciples, practically two gods, a good god of thespiritual world and an evil god of the material world.From this he passed after a while into less grossforms of philosophical speculation, and presently beganto lecture on rhetoric at Tagaste and at Carthage.When nearly thirty years of age he went to Rome, onlyto be disappointed in his hopes for glory as a rhetorician;and after two years his mother joined him at Milan.

[Illustration: ST. AUGUSTINE AND HIS MOTHER.Photogravure from a Painting by Ary Scheffer.]

[Illustration]

The great Ambrose had been called from the magistrate’schair to be bishop of this important city; and hischaracter and ability made a great impression on Augustine.But Augustine was kept from acknowledging and submittingto the truth, not by the intellectual difficultieswhich he propounded as an excuse, but by his unwillingnessto submit to the moral demands which Christianitymade upon him. At last there came one great struggle,described in a passage from the ‘Confessions’which is given below; and Monica’s hopes andprayers were answered in the conversion of her sonto the faith and obedience of Jesus Christ. OnEaster Day, 387, in the thirty-third year of his life,he was baptized, an unsubstantiated tradition assigningto this occasion the composition and first use of

the Te Deum. His mother died at Ostia asthey were setting out for Africa; and he returnedto his native land, with the hope that he might therelive a life of retirement and of simple Christianobedience. But this might not be: on theoccasion of Augustine’s visit to Hippo in 391,the bishop of that city persuaded him to receive ordinationto the priesthood and to remain with him as an adviser;and four years later he was consecrated as colleagueor coadjutor in the episcopate. Thus he enteredon a busy public life of thirty-five years, whichcalled for the exercise of all his powers as a Christian,a metaphysician, a man of letters, a theologian, anecclesiastic, and an administrator.

Into the details of that life it is impossible toenter here; it must suffice to indicate some of theways in which as a writer he gained and still holdsa high place in Western Christendom, having had aninfluence which can be paralleled, from among uninspiredmen, only by that of Aristotle. He maintainedthe unity of the Church, and its true breadth, againstthe Donatists; he argued, as he so well could argue,against the irreligion of the Manichaeans; when thegreat Pelagian heresy arose, he defended the truthof the doctrine of divine grace as no one could havedone who had not learned by experience its power inthe regeneration and conversion of his own soul; hebrought out from the treasures of Holy Scripture amplelessons of truth and duty, in simple exposition andexhortation; and in full treatises he stated and enforcedthe great doctrines of Christianity.

Augustine was not alone or chiefly the stern theologianwhom men picture to themselves when they are toldthat he was the Calvin of those early days, or whenthey read from his voluminous and often illogical writingsquotations which have a hard sound. If he taughta stern doctrine of predestinarianism, he taught alsothe great power of sacramental grace; if he dweltat times on the awfulness of the divine justice, hespoke also from the depths of his experience of thepower of the divine love; and his influence on theages has been rather that of the ’Confessions’—takingtheir key-note from the words of the first chapter,“Thou, O Lord, hast made us for Thyself, andour heart is unquiet until it find rest in Thee”—thanthat of the writings which have earned for their authorthe foremost place among the Doctors of the WesternChurch. But his greatest work, without any doubt,is the treatise on the ‘City of God.’The Roman empire, as Augustine’s life passedon, was hastening to its end. Moral and politicaldeclension had doubtless been arrested by the goodinfluence which had been brought to bear upon it;but it was impossible to avert its fall. “Men’shearts,” as well among the heathen as amongthe Christians, were “failing them for fearand for looking after those things that were comingon the earth.” And Christianity was calledto meet the argument drawn from the fact that the

visible declension seemed to date from the time whenthe new religion was introduced into the Roman world,and that the most rapid decline had been from thetime when it had been accepted as the religion ofthe State. It fell to the Bishop of Hippo to writein reply one of the greatest works ever written bya Christian. Eloquence and learning, argumentand irony, appeals to history and earnest entreaties,are united to move enemies to acknowledge the truthand to strengthen the faithful in maintaining it.The writer sets over against each other the city ofthe world and the city of God, and in varied ways drawsthe contrast between them; and while mourning overthe ruin that is coming upon the great city that hadbecome a world-empire, he tells of the holy beautyand enduring strength of “the city that haththe foundations.”

Apart from the interest attaching to the great subjectshandled by St. Augustine in his many works, and fromthe literary attractions of writings which unite highmoral earnestness and the use of a cultivated rhetoricalstyle, his works formed a model for Latin theologiansas long as that language continued to be habituallyused by Western scholars; and to-day both the spiritand the style of the great man have a wide influenceon the devotional and the controversial style of writerson sacred subjects.

He died at Hippo, August 28th, 430.

[Illustration: signature]

The selections are from the ‘Library of Niceneand Post-Nicene Fathers,’ by permission of theChristian Literature Company.

THE GODLY SORROW THAT WORKETH REPENTANCE

From the ‘Confessions’

Such was the story of Pontitianus: but thou,O Lord, while he was speaking, didst turn me roundtowards myself, taking me from behind my back, whenI had placed myself, unwilling to observe myself; andsetting me before my face, that I might see how foulI was, how crooked and defiled, bespotted and ulcerous.And I beheld and stood aghast; and whither to fleefrom myself I found not. And if I sought to turnmine eye from off myself, he went on with his relation,and thou didst again set me over against myself, andthrusted me before my eyes, that I might find outmine iniquity and hate it. I had known it, butmade as though I saw it not, winked at it, and forgotit.

But now, the more ardently I loved those whose healthfulaffections I heard of, that they had resigned themselveswholly to thee to be cured, the more did I abhor myselfwhen compared with them. For many of my years(some twelve) had now run out with me since my nineteenth,when, upon the reading of Cicero’s ‘Hortensius,’I was stirred to an earnest love of wisdom; and stillI was deferring to reject mere earthly felicity andto give myself to search out that, whereof not thefinding only, but the very search, was to be preferredto the treasures and kingdoms of the world, though

already found, and to the pleasures of the body, thoughspread around me at my will. But I, wretched,most wretched, in the very beginning of my early youth,had begged chastity of thee, and said, “Giveme chastity and continency, only not yet.”For I feared lest thou shouldest hear me soon, andsoon cure me of the disease of concupiscence, whichI wished to have satisfied, rather than extinguished.And I had wandered through crooked ways in a sacrilegioussuperstition, not indeed assured thereof, but as preferringit to the others which I did not seek religiously,but opposed maliciously.

But when a deep consideration had, from the secretbottom of my soul, drawn together and heaped up allmy misery in the sight of my heart, there arose amighty storm, bringing a mighty shower of tears.And that I might pour it forth wholly in its naturalexpressions, I rose from Alypius: solitude wassuggested to me as fitter for the business of weeping;and I retired so far that even his presence could notbe a burden to me. Thus was it then with me,and he perceived something of it; for something Isuppose he had spoken, wherein the tones of my voiceappeared choked with weeping, and so had risen up.He then remained where we were sitting, most extremelyastonished. I cast myself down I know not how,under a fig-tree, giving full vent to my tears; andthe floods of mine eyes gushed out, an acceptablesacrifice to thee. And, not indeed in these words,yet to this purpose, spake I much unto thee:—“Andthou, O Lord, how long? how long, Lord, wilt thou beangry—forever? Remember not our formeriniquities,” for I felt that I was held by them.I sent up these sorrowful words: “How long?how long? To-morrow and to-morrow? Why notnow? why is there not this hour an end to my uncleanness?”

CONSOLATION

From the ‘Confessions’

So was I speaking, and weeping, in the most bittercontrition of my heart, when lo! I heard froma neighboring house a voice, as of boy or girl (Icould not tell which), chanting and oft repeating,“Take up and read; take up and read.”Instantly my countenance altered, and I began to thinkmost intently whether any were wont in any kind ofplay to sing such words, nor could I remember everto have heard the like. So, checking the torrentof my tears, I arose; interpreting it to be no otherthan a command from God, to open the book and readthe first chapter I should find. Eagerly thenI returned to the place where Alypius was sitting;for there had I laid the volume of the Epistles whenI arose thence. I seized, opened, and in silenceread that section on which my eyes first fell:—“Notin rioting and drunkenness, not in chambering andwantonness, not in strife and envying; but put ye onthe Lord Jesus Christ, and make not provision forthe flesh, to fulfill the lusts thereof.”No further would I read; nor heeded I, for instantlyat the end of this sentence, by a light, as it were,of serenity infused into my heart, all the darknessof doubt vanished away.

PAPYRUS.

Reduced facsimile of a Latin manuscript containingthe

SERMONS OF ST. AUGUSTINE.

Sixth Century. In the National Library at Paris.

A fine specimen of sixth-century writing upon sheetsformed of two thin layers of longitudinal strips ofthe stem or pith of the papyrus plant pressed togetherat right angles to each other.

[Illustration]

Then putting my finger between (or some other mark),I shut the volume, and with a calmed countenance,made it known to Alypius. And what was wroughtin him, which I know not, he thus shewed me. Heasked to see what I had read; I shewed him, and helooked even farther than I had read, and I knew notwhat followed. This followed: “Himthat is weak in the faith, receive ye”; whichhe applied to himself and disclosed to me. Andby this admonition was he strengthened; and by a goodresolution and purpose, and most corresponding tohis character, wherein he did always far differ fromme for the better, without any turbulent delay he joinedme. Thence we go to my mother: we tell her;she rejoiceth: we relate in order how it tookplace; she leapeth for joy, and triumpheth and blesseththee, “who art able to do above all that we askor think”: for she perceived that thouhadst given her more for me than she was wont to begby her pitiful and most sorrowful groanings.

THE FOES OF THE CITY

From ‘The City of God’

Let these and similar answers (if any fuller and fitteranswers can be found) be given to their enemies bythe redeemed family of the Lord Christ, and by thepilgrim city of the King Christ. But let thiscity bear in mind that among her enemies lie hid thosewho are destined to be fellow-citizens, that she maynot think it a fruitless labor to bear what they inflictas enemies, till they become confessors of the faith.So also, as long as she is a stranger in the world,the city of God has in her communion, and bound toher by the sacraments, some who shall not eternallydwell in the lot of the saints. Of these, someare not now recognized; others declare themselves,and do not hesitate to make common cause with ourenemies in murmuring against God, whose sacramentalbadge they wear. These men you may see to-daythronging the churches with us, to-morrow crowdingthe theatres with the godless. But we have theless reason to despair of the reclamation of even suchpersons, if among our most declared enemies there arenow some, unknown to themselves, who are destinedto become our friends. In truth, these two citiesare entangled together in this world, and intermingleduntil the last judgment shall effect their separation.I now proceed to speak, as God shall help me, of therise and progress and end of these two cities; andwhat I write, I write for the glory of the city ofGod, that being placed in comparison with the other,it may shine with a brighter lustre.

THE PRAISE OF GOD

From ‘The City of God’

Wherefore it may very well be, and it is perfectlycredible, that we shall in the future world see thematerial forms of the new heavens and the new earth,in such a way that we shall most distinctly recognizeGod everywhere present, and governing all things,material as well as spiritual; and shall see Him,not as we now understand the invisible things of God,by the things that are made, and see Him darkly asin a mirror and in part, and rather by faith thanby bodily vision of material appearances, but by meansof the bodies which we shall wear and which we shallsee wherever we turn our eyes. As we do not believe,but see, that the living men around us who are exercisingthe functions of life are alive, although we cannotsee their life without their bodies, but see it mostdistinctly by means of their bodies, so, wherever weshall look with the spiritual eyes of our future bodies,we shall also, by means of bodily substances, beholdGod, though a spirit, ruling all things. Either,therefore, the eyes shall possess some quality similarto that of the mind, by which they shall be able todiscern spiritual things, and among them God,—asupposition for which it is difficult or even impossibleto find any support in Scripture,—or whatis more easy to comprehend, God will be so known byus, and so much before us, that we shall see Him bythe spirit in ourselves, in one another, in Himself,in the new heavens and the new earth, in every createdthing that shall then exist; and that also by thebody we shall see Him in every bodily thing whichthe keen vision of the eye of the spiritual body shallreach. Our thoughts also shall be visible to all,for then shall be fulfilled the words of the Apostle,“Judge nothing before the time, until the Lordcome, who both will bring to light the hidden thingsof darkness, and will make manifest the counsels ofthe hearts; and then shall every man have praise ofGod.” How great shall be that felicity,which shall be tainted with no evil, which shall lackno good, and which shall afford leisure for the praisesof God, who shall be all in all! For I know notwhat other employment there can be where no wearinessshall slacken activity, nor any want stimulate to labor.I am admonished also by the sacred song, in whichI read or hear the words, “Blessed are theythat dwell in Thy house; they will be alway praisingThee.”

A PRAYER

From ‘The Trinity’

O Lord our God, directing my purpose by the rule offaith, so far as I have been able, so far as Thouhast made me able, I have sought Thee, and have desiredto see with my understanding what I have believed;and I have argued and labored much. O Lord myGod, my only hope, hearken to me, lest through wearinessI be unwilling to seek Thee, but that I may alwaysardently seek Thy face. Do Thou give me strength

to seek, who hast led me to find Thee, and hast giventhe hope of finding Thee more and more. My strengthand my weakness are in Thy sight; preserve my strengthand heal my weakness. My knowledge and my ignoranceare in Thy sight; when Thou hast opened to me, receiveme as I enter; when Thou hast closed, open to me asI knock. May I remember Thee, understand Thee,love Thee. Increase these things in me, untilThou renew me wholly. But oh, that I might speakonly in preaching Thy word and in praising Thee.But many are my thoughts, such as Thou knowest, “thoughtsof man, that are vain.” Let them not soprevail in me, that anything in my acts should proceedfrom them; but at least that my judgment and my consciencebe safe from them under Thy protection. When thewise man spake of Thee in his book, which is now calledby the special name of Ecclesiasticus, “We speak,”he says, “much, and yet come short; and in sumof words, He is all.” When therefore weshall have come to Thee, these very many things thatwe speak, and yet come short, shall cease; and Thou,as One, shalt remain “all in all.”And we shall say one thing without end, in praisingThee as One, ourselves also made one in Thee.O Lord, the one God, God the Trinity, whatever I havesaid in these books that is of Thine, may they acknowledgewho are Thine; if I have said anything of my own,may it be pardoned both by Thee and by those who areThine. Amen.

The three immediately preceding citations,from ’A Select Library of the Nicene andPost-Nicene Fathers of the Christian Church,First Series,’ are reprinted by permission ofthe Christian Literature Company, New York.

MARCUS AURELIUS ANTONINUS

(121-180 A.D.)

BY JAMES FRASER GLUCK

Marcus Aurelius, one of the most illustrious emperorsof Rome, and, according to Canon Farrar, “thenoblest of pagan emperors”, was born at RomeApril 20th, A.D. 121, and died at Vindobona—themodern Vienna—March 17th, A.D. 180, inthe twentieth year of his reign and the fifty-ninthyear of his age.

His right to an honored place in literature dependsupon a small volume written in Greek, and usuallycalled ’The Meditations of Marcus Aurelius.’The work consists of mere memoranda, notes, disconnectedreflections and confessions, and also of excerpts fromthe Emperor’s favorite authors. It wasevidently a mere private diary or note-book writtenin great haste, which readily accounts for its repetitions,its occasional obscurity, and its frequently ellipticalstyle of expression. In its pages the Emperorgives his aspirations, and his sorrow for his inabilityto realize them in his daily life; he expresses histentative opinions concerning the problems of creation,life, and death; his reflections upon the deceitfulnessof riches, pomp, and power, and his conviction ofthe vanity of all things except the performance of

duty. The work contains what has been calledby a distinguished scholar “the common creedof wise men, from which all other views may well seemmere deflections on the side of an unwarranted credulityor of an exaggerated despair.” From thepomp and circumstance of state surrounding him, fromthe manifold cares of his exalted rank, from the tumultof protracted wars, the Emperor retired into the pagesof this book as into the sanctuary of his soul, andthere found in sane and rational reflection the peacethat the world could not give and could never takeaway. The tone and temper of the work is uniqueamong books of its class. It is sweet yet dignified,courageous yet resigned, philosophical and speculative,yet above all, intensely practical.

Through all the ages from the time when the EmperorDiocletian prescribed a distinct ritual for Aureliusas one of the gods; from the time when the monks ofthe Middle Ages treasured the ‘Meditations’as carefully as they kept their manuscripts of theGospels, the work has been recognized as the preciouslife-blood of a master spirit. An adequate Englishtranslation would constitute to-day a most valuablevade mecum of devotional feeling and of religiousinspiration. It would prove a strong moral tonicto hundreds of minds now sinking into agnosticismor materialism.

[Illustration: MARCUS AURELIUS]

The distinguished French writer M. Martha observesthat in the ‘Meditations of Marcus Aurelius’“we find a pure serenity, sweetness, and docilityto the commands of God, which before him were unknown,and which Christian grace has alone surpassed.One cannot read the book without thinking of the sadnessof Pascal and the gentleness of Fenelon. We mustpause before this soul, so lofty and so pure, to contemplateancient virtue in its softest brilliancy, to see themoral delicacy to which profane doctrines have attained.”

Those in the past who have found solace in its pageshave not been limited to any one country, creed, orcondition in life. The distinguished CardinalFrancis Barberini the elder occupied his last yearsin translating the ‘Meditations’ into Italian;so that, as he said, “the thoughts of the piouspagan might quicken the faith of the faithful.”He dedicated the work to his own soul, so that it “mightblush deeper than the scarlet of the cardinal robeas it looked upon the nobility of the pagan.”The venerable and learned English scholar Thomas Gataker,of the religious faith of Cromwell and Milton, spentthe last years of his life in translating the workinto Latin as the noblest preparation for death.The book was the constant companion of Captain JohnSmith, the discoverer of Virginia, who found in it“sweet refreshment in his seasons of despondency.”Jean Paul Richter speaks of it as a vital help in“the deepest floods of adversity.”The French translator Pierron says that it exaltedhis soul into a serene region, above all petty cares

and rivalries. Montesquieu declares, in speakingof Marcus Aurelius, “He produces such an effectupon our minds that we think better of ourselves,because he inspires us with a better opinion of mankind.”The great German historian Niebuhr says of the Emperor,as revealed in this work, “I know of no otherman who combined such unaffected kindness, mildness,and humility with such conscientiousness and severitytoward himself.” Renan declares the bookto be “a veritable gospel. It will nevergrow old, for it asserts no dogma. Though sciencewere to destroy God and the soul, the ‘Meditationsof Marcus Aurelius’ would remain forever youngand immortally true.” The eminent Englishcritic Matthew Arnold was found on the morning afterthe death of his eldest son engaged in the perusalof his favorite Marcus Aurelius, wherein alone hefound comfort and consolation.

The ‘Meditations of Marcus Aurelius’ embracenot only moral reflections; they include, as beforeremarked, speculations upon the origin and evolutionof the universe and of man. They rest upon a philosophy.This philosophy is that of the Stoic school as broadlydistinguished from the Epicurean. Stoicism, atall times, inculcated the supreme virtues of moderationand resignation; the subjugation of corporeal desires;the faithful performance of duty; indifference toone’s own pain and suffering, and the disregardof material luxuries. With these principles therewas, originally, in the Stoic philosophy conjoineda considerable body of logic, cosmogony, and paradox.But in Marcus Aurelius these doctrines no longer stainthe pure current of eternal truth which ever flowedthrough the history of Stoicism. It still speculatedabout the immortality of the soul and the governmentof the universe by a supernatural Intelligence, buton these subjects proposed no dogma and offered nofinal authoritative solution. It did not forbidman to hope for a future life, but it emphasized theduties of the present life. On purely rationalgrounds it sought to show men that they should alwayslive nobly and heroicly, and how best to do so.It recognized the significance of death, and attemptedto teach how men could meet it under any and all circumstanceswith perfect equanimity.

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Marcus Aurelius was descended from an illustriousline which tradition declared extended to the goodNuma, the second King of Rome. In the descendantMarcus were certainly to be found, with a great incrementof many centuries of noble life, all the virtues ofhis illustrious ancestor. Doubtless the cruelpersecutions of the infamous Emperors who precededHadrian account for the fact that the ancestors ofAurelius left the imperial city and found safety inHispania Baetica, where in a town called Succubo—notfar from the present city of Cordova—theEmperor’s great-grandfather, Annius Verus, wasborn. From Spain also came the family of theEmperor Hadrian, who was an intimate friend of AnniusVerus. The death of the father of Marcus Aureliuswhen the lad was of tender years led to his adoptionby his grandfather and subsequently by Antoninus Pius.By Antoninus he was subsequently named as joint heirto the Imperial dignity with Commodus, the son of AeliusCaesar, who had previously been adopted by Hadrian.

From his earliest youth Marcus was distinguished forhis sincerity and truthfulness. His was a docileand a serious nature. “Hadrian’s badand sinful habits left him,” says Niebuhr, “whenhe gazed on the sweetness of that innocent child.Punning on the boy’s paternal name of Verus,he called him Verissimus, ‘the mosttrue.’” Among the many statues of Marcusextant is one representing him at the tender age ofeight years offering sacrifice. He was even thena priest of Mars. It was the hand of Marcus alonethat threw the crown so carefully and skillfully thatit invariably alighted upon the head of the statueof the god. The entire ritual he knew by heart.The great Emperor Antoninus Pius lived in the mostsimple and unostentatious manner; yet even this didnot satisfy the exacting, lofty spirit of Marcus.At twelve years of age he began to practice all theausterities of Stoicism. He became a veritableascetic. He ate most sparingly; slept little,and when he did so it was upon a bed of boards.Only the repeated entreaties of his mother inducedhim to spread a few skins upon his couch. Hishealth was seriously affected for a time; and it was,perhaps, to this extreme privation that his subsequentfeebleness was largely due. His education wasof the highest order of excellence. His tutors,like Nero’s, were the most distinguished teachersof the age; but unlike Nero, the lad was in everyway worthy of his instructors. His letters tohis dearly beloved teacher Fronto are still extant,and in a very striking and charming way they illustratethe extreme simplicity of life in the imperial householdin the villa of Antoninus Pius at Lorium by the sea.They also indicate the lad’s deep devotion tohis studies and the sincerity of his love for hisrelatives and friends.

When his predecessor and adoptive father Antoninusfelt the approach of death, he gave to the tribunewho asked him for the watchword for the night thereply “Equanimity,” directed that the goldenstatue of Fortune that always stood in the Emperor’schamber be transferred to that of Marcus Aurelius,and then turned his face and passed away as peacefullyas if he had fallen asleep. The watchword of thefather became the life-word of the son, who pronouncedupon that father in the ‘Meditations’one of the noblest eulogies ever written. “Weshould,” says Renan, “have known nothingof Antoninus if Marcus Aurelius had not handed downto us that exquisite portrait of his adopted father,in which he seems, by reason of humility, to haveapplied himself to paint an image superior to whathe himself was. Antoninus resembled a Christwho would not have had an evangel; Marcus Aureliusa Christ who would have written his own.”

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It would be impossible here to detail even brieflyall the manifold public services rendered by MarcusAurelius to the Empire during his reign of twentyyears. Among his good works were these: theestablishment, upon eternal foundation, of the noblefabric of the Civil Law—the prototype andbasis of Justinian’s task; the founding of schoolsfor the education of poor children; the endowment ofhospitals and homes for orphans of both sexes; thecreation of trust companies to receive and distributelegacies and endowments; the just government of theprovinces; the complete reform of the system of collectingtaxes; the abolition of the cruelty of the criminallaws and the mitigation of sentences unnecessarilysevere; the regulation of gladiatorial exhibitions;the diminution of the absolute power possessed by fathersover their children and of masters over their slaves;the admission of women to equal rights to successionto property from their children; the rigid suppressionof spies and informers; and the adoption of the principlethat merit, as distinguished from rank or politicalfriendship, alone justified promotion in the publicservice.

But the greatest reform was the reform in the ImperialDignity itself, as exemplified in the life and characterof the Emperor. It is this fact which gives tothe ‘Meditations’ their distinctive value.The infinite charm, the tenderness and sweetness oftheir moral teachings, and their broad humanity, arechiefly noteworthy because the Emperor himself practicedin his daily life the principles of which he speaks,and because tenderness and sweetness, patience andpity, suffused his daily conduct and permeated hisactions. The horrible cruelties of the reignsof Nero and Domitian seemed only awful dreams underthe benignant rule of Marcus Aurelius.

It is not surprising that the deification of a deceasedemperor, usually regarded by Senate and people asa hollow mockery, became a veritable fact upon thedeath of Marcus Aurelius. He was not regardedin any sense as mortal. All men said he had butreturned to his heavenly place among the immortalgods. As his body passed, in the pomp of an imperialfuneral, to its last resting-place, the tomb of Hadrian,—themodern Castle of St. Angelo at Rome,—thousandsinvoked the divine blessing of Antoninus. Hismemory was sacredly cherished. His portrait waspreserved as an inspiration in innumerable homes.His statue was almost universally given an honoredplace among the household gods. And all thiscontinued during successive generations of men.

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Marcus Aurelius has been censured for two acts:the first, the massacre of the Christians which tookplace during his reign; the second, the selectionof his son Commodus as his successor. Of the massacreof the Christians it may be said, that when the conditionssurrounding the Emperor are once properly understood,no just cause for condemnation of his course remains.A prejudice against the sect was doubtless acquiredby him through the teachings of his dearly belovedinstructor and friend Fronto. In the writingsof the revered Epictetus he found severe condemnationof the Christians as fanatics. Stoicism enjoinedupon men obedience to the law, endurance of evil conditions,and patience under misfortunes. The Christiansopenly defied the laws; they struck the images ofthe gods, they scoffed at the established religionand its ministers. They welcomed death; theyinvited it. To Marcus Aurelius, as he says inhis ‘Meditations,’ death had no terrors.The wise man stood, like the trained soldier, readyto be called into action, ready to depart from lifewhen the Supreme Ruler called him; but it was also,according to the Stoic, no less the duty of a man toremain until he was called, and it certainly was nothis duty to invite destruction by abuse of all otherreligions and by contempt for the distinctive deitiesof the Roman faith. The Roman State was tolerantof all religions so long as they were tolerant ofothers. Christianity was intolerant of all otherreligions; it condemned them all. In persecutingwhat he regarded as a “pernicious sect”the Emperor regarded himself only as the conservatorof the peace and the welfare of the realm. Thetruth is, that Marcus Aurelius enacted no new lawson the subject of the Christians. He even lessenedthe dangers to which they were exposed. On thissubject one of the Fathers of the Church, Tertullian,bears witness. He says in his address to theRoman officials:—“Consult your annals,and you will find that the princes who have been cruelto us are those whom it was held an honor to haveas persecutors. On the contrary, of all princeswho have known human and Divine law, name one of themwho has persecuted the Christians. We might evencite one of them who declared himself their protector,—thewise Marcus Aurelius. If he did not openly revokethe edicts against our brethren, he destroyed theeffect of them by the severe penalties he institutedagainst their accusers.” This statementwould seem to dispose effectually of the charge ofcruel persecution brought so often against the kindlyand tender-hearted Emperor.

Of the appointment of Commodus as his successor, itmay be said that the paternal heart hoped againsthope for filial excellence. Marcus Aurelius believed,as clearly appears from many passages in the ‘Meditations,’that men did not do evil willingly but through ignorance;and that when the exceeding beauty of goodness hadbeen fully disclosed to them, the depravity of evilconduct would appear no less clearly. The Emperorwho, when the head of his rebellious general was broughtto him, grieved because that general had not livedto be forgiven; the ruler who burned unread all treasonablecorrespondence, would not, nay, could not believein the existence of such an inhuman monster as Commodusproved himself to be. The appointment of Commoduswas a calamity of the most terrific character; butit testifies in trumpet tones to the nobility of theEmperor’s heart, the sincerity of his own beliefin the triumph of right and justice.

The volume of the ‘Meditations’ is thebest mirror of the Emperor’s soul. Thereinwill be found expressed delicately but unmistakablymuch of the sorrow that darkened his life. Asthe book proceeds the shadows deepen, and in the latterportion his loneliness is painfully apparent.Yet he never lost hope or faith, or failed for onemoment in his duty as a man, a philosopher, and anEmperor. In the deadly marshes and in the greatforests which stretched beside the Danube, in his mortalsickness, in the long nights when weakness and painrendered sleep impossible, it is not difficult toimagine him in his tent, writing, by the light ofhis solitary lamp, the immortal thoughts which alonesoothed his soul; thoughts which have out-lived thecenturies—not perhaps wholly by chance—toreveal to men in nations then unborn, on continentswhose very existence was then unknown, the Godlikequalities of one of the noblest of the sons of men.

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The best literal translation of the work into Englishthus far made is that of George Long. It is publishedby Little, Brown & Co. of Boston. A most admirablework, ‘The Life of Marcus Aurelius,’ byPaul Barron Watson, published by Harper & Brothers,New York, will repay careful reading. Other generalworks to be consulted are as follows:—’SeekersAfter God,’ by Rev. F.W. Farrar, Macmillan& Co. (1890); and ’Classical Essays,’by F.W.H. Myers, Macmillan & Co. (1888).Both of these contain excellent articles upon theEmperor. Consult also Renan’s ’Historyof the Origins of Christianity,’ Book vii.,Marcus Aurelius, translation published by Mathieson& Co. (London, 1896); ‘Essay on Marcus Aurelius’by Matthew Arnold, in his ‘Essays in Criticism,’Macmillan & Co. Further information may alsobe had in Montesquieu’s ‘Decadence of theRomans,’ Sismondi’s ‘Fall of theRoman Empire,’ and Gibbon’s ’Declineand Fall of the Roman Empire.’

[Illustration: Signature: James F. Gluck]

EXCERPTS FROM THE ‘MEDITATIONS’

THE BROTHERHOOD OF MAN

Begin thy morning with these thoughts: I shallmeet the meddler, the ingrate, the scorner, the hypocrite,the envious man, the cynic. These men are suchbecause they know not to discern the difference betweengood and evil. But I know that Goodness is Beautyand that Evil is Loathsomeness: I know that thereal nature of the evil-doer is akin to mine, notonly physically but in a unity of intelligence andin participation in the Divine Nature. ThereforeI know that I cannot be harmed by such persons, norcan they thrust upon me what is base. I know,too, that I should not be angry with my kinsmen norhate them, because we are all made to work togetherfitly like the feet, the hands, the eyelids, the rowsof the upper and the lower teeth. To be at strifeone with another is therefore contrary to our realnature; and to be angry with one another, to despiseone another, is to be at strife one with another.(Book ii,Sec. I.)

Fashion thyself to the circumstances of thy lot.The men whom Fate hath made thy comrades here, love;and love them in sincerity and in truth. (Bookvi., Sec. 39.)

This is distinctive of men,—to love thosewho do wrong. And this thou shalt do if thouforget not that they are thy kinsmen, and that theydo wrong through ignorance and not through design;that ere long thou and they will be dead; and morethan all, that the evil-doer hath really done theeno evil, since he hath left thy conscience unharmed.(Book viii., Sec.22.)

THE SUPREME NOBILITY OF DUTY

As A Roman and as a man, strive steadfastly everymoment to do thy duty, with dignity, sincerity, andloving-kindness, freely and justly, and freed fromall disquieting thought concerning any other thing.And from such thought thou wilt be free if every actbe done as though it were thy last, putting away fromthee slothfulness, all loathing to do what Reasonbids thee, all dissimulation, selfishness, and discontentwith thine appointed lot. Behold, then, how feware the things needful for a life which will flowonward like a quiet stream, blessed even as the lifeof the gods. For he who so lives, fulfills theirwill. (Book ii., Sec.5.)

So long as thou art doing thy duty, heed not warmthnor cold, drowsiness nor wakefulness, life, nor impendingdeath; nay, even in the very act of death, which isindeed only one of the acts of life, it suffices todo well what then remains to be done. (Book vi., Sec.2.)

I strive to do my duty; to all other considerationsI am indifferent, whether they be material thingsor unreasoning and ignorant people. (Book vi.,Sec.22.)

THE FUTURE LIFE. IMMORTALITY

This very moment thou mayest die. Think, act,as if this were now to befall thee. Yet fearnot death. If there are gods they will do theeno evil. If there are not gods, or if they carenot for the welfare of men, why should I care to livein a Universe that is devoid of Divine beings or ofany providential care? But, verily, there areDivine beings, and they do concern themselves withthe welfare of men; and they have given unto him allpower not to fall into any real evil. If, indeed,what men call misfortunes were really evils, thenfrom these things also, man would have been giventhe power to free himself. But—thousayest—are not death, dishonor, pain, reallyevils? Reflect that if they were, it is incrediblethat the Ruler of the Universe has, through ignorance,overlooked these things, or has not had the power orthe skill to prevent them; and that thereby what isreal evil befalls good and bad alike. For trueit is that life and death, honor and dishonor, painand pleasure, come impartially to the good and tothe bad. But none of these things can affectour lives if they do not affect our true selves.Now our real selves they do not affect either forbetter or for worse; and therefore such things arenot really good or evil. (Book ii., Sec.11.)

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If our spirits live, how does Space suffice for allduring all the ages? Well, how does the earthcontain the bodies of those who have been buried thereinduring all the ages? In the latter case, thedecomposition and—after a certain period—thedispersion of the bodies already buried, affords roomfor other bodies; so, in the former case, the soulswhich pass into Space, after a certain period are purgedof their grosser elements and become ethereal, andglow with the glory of flame as they meet and minglewith the Creative Energy of the world. And therebythere is room for other souls which in their turn passinto Space. This, then, is the explanation thatmay be given, if souls continue to exist at all.

Moreover, in thinking of all the bodies which theearth contains, we must have in mind not only thebodies which are buried therein, but also the vastnumber of animals which are the daily food of ourselvesand also of the entire animal creation itself.Yet these, too, Space contains; for on the one handthey are changed into blood which becomes part ofthe bodies that are buried in the earth, and on theother hand these are changed into the ultimate elementsof fire or air. (Book iv., Sec.21.)

I am spirit and body: neither will pass intonothingness, since neither came therefrom; and thereforeevery part of me, though changed in form, will continueto be a part of the Universe, and that part will changeinto another part, and so on through all the ages.And therefore, through such changes I myself exist;and, in like manner, those who preceded me and thosewho will follow me will exist forever,—aconclusion equally true though the Universe itselfbe dissipated at prescribed cycles of time. (Bookv., Sec. 13.)

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How can it be that the gods, who have clothed theUniverse with such beauty and ordered all things withsuch loving-kindness for the welfare of man, haveneglected this alone, that the best men—themen who walked as it were with the Divine Being, andwho, by their acts of righteousness and by their reverentservice, dwelt ever in his presence—shouldnever live again when once they have died? Ifthis be really true, then be satisfied that it isbest that it should be so, else it would have beenotherwise ordained. For whatever is right andjust is possible; and therefore, if it were in accordwith the will of the Divine Being that we should liveafter death—so it would have been.But because it is otherwise,—if indeed itbe otherwise,—rest thou satisfied thatthis also is just and right.

Moreover, is it not manifest to thee that in inquiringso curiously concerning these things, thou art questioningGod himself as to what is right, and that this thouwouldst not do didst thou not believe in his supremegoodness and wisdom? Therefore, since in thesewe believe, we may also believe that in the governmentof the Universe nothing that is right and just hasbeen overlooked or forgotten. (Book xii., Sec. 5.)

THE UNIVERSAL BEAUTY OF THE WORLD

To him who hath a true insight into the real natureof the Universe, every change in everything thereinthat is a part thereof seems appropriate and delightful.The bread that is over-baked so that it cracks andbursts asunder hath not the form desired by the baker;yet none the less it hath a beauty of its own, andis most tempting to the palate. Figs burstingin their ripeness, olives near even unto decay, haveyet in their broken ripeness a distinctive beauty.Shocks of corn bending down in their fullness, thelion’s mane, the wild boar’s mouth allflecked with foam, and many other things of the samekind, though perhaps not pleasing in and of themselves,yet as necessary parts of the Universe created bythe Divine Being they add to the beauty of the Universe,and inspire a feeling of pleasure. So that ifa man hath appreciation of and an insight into thepurpose of the Universe, there is scarcely a portionthereof that will not to him in a sense seem adaptedto give delight. In this sense the open jaws ofwild beasts will appear no less pleasing than theirprototypes in the realm of art. Even in old menand women he will be able to perceive a distinctivematurity and seemliness, while the winsome bloom ofyouth he can contemplate with eyes free from lasciviousdesire. And in like manner it will be with verymany things which to every one may not seem pleasing,but which will certainly rejoice the man who is atrue student of Nature and her works. (Book iii.,Sec. 2.)

THE GOOD MAN

In the mind of him who is pure and good will be foundneither corruption nor defilement nor any malignanttaint. Unlike the actor who leaves the stagebefore his part is played, the life of such a man iscomplete whenever death may come. He is neithercowardly nor presuming; not enslaved to life nor indifferentto its duties; and in him is found nothing worthyof condemnation nor that which putteth to shame. (Bookiii., Sec. 8.)

Test by a trial how excellent is the life of the goodman;—the man who rejoices at the portiongiven him in the universal lot and abides therein,content; just in all his ways and kindly minded towardall men. (Book iv., Sec. 25.)

This is moral perfection: to live each day asthough it were the last; to be tranquil, sincere,yet not indifferent to one’s fate. (Book vii.,Sec. 69.)

THE BREVITY OF LIFE

Cast from thee all other things and hold fast to afew precepts such as these: forget not that everyman’s real life is but the present moment,—anindivisible point of time,—and that allthe rest of his life hath either passed away or isuncertain. Short, then, the time that any manmay live; and small the earthly niche wherein he hathhis home; and short is longest fame,—awhisper passed from race to race of dying men, ignorantconcerning themselves, and much less really knowingthee, who died so long ago. (Book iii., Sec. 10.)

VANITY OF LIFE

Many are the doctors who have knit their brows overtheir patients and now are dead themselves; many arethe astrologers who in their day esteemed themselvesrenowned in foretelling the death of others, yet nowthey too are dead. Many are the philosophers whohave held countless discussions upon death and immortality,and yet themselves have shared the common lot; manythe valiant warriors who have slain their thousandsand yet have themselves been slain by Death; many arethe rulers and the kings of the earth, who, in theirarrogance, have exercised over others the power oflife or death as though they were themselves beyondthe hazard of Fate, and yet themselves have, in theirturn, felt Death’s remorseless power. Nay,even great cities—Helice, Pompeii, Herculaneum—have,so to speak, died utterly. Recall, one by one,the names of thy friends who have died; how many ofthese, having closed the eyes of their kinsmen, havein a brief time been buried also. To conclude:keep ever before thee the brevity and vanity of humanlife and all that is therein; for man is conceivedto-day, and to-morrow will be a mummy or ashes.Pass, therefore, this moment of life in accord withthe will of Nature, and depart in peace: evenas does the olive, which in its season, fully ripe,drops to the ground, blessing its mother, the earth,which bore it, and giving thanks to the tree whichput it forth. (Book iv., Sec. 48.)

A simple yet potent help to enable one to despiseDeath is to recall those who, in their greed for life,tarried the longest here. Wherein had they reallymore than those who were cut off untimely in theirbloom? Together, at last, somewhere, they allrepose in death. Cadicianus, Fabius, Julianus,Lepidus, or any like them, who bore forth so manyto the tomb, were, in their turn, borne thither also.Their longer span was but trivial! Think too,of the cares thereof, of the people with whom it waspassed, of the infirmities of the flesh! Allvanity! Think of the infinite deeps of Time inthe past, of the infinite depths to be! And inthat vast profound of Time, what difference is therebetween a life of three centuries and the three days’life of a little child! (Book iv., Sec. 50.)

* * * * *

Think of the Universe of matter!—an atomthou! Think of the eternity of Time—thypredestined time but a moment! Reflect upon thegreat plan of Fate—how trivial this destinyof thine! (Book v., Sec. 24.)

* * * * *

All things are enveloped in such darkness that theyhave seemed utterly incomprehensible to those whohave led the philosophic life—and thosetoo not a few in number, nor of ill-repute. Nay,even to the Stoics the course of affairs seems anenigma. Indeed, every conclusion reached seemstentative; for where is the man to be found who doesnot change his conclusions? Think too of thethings men most desire,—riches, reputation,and the like,—and consider how ephemeralthey are, how vain! A vile wretch, a common strumpet,or a thief, may possess them. Then think of thehabits and manners of those about thee—howdifficult it is to endure the least offensive of suchpeople—nay how difficult, most of all,it is to endure one’s self!

Amidst such darkness, then, and such unworthiness,amidst this eternal change, with all temporal thingsand even Time itself passing away, with all thingsmoving in eternal motion, I cannot imagine what, inall this, is worthy of a man’s esteem or seriouseffort. (Book v., Sec. 10.)

DEATH

To cease from bodily activity, to end all effortsof will and of thought, to stop all these forever,is no evil. For do but contemplate thine ownlife as a child, a growing lad, a youth, an old man:the change to each of these periods was the deathof the period which preceded it. Why then fearthe death of all these—the death of thyself?Think too of thy life under the care of thy grandfather,then of thy life under the care of thy mother, thenunder the care of thy father, and so on with everychange that hath occurred in thy life, and then askthyself concerning any change that hath yet to be,Is there anything to fear? And then shall allfear, even of the great change,—the changeof death itself,—vanish and flee away.(Book ix., Sec.21.)

FAME

Contemplate men as from some lofty height. Howinnumerable seem the swarms of men! How infinitetheir pomps and ceremonies! How they wander toand fro upon the deep in fair weather and in storm!How varied their fate in their births, in their lives,in their deaths! Think of the lives of thosewho lived long ago, of those who shall follow thee,of those who now live in uncivilized lands who havenot even heard of thy name, and, of those who haveheard it, how many will soon forget it; of how manythere are who now praise thee who will soon malignthee,—and thence conclude the vanity offame, glory, reputation. (Book ix., Sec.30.)

PRAYER

The gods are all-powerful or they are not. Ifthey are not, why pray to them at all? If theyare, why dost thou not pray to them to remove fromthee all desire and all fear, rather than to ask fromthem the things thou longest for, or the removal ofthose things of which thou art in fear? For ifthe gods can aid men at all, surely they will grantthis request. Wilt thou say that the removalof all fear and of all desire is within thine ownpower? If so, is it not better, then, to use thestrength the gods have given, rather than in a servileand fawning way to long for those things which ourwill cannot obtain? And who hath said to theethat the gods will not strengthen thy will?I say unto thee, begin to pray that this may cometo pass, and thou shalt see what shall befall thee.One man prays that he may enjoy a certain woman:let thy prayer be to not have even the desire so todo. Another man prays that he may not be forcedto do his duty: let thy prayer be that thou mayestnot even desire to be relieved of its performance.Another man prays that he may not lose his belovedson: let thy prayer be that even the fear oflosing him may be taken away. Let these be thyprayers, and thou shalt see what good will befallthee. (Book ix., Sec.41.)

FAITH

The Universe is either a chaos or a fortuitous aggregationand dispersion of atoms; or else it is builded inorder and harmony and ruled by Wisdom. If thenit is the former, why should one wish to tarry ina hap-hazard disordered mass? Why should I beconcerned except to know how soon I may cease to be?Why should I be disquieted concerning what I do, sincewhatever I may do, the elements of which I am composedwill at last, at last be scattered? But if thelatter thought be true, then I reverence the DivineOne; I trust; I possess my soul in peace. (Bookvi., Sec. 10.)

PAIN

If pain cannot be borne, we die. If it continuea long time it becomes endurable; and the mind, retiringinto itself, can keep its own tranquillity and thetrue self be still unharmed. If the body feelthe pain, let the body make its moan. (Book vii.,Sec.30.)

LOVE AND FORGIVENESS FOR THE EVIL-DOER

If it be in thy power, teach men to do better.If not, remember it is always in thy power to forgive.The gods are so merciful to those who err, that forsome purposes they grant their aid to such men byconferring upon them health, riches, and honor.What prevents thee from doing likewise? (Book ix.,Sec.11.)

ETERNAL CHANGE THE LAW OF THE UNIVERSE

Think, often, of how swiftly all things pass awayand are no more—the works of Nature andthe works of man. The substance of the Universe—matter—islike unto a river that flows on forever. All thingsare not only in a constant state of change, but theyare the cause of constant and infinite change in otherthings. Upon a narrow ledge thou standest!Behind thee, the bottomless abyss of the Past!In front of thee, the Future that will swallow upall things that now are! Over what things, then,in this present life, wilt thou, O foolish man, bedisquieted or exalted—making thyself wretched;seeing that they can vex thee only for a time—abrief, brief time! (Book v., Sec.23.)

THE PERFECT LIBERTY OF THE GOOD MAN

Peradventure men may curse thee, torture thee, killthee; yet can all these things not prevent thee fromkeeping at all times thy thoughts pure, considerate,sober, and just. If one should stand beside alimpid stream and cease not to revile it, would thespring stop pouring forth its refreshing waters?Nay, if such an one should even cast into the streammud and mire, would not the stream quickly scatterit, and so bear it away that not even a trace wouldremain? How then wilt thou be able to have withinthee not a mere well that may fail thee, but a fountainthat shall never cease to flow? By wonting thyselfevery moment to independence in judgment, joined togetherwith serenity of thought and simplicity in act andbearing. (Book viii., Sec.51.)

THE HARMONY AND UNITY OF THE UNIVERSE

O divine Spirit of the Universe, Thy will, Thy wishis mine! Calmly I wait Thy appointed times, whichcannot come too early or too late! Thy providencesare all fruitful to me! Thou art the source, Thouart the stay, Thou art the end of all things.The poet says of his native city, “Dear cityof Cecrops”; and shall I not say of the Universe,“Beloved City of God”? (Book iv., Sec.23.)

Either there is a predestined order in the Universe,or else it is mere aggregation, fortuitous yet notwithout a certain kind of order. For how withinthyself can a certain system exist and yet the entireUniverse be chaos? And especially when in theUniverse all things, though separate and divided,yet work together in unity? (Book iv., Sec.27.)

Think always of the Universe as one living organism,composed of one material substance and one soul.Observe how all things are the product of a singleconception—the conception of a living organism.Observe how one force is the cause of the motion ofall things: that all existing things are theconcurrent causes of all that is to be—theeternal warp and woof of the ever-weaving web of existence.(Book iv., Sec.40.)

THE CONDUCT OF LIFE

Country houses, retreats in the mountains or by thesea—these things men seek out for themselves;and often thou, too, dost most eagerly desire suchthings. But this does but betoken the greatestignorance; for thou art able, when thou desirest,to retreat into thyself. No otherwhere can aman find a retreat more quiet and free from care thanin his own soul; and most of all, when he hath suchrules of conduct that if faithfully remembered, theywill give to him perfect equanimity,—forequanimity is naught else than a mind harmoniouslydisciplined. Cease not then to betake thyselfto this retreat, there to refresh thyself. Letthy rules of conduct be few and well settled; so thatwhen thou hast thought thereon, straightway they willsuffice to thoroughly purify the soul that possessesthem, and to send thee back, restless no more, tothe things to the which thou must return. Withwhat indeed art thou disquieted? With the wickednessof men? Meditate on the thought that men do notdo evil of set purpose. Remember also how manyin the past, who, after living in enmity, suspicion,hatred, and strife one with another, now lie pronein death and are but ashes. Fret then no more.But perhaps thou art troubled concerning the portiondecreed to thee in the Universe? Remember thisalternative: either there is a Providence orsimply matter! Recall all the proofs that theworld is, as it were, a city or a commonwealth!But perhaps the desires of the body still tormentthee? Forget not, then, that the mind, when consciousof its real self, when self-reliant, shares not theagitations of the body, be they great or small.Recall too all thou hast learned (and now holdestas true) concerning pleasure and pain. But perhapswhat men call Fame allures thee? Behold how quicklyall things are forgotten! Before us, after us,the formless Void of endless ages! How vain ishuman praise! How fickle and undiscriminatingthose who seem to praise! How limited the sphereof the greatest fame! For the whole earth is buta point in space, thy dwelling-place a tiny nook therein.How few are those who dwell therein, and what mannerof men are those who will praise thee!

Therefore, forget not to retire into thine own littlecountry place,—thyself. Above all,be not diverted from thy course. Be serene, befree, contemplate all things as a man, as a lover ofhis kind, and of his country—yet withalas a being born to die. Have readiest to thyhand, above all others, these two thoughts: one,that things cannot touch the soul; the other,that things are perpetually changing and ceasing tobe. Remember how many of these changes thou thyselfhast seen! The Universe is change. But asthy thoughts are, so thy life shall be. (Book iv.,Sec.3.)

* * * * *

All things that befall thee should seem to thee asnatural as roses in spring or fruits in autumn:such things, I mean, as disease, death, slander, dissimulation,and all other things which give pleasure or pain tofoolish men. (Book iv., Sec.44.)

* * * * *

Be thou like a lofty headland. Endlessly againstit dash the waves; yet it stands unshaken, and lullsto rest the fury of the sea. (Book iv., Sec.49.)

* * * * *

“Unhappy me upon whom this misfortune hath fallen!”—nay,rather thou shouldst say, “Fortunate I, thathaving met with such a misfortune, I am able to endureit without complaining; in the present not dismayed,in the future dreading no evil. Such a misadventuremight have befallen a man who could not, perchance,have endured it without grievous suffering.”Why then shouldst thou call anything that befallsthee a misfortune, and not the rather a blessing?Is that a “misfortune,” in all cases,which does not defeat the purpose of man’s nature?and does that defeat man’s nature which hisWill can accept? And what that Willcan accept, thou knowest. Can this misadventure,then, prevent thy Will from being just, magnanimous,temperate, circumspect, free from rashness or error,considerate, independent? Can it prevent thy Willfrom being, in short, all that becomes a man?Remember, then, should anything befall thee whichmight cause thee to complain, to fortify thyself withthis truth: this is not a misfortune, while toendure it nobly is a blessing. (Book iv., Sec.49.)

* * * * *

Be not annoyed or dismayed or despondent if thou artnot able to do all things in accord with the rulesof right conduct. When thou hast not succeeded,renew thy efforts, and be serene if, in most things,thy conduct is such as becomes a man. Love andpursue the philosophic life. Seek Philosophy,not as thy taskmaster but to find a medicine for allthy ills, as thou wouldst seek balm for thine eyes,a bandage for a sprain, a lotion for a fever.So it shall come to pass that the voice of Reasonshall guide thee and bring to thee rest and peace.Remember, too, that Philosophy enjoins only such thingsas are in accord with thy better nature. Thetrouble is, that in thy heart thou prefer-rest thosethings which are not in accord with thy better nature.For thou sayest, “What can be more delightfulthan these things?” But is not the word “delightful”in this sense misleading? Are not magnanimity,broad-mindedness, sincerity, equanimity, and a reverentspirit more “delightful”? Indeed,what is more “delightful” than Wisdom,if so be thou wilt but reflect upon the strength andcontentment of mind and the happiness of life thatspring from the exercise of the powers of thy reasonand thine intelligence? (Book v., Sec.9.)

* * * * *

As are thy wonted thoughts, so is thy mind; and thesoul is tinged by the coloring of the mind. Letthen thy mind be constantly suffused with such thoughtsas these: Where it is possible for a man to live,there he can live nobly. But suppose he mustlive in a palace? Be it so; even there he canlive nobly. (Book v., Sec.16.)

* * * * *

Live with the gods! And he so lives who at alltimes makes it manifest that he is content with hispredestined lot, fulfilling the entire will of theindwelling spirit given to man by the Divine Ruler,and which is in truth nothing else than the Understanding—theReason of man. (Book v., Sec.27.)

Seek the solitude of thy spirit. This is thelaw of the indwelling Reason—to be self-contentand to abide in peace when what is right and justhath been done. (Book vii., Sec. 28.)

* * * * *

Let thine eyes follow the stars in their courses asthough their movements were thine own. Meditateon the eternal transformation of Matter. Suchthoughts purge the mind of earthly passion and desire.(Book vii., Sec. 45.)

* * * * *

Search thou thy heart! Therein is the fountainof good! Do thou but dig, and abundantly thestream shall gush forth. (Book vii., Sec. 59.)

* * * * *

Be not unmindful of the graces of life. Let thybody be stalwart, yet not ungainly either in motionor in repose. Let not thy face alone, but thywhole body, make manifest the alertness of thy mind.Yet let all this be without affectation. (Book vii.,Sec. 60.)

* * * * *

Thy breath is part of the all-encircling air, andis one with it. Let thy mind be part, no less,of that Supreme Mind comprehending all things.For verily, to him who is willing to be inspired thereby,the Supreme Mind flows through all things and permeatesall things as truly as the air exists for him whowill but breathe. (Book viii., Sec. 54.)

* * * * *

Men are created that they may live for each other.Teach them to be better or bear with them as theyare. (Book viii., Sec. 59.)

* * * * *

Write no more, Antoninus, about what a good man isor what he ought to do. Be a good man. (Bookx., Sec. 16.)

* * * * *

Look steadfastly at any created thing. See! itis changing, melting into corruption, and ready tobe dissolved. In its essential nature, it wasborn but to die. (Book x., Sec. 18.)

Co-workers are we all, toward one result. Some,consciously and of set purpose; others, unwittinglyeven as men who sleep,—of whom Heraclitus(I think it is he) says they also are co-workers inthe events of the Universe. In diverse fashionalso men work; and abundantly, too, work the fault-findersand the hinderers,—for even of such as thesethe Universe hath need. It rests then with theeto determine with what workers thou wilt place thyself;for He who governs all things will without failureplace thee at thy proper task, and will welcome theeto some station among those who work and act together.(Book vi., Sec.42.)

* * * * *

Unconstrained and in supreme joyousness of soul thoumayest live though all men revile thee as they list,and though wild beasts rend in pieces the unworthygarment—thy body. For what preventsthee, in the midst of all this, from keeping thyselfin profound calm, with a true judgment of thy surroundingsand a helpful knowledge of the things that are seen?So that the Judgment may say to whatever presentsitself, “In truth this is what thou really art,howsoever thou appearest to men;” and thy Knowledgemay say to whatsoever may come beneath its vision,“Thee I sought; for whatever presents itselfto me is fit material for nobility in personal thoughtand public conduct; in short, for skill in work forman or for God.” For all things which befallus are related to God or to man, and are not new tous or hard to work upon, but familiar and serviceable.(Book vii., Sec.68.)

* * * * *

When thou art annoyed at some one’s impudence,straightway ask thyself, “Is it possible thatthere should be no impudent men in the world?”It is impossible. Ask not then the impossible.For such an one is but one of these impudent personswho needs must be in the world. Keep before theelike conclusions also concerning the rascal, the untrustworthyone, and all evil-doers. Then, when it is quiteclear to thy mind that such men must needs exist,thou shalt be the more forgiving toward each one oftheir number. This also will aid thee to observe,whensoever occasion comes, what power for good, Naturehath given to man to frustrate such viciousness.She hath bestowed upon man Patience as an antidoteto the stupid man, and against another man some otherpower for good. Besides, it is wholly in thineown power to teach new things to the one who hatherred, for every one who errs hath but missed the appointedpath and wandered away. Reflect, and thou wiltdiscover that no one of these with whom thou art annoyedhath done aught to debase thy mind, and thatis the only real evil that can befall thee.

Moreover, wherein is it wicked or surprising thatthe ignorant man should act ignorantly? Is notthe error really thine own in not foreseeing thatsuch an one would do as he did? If thou hadstbut taken thought thou wouldst have known he wouldbe prone to err, and it is only because thou hastforgotten to use thy Reason that thou art surprisedat his deed. Above all, when thou condemnestanother as untruthful, examine thyself closely; forupon thee rests the blame, in that thou dost trustto such an one to keep his promise. If thou didstbestow upon him thy bounty, thine is the blame notto have given it freely, and without expectation ofgood to thee, save the doing of the act itself.What more dost thou wish than to do good to man?Doth not this suffice,—that thou hast donewhat conforms to thy true nature? Must thou thenhave a reward, as though the eyes demanded pay forseeing or the feet for walking? For even as theseare formed for such work, and by co-operating in theirdistinctive duty come into their own, even so man (byhis real nature disposed to do good), when he hathdone some good deed, or in any other way furtheredthe Commonweal, acts according to his own nature,and in so doing hath all that is truly his own. (Bookix., Sec.42.)

O Man, thou hast been a citizen of this great State,the Universe! What matters what thy prescribedtime hath been, five years or three? What thelaw prescribes is just to every one.

Why complain, then, if thou art sent away from theState, not by a tyrant or an unjust judge, but byNature who led thee thither,—even as themanager excuses from the stage an actor whom he hathemployed?

“But I have played three acts only?”

True. But in the drama of thy life three actsconclude the play. For what its conclusion shallbe, He determines who created it and now ends it;and with either of these thou hast naught to do.Depart thou, then, well pleased; for He who dismissesthee is well pleased also. (Book xii., Sec.36.)

Be not disquieted lest, in the days to come, somemisadventure befall thee. The Reason which nowsufficeth thee will then be with thee, should therebe the need. (Book vii., Sec.8.)

* * * * *

To the wise man the dictates of Reason seem the instinctsof Nature. (Book vii., Sec.11)

* * * * *

My true self—the philosophic mind—hathbut one dread: the dread lest I do somethingunworthy of a man, or that I may act in an unseemlyway or at an improper time. (Book vii., Sec.20.)

* * * * *

Accept with joy the Fate that befalls thee. Thineit is and not another’s. What then couldbe better for thee? (Book vii., Sec.57)

* * * * *

See to it that thou art humane to those who are nothumane. (Book vii., Sec.65.)

* * * * *

He who does not act, often commits as greata wrong as he who acts. (Book ix., Sec.5.)

* * * * *

The wrong that another has done—let alone!Add not to it thine own. (Book ix., Sec.20.)

* * * * *

How powerful is man! He is able to do all thatGod wishes him to do. He is able to accept allthat God sends upon him. (Book xii., Sec.11.)

* * * * *

A lamp sends forth its light until it is completelyextinguished. Shall Truth and Justice and Equanimitysuffer abatement in thee until all are extinguishedin death? (Book xii., Sec.15.)

JANE AUSTEN

(1775-1817)

The biography of one of the greatest English novelistsmight be written in a dozen lines, so simple, so tranquil,so fortunate was her life. Jane Austen, the seconddaughter of an English clergyman, was born at Steventon,in Hampshire, in 1775. Her father had been knownat Oxford as “the handsome proctor,” andall his children inherited good looks. He wasaccomplished enough to fit his boys for the University,and the atmosphere of the household was that of culture,

good breeding, and healthy fun. Mrs. Austen wasa clever woman, full of epigram and humor in conversation,and rather famous in her own coterie for improvisedverses and satirical hits at her friends. Theelder daughter, Cassandra, adored by Jane, who wasthree years her junior, seems to have had a rare balanceand common-sense which exercised great influence overthe more brilliant younger sister. Their motherdeclared that of the two girls, Cassandra had themerit of having her temper always under her control;and Jane the happiness of a temper that never requiredto be commanded.

[Illustration: JANE AUSTEN]

From her cradle, Jane Austen was used to hearing agreeablehousehold talk, and the freest personal criticismon the men and women who made up her small, secludedworld. The family circumstances were easy, andthe family friendliness unlimited,—conditionsdetermining, perhaps, the cheerful tone, the unexcitingcourse, the sly fun and good-fellowship of her stories.

It was in this Steventon rectory, in the family roomwhere the boys might be building their toy boats,or the parish poor folk complaining to “passon’smadam,” or the county ladies paying visits ofceremony, in monstrous muffs, heelless slippers lacedover open-worked silk stockings, short flounced skirts,and lutestring pelisses trimmed with “Irish,”or where tradesmen might be explaining their delinquencies,or farmers’ wives growing voluble over foxesand young chickens—it was in the midstof this busy and noisy publicity, where nobody respectedher employment, and where she was interrupted twentytimes in an hour, that the shrewd and smiling socialcritic managed, before she was twenty-one, to writeher famous ‘Pride and Prejudice.’Here too ’Sense and Sensibility’ was finishedin 1797, and ‘Northanger Abbey’ in 1798.The first of these, submitted to a London publisher,was declined as unavailable, by return of post.The second, the gay and mocking ‘NorthangerAbbey,’ was sold to a Bath bookseller for L10,and several years later bought back again, still unpublished,by one of Miss Austen’s brothers. For thethird story she seems not even to have sought a publisher.These three books, all written before she was twenty-five,were evidently the employment and delight of her leisure.The serious business of life was that which occupiedother pretty girls of her time and her social position,—dressing,dancing, flirting, learning a new stitch at the embroideryframe, or a new air on “the instrument”;while all the time she was observing, with those softhazel eyes of hers, what honest Nym calls the “humors”of the world about her. In 1801, the family removedto Bath, then the most fashionable watering-place inEngland. The gay life of the brilliant littlecity, the etiquette of the Pump Room and the Assemblies,regulated by the autocratic Beau Nash, the drives,the routs, the card parties, the toilets, the shops,the Parade, the general frivolity, pretension, anddisplay of the eighteenth century Vanity Fair, hadalready been studied by the good-natured satirist onoccasional visits, and already immortalized in theswiftly changing comedy scenes of ‘NorthangerAbbey.’ But they tickled her fancy nonethe less, now that she lived among them, and she madeuse of them again in her later novel, ‘Persuasion.’

For a period of eight years, spent in Bath and inSouthampton, Miss Austen wrote nothing save some fragmentsof ‘Lady Susan’ and ’The Watsons,’neither of them of great importance. In 1809 thelessened household, composed of the mother and hertwo daughters only, removed to the village of Chawton,on the estate of Mrs. Austen’s third son; andhere, in a rustic cottage, now become a place of pilgrimage,Jane Austen again took up her pen. She rewrote‘Pride and Prejudice.’ She revised‘Sense and Sensibility,’ and between February1811 and August 1816 she completed ‘MansfieldPark,’ ‘Emma,’ and ‘Persuasion.’At Chawton, as at Steventon, she had no study, andher stories were written on a little mahogany desknear a window in the family sitting-room, where shemust often have been interrupted by the prototypesof her Mrs. Allen, Mrs. Bennet, Miss Bates, Mr. Collins,or Mrs. Norris. When at last she began to publish,her stories appeared in rapid succession: ’Senseand Sensibility’ in 1811; ‘Pride and Prejudice’early in 1813; ’Mansfield Park’ in 1814;‘Emma’ in 1816; ‘Northanger Abbey’and ‘Persuasion’ in 1818, the year followingher death. In January 1813 she wrote to her belovedCassandra:—“I want to tell you thatI have got my own darling child ‘Pride and Prejudice’from London. We fairly set at it and read halfthe first volume to Miss B. She was amused, poor soul!... but she really does seem to admire Elizabeth.I must confess that I think her as delightfula creature as ever appeared in print, and how I shallbe able to tolerate those who do not like herat least, I do not know.” A month latershe wrote:—“Upon the whole, however,I am quite vain enough, and well satisfied enough.The work is rather too light, and bright, and sparkling:it wants shade; it wants to be stretched out hereand there with a long chapter of sense, if it couldbe had; if not, of solemn, specious nonsense, aboutsomething unconnected with the story; an essay onwriting, a critique on Walter Scott, or the historyof Bonaparte, or something that would form a contrast,and bring the reader with increased delight to theplayfulness and epigrammatism of the general style!”

Thus she who laughed at everybody else laughed atherself, and set her critical instinct to estimateher own capacity. To Mr. Clarke, the librarianof Carlton House, who had requested her to “delineatea clergyman” of earnestness, enthusiasm, andlearning, she replied:—“I am quitehonored by your thinking me capable of drawing sucha clergyman as you gave the sketch of in your note.But I assure you I am not. The comic part ofthe character I might be equal to, but not the good,the enthusiastic, the literary.... I think Imay boast myself to be, with all possible vanity,the most unlearned and uninformed female who everdared to be an authoress.” And when thesame remarkable bibliophile suggested to her, on theapproach of the marriage of the Princess Charlotte

with Prince Leopold, that “an historical romance,illustrative of the august House of Coburg, wouldjust now be very interesting,” she answered:—“Iam fully sensible that an historical romance, foundedon the House of Saxe-Coburg, might be much more tothe purpose of profit or popularity than such picturesof domestic life in country villages as I deal in.But I could no more write a romance than an epic poem.I could not sit seriously down to write a seriousromance under any other motive than to save my life;and if it were indispensable to keep it up, and neverrelax into laughing at myself or at other people, Iam sure that I should be hung before I had finishedthe first chapter. No! I must keep to myown style, and go on in my own way: and thoughI may never succeed again in that, I am convincedthat I shall totally fail in any other.”And again she writes: “What shall Ido with your ’strong, manly, vigorous sketches,full of variety and glow’? How could I possiblyjoin them on to the little bit (two inches wide) ofivory on which I work with so fine a brush as produceslittle effect, after much labor?”

Miss Austen read very little. She “detestedquartos.” Richardson, Johnson, Crabbe,and Cowper seem to have been the only authors for whomshe had an appreciation. She would sometimes say,in jest, that “if ever she married at all, shecould fancy being Mrs. Crabbe!” But her bentof original composition, her amazing power of observation,her inexhaustible sense of humor, her absorbing interestin what she saw about her, were so strong that sheneeded no reinforcement of culture. It was nomore in her power than it was in Wordsworth’sto “gather a posy of other men’s thoughts.”

During her lifetime she had not a single literaryfriend. Other women novelists possessed theirsponsors and devotees. Miss Ferrier was the delightof a brilliant Edinboro’ coterie. Miss Edgeworthwas feasted and flattered, not only in England, buton the Continent; Miss Burney counted Johnson, Burke,Garrick, Windham, Sheridan, among the admiring friendswho assured her that no flight in fiction or the dramawas beyond her powers. But the creator of ElizabethBennet, of Emma, and of Mr. Collins, never met anauthor of eminence, received no encouragement to writeexcept that of her own family, heard no literary talk,and obtained in her lifetime but the slightest literaryrecognition. It was long after her death thatWalter Scott wrote in his journal:—“Readagain, and for the third time at least, Miss Austen’sfinely written novel of Pride and Prejudice.That young lady had a talent for describing the involvementsand feelings and characters of ordinary life whichis to me the most wonderful I ever met with. TheBig Bow-wow strain I can do myself, like any now going;but the exquisite touch which renders commonplacethings and characters interesting from the truth ofthe description and the sentiment is denied to me.”

It was still later that Macaulay made his famous estimateof her genius:—“Shakespeare has neitherequal nor second; but among those who, in the pointwe have noticed (the delineation of character), approachednearest the great master, we have no hesitation inplacing Jane Austen as a woman of whom England mayjustly be proud. She has given us a multitudeof characters, all, in a certain sense, commonplace,all such as we meet every day. Yet they are allas perfectly discriminated from each other as if theywere the most eccentric of human beings.... Andall this is done by touches so delicate that they eludeanalysis, that they defy the powers of description,and that we know them to exist only by the generaleffect to which they have contributed.”And a new generation had almost forgotten her namebefore the exacting Lewes wrote:—“Tomake our meaning precise, we would say that Fieldingand Jane Austen are the greatest novelists in theEnglish language.... We would rather have written‘Pride and Prejudice’ or ‘Tom Jones,’than any of the Waverley novels.... The greatnessof Miss Austen (her marvelous dramatic power) seemsmore than anything in Scott akin to Shakespeare.”

The six novels which have made so great a reputationfor their author relate the least sensational of historiesin the least sensational way. ‘Sense andSensibility’ might be called a novel with a purpose,that purpose being to portray the dangerous hastewith which sentiment degenerates into sentimentality;and because of its purpose, the story discloses aless excellent art than its fellows. ‘Prideand Prejudice’ finds its motive in the crasspride of birth and place that characterize the reallygenerous and high-minded hero, Darcy, and the fierceresentment of his claims to love and respect on thepart of the clever, high-tempered, and chivalrousheroine, Elizabeth Bennet. ’NorthangerAbbey’ is a laughing skit at the school of Mrs.Radcliffe; ‘Persuasion,’ a simple storyof upper middle-class society, of which the most charmingof her charming girls, Anne Elliot, is the heroine;‘Mansfield Park’ a new and fun-lovingversion of ‘Cinderella’; and finally ’Emma,’—thefavorite with most readers, concerning which Miss Austensaid, “I am going to take a heroine whom noone but myself will much like,”—thehistory of the blunders of a bright, kind-hearted,and really clever girl, who contrives as much discomfortfor her friends as stupidity or ill-nature could devise.

Numberless as are the novelist’s characters,no two clergymen, no two British matrons, no two fussyspinsters, no two men of fashion, no two heavy fathers,no two smart young ladies, no two heroines, are alike.And this variety results from the absolute fidelityof each character to the law of its own development,each one growing from within and not being simplydescribed from without. Nor are the circumstanceswhich she permits herself to use less genuine thanher people. What surrounds them is what one mustexpect; what happens to them is seen to be inevitable.

The low and quiet key in which her “situations”are pitched produces one artistic gain which countervailsits own loss of immediate intensity: the leasttouch of color shows strongly against that subduedbackground. A very slight catastrophe among thoseorderly scenes of peaceful life has more effect thanthe noisier incidents and contrived convulsions ofmore melodramatic novels. Thus, in ‘MansfieldPark’ the result of private theatricals, includingmany rehearsals of stage love-making, among a groupof young people who show no very strong principlesor firmness of character, appears in a couple of elopementswhich break up a family, occasion a pitiable scandal,and spoil the career of an able, generous, and highlypromising young man. To most novelists an incidentof this sort would seem too ineffective: in herhands it strikes us as what in fact it is—atragic misfortune and the ruin of two lives.

In a word, it is life which Miss Austen sees withunerring vision and draws with unerring touch; sothat above all other writers of English fiction sheseems entitled to the tribute which an Athenian criticgave to an earlier and more famous realist,—

“O life!O Menander!
Which of you two isthe plagiarist?”

AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE

From ‘Pride and Prejudice’

The next day opened a new scene at Longbourn.Mr. Collins made his declaration in form. Havingresolved to do it without loss of time, as his leaveof absence extended only to the following Saturday,and having no feelings of diffidence to make it distressingto himself even at the moment, he set about it ina very orderly manner, with all the observances whichhe supposed a regular part of the business. Onfinding Mrs. Bennet, Elizabeth, and one of the youngergirls together, soon after breakfast, he addressedthe mother in these words:—

“May I hope, madam, for your interest with yourfair daughter Elizabeth, when I solicit for the honorof a private audience with her in the course of thismorning?”

Before Elizabeth had time for anything but a blushof surprise, Mrs. Bennet instantly answered:“Oh, dear. Yes; certainly. I am sureLizzy will be very happy—I am sure shecan have no objection. Come, Kitty, I want youupstairs.” And, gathering her work together,she was hastening away, when Elizabeth called out:—

“Dear ma’am, do not go. I beg youwill not go. Mr. Collins must excuse me.He can have nothing to say to me that anybody neednot hear. I am going away myself.”

“No, no; nonsense, Lizzy. I desire youwill stay where you are.” And upon Elizabeth’sseeming really, with vexed and embarrassed looks, aboutto escape, she added, “Lizzy, I insistupon your staying and hearing Mr. Collins.”

Elizabeth would not oppose such an injunction; anda moment’s consideration making her also sensiblethat it would be wisest to get it over as soon andas quietly as possible, she sat down again, and triedto conceal by incessant employment the feelings whichwere divided between distress and diversion.Mrs. Bennet and Kitty walked off; and as soon as theywere gone, Mr. Collins began:—

“Believe me, my dear Miss Elizabeth, that yourmodesty, so far from doing you any disservice, ratheradds to your other perfections. You would havebeen less amiable in my eyes had there not beenthis little unwillingness; but allow me to assureyou that I have your respected mother’s permissionfor this address. You can hardly doubt the purportof my discourse, however your natural delicacy maylead you to dissemble: my attentions have beentoo marked to be mistaken. Almost as soon asI entered the house I singled you out as the companionof my future life. But before I am run away withby my feelings on this subject, perhaps it will beadvisable for me to state my reasons for marrying—andmoreover, for coming into Hertfordshire with the designof selecting a wife, as I certainly did.”

The idea of Mr. Collins, with all his solemn composure,being run away with by his feelings, made Elizabethso near laughing that she could not use the shortpause he allowed in any attempt to stop him further,and he continued:—

“My reasons for marrying are, first, that Ithink it a right thing for every clergyman in easycircumstances (like myself) to set the example ofmatrimony in his parish; secondly, that I am convincedit will add very greatly to my happiness; and thirdly,—whichperhaps I ought to have mentioned earlier,—thatit is the particular advice and recommendation ofthe very noble lady whom I have the honor of callingpatroness. Twice has she condescended to giveme her opinion (unasked, too!) on this subject; andit was but the very Saturday night before I left Hunsford—betweenour pools at quadrille, while Mrs. Jenkinson was arrangingMiss de Bourgh’s footstool—that shesaid, ’Mr. Collins, you must marry. A clergymanlike you must marry. Choose properly, choose agentlewoman, for my sake; and for your own,let her be an active, useful sort of person, not broughtup high, but able to make a small income go a goodway. This is my advice. Find such a womanas soon as you can, bring her to Hunsford, and I willvisit her!’ Allow me, by the way, to observe,my fair cousin, that I do not reckon the notice andkindness of Lady Catherine de Bourgh as among the leastof the advantages in my power to offer. You willfind her manners beyond anything I can describe; andyour wit and vivacity, I think, must be acceptableto her, especially when tempered with the silence andrespect which her rank will inevitably excite.Thus much for my general intention in favor of matrimony;it remains to be told why my views are directed toLongbourn instead of my own neighborhood, where, Iassure you, there are many amiable young women.But the fact is, that being, as I am, to inherit thisestate after the death of your honored father (who,however, may live many years longer), I could not satisfymyself without resolving to choose a wife from amonghis daughters, that the loss to them might be as littleas possible, when the melancholy event takes place,—which,

however, as I have already said, may not be for severalyears. This has been my motive, my fair cousin,and I flatter myself it will not sink me in your esteem.And now, nothing remains for me but to assure you,in the most animated language, of the violence ofmy affection. To fortune I am perfectly indifferent,and shall make no demand of that nature on your father,since I am well aware that it could not be compliedwith; and that one thousand pounds in the four percents., which will not be yours till after your mother’sdecease, is all that you may ever be entitled to.On that head, therefore, I shall be uniformly silent;and you may assure yourself that no ungenerous reproachshall ever pass my lips when we are married.”

It was absolutely necessary to interrupt him now.

“You are too hasty, sir,” she cried.“You forget that I have made no answer.Let me do it without further loss of time. Acceptmy thanks for the compliment you are paying me.I am very sensible of the honor of your proposals,but it is impossible for me to do otherwise than declinethem.”

“I am not now to learn,” replied Mr. Collins,with a formal wave of the hand, “that it isusual with young ladies to reject the addresses ofthe man whom they secretly mean to accept, when hefirst applies for their favor; and that sometimesthe refusal is repeated a second, or even a thirdtime. I am therefore by no means discouraged bywhat you have just said, and shall hope to lead youto the altar ere long.”

“Upon my word, sir,” cried Elizabeth,“your hope is rather an extraordinary one, aftermy declaration. I do assure you that I am notone of those young ladies (if such young ladies thereare) who are so daring as to risk their happinesson the chance of being asked a second time. Iam perfectly serious in my refusal. You couldnot make me happy, and I am convinced thatI am the last woman in the world who would make youso. Nay, were your friend Lady Catherine to knowme, I am persuaded she would find me in every respectill qualified for the situation.”

“Were it certain that Lady Catherine would thinkso,” said Mr. Collins, very gravely—“butI cannot imagine that her ladyship would at all disapproveof you. And you may be certain that when I havethe honor of seeing her again, I shall speak in thehighest terms of your modesty, economy, and otheramiable qualifications.”

“Indeed, Mr. Collins, all praise of me willbe unnecessary. You must give me leave to judgefor myself, and pay me the compliment of believingwhat I say. I wish you very happy and very rich,and by refusing your hand do all in my power to preventyour being otherwise. In making me the offer,you must have satisfied the delicacy of your feelingswith regard to my family, and may take possession ofLongbourn estate whenever it falls, without any self-reproach.This matter may be considered, therefore, as finallysettled.” And rising as she thus spoke,she would have quitted the room had not Mr. Collinsthus addressed her:—

“When I do myself the honor of speaking to younext on the subject, I shall hope to receive a morefavorable answer than you have now given me:though I am far from accusing you of cruelty at present,because I know it to be the established custom ofyour sex to reject a man on the first application;and perhaps you have even now said as much to encouragemy suit as would be consistent with the true delicacyof the female character.”

“Really, Mr. Collins,” cried Elizabeth,with some warmth, “you puzzle me exceedingly.If what I have hitherto said can appear to you in theform of encouragement, I know not how to express myrefusal in such a way as may convince you of its beingone.”

“You must give me leave to flatter myself, mydear cousin, that your refusal of my addresses ismerely a thing of course. My reasons for believingit are briefly these:—It does not appearto me that my hand is unworthy your acceptance, orthat the establishment I can offer would be any otherthan highly desirable. My situation in life, myconnections with the family of De Bourgh, and my relationshipto your own, are circumstances highly in my favor;and you should take it into further considerationthat, in spite of your manifold attractions, it isby no means certain that another offer of marriagemay ever be made you. Your portion is unhappilyso small that it will in all likelihood undo the effectsof your loveliness and amiable qualifications.As I must therefore conclude that you are not seriousin your rejection of me, I shall choose to attributeit to your wish of increasing my love by suspense,according to the usual practice of elegant females.”

“I do assure you, sir, that I have no pretensionswhatever to that kind of elegance which consists intormenting a respectable man. I would ratherbe paid the compliment of being believed sincere.I thank you again and again for the honor you havedone me in your proposals, but to accept them is absolutelyimpossible. My feelings in every respect forbidit. Can I speak plainer? Do not considerme now as an elegant female intending to plague you,but as a rational creature speaking the truth fromher heart.”

“You are uniformly charming!” cried he,with an air of awkward gallantry; “and I ampersuaded that when sanctioned by the express authorityof both your excellent parents, my proposals will notfail of being acceptable.”

To such perseverance in willful self-deception Elizabethwould make no reply, and immediately and in silencewithdrew; determined, if he persisted in consideringher repeated refusals as flattering encouragement,to apply to her father, whose negative might be utteredin such a manner as must be decisive, and whose behaviorat least could not be mistaken for the affectationand coquetry of an elegant female.

MOTHER AND DAUGHTER

From ‘Pride and Prejudice’

[Lydia Bennet has eloped with the worthless rake Wickham,who has no intention of marrying her.]

Mrs. Bennet, to whose apartment they all repaired,after a few minutes’ conversation together,received them exactly as might be expected: withtears and lamentations of regret, invectives againstthe villainous conduct of Wickham, and complaintsof her own suffering and ill-usage;—blamingeverybody but the person to whose ill-judging indulgencethe errors of her daughter must be principally owing.

“If I had been able,” said she, “tocarry my point in going to Brighton with all my family,this would not have happened; but poor, dearLydia had nobody to take care of her. Why didthe Forsters ever let her go out of their sight?I am sure there was some great neglect or other ontheir side, for she is not the kind of girl to dosuch a thing, if she had been well looked after.I always thought they were very unfit to have thecharge of her; but I was overruled, as I always am.Poor, dear child! And now here’s Mr. Bennetgone away, and I know he will fight Wickham, whereverhe meets him, and then he will be killed, and whatis to become of us all? The Collinses will turnus out, before he is cold in his grave; and if youare not kind to us, brother, I do not know what weshall do.”

They all exclaimed against such terrific ideas; andMr. Gardiner, after general assurances of his affectionfor her and all her family, told her that he meantto be in London the very next day, and would assistMr. Bennet in every endeavor for recovering Lydia.

“Do not give way to useless alarm,” addedhe: “though it is right to be preparedfor the worst, there is no occasion to look on it ascertain. It is not quite a week since they leftBrighton. In a few days more, we may gain somenews of them; and till we know that they are not married,and have no design of marrying, do not let us givethe matter over as lost. As soon as I get totown, I shall go to my brother, and make him comehome with me, to Grace-church-street, and then we mayconsult together as to what is to be done.”

“Oh! my dear brother,” replied Mrs. Bennet,“that is exactly what I could most wish for.And now do, when you get to town, find them out, whereverthey may be; and if they are not married already, makethem marry. And as for wedding clothes, do notlet them wait for that, but tell Lydia she shall haveas much money as she chooses to buy them, after theyare married. And above all things, keep Mr. Bennetfrom fighting. Tell him what a dreadful stateI am in—that I am frightened out of mywits; and have such tremblings, such flutterings, allover me, such spasms in my side, and pains in my head,and such beatings at heart, that I can get no restby night nor by day. And tell my dear Lydia notto give any directions about her clothes till she hasseen me, for she does not know which are the bestwarehouses. Oh! brother, how kind you are!I know you will contrive it all.”

But Mr. Gardiner, though he assured her again of hisearnest endeavors in the cause, could not avoid recommendingmoderation to her, as well in her hopes as her fears;and after talking with her in this manner till dinnerwas on the table, they left her to vent all her feelingson the housekeeper, who attended, in the absence ofher daughters.

Though her brother and sister were persuaded thatthere was no real occasion for such a seclusion fromthe family, they did not attempt to oppose it, forthey knew that she had not prudence enough to holdher tongue before the servants, while they waitedat table, and judged it better that one only of thehousehold, and the one whom they could most trust,should comprehend all her fears and solicitude on thesubject.

In the dining-room they were soon joined by Mary andKitty, who had been too busily engaged in their separateapartments to make their appearance before. Onecame from her books, and the other from her toilette.The faces of both, however, were tolerably calm; andno change was visible in either, except that the lossof her favorite sister, or the anger which she hadherself incurred in the business, had given somethingmore of fretfulness than usual to the accents of Kitty.As for Mary, she was mistress enough of herself towhisper to Elizabeth, with a countenance of gravereflection, soon after they were seated at table:—

“This is a most unfortunate affair; and willprobably be much talked of. But we must stemthe tide of malice, and pour into the wounded bosomsof each other the balm of sisterly consolation.”

Then, perceiving in Elizabeth no inclination of replying,she added, “Unhappy as the event must be forLydia, we may draw from it this useful lesson:that loss of virtue in a female is irretrievable—thatone false step involves her in endless ruin—thather reputation is no less brittle than it is beautiful—andthat she cannot be too much guarded in her behaviortowards the undeserving of the other sex.”

Elizabeth lifted up her eyes in amazement, but wastoo much oppressed to make any reply.

A LETTER OF CONDOLENCE

From ‘Pride and Prejudice’

MR. COLLINS TO MR. BENNET, ON HIS DAUGHTER’S ELOPEMENT WITH A RAKE

My Dear Sir:

I feel myself called upon, by our relationship andmy situation in life, to condole with you on the grievousaffliction you are now suffering under, of which wewere yesterday informed by letter from Hertfordshire.Be assured, my dear sir, that Mrs. Collins and myselfsincerely sympathize with you, and all your respectablefamily, in your present distress, which must be ofthe bitterest kind, because proceeding from a causewhich no time can remove. No arguments shall bewanting, on my part, that can alleviate so severea misfortune; or that may comfort you under a circumstance

that must be of all others most afflicting to a parent’smind. The death of your daughter would have beena blessing in comparison of this. And it is themore to be lamented because there is reason to suppose,as my dear Charlotte informs me, that this licentiousnessof behavior in your daughter has proceeded from a faultydegree of indulgence; though at the same time, forthe consolation of yourself and Mrs. Bennet, I aminclined to think that her own disposition must benaturally bad, or she could not be guilty of such anenormity at so early an age. Howsoever that maybe, you are grievously to be pitied, in which opinionI am not only joined by Mrs. Collins, but likewiseby Lady Catherine and her daughter, to whom I haverelated the affair. They agree with me in apprehendingthat this false step in one daughter will be injuriousto the fortunes of all the others; for who, as LadyCatherine herself condescendingly says, will connectthemselves with such a family? And this considerationleads me, moreover, to reflect with augmented satisfactionon a certain event of last November; for had it beenotherwise, I must have been involved in all your sorrowsand disgrace. Let me advise you, then, my dearsir, to console yourself as much as possible, to throwoff your unworthy child from your affection forever,and leave her to reap the fruits of her own heinousoffense.

I am, dear sir, etc., etc.

A WELL-MATCHED SISTER AND BROTHER

From ‘Northanger Abbey’

“My dearest Catherine, have you settled whatto wear on your head to-night? I am determined,at all events, to be dressed exactly like you.The men take notice of that sometimes, you know.”

“But it does not signify if they do,”said Catherine, very innocently.

“Signify! oh, heavens! I make it a rulenever to mind what they say. They are very oftenamazingly impertinent, if you do not treat them withspirit, and make them keep their distance.”

“Are they? Well I never observed that.They always behave very well to me.”

“Oh! they give themselves such airs. Theyare the most conceited creatures in the world, andthink themselves of so much importance! By theby, though I have thought of it a hundred times, Ihave always forgot to ask you what is your favoritecomplexion in a man. Do you like them best darkor fair?”

“I hardly know. I never much thought aboutit. Something between both, I think—brown:not fair, and not very dark.”

“Very well, Catherine. That is exactlyhe. I have not forgot your description of Mr.Tilney: ’a brown skin, with dark eyes, andrather dark hair.’ Well, my taste is different.I prefer light eyes; and as to complexion, do youknow, I like a sallow better than any other. Youmust not betray me, if you should ever meet with oneof your acquaintance answering that description.”

“Betray you! What do you mean?”

“Nay, do not distress me. I believe I havesaid too much. Let us drop the subject.”

Catherine, in some amazement, complied; and afterremaining a few moments silent, was on the point ofreverting to what interested her at that time rathermore than anything else in the world, Laurentina’sskeleton, when her friend prevented her by saying,“For Heaven’s sake! let us move away fromthis end of the room. Do you know, there are twoodious young men who have been staring at me this half-hour.They really put me quite out of countenance.Let us go and look at the arrivals. They willhardly follow us there.”

Away they walked to the book; and while Isabella examinedthe names, it was Catherine’s employment towatch the proceedings of these alarming young men.

“They are not coming this way, are they?I hope they are not so impertinent as to follow us.Pray let me know if they are coming. I am determinedI will not look up.”

In a few moments Catherine, with unaffected pleasure,assured her that she need not be longer uneasy, asthe gentlemen had just left the Pump-room.

“And which way are they gone?” said Isabella,turning hastily round. “One was a verygood-looking young man.”

“They went towards the churchyard.”

“Well, I am amazingly glad I have got rid ofthem! And now what say you to going to Edgar’sBuildings with me, and looking at my new hat?You said you should like to see it.”

Catherine readily agreed. “Only,”she added, “perhaps we may overtake the twoyoung men.”

“Oh! never mind that. If we make haste,we shall pass by them presently, and I am dying toshow you my hat.”

“But if we only wait a few minutes, there willbe no danger of our seeing them at all.”

“I shall not pay them any such compliment, Iassure you. I have no notion of treating menwith such respect. That is the way to spoilthem.”

Catherine had nothing to oppose against such reasoning;and therefore, to show the independence of Miss Thorpe,and her resolution of humbling the sex, they set offimmediately, as fast as they could walk, in pursuitof the two young men.

Half a minute conducted them through the Pump-yardto the archway, opposite Union Passage; but here theywere stopped. Everybody acquainted with Bathmay remember the difficulties of crossing Cheap Streetat this point; it is indeed a street of so impertinenta nature, so unfortunately connected with the greatLondon and Oxford roads, and the principal inn ofthe city, that a day never passes in which partiesof ladies, however important their business, whetherin quest of pastry, millinery, or even (as in thepresent case) of young men, are not detained on oneside or other by carriages, horsemen, or carts.This evil had been felt and lamented, at least threetimes a day, by Isabella since her residence in Bath:

and she was now fated to feel and lament it once more;for at the very moment of coming opposite to UnionPassage, and within view of the two gentlemen whowere proceeding through the crowds and treading thegutters of that interesting alley, they were preventedcrossing by the approach of a gig, driven along onbad pavements by a most knowing-looking coachman,with all the vehemence that could most fitly endangerthe lives of himself, his companion, and his horse.

“Oh, these odious gigs!” said Isabella,looking up, “how I detest them!” But thisdetestation, though so just, was of short duration,for she looked again, and exclaimed, “Delightful!Mr. Morland and my brother!”

“Good Heaven! ’tis James!” was utteredat the same moment by Catherine; and on catching theyoung men’s eyes, the horse was immediately checkedwith a violence which almost threw him on his haunches;and the servant having now scampered up, the gentlemenjumped out, and the equipage was delivered to hiscare.

Catherine, by whom this meeting was wholly unexpected,received her brother with the liveliest pleasure;and he, being of a very amiable disposition, and sincerelyattached to her, gave every proof on his side of equalsatisfaction, which he could have leisure to do, whilethe bright eyes of Miss Thorpe were incessantly challenginghis notice; and to her his devoirs were speedily paid,with a mixture of joy and embarrassment which mighthave informed Catherine, had she been more expertin the development of other people’s feelings,and less simply engrossed by her own, that her brotherthought her friend quite as pretty as she could doherself.

John Thorpe, who in the mean time had been givingorders about the horse, soon joined them, and fromhim she directly received the amends which were herdue; for while he slightly and carelessly touched thehand of Isabella, on her he bestowed a whole scrapeand half a short bow. He was a stout young man,of middling height, who, with a plain face and ungracefulform, seemed fearful of being too handsome unless hewore the dress of a groom, and too much like a gentlemanunless he were easy where he ought to be civil, andimpudent where he might be allowed to be easy.He took out his watch:—“How long doyou think we have been running in from Tetbury, MissMorland?”

“I do not know the distance.” Herbrother told her that it was twenty-three miles.

“Three-and-twenty!” cried Thorpe;“five-and-twenty if it is an inch.”Morland remonstrated, pleaded the authority of road-books,innkeepers, and milestones: but his friend disregardedthem all; he had a surer test of distance. “Iknow it must be five-and-twenty,” said he, “bythe time we have been doing it.” “Itis now half after one; we drove out of the inn-yardat Tetbury as the town-clock struck eleven; and I defyany man in England to make my horse go less than tenmiles an hour in harness; that makes it exactly twenty-five.”

“You have lost an hour,” said Morland:“it was only ten o’clock when we camefrom Tetbury.”

“Ten o’clock! it was eleven, upon my soul!I counted every stroke. This brother of yourswould persuade me out of my senses, Miss Morland.Do but look at my horse: did you ever see ananimal so made for speed in your life?” (Theservant had just mounted the carriage and was drivingoff.) “Such true blood! Three hours anda half, indeed, coming only three-and-twenty miles!Look at that creature, and suppose it possible, ifyou can!”

“He does look very hot, to be sure.”

“Hot! he had not turned a hair till we cameto Walcot Church: but look at his forehand; lookat his loins; only see how he moves: that horsecannot go less than ten miles an hour; tie hislegs, and he will get on. What do you think ofmy gig, Miss Morland? A neat one, is it not?Well hung; town built: I have not had it a month.It was built for a Christ Church man, a friend ofmine, a very good sort of fellow; he ran it a fewweeks, till, I believe, it was convenient to have donewith it. I happened just then to be looking outfor some light thing of the kind, though I had prettywell determined on a curricle too; but I chanced tomeet him on Magdalen Bridge, as he was driving intoOxford, last term: ‘Ah, Thorpe,’said he, ’do you happen to want such a littlething as this? It is a capital one of the kind,but I am cursed tired of it.’ ‘Oh!d——,’ said I, ‘I am yourman; what do you ask?’ And how much do you thinkhe did, Miss Morland?”

“I am sure I cannot guess at all.”

“Curricle-hung, you see; seat, trunk, sword-case,splashing-board, lamps, silver molding, all, you see,complete; the ironwork as good as new, or better.He asked fifty guineas: I closed with him directly,threw down the money, and the carriage was mine.”

“And I am sure,” said Catherine, “Iknow so little of such things, that I cannot judgewhether it was cheap or dear.”

“Neither one nor t’other; I might havegot it for less, I dare say; but I hate haggling,and poor Freeman wanted cash.”

“That was very good-natured of you,” saidCatherine, quite pleased.

“Oh! d—— it, when one hasthe means of doing a kind thing by a friend, I hateto be pitiful.”

An inquiry now took place into the intended movementsof the young ladies; and on finding whither they weregoing, it was decided that the gentlemen should accompanythem to Edgar’s Buildings, and pay their respectsto Mrs. Thorpe. James and Isabella led the way;and so well satisfied was the latter with her lot,so contentedly was she endeavoring to insure a pleasantwalk to him who brought the double recommendationof being her brother’s friend and her friend’sbrother, so pure and uncoquettish were her feelings,that though they overtook and passed the two offendingyoung men in Milsom Street, she was so far from seekingto attract their notice that she looked back at themonly three times.

John Thorpe kept of course with Catherine, and aftera few minutes’ silence renewed the conversationabout his gig:—“You will find, however,Miss Morland, it would be reckoned a cheap thing bysome people, for I might have sold it for ten guineasmore the next day; Jackson of Oriel bid me sixty atonce; Morland was with me at the time.”

“Yes,” said Morland, who overheard this;“bet you forgot that your horse was included.”

“My horse! oh, d—— it!I would not sell my horse for a hundred. Areyou fond of an open carriage, Miss Morland?”

“Yes, very: I have hardly ever an opportunityof being in one; but I am particularly fond of it.”

“I am glad of it: I will drive you outin mine every day.”

“Thank you,” said Catherine, in some distress,from a doubt of the propriety of accepting such anoffer.

“I will drive you up Lansdown Hill to-morrow.”

“Thank you; but will not your horse want rest?”

“Rest! he has only come three-and-twenty milesto-day; all nonsense: nothing ruins horses somuch as rest; nothing knocks them up so soon.No, no: I shall exercise mine at the average offour hours every day while I am here.”

“Shall you, indeed!” said Catherine, veryseriously: “that will be forty miles aday.”

“Forty! ay, fifty, for what I care. Well,I will drive you up Lansdown to-morrow; mind, I amengaged.”

“How delightful that will be!” cried Isabella,turning round; “my dearest Catherine, I quiteenvy you; but I am afraid, brother, you will not haveroom for a third.”

“A third, indeed! no, no; I did not come toBath to drive my sisters about: that would bea good joke, faith! Morland must take care ofyou.”

This brought on a dialogue of civilities between theother two; but Catherine heard neither the particularsnor the result. Her companion’s discoursenow sunk from its hitherto animated pitch to nothingmore than a short, decisive sentence of praise orcondemnation on the face of every women they met;and Catherine, after listening and agreeing as longas she could, with all the civility and deference ofthe youthful female mind, fearful of hazarding anopinion of its own in opposition to that of a self-assuredman, especially where the beauty of her own sex isconcerned, ventured at length to vary the subject bya question which had been long uppermost in her thoughts.It was, “Have you ever read ‘Udolpho,’Mr. Thorpe?”

“‘Udolpho’! O Lord! not I:I never read novels; I have something else to do.”

Catherine, humbled and ashamed, was going to apologizefor her question; but he prevented her by saying,“Novels are all so full of nonsense and stuff!there has not been a tolerable decent one come outsince ’Tom Jones,’ except the ‘Monk’;I read that t’other day: but as for allthe others, they are the stupidest things in creation.”

“I think you must like ‘Udolpho,’if you were to read it: it is so very interesting.”

“Not I, faith! No, if I read any, it shallbe Mrs. Radcliffe’s; her novels are amusingenough: they are worth reading; some fun and naturein them.

“‘Udolpho’ was written by Mrs. Radcliffe,”said Catherine, with some hesitation, from the fearof mortifying him.

“No, sure; was it? Ay, I remember, so itwas; I was thinking of that other stupid book, writtenby that woman they made such a fuss about; she whomarried the French emigrant.”

“I suppose you mean ’Camilla’?”

“Yes, that’s the book: such unnaturalstuff! An old man playing at see-saw: Itook up the first volume once, and looked it over,but I soon found it would not do; indeed, I guessedwhat sort of stuff it must be before I saw it; assoon as I heard she had married an emigrant, I wassure I should never be able to get through it.”

“I have never read it.”

“You have no loss, I assure you; it is the horridestnonsense you can imagine: there is nothing inthe world in it but an old man’s playing atsee-saw and learning Latin; upon my soul, there isnot.”

This critique, the justness of which was unfortunatelylost on poor Catherine, brought them to the door ofMrs. Thorpe’s lodgings, and the feelings ofthe discerning and unprejudiced reader of ‘Camilla’gave way to the feelings of the dutiful and affectionateson, as they met Mrs. Thorpe, who had descried themfrom above, in the passage. “Ah, mother,how do you do?” said he, giving her a heartyshake of the hand; “where did you get that quizof a hat? it makes you look like an old witch.Here is Morland and I come to stay a few days withyou; so you must look out for a couple of good bedssomewhere near.” And this address seemedto satisfy all the fondest wishes of the mother’sheart, for she received him with the most delightedand exulting affection. On his two younger sistershe then bestowed an equal portion of his fraternaltenderness, for he asked each of them how they did,and observed that they both looked very ugly.

FAMILY DOCTORS

From ‘Emma’

While they were thus comfortably occupied, Mr. Woodhousewas enjoying a full flow of happy regrets and tearfulaffection with his daughter.

“My poor, dear Isabella,” said he, fondlytaking her hand, and interrupting for a few momentsher busy labors for some one of her five children,“how long it is, how terribly long since youwere here! And how tired you must be after yourjourney! You must go to bed early, my dear,—andI recommend a little gruel to you before you go.You and I will have a nice basin of gruel together.My dear Emma, suppose we all have a little gruel.”

Emma could not suppose any such thing, knowing asshe did that both the Mr. Knightleys were as unpersuadableon that article as herself, and two basins only wereordered. After a little more discourse in praiseof gruel, with some wondering at its not being takenevery evening by everybody, he proceeded to say, withan air of grave reflection:—

“It was an awkward business, my dear, your spendingthe autumn at South End instead of coming here.I never had much opinion of the sea air.”

“Mr. Wingfield most strenuously recommendedit, sir, or we should not have gone. He recommendedit for all the children, but particularly for theweakness in little Bella’s throat,—bothsea air and bathing.”

“Ah, my dear, but Perry had many doubts aboutthe sea doing her any good; and as to myself, I havebeen long perfectly convinced, though perhaps I nevertold you so before, that the sea is very rarely ofuse to anybody. I am sure it almost killed meonce.”

“Come, come,” cried Emma, feeling thisto be an unsafe subject, “I must beg you notto talk of the sea. It makes me envious and miserable;I who have never seen it! South End is prohibited,if you please. My dear Isabella, I have not heardyou make one inquiry after Mr. Perry yet; and he neverforgets you.”

“Oh, good Mr. Perry, how is he, sir?”

“Why, pretty well; but not quite well.Poor Perry is bilious, and he has not time to takecare of himself; he tells me he has not time to takecare of himself—which is very sad—buthe is always wanted all round the country. Isuppose there is not a man in such practice anywhere.But then, there is not so clever a man anywhere.”

“And Mrs. Perry and the children, how are they?Do the children grow? I have a great regard forMr. Perry. I hope he will be calling soon.He will be so pleased to see my little ones.”

“I hope he will be here to-morrow, for I havea question or two to ask him about myself of someconsequence. And, my dear, whenever he comes,you had better let him look at little Bella’sthroat.”

“Oh, my dear sir, her throat is so much betterthat I have hardly any uneasiness about it. Eitherbathing has been of the greatest service to her, orelse it is to be attributed to an excellent embrocationof Mr. Wingfield’s, which we have been applyingat times ever since August.”

“It is not very likely, my dear, that bathingshould have been of use to her; and if I had knownyou were wanting an embrocation, I would have spokento—”

“You seem to me to have forgotten Mrs. and MissBates,” said Emma: “I have not heardone inquiry after them.”

“Oh, the good Bateses—I am quiteashamed of myself; but you mention them in most ofyour letters. I hope they are quite well.Good old Mrs. Bates. I will call upon her to-morrow,and take my children. They are always so pleasedto see my children. And that excellent Miss Bates!—suchthorough worthy people! How are they, sir?”

“Why, pretty well, my dear, upon the whole.But poor Mrs. Bates had a bad cold about a month ago.”

“How sorry I am! but colds were never so prevalentas they have been this autumn. Mr. Wingfieldtold me that he had never known them more generalor heavy, except when it has been quite an influenza.”

“That has been a good deal the case, my dear,but not to the degree you mention. Perry saysthat colds have been very general, but not so heavyas he has very often known them in November. Perrydoes not call it altogether a sickly season.”

“No, I do not know that Mr. Wingfield considersit very sickly, except—”

“Ah, my poor, dear child, the truth is, thatin London it is always a sickly season. Nobodyis healthy in London, nobody can be. It is adreadful thing to have you forced to live there;—sofar off!—and the air so bad!”

“No, indeed, we are not at all in a badair. Our part of London is so very superior tomost others. You must not confound us with Londonin general, my dear sir. The neighborhood ofBrunswick Square is very different from almost allthe rest. We are so very airy! I should beunwilling, I own, to live in any other part of thetown; there is hardly any other that I could be satisfiedto have my children in: but we are soremarkably airy! Mr. Wingfield thinks the vicinityof Brunswick Square decidedly the most favorable asto air.”

“Ah, my dear, it is not like Hartfield.You make the best of it—but after you havebeen a week at Hartfield, you are all of you differentcreatures; you do not look like the same. Now,I cannot say that I think you are any of you lookingwell at present.”

“I am sorry to hear you say so, sir; but I assureyou, excepting those little nervous headaches andpalpitations which I am never entirely free from anywhere,I am quite well myself; and if the children were ratherpale before they went to bed, it was only because theywere a little more tired than usual from their journeyand the happiness of coming. I hope you willthink better of their looks to-morrow; for I assureyou Mr. Wingfield told me that he did not believehe had ever sent us off, altogether, in such goodcase. I trust at least that you do not thinkMr. Knightley looking ill,” turning her eyeswith affectionate anxiety toward her husband.

“Middling, my dear; I cannot compliment you.I think Mr. John Knightley very far from looking well.”

“What is the matter, sir? Did you speakto me?” cried Mr. John Knightley, hearing hisown name.

“I am sorry to find, my love, that my fatherdoes not think you looking well; but I hope it isonly from being a little fatigued. I could havewished, however, as you know, that you had seen Mr.Wingfield before you left home.”

“My dear Isabella,” exclaimed he hastily,“pray do not concern yourself about my looks.Be satisfied with doctoring and coddling yourself andthe children, and let me look as I choose.”

“I did not thoroughly understand what you weretelling your brother,” cried Emma, “aboutyour friend Mr. Graham’s intending to have abailiff from Scotland to look after his new estate.But will it answer? Will not the old prejudicebe too strong?”

And she talked in this way so long and successfullythat, when forced to give her attention again to herfather and sister, she had nothing worse to hear thanIsabella’s kind inquiry after Jane Fairfax; andJane Fairfax, though no great favorite with her ingeneral, she was at that moment very happy to assistin praising.

“That sweet, amiable Jane Fairfax!” saidMrs. John Knightley. “It is so long sinceI have seen her, except now and then for a momentaccidentally in town. What happiness it must beto her good old grandmother and excellent aunt whenshe comes to visit them! I always regret excessively,on dear Emma’s account, that she cannot be moreat Highbury; but now their daughter is married I supposeColonel and Mrs. Campbell will not be able to partwith her at all. She would be such a delightfulcompanion for Emma.”

Mr. Woodhouse agreed to it all, but added:—

“Our little friend Harriet Smith, however, isjust such another pretty kind of young person.You will like Harriet. Emma could not have abetter companion than Harriet.”

“I am most happy to hear it; but only Jane Fairfaxone knows to be so very accomplished and superior,and exactly Emma’s age.”

This topic was discussed very happily, and otherssucceeded of similar moment, and passed away withsimilar harmony; but the evening did not close withouta little return of agitation. The gruel came andsupplied a great deal to be said—much praiseand many comments—undoubting decision ofits wholesomeness for every constitution, and prettysevere philippies upon the many houses where it wasnever met with tolerably; but unfortunately, amongthe failures which the daughter had to instance, themost recent and therefore most prominent was in herown cook at South End, a young woman hired for thetime, who never had been able to understand what shemeant by a basin of nice smooth gruel, thin, but nottoo thin. Often as she had wished for and orderedit, she had never been able to get anything tolerable.Here was a dangerous opening.

“Ah,” said Mr. Woodhouse, shaking hishead, and fixing his eyes on her with tender concern.The ejaculation in Emma’s ear expressed, “Ah,there is no end of the sad consequences of your goingto South End. It does not bear talking of.”And for a little while she hoped he would not talkof it, and that a silent rumination might suffice torestore him to the relish of his own smooth gruel.After an interval of some minutes, however, he beganwith—

“I shall always be very sorry that you wentto the sea this autumn, instead of coming here.”

“But why should you be sorry, sir? I assureyou it did the children a great deal of good.”

“And moreover, if you must go to the sea, ithad better not have been to South End. SouthEnd is an unhealthy place. Perry was surprisedto hear you had fixed upon South End.”

“I know there is such an idea with many people,but indeed it is quite a mistake, sir. We allhad our health perfectly well there, never found theleast inconvenience from the mud, and Mr. Wingfieldsays it is entirely a mistake to suppose the placeunhealthy; and I am sure he may be depended on, forhe thoroughly understands the nature of the air, andhis own brother and family have been there repeatedly.”

“You should have gone to Cromer, my dear, ifyou went anywhere. Perry was a week at Cromeronce, and he holds it to be the best of all the sea-bathingplaces. A fine open sea, he says, and very pureair. And by what I understand, you might havehad lodgings there quite away from the sea—aquarter of a mile off—very comfortable.You should have consulted Perry.”

“But my dear sir, the difference of the journey:only consider how great it would have been. Ahundred miles, perhaps, instead of forty.”

“Ah, my dear, as Perry says, where health isat stake, nothing else should be considered; and ifone is to travel, there is not much to choose betweenforty miles and a hundred. Better not move atall, better stay in London altogether than travelforty miles to get into a worse air. This isjust what Perry said. It seemed to him a veryill-judged measure.”

Emma’s attempts to stop her father had beenvain; and when he had reached such a point as this,she could not wonder at her brother-in-law’sbreaking out.

“Mr. Perry,” said he, in a voice of verystrong displeasure, “would do as well to keephis opinion till it is asked for. Why does hemake it any business of his to wonder at what I doat my taking my family to one part of the coast oranother? I may be allowed, I hope, the use ofmy judgment as well as Mr. Perry. I want hisdirections no more than his drugs.” Hepaused, and growing cooler in a moment, added, withonly sarcastic dryness, “If Mr. Perry can tellme how to convey a wife and five children a distanceof a hundred and thirty miles with no greater expenseor inconvenience than a distance of forty, I shouldbe as willing to prefer Cromer to South End as hecould himself.”

“True, true,” cried Mr. Knightley, withmost ready interposition, “very true. That’sa consideration, indeed. But, John, as to whatI was telling you of my idea of moving the path toLangham, of turning it more to the right that it maynot cut through the home meadows, I cannot conceiveany difficulty. I should not attempt it, if itwere to be the means of inconvenience to the Highburypeople, but if you call to mind exactly the presentlight of the path—The only way of provingit, however, will be to turn to our maps. I shallsee you at the Abbey to-morrow morning, I hope, andthen we will look them over, and you shall give meyour opinion.”

Mr. Woodhouse was rather agitated by such harsh reflectionson his friend Perry, to whom he had in fact, thoughunconsciously, been attributing many of his own feelingsand expressions; but the soothing attentions of hisdaughters gradually removed the present evil, and theimmediate alertness of one brother, and better recollectionsof the other, prevented any renewal of it.

FAMILY TRAINING

From ‘Mansfield Park’

As her [Fanny Price’s] appearance and spiritsimproved, Sir Thomas and Mrs. Norris thought withgreater satisfaction of their benevolent plan; andit was pretty soon decided between them, that thoughfar from clever, she showed a tractable disposition,and seemed likely to give them little trouble.A mean opinion of her abilities was not confined tothem. Fanny could read, work, and write,but she had been taught nothing more; and as her cousinsfound her ignorant of many things with which theyhad been long familiar, they thought her prodigiouslystupid, and for the first two or three weeks werecontinually bringing some fresh report of it intothe drawing-room.

“Dear mamma, only think, my cousin cannot putthe map of Europe together”—or “mycousin cannot tell the principal rivers in Russia”—or“she never heard of Asia Minor”—or“she does not know the difference between water-colorsand crayons! How strange! Did you ever hearanything so stupid?”

“My dear,” their aunt would reply, “itis very bad, but you must not expect everybody tobe as quick at learning as yourself.”

“But, aunt, she is really so very ignorant!Do you know, we asked her last night which way shewould go to get to Ireland; and she said she shouldcross to the Isle of Wight. She thinks of nothingbut the Isle of Wight, and she calls it the Island,as if there were no other island in the world.I am sure I should have been ashamed of myself, ifI had not known better long before I was so old asshe is. I cannot remember the time when I didnot know a great deal that she has not the least notionof yet. How long ago it is, aunt, since we usedto repeat the chronological order of the kings ofEngland, with the dates of their accession, and mostof the principal events of their reigns!”

“Yes,” added the other; “and ofthe Roman emperors as low as Severus; besides a greatdeal of the heathen mythology, and all the metals,semi-metals, planets, and distinguished philosophers.”

“Very true, indeed, my dears, but you are blessedwith wonderful memories, and your poor cousin hasprobably none at all. There is a vast deal ofdifference in memories, as well as in everything else;and therefore you must make allowance for your cousin,and pity her deficiency. And remember that ifyou are ever so forward and clever yourselves, youshould always be modest, for, much as you know already,there is a great deal more for you to learn.”

“Yes, I know there is, till I am seventeen.But I must tell you another thing of Fanny, so oddand so stupid. Do you know, she says she doesnot want to learn either music or drawing?”

“To be sure, my dear, that is very stupid indeed,and shows a great want of genius and emulation.But, all things considered, I do not know whetherit is not as well that it should be so: for thoughyou know (owing to me) your papa and mamma are sogood as to bring her up with you, it is not at allnecessary that she should be as accomplished as youare; on the contrary, it is much more desirable thatthere should be a difference.”

Such were the counsels by which Mrs. Norris assistedto form her nieces’ minds; and it is not verywonderful that, with all their promising talents andearly information, they should be entirely deficientin the less common acquirements of self-knowledge,generosity, and humility. In everything but disposition,they were admirably taught. Sir Thomas did notknow what was wanting, because, though a truly anxiousfather, he was not outwardly affectionate, and thereserve of his manner repressed all the flow of theirspirits before him.

PRIVATE THEATRICALS

From ‘Mansfield Park’

Fanny looked on and listened, not unamused to observethe selfishness which, more or less disguised, seemedto govern them all, and wondering how it would end.

Three of the characters were now cast, besides Mr.Rushworth, who was always answered for by Maria aswilling to do anything; when Julia, meaning, likeher sister, to be Agatha, began to be scrupulous onMiss Crawford’s account.

“This is not behaving well by the absent,”said she. “Here are not women enough.Amelia and Agatha may do for Maria and me, but hereis nothing for your sister, Mr. Crawford.”

Mr. Crawford desired that might not be thoughtof; he was very sure his sister had no wish of actingbut as she might be useful, and that she would notallow herself to be considered in the present case.But this was immediately opposed by Tom Bertram, whoasserted the part of Amelia to be in every respectthe property of Miss Crawford, if she would acceptit. “It falls as naturally as necessarilyto her,” said he, “as Agatha does to oneor other of my sisters. It can be no sacrificeon their side, for it is highly comic.”

A short silence followed. Each sister lookedanxious; for each felt the best claim to Agatha, andwas hoping to have it pressed on her by the rest.Henry Crawford, who meanwhile had taken up the play,and with seeming carelessness was turning over thefirst act, soon settled the business.

“I must entreat Miss Julia Bertram,”said he, “not to engage in the part of Agatha,or it will be the ruin of all my solemnity. Youmust not, indeed you must not [turning to her].I could not stand your countenance dressed up in woeand paleness. The many laughs we have had togetherwould infallibly come across me, and Frederick andhis knapsack would be obliged to run away.”

Pleasantly, courteously, it was spoken; but the mannerwas lost in the matter to Julia’s feelings.She saw a glance at Maria, which confirmed the injuryto herself: it was a scheme, a trick; she wasslighted, Maria was preferred; the smile of triumphwhich Maria was trying to suppress showed how wellit was understood: and before Julia could commandherself enough to speak, her brother gave his weightagainst her too, by saying, “Oh yes! Mariamust be Agatha. Maria will be the best Agatha.

Though Julia fancies she prefers tragedy, I would nottrust her in it. There is nothing of tragedyabout her. She has not the look of it. Herfeatures are not tragic features, and she walks tooquick, and speaks too quick, and would not keep hercountenance. She had better do the old countrywoman—theCottager’s wife; you had, indeed, Julia.Cottager’s wife is a very pretty part, I assureyou. The old lady relieves the high-flown benevolenceof her husband with a good deal of spirit. Youshall be the Cottager’s wife.”

“Cottager’s wife!” cried Mr. Yates.“What are you talking of? The most trivial,paltry, insignificant part; the merest commonplace;not a tolerable speech in the whole. Your sisterdo that! It is an insult to propose it.At Ecclesford the governess was to have done it.We all agreed that it could not be offered to anybodyelse. A little more justice, Mr. Manager, ifyou please. You do not deserve the office ifyou cannot appreciate the talents of your company alittle better.”

“Why, as to that, my good friends, tillI and my company have really acted, there must besome guesswork; but I mean no disparagement to Julia.We cannot have two Agathas, and we must have one Cottager’swife; and I am sure I set her the example of moderationmyself in being satisfied with the old Butler.If the part is trifling she will have more creditin making something of it: and if she is so desperatelybent against everything humorous, let her take Cottager’sspeeches instead of Cottager’s wife’s,and so change the parts all through; he is solemnand pathetic enough, I am sure. It could makeno difference in the play; and as for Cottager himself,when he has got his wife’s speeches, Iwould undertake him with all my heart.”

“With all your partiality for Cottager’swife,” said Henry Crawford, “it will beimpossible to make anything of it fit for your sister,and we must not suffer her good nature to be imposedon. We must not allow her to accept thepart. She must not be left to her own complaisance.Her talents will be wanted in Amelia. Amelia isa character more difficult to be well representedthan even Agatha. I consider Amelia as the mostdifficult character in the whole piece. It requiresgreat powers, great nicety, to give her playfulnessand simplicity without extravagance. I have seengood actresses fail in the part. Simplicity,indeed, is beyond the reach of almost every actressby profession. It requires a delicacy of feelingwhich they have not. It requires a gentlewoman—aJulia Bertram. You will undertake it, Ihope?” turning to her with a look of anxiousentreaty, which softened her a little; but while shehesitated what to say, her brother again interposedwith Miss Crawford’s better claim.

“No, no, Julia must not be Amelia. It isnot at all the part for her. She would not likeit. She would not do well. She is too talland robust. Amelia should be a small, light,girlish, skipping figure. It is fit for MissCrawford, and Miss Crawford only. She looks thepart, and I am persuaded will do it admirably.”

Without attending to this, Henry Crawford continuedhis supplication. “You must oblige us,”said he, “indeed you must. When you havestudied the character I am sure you will feel it suitsyou. Tragedy may be your choice, but it willcertainly appear that comedy chooses you.You will have to visit me in prison with a basketof provisions; you will not refuse to visit me inprison? I think I see you coming in with yourbasket.”

The influence of his voice was felt. Julia wavered;but was he only trying to soothe and pacify her, andmake her overlook the previous affront? She distrustedhim. The slight had been most determined.He was, perhaps, but at treacherous play with her.She looked suspiciously at her sister; Maria’scountenance was to decide it; if she were vexed andalarmed—but Maria looked all serenity andsatisfaction, and Julia well knew that on this groundMaria could not be happy but at her expense.With hasty indignation, therefore, and a tremulousvoice, she said to him, “You do not seem afraidof not keeping your countenance when I come in witha basket of provisions—though one mighthave supposed—but it is only as Agathathat I was to be so overpowering!” She stopped,Henry Crawford looked rather foolish, and as if hedid not know what to say. Tom Bertram began again:—

“Miss Crawford must be Amelia. She willbe an excellent Amelia.”

“Do not be afraid of my wanting the character,”cried Julia, with angry quickness: “I amnot to be Agatha, and I am sure I will do nothingelse; and as to Amelia, it is of all parts in the worldthe most disgusting to me. I quite detest her.An odious little, pert, unnatural, impudent girl.I have always protested against comedy, and this iscomedy in its worst form.” And so saying,she walked hastily out of the room, leaving awkwardfeelings to more than one, but exciting small compassionin any except Fanny, who had been a quiet auditor ofthe whole, and who could not think of her as underthe agitations of jealousy without great pity....

The inattention of the two brothers and the aunt toJulia’s discomposure, and their blindness toits true cause, must be imputed to the fullness oftheir own minds. They were totally preoccupied.Tom was engrossed by the concerns of his theatre,and saw nothing that did not immediately relate toit. Edmund, between his theatrical and his realpart—between Miss Crawford’s claimsand his own conduct—between love and consistency,was equally unobservant: and Mrs. Norris was toobusy in contriving and directing the general littlematters of the company, superintending their variousdresses with economical expedients, for which nobodythanked her, and saving, with delighted integrity,half-a-crown here and there to the absent Sir Thomas,to have leisure for watching the behavior, or guardingthe happiness, of his daughters.

FRUITLESS REGRETS AND APPLES OF SODOM

From ‘Mansfield Park’

These were the circumstances and the hopes which graduallybrought their alleviation to Sir Thomas, deadeninghis sense of what was lost, and in part reconcilinghim to himself; though the anguish arising from theconviction of his own errors in the education of hisdaughters was never to be entirely done away.

Too late he became aware how unfavorable to the characterof any young people must be the totally opposite treatmentwhich Maria and Julia had been always experiencingat home, where the excessive indulgence and flatteryof their aunt had been continually contrasted withhis own severity. He saw how ill he had judged,in expecting to counteract what was wrong in Mrs.Norris by its reverse in himself, clearly saw thathe had but increased the evil, by teaching them torepress their spirits in his presence so as to maketheir real disposition unknown to him, and sendingthem for all their indulgences to a person who hadbeen able to attach them only by the blindness ofher affection and the excess of her praise.

Here had been grievous mismanagement; but, bad asit was, he gradually grew to feel that it had notbeen the most direful mistake in his plan of education.Something must have been wanting within, ortime would have worn away much of its ill effect.He feared that principle, active principle, had beenwanting; that they had never been properly taught togovern their inclinations and tempers, by that senseof duty which can alone suffice. They had beeninstructed theoretically in their religion, but neverrequired to bring it into daily practice. To bedistinguished for elegance and accomplishments—theauthorized object of their youth—couldhave had no useful influence that way, no moral effecton the mind. He had meant them to be good, buthis cares had been directed to the understanding andmanners, not the disposition; and of the necessityof self-denial and humility, he feared they had neverheard from any lips that could profit them.

Bitterly did he deplore a deficiency which now hecould scarcely comprehend to have been possible.Wretchedly did he feel, that with all the cost andcare of an anxious and expensive education, he hadbrought up his daughters without their understandingtheir first duties, or his being acquainted with theircharacter and temper.

The high spirit and strong passions of Mrs. Rushworthespecially were made known to him only in their sadresult. She was not to be prevailed on to leaveMr. Crawford. She hoped to marry him, and theycontinued together till she was obliged to be convincedthat such hope was vain, and till the disappointmentand wretchedness arising from the conviction renderedher temper so bad, and her feelings for him so likehatred, as to make them for a while each other’spunishment, and then induce a voluntary separation.

She had lived with him to be reproached as the ruinof all his happiness in Fanny, and carried away nobetter consolation in leaving him, than that she haddivided them. What can exceed the misery of sucha mind in such a situation!

Mr. Rushworth had no difficulty in procuring a divorce;and so ended a marriage contracted under such circumstancesas to make any better end the effect of good luck,not to be reckoned on. She had despised him,and loved another—and he had been very muchaware that it was so. The indignities of stupidity,and the disappointments of selfish passion, can excitelittle pity. His punishment followed his conduct,as did a deeper punishment the deeper guilt of hiswife. He was released from the engagement,to be mortified and unhappy till some other prettygirl could attract him into matrimony again, and hemight set forward on a second, and it is to be hopedmore prosperous trial of the state—if duped,to be duped at least with good humor and good luck;while she must withdraw with infinitely strongerfeelings, to a retirement and reproach which couldallow no second spring of hope or character.

Where she could be placed, became a subject of mostmelancholy and momentous consultation. Mrs. Norris,whose attachment seemed to augment with the demeritsof her niece, would have had her received at home andcountenanced by them all. Sir Thomas would nothear of it; and Mrs. Norris’s anger againstFanny was so much the greater, from considering herresidence there as the motive. She persisted inplacing his scruples to her account, thoughSir Thomas very solemnly assured her that had therebeen no young woman in question, had there been noyoung person of either sex belonging to him, to beendangered by the society or hurt by the characterof Mrs. Rushworth, he would never have offered sogreat an insult to the neighborhood as to expect itto notice her. As a daughter—he hopeda penitent one—she should be protected byhim, and secured in every comfort and supported byevery encouragement to do right which their relativesituations admitted; but farther than thathe would not go. Maria had destroyed her own character;and he would not, by a vain attempt to restore whatnever could be restored, be affording his sanctionto vice, or, in seeking to lessen its disgrace, beanywise accessory to introducing such misery in anotherman’s family as he had known himself....

Henry Crawford, ruined by early independence and baddomestic example, indulged in the freaks of a cold-bloodedvanity a little too long. Once it had, by anopening undesigned and unmerited, led him into theway of happiness. Could he have been satisfiedwith the conquest of one amiable woman’s affections,could he have found sufficient exultation in overcomingthe reluctance, in working himself into the esteemand tenderness of Fanny Price, there would have beenevery probability of success and felicity for him.His affection had already done something. Herinfluence over him had already given him some influenceover her. Would he have deserved more, therecan be no doubt that more would have been obtained;especially when that marriage had taken place, which

would have given him the assistance of her consciencein subduing her first inclination, and brought themvery often together. Would he have persevered,and uprightly, Fanny must have been his reward—anda reward very voluntarily bestowed—withina reasonable period from Edmund’s marrying Mary.Had he done as he intended, and as he knew he ought,by going down to Everingham after his return fromPortsmouth, he might have been deciding his own happydestiny. But he was pressed to stay for Mrs.Fraser’s party: his staying was made offlattering consequence, and he was to meet Mrs. Rushworththere. Curiosity and vanity were both engaged,and the temptation of immediate pleasure was too strongfor a mind unused to make any sacrifice to right;he resolved to defer his Norfolk journey, resolvedthat writing should answer the purpose of it, or thatits purpose was unimportant—and staid.He saw Mrs. Rushworth, was received by her with acoldness which ought to have been repulsive, and haveestablished apparent indifference between them forever: but he was mortified, he could not bearto be thrown off by the woman whose smiles had beenso wholly at his command; he must exert himself tosubdue so proud a display of resentment: it wasanger on Fanny’s account; he must get the betterof it, and make Mrs. Rushworth Maria Bertram againin her treatment of himself.

In this spirit he began the attack; and by animatedperseverance had soon re-established the sort of familiarintercourse—of gallantry—offlirtation—which bounded his views:but in triumphing over the discretion, which, thoughbeginning in anger, might have saved them both, hehad put himself in the power of feelings on her sidemore strong than he had supposed. She loved him;there was no withdrawing attentions avowedly dearto her. He was entangled by his own vanity, withas little excuse of love as possible, and without thesmallest inconstancy of mind towards her cousin.To keep Fanny and the Bertrams from a knowledge ofwhat was passing became his first object. Secrecycould not have been more desirable for Mrs. Rushworth’scredit than he felt it for his own. When he returnedfrom Richmond, he would have been glad to see Mrs.Rushworth no more. All that followed was the resultof her imprudence; and he went off with her at lastbecause he could not help it, regretting Fanny evenat the moment, but regretting her infinitely morewhen all the bustle of the intrigue was over, and avery few months had taught him, by the force of contrast,to place a yet higher value on the sweetness of hertemper, the purity of her mind, and the excellenceof her principles.

That punishment, the public punishment of disgrace,should in a just measure attend his share ofthe offense, is, we know, not one of the barrierswhich society gives to virtue. In this world,the penalty is less equal than could be wished; butwithout presuming to look forward to a juster appointmenthereafter, we may fairly consider a man of sense,like Henry Crawford, to be providing for himself nosmall portion of vexation and regret—vexationthat must rise sometimes to self-reproach, and regretto wretchedness—in having so requited hospitality,so injured family peace, so forfeited his best, mostestimable, and endeared acquaintance, and so lost thewoman whom he had rationally as well as passionatelyloved.

AVERROES

(1126-1198)

Averroes (Abu ’l Walid Muhammad, ibn Achmad,ibn Muhammad, IBN RUSHD; or more in English, Abu ’lWalid Muhammed, the son of Achmet, the son of Muhammed,the son of Rushd) was born in 1126 at Cordova, Spain.His father and grandfather, the latter a celebratedjurist and canonist, had been judges in that city.He first studied theology and canon law, and latermedicine and philosophy; thus, like Faust, coveringthe whole field of mediaeal science. His lifewas cast in the most brilliant period of Western Muslimculture, in the splendor of that rationalism whichpreceded the great darkness of religious fanaticism.As a young man, he was introduced by Ibn Tufail (Abubacer),author of the famous ’Hayy al-Yukdhan,’a philosophical ‘Robinson Crusoe,’ to theenlightened Khalif Abu Ya’kub Yusuf (1163-84),as a fit expounder of the then popular philosophyof Aristotle. This position he filled with somuch success as to become a favorite with the Prince,and finally his private physician. He likewisefilled the important office of judge, first at Seville,later at Cordova.

He enjoyed even greater consideration under the nextKhalif, Ya’kub al-Mansur, until the year 1195,when the jealousy of his rivals and the fanaticismof the Berbers led to his being accused of championingphilosophy to the detriment of religion. ThoughAverroes always professed great respect for religion,and especially for Islam, as a valuable popular substitutefor science and philosophy, the charge could hardlybe rebutted (as will be shown later), and the Amirof the Faithful could scarcely afford openly to favora heretic. Averroes was accordingly deprivedof his honors, and banished to Lacena, a Jewish settlementnear Cordova—a fact which gives coloringto the belief that he was of Jewish descent.To satisfy his fanatical subjects for the moment,the Khalif published severe edicts not only againstAverroes, but against all learned men and all learningas hostile to religion. For a time the poor philosophercould not appear in public without being mobbed; butafter two years, a less fanatical party having comeinto power, the Prince revoked his edicts, and Averroeswas restored to favor. This event he did notlong survive. He died on 10th December 1198,in Marocco. Here too he was buried; but his bodywas afterward transported to Cordova, and laid inthe tomb of his fathers. He left several sons,more than one of whom came to occupy important positions.

Averroes was the last great Muslim thinker, summingup and carrying to its conclusions the thought offour hundred years. The philosophy of Islam,which flourished first in the East, in Basra and Bagdad(800-1100), and then in the West, Cordova, Toledo,etc. (1100-1200), was a mixture of Aristotelianismand Neo-Platonism, borrowed, under the earlier PersianizingKhalifs, from the Christian (mainly Nestorian) monksof Syria and Mesopotamia, being consequently a naturalisticsystem. In it God was acknowledged only as thesupreme abstraction; while eternal matter, law, andimpersonal intelligence played the principal part.It was necessarily irreconcilable with Muslim orthodoxy,in which a crudely conceived, intensely personal Godis all in all. While Persian influence was potent,philosophy flourished, produced some really greatscholars and thinkers, made considerable headway againstMuslim fatalism and predestination, and seemed in afair way to bring about a free and rational civilization,eminent in science and art. But no sooner didthe fanatical or scholastic element get the upper handthan philosophy vanished, and with it all hope of agreat Muslim civilization in the East. This changewas marked by Al-Ghazzali, and his book ‘TheDestruction of the Philosophers.’ He diedin A.D. 1111, and then the works of Al-Farabi, Ibn-Sina,and the “Brothers of Purity,” wanderedout to the far West, to seek for appreciation amongthe Muslim, Jews, and Christians of Spain. Andfor a brief time they found it there, and in the twelfthcentury found also eloquent expounders at the mosque-schoolsof Cordova, Toledo, Seville, and Saragossa. Ofthese the most famous were Ibn Baja, Ibn Tufail, andIbn Rushd (Averroes).

During its progress, Muslim philosophy had graduallybeen eliminating the Neo-Platonic, mystic element,and returning to pure Aristotelianism. In Averroes,who professed to be merely a commentator on Aristotle,this tendency reached its climax; and though he stillregarded the pseudo-Aristotelian works as genuine,and did not entirely escape their influence, he isby far the least mystic of Muslim thinkers. Thetwo fundamental doctrines upon which he always insisted,and which long made his name famous, not to say notorious,the eternity of matter and of the world (involvinga denial of the doctrine of creation), and the onenessof the active intellect in all men (involving the mortalityof the individual soul and the impossibility of resurrectionand judgment), are both of Aristotelian origin.It was no wonder that he came into conflict with theorthodox Muslim; for in the warfare between Arab prophetism,with its shallow apologetic scholasticism, and Greekphilosophy, with its earnest endeavor to find truth,and its belief in reason as the sole revealer thereof,he unhesitatingly took the side of the latter.He held that man is made to discover truth, and thatthe serious study of God and his works is the noblestform of worship.

However little one may agree with his chief tenets,there can be no doubt that he was the most enlightenedman of the entire Middle Age, in Europe at least;and if his spirit and work had been continued, WesternIslam might have become a great permanent civilizingpower. But here again, after a brief period ofextraordinary philosophic brilliancy, fanaticism gotthe upper hand. With the death of Averroes thelast hope of a beneficent Muslim civilization cameto an end. Since then, Islam has been a synonymfor blind fanaticism and cruel bigotry. In manyparts of the Muslim world, “philosopher”is a term of reproach, like “miscreant.”

But though Islam rejected its philosopher, Averroes’swork was by no means without its effect. It wasthrough his commentaries on Aristotle that the thoughtof that greatest of ancient thinkers became known tothe western world, both Jewish and Christian.Among the Jews, his writings soon acquired almostcanonical authority. His system found expressionin the works of the best known of Hebrew thinkers,Maimonides (1135-1204), “the second Moses”works which, despite all orthodox opposition, dominatedJewish thought for nearly three hundred years, andmade the Jews during that time the chief promotersof rationalism. When Muslim persecution forceda large number of Jews to leave Spain and settle inSouthern France, the works of Averroes and Maimonideswere translated into Hebrew, which thenceforth becamethe vehicle of Jewish thought; and thus Muslim Aristotelianismcame into direct contact with Christianity.

Among the Christians, the works of Averroes, translatedby Michael Scott, “wizard of dreaded fame,”Hermann the German, and others, acted at once likea mighty solvent. Heresy followed in their track,and shook the Church to her very foundations.Recognizing that her existence was at stake, she putforth all her power to crush the intruder. TheOrder of Preachers, initiated by St. Dominic of Calahorra(1170-1221), was founded; the Inquisition was legalized(about 1220). The writings of Aristotle and hisArab commentators were condemned to the flames (1209,1215, 1231). Later, when all this proved unavailing,the best intellects in Christendom, such as AlbertusMagnus (1193-1280), and Thomas Aquinas (1227-74),undertook to repel the new doctrine with its own weapons;that is, by submitting the thought of Aristotle andhis Arab commentators to rational discussion.Thus was introduced the second or palmy period ofChristian Scholasticism, whose chief industry, we mayfairly say, was directed to the refutation of the twoleading doctrines of Averroes. Aiming at this,Thomas Aquinas threw the whole dogmatic system ofthe Church into the forms of Aristotle, and thus producedthat colossal system of theology which still prevailsin the Roman Catholic world; witness the EncyclicalAEterni Patris of Leo XIII., issued in 1879.

By the great thinkers of the thirteenth century, Averroes,though regarded as heretical and dangerous in religion,was looked up to as an able thinker, and the commentatorpar excellence; so much so that St. Thomasborrowed from him the very form of his own Commentaries,and Dante assigned him a distinguished place, besidePlato and Aristotle, in the limbo of ancient sages(’Inferno,’ iv. 143). But in the followingcentury—mainly, no doubt, because he waschosen as the patron of certain strongly hereticalmovements, such as those instigated by the arch-rationalistFrederic II—he came to be regarded as theprecursor of Antichrist, if not that personage himself:being credited with the awful blasphemy of havingspoken of the founders of the three current religions—Moses,Jesus, and Muhammad—as “the threeimpostors.” Whatever truth there may bein this, so much is certain, that infidelity, in thesense of an utter disbelief in Christianity as a revealedreligion, or in any sense specially true, dates fromthe thirteenth century, and is due in large measureto the influence of Averroes. Yet he was a greatfavorite with the Franciscans, and for a time exerciseda profound influence on the universities of Paris andOxford, finding a strong admirer even in Roger Bacon.His thought was also a powerful element in the mysticismof Meister Eckhart and his followers; a mysticismwhich incurred the censure of the Church.

Thus both the leading forms of heresy which characterizedthe thirteenth century—naturalism withits tendency to magic, astrology, alchemy, etc.,etc., and mysticism with its dreams of beatificvisions, its self-torture and its lawlessness (seeGoerres, ’Die Christliche Mystik’)—weredue largely to Averroes. In spite of this, hiscommentaries on Aristotle maintained their credit,their influence being greatest in the fourteenth century,when his doctrines were openly professed. Afterthe invention of printing, they appeared in numberlesseditions,—several times in connection withthe text of Aristotle. As the age of the Renaissanceand of Protestantism approached, they gradually losttheir prestige. The chief humanists, like Petrarch,as well as the chief reformers, were bitterly hostileto them. Nevertheless, they contributed importantelements to both movements.

Averroism survived longest in Northern Italy, especiallyin the University of Padua, where it was professeduntil the seventeenth century, and where, as a doctrinehostile to supernaturalism, it paved the way for thestudy of nature and the rise of modern science.Thus Averroes may fairly be said to have had a sharein every movement toward freedom, wise and unwise,for the last seven hundred years. In truth, freethought in Europe owes more to him than to any otherman except Abelard. His last declared followerwas the impetuous Lucilio Vanini, who was burned foratheism at Toulouse in 1619.

The best work on Averroes is Renan’s ‘Averroeset l’Averroisme’ (fourth edition, Paris,1893). This contains, on pages 58-79, a completelist both of his commentaries and his original writings.

THE AVESTA

(From about B.C. Sixth Century)

BY A.V. WILLIAMS JACKSON

Avesta, or Zend-Avesta, an interesting monument ofantiquity, is the Bible of Zoroaster, the sacred bookof ancient Iran, and holy scripture of the modernParsis. The exact meaning of the name “Avesta”is not certain; it may perhaps signify “law,”“text,” or, more doubtfully, “wisdom,”“revelation.” The modern familiardesignation of the book as Zend-Avesta is not strictlyaccurate; if used at all, it should rather be Avesta-Zend,like “Bible and Commentary,” as zandsignifies “explanation,” “commentary,”and Avesta u Zand is employed in some Persianallusions to the Zoroastrian scriptures as a designationdenoting the text of the Avesta accompanied by thePahlavi version or interpretation.

The story of the recovery of the Avesta, or ratherthe discovery of the Avesta, by the enthusiastic youngFrench scholar Anquetil du Perron, who was the firstto open to the western world the ancient records ofZoroastrianism, reads almost like a romance. DuPerron’s own account of his departure for Indiain 1754, of his experiences with the dasturs(or priests) during a seven years’ residenceamong them, of his various difficulties and annoyances,setbacks and successes, is entertainingly presentedin the introductory volume of his work ’Zend-Avesta,Ouvrage de Zoroastre’ (3 Vols., Paris, 1771).This was the first translation of the ancient Persianbooks published in a European language. Its appearanceformed one of those epochs which are marked by an additionto the literary, religious, or philosophical wealthof our time; a new contribution was added to the richesof the West from the treasures of the East. Thefield thus thrown open, although worked imperfectlyat first, has yielded abundant harvests to the handsof later gleaners.

THE ZEND-AVESTA.

Facsimile of a Page of the AVESTA; from the oldestpreserved manuscript containing the YACNA. A.D. 1325. In the Royal Library at Copenhagen.

The Zend-Avesta—more properly the Avesta-Zend,i.e., “Text and Commentary” is the“Bible” of the Persians. The fourparts into which it is divided are called Yacna, Vispered,Vendidad, and Khordah-Avesta.

[Illustration]

With the growth of our knowledge of the language ofthe sacred texts, we have now a clear idea also ofthe history of Zoroastrian literature and of the changesand chances through which with varying fortunes thescriptures have passed. The original ZoroastrianAvesta, according to tradition, was in itself a literatureof vast dimensions. Pliny, in his ‘NaturalHistory,’ speaks of two million verses of Zoroaster;to which may be added the Persian assertion that theoriginal copy of the scriptures was written upon twelvethousand parchments, with gold illuminated letters,

and was deposited in the library at Persepolis.But what was the fate of this archetype? Parsitradition has an answer. Alexander the Great—“theaccursed Iskander,” as he is called—isresponsible for its destruction. At the requestof the beautiful Thais, as the story goes, he allowedthe palace of Persepolis to be burned, and the precioustreasure perished in the flames. Whatever viewwe may take of the different sides of this story,one thing cannot be denied: the invasion of Alexanderand the subjugation of Iran was indirectly or directlythe cause of a certain religious decadence which followedupon the disruption of the Persian Empire, and wasanswerable for the fact that a great part of the scriptureswas forgotten or fell into disuse. Persian traditionlays at the doors of the Greeks the loss of anothercopy of the original ancient texts, but does not explainin what manner this happened; nor has it any accountto give of copies of the prophet’s works whichSemitic writers say were translated into nearly a dozendifferent languages. One of these versions wasperhaps Greek, for it is generally acknowledged thatin the fourth century B.C. the philosopher Theopompusspent much time in giving in his own tongue the contentsof the sacred Magian books.

Tradition is unanimous on one point at least:it is that the original Avesta comprised twenty-oneNasks, or books, a statement which there isno good reason to doubt. The same tradition whichwas acquainted with the general character of theseNasks professes also to tell exactly how many of themsurvived the inroad of Alexander; for although thesacred text itself was destroyed, its contents werelost only in part, the priests preserving large portionsof the precious scriptures. These met with manyvicissitudes in the five centuries that intervenedbetween the conquest of Alexander and the great restorationof Zoroastrianism in the third century of our era,under the Sassanian dynasty. At this period allobtainable Zoroastrian scriptures were collected, thecompilation was codified, and a detailed notice madeof the contents of each of the original Nasks comparedwith the portions then surviving. The originalAvesta was, it would appear, a sort of encyclopaedicwork; not of religion alone, but of useful knowledgerelating to law, to the arts, science, the professions,and to every-day life. If we may judge from theexisting table of contents of these Nasks, the zealousSassanians, even in the time of the collecting (A.D. 226-380), were able to restore but a fragment ofthe archetype, perhaps a fourth part of the originalAvesta. Nor was this remnant destined to escapemisfortune. The Mohammedan invasion, in the seventhcentury of our era added a final and crushing blow.Much of the religion that might otherwise have beenhanded down to us, despite “the accursed Iskander’s”conquest, now perished through the sword and the Koran.Its loss, we must remember, is in part compensatedby the Pahlavi religious literature of Sassanian days.

Fragmentary and disjointed as are the remnants ofthe Avesta, we are fortunate in possessing even thismoiety of the Bible of Zoroaster, whose compass isabout one tenth that of our own sacred book. Agrouping of the existing texts is here presented:—1.Yasna (including Gathas). 2. Visperad. 3.Yashts. 4. Minor Texts. 5. Vendidad. 6.Fragments.

Even these texts no single manuscript in our timecontains complete. The present collection ismade by combining various Avestan codexes. Inspite of the great antiquity of the literature, allthe existing manuscripts are comparatively young.None is older than the thirteenth century of our ownera, while the direct history of only one or two canbe followed back to about the tenth century. Thismere external circumstance has of course no bearingon the actual early age of the Zoroastrian scriptures.It must be kept in mind that Zoroaster lived at leastsix centuries before the birth of Christ.

Among the six divisions of our present Avesta, theYasna, Visperad, and Vendidad are closely connected.They are employed in the daily ritual, and they arealso accompanied by a version or interpretation inthe Pahlavi language, which serves at the same timeas a sort of commentary. The three divisionsare often found combined into a sort of prayer-book,called Vendidad-Sadah (Vendidad Pure); i.e., Avestatext without the Pahlavi rendering. The chaptersin this case are arranged with special reference toliturgical usage.

Some idea of the character of the Avesta as it nowexists may be derived from the following sketch ofits contents and from the illustrative selectionspresented:—

1. Yasna (sacrifice, worship), the chief liturgicalwork of the sacred canon. It consists mainlyof ascriptions of praise and of prayer, and correspondsnearly to our idea of a prayer-book. The Yasnacomprises seventy-two chapters; these fall into threenearly equal parts. The middle, or oldest part,is the section of Gathas below described.

The meaning of the word yasna as above givesat once some conception of the nature of the texts.The Yasna chapters were recited at the sacrifice:a sacrifice that consisted not in blood-offerings,but in an offering of praise and thanksgiving, accompaniedby ritual observances. The white-robed priest,girt with the sacred cord and wearing a veil, thepaitidana, before his lips in the presence ofthe holy fire, begins the service by an invocationof Ahura Mazda (Ormazd) and the heavenly hierarchy;he then consecrates the zaothra water, themyazda or oblation, and the baresma orbundle of sacred twigs. He and his assistantnow prepare the haoma (the soma of theHindus), or juice of a sacred plant, the drinkingof which formed part of the religious rite. Atthe ninth chapter of the book, the rhythmical chantingof the praises of Haoma is begun. This deifiedbeing, a personification of the consecrated drink,is supposed to have appeared before the prophet himself,and to have described to him the blessings which thehaoma bestows upon its pious worshiper.The lines are metrical, as in fact they commonly arein the older parts of the Avesta, and the rhythm somewhatrecalls the Kalevala verse of Longfellow’s ‘Hiawatha.’A specimen is here presented in translation:—

At the time of morning-worship
Haoma came to Zoroaster,
Who was serving at theFire
And the holy Psalmsintoning.

“What man artthou (asked the Prophet),
Who of all the worldmaterial
Art the fairest I havee’er seen
In my life, bright andimmortal?”

The image of the sacred plant responds, and bids thepriest prepare the holy extract.

Haoma then to me gaveanswer,
Haoma righteous, death-destroying:—
“Zoroaster, Iam Haoma,
Righteous Haoma, death-destroying.
Do thou gather me, Spitama,
And prepare me as apotion;
Praise me, aye as shallhereafter
In their praise theSaviors praise me.”

Zoroaster again inquires, wishing to know of the piousmen of old who worshiped Haoma and obtained blessingsfor their religious zeal. Among these, as islearned from Haoma, one was King Yima, whose reignwas the time of the Golden Age; those were the happydays when a father looked as young as his children.

In the reign of princelyYima,
Heat there was not,cold there was not,
Neither age nor deathexisted,
Nor disease the workof Demons;

Son and father walkedtogether
Fifteen years old, eachin figure,
Long as Vivanghvat’sson Yima,
The good Shepherd, ruledas sovereign.

For two chapters more, Haoma is extolled. Thenfollows the Avestan Creed (Yasna 12), a prose chapterthat was repeated by those who joined in the earlyZoroastrian faith, forsook the old marauding and nomadichabits that still characterize the modern Kurds, andadopted an agricultural habit of life, devoting themselvespeaceably to cattle-raising, irrigation, and cultivationof the fields. The greater part of the Yasnabook is of a liturgic or ritualistic nature, and neednot here be further described. Special mention,however, must be made of the middle section of theYasna, which is constituted by “the Five Gathas”(hymns, psalms), a division containing the seventeensacred psalms, sayings, sermons, or teachings of Zoroasterhimself. These Gathas form the oldest part ofthe entire canon of the Avesta. In them we seebefore our eyes the prophet of the new faith speakingwith the fervor of the Psalmist of the Bible.In them we feel the thrill of ardor that characterizesa new and struggling religious band; we are warmedby the burning zeal of the preacher of a church militant.Now, however, comes a cry of despondency, a momentof faint-heartedness at the present triumph of evil,at the success of the wicked and the misery of therighteous; but this gives way to a clarion burst ofhopefulness, the trumpet note of a prophet filledwith the promise of ultimate victory, the triumphof good over evil. The end of the world cannotbe far away; the final overthrow of Ahriman (AnraMainyu) by Ormazd (Ahura Mazda) is assured; the establishmentof a new order of things is certain; at the foundingof this “kingdom” the resurrection of thedead will take place and the life eternal will beentered upon.

The third Gatha, Yasna 30, may be chosen by way ofillustration. This is a sort of Mazdian Sermonon the Mount. Zoroaster preaches the doctrineof dualism, the warfare of good and evil in the world,and exhorts the faithful to choose aright and to combatSatan. The archangels Good Thought (Vohu Manah),Righteousness (Asha), Kingdom (Khshathra), appearas the helpers of Man (Maretan); for whose soul, asin the old English morality play, the Demons (Daevas)are contending. Allusions to the resurrectionand final judgment, and to the new dispensation, areeasily recognized in the spirited words of the prophet.A prose rendering of this metrical psalm is here attempted;the verse order, however, is preserved, though withoutrhythm.

A PSALM OF ZOROASTER: YASNA 30

Now shall I speak of things which yewho seek them shall bear in mind, Namely, thepraises of Ahura Mazda and the worship of GoodThought, And the joy of [lit. through] Righteousnesswhich is manifested through Light.

Hearken with your earsto what is best; with clear
understanding perceiveit.

Awakening to our advisingevery man, personally, of the
distinction Betweenthe two creeds, before the Great Event
[i.e., the Resurrection].

Now, Two Spirits primevalthere were twins which became known
through their activity,

To wit, the Good andthe Evil, in thought, word, and deed.
The wise have rightlydistinguished between these two; not so
the unwise.

And, now, when these Two Spirits firstcame together, they established Life and destruction,and ordained how the world hereafter shall be,To wit, the Worst World [Hell] for the wicked,but the Best Thought [Heaven] for the righteous.

The Wicked One [Ahriman] of these TwoSpirits chose to do evil, The Holiest Spirit[Ormazd]—who wears the solid heavensas a robe—chose Righteousness [Asha], And[so also those] who zealously gratified Ormazdby virtuous deeds.

Not rightly did the Demons distinguishthese Two Spirits; for Delusion came Upon them,as they were deliberating, so that they chosethe Worst Thought [Hell]. And away they rushedto Wrath [the Fiend] in order to corrupt thelife of Man [Maretan].

And to him [i.e., to Gaya Maretan]came Khshathra [Kingdom], Vohu Manah [Good Thought]and Asha [Righteousness], And Armaiti [Archangelof Earth] gave [to him] bodily endurance unceasingly;Of these, Thy [creatures], when Thou earnest withThy creations, he [i.e., Gaya Maretan] was the first.

But when the retribution of the sinfulshall come to pass, Then shall Good Thought distributeThy Kingdom, Shall fulfill it for those who shalldeliver Satan [Druj] into the hand of Righteousness[Asha].

And so may we be suchas make the world renewed, And may
Ahura Mazda and Righteousnesslend their aid, That our
thoughts may there be[set] where Faith is abiding.

For at the [final] Dispensation, theblow of annihilation to Satan shall come to pass;But those who participate in a good report [inthe Life Record] shall meet together In the happyhome of Good Thought, and of Mazda, and of Righteousness.

If, O ye men, ye mark these doctrineswhich Mazda gave, And [mark] the weal and thewoe—namely, the long torment of the wicked,And the welfare of the righteous—then inaccordance with these [doctrines] there willbe happiness hereafter.

The Visperad (all the masters) is a short collectionof prosaic invocations and laudations of sacred things.Its twenty-four sections form a supplement to theYasna. Whatever interest this division of theAvesta possesses lies entirely on the side of the ritual,and not in the field of literature. In this respectit differs widely from the book of the Yashts, whichis next to be mentioned.

The Yashts (praises of worship) form a poeticalbook of twenty-one hymns in which the angels of thereligion, “the worshipful ones” (Yazatas,Izads), are glorified, and the heroes of formerdays. Much of the material of the Yashts is evidentlydrawn from pre-Zoroastrian sagas which have been remodeledand adopted, worked over and modified, and incorporatedinto the canon of the new-founded religion. Thereis a mythological and legendary atmosphere about theYashts, and Firdausi’s ‘Shah Nameh’serves to throw light on many of the events portrayedin them, or allusions that would otherwise be obscure.All the longer Yashts are in verse, and some of themhave poetic merit. Chiefly to be mentioned amongthe longer ones are: first, the one in praiseof Ardvi Sura Anahita, or the stream celestial (Yt.5); second, the Yasht which exalts the star Tishtryaand his victory over the demon of drought (Yt. 8);then the one devoted to the Fravashis or glorifiedsouls of the righteous (Yt. 13) as well as the Yashtin honor of Verethraghna, the incarnation of Victory(Yt. 14). Selections from the others, Yt. 10 andYt. 19, which are among the noblest, are here given.

The first of the two chosen (Yt. 10) is dedicatedto the great divinity Mithra, the genius who presidesover light, truth, and the sun (Yt. 10, 13).

Foremost he, the celestialangel,
Mounts above Mount Hara(Alborz)
In advance of the sunimmortal
Which is drawn by fleetinghorses;
He it is, in gold adornment
First ascends the beauteoussummits
Thence beneficent heglances
Over all the abode ofAryans.

As the god of light and of truth and as one of thejudges of the dead, he rides out in lordly array tothe battle and takes an active part in the conflict,wreaking vengeance upon those who at any time in theirlife have spoken falsely, belied their oath, or brokentheir pledge. His war-chariot and panoply aredescribed in mingled lines of verse and prose, whichmay thus be rendered (Yt. 10, 128-132):—

By the side of Mithra’schariot,
Mithra, lord of thewide pastures,
Stand a thousand bowswell-fashioned
(The bow has a stringof cowgut).

By his chariot also are standing a thousand vulture-feathered,gold-notched, lead-poised, well-fashioned arrows (thebarb is of iron); likewise a thousand spears well-fashionedand sharp-piercing, and a thousand steel battle-axes,two-edged and well-fashioned; also a thousand bronzeclubs well-fashioned.

And by Mithra’schariot also
Stands a mace, fairand well-striking,
With a hundred knobsand edges,
Dashing forward, fellingheroes;
Out of golden bronze’tis molded.

The second illustrative extract will be taken fromYasht 19, which magnifies in glowing strains the praisesof the Kingly Glory. This “kingly glory”(kavaem hvareno) is a sort of halo, radiance,or mark of divine right, which was believed to bepossessed by the kings and heroes of Iran in the longline of its early history. One hero who borethe glory was the mighty warrior Thraetaona (Feridun),the vanquisher of the serpent-monster Azhi Dahaka(Zohak), who was depopulating the world by his fearfuldaily banquet of the brains of two children. Thevictory was a glorious triumph for Thraetaona (Yt.19, 37):—

He who slew Azhi Dahaka,
Three-jawed monster,triple-headed,
With six eyes and myriadsenses,
Fiend demoniac, fullof power,
Evil to the world, andwicked.
This fiend full of power,the Devil
Anra Mainyu had created,
Fatal to the world material,
Deadly to the worldof Righteousness.

Of equal puissance was another noble champion, thevaliant Keresaspa, who dispatched a raging demon who,though not yet grown to man’s estate, was threateningthe world. The monster’s thrasonical boastingis thus given (Yt. 19, 43):—

I am yet only a stripling,
But if ever I come tomanhood
I shall make the earthmy chariot
And shall make a wheelof heaven.
I shall drive the HolySpirit
Down from out the shiningheaven,
I shall rout the EvilSpirit
Up from out the darkabysm;
They as steeds shalldraw my chariot,
God and Devil yokedtogether.

Passing over a collection of shorter petitions, praises,and blessings which may conveniently be grouped togetheras ‘Minor Prayers,’ for they answer somewhatto our idea of a daily manual of morning devotion,we may turn to the Vendidad (law against the demons),the Iranian Pentateuch. Tradition asserts thatin the Vendidad we have preserved a specimen of oneof the original Nasks. This may be true, but eventhe superficial student will see that it is in anycase a fragmentary remnant. Interesting as theVendidad is to the student of early rites, observances,manners, and customs, it is nevertheless a barren fieldfor the student of literature, who will find in itlittle more than wearisome prescriptions like certainchapters of Leviticus, Numbers, and Deuteronomy.It need only be added that at the close of the colloquybetween Zoroaster and Ormazd given in Vend. 6, he willfind the origin of the modern Parsi “Towersof Silence.”

Among the Avestan Fragments, attention might finallybe called to one which we must be glad has not beenlost. It is an old metrical bit (Frag. 4, 1-3)in praise of the Airyama Ishya Prayer (Yt. 54, 1).This is the prayer that shall be intoned by the Saviorand his companions at the end of the world, when theresurrection will take place; and it will serve asa sort of last trump, at the sound of which the deadrise from their graves and evil is banished from theworld. Ormazd himself says to Zoroaster (Frag.4, 1-3):—

The Airyama Ishya prayer,I tell thee,
Upright, holy Zoroaster,
Is the greatest of allprayers.
Verily among all prayers
It is this one whichI gifted
With revivifying powers.

This prayer shall theSaoshyants, Saviors,
Chant, and at the chantingof it
I shall rule over mycreatures,
I who am Ahura Mazda.
Not shall Ahriman havepower,
Anra Mainyu, o’ermy creatures,
He (the fiend) of foulreligion.
In the earth shall Ahrimanhide,
In the earth the demonshide.
Up the dead again shallrise,
And within their lifelessbodies
Incorporate life shallbe restored.

Inadequate as brief extracts must be to representthe sacred books of a people, the citations here givenwill serve to show that the Avesta which is stillrecited in solemn tones by the white-robed priestsof Bombay, the modern representatives of Zoroaster,the Prophet of ancient days, is a survival not withoutvalue to those who appreciate whatever has been preservedfor us of the world’s earlier literature.For readers who are interested in the subject thereare several translations of the Avesta. The best(except for the Gathas, where the translation is weak)is the French version by Darmesteter, ‘Le ZendAvesta,’ published in the ‘Annales duMusee Guimet’ (Paris, 1892-93). An Englishrendering by Darmesteter and Mills is contained inthe ‘Sacred Books of the East,’ Vols.iv., xxiii., xxxi.

[Illustration: Signature: A.V. WilliamsJackson]

A PRAYER FOR KNOWLEDGE

This I ask Thee, O Ahura! tell me aright: whenpraise is to be offered, how shall I complete thepraise of the One like You, O Mazda? Let theOne like Thee declare it earnestly to the friend whois such as I, thus through Thy Righteousness withinus to offer friendly help to us, so that the One likeThee may draw near us through Thy Good Mind withinthe Soul.

2. This I ask Thee, O Ahura! tell me aright how,in pleasing Him, may we serve the Supreme One of thebetter world; yea, how to serve that chief who maygrant us those blessings of his grace and who willseek for grateful requitals at our hands; for He,bountiful as He is through the Righteous Order, willhold off ruin from us all, guardian as He is for boththe worlds, O Spirit Mazda! and a friend.

3. This I ask Thee, O Ahura! tell me aright:Who by generation is the first father of the RighteousOrder within the world? Who gave the recurringsun and stars their undeviating way? Who establishedthat whereby the moon waxes, and whereby she wanes,save Thee? These things, O Great Creator! wouldI know, and others likewise still.

4. This I ask Thee, O Ahura! tell me aright:Who from beneath hath sustained the earth and theclouds above that they do not fall? Who madethe waters and the plants? Who to the wind hasyoked on the storm-clouds the swift and fleetest two?Who, O Great Creator! is the inspirer of the goodthoughts within our souls?

5. This I ask Thee, O Ahura! tell me aright:Who, as a skillful artisan, hath made the lights andthe darkness? Who, as thus skillful, hath madesleep and the zest of waking hours? Who spreadthe Auroras, the noontides and midnight, monitorsto discerning man, duty’s true guides?

6. This I ask Thee, O Ahura! tell me aright thesethings which I shall speak forth, if they are trulythus. Doth the Piety which we cherish in realityincrease the sacred orderliness within our actions?To these Thy true saints hath she given the Realmthrough the Good Mind? For whom hast thou madethe Mother-kine, the produce of joy?

7. This I ask Thee, O Ahura! tell me aright:Who fashioned Aramaiti (our piety) the beloved, togetherwith Thy Sovereign Power? Who, through his guidingwisdom, hath made the son revering the father?Who made him beloved? With questions such asthese, so abundant, O Mazda! I press Thee, Obountiful Spirit, Thou maker of all!

Yasna xliv.: Translation of L.H. Mills.

THE ANGEL OF DIVINE OBEDIENCE

We worship Sraosha [Obedience] the blessed, whom fourracers draw in harness, white and shining, beautifuland (27) powerful, quick to learn and fleet, obeyingbefore speech, heeding orders from the mind, withtheir hoofs of horn gold-covered, (28) fleeter than[our] horses, swifter than the winds, more rapid thanthe rain [drops as they fall]; yea, fleeter than theclouds, or well-winged birds, or the well-shot arrowas it flies, (29) which overtake these swift ones all,as they fly after them pursuing, but which are neverovertaken when they flee, which plunge away from boththe weapons [hurled on this side and on that] anddraw Sraosha with them, the good Sraosha and the blessed;which from both the weapons [those on this side andon that] bear the good Obedience the blessed, plungingforward in their zeal, when he takes his course fromIndia on the East and when he lights down in the West.

Yasna lvii. 27-29: Translation of L.H. Mills.

TO THE FIRE

I offer my sacrifice and homage to thee, the Fire,as a good offering, and an offering with our hailof salvation, even as an offering of praise with benedictions,to thee, the Fire, O Ahura, Mazda’s son!Meet for sacrifice art thou, and worthy of [our] homage.And as meet for sacrifice, and thus worthy of ourhomage, may’st thou be in the houses of men[who worship Mazda]. Salvation be to this manwho worships thee in verity and truth, with wood inhand and baresma [sacred twigs] ready, with fleshin hand and holding too the mortar. 2. And maystthou be [ever] fed with wood as the prescription orders.Yea, mayst thou have thy perfume justly, and thy sacredbutter without fail, and thine andirons regularlyplaced. Be of full age as to thy nourishment,of the canon’s age as to the measure of thyfood. O Fire, Ahura, Mazda’s son! 3.Be now aflame within this house; be ever without failin flame; be all ashine within this house: forlong time be thou thus to the furtherance of the heroic[renovation], to the completion of [all] progress,yea, even till the good heroic [millennial] time whenthat renovation shall have become complete. 4.Give me, O Fire, Ahura, Mazda’s son! a speedyglory, speedy nourishment and speedy booty and abundantglory, abundant nourishment, abundant booty, an expandedmind, and nimbleness of tongue and soul and understanding,even an understanding continually growing in its largeness,and that never wanders. Yasna lxii. 1-4:Translation of L.H. Mills.

THE GODDESS OF THE WATERS

Offer up a sacrifice unto this spring of mine, ArdviSura Anahita (the exalted, mighty, and undefiled,image of the (128) stream celestial), who stands carriedforth in the shape of a maid, fair of body, most strong,tall-formed, high-girded, pure, nobly born of a gloriousrace, wearing a mantle fully embroidered with gold.129. Ever holding the baresma in her hand, accordingto the rules; she wears square golden ear-rings onher ears bored, and a golden necklace around her beautifulneck, she, the nobly born Ardvi Sura Anahita; and shegirded her waist tightly, so that her breasts maybe well shaped, that they may be tightly pressed.128. Upon her head Ardvi Sura Anahita bound agolden crown, with a hundred stars, with eight rays,a fine well-made crown, with fillets streaming down.129. She is clothed with garments of beaver,Ardvi Sura Anahita; with the skin of thirty beavers,of those that bear four young ones, that are the finestkind of beavers; for the skin of the beaver that livesin water is the finest colored of all skins, and whenworked at the right time it shines to the eye withfull sheen of silver and gold. Yasht v. 126-129:Translation of J. Darmesteter.

GUARDIAN SPIRITS

We worship the good, strong, beneficent Fravashis[guardian spirits] of the faithful; with helms ofbrass, with weapons (45) of brass, with armor of brass;who struggle in the fights for victory in garmentsof light, arraying the battles and bringing them forwards,to kill thousands of Daevas [demons]. 46. Whenthe wind blows from behind them and brings their breathunto men, then men know where blows the breath ofvictory: and they pay pious homage unto the good,strong, beneficent Fravashis of the faithful, withtheir hearts prepared and their arms uplifted. 47.Whichever side they have been first worshiped in thefulness of faith of a devoted heart, to that side turnthe awful Fravashis of the faithful along with Mithra[angel of truth and light] and Rashnu [Justice] andthe awful cursing thought of the wise and the victoriouswind.

Yasht xiii. 45-47: Translation of J. Darmesteter.

AN ANCIENT SINDBAD

The manly-hearted Keresaspa was the sturdiest of themen of strength, for Manly Courage clave unto him.We worship [this] Manly Courage, firm of foot, unsleeping,quick to rise, and fully awake, that clave unto Keresaspa[the hero], who killed the snake Srvara, the horse-devouring,man-devouring, yellow poisonous snake, over which yellowpoison flowed a thumb’s breadth thick.Upon him Kerasaspa was cooking his food in a brassvessel, at the time of noon. The fiend felt theheat and darted away; he rushed from under the brassvessel and upset the boiling water: the manly-heartedKeresaspa fell back affrighted.

Yasht xix. 38-40: Translation of J. Darmesteter.

THE WISE MAN

Verily I say it unto thee, O Spitama Zoroaster! theman who has a wife is far above him who lives in continence;he who keeps a house is far above him who has none;he who has children is far above the childless man;he who has riches is far above him who has none.

And of two men, he who fills himself with meat receivesin him good spirit [Vohu Mano] much more than he whodoes not do so; the latter is all but dead; the formeris above him by the worth of a sheep, by the worthof an ox, by the worth of a man.

It is this man that can strive against the onsetsof death; that can strive against the well-dartedarrow; that can strive against the winter fiend withthinnest garment on; that can strive against the wickedtyrant and smite him on the head; it is this man thatcan strive against the ungodly fasting Ashemaogha[the fiends and heretics who do not eat].

Vendidad iv. 47-49: Translation of J. Darmesteter.

INVOCATION TO RAIN

“Come on, O clouds, along the sky, through theair, down on the earth, by thousands of drops, bymyriads of drops,” thus say, O holy Zoroaster!“to destroy sickness altogether, to destroy deathaltogether, to destroy altogether the sickness madeby the Gaini, to destroy altogether the death madeby Gaini, to destroy altogether Gadha and Apagadha.

“If death come at eve, may healing come at daybreak!

“If death come at daybreak, may healing comeat night!

“If death come at night, may healing come atdawn!

“Let showers shower down new waters, new earth,new trees, new health, and new healing powers.”

Vendidad xxi. 2: Translation of J. Darmesteter.

A PRAYER FOR HEALING

Ahura Mazda spake unto Spitama Zoroaster, saying,“I, Ahura Mazda, the Maker of all good things,when I made this mansion, the beautiful, the shining,seen afar (there may I go up, there may I arrive)!”

Then the ruffian looked at me; the ruffian Anra Mainyu,the deadly, wrought against me nine diseases and ninety,and nine hundred, and nine thousand, and nine timesten thousand diseases. So mayest thou heal me,O Holy Word, thou most glorious one!

Unto thee will I give in return a thousand fleet,swift-running steeds; I offer thee up a sacrifice,O good Saoka, made by Mazda and holy.

Unto thee will I give in return a thousand fleet,high-humped camels; I offer thee up a sacrifice, Ogood Saoka, made by Mazda and holy.

Unto thee will I give in return a thousand brown faultlessoxen; I offer thee up a sacrifice, O good Saoka, madeby Mazda and holy.

Unto thee will I give in return a thousand young ofall species of small cattle; I offer thee up a sacrifice,O good Saoka, made by Mazda and holy.

And I will bless thee with the fair blessing-spellof the righteous, the friendly blessing-spell of therighteous, that makes the empty swell to fullnessand the full to overflowing, that comes to help himwho was sickening, and makes the sick man sound again.Vendidad xxii. 1-5: Translation of J. Darmesteter.

FRAGMENT

All good thoughts, and all good words, and all gooddeeds are thought and spoken and done with intelligence;and all evil thoughts and words and deeds are thoughtand spoken and done with folly.

2. And let [the men who think and speak and do]all good thoughts and words and deeds inhabit Heaven[as their home]. And let those who think andspeak and do evil thoughts and words and deeds abidein Hell. For to all who think good thoughts,speak good words, and do good deeds, Heaven, the bestworld, belongs. And this is evident and as ofcourse. Avesta, Fragment iii.: Translationof L.H. Mills.

AVICEBRON

(1028-? 1058)

Avicebron, or Avicebrol (properly Solomon ben Judahibn Gabirol), one of the most famous of Jewish poets,and the most original of Jewish thinkers, was bornat Cordova, in Spain, about A.D. 1028. Of theevents of his life we know little; and it was onlyin 1845 that Munk, in the ‘Literaturblatt desOrient,’ proved the Jewish poet Ibn Gabirol tobe one and the same person with Avicebron, so oftenquoted by the Schoolmen as an Arab philosopher.He was educated at Saragossa, spent some years atMalaga, and died, hardly thirty years old, about 1058.His disposition seems to have been rather melancholy.

Of his philosophic works, which were written in Arabic,by far the most important, and that which lent lustreto his name, was the ’Fountain of Life’;a long treatise in the form of a dialogue between teacherand pupil, on what was then regarded as the fundamentalquestion in philosophy, the nature and relations ofMatter and Form. The original, which seems neverto have been popular with either Jews or Arabs, isnot known to exist; but there exists a complete Latintranslation (the work having found appreciation amongChristians), which has recently been edited with greatcare by Professor Baeumker of Breslau, under the title’Avencebrolis Fons Vitae, ex Arabico in Latinumtranslatus ab Johanne Hispano et Dominico Gundissalino’(Muenster, 1895). There is also a series of extractsfrom it in Hebrew. Besides this, he wrote a half-popularwork, ‘On the Improvement of Character,’in which he brings the different virtues into relationwith the five senses. He is, further, the reputedauthor of a work ‘On the Soul,’ and thereputed compiler of a famous anthology, ‘A Choiceof Pearls,’ which appeared, with an Englishtranslation by B.H. Ascher, in London, in 1859.In his poetry, which, like that of other mediaevalHebrew poets, Moses ben Ezra, Judah Halevy, etc.,is partly liturgical, partly worldly, he abandonsnative forms, such as we find in the Psalms, and followsartificial Arabic models, with complicated rhythmsand rhyme, unsuited to Hebrew, which, unlike Arabic,is poor in inflections. Nevertheless, many ofhis liturgical pieces are still used in the servicesof the synagogue, while his worldly ditties find admirerselsewhere. (See A. Geiger, ’Ibn Gabirol undseine Dichtungen,’ Leipzig, 1867.)

The philosophy of Ibn Gabirol is a compound of Hebrewmonotheism and that Neo-Platonic Aristotelianism whichfor two hundred years had been current in the Muslimschools at Bagdad, Basra, etc., and which thelearned Jews were largely instrumental in carryingto the Muslims of Spain. For it must never beforgotten that the great translators and intellectualpurveyors of the Middle Ages were the Jews. (See Steinschneider,’Die Hebraeischen Uebersetzungen des Mittelalters,und die Juden als Dolmetscher,’ 2 vols., Berlin,1893.)

The aim of Ibn Gabirol, like that of the other threenoted Hebrew thinkers, Philo, Maimonides, and Spinoza,was—given God, to account for creation;and this he tried to do by means of Neo-Platonic Aristotelianism,such as he found in the Pseudo-Pythagoras, Pseudo-Empedocles,Pseudo-Aristotelian ‘Theology’ (an abstractfrom Plotinus), and ‘Book on Causes’ (anabstract from Proclus’s ’Institutio Theologica’).It is well known that Aristotle, who made God a “thinkingof thinking,” and placed matter, as somethingeternal, over against him, never succeeded in bringingGod into effective connection with the world (seeK. Elser, ‘Die Lehredes Aristotles ueber dasWirken Gottes,’ Muenster, 1893); and this defect

the Greeks never afterward remedied until the timeof Plotinus, who, without propounding a doctrine ofemanation, arranged the universe as a hierarchy ofexistence, beginning with the Good, and descendingthrough correlated Being and Intelligence, to Soulor Life, which produces Nature with all its multiplicity,and so stands on “the horizon” betweenundivided and divided being. In the famous encyclopaediaof the “Brothers of Purity,” written inthe East about A.D. 1000, and representing Muslimthought at its best, the hierarchy takes this form:God, Intelligence, Soul, Primal Matter, SecondaryMatter, World, Nature, the Elements, Material Things.(See Dieterici, ‘Die Philosophic der Araberim X. Jahrhundert n. Chr.,’ 2 vols., Leipzig,1876-79.) In the hands of Ibn Gabirol, this is transformedthus: God, Will, Primal Matter, Form, Intelligence,Soul—vegetable, animal, rational, Nature,the source of the visible world. If we comparethese hierarchies, we shall see that Ibn Gabirol makestwo very important changes: first, he introducesan altogether new element, viz., the Will; second,instead of placing Intelligence second in rank, nextto God, he puts Will, Matter, and Form before it.Thus, whereas the earliest thinkers, drawing on Aristotle,had sought for an explanation of the world in Intelligence,he seeks for it in Will, thus approaching the standpointof Schopenhauer. Moreover, whereas they had madeMatter and Form originate in Intelligence, he includesthe latter, together with the material world, amongthings compounded of Matter and Form. Hence,everything, save God and His Will, which is but theexpression of Him, is compounded of Matter and Form(cf. Dante, ‘Paradiso,’ i. 104 seq.).Had he concluded from this that God, in order to occupythis exceptional position, must be pure matter (orsubstance), he would have reached the standpoint ofSpinoza. As it is, he stands entirely alone inthe Middle Age, in making the world the product ofWill, and not of Intelligence, as the Schoolmen andthe classical philosophers of Germany held.

The ‘Fountain of Life’ is divided intofive books, whose subjects are as follows:—I.Matter and Form, and their various kinds. II.Matter as the bearer of body, and the subject of thecategories. III. Separate Substances, inthe created intellect, standing between God and theWorld. IV. Matter and Form in simple substances.V. Universal Matter and Universal Form, with a discussionof the Divine Will, which, by producing and unitingMatter and Form, brings being out of non-being, andso is the ‘Fountain of Life.’ Thoughthe author is influenced by Jewish cosmogony, hissystem, as such, is almost purely Neo-Platonic.It remains one of the most considerable attempts thathave ever been made to find in spirit the explanationof the world; not only making all matter at bottomone, but also maintaining that while form is due tothe divine will, matter is due to the divine essence,so that both are equally spiritual. It is especiallyinteresting as showing us, by contrast, how far Christianthinking, which rested on much the same foundationwith it, was influenced and confined by Christian dogmas,especially by those of the Trinity and the Incarnation.

Ibn Gabirol’s thought exerted a profound influence,not only on subsequent Hebrew thinkers, like Josephben Saddig, Maimonides, Spinoza, but also on the ChristianSchoolmen, by whom he is often quoted, and on GiordanoBruno. Through Spinoza and Bruno this influencehas passed into the modern world, where it still lives.Dante, though naming many Arab philosophers, neveralludes to Ibn Gabirol; yet he borrowed more of hissublimest thoughts from the ‘Fountain of Life’than from any other book. (Cf. Ibn Gabirol’s‘Bedeutung fuer die Geschichte der Philosophie,’appendix to Vol. i. of M. Joel’s ‘Beitraegezur Gesch. der Philos.,’ Breslau, 1876.) Ifwe set aside the hypostatic form in which Ibn Gabirolputs forward his ideas, we shall find a remarkablesimilarity between his system and that of Kant, notto speak of that of Schopenhauer. For the wholesubject, see J. Guttman’s ’Die Philosophicdes Salomon Ibn Gabirol’ (Goettingen, 1889).

ON MATTER AND FORM

From the ‘Fountain of Life,’ Fifth Treatise

Intelligence is finite in both directions: onthe upper side, by reason of will, which is aboveit; on the lower, by reason of matter, which is outsideof its essence. Hence, spiritual substances arefinite with respect to matter, because they differthrough it, and distinction is the cause of finitude;in respect to forms they are infinite on the lowerside, because one form flows from another. Andwe must bear in mind that that part of matter whichis above heaven, the more it ascends from it to theprinciple of creation, becomes the more spiritual inform, whereas that part which descends lower than theheaven toward quiet will be more corporeal in form.Matter, intelligence, and soul comprehend heaven,and heaven comprehends the elements. And justas, if you imagine your soul standing at the extremeheight of heaven, and looking back upon the earth,the earth will seem but a point, in comparison withthe heaven, so are corporeal and spiritual substancein comparison with the will. And first matteris stable in the knowledge of God, as the earth inthe midst of heaven. And the form diffused throughit is as the light diffused through the air....

We must bear in mind that the unity induced by thewill (we might say, the will itself) binds matterto form. Hence that union is stable, firm, andperpetual from the beginning of its creation; and thusunity sustains all things.

Matter is movable, in order that it may receive form,in conformity with its appetite for receiving goodnessand delight through the reception of form. Inlike manner, everything that is, desires to move,in order that it may attain something of the goodnessof the primal being; and the nearer anything is tothe primal being, the more easily it reaches this,and the further off it is, the more slowly and withthe longer motion and time it does so. And themotion of matter and other substances is nothing but

appetite and love for the mover toward which it moves,as, for example, matter moves toward form, throughdesire for the primal being; for matter requires lightfrom that which is in the essence of will, which compelsmatter to move toward will and to desire it:and herein will and matter are alike. And becausematter is receptive of the form that has flowed downinto it by the flux of violence and necessity, mattermust necessarily move to receive form; and thereforethings are constrained by will and obedience in turn.Hence by the light which it has from will, matter movestoward will and desires it; but when it receives form,it lacks nothing necessary for knowing and desiringit, and nothing remains for it to seek for. Forexample, in the morning the air has an imperfect splendorfrom the sun; but at noon it has a perfect splendor,and there remains nothing for it to demand of thesun. Hence the desire for the first motion isa likeness between all substances and the first Maker,because it is impressed upon all things to move towardthe first; because particular matter desires particularform, and the matter of plants and animals, which,in generating, move toward the forms of plants andanimals, are also influenced by the particular formacting in them. In like manner the sensible soulmoves toward sensible forms, and the rational soulto intelligible forms, because the particular soul,which is called the first intellect, while it is inits principle, is susceptible of form; but when itshall have received the form of universal intelligence,which is the second intellect, and shall become intelligence,then it will be strong to act, and will be calledthe second intellect; and since particular souls havesuch a desire, it follows that universal souls musthave a desire for universal forms. The same thingmust be said of natural matter,—that is,the substance which sustains the nine categories;because this matter moves to take on the first qualities,then to the mineral form, then to the vegetable, thento the sensible, then to the rational, then to theintelligible, until at last it is united to the formof universal intelligence. And this primal matterdesires primal form; and all things that are, desireunion and commixture, that so they may be assimilatedto their principle; and therefore, genera, species,differentiae, and contraries are united through somethingin singulars.

Thus, matter is like an empty schedule and a wax tablet;whereas form is like a painted shape and words setdown, from which the reader reaches the end of science.And when the soul knows these, it desires to knowthe wonderful painter of them, to whose essence itis impossible to ascend. Thus matter and formare the two closed gates of intelligence, which itis hard for intelligence to open and pass through,because the substance of intelligence is below them,and made up of them. And when the soul has subtilizeditself, until it can penetrate them, it arrives atthe word, that is, at perfect will; and then its motionceases, and its joy remains.

An analogy to the fact that the universal will actualizesuniversal form in the matter of intelligence is thefact that the particular will actualizes the particularform in the soul without time, and life and essentialmotion in the matter of the soul, and local motionand other motions in the matter of nature. Butall these motions are derived from the will; and soall things are moved by the will, just as the soulcauses rest or motion in the body according to itswill. And this motion is different accordingto the greater or less proximity of things to thewill. And if we remove action from the will, thewill will be identical with the primal essence; whereas,with action, it is different from it. Hence,will is as the painter of all forms; the matter ofeach thing as a tablet; and the form of each thingas the picture on the tablet. It binds form tomatter, and is diffused through the whole of matter,from highest to lowest, as the soul through the body;and as the virtue of the sun, diffusing its light,unites with the light, and with it descends into theair, so the virtue of the will unites with the formwhich it imparts to all things, and descends with it.On this ground it is said that the first cause isin all things, and that there is nothing without it.

The will holds all things together by means of form;whence we likewise say that form holds all thingstogether. Thus, form is intermediate betweenwill and matter, receiving from will, and giving tomatter. And will acts without time or motion,through its own might. If the action of souland intelligence, and the infusion of light are instantaneous,much more so is that of will.

Creation comes from the high creator, and is an emanation,like the issue of water flowing from its source; butwhereas water follows water without intermission orrest, creation is without motion or time. Thesealing of form upon matter, as it flows in from thewill, is like the sealing or reflection of a formin a mirror, when it is seen. And as sense receivesthe form of the felt without the matter, so everythingthat acts upon another acts solely through its ownform, which it simply impresses upon that other.Hence genus, species, differentia, property, accident,and all forms in matter are merely an impression madeby wisdom.

The created soul is gifted with the knowledge whichis proper to it; but after it is united to the body,it is withdrawn from receiving those impressions whichare proper to it, by reason of the very darkness ofthe body, covering and extinguishing its light, andblurring it, just as in the case of a clear mirror:when dense substance is put over it its light is obscured.And therefore God, by the subtlety of his substance,formed this world, and arranged it according to thismost beautiful order, in which it is, and equippedthe soul with senses, wherein, when it uses them,that which is hidden in it is manifested in act; andthe soul, in apprehending sensible things, is likea man who sees many things, and when he departs fromthem, finds that nothing remains with him but thevision of imagination and memory.

We must also bear in mind that, while matter is madeby essence, form is made by will. And it is saidthat matter is the seat of God, and that will, thegiver of form, sits on it and rests upon it. Andthrough the knowledge of these things we ascend tothose things which are behind them, that is, to thecause why there is anything; and this is a knowledgeof the world of deity, which is the greatest whole:whatever is below it is very small in comparison withit.

ROBERT AYTOUN

(1570-1638)

This Scottish poet was born in his father’scastle of Kinaldie, near St. Andrews, Fifeshire, in1570. He was descended from the Norman familyof De Vescy, a younger son of which settled in Scotlandand received from Robert Bruce the lands of Aytounin Berwickshire. Kincardie came into the familyabout 1539. Robert Aytoun was educated at St.Andrews, taking his degree in 1588, traveled on theContinent like other wealthy Scottish gentlemen, andstudied law at the University of Paris. Returningin 1603, he delighted James I. by a Latin poem congratulatinghim on his accession to the English throne. Thereuponthe poet received an invitation to court as Groomof the Privy Chamber. He rose rapidly, was knightedin 1612, and made Gentleman of the Bedchamber to KingJames and private secretary to Queen Anne. WhenCharles I. ascended the throne, Aytoun was retained,and held many important posts. According to Aubrey,“he was acquainted with all the witts of histime in England.” Sir Robert was essentiallya court poet, and belonged to the cultivated circleof Scottish favorites that James gathered around him;yet there is no mention of him in the gossipy diariesof the period, and almost none in the State papers.He seems, however, to have been popular: BenJonson boasts that Aytoun “loved me dearly.”It is not surprising that his mild verses should havefaded in the glorious light of the contemporary poets.

[Illustration: ROBERT AYTOUN]

He wrote in Greek and French, and many of his Latinpoems were published under the title ‘DelitiaePoetarum Scotorum’ (Amsterdam, 1637). HisEnglish poems on such themes as a ‘Love Dirge,’‘The Poet Forsaken,’ ‘The Lover’sRemonstrance,’ ‘Address to an InconstantMistress,’ etc., do not show depth of emotion.He says of himself:—

“Yet have I beena lover by report,
Yea, I havedied for love as others do;
But praised be God,it was in such a sort
That I revivedwithin an hour or two.”

The lines beginning “I do confess thou’rtsmooth and fair,” quoted below with their adaptationby Burns, do not appear in his MSS., collected byhis heir Sir John Aytoun, nor in the edition of hisworks with a memoir prepared by Dr. Charles Rogers,published in Edinburgh in 1844 and reprinted privatelyin 1871. Dean Stanley, in his ’Memorialsof Westminster Abbey,’ accords to him the originalof ‘Auld Lang Syne,’ which Rogers includesin his edition. Burns’s song follows theversion attributed to Francis Temple.

Aytoun passed his entire life in luxury, died in WhitehallPalace in 1638, and was the first Scottish poet buriedin Westminster Abbey. His memorial bust was takenfrom a portrait by Vandyke.

INCONSTANCY UPBRAIDED

I loved thee once, I’lllove no more;
Thine be the grief as is the blame:
Thou art not what thou wast before,
What reason I should be the same?
He that can love unloved again,
Hath better store of love than brain;
God send me love my debts to pay,
While unthrifts fool their love away.

Nothing could have my love o’erthrown,
If thou hadst still continued mine;
Yea, if thou hadst remained thy own,
I might perchance have yet been thine.
But thou thy freedom didst recall,
That it thou might elsewhere inthrall;
And then how could I but disdain
A captive’s captive to remain?

When new desires had conqueredthee,
And changed the object of thy will,
It had been lethargy in me,
Not constancy, to love thee still.
Yea, it had been a sin to go
And prostitute affection so;
Since we are taught no prayers to say
To such as must to others pray.

Yet do thou glory in thy choice,
Thy choice of his good fortune boast;
I’ll neither grieve nor yet rejoice
To see him gain what I have lost.
The height of my disdain shall be
To laugh at him, to blush for thee;
To love thee still, but go no more
A-begging to a beggar’s door.

LINES TO AN INCONSTANT MISTRESS

I do confess thou’rt smoothand fair,
And I might have gone near to love thee,
Had I not found the slightest prayer
That lips could speak had power to move thee.
But I can let thee now alone,
As worthy to be loved by none.

I do confess thou’rt sweet,yet find
Thee such an unthrift of thy sweets,
Thy favors are but like the wind
Which kisseth everything it meets!
And since thou canst love more than one,
Thou’rt worthy to be loved by none.

The morning rose that untouchedstands,
Armed with her briers, how sweet she smells!
But plucked and strained through ruder hands,
Her scent no longer with her dwells.
But scent and beauty both are gone,
And leaves fall from her one by one.

Such fate ere long will thee betide,
When thou hast handled been awhile,
Like fair flowers to be thrown aside;
And thou shalt sigh while I shall smile,
To see thy love to every one
Hath brought thee to be loved by none.

BURNS’S ADAPTATION

I do confess thou art sae fair,
I wad been ower the lugs in love
Had I na found the slightest prayer
That lips could speak, thy heart could move.
I do confess thee sweet—but find
Thou art sae thriftless o’ thy sweets,
Thy favors are the silly wind,
That kisses ilka thing it meets.
See yonder rosebud rich in dew,
Among its native briers sae coy,
How sune it tines its scent and hue
When pu’d and worn a common toy.
Sic fate, ere lang, shall thee betide,
Tho’ thou may gaily bloom awhile;
Yet sune thou shalt be thrown aside
Like any common weed and vile.

WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN

(1813-1865)

Aytoun the second, balladist, humorist, and Tory,in proportions of about equal importance,—oneof the group of wits and devotees of the statusquo who made Blackwood’s Magazine so famousin its early days,—was born in Edinburgh,June 21st, 1813. He was the son of Roger Aytoun,“writer to the Signet”; and a descendantof Sir Robert Aytoun (1570-1638), the poet and friendof Ben Jonson, who followed James VI. from Scotlandand who is buried in Westminster Abbey. Both Aytoun’sparents were literary. His mother, who knew SirWalter Scott, and who gave Lockhart many details forhis biography, helped the lad in his poems. Sheseemed to him to know all the ballads ever sung.His earliest verses were praised by Professor JohnWilson ("Christopher North"), the first editor ofBlackwood’s, whose daughter he married in 1849.At the age of nineteen he published his ‘Poland,Homer, and Other Poems’ (Edinburgh, 1832).After leaving the University of Edinburgh, he studiedlaw in London, visited Germany, and returning to Scotland,was called to the bar in 1840. He disliked theprofession, and used to say that though he followedthe law he never could overtake it.

While in Germany he translated the first part of ‘Faust’in blank verse, which was never published. Manyof his translations from Uhland and Homer appearedin Blackwood’s from 1836 to 1840, and many ofhis early writings were signed “Augustus Dunshunner.”In 1844 he joined the editorial staff of Blackwood’s,to which for many years he contributed political articles,verse, translations of Goethe, and humorous sketches.In 1845 he became Professor of Rhetoric and Literaturein the University of Edinburgh, a place which he helduntil 1864. About 1841 he became acquainted withTheodore Martin, and in association with him wrotea series of light papers interspersed with burlesqueverses, which, reprinted from Blackwood’s, becamepopular as the ’Bon Gaultier Ballads.’Published in London in 1855, they reached their thirteenthedition in 1877.

“Some papers of a humorous kind,which I had published under the nom de plumeof Bon Gaultier,” says Theodore Martin in his‘Memoir of Aytoun,’ “had hit Aytoun’sfancy; and when I proposed to go on with othersin a similar vein, he fell readily into the plan,and agreed to assist in it. In this waya kind of a Beaumont-and-Fletcher partnership commencedin a series of humorous papers, which appearedin Tait’s and Fraser’s magazinesfrom 1842 to 1844. In these papers, in whichwe ran a-tilt, with all the recklessness of youthfulspirits, against such of the tastes or folliesof the day as presented an opening for ridiculeor mirth,—at the same time that wedid not altogether lose sight of a purpose higherthan mere amusement,—appeared the verses,with a few exceptions, which subsequently becamepopular, and to a degree we then little contemplated,as the ’Bon Gaultier Ballads.’Some of the best of these were exclusively Aytoun’s,such as ‘The Massacre of the McPherson,’’The Rhyme of Sir Launcelot Bogle,’‘The Broken Pitcher,’ ’The Red Friarand Little John,’ ‘The Lay of Mr.Colt,’ and that best of all imitationsof the Scottish ballad, ‘The Queen in France.’Some were wholly mine, and the rest were producedby us jointly. Fortunately for our purpose,there were then living not a few poets whosestyle and manner of thought were sufficientlymarked to make imitation easy, and sufficiently popularfor a parody of their characteristics to be readilyrecognized. Macaulay’s ‘Laysof Rome’ and his two other fine balladswere still in the freshness of their fame. Lockhart’s‘Spanish Ballads’ were as familiarin the drawing-room as in the study. Tennysonand Mrs. Browning were opening up new veins ofpoetry. These, with Wordsworth, Moore, Uhland,and others of minor note, lay ready to our hands,—asScott, Byron, Crabbe, Coleridge, Wordsworth,and Southey had done to James and Horace Smithin 1812, when writing the ’Rejected Addresses.’Never, probably, were verses thrown off with a keenersense of enjoyment.”

With Theodore Martin he published also ‘Poemsand Ballads of Goethe’ (London, 1858).Mr. Aytoun’s fame as a poet rests on his ’Laysof the Cavaliers,’ the themes of which are selectedfrom stirring incidents of Scottish history, rangingfrom Flodden Field to the Battle of Culloden.The favorites in popular memory are ‘The Executionof Montrose’ and ’The Burial March ofDundee.’ This book, published in Londonand Edinburgh in 1849, has gone through twenty-nineeditions.

His dramatic poem, ‘Firmilian: a SpasmodicTragedy,’ written to ridicule the style of Bailey,Dobell, and Alexander Smith, and published in 1854,had so many excellent qualities that it was receivedas a serious production instead of a caricature.Aytoun introduced this in Blackwood’s Magazineas a pretended review of an unpublished tragedy (aswith the ‘Rolliad,’ and as Lockhart haddone in the case of “Peter’s Letters,”so successfully that he had to write the book itselfas a “second edition” to answer the demandfor it). This review was so cleverly done that“most of the newspaper critics took the partof the poet against the reviewer, never suspectingthe identity of both, and maintained the poetry tobe fine poetry and the critic a dunce.”The sarcasm of ‘Firmilian’ is so delicatethat only those familiar with the school it is intendedto satirize can fairly appreciate its qualities.The drama opens showing Firmilian in his study, planningthe composition of ‘Cain: a Tragedy’;and being infused with the spirit of the hero, hestarts on a career of crime. Among his deeds isthe destruction of the cathedral of Badajoz, whichfirst appears in his mental vision thus:—

“Methought I sawthe solid vaults give way,
And the entire cathedralrise in air,
As if it leaped fromPandemonium’s jaws.”

To effect this he employs—

“Some twenty barrelsof the dusky grain
The secret of whoseframing in an hour
Of diabolic jollityand mirth
Old Roger Bacon wormedfrom Beelzebub.”

When the horror is accomplished, at a moment whenthe inhabitants of Badajoz are at prayer, Firmilianrather enjoys the scene:—

“Pillars and altar,organ loft and screen,
With a singed swarmof mortals intermixed,
Whirling in anguishto the shuddering stars.”

“‘Firmilian,’” to quote fromAytoun’s biographer again, “deserves tokeep its place in literature, if only as showing howeasy it is for a man of real poetic power to throwoff, in sport, pages of sonorous and sparkling verse,simply by ignoring the fetters of nature and common-senseand dashing headlong on Pegasus through the wildernessof fancy.” Its extravagances of rhetoriccan be imagined from the following brief extract,somewhat reminiscent of Marlowe:—

“And shall I thentake Celsus for my guide,
Confound my brain withdull Justinian tomes,
Or stir the dust thatlies o’er Augustine?
Not I, in faith!I’ve leaped into the air,
And clove my way throughether like a bird
That flits beneath theglimpses of the moon,
Right eastward, tillI lighted at the foot
Of holy Helicon, anddrank my fill
At the clear spout ofAganippe’s stream;
I’ve rolled mylimbs in ecstasy along
The selfsame turf onwhich old Homer lay
That night he dreamedof Helen and of Troy:
And I have heard, atmidnight, the sweet strains
Come quiring from thehilltop, where, enshrined
In the rich foldingsof a silver cloud,
The Muses sang Apollointo sleep.”

In 1856 was printed ‘Bothwell,’ a poeticmonologue on Mary Stuart’s lover. Of Aytoun’shumorous sketches, the most humorous are ’MyFirst Spec in the Biggleswades,’ and ’HowWe Got Up the Glen Mutchkin Railway’; taleswritten during the railway mania of 1845, which treatof the folly and dishonesty of its promoters, andshow many typical Scottish characters. His ‘Balladsof Scotland’ was issued in 1858; it is an editionof the best ancient minstrelsy, with preface and notes.In 1861 appeared ‘Norman Sinclair,’ anovel published first in Blackwood’s, and givinginteresting pictures of society in Scotland and personalexperiences.

After Professor Wilson’s death, Aytoun was consideredthe leading man of letters in Scotland; a rank whichhe modestly accepted by writing in 1838 to a friend:—“Iam getting a kind of fame as the literary man of Scotland.Thirty years ago, in the North countries, a fellowachieved an immense reputation as ‘The Tollman,’being the solitary individual entitled by law to levyblackmail at a ferry.” In 1860 he was madeHonorary President of the Associated Societies of theUniversity of Edinburgh, his competitor being Thackeray.This was the place held afterward by Lord Lytton,Sir David Brewster, Carlyle, and Gladstone. Aytounwrote the ‘The Life and Times of Richard theFirst’ (London, 1840), and in 1863 a ’NuptialOde on the Marriage of the Prince of Wales.’

Aytoun was a man of great charm and geniality in society;even to Americans, though he detested America withthe energy of fear—the fear of all whosee its prosperity sapping the foundations of theirclass society. He died in 1865; and in 1867 hisbiography was published by Sir Theodore Martin, hiscollaborator. Martin’s definition of Aytoun’splace in literature is felicitous:—

* * * * *

“Fashions in poetry may alter, but so long asthe themes with which they deal have an interest forhis countrymen, his ‘Lays’ will find, asthey do now, a wide circle of admirers. His powersas a humorist were perhaps greater than as a poet.They have certainly been more widely appreciated.His immediate contemporaries owe him much, for he hascontributed largely to that kindly mirth without whichthe strain and struggle of modern life would be intolerable.Much that is excellent in his humorous writings mayvery possibly cease to retain a place in literaturefrom the circumstance that he deals with charactersand peculiarities which are in some measure local,and phases of life and feeling and literature whichare more or less ephemeral. But much will certainlycontinue to be read and enjoyed by the sons and grandsonsof those for whom it was originally written; and hisname will be coupled with those of Wilson, Lockhart,Sydney Smith, Peacock, Jerrold, Mahony, and Hood,as that of a man gifted with humor as genuine and originalas theirs, however opinions may vary as to the orderof their relative merits.”

‘The Modern Endymion,’ from which an extractis given, is a parody on Disraeli’s earliermanner.

THE BURIAL MARCH OFDUNDEE

From the ‘Laysof the Scottish Cavaliers’

Sound the fife and crythe slogan;
Let thepibroch shake the air
With its wild, triumphantmusic,
Worthy ofthe freight we bear.
Let the ancient hillsof Scotland
Hear oncemore the battle-song
Swell within their glensand valleys
As the clansmenmarch along!
Never from the fieldof combat,
Never fromthe deadly fray,
Was a nobler trophycarried
Than webring with us to-day;
Never since the valiantDouglas
On his dauntlessbosom bore
Good King Robert’sheart—the priceless—
To our dearRedeemer’s shore!
Lo! we bring with usthe hero—
Lo! we bringthe conquering Graeme,
Crowned as best beseemsa victor
From thealtar of his fame;
Fresh and bleeding fromthe battle
Whence hisspirit took its flight,
’Midst the crashingcharge of squadrons,
And thethunder of the fight!
Strike, I say, the notesof triumph,
As we marcho’er moor and lea!
Is there any here willventure
To bewailour dead Dundee?

Let the widows of thetraitors
Weep untiltheir eyes are dim!
Wail ye may full wellfor Scotland—
Let nonedare to mourn for him!
See! above his gloriousbody
Lies theroyal banner’s fold—
See! his valiant bloodis mingled
With itscrimson and its gold.
See how calm he looksand stately,
Like a warrioron his shield,
Waiting till the flushof morning
Breaks alongthe battle-field!
See—oh, nevermore, my comrades,
Shall wesee that falcon eye
Redden with its inwardlightning,
As the hourof fight drew nigh!
Never shall we hearthe voice that,
Clearerthan the trumpet’s call,
Bade us strike for kingand country,
Bade uswin the field, or fall!

On the heights of Killiecrankie
Yester-mornour army lay:
Slowly rose the mistin columns
From theriver’s broken way;
Hoarsely roared theswollen torrent,
And thePass was wrapped in gloom,
When the clansmen rosetogether
From theirlair amidst the broom.
Then we belted on ourtartans,
And ourbonnets down we drew,
As we felt our broadswords’edges,
And we provedthem to be true;
And we prayed the prayerof soldiers,
And we criedthe gathering-cry,
And we clasped the handsof kinsmen,
And we sworeto do or die!
Then our leader rodebefore us,
On his war-horseblack as night—
Well the Cameronianrebels
Knew thatcharger in the fight!—
And a cry of exultation
From thebearded warrior rose;
For we loved the houseof Claver’se,
And we thoughtof good Montrose.
But he raised his handfor silence—
“Soldiers!I have sworn a vow;
Ere the evening starshall glisten
On Schehallion’slofty brow,
Either we shall restin triumph,
Or anotherof the Graemes
Shall have died in battle-harness
For hiscountry and King James!
Think upon the royalmartyr—
Think ofwhat his race endure—
Think on him whom butchersmurdered
On the fieldof Magus Muir[1]:
By his sacred bloodI charge ye,
By the ruinedhearth and shrine—
By the blighted hopesof Scotland,
By yourinjuries and mine—
Strike this day as ifthe anvil
Lay beneathyour blows the while,
Be they Covenantingtraitors,
Or the bloodof false Argyle!
Strike! and drive thetrembling rebels
Backwardso’er the stormy Forth;
Let them tell theirpale Convention
How theyfared within the North.
Let them tell that Highlandhonor
Is not tobe bought nor sold;

That we scorn theirprince’s anger,
As we loathehis foreign gold.
Strike! and when thefight is over,
If you lookin vain for me,
Where the dead are lyingthickest
Search forhim that was Dundee!”

[Footnote 1: ArchbishopSharp, Lord Primate of Scotland.]

III

Loudly then the hillsre-echoed
With ouranswer to his call,
But a deeper echo sounded
In the bosomsof us all.
For the lands of wideBreadalbane,
Not a manwho heard him speak
Would that day haveleft the battle.
Burningeye and flushing cheek
Told the clansmen’sfierce emotion,
And theyharder drew their breath;
For their souls werestrong within them,
Strongerthan the grasp of Death.
Soon we heard a challengetrumpet
Soundingin the Pass below,
And the distant trampof horses,
And thevoices of the foe;
Down we crouched amidthe bracken,
Till theLowland ranks drew near,
Panting like the houndsin summer,
When theyscent the stately deer.
From the dark defileemerging,
Next wesaw the squadrons come,
Leslie’s footand Leven’s troopers
Marchingto the tuck of drum;
Through the scatteredwood of birches,
O’erthe broken ground and heath,
Wound the long battalionslowly,
Till theygained the field beneath;
Then we bounded fromour covert,—
Judge howlooked the Saxons then,
When they saw the ruggedmountain
Start tolife with armed men!
Like a tempest downthe ridges
Swept thehurricane of steel,
Rose the slogan of Macdonald—
Flashedthe broadsword of Lochiel!
Vainly sped the witheringvolley
’Mongstthe foremost of our band—
On we poured until wemet them
Foot tofoot and hand to hand.
Horse and man went downlike drift-wood
When thefloods are black at Yule,
And their carcassesare whirling
In the Garry’sdeepest pool.
Horse and man went downbefore us—
Living foethere tarried none
On the field of Killiecrankie,
When thatstubborn fight was done!

And the evening starwas shining
On Schehallion’sdistant head,
When we wiped our bloodybroadswords,
And returnedto count the dead.
There we found him gashedand gory,
Stretchedupon the cumbered plain,
As he told us whereto seek him,
In the thickestof the slain.
And a smile was on hisvisage,
For withinhis dying ear
Pealed the joyful noteof triumph
And theclansmen’s clamorous cheer:
So, amidst the battle’sthunder,
Shot, andsteel, and scorching flame,
In the glory of hismanhood
Passed thespirit of the Graeme!

Open wide the vaultsof Athol,
Where thebones of heroes rest—
Open wide the hallowedportals
To receiveanother guest!
Last of Scots, and lastof freemen—
Last ofall that dauntless race
Who would rather dieunsullied,
Than outlivethe land’s disgrace!
O thou lion-heartedwarrior!
Reck notof the after-time:
Honor may be deemeddishonor,
Loyaltybe called a crime.
Sleep in peace withkindred ashes
Of the nobleand the true,
Hands that never failedtheir country,
Hearts thatnever baseness knew.
Sleep!—andtill the latest trumpet
Wakes thedead from earth and sea,
Scotland shall not boasta braver
Chieftainthan our own Dundee!

THE EXECUTION OF MONTROSE

From ‘Lays ofthe Scottish Cavaliers’

Come hither, Evan Cameron!
Come, standbeside my knee—
I hear the river roaringdown
Toward thewintry sea.
There’s shoutingon the mountain-side,
There’swar within the blast—
Old faces look uponme,
Old formsgo trooping past.
I hear the pibroch wailing
Amidst thedin of fight,
And my dim spirit wakesagain
Upon theverge of night.

’Twas I that ledthe Highland host
Throughwild Lochaber’s snows,
What time the plaidedclans came down
To battlewith Montrose.
I’ve told theehow the Southrons fell
Beneaththe broad claymore,
And how we smote theCampbell clan
By Inverlochy’sshore;
I’ve told theehow we swept Dundee,
And tamedthe Lindsays’ pride:
But never have I toldthee yet
How thegreat Marquis died.

A traitor sold him tohis foes;—
A deed ofdeathless shame!
I charge thee, boy,if e’er thou meet
With oneof Assynt’s name,—
Be it upon the mountain’sside
Or yet withinthe glen,
Stand he in martialgear alone,
Or backedby armed men,—
Face him, as thou wouldstface the man
Who wrongedthy sire’s renown;
Remember of what bloodthou art,
And strikethe caitiff down!

They brought him tothe Watergate,
Hard boundwith hempen span,
As though they helda lion there,
And nota fenceless man.
They set him high upona cart,—
The hangmanrode below,—
They drew his handsbehind his back
And baredhis noble brow.
Then, as a hound isslipped from leash,
They cheered,the common throng,
And blew the note withyell and shout,
And badehim pass along.

It would have made abrave man’s heart
Grow sadand sick that day,
To watch the keen malignanteyes
Bent downon that array.
There stood the WhigWest-country lords
In balconyand bow;
There sat their gauntand withered dames,
And theirdaughters all arow.
And every open window
Was fullas full might be
With black-robed Covenantingcarles,
That goodlysport to see!

But when he came, thoughpale and wan,
He lookedso great and high,
So noble was his manlyfront,
So calmhis steadfast eye,—
The rabble rout forboreto shout,
And eachman held his breath,
For well they knew thehero’s soul
Was faceto face with death.
And then a mournfulshudder
Throughall the people crept,
And some that came toscoff at him
Now turnedaside and wept.

But onwards—alwaysonwards,
In silenceand in gloom,
The dreary pageant labored,
Till itreached the house of doom.
Then first a woman’svoice was heard
In jeerand laughter loud,
And an angry cry andhiss arose
From theheart of the tossing crowd;
Then, as the Graemelooked upwards,
He saw theugly smile
Of him who sold hisking for gold—
The master-fiendArgyle!

The Marquis gazed amoment,
And nothingdid he say,
But the cheek of Argylegrew ghastly pale,
And he turnedhis eyes away.
The painted harlot byhis side,
She shookthrough every limb,
For a roar like thunderswept the street,
And handswere clenched at him;
And a Saxon soldiercried aloud,
“Back,coward, from thy place!
For seven long yearsthou hast not dared
To lookhim in the face.”

Had I been there withsword in hand,
And fiftyCamerons by,
That day through highDunedin’s streets
Had pealedthe slogan-cry.
Not all their troopsof trampling horse,
Nor mightof mailed men—
Not all the rebels inthe South
Had borneus backward then!
Once more his foot onHighland heath
Had trodas free as air,
Or I, and all who boremy name,
Been laidaround him there!

It might not be.They placed him next
Within thesolemn hall,
Where once the Scottishkings were throned
Amidst theirnobles all.
But there was dust ofvulgar feet
On thatpolluted floor,
And perjured traitorsfilled the place
Where goodmen sate before.
With savage glee cameWarriston
To readthe murderous doom;
And then uprose thegreat Montrose
In the middleof the room.

“Now, by my faithas belted knight,
And by thename I bear,
And by the bright SaintAndrew’s cross
That wavesabove us there,—
Yea, by a greater, mightieroath—
And oh,that such should be!—By
that dark stream ofroyal blood
That lies’twixt you and me,—
have not sought in battle-field
A wreathof such renown,
Nor dared I hope onmy dying day
To win themartyr’s crown.

“There is a chamberfar away
Where sleepthe good and brave,
But a better place yehave named for me
Than bymy father’s grave.
For truth and right,’gainst treason’s might,
This handhath always striven,
And ye raise it up fora witness still
In the eyeof earth and heaven.
Then nail my head onyonder tower—
Give everytown a limb—And
God who made shall gatherthem:
I go fromyou to Him!”

The morning dawned fulldarkly,
The raincame flashing down,
And the jagged streakof the levin-bolt
Lit up thegloomy town.
The thunder crashedacross the heaven,
The fatalhour was come;
Yet aye broke in, withmuffled beat,
The larumof the drum.
There was madness onthe earth below
And angerin the sky,
And young and old, andrich and poor,
Come forthto see him die.

Ah, God! that ghastlygibbet!
How dismal’tis to see
The great tall spectralskeleton,
The ladderand the tree!
Hark! hark! it is theclash of arms—
The bellsbegin to toll—
“He is coming!he is coming!
God’smercy on his soul!”
One long last peal ofthunder—
The cloudsare cleared away,
And the glorious sunonce more looks down
Amidst thedazzling day.

“He is coming!he is coming!”
Like a bridegroomfrom his room,
Came the hero from hisprison,
To the scaffoldand the doom.
There was glory on hisforehead,
There waslustre in his eye,
And he never walkedto battle
More proudlythan to die;
There was color in hisvisage,
Though thecheeks of all were wan,
And they marveled asthey saw him pass,
That greatand goodly man!

He mounted up the scaffold,
And he turnedhim to the crowd;
But they dared not trustthe people,
So he mightnot speak aloud.
But looked upon theheavens
And theywere clear and blue,
And in the liquid ether
The eyeof God shone through:
Yet a black and murkybattlement
Lay restingon the hill,
As though the thunderslept within—
All elsewas calm and still.

The grim Geneva ministers
With anxiousscowl drew near,
As you have seen theravens flock
Around thedying deer.
He would not deign themword nor sign,
But alonehe bent the knee,
And veiled his facefor Christ’s dear grace
Beneaththe gallows-tree.
Then radiant and serenehe rose,
And casthis cloak away;
For he had ta’enhis latest look
Of earthand sun and day.

A beam of light fello’er him,
Like a gloryround the shriven,
And he climbed the loftyladder
As it werethe path to heaven.
Then came a flash fromout the cloud,
And a stunningthunder-roll;
And no man dared tolook aloft,
For fearwas on every soul.
There was another heavysound,
A hush andthen a groan;
And darkness swept acrossthe sky—
The workof death was done!

THE BROKEN PITCHER

From the ‘BonGaultier Ballads’

It was a Moorish maidenwas sitting by a well,
And what that maidenthought of, I cannot, cannot tell,
When by there rode avaliant knight, from the town of Oviedo—
Alphonso Guzman washe hight, the Count of Desparedo.

“O maiden, Moorishmaiden! why sitt’st thou by the spring?
Say, dost thou seeka lover, or any other thing?
Why gazest thou uponme, with eyes so large and wide,
And wherefore doth thepitcher lie broken by thy side?”

“I do not seeka lover, thou Christian knight so gay,
Because an article likethat hath never come my way;
But why I gaze uponyou, I cannot, cannot tell,
Except that in youriron hose you look uncommon swell.

“My pitcher itis broken, and this the reason is—
A shepherd came behindme, and tried to snatch a kiss;
I would not stand hisnonsense, so ne’er a word I spoke,
But scored him on thecostard, and so the jug was broke.

“My uncle, theAlcayde, he waits for me at home,
And will not take histumbler until Zorayda come.
I cannot bring him water,—thepitcher is in pieces;
And so I’m sureto catch it, ’cos he wallops all his nieces.

“O maiden, Moorishmaiden! wilt thou be ruled by me?
So wipe thine eyes androsy lips, and give me kisses three;
And I’ll givethee my helmet, thou kind and courteous lady,
To carry home the waterto thy uncle, the Alcayde.”

He lighted down fromoff his steed—he tied him to a tree—
He bowed him to themaiden, and took his kisses three:
“To wrong thee,sweet Zorayda, I swear would be a sin!”
He knelt him at thefountain, and dipped his helmet in.

Up rose the Moorishmaiden—behind the knight she steals,
And caught AlphonsoGuzman up tightly by the heels;
She tipped him in, andheld him down beneath the bubbling water,—
“Now, take thouthat for venturing to kiss Al Hamet’s daughter!”

A Christian maid isweeping in the town of Oviedo;
She waits the comingof her love, the Count of Desparedo.
I pray you all in charity,that you will never tell
How he met the Moorishmaiden beside the lonely well.

SONNET TO BRITAIN

“BY THE DUKE OFWELLINGTON”

Halt! Shoulderarms! Recover! As you were!
Right wheel!Eyes left! Attention! Stand at ease!
O Britain!O my country! Words like these
Have made thy name aterror and a fear
To all the nations.Witness Ebro’s banks,
Assaye,Toulouse, Nivelle, and Waterloo,
Where thegrim despot muttered, Sauve qui pent!
And Ney fled darkling.—Silencein the ranks!
Inspired by these, amidstthe iron crash
Of armies,in the centre of his troop
The soldier stands—unmovable,not rash—
Until theforces of the foemen droop;
Then knocks the Frenchmento eternal smash,
Poundingthem into mummy. Shoulder, hoop!

A BALL IN THE UPPER CIRCLES

From “The Modern Endymion”

’Twas a hot season in the skies. Siriusheld the ascendant, and under his influence even theradiant band of the Celestials began to droop, whilethe great ball-room of Olympus grew gradually moreand more deserted. For nearly a week had Orpheus,the leader of the heavenly orchestra, played to adeserted floor. The elite would no longerfigure in the waltz.

Juno obstinately kept her room, complaining of headacheand ill-temper. Ceres, who had lately joineda dissenting congregation, objected generally to allfrivolous amusements; and Minerva had established,in opposition, a series of literary soirees, at whichPluto nightly lectured on the fine arts and phrenology,to a brilliant and fashionable audience. TheMuses, with Hebe and some of the younger deities, alonefrequented the assemblies; but with all their attractionsthere was still a sad lack of partners. The youngergods had of late become remarkably dissipated, messedthree times a week at least with Mars in the barracks,and seldom separated sober. Bacchus had been sentto Coventry by the ladies, for appearing one nightin the ball-room, after a hard sederunt, so drunkthat he measured his length upon the floor after avain attempt at a mazurka; and they likewise eschewedthe company of Pan, who had become an abandoned smoker,and always smelt infamously of cheroots. Butthe most serious defection, as also the most unaccountable,was that of the beautiful Diana, par excellencethe belle of the season, and assuredly the most gracefulnymph that ever tripped along the halls of heaven.She had gone off suddenly to the country, withoutalleging any intelligible excuse, and with her thelast attraction of the ball-room seemed to have disappeared.Even Venus, the perpetual lady patroness, saw thatthe affair was desperate.

“Ganymede, mon beau garcon,” saidshe, one evening at an unusually thin assembly, “wemust really give it up at last. Matters are growingworse and worse, and in another week we shall positivelynot have enough to get up a tolerable gallopade.Look at these seven poor Muses sitting together onthe sofa. Not a soul has spoken to them to-night,except that horrid Silenus, who dances nothing butScotch reels.”

“Pardieu!” replied the young Trojan,fixing his glass in his eye. “There maybe a reason for that. The girls are decidedlypassees, and most inveterate blues. Butthere’s dear little Hebe, who never wants partners,though that clumsy Hercules insists upon his conjugalrights, and keeps moving after her like an enormousshadow. ’Pon my soul, I’ve a greatmind—Do you think, ma belle tante,that anything might be done in that quarter?”

“Oh fie, Ganymede—fie for shame!”said Flora, who was sitting close to the Queen ofLove, and overheard the conversation. “Youhorrid, naughty man, how can you talk so?”

“Pardon, ma chere!” replied theexquisite with a languid smile. “You mustexcuse my badinage; and indeed, a glance ofyour fair eyes were enough at any time to recall meto my senses. By the way, what a beautiful bouquetyou have there. Parole d’honneur, I amquite jealous. May I ask who sent it?”

“What a goose you are!” said Flora, inevident confusion: “how should I know?Some general admirer like yourself, I suppose.”

“Apollo is remarkably fond of hyacinths, I believe,”said Ganymede, looking significantly at Venus.“Ah, well! I see how it is. We poordetrimentals must break our hearts in silence.It is clear we have no chance with the preux chevalierof heaven.”

“Really, Ganymede, you are very severe thisevening,” said Venus with a smile; “buttell me, have you heard anything of Diana?”

“Ah! la belle Diane? They say sheis living in the country somewhere about Caria, ata place they call Latmos Cottage, cultivating her fadedroses—what a color Hebe has!—andstudying the sentimental.”

“Tant pis! She is a great loss tous,” said Venus. “Apropos, you willbe at Neptune’s fete champetre to-morrow,n’est ce pas? We shall then finally determineabout abandoning the assemblies. But I must gohome now. The carriage has been waiting this hour,and my doves may catch cold. I suppose that boyCupid will not be home till all hours of the morning.”

“Why, I believe the Rainbow Club doesmeet to-night, after the dancing,” said Ganymedesignificantly. “This is the last oyster-nightof the season.”

“Gracious goodness! The boy will be quitetipsy,” said Venus. “Do, dear Ganymede!try to keep him sober. But now, give me your armto the cloak-room.”

“Volontiers!” said the exquisite.

As Venus rose to go, there was a rush of persons tothe further end of the room, and the music ceased.Presently, two or three voices were heard callingfor Aesculapius.

“What’s the row?” asked that learnedindividual, advancing leisurely from the refreshmenttable, where he had been cramming himself with teaand cakes.

“Leda’s fainted!” shrieked Calliope,who rushed past with her vinaigrette in hand.

“Gammon!” growled the Abernethyof heaven, as he followed her.

“Poor Leda!” said Venus, as her cavalieradjusted her shawl. “These fainting fitsare decidedly alarming. I hope it is nothing moreserious than the weather.”

“I hope so, too,” said Ganymede.“Let me put on the scarf. But people willtalk. Pray heaven it be not a second edition ofthat old scandal about the eggs!”

“Fi done! You odious creature!How can you? But after all, stranger things havehappened. There now, have done. Good-night!”and she stepped into her chariot.

“Bon soir” said the exquisite,kissing his hand as it rolled away. “’Ponmy soul, that’s a splendid woman. I’vea great mind—but there’s no hurryabout that. Revenons a nos oeufs. I must learnsomething more about this fainting fit.”So saying, Ganymede re-ascended the stairs.

A HIGHLAND TRAMP

From “Norman Sinclair”

When summer came—for in Scotland, alas!there is no spring, winter rolling itself remorselessly,like a huge polar bear, over what should be the bedsof the early flowers, and crushing them ere they develop—whensummer came, and the trees put on their pale-greenliveries, and the brakes were blue with the wood-hyacinth,and the ferns unfolded their curl, what ecstasy itwas to steal an occasional holiday, and wander, rodin hand, by some quiet stream up in the moorlands,inhaling health from every breeze, nor seeking shelterfrom the gentle shower as it dropped its manna fromthe heavens! And then the long holidays, whenthe town was utterly deserted—how I enjoyedthese, as they can only be enjoyed by the possess-orsof the double talisman of strength and youth!No more care—no more trouble—nomore task-work—no thought even of the graverthemes suggested by my later studies! Look—standingon the Calton Hill, behold yon blue range of mountainsto the west—cannot you name each pinnaclefrom its form? Benledi, Benvoirlich, Benlomond!Oh, the beautiful land, the elysium that lies roundthe base of those distant giants! The forest ofGlenfinlas, Loch Achray with its weeping birches,the grand defiles of the Trosachs, and Ellen’sIsle, the pearl of the one lake that genius has foreverhallowed! Up, sluggard! Place your knapsackon your back; but stow it not with unnecessary gear,for you have still further to go, and your rod alsomust be your companion, if you mean to penetrate theregion beyond. Money? Little money sufficeshim who travels on foot, who can bring his own fareto the shepherd’s bothy where he is to sleep,and who sleeps there better and sounder than the tourist

who rolls from station to station in his barouche,grumbling because the hotels are overcrowded, andmiserable about the airing of his sheets. Money?You would laugh if you heard me mention the sum whichhas sufficed for my expenditure during a long summermonth; for the pedestrian, humble though he be, hashis own especial privileges, and not the least ofthese is that he is exempted from all extortion.Donald—God bless him!—has aknack of putting on the prices; and when an Englishfamily comes posting up to the door of his inn, clamorouslydemanding every sort of accommodation which a metropolitanhotel could afford, grumbling at the lack of attendance,sneering at the quality of the food, and turning thewhole establishment upside down for their own selfishgratification, he not unreasonably determines thatthe extra trouble shall be paid for in that gold whichrarely crosses his fingers except during the shortseason when tourists and sportsmen abound. ButDonald, who is descended from the M’Gregor,does not make spoil of the poor. The sketcheror the angler who come to his door, with the sweatupon their brow and the dust of the highway or thepollen of the heather on their feet, meet with a heartywelcome; and though the room in which their mealsare served is but low in the roof, and the floor strewnwith sand, and the attic wherein they lie is garnishedwith two beds and a shake-down, yet are the viandswholesome, the sheets clean, and the tariff so undeniablymoderate that even parsimony cannot complain.So up in the morning early, so soon as the first beamsof the sun slant into the chamber—downto the loch or river, and with a headlong plunge scrapeacquaintance with the pebbles at the bottom; then risingwith a hearty gasp, strike out for the islet or thefurther bank, to the astonishment of the otter, who,thief that he is, is skulking back to his hole belowthe old saugh-tree, from a midnight foray up the burns.Huzza! The mallard, dozing among the reeds, hastaken fright, and tucking up his legs under his roundfat rump, flies quacking to a remoter marsh.

“Bythe pricking of my thumbs,
Something wicked thisway comes,”

and lo! Dugald the keeper, on his way to thehill, is arrested by the aquatic phenomenon, and halfbelieves that he is witnessing the frolics of an Urisk!Then make your toilet on the green-sward, swing yourknapsack over your shoulders, and cover ten good milesof road before you halt before breakfast with morethan the appetite of an ogre.

In this way I made the circuit of well-nigh the wholeof the Scottish Highlands, penetrating as far as CapeWrath and the wild district of Edderachylis, nor leavingunvisited the grand scenery of Loch Corruisk, andthe stormy peaks of Skye; and more than one delightfulweek did I spend each summer, exploring Gameshope,or the Linns of Talla, where the Covenanters of oldheld their gathering; or clambering up the steep ascentby the Grey Mare’s Tail to lonely and lovelyLoch Skene, or casting for trout in the silver watersof St. Mary’s.

MASSIMO TAPARELLI D’AZEGLIO

(1798-1866)

Massimo Taparelli, Marquis d’Azeglio, like hisgreater colleague and sometime rival in the SardinianMinistry, Cavour, wielded a graceful and forciblepen, and might have won no slight distinction in thepeaceful paths of literature and art as well, hadhe not been before everything else a patriot.Of ancient and noble Piedmontese stock, he was bornat Turin in October, 1798. In his fifteenth yearthe youth accompanied his father to Rome, where thelatter had been appointed ambassador, and thus earlyhe was inspired with the passion for painting and musicwhich never left him. In accordance with thepaternal wish he entered on a military career, butsoon abandoned the service to devote himself to art.But after a residence of eight years (1821-29) in thepapal capital, having acquired both skill and fameas a landscape painter, D’Azeglio began to directhis thoughts to letters and politics.

After the death of his father in 1830 he settled inMilan, where he formed the acquaintance of the poetand novelist Alessandro Manzoni, whose daughter hemarried, and under whose influence he became deeplyinterested in literature, especially in its relationto the political events of those stirring times.The agitation against Austrian domination was especiallymarked in the north of Italy, where Manzoni had madehimself prominent; and so it came to pass that Massimod’Azeglio plunged into literature with the ardenthope of stimulating the national sense of independenceand unity.

In 1833 he published, not without misgivings, ‘EttoreFieramosca,’ his first romance, in which heaimed to teach Italians how to fight for nationalhonor. The work achieved an immediate and splendidsuccess, and unquestionably served as a powerful aidto the awakening of Italy’s ancient patriotism.It was followed in 1841 by ‘Nicolo de’Lapi,’ a story conceived in similar vein, withsomewhat greater pretensions to literary finish.D’Azeglio now became known as one of the foremostrepresentatives of the moderate party, and exertedthe potent influence of his voice as well as of hispen in diffusing liberal propaganda. In 1846he published the bold pamphlet ‘Gli Ultimi Casidi Romagna’ (On the Recent Events in Romagna),in which he showed the danger and utter futility ofill-advised republican outbreaks, and the paramountnecessity of adopting thereafter a wiser and more practicalpolicy to gain the great end desired. Numeroustrenchant political articles issued from his pen duringthe next two years. The year 1849 found him amember of the first Sardinian parliament, and in Marchof that year Victor Emmanuel called him to the presidencyof the Council with the portfolio of Foreign Affairs.Obliged to give way three years later before the risinggenius of Cavour, he served his country with distinctionon several important diplomatic missions after thepeace of Villafranca, and died in his native cityon the 15th of January, 1866.

In 1867 appeared D’Azeglio’s autobiography,‘I Miei Ricordi,’ translated into Englishby Count Maffei under title of ‘My Recollections’which is undeniably the most interesting and thoroughlydelightful product of his pen. “He wasa ‘character,’” said an English criticat the time: “a man of whims and oddities,of hobbies and crotchets.... This character ofindividuality, which impressed its stamp on his wholelife, is charmingly revealed in every sentence ofthe memoirs which he has left behind him; so that,more than any of his previous writings, their mingledhomeliness and wit and wisdom justify the epithet whichI once before ventured to give him when I describedhim as ’the Giusti of Italian prose.’”As a polemic writer D’Azeglio was recognizedas one of the chief forces in molding public opinion.If he had not been both patriot and statesman, thisversatile genius, as before intimated, would not improbablyhave gained an enviable reputation in the realm ofart; and although his few novels are—perhapswith justice—no longer remembered, theydeeply stirred the hearts of his countrymen in theirday, and to say the least are characterized by goodsense, facility of execution, and a refined imaginativepower.

A HAPPY CHILDHOOD

From ‘My Recollections’

The distribution of our daily occupations was strictlylaid down for Matilde and me in black and white, andthese rules were not to be broken with impunity.We were thus accustomed to habits of order, and neverto make anybody wait for our convenience; a faultwhich is one of the most troublesome that can be committedeither by great people or small.

I remember one day that Matilde, having gone out withTeresa, came home when we had been at dinner sometime. It was winter, and snow was falling.The two culprits sat down a little confused, and theirsoup was brought them in two plates, which had beenkept hot; but can you guess where? On the balcony;so that the contents were not only below freezing-point,but actually had a thick covering of snow!

At dinner, of course my sister and I sat perfectlysilent, waiting our turn, without right of petitionor remonstrance. As to the other proprietiesof behavior, such as neatness, and not being noisyor boisterous, we knew well that the slightest infractionwould have entailed banishment for the rest of theday at least. Our great anxiety was to eclipseourselves as much as possible; and I assure you thatunder this system we never fancied ourselves the centralpoints of importance round which all the rest of theworld was to revolve,—an idea which, thanksto absurd indulgence and flattery, is often forciblythrust, I may say, into poor little brains, which ifleft to themselves would never have lost their naturalsimplicity.

The lessons of ‘Galateo’ were not enforcedat dinner only. Even at other times we were forbiddento raise our voices or interrupt the conversationof our elders, still more to quarrel with each other.If sometimes as we went to dinner I rushed forwardbefore Matilde, my father would take me by the armand make me come last, saying, “There is noneed to be uncivil because she is your sister.”The old generation in many parts of Italy have thehabit of shouting and raising their voices as if theirinterlocutor were deaf, interrupting him as if he hadno right to speak, and poking him in the ribs andotherwise, as if he could only be convinced by sensationsof bodily pain. The regulations observed in myfamily were therefore by no means superfluous; andwould to Heaven they were universally adopted as thelaw of the land!

On another occasion my excellent mother gave me alesson of humility, which I shall never forget anymore than the place where I received it.

In the open part of the Cascine, which was once usedas a race-course, to the right of the space wherethe carriages stand, there is a walk alongside thewood. I was walking there one day with my mother,followed by an old servant, a countryman of Pylades;less heroic than the latter, but a very good fellowtoo. I forget why, but I raised a little caneI had in my hand, and I am afraid I struck him.My mother, before all the passers-by, obliged me tokneel down and beg his pardon. I can still seepoor Giacolin taking off his hat with a face of utterbewilderment, quite unable to comprehend how it wasthat the Chevalier Massimo Taparelli d’Azegliocame to be at his feet.

An indifference to bodily pain was another of theprecepts most carefully instilled by our father; andas usual, the lesson was made more impressive by examplewhenever an opportunity presented itself. If,for instance, we complained of any slight pain or accident,our father used to say, half in fun, half in earnest,“When a Piedmontese has both his arms and legsbroken, and has received two sword-thrusts in thebody, he may be allowed to say, but not till then,’Really, I almost think I am not quite well.’”

The moral authority he had acquired over me was sogreat that in no case would I have disobeyed him,even had he ordered me to jump out of window.

I recollect that when my first tooth was drawn, Iwas in an agony of fright as we went to the dentist;but outwardly I was brave enough, and tried to seemas indifferent as possible. On another occasionmy childish courage and also my father’s firmnesswere put to a more serious test. He had hireda house called the Villa Billi, which stands abouthalf a mile from San Domenico di Fiesole, on the rightwinding up toward the hill. Only two years agoI visited the place, and found the same family ofpeasants still there, and my two old playmates, Nandoand Sandro,—who had both become even greaterfogies than myself,—and we had a heartychat together about bygone times.

Whilst living at this villa, our father was accustomedto take us out for long walks, which were the subjectof special regulations. We were strictly forbiddento ask, “Have we far to go?”—“Whattime is it?” or to say, “I am thirsty;I am hungry; I am tired:” but in everythingelse we had full liberty of speech and action.Returning from one of these excursions, we one dayfound ourselves below Castel di Poggio, a rugged stonypath leading towards Vincigliata. In one handI had a nosegay of wild flowers, gathered by the way,and in the other a stick, when I happened to stumble,and fell awkwardly. My father sprang forward topick me up, and seeing that one arm pained me, he examinedit and found that in fact the bone was broken belowthe elbow. All this time my eyes were fixed uponhim, and I could see his countenance change, and assumesuch an expression of tenderness and anxiety that heno longer appeared to be the same man. He boundup my arm as well as he could, and we then continuedour way homewards. After a few moments, duringwhich my father had resumed his usual calmness, hesaid to me:—

“Listen, Mammolino: your mother is notwell. If she knows you are hurt it will makeher worse. You must be brave, my boy: to-morrowmorning we will go to Florence, where all that isneedful can be done for you; but this evening youmust not show you are in pain. Do you understand?”

All this was said with his usual firmness and authority,but also with the greatest affection. I was onlytoo glad to have so important and difficult a taskintrusted to me. The whole evening I sat quietlyin a corner, supporting my poor little broken armas best I could, and my mother only thought me tiredby the long walk, and had no suspicion of the truth.

The next day I was taken to Florence, and my arm wasset; but to complete the cure I had to be sent tothe Baths of Vinadio a few years afterward. Somepeople may, in this instance, think my father was cruel.I remember the fact as if it were but yesterday, andI am sure such an idea never for one minute enteredmy mind. The expression of ineffable tendernesswhich I had read in his eyes had so delighted me, itseemed so reasonable to avoid alarming my mother,that I looked on the hard task allotted me as a fineopportunity of displaying my courage. I did sobecause I had not been spoilt, and good principleshad been early implanted within me: and now thatI am an old man and have known the world, I blessthe severity of my father; and I could wish every Italianchild might have one like him, and derive more profitthan I did,—in thirty years’ timeItaly would then be the first of nations.

Moreover, it is a fact that children are much moreobservant than is commonly supposed, and never regardas hostile a just but affectionate severity.I have always seen them disposed to prefer personswho keep them in order to those who constantly yieldto their caprices; and soldiers are just the samein this respect.

The following is another example to prove that myfather did not deserve to be called cruel:—

He thought it a bad practice to awaken children suddenly,or to let their sleep be abruptly disturbed.If we had to rise early for a journey, he would cometo my bedside and softly hum a popular song, two linesof which still ring in my ears:—

“Chi vuol vederl’aurora
Lasci le molli plume.”

(He who the early dawnwould view
Downy pillows must eschew.)

And by gradually raising his voice, he awoke me withoutthe slightest start. In truth, with all his severity,Heaven knows how I loved him.

THE PRIESTHOOD

From “My Recollections”

My occupations in Rome were not entirely confinedto the domains of poetry and imagination. Itmust not be forgotten that I was also a diplomatist;and in that capacity I had social as well as officialduties to perform.

The Holy Alliance had accepted the confession andrepentance of Murat, and had granted him absolution;but as the new convert inspired little confidence,he was closely watched, in the expectation—andperhaps the hope—of an opportunity of crowningthe work by the infliction of penance.

The penance intended was to deprive him of his crownand sceptre, and to turn him out of the pale.Like all the other diplomatists resident in Rome,we kept our court well informed of all that could beknown or surmised regarding the intentions of theNeapolitan government; and I had the lively occupationof copying page after page of incomprehensible cipherfor the newborn archives of our legation. Suchwas my life at that time; and in spite of the cipher,I soon found it pleasant enough. Dinner-parties,balls, routs, and fashionable society did not theninspire me with the holy horror which now keeps meaway from them. Having never before experiencedor enjoyed anything of the kind, I was satisfied.But in the midst of my pleasure, our successor—MarquisSan Saturnino—made his appearance, andwe had to prepare for our departure. One consolation,however, remained. I had just then been appointedto the high rank of cornet in the crack dragoon regiment“Royal Piedmont.” I had never seenits uniform, but I cherished a vague hope of beingdestined by Fortune to wear a helmet; and the prospectof realizing this splendid dream of my infancy preventedme from regretting my Roman acquaintances overmuch.

The Society of Jesus had meanwhile been restored,and my brother was on the eve of taking the vows.He availed himself of the last days left him beforethat ceremony to sit for his portrait to the painterLandi. This is one of that artist’s bestworks, who, poor man, cannot boast of many; and itnow belongs to my nephew Emanuel.

The day of the ceremony at length arrived, and I accompaniedmy brother to the Convent of Monte Cavallo, whereit was to take place.

The Jesuits at that time were all greatly rejoicingat the revival of their order; and as may be inferred,they were mostly old men, with only a few young novicesamong them.

We entered an oratory fragrant with the flowers adorningthe altar, full of silver ornaments, holy images,and burning wax-lights, with half-closed windows andcarefully drawn blinds; for it is a certain, althoughunexplained, fact that men are more devout in the darkthan in the light, at night than in the day-time,and with their eyes closed rather than open.We were received by the General of the order, FatherPanizzoni, a little old man bent double with age, hiseyes encircled with red, half blind, and I believealmost in his dotage. He was shedding tears ofjoy, and we all maintained the pious and serious aspectsuited to the occasion, until the time arrived forthe novice to step forward, when, lo! FatherPanizzoni advanced with open arms toward the placewhere I stood, mistaking me for my brother; a blunderwhich for a moment imperiled the solemnity of theassembly.

Had I yielded to the embrace of Father Panizzoni,it would have been a wonderful bargain both for himand me. But this was not the only invitationI then received to enter upon a sacerdotal career.Monsignor Morozzo, my great-uncle and god-father,then secretary to the bishops and regular monks, oneday proposed that I should enter the EcclesiasticalAcademy, and follow the career of the prelacy underhis patronage. The idea seemed so absurd thatI could not help laughing heartily, and the subjectwas never revived.

Had I accepted these overtures, I might in the lapseof time have long since been a cardinal, and perhapseven Pope. And if so, I should have drawn theworld after me, as the shepherd entices a lamb witha lump of salt. It was very wrong in me to refuse.Doubtless the habit of expressing my opinion to everyone, and on all occasions, would have led me intomany difficulties. I must either have greatlychanged, or a very few years would have seen an endof me.

We left Rome at last, in the middle of winter, inan open carriage, and traveling chiefly by night,as was my father’s habit. While the horsesare trotting on, I will sum up the impressions of Romeand the Roman world which I was carrying away.The clearest idea present to my mind was that thepriests of Rome and their religion had very littlein common with my father and Don Andreis, or withthe religion professed by them and by the priestsand the devout laity of Turin. I had not beenable to detect the slightest trace of that which inthe language of asceticism is called unction.I know not why, but that grave and downcast aspect,enlivened only by a few occasional flashes of ponderousclerical wit, the atmosphere depressing as the plumbeusauster of Horace, in which I had been broughtup under the rule of my priest,—all seemedunknown at Rome. There I never met with a monsignore

or a priest who did not step out with a pert and jauntyair, his head erect, showing off a well-made leg,and daintily attired in the garb of a clerical dandy.Their conversation turned upon every possible subject,and sometimes upon quibusdam aliis, to sucha degree that it was evident my father was perpetuallyon thorns. I remember a certain prelate, whomI will not name, and whose conduct was, I believe,sufficiently free and easy, who at a dinner-partyat a villa near Porta Pia related laughingly somematrimonial anecdotes, which I at that time did notfully understand. And I remember also my poorfather’s manifest distress, and his strenuousendeavors to change the conversation and direct itinto a different channel.

The prelates and priests whom I used to meet in lessorthodox companies than those frequented by my fatherseemed to me still more free and easy. Eitherin the present or in the past, in theory or in practice,with more or less or even no concealment, they allalike were sailing or had sailed on the sweet fleuvedu tendre. For instance, I met one old canonbound to a venerable dame by a tie of many years’standing. I also met a young prelate with a pink-and-whitecomplexion and eyes expressive of anything but holiness;he was a desperate votary of the fair sex, and swaggeredabout paying his homage right and left. Will itbe believed, this gay apostle actually told me, withoutcircumlocution, that in the monastery of Tor di Specchithere dwelt a young lady who was in love with me?I, who of course desired no better, took the hint instantly,and had her pointed out to me. Then began an interchangeof silly messages, of languishing looks, and a hundredabsurdities of the same kind; all cut short by thepair of post-horses which carried us out of the Portadel Popolo....

The opinions of my father respecting the clergy andthe Court of Rome were certainly narrow and prejudiced;but with his good sense it was impossible for himnot to perceive what was manifest even to a blindman. During our journey he kept insinuating (withoutappearing, however, to attach much importance to it)that it was always advisable to speak with properrespect of a country where we had been well received,even if we had noticed a great many abuses and disorders.To a certain extent, this counsel was well worthyof attention. He was doubtless much grieved atthe want of decency apparent in one section of thatsociety, or, to use a modern expression, at its absenceof respectability; but he consoled himself by thinking,like Abraham the Jew in the ‘Decameron,’that no better proof can be given of the truth of thereligion professed by Rome than the fact of its enduringin such hands.

This reasoning, however, is not quite conclusive;for if Boccaccio had had patience to wait anotherforty years, he would have learnt, first from JohnHuss, and then from Luther and his followers, thatalthough in certain hands things may last a while,it is only till they are worn out. What Boccaccioand the Jew would say now if they came back, I donot venture to surmise,

MY FIRST VENTURE IN ROMANCE

From ‘My Recollections’

While striving to acquire a good artistic positionin my new residence, I had still continued to workat my ‘Fieramosca,’ which was now almostcompleted. Letters were at that time representedat Milan by Manzoni, Grossi, Torti, Pompeo Litta,etc. The memories of the period of Monti,Parini, Foscolo, Porta, Pellico, Verri, Beccaria, werestill fresh; and however much the living literaryand scientific men might be inclined to lead a secludedlife, intrenched in their own houses, with the shynessof people who disliked much intercourse with the world,yet by a little tact those who wished for their companycould overcome their reserve. As Manzoni’sson-in-law, I found myself naturally brought into contactwith them. I knew them all; but Grossi and Ibecame particularly intimate, and our close and uninterruptedfriendship lasted until the day of his but too prematuredeath. I longed to show my work to him, and especiallyto Manzoni, and ask their advice; but fear this time,not artistic but literary, had again caught hold ofme. Still, a resolve was necessary, and was takenat last. I disclosed my secret, imploring forbearanceand advice, but no indulgence. I wantedthe truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.I preferred the blame of a couple of trusted friendsto that of the public. Both seemed to have expectedsomething a great deal worse than what they heard,to judge by their startled but also approving countenances,when my novel was read to them. Manzoni remarkedwith a smile, “We literary men have a strangeprofession indeed—any one can take it upin a day. Here is Massimo: the whim of writinga novel seizes him, and upon my word he does not dobadly, after all!”

This high approbation inspired me with leonine courage,and I set to work again in earnest, so that in 1833the work was ready for publication. On thinkingit over now, it strikes me that I was guilty of greatimpertinence in thus bringing out and publishing withundaunted assurance my little novel among all thoseliterary big-wigs; I who had never done or writtenanything before. But it was successful; and thisis an answer to every objection.

The day I carried my bundle of manuscript to San Pietroall’ Orto, and, as Berni expresses it,—

“—ritrovato
Un che di stampar operelavora,
Dissi, Stampami questaalla malora!”

(—having
Discovered one, a publisherby trade,
‘Print me thisbook, bad luck to it!’ I said.)

I was in a still greater funk than on the two previousoccasions. But I had yet to experience the worstI ever felt in the whole course of my life, and thatwas on the day of publication; when I went out in themorning, and read my illustrious name placarded inlarge letters on the street walls! I felt blindedby a thousand sparks. Now indeed alea jactaerat, and my fleet was burnt to ashes.

This great fear of the public may, with good-will,be taken for modesty; but I hold that at bottom itis downright vanity. Of course I am speakingof people endowed with a sufficient dose of talentand common-sense; with fools, on the contrary, vanitytakes the shape of impudent self-confidence.Hence all the daily published amount of nonsense;which would convey a strange idea of us to Europe,if it were not our good fortune that Italian is notmuch understood abroad. As regards our internalaffairs, the two excesses are almost equally noxious.In Parliament, for instance, the first, those of thetimidly vain genus, might give their opinion a littleoftener with general advantage; while if the others,the impudently vain, were not always brawling, discussionswould be more brief and rational, and public businessbetter and more quickly dispatched. The same reflectionapplies to other branches—to journalism,literature, society, etc.; for vanity is thebad weed which chokes up our political field; and asit is a plant of hardy growth, blooming among us allthe year round, it is just as well to be on our guard.

Timid vanity was terribly at work within me the day‘Fieramosca’ was published. For thefirst twenty-four hours it was impossible to learnanything; for even the most zealous require at leasta day to form some idea of a book. Next morning,on first going out, I encountered a friend of mine,a young fellow then and now a man of mature age, whohas never had a suspicion of the cruel blow he unconsciouslydealt me. I met him in Piazza San Fedele, whereI lived; and after a few words, he said, “Bythe by, I hear you have published a novel. Welldone!” and then talked away about somethingquite different with the utmost heedlessness.Not a drop of blood was left in my veins, and I saidto myself, “Mercy on me! I am done for:not even a word is said about my poor ‘Fieramosca!’”It seemed incredible that he, who belonged to a verynumerous family, connected with the best society ofthe town, should have heard nothing, if the slightestnotice had been taken of it. As he was besidesan excellent fellow and a friend, it seemed equallyincredible that if a word had been said and heard,he should not have repeated it to me. Therefore,it was a failure; the worst of failures, that of silence.With a bitter feeling at heart, I hardly knew whereI went; but this feeling soon changed, and the bitternesswas superseded by quite an opposite sensation.

‘Fieramosca’ succeeded, and succeededso well that I felt abasourdi, as the Frenchexpress it; indeed, I could say “Je n’auraisjamais cru etre si fort savant.” My successwent on in an increasing ratio: it passed fromthe papers and from the masculine half to the femininehalf of society; it found its way to the studios andthe stage. I became the vade-mecum of every prima-donnaand tenor, the hidden treat of school-girls; I penetratedbetween the pillow and the mattress of college, boys,of the military academy cadet; and my apotheosis reachedsuch a height that some newspapers asserted it to beManzoni’s work. It is superfluous to addthat only the ignorant could entertain such an idea;those who were better informed would never have madesuch a blunder.

My aim, as I said, was to take the initiative in theslow work of the regeneration of national character.I had no wish but to awaken high and noble sentimentsin Italian hearts; and if all the literary men in theworld had assembled to condemn me in virtue of strictrules, I should not have cared a jot, if, in defianceof all existing rules, I succeeded in inflaming theheart of one single individual. And I will alsoadd, who can say that what causes durable emotionis unorthodox? It may be at variance with somerules and in harmony with others; and those whichmove hearts and captivate intellects do not appearto me to be the worst.

BABER

(1482-1530)

BY EDWARD S. HOLDEN

The emperor Baber was sixth in descent from Tamerlane,who died in 1405. Tamerlane’s conquestswere world-wide, but they never formed a homogeneousempire. Even in his lifetime he parceled themout to sons and grandsons. Half a century laterTrans-oxiana was divided into many independent kingdomseach governed by a descendant of the great conqueror.

When Baber was born (1482), an uncle was King of Samarkandand Bokhara; another uncle ruled Badakhshan; anotherwas King of Kabul. A relative was the powerfulKing of Khorasan. These princes were of the familyof Tamerlane, as was Baber’s father,—SultanOmer Sheikh Mirza, who was the King of Ferghana.Two of Baber’s maternal uncles, descendants ofChengiz Khan, ruled the Moghul tribes to the westand north of Ferghana; and two of their sisters hadmarried the Kings of Samarkand and Badakhshan.The third sister was Baber’s mother, wife ofthe King of Ferghana.

The capitals of their countries were cities like Samarkand,Bokhara, and Herat. Tamerlane’s grandson—UlughBeg—built at Samarkand the chief astronomicalobservatory of the world, a century and a half beforeTycho Brahe (1576) erected Uranibourg in Denmark.The town was filled with noble buildings,—mosques,tombs, and colleges. Its walls were five milesin circumference[2].

[Footnote 2: Paris was walled in 1358; so Froissarttells us.]

Its streets were paved (the streets of Paris werenot paved till the time of Henri IV.), and runningwater was distributed in pipes. Its markets overflowedwith fruits. Its cooks and bakers were noted fortheir skill. Its colleges were full of learnedmen, poets[3], and doctors of the law. The observatorycounted more than a hundred observers and calculatorsin its corps of astronomers. The products ofChina, of India, and of Persia flowed to the bazaars.

[Footnote 3: “In Samarkand, the Odes ofBaiesanghar Mirza are so popular, that there is nota house in which a copy of them may not be found.”—Baber’s.‘Memoirs.’]

Bokhara has always been the home of learning.Herat was at that time the most magnificent and refinedcity of the world[4]. The court was splendid,polite, intelligent, and liberal. Poetry, history,philosophy, science, and the arts of painting and musicwere cultivated by noblemen and scholars alike.Baber himself was a poet of no mean rank. Thereligion was that of Islam, and the sect the orthodoxSunni; but the practice was less precise than in Arabia.Wine was drunk; poetry was prized; artists were encouraged.The mother-language of Baber was Turki (of which theTurkish of Constantinople is a dialect). Arabicwas the language of science and of theology.Persian was the accepted literary language, thoughBaber’s verses are in Turki as well.

[Footnote 4: Baber spent twenty days in visitingits various palaces, towers, mosques, gardens, colleges—andgives a list of more than fifty such sights.]

We possess Baber’s ‘Memoirs’ inthe original Turki and in Persian translations also.In what follows, the extracts will be taken from Erskine’stranslation[5], which preserves their direct and manlycharm.

[Footnote 5: ’Memoirs of Baber, Emperorof Hindustan, written by himself, and translated byLeyden and Erskine,’ etc. London,1826, quarto.]

To understand them, the foregoing slight introductionis necessary. A connected sketch of Baber’slife and a brief history of his conquests can be foundin ‘The Mogul Emperors of Hindustan[6].’We are here more especially concerned with his literarywork. To comprehend it, something of his historyand surroundings must be known.

[Footnote 6: By Edward S. Holden, New York, 1895,8vo, illustrated.]

FROM BABER’S ‘MEMOIRS’

In the month, of Ramzan, in the year 899 [A.D. 1494], and in the twelfth year of my age, I becameKing of Ferghana.

The country of Ferghana is situated in the fifth climate,on the extreme boundary of the habitable world.On the east it has Kashgar; on the west, Samarkand;on the south, the hill country; on the north, in formertimes there were cities, yet at the present time, inconsequence of the incursions of the Usbeks, no populationremains. Ferghana is a country of small extent,abounding in grain and fruits. The revenues maysuffice, without oppressing the country, to maintainthree or four thousand troops.

My father, Omer Sheikh Mirza, was of low stature,had a short, bushy beard, brownish hair, and was verycorpulent. As for his opinions and habits, hewas of the sect of Hanifah, and strict in his belief.He never neglected the five regular and stated prayers.He read elegantly, and he was particularly fond ofreading the ‘Shahnameh[7].’ Thoughhe had a turn for poetry, he did not cultivate it.He was so strictly just, that when the caravan from[China] had once reached the hill country to the eastof Ardejan, and the snow fell so deep as to bury it,

so that of the whole only two persons escaped; heno sooner received information of the occurrence thanhe dispatched overseers to take charge of all theproperty, and he placed it under guard and preservedit untouched, till in the course of one or two years,the heirs coming from Khorasan, he delivered backthe goods safe into their hands. His generositywas large, and so was his whole soul; he was of anexcellent temper, affable, eloquent, and sweet inhis conversation, yet brave withal and manly.

[Footnote 7: The ‘Book of Kings,’by the Persian poet Firdausi.]

The early portion of Baber’s ‘Memoirs’is given to portraits of the officers of his courtand country. A few of these may be quoted.

Khosrou Shah, though a Turk, applied his attentionto the mode of raising his revenues, and he spentthem liberally. At the death of Sultan MahmudMirza, he reached the highest pitch of greatness, andhis retainers rose to the number of twenty thousand.Though he prayed regularly and abstained from forbiddenfoods, yet he was black-hearted and vicious, of meanunderstanding and slender talents, faithless and atraitor. For the sake of the short and fleetingpomp of this vain world, he put out the eyes of oneand murdered another of the sons of the benefactorin whose service he had been, and by whom he had beenprotected; rendering himself accursed of God, abhorredof men, and worthy of execration and shame till theday of final retribution. These crimes he perpetratedmerely to secure the enjoyment of some poor worldlyvanities; yet with all the power of his many and populousterritories, in spite of his magazines of warlike stores,he had not the spirit to face a barnyard chicken.He will often be mentioned in these memoirs.

Ali Shir Beg was celebrated for the elegance of hismanners; and this elegance and polish were ascribedto the conscious pride of high fortune: but thiswas not the case; they were natural to him. Indeed,Ali Shir Beg was an incomparable person. Fromthe time that poetry was first written in the Turkilanguage, no man has written so much and so well.He has also left excellent pieces of music; they areexcellent both as to the airs themselves and as tothe preludes. There is not upon record in historyany man who was a greater patron and protector of menof talent than he. He had no son nor daughter,nor wife nor family; he passed through the world singleand unincumbered.

Another poet was Sheikhem Beg. He composed asort of verses, in which both the words and the senseare terrifying and correspond with each other.The following is one of his couplets:—

During my sorrows of the night,the whirlpool of my sighs bears
the firmament from its place;
The dragons of the inundations of my tears beardown the four
quarters of the habitable world!

It is well known that on one occasion, having repeatedthese verses to Moulana Abdal Rahman Jami, the Mullasaid, “Are you repeating poetry, or are youterrifying folks?”

A good many men who wrote verses happened to be present.During the party the following verse of Muhammed Salikhwas repeated:—

What can one do to regulatehis thoughts, with a mistress possessed
of every blandishment?
Where you are, how is it possible for ourthoughts to wander to
another?

It was agreed that every one should make an extemporecouplet to the same rhyme and measure. Everyone accordingly repeated his verse. As we hadbeen very merry, I repeated the following extemporesatirical verses:—

What can one do with a drunkensot like you?
What can be done with one foolish as a she-ass?

Before this, whatever had come into my head, goodor bad, I had always committed it to writing.On the present occasion, when I had composed theselines, my mind led me to reflections, and my heartwas struck with regret that a tongue which could repeatthe sublimest productions should bestow any troubleon such unworthy verses; that it was melancholy thata heart elevated to nobler conceptions should submitto occupy itself with these meaner and despicablefancies. From that time forward I religiouslyabstained from satirical poetry. I had not thenformed my resolution, nor considered how objectionablethe practice was.

TRANSACTIONS OF THE YEAR 904 [A. D. 1498-99]

Having failed in repeated expeditions against Samarkandand Ardejan, I once more returned to Khojend.Khojend is but a small place; and it is difficultfor one to support two hundred retainers in it.How then could a [young] man, ambitious of empire,set himself down contentedly in so insignificant aplace? As soon as I received advice that the garrisonof Ardejan had declared for me, I made no delay.And thus, by the grace of the Most High, I recoveredmy paternal kingdom, of which I had been deprivednearly two years. An order was issued that suchas had accompanied me in my campaigns might resumepossession of whatever part of their property theyrecognized. Although the order seemed reasonableand just in itself, yet it was issued with too muchprecipitation. It was a senseless thing to exasperateso many men with arms in their hands. In warand in affairs of state, though things may appear justand reasonable at first sight, no matter ought tobe finally decided without being well weighed andconsidered in a hundred different lights. Frommy issuing this single order without sufficient foresight,what commotions and mutinies arose! This inconsiderateorder of mine was in reality the ultimate cause ofmy being a second time expelled from Ardejan.

* * * * *

Baber’s next campaign was most arduous, butin passing by a spring he had the leisure to havethese verses of Saadi inscribed on its brink:—

I haveheard that the exalted Jemshid
Inscribedon a stone beside a fountain:—
“Many a man likeus has rested by this fountain,
And disappeared in thetwinkling of an eye.
Should we conquer thewhole world by our manhood and strength,
Yet could we not carryit with us to the grave."

Of another fountain he says:—“I directedthis fountain to be built round with stone, and formeda cistern. At the time when the Arghwanflowers begin to blow, I do not know that any placein the world is to be compared to it.”On its sides he engraved these verses:—

Sweet is the return of thenew year;
Sweet is the smiling spring;
Sweet is the juice of the mellow grape;
Sweeter far the voice of love.
Strive, O Baber! to secure the joys of life,
Which, alas! once departed, never more return.

From these flowers Baber and his army marched intothe passes of the high mountains.

His narrative goes on:—

It was at this time that I composed the followingverses:—

There is no violence or injuryof fortune that I have not
experienced;
This broken heart has endured them all.Alas! is there one left
that I have not encountered?

For about a week we continued pressing down the snowwithout being able to advance more than two or threemiles. I myself assisted in trampling down thesnow. Every step we sank up to the middle or thebreast, but we still went on, trampling it down.As the strength of the person who went first was generallyexhausted after he had advanced a few paces, he stoodstill, while another took his place. The ten,fifteen, or twenty people who worked in tramplingdown the snow, next succeeded in dragging on a horsewithout a rider. Drawing this horse aside, webrought on another, and in this way ten, fifteen,or twenty of us contrived to bring forward the horsesof all our number. The rest of the troops, evenour best men, advanced along the road that had beenbeaten for them, hanging their heads. This wasno time for plaguing them or employing authority.Every man who possesses spirit or emulation hastensto such works of himself. Continuing to advanceby a track which we beat in the snow in this manner,we reached a cave at the foot of the Zirrin pass.That day the storm of wind was dreadful. The snowfell in such quantities that we all expected to meetdeath together. The cave seemed to be small.I took a hoe and made for myself at the mouth of thecave a resting-place about the size of a prayer-carpet.I dug down in the snow as deep as my breast, and yetdid not reach the ground. This hole affordedme some shelter from the wind, and I sat down in it.Some desired me to go into the cavern, but I wouldnot go. I felt that for me to be in a warm dwelling,while my men were in the, midst of snow and drift,—forme to be within, enjoying sleep and ease, while myfollowers were in trouble and distress,—wouldbe inconsistent with what I owed them, and a deviationfrom that society in suffering which was their due.I continued, therefore, to sit in the drift.

Ambition admits not of inaction;The world is his who exerts himself; Inwisdom’s eye, every condition May findrepose save royalty alone.

By leadership like this, the descendant of Tamerlanebecame the ruler of Kabul. He celebrates itscharms in verse:—

Its verdure and flowersrender Kabul, in spring, a heaven.—

but this kingdom was too small for a man of Baber’sstamp. He used it as a stepping-stone to theconquest of India (1526).

Return a hundredthanks, O Baber! for the bounty of the merciful God
Has givenyou Sind, Hind, and numerous kingdoms;
If, unableto stand the heat, you long for cold,
You haveonly to recollect the frost and cold of Ghazni.

In spite of these verses, Baber did not love India,and his monarchy was an exile to him. Let thelast extract from his memoirs be a part of a letterwritten in 1529 to an old and trusted friend in Kabul.It is an outpouring of the griefs of his inmost heartto his friend. He says:—

My solicitude to visit my western dominions(Kabul) is boundless and great beyond expression.I trust in Almighty Allah that the time is nearat hand when everything will be completely settledin this country. As soon as matters are broughtto that state, I shall, with the permission of Allah,set out for your quarters without a moment’sdelay. How is it possible that the delightsof those lands should ever be erased from theheart? How is it possible to forget the deliciousmelons and grapes of that pleasant region? Theyvery recently brought me a single muskmelon fromKabul. While cutting it up, I felt myselfaffected with a strong feeling of lonelinessand a sense of my exile from my native country, andI could not help shedding tears. [He gives long instructionson the military and political matters to be attendedto, and continues without a break:—] Atthe southwest of Besteh I formed a plantationof trees; and as the prospect from it was veryfine, I called it Nazergah [the view]. Youmust there plant some beautiful trees, and all aroundsow beautiful and sweet-smelling flowers and shrubs.[And he goes straight on:—] Syed Kasimwill accompany the artillery. [After more detailsof the government he quotes fondly a little trivialincident of former days and friends, and says:—]Do not think amiss of me for deviating into

The ‘Memoirs’ of Baberdeserve a place beside the writings of the greatestof generals and conquerors. He is not unworthyto be classed with Caesar as a general and asa man of letters. His character was morehuman, more frank, more lovable, more ardent.His fellow in our western world is not Caesar,but Henri IV. of France and Navarre.

[Illustration: Signature: Edward S. Holden]

BABRIUS

(First Century A.D.)

Babrius, also referred to as Babriasand Gabrias, was the writer of that metricalversion of the folk-fables, commonly referredto Aesop, which delights our childhood. Untilthe time of Richard Bentley he was commonly thoughtof merely as a fabulist whose remains had beenpreserved by a few grammarians. Bentley,in the first draft (1697) of the part of hisfamous ‘Dissertation’ treating of the fablesof Aesop, speaks thus of Babrius, and goes notfar out of his way to give a rap at Planudes,a late Greek, who turned works of Ovid, Cato,and Caesar into Greek:—

“... came one Babrius, that gavea new turn of the fables into choliambics.Nobody that I know of mentions him but Suidas,Avienus, and Tzetzes. There’s one Gabrias,indeed, yet extant, that has comprised each fablein four sorry iambics. But our Babrius isa writer of another size and quality; and werehis book now extant, it might justly be opposed,if not preferred, to the Latin of Phaedrus. There’sa whole fable of his yet preserved at the endof Gabrias, of ‘The Swallow and the Nightingale.’Suidas brings many citations out of him, allwhich show him an excellent poet.... Thereare two parcels of the present fables; the one,which are the more ancient, one hundred and thirty-sixin number, were first published out of the HeidelbergLibrary by Neveletus, 1610. The editor himselfwell observed that they were falsely ascribedto Aesop, because they mention holy monks.To which I will add another remark,—thatthere is a sentence out of Job.... ThusI have proved one-half of the fables now extantthat carry the name of Aesop to be above a thousandyears more recent than he. And the other half,that were public before Neveletus, will be found yetmore modern, and the latest of all.... Thiscollection, therefore, is more recent than thatother; and, coming first abroad with Aesop’s‘Life,’ written by Planudes, ’tisjustly believed to be owing to the same writer.That idiot of a monk has given us a book whichhe calls ‘The Life of Aesop,’ that perhapscannot be matched in any language for ignorance andnonsense. He had picked up two or three truestories,—that Aesop was a slave toa Xanthus, carried a burthen of bread, conversedwith Croesus, and was put to death at Delphi; butthe circumstances of these and all his other talesare pure invention.... But of all his injuriesto Aesop, that which can least be forgiven himis the making such a monster of him for ugliness,—anabuse that has found credit so universally thatall the modern painters since the time of Planudeshave drawn him in the worst shapes and featuresthat fancy could invent. ’Twas anold tradition among the Greeks that Aesop revivedagain and lived a second life. Should he reviveonce more and see the picture before the bookthat carries his name, could he think it drawnfor himself?—or for the monkey, orsome strange beast introduced in the ‘Fables’?But what revelation had this monk about Aesop’sdeformity? For he must have it by dreamor vision, and not by ordinary methods of knowledge.He lived about two thousand years after him, andin all that tract of time there’s not a singleauthor that has given the least hint that Aesopwas ugly.”

Thus Bentley; but to return to Babrius. Tyrwhitt,in 1776, followed this calculation of Bentley by collectingthe remains of Babrius. A publication in 1809of fables from a Florentine manuscript foreran thecollection (1832) of all the fables which could beentirely restored. In 1835 a German scholar,Knoch, published whatever had up to that time beenwritten on Babrius, or as far as then known by him.So much had been accomplished by modern scholarship.The calculation was not unlike the mathematical computationthat a star should, from an apparent disturbance,be in a certain quarter of the heavens at a certaintime. The manuscript of Babrius, it became clear,must have existed. In 1842 M. Mynas, a Greek,who had already discovered the ‘Philosophoumena’of Hippolytus, came upon the parchment in the conventof St. Lama on Mount Athos. He was employed bythe French government, and the duty of giving thenew ancient to the world fell to French scholars.The date of the manuscript they referred to the tenthcentury. There were contained in it one hundredand twenty-three of the supposed one hundred and sixtyfables, the arrangement being alphabetical and endingwith the letter O. Again, in 1857 M. Mynas announcedanother discovery. Ninety-four fables and a prooemiumwere still in a convent at Mount Athos; but the monks,who made difficulty about parting with the first parchment,refused to let the second go abroad. M. Mynasforwarded a transcript which he sold to the BritishMuseum. It was after examination pronounced tobe the work of a forger, and not even what it purportedto be—the tinkering of a writer who hadturned the original of Babrius into barbarous Greekand halting metre. Suggestions were made thatthe forger was Mynas himself. And there werescholars who accounted the manuscript as genuine.

The discovery of the first part added substantiallyto the remains which we have of the poetry of ancientGreece. The terseness, simplicity, and humorof the poems belong to the popular classic all theworld over, in whatever tongue it appears; and thepurity of the Greek shows that Babrius lived at atime when the influence of the classical age was stillvital. He is placed at various times. Bergkfixes him so far back as B.C. 250, while others placehim at the same number of years in our own era.Both French and German criticism has claimed that hewas a Roman. There is no trace of his fablesearlier than the Emperor Julian, and no metrical versionof the Aesopean fables existed before the writingof Babrius. Socrates tried his hand at a versionor two. But when such Greek writers as Xenophonand Aristotle refer to old folk-tales and legends,it is always in their own words. His fables arewritten in choliambic verse; that is, imperfect iambicwhich has a spondee in the last foot and is fittedfor the satire for which it was originally used.

The fables of Babrius have been edited, with an interestingand valuable introduction, by W.G. Rutherford(1883), and by F.G. Schneidewin (1880).They have been turned into English metre by James Davies,M.A. (1860). The reader is also referred to thearticle ‘Aesop’ in the present work.

THE NORTH WIND AND THESUN

Betwixt the North windand the Sun arose
A contest, which wouldsoonest of his clothes
Strip a wayfaring clown,so runs the tale.
First, Boreas blowsan almost Thracian gale,
Thinking, perforce,to steal the man’s capote:
He loosed it not; butas the cold wind smote
More sharply, tighterround him drew the folds,
And sheltered by a craghis station holds.
But now the Sun at firstpeered gently forth,
And thawed the chillsof the uncanny North;
Then in their turn hisbeams more amply plied,
Till sudden heat theclown’s endurance tried;
Stripping himself, awayhis cloak he flung:
The Sun from Boreasthus a triumph wrung.

The fable means, “Myson, at mildness aim:
Persuasion more resultsthan force may claim.”

JUPITER AND THE MONKEY

A baby-show with prizesJove decreed
For all the beasts,and gave the choice due heed.
A monkey-mother cameamong the rest;
A naked, snub-nosedpug upon her breast
She bore, in mother’sfashion. At the sight
Assembled gods weremoved to laugh outright.
Said she, “Joveknoweth where his prize will fall!
I know my child’sthe beauty of them all.”

This fable will a generallaw attest,
That each one deemsthat what’s his own, is best.

THE MOUSE THAT FELLINTO THE POT

A mouse into a lidlessbroth-pot fell;
Choked with the grease,and bidding life farewell,
He said, “My fillof meat and drink have I
And all good things:’Tis time that I should die.”

Thou art that daintymouse among mankind,
If hurtful sweets arenot by thee declined.

THE FOX AND THE GRAPES

There hung some bunchesof the purple grape
On a hillside.A cunning fox, agape
For these full clusters,many times essayed
To cull their dark bloom,many vain leaps made.
They were quite ripe,and for the vintage fit;
But when his leaps didnot avail a whit,
He journeyed on, andthus his grief composed:—
“The bunch wassour, not ripe, as I supposed.”

THE CARTER AND HERCULES

A carter from the villagedrove his wain:
And when it fell intoa rugged lane,
Inactive stood, norlent a helping hand;
But to that god, whomof the heavenly band
He really honored most,Alcides, prayed:
“Push at yourwheels,” the god appearing said,
“And goad yourteam; but when you pray again,
Help yourself likewise,or you’ll pray in vain.”

THE YOUNG COCKS

Two Tanagraean cocksa fight began;
Their spirit is, ’tissaid, as that of man:
Of these the beatenbird, a mass of blows,
For shame into a cornercreeping goes;
The other to the housetopquickly flew,
And there in triumphflapped his wings and crew.
But him an eagle liftedfrom the roof,
And bore away.His fellow gained a proof
That oft the wages ofdefeat are best,—
None else remained thehens to interest.

WHEREFORE, O man, bewareof boastfulness:
Should fortune liftthee, others to depress,
Many are saved by lackof her caress.

THE ARAB AND THE CAMEL

An Arab, having heapedhis camel’s back,
Asked if he chose totake the upward track
Or downward; and thebeast had sense to say
“Am I cut offthen from the level way?”

THE NIGHTINGALE ANDTHE SWALLOW

Far from men’sfields the swallow forth had flown,
When she espied amidthe woodlands lone
The nightingale, sweetsongstress. Her lament
Was Itys to his doomuntimely sent.
Each knew the otherthrough the mournful strain,
Flew to embrace, andin sweet talk remain.
Then said the swallow,“Dearest, liv’st thou still?
Ne’er have I seenthee, since thy Thracian ill.
Some cruel fate hathever come between;
Our virgin lives tillnow apart have been.
Come to the fields;revisit homes of men;
Come dwell with me,a comrade dear, again,
Where thou shalt charmthe swains, no savage brood:
Dwell near men’shaunts, and quit the open wood:
One roof, one chamber,sure, can house the two,
Or dost prefer the nightlyfrozen dew,
And day-god’sheat? a wild-wood life and drear?
Come, clever songstress,to the light more near.”
To whom the sweet-voicednightingale replied:—
“Still on theselonesome ridges let me bide;
Nor seek to part mefrom the mountain glen:—
I shun, since Athens,man, and haunts of men;
To mix with them, theirdwelling-place to view,
Stirs up old grief,and opens woes anew.”

Some consolation foran evil lot
Lies in wise words,in song, in crowds forgot.
But sore the pang, when,where you once were great,
Again men see you, housedin mean estate.

THE HUSBANDMAN AND THESTORK

Thin nets a farmer o’erhis furrows spread,
And caught the cranesthat on his tillage fed;
And him a limping storkbegan to pray,
Who fell with them intothe farmer’s way:—
“I am no crane:I don’t consume the grain:
That I’m a storkis from my color plain;
A stork, than whichno better bird doth live;
I to my father aid and

succor give.”
The man replied:—“Goodstork, I cannot tell
Your way of life:but this I know full well,
I caught you with thespoilers of my seed;
With them, with whomI found you, you must bleed.”

Walk with the bad, andhate will be as strong
’Gainst you asthem, e’en though you no man wrong.

THE PINE

Some woodmen, bent aforest pine to split,
Into each fissure sundrywedges fit,
To keep the void andrender work more light.
Out groaned the pine,“Why should I vent my spite
Against the axe whichnever touched my root,
So much as these cursedwedges, mine own fruit;
Which rend me through,inserted here and there!”

A fable this, intendedto declare
That not so dreadfulis a stranger’s blow
As wrongs which menreceive from those they know.

THE WOMAN AND HER MAID-SERVANTS

A very careful dame,of busy way,
Kept maids at home,and these, ere break of day,
She used to raise asearly as cock-crow.
They thought ’twashard to be awakened so,
And o’er wool-spinningbe at work so long;
Hence grew within themall a purpose strong
To kill the house-cock,whom they thought to blame
For all their wrongs.But no advantage came;
Worse treatment thanthe former them befell:
For when the hour theirmistress could not tell
At which by night thecock was wont to crow,
She roused them earlier,to their work to go.
A harder lot the wretchedmaids endured.

Bad judgment oft hathsuch results procured.

THE LAMP

A lamp that swam withoil, began to boast
At eve, that it outshonethe starry host,
And gave more lightto all. Her boast was heard:
Soon the wind whistled;soon the breezes stirred,
And quenched its light.A man rekindled it,
And said, “Briefis the faint lamp’s boasting fit,
But the starlight ne’erneeds to be re-lit.”

THE TORTOISE AND THEHARE

To the shy hare thetortoise smiling spoke,
When he about her feetbegan to joke:
“I’ll passthee by, though fleeter than the gale.”
“Pooh!”said the hare, “I don’t believe thy tale.
Try but one course,and thou my speed shalt know.”
“Who’llfix the prize, and whither we shall go?”
Of the fleet-footedhare the tortoise asked.
To whom he answered,“Reynard shall be tasked
With this; that subtlefox, whom thou dost see.”
The tortoise then (nohesitater she!)
Kept jogging on, butearliest reached the post;
The hare, relying onhis fleetness, lost
Space, during sleep,he thought he could recover
When he awoke.But then the race was over;
The tortoise gainedher aim, and slept her sleep.

From negligence dothcare the vantage reap.

FRANCIS BACON

(1561-1626)

BY CHARLTON T. LEWIS

The startling contrasts of splendor and humiliationwhich marked the life of Bacon, and the seeminglyincredible inconsistencies which hasty observers findin his character, have been the themes of much rhetoricaldeclamation, and even of serious and learned debate.From Ben Jonson in his own day, to James Speddingthe friend of Tennyson, he has not lacked eminenteulogists, who look up to him as not only the greatestand wisest, but as among the noblest and most worthyof mankind: while the famous epigram of Pope,expanded by Macaulay into a stately and eloquent essay,has impressed on the popular mind the lowest estimateof his moral nature; and even such careful scholarsas Charles de Remusat and Dean Church, who have devotedcareful and instructive volumes to the survey of Bacon’scareer and works, insist that with all his intellectualsupremacy, he was a servile courtier, a false friend,and a corrupt judge. Yet there are few importantnames in human history of men who have left us socomplete materials for a just judgment of their conduct;and it is only a lover of paradox who can read theseand still regard Bacon’s character as an unsolvedproblem.

Mr. Spedding has given a long life of intelligentlabor to the collection of every fact and documentthrowing light upon the motives, aims, and thoughtsof the great “Chancellor of Nature,” fromthe cradle to the grave. The results are beforeus in the seven volumes of ’The Letters andthe Life of Francis Bacon,’ which form perhapsthe most complete biography ever written. Itis a book of absolute candor as well as infinite research,giving with equal distinctness all the evidence whichmakes for its hero’s dishonor and that whichtends to justify the writer’s reverence forhim. Another work by Mr. Spedding, ’Eveningswith a Reviewer,’ in two volumes, is an elaboraterefutation, from the original and authentic records,of the most damning charges brought by Lord Macaulayagainst Bacon’s good fame. It is a completeand overwhelming exposure of false coloring, of rhetoricalartifices, and of the abuse of evidence, in the famousessay. As one of the most entertaining and instructivepieces of controversy in our literature, it deservesto be widely read. The unbiased reader cannotaccept the special pleading by which, in his comments,Spedding makes every failing of Bacon “leanto virtue’s side”; but will form upon theunquestioned facts presented a clear conception ofhim, will come to know him as no other man of an ageso remote is known, and will find in his many-sidedand magnificent nature a full explanation of the impressionswhich partial views of it have made upon his worshipersand his detractors.

It is only in his maturity, indeed, that we are privilegedto enter into his mind and read his heart. Butenough is known of the formative period of his lifeto show us the sources of his weaknesses and of hisstrength. The child whom high authorities haveregarded as endowed with the mightiest intellect ofthe human race was born at York House, on the Strand,in the third year of Elizabeth’s reign, January22d, 1561. He was the son of the Queen’sLord Keeper of the Seals, Sir Nicholas Bacon, andhis second wife Anne, daughter of Sir Anthony Cook,formerly tutor of King Edward VI. Mildred, anelder daughter of the same scholar, was the wife ofWilliam Cecil, Lord Burghley, who for the first fortyyears of her reign was Elizabeth’s chief minister.As a child Bacon was a favorite at court, and traditionrepresents him as something of a pet of the Queen,who called him “my young Lord Keeper.”His mother was among the most learned women of anage when, among women of rank, great learning wasas common and as highly prized as great beauty; andher influence was a potent intellectual stimulus tothe boy, although he revolted in early youth fromthe narrow creed which her fierce Puritan zeal stroveto impose on her household. Outside of the nursery,the atmosphere of his world was that of craft, alldirected to one end; for the Queen was the sourceof honor, power, and wealth, and advancement in lifemeant only a share in the grace distributed throughher ministers and favorites. Apart from the harshand forbidding religious teachings of his mother,young Francis had before him neither precept nor exampleof an ambition more worthy than that of courting thesmiles of power.

[Illustration: SIR FRANCIS BACON.]

At the age of twelve he entered Trinity College, Cambridge(April, 1573), and left it before he was fifteen (Christmas,1575); the institution meanwhile having been brokenup for more than half a year (August, 1574, to March,1575) by the plague, so that his intermittent universitycareer summed up less than fourteen months. Thereis no record of his studies, and the names of histeachers are unknown; for though Bacon in later yearscalled himself a pupil of Whitgift, and his biographersassumed that the relation was direct and personal,yet that great master of Trinity had certainly endedhis teaching days before Bacon went to Cambridge,and had entered as Dean of Lincoln on his splendidecclesiastical career. University life was verydifferent from that of our times. The statutesof Cambridge forbade a student, under penalties, touse in conversation with another any language butLatin, Greek, or Hebrew, unless in his private apartmentsand in hours of leisure. It was a regular customat Trinity to bring before the assembled undergraduatesevery Thursday evening at seven o’clock suchjunior students as had been detected in breaches ofthe rules during the week, and to flog them.It would be interesting to know in what languages

young Bacon conversed, and what experiences of disciplinebefell him; but his subsequent achievements at leastsuggest that Cambridge in the sixteenth century mayhave afforded more efficient educational influencesthan our knowledge of its resources and methods canexplain. For it is certain that, at an age whenour most promising youths are beginning serious study,Bacon’s mind was already formed, his habitsand modes of research were fixed, the universe of knowledgewas an open field before him. Thenceforth hewas no man’s pupil, but in intellectual independenceand solitude he rapidly matured into the supreme scholarof his age.

After registering as a student of law at Gray’sInn, apparently for the purpose of a nominal connectionwith a profession which might aid his patrons in promotinghim at court, Bacon was sent in June, 1576, to Francein the train of the British Ambassador, Sir Amyas Paulet;and for nearly three years followed the roving embassyaround the great cities of that kingdom. Themassacre of St. Bartholomew had taken place four yearsbefore, and the boy’s recorded observations onthe troubled society of France and of Europe showremarkable insight into the character of princes andthe sources of political movements. Sir Nicholashad hitherto directed his son’s education andassociations with the purpose of making him an ornamentof the court, and had set aside a fund to provideFrancis at the proper time with a handsome estate.But he died suddenly, February 20th, 1579, withoutgiving legal effect to this provision, and the sumdesigned for the young student was divided equallyamong the five children, while Francis was excludedfrom a share in the rest of the family fortune; andwas thus called home to England to find himself apoor man.

He made himself a bachelor’s home at Gray’sInn, and devoted his energies to the law, with suchsuccess that he was soon recognized as one of themost promising members of the profession. In 1584he entered Parliament for Melcombe Regis in Somersetshire,and two years later sat for Liverpool. Duringthese years the schism between his inner and his outerlife continued to widen. Drawing his first breathin the atmosphere of the court, bred in the faiththat honor and greatness come from princes’favor, with a native taste for luxury and magnificencewhich was fostered by delicate health, he steadilylooked for advancement through the influence of Burghleyand the smiles of the Queen. But Burghley hadno sympathy with speculative thought, and distrustedhim for his confidences concerning his higher studies,while he probably feared in Bacon a dangerous rivalof his own son; so that with expressions of kind interest,he refrained from giving his nephew practical aid.Elizabeth, too, suspected that a young man who knewso many things could not be trusted to know his ownbusiness well, and preferred for important professionalwork others who were lawyers and nothing besides.

Thus Bacon appeared to the world as a disappointedand uneasy courtier, struggling to keep up a certainsplendor of appearance and associations under a growingload of debt, and servile to a Queen on whose capricehis prospects of a career must depend. His unquestionedpower at the bar was exercised only in minor causes;his eloquence and political dexterity found slow recognitionin Parliament, where they represented only themselves;and the question whether he would ever be a man ofnote in the kingdom seemed for twenty-five years toturn upon what the Crown might do for its humble suitor.

Meanwhile this laborious advocate and indefatigablecourtier, whose labors at the bar and in attendanceupon his great friends were enough to fill the daysof two ordinary men, led his real life in secret,unknown to the world, and uncomprehended even by thefew in whom he had divined a capacity for great thought,and whom he had selected for his confidants.From his childhood at the university, where he feltthe emptiness of the Aristotelian logic, the instrumentfor attaining truth which traditional learning hadconsecrated, he had gradually formed the conceptionof a more fruitful process. He had become convincedthat the learning of all past ages was but a poorresult of the intellectual capacities and labors whichhad been employed upon it; that the human mind hadnever yet been properly used; that the methods hithertoadopted in research were but treadmill work, returningupon itself, or at best could produce but fragmentaryand accidental additions to the sum of knowledge.All nature is crammed with truth, he believed, whichit concerns man to discover; the intellect of manis constructed for its discovery, and needs but tobe purged of errors of every kind, and directed inthe most efficient employment of its faculties, tomake sure that all the secrets of nature will be revealed,and its powers made tributary to the health, comfort,enjoyment, and progressive improvement of mankind.

This stupendous conception, of a revolution whichshould transform the world, seems to have taken definiteform in Bacon’s mind as early as his twenty-fifthyear, when he embodied the outline of it in a Latintreatise; which he destroyed in later life, unpublished,as immature, and partly no doubt because he came torecognize in it an unbecoming arrogance of tone, forits title was ‘Temporis Partus Maximus’(The Greatest Birth of Time.) But six years laterhe defines these “vast contemplative ends”in his famous letter to Burghley, asking for prefermentwhich will enable him to prosecute his grand schemeand to employ other minds in aid of it. “ForI have taken all knowledge to be my province,”he says, “and if I could purge it of two sortsof rovers, whereof the one with frivolous disputations,confutations, and verbosities, the other with blindexperiments and auricular traditions and impostures,hath committed so many spoils, I hope I should bringin industrious observations, grounded conclusions,and profitable inventions and discoveries: thebest state of that province. This, whether itbe curiosity or vain glory, or nature, or (if one takeit favorably) philanthropia is so fixed inmy mind as it cannot be removed.”

This letter reveals the secret of Bacon’s life,and all that we know of him, read in the light ofit, forms a consistent and harmonious whole.He was possessed by his vast scheme, for a reformationof the intellectual world, and through it, of theworld of human experience, as fully as was ever apostleby his faith. Implicitly believing in his ownability to accomplish it, at least in its grand outlines,and to leave at his death the community of mind atwork, by the method and for the purposes which hehad defined, with the perfection of all science infull view, he subordinated every other ambition tothis; and in seeking and enjoying place, power, andwealth, still regarded them mainly as aids in prosecutinghis master purpose, and in introducing it to the world.With this clearly in mind, it is easy to understandhis subsequent career. Its external details maybe read in any of the score of biographies which writersof all grades of merit and demerit have devoted tohim, and there is no space for them here. Forour purpose it is necessary to refer only to the principalcrises in his public life.

Until the death of Elizabeth, Bacon had no place inthe royal service worthy of his abilities as a lawyer.Many who, even in the narrowest professional sense,were far inferior to him, were preferred before him.Yet he obtained a position recognized by all, and secondonly in legal learning to his lifelong rival and constantadversary, Sir Edward Coke. To-day, it is probablethat if the two greatest names in the history of thecommon law were to be selected by the suffrages ofthe profession, the great majority would be cast forCoke and Bacon. As a master of the intricaciesof precedent and an authority upon the detailed formulasof “the perfection of reason,” the formeris unrivaled still; but in the comprehensive graspof the law as a system for the maintenance of socialorder and the protection of individual rights, Baconrose far above him. The cherished aim of hisprofessional career was to survey the whole body ofthe laws of England, to produce a digest of them whichshould result in a harmonious code, to do away withall that was found obsolete or inconsistent with theprinciples of the system, and thus to adapt the living,progressive body of the law to the wants of the growingnation. This magnificent plan was beyond thepower of any one man, had his life no other task,but he suggested the method and the aim; and whilefor six generations after these legal giants passedaway, the minute, accurate, and profound learningof Coke remained the acknowledged chief storehouseof British traditional jurisprudence, the seventh generationtook up the work of revision and reform, and from thetime of Bentham and Austin the progress of legal sciencehas been toward codification. The contest betweenthe aggregation of empirical rules and formulatedcustoms which Coke taught as the common law, and thebroad, harmonious application of scientific reasonto the definition and enforcement of rights, stillgoes on; but with constant gains on the side of thereformers, all of whom with one consent confess thatno general and complete reconstruction of legal doctrineas a science is possible, except upon the lines laiddown by Bacon.

The most memorable case in which Bacon was employedto represent the Crown during Elizabeth’s lifewas the prosecution of the Earl of Essex for treason.Essex had been Bacon’s friend, patron, and benefactor;and as long as the earl remained faithful to the Queenand retained her favor, Bacon served him with readyzeal and splendid efficiency, and showed himself thewisest and most sincere of counselors. When Essexrejected his advice, forfeited the Queen’s confidenceby the follies from which Bacon had earnestly strivento deter him, and finally plunged into wanton andreckless rebellion, Bacon, with whom loyalty to hissovereign had always been the supreme duty, accepteda retainer from the Crown, and assisted Coke in theprosecution. The crime of Essex was the greatestof which a subject was capable; it lacked no circumstanceof aggravation; if the most astounding instance ofingratitude and disloyalty to friendship ever knownis to be sought in that age, it will be found in theconduct of Essex to Bacon’s royal mistress.Yet writers of eloquence have exhausted their rhetoricalpowers in denouncing Bacon’s faithlessness tohis friend. But no impartial reader of the fullstory in the documents of the time can doubt that throughoutthese events Bacon did his duty and no more, and thatin doing it he not merely made a voluntary sacrificeof his popularity, but a far more painful sacrificeof his personal feelings.

In 1603 James I. came to the throne, and in spiteof the efforts of his most trusted ministers to keepBacon in obscurity, soon discovered in him a man whomhe needed. In 1607 he was made Solicitor-General;in 1613 Attorney-General; in March 1617, on the deathof Lord Ellesmere, he received the seals as Lord Keeper;and in January following was made Lord Chancellorof England. In July 1618 he was raised to thepermanent peerage as Baron Verulam, and in January1621 received the title of Viscount St. Albans.During these three years he was the first subjectin the kingdom in dignity, and ought to have been thefirst in influence. His advice to the King, andto the Duke of Buckingham who was the King’sking, was always judicious. In certain cardinalpoints of policy, it was of the highest statesmanship;and had it been followed, the history of the Stuartdynasty would have been different, and the Crown andthe Parliament would have wrought together for thegood and the honor of the nation, at least througha generation to come. But the upstart Buckinghamwas supreme. He had studied Bacon’s strengthand weakness, had laid him under great obligations,had at the same time attached him by the strongesttie of friendship to his person, and impressed uponhis consciousness the fact that the fate of Bacon wasat all times in his hands. The new Chancellorhad entered on his great office with a fixed purposeto reform its abuses, to speed and cheapen justice,to free its administration from every influence ofwealth and power. In the first three months of

service he brought up the large arrears of business,tried every cause, heard every petition, and acquireda splendid reputation as an upright and diligent judge.But Buckingham was his evil angel. He was withoutsense of the sanctity of the judicial character; andregarded the bench, like every other public office,as an instrument of his own interests and will.On the other hand, to Bacon the voice of Buckinghamwas the voice of the King, and he had been taughtfrom infancy as the beginning of his political creedthat the king can do no wrong. Buckingham beganat once to solicit from Bacon favors for his friendsand dependants, and the Chancellor was weak enoughto listen and to answer him. There is no evidencethat in any one instance the favorite asked for theviolation of law or the perversion of justice; muchless that Bacon would or did accede to such a request.But the Duke demanded for one suitor a speedy hearing,for another a consideration of facts which might notbe in evidence, for a third all the favor consistentwith law; and Bacon reported to him the result, andhow far he had been able to oblige him. This persistenttampering with the source of justice was a disturbinginfluence in the Chancellor’s court, and unquestionablylowered the dignity of his attitude and weakened hisjudicial conscience.

Notwithstanding this, when the Lord Chancellor openedthe Parliament in January, 1621, with a speech inpraise of his King and in honor of the nation, heseemed to be at the summit of earthly prosperity.No voice had been lifted to question his purity andworth. He was the friend of the King, one ofthe chief supports of the throne, a champion indeedof high prerogative, but an orator of power, a writerof fame, whose advancement to the highest dignitieshad been welcomed by public opinion. Four monthslater he was a convicted criminal, sentenced for judicialcorruption to imprisonment at the King’s pleasure,to a fine of L40,000, and to perpetual incapacityfor any public employment. Vicissitudes of fortuneare commonplaces of history. Many a man onceseemingly pinnacled on the top of greatness has “shotfrom the zenith like a falling star,” and becomea proverb of the fickleness of fate. Some aretorn down by the very traits of mind, passion, or temper,which have raised them: ambition which overleapsitself, rashness which hazards all on chances it cannotcontrol, vast abilities not great enough to achievethe impossible. The plunge of Icarus into thesea, the murder of Caesar, the imprisonment of Coeurde Lion, the abdication of Napoleon, the apprehensionas a criminal of Jefferson Davis, each was a startlingand impressive contrast to the glory which it followed,yet each was the natural result of causes which layin the character and life of the sufferer, and madehis story a consistent whole. But the pathosof Bacon’s fall is the sudden moral ruin of alife which had been built up in honor for sixty years.

An intellect of the first rank, which from boyhoodto old age had been steadfast in the pursuit of truthand in the noblest services to mankind, which in afeeble body had been sustained in vigor by all thevirtues of prudence and self-reverence; a genial nature,winning the affection and admiration of associates,hardly paralleled in the industry with which its energieswere devoted to useful work, a soul exceptional amongits contemporaries for piety and philanthropy—thisman is represented to us by popular writers as havinghabitually sold justice for money, and as having becomein office “the meanest of mankind.”

But this picture, as so often drawn, and as seeminglyfixed in the popular mind, is not only impossible,but is demonstrably false. To review all thefacts which correct it in detail would lead us farbeyond our limits. It must suffice to refer tothe great work of Spedding, in which the entire recordsof the case are found, and which would long ago havemade the world just to Bacon’s fame, but thatthe author’s comment on his own complete andfair record is itself partial and extravagant.But the materials for a final judgment are accessibleto all in Spedding’s volumes, and a candid readingof them solves the enigma. Bacon was condemnedwithout a trial, on his own confession, and this confessionwas consistent with the tenor of his life. Itssubstance was that he had failed to put a stop effectuallyto the immemorial custom in his court of receivingpresents from suitors, but that he had never deviatedfrom justice in his decrees. There was no instancein which he was accused of yielding to the influenceof gifts, or passing judgment for a bribe. Noact of his as Chancellor was impeached as illegal,or reversed as corrupt. Suitors complained thatthey had sent sums of money or valuable presents tohis court, and had been disappointed in the result;but no one complained of injustice in a decision.Bacon was a conspicuous member of the royal party;and when the storm of popular fury broke in Parliamentupon the court, the King and the ministry abandonedhim. He had stood all his life upon the royalfavor as the basis of his strength and hope; and whenit was gone from under him, he sank helplessly, andrefused to attempt a defense. But he still inhis humiliation found comfort in the reflection thathis ruin would put an end to “anything thatis in the likeness of corruption” among thejudges. And he wrote, in the hour of his deepestdistress, that he had been “the justest Chancellorthat hath been in the five changes that have beensince Sir Nicholas Bacon’s time.”Nor did any man of his time venture to contradicthim, when in later years he summed up his case inthe words, “I was the justest judge that wasin England these fifty years. But it was thejustest censure in Parliament that was these two hundredyears.”

No revolution of modern times has been more completethan that which the last two centuries have silentlywrought in the customary morality of British publiclife, and in the standards by which it is judged.Under James I. every office of state was held as theprivate property of its occupant. The highestplaces in the government were conferred only on conditionof large payments to the King. He openly soldthe honors and dignities of which he was the source.“The making of a baron,” that is, theright to sell to some rich plebeian a patent of nobility,was a common grant to favorites, and was actuallybestowed on Bacon, to aid him in maintaining the stateof his office. We have the testimony of Jameshimself that all the lawyers, of whom the judges ofthe realm were made, were “so bred and nursedin corruption that they cannot leave it.”But the line between what the King called corruptionand that which he and all his ministers practicedopenly and habitually, as part of the regular workof government, is dim and hard to define. Themind of the community had not yet firmly grasped theconception of public office as a trust for the publicgood, and the general opinion which stimulates andsustains the official conscience in holding this trustsacred was still unformed. The courts of justicewere the first branch of the government to feel thepressure of public opinion, and to respond to thedemand for impersonal and impartial right. Butthis process had only begun when Bacon, who had neverbefore served as judge, was called to preside in Chancery.The Chancellor’s office was a gradual development:originally political and administrative rather thanjudicial, and with no salary or reward for hearingcauses, save the voluntary presents of suitors whoasked its interference with the ordinary courts, itstep by step became the highest tribunal of the equitywhich limits and corrects the routine of law, andstill the custom of gifts was unchecked. A carefulstudy of Bacon’s career shows that in this, asevery other branch of thought, his theoretic convictionswere in advance of his age; and in his advice to theKing and in his inaugural promises as Chancellor,he foreshadows all the principles on which the wisestreformers of the public service now insist. Buthe failed to apply them with that heroic self-sacrificewhich alone would have availed him, and the forcesof custom and example continually encroached upon hisviews of duty. Having through a long life soughtadvancement and wealth for the purpose of using leisureand independence to carry out his beneficent planson the largest scale, he eagerly accepted the traditionalemoluments of his new position, in the conviction thatthey would become in his hands the means of vast goodto mankind. It was only the public exposure whichfully awakened him to a sense of the inconsistencyand wrong of his conduct; and then he was himself hisseverest judge, and made every reparation in his power,by the most unreserved confession, by pointing outthe danger to society of such weakness as his ownin language to whose effectiveness nothing could beadded, and by devoting the remainder of his life tothe noblest work for humanity.

During the years of Bacon’s splendor as a memberof the government and as spokesman for the throne,his real life as a thinker, inspired by the loftiestambition which ever entered the mind of man, that ofcreating a new and better civilization, was not interrupted.It was probably in 1603 that he wrote his fragmentary’Prooemium de Interpretatione Naturae,’or ‘Preface to a Treatise on Interpreting Nature,’which is the only piece of autobiography he has leftus. It was found among his papers after his death;and its candor, dignity, and enthusiasm of tone arein harmony with the imaginative grasp and magnificentsuggestiveness of its thought. Commending theoriginal Latin to all who can appreciate its eloquence,we cite the first sentences of it in English:—

“Believing that I was born forthe service of mankind, and regarding the careof the Commonwealth as a kind of common propertywhich, like the air and water, belongs to everybody,I set myself to consider in what way mankind mightbe best served, and what service I was myselfbest fitted by nature to perform.

“Now, among all the benefitsthat could be conferred upon mankind, I foundnone so great as the discovery of new arts forthe bettering of human life. For I saw that amongthe rude people of early times, inventors anddiscoverers were reckoned as gods. It wasseen that the works of founders of States, law-givers,tyrant-destroyers, and heroes cover but narrowspaces and endure but for a time; while the work ofthe inventor, though of less pomp, is felt everywhereand lasts forever. But above all, if a mancould, I do not say devise some invention, howeveruseful, but kindle a light in nature—alight which, even in rising, should touch and illuminatethe borders of existing knowledge, and spreading furtheron should bring to light all that is most secret—thatman, in my view, would be indeed the benefactor ofmankind, the extender of man’s empire over nature,the champion of freedom, the conqueror of fate.

“For myself, I found that I wasfitted for nothing so well as for the study ofTruth: as having a mind nimble and versatileenough to discern resemblances in things (themain point), and yet steady enough to distinguishthe subtle differences in them; as being endowedwith zeal to seek, patience to doubt, love ofmeditation, slowness of assertion, readiness toreconsider, carefulness to arrange and set in order;and as being a man that affects not the new noradmires the old, but hates all imposture.So I thought my nature had a certain familiarityand kindred with Truth.”

During the next two years he applied himself to thecomposition of the treatise on the ‘Advancementof Learning,’ the greatest of his English writings,and one which contains the seed-thoughts and outlineprinciples of all his philosophy. From the timeof its publication in 1605 to his fall in 1621, hecontinued to frame the plan of his ’Great Instauration’

of human knowledge, and to write out chapters, books,passages, sketches, designed to take their places init as essential parts. It was to include sixgreat divisions: first, a general survey of existingknowledge; second, a guide to the use of the intellectin research, purging it of sources of error, and furnishingit with the new instrument of inductive logic by whichall the laws of nature might be ascertained; third,a structure of the phenomena of nature, included inone hundred and thirty particular branches of naturalhistory, as the materials for the new logic; fourth,a series of types and models of the entire mentalprocess of discovering truth, “selecting variousand remarkable instances”; fifth, specimensof the new philosophy, or anticipations of its results,in fragmentary contributions to the sixth and crowningdivision, which was to set forth the new philosophyin its completeness, comprehending the truths to bediscovered by a perfected instrument of reasoning,in interpreting all the phenomena of the world.Well aware that the scheme, especially in its concludingpart, was far beyond the power and time of any oneman, he yet hoped to be the architect of the finaledifice of science, by drawing its plans and makingthem intelligible, leaving their perfect executionto an intellectual world which could not fail to bemoved to its supreme effort by a comprehension ofthe work before it. The ‘Novum Organum,’itself but a fragment of the second division of the‘Instauration,’ the key to the use ofthe intellect in the discovery of truth, was publishedin Latin at the height of his splendor as Lord Chancellor,in 1620, and is his most memorable achievement inphilosophy. It contains a multitude of suggestivethoughts on the whole field of science, but is mainlythe exposition of the fallacies by which the intellectis deceived and misled, and from which it must bepurged in order to attain final truth, and of thenew doctrine of “prerogative instances,”or crucial observations and experiments in the workof discovery.

In short, Bacon’s entire achievement in scienceis a plan for an impossible universe of knowledge.As far as he attempted to advance particular sciencesby applying his method to their detailed phenomena,he wrought with imperfect knowledge of what had beendone, and with cumbrous and usually misdirected effortsto fill the gaps he recognized. In a few instances,by what seems an almost superhuman instinct for truth,rather than the laborious process of investigationwhich he taught, he anticipated brilliant discoveriesof later centuries. For example, he clearly pointedout the necessity of regarding heat as a form of motionin the molecules of matter, and thus foreshadowed,without any conception of the means of proving it,that which, for investigators of the nineteenth century,has proved the most direct way to the secrets of nature.But the testimony of the great teachers of scienceis unanimous, that Bacon was not a skilled observer

of phenomena, nor a discoverer of scientific inductions;that he contributed no important new truth, in thesense of an established law, to any department ofknowledge; and that his method of research and reasoningis not, in its essential features, that which is fruitfullypursued by them in extending the boundaries of science,nor was his mind wholly purged of those “idolsof the cave,” or forms of personal bias, whosevarying forms as hindrances to the “dry light”of sound reason he was the first to expose. Henever appreciated the mathematics as the basis ofphysics, but valued their elements mainly as a mentaldiscipline. Astronomy meant little to him, sincehe failed to connect it directly with human well-beingand improvement; to the system of Copernicus, thebeginning of our insight into the heavens, he washostile, or at least indifferent; and the splendiddiscoveries successively made by Tycho Brahe, Galileo,and Kepler, and brought to his ears while the ‘GreatInstauration’ filled his mind and heart, metwith but a feeble welcome with him, or none. Whyis it, then, that Bacon’s is the foremost namein the history of English, and perhaps, as many insist,of all modern thought? Why is it that “theBaconian philosophy” is another phrase, in allthe languages of Europe, for that splendid developmentof the study and knowledge of the visible universewhich since his time has changed the life of mankind?

A candid answer to these questions will expose anerror as wide in the popular estimate of Bacon’sintellectual greatness as that which has prevailedso generally regarding his character. He is calledthe inventor of inductive reasoning, the reformerof logic, the lawgiver of the world of thought; buthe was no one of these. His grasp of the inductivemethod was defective; his logic was clumsy and impractical;his plan for registering all phenomena and selectingand generalizing from them, making the discovery oftruth almost a mechanical process, was worthless.In short, it is not as a philosopher nor as a man ofscience that Bacon has carved his name in the highplaces of enduring fame, but rather as a man of letters;as on the whole the greatest writer of the modernworld, outside of the province of imaginative art;as the Shakespeare of English prose. Does thisseem a paradox to the reader who remembers that Bacondistrusted all modern languages, and thought to makehis ‘Advancement of Learning’ “live,and be a citizen of the world,” by giving ita Latin form? That his lifelong ambition was toreconstruct methods of thought, and guide intellectin the way of work serviceable to comfort and happiness?That the books in which his English style appearsin its perfection, the ‘History of Henry VII.,’the ‘Essays,’ and the papers on publicaffairs, were but incidents and avocations of a lifeabsorbed by a master purpose?

But what is literature? It is creative mind,addressing itself in worthy expression to the commonreceptive mind of mankind. Its note is universality,as distinguished from all that is technical, limited,and narrow. Thought whose interest is as broadas humanity, suitably clothed in the language of reallife, and thus fitted for access to the general intelligence,constitutes true literature, to the exclusion of thatwhich, by its nature or by its expression, appealsonly to a special class or school. The ‘OpusAnglicanum’ of Duns Scotus, Newton’s ‘Principia,’Lavoisier’s treatise ‘Sur la Combustion,’Kant’s ’Kritik der Reinen Vernunft’(Critique of Pure Reason), each made an epoch in somevast domain of knowledge or belief; but none of themis literature. Yet the thoughts they, througha limited and specially trained class of students,introduced to the world, were gradually taken up intothe common stock of mankind, and found their broad,effective, complete expression in the literature ofafter generations. If we apply this test to Bacon’slife work, we shall find sufficient justification forhonoring him above all special workers in narrowerfields, as next to Shakespeare the greatest name inthe greatest period of English literature.

It was not as an experimenter, investigator, or technicalteacher, but as a thinker and a writer, that he renderedhis great service to the world. This consistedessentially in the contribution of two magnificentideas to the common stock of thought: the ideaof the utility of science, as able to subjugate theforces of nature to the use of man; and the idea ofcontinued and boundless progress in the comfort andhappiness of the individual life, and in the orderand dignity of human society. It has been shownhow, from early manhood, he was inspired by the conceptionof infinite resources in the material world, for thediscovery and employment of which the human mind isadapted. He never wearied of pointing out theimperfection and fruitlessness of the methods of inquiryand of invention hitherto in use, and the splendidresults which could be rapidly attained if a combinedand systematic effort were made to enlarge the boundariesof knowledge. This led him directly to the conceptionof an improved and advancing civilization; to theutterance, in a thousand varied, impressive, and fascinatingforms, of that idea of human progress which is theinspiration, the characteristic, and the hope of themodern world. Bacon was the first of men to graspthese ideas in all their comprehensiveness as feasiblepurposes, as practical aims; to teach the developmentof them as the supreme duty and ambition of his contemporaries,and to look forward instead of behind him for theGolden Age. Enforcing and applying these thoughtswith a wealth of learning, a keenness of wit, a soundnessof judgment, and a suggestiveness of illustrationunequaled by any writer before him, he became thegreatest literary power of modern times to stimulateminds in every department of life to their noblestefforts and their worthiest achievements.

Literature has a twofold aspect: its ideal ispure truth, which is the noblest thought embodiedin perfect beauty of form. It is the union ofscience and art, the final wedding in which are mergedthe knowledge worthy to be known and the highest imaginationpresenting it. There is a school calling itselfthat of pure art, to which substance is nothing andform is everything. Its measure of merit is appliedto the manner only; and the meanest of subjects, themost trivial and even the most degraded of ideas orfacts, is welcomed to its high places if clothed ina satisfying garb. But this school, though arrogantin the other arts of expression, has not yet beenwelcomed to the judgment-seat in literature, whereindeed it is passing even now to contempt and oblivion.Bacon’s instinct was for substance. Hisstrongest passion was for utility. The artisticside of his nature was receptive rather than creative.Splendid passages in the ‘Advancement’and ‘De Augmentis’ show his profound appreciationof all the arts of expression, but show likewise hisinability to glorify them above that which they express.In his mind, language is subordinate to thought, andthe painting to the picture, just as the frame isto the painting or the binding to the book. Hewrites always in the grand style. He reminds usof “the large utterance of the early gods.”His sentences are weighted with thought, as suggestiveas Plato, as condensed as Thucydides. Full ofwit, keen in discerning analogies, rich in intellectualornament, he is yet too concentrated in his attentionto the idea to care for the melody of language.He decorates with fruits, not with flowers. Formetrical movement, for rhythmic harmony, he has noear nor sense. Inconceivable as it is that Shakespearecould have written one aphorism of the ’NovumOrganum,’ it would be far more absurd to imagineBacon writing a line of the Sonnets. With theloftiest imagination, the liveliest fancy, the keenestsense of precision and appropriateness in words, helacks the special gift of poetic form, the facultydivine which finds new inspiration in the very limitationsof measured language, and whose natural expressionis music alike to the ear and to the mind. Hispowers were cramped by the fetters of metre, and hisattempts to versify even rich thought and deep feelingwere puerile. But his prose is by far the weightiest,the most lucid, effective, and pleasing of his day.The poet Sprat justly says:—

“He was a man of strong, clear,and powerful imaginations; his genius was searchingand inimitable; and of this I need give no otherproof than his style itself, which as for the mostpart it describes men’s minds as well as picturesdo their bodies, so it did his above all menliving.”

And Ben Jonson, who knew him well, describes his eloquencein terms which are confirmed by all we know of hisParliamentary career:—

“One, though he be excellentand the chief, is not to be imitated alone; forno imitator ever grew up to his author: likenessis always on this side truth. Yet there happenedin my time one noble speaker, who was full ofgravity in his speaking. His language (whenhe could spare or pass by a jest) was nobly censorious.No man ever spake more neatly, more rightly,more weightily, or suffered less emptiness, lessidleness in what he uttered. No member of hisspeech but consisted of his own graces.His hearers could not cough or look aside fromhim without loss. He commanded when he spoke,and had his judges angry and pleased at his devotion.No man had their affections more in his power.The fear of every man that heard him was lesthe should make an end.”

The speeches of Bacon are almost wholly lost, hisphilosophy is an undeciphered heap of fragments, theambitions of his life lay in ruins about his dishonoredold age; yet his intellect is one of the great movingand still vital forces of the modern world, and heremains, for all ages to come, in the literature whichis the final storehouse of the chief treasures ofmankind, one of

“The dead yetsceptered sovereigns who still rule
Our spirits from theirurns.”

OF TRUTH

From the ‘Essays’

What is Truth? said jesting Pilate; and would notstay for an answer. Certainly there be that delightin giddiness; and count it a bondage to fix a belief;affecting free-will in thinking, as well as in acting.And though the sects of philosophers of that kindbe gone, yet there remain certain discoursing wits,which are of the same veins, though there be not somuch blood in them as was in those of the ancients.But it is not only the difficulty and labor whichmen take in finding out of truth, nor again, thatwhen it is found it imposeth upon men’s thoughts,that doth bring lies in favor: but a naturalthough corrupt love of the lie itself. One ofthe later school of the Grecians examineth the matter,and is at a stand to think what should be in it, thatmen should love lies, where neither they make forpleasure as with poets, nor for advantage as withthe merchant; but for the lie’s sake. ButI cannot tell: this same truth is a naked andopen daylight, that doth not show the masks and mummeriesand triumphs of the world half so stately and daintilyas candle-lights. Truth may perhaps come to theprice of a pearl, that showeth best by day; but itwill not rise to the price of a diamond or carbuncle,that showeth best in varied lights. A mixtureof a lie doth ever add pleasure. Doth any mandoubt, that if there were taken out of men’sminds vain opinions, flattering hopes, false valuations,imaginations as one would, and the like, but it wouldleave the minds of a number of men poor shrunken things,full of melancholy and indisposition, and unpleasingto themselves? One of the fathers, in great severity,

called poesy vinum doemonum, because it filleththe imagination, and yet it is but with the shadowof a lie. But it is not the lie that passeththrough the mind, but the lie that sinketh in andsettleth in it, that doth the hurt; such as we spakeof before. But howsoever these things are thusin men’s depraved judgments and affections,yet truth, which only doth judge itself, teacheth thatthe inquiry of truth, which is the love-making orwooing of it, the knowledge of truth, which is thepresence of it, and the belief of truth, which isthe enjoying of it, is the sovereign good of humannature. The first creature of God, in the worksof the days, was the light of the sense; the lastwas the light of reason; and his Sabbath work eversince is the illumination of his Spirit.... Thepoet that beautified the sect that was otherwise inferiorto the rest, saith yet excellently well:—“Itis a pleasure to stand upon the shore, and to seeships tossed upon the sea; a pleasure to stand in thewindow of a castle, and to see a battle and the adventuresthereof below; but no pleasure is comparable to thestanding upon the vantage ground of Truth” (ahill not to be commanded, and where the air is alwaysclear and serene). “and to see the errors, andwanderings, and mists, and tempests, in the vale below:”so always that this prospect be with pity, and notwith swelling or pride. Certainly, it is heavenupon earth, to have a man’s mind move in charity,rest in providence, and turn upon the poles of truth.

To pass from theological and philosophical truth tothe truth of civil business: it will be acknowledgedeven by those that practice it not, that clear andround dealing is the honor of man’s nature, andthat mixture of falsehood is like alloy in coin ofgold and silver, which may make the metal work thebetter, but it embaseth it. For these windingand crooked courses are the goings of the serpent;which goeth basely upon the belly, and not upon thefeet. There is no vice that doth so cover a manwith shame as to be found false and perfidious; andtherefore Montaigne saith prettily, when he inquiredthe reason why the word of the lie should be sucha disgrace and such an odious charge. Saith he,“If it be well weighed, to say that a man lieth,is as much as to say that he is brave toward God anda coward toward men.” For a lie faces God,and shrinks from man. Surely the wickedness offalsehood and breach of faith cannot possibly be sohighly expressed, as in that it shall be the lastpeal to call the judgments of God upon the generationsof men; it being foretold, that when Christ cometh,“he shall not find faith upon the earth.”

OF REVENGE

From the ‘Essays’

Revenge is a kind of wild justice; which the moreman’s nature runs to, the more ought law toweed it out. For as for the first wrong, it dothbut offend the law; but the revenge of that wrong putteththe law out of office. Certainly, in taking revenge,a man is but even with his enemy; but in passing itover, he is superior: for it is a prince’spart to pardon, and Solomon, I am sure, saith, “Itis the glory of a man to pass by an offense.”That which is past is gone and irrevocable, and wisemen have enough to do with things present and to come;therefore, they do but trifle with themselves thatlabor in past matters. There is no man doth awrong for the wrong’s sake; but thereby to purchasehimself profit, or pleasure, or honor, or the like.Therefore, why should I be angry with a man for lovinghimself better than me? And if any man shoulddo wrong merely out of ill-nature, why yet it is butlike the thorn or brier, which prick and scratch becausethey can do no other. The most tolerable sortof revenge is for those wrongs which there is no lawto remedy; but then, let a man take heed the revengebe such as there is no law to punish, else a man’senemy is still beforehand, and it is two for one.Some, when they take revenge, are desirous the partyshould know whence it cometh. This is the moregenerous; for the delight seemeth to be not so muchin doing the hurt as in making the party repent.But base and crafty cowards are like the arrow thatflieth in the dark. Cosmus, Duke of Florence,had a desperate saying against perfidious or neglectingfriends, as if those wrongs were unpardonable.“You shall read,” saith he, “thatwe are commanded to forgive our enemies; but you neverread that we are commanded to forgive our friends.”But yet the spirit of Job was in a better tune:“Shall we,” saith he, “take goodat God’s hands, and not be content to take evilalso?” And so of friends in a proportion.This is certain, that a man that studieth revengekeeps his own wounds green, which otherwise wouldheal and do well. Public revenges are for themost part fortunate: as that for the death ofCaesar; for the death of Pertinax; for the death ofHenry the Third of France; and many more. Butin private revenges it is not so. Nay, rathervindictive persons live the life of witches; who,as they are mischievous, so end they infortunate.

OF SIMULATION AND DISSIMULATION

From the ‘Essays’

Dissimulation is but a faint kind of policy or wisdom;for it asketh a strong wit and a strong heart to knowwhen to tell truth, and to do it. Therefore itis the weaker sort of politicians that are the greatdissemblers.

Tacitus saith, “Livia sorted well with the artsof her husband and dissimulation of her son;”attributing arts of policy to Augustus, and dissimulationto Tiberius. And again, when Mucianus encouragethVespasian to take arms against Vitellius, he saith,“We rise not against the piercing judgment ofAugustus, nor the extreme caution or closeness ofTiberius.” These properties of arts or policy,and dissimulation or closeness, are indeed habitsand faculties several, and to be distinguished.For if a man have that penetration of judgment as hecan discern what things are to be laid open, and whatto be secreted, and what to be showed at half-lights,and to whom and when, (which indeed are arts of stateand arts of life, as Tacitus well calleth them,) tohim a habit of dissimulation is a hindrance and a poorness.But if a man cannot obtain to that judgment, thenit is left to him generally to be close, and a dissembler.For where a man cannot choose or vary in particulars,there it is good to take the safest and wariest wayin general; like the going softly, by one that cannotwell see. Certainly the ablest men that everwere, have had all an openness and frankness of dealing,and a name of certainty and veracity: but thenthey were like horses well managed, for they couldtell passing well when to stop or turn; and at suchtimes when they thought the case indeed required dissimulation,if then they used it, it came to pass that the formeropinion spread abroad of their good faith and clearnessof dealing made them almost invisible.

There be three degrees of this hiding and veilingof a man’s self. The first, Closeness,Reservation, and Secrecy; when a man leaveth himselfwithout observation, or without hold to be taken, whathe is. The second, Dissimulation, in the negative;when a man lets fall signs and arguments, that heis not that he is. And the third, Simulation,in the affirmative; when a man industriously and expresslyfeigns and pretends to be that he is not.

For the first of these, Secrecy: it is indeedthe virtue of a confessor. And assuredly thesecret man heareth many confessions; for who will openhimself to a blab or a babbler? But if a man bethought secret, it inviteth discovery, as the moreclose air sucketh in the more open; and as in confessionthe revealing is not for worldly use, but for the easeof a man’s heart, so secret men come to the knowledgeof many things in that kind: while men ratherdischarge their minds than impart their minds.In few words, mysteries are due to secrecy. Besides(to say truth), nakedness is uncomely, as well inmind as body; and it addeth no small reverence tomen’s manners and actions, if they be not altogetheropen. As for talkers and futile persons, theyare commonly vain and credulous withal; for he thattalketh what he knoweth, will also talk what he knowethnot. Therefore set it down, that a habit of secrecyis both politic and moral. And in this part itis good that a man’s face give his tongue leaveto speak; for the discovery of a man’s self bythe tracts of his countenance is a great weaknessand betraying, by how much it is many times more markedand believed than a man’s words.

For the second, which is Dissimulation: it followethmany times upon secrecy by a necessity; so that hethat will be secret must be a dissembler in some degree.For men are too cunning to suffer a man to keep anindifferent carriage between both, and to be secret,without swaying the balance on either side. Theywill so beset a man with questions, and draw him on,and pick it out of him, that without an absurd silence,he must show an inclination one way; or if he do not,they will gather as much by his silence as by his speech.As for equivocations, or oraculous speeches, theycannot hold out long. So that no man can be secret,except he give himself a little scope of dissimulation;which is, as it were, but the skirts or train of secrecy.

But for the third degree, which is Simulation andfalse profession: that I hold more culpable andless politic, except it be in great and rare matters.And therefore a general custom of simulation (whichis this last degree) is a vice rising either of anatural falseness or fearfulness, or of a mind thathath some main faults; which because a man must needsdisguise, it maketh him practice simulation in otherthings, lest his hand should be out of use.

The great advantages of simulation and dissimulationare three. First, to lay asleep opposition, andto surprise; for where a man’s intentions arepublished, it is an alarum to call up all that areagainst them. The second is, to reserve to aman’s self a fair retreat; for if a man engagehimself by a manifest declaration, he must go throughor take a fall. The third is, the better to discoverthe mind of another; for to him that opens himselfmen will hardly show themselves adverse, but willfair let him go on, and turn their freedom of speechto freedom of thought. And therefore it is agood shrewd proverb of the Spaniard, “Tell alie and find a troth;” as if there were no wayof discovery but by simulation. There be alsothree disadvantages to set it even. The first,that simulation and dissimulation commonly carry withthem a show of fearfulness; which in any businessdoth spoil the feathers of round flying up to themark. The second, that it puzzleth and perplexeththe conceits of many that perhaps would otherwiseco-operate with him, and makes a man walk almost aloneto his own ends. The third and greatest is, thatit depriveth a man of one of the most principal instrumentsfor action; which is trust and belief. The bestcomposition and temperature is, to have openness infame and opinion; secrecy in habit; dissimulationin seasonable use; and a power to feign if there beno remedy.

OF TRAVEL

From the ‘Essays’

Travel, in the younger sort, is a part of education;in the elder, a part of experience. He that travelethinto a country before he hath some entrance into thelanguage, goeth to school, and not to travel.That young men travel under some tutor or grave servant,I allow well: so that he be such a one that haththe language, and hath been in the country before;whereby he may be able to tell them what things areworthy to be seen in the country where they go, whatacquaintances they are to seek, what exercises ordiscipline the place yielded. For else youngmen shall go hooded, and look abroad little. Itis a strange thing, that in sea voyages, where thereis nothing to be seen but sky and sea, men shouldmake diaries; but in land travel, wherein so much isto be observed, for the most part they omit it; asif chance were fitter to be registered than observation.Let diaries therefore be brought in use. Thethings to be seen and observed are, the courts of princes,specially when they give audience to ambassadors; thecourts of justice, while they sit and hear causes;and so of consistories ecclesiastic; the churchesand monasteries, with the monuments which are thereinextant; the walls and fortifications of cities andtowns, and so the havens and harbors; antiquitiesand ruins; libraries; colleges, disputations, andlectures, where any are; shipping and navies; housesand gardens of state and pleasure, near great cities;armories; arsenals; magazines; exchanges; burses;warehouses; exercises of horsemanship, fencing, trainingof soldiers, and the like; comedies, such whereuntothe better sort of persons do resort; treasuries ofjewels and robes; cabinets and rarities: and,to conclude, whatsoever is memorable in the placeswhere they go. After all which the tutors orservants ought to make diligent inquiry. As fortriumphs, masks, feasts, weddings, funerals, capitalexecutions, and such shows, men need not to be putin mind of them: yet are they not to be neglected.If you will have a young man to put his travel intoa little room, and in short time to gather much, thisyou must do. First, as was said, he must havesome entrance into the language before he goeth.Then he must have such a servant or tutor as knoweththe country, as was likewise said. Let him carrywith him also some card or book, describing the countrywhere he traveleth, which will be a good key to hisinquiry. Let him keep also a diary. Let himnot stay long in one city or town; more or less asthe place deserveth, but not long: nay, whenhe stayeth in one city or town, let him change hislodging from one end and part of the town to another;which is a great adamant of acquaintance. Lethim sequester himself from the company of his countrymen,and diet in such places where there is good companyof the nation where he traveleth. Let him uponhis removes from one place to another, procure recommendationto some person of quality residing in the place whitherhe removeth; that he may use his favor in those thingshe desireth to see or know. Thus he may abridgehis travel with much profit.

As for the acquaintance which is to be sought in travel:that which is most of all profitable, is acquaintancewith the secretaries and employed men of ambassadors;for so in traveling in one country he shall suck theexperience of many. Let him also see and visiteminent persons in all kinds, which are of great nameabroad; that he may be able to tell how the life agreethwith the fame. For quarrels, they are with careand discretion to be avoided. They are commonlyfor mistresses, healths, place, and words. Andlet a man beware how he keepeth company with cholericand quarrelsome persons; for they will engage him intotheir own quarrels. When a traveler returnethhome, let him not leave the countries where he hathtraveled altogether behind him, but maintain a correspondenceby letters with those of his acquaintance which areof most worth. And let his travel appear ratherin his discourse than in his apparel or gesture; andin his discourse let him be rather advised in hisanswers, than forward to tell stories; and let it appearthat he doth not change his country manners for thoseof foreign parts; but only prick in some flowers ofthat he hath learned abroad into the customs of hisown country.

OF FRIENDSHIP

From the ‘Essays’

It had been hard for him that spake it to have putmore truth and untruth together in few words thanin that speech, “Whosoever is delighted in solitudeis either a wild beast or a god.” For itis most true that a natural and secret hatred andaversion toward society in any man hath somewhat ofthe savage beast; but it is most untrue that it shouldhave any character at all of the divine nature, exceptit proceed, not out of a pleasure in solitude, butout of a love and desire to sequester a man’sself for a higher conversation: such as is foundto have been falsely and feignedly in some of theheathen, as Epimenides the Candian, Numa the Roman,Empedocles the Sicilian, and Apollonius of Tyana;and truly and really in divers of the ancient hermitsand holy fathers of the Church. But little domen perceive what solitude is, and how far it extendeth.For a crowd is not company; and faces are but a galleryof pictures; and talk but a tinkling cymbal, wherethere is no love. The Latin adage meeteth withit a little: “Magna civitas, magna solitudo;”because in a great town friends are scattered, so thatthere is not that fellowship, for the most part, whichis in less neighborhoods. But we may go further,and affirm most truly that it is a mere and miserablesolitude to want true friends, without which the worldis but a wilderness; and even in this sense also ofsolitude, whosoever in the frame of his nature andaffections is unfit for friendship, he taketh it ofthe beast, and not from humanity.

A principal fruit of friendship is the ease and dischargeof the fullness and swellings of the heart, whichpassions of all kinds do cause and induce. Weknow diseases of stoppings and suffocations are themost dangerous in the body; and it is not much otherwisein the mind. You may take sarza to open the liver,steel to open the spleen, flower of sulphur for thelungs, castoreum for the brain: but no receiptopeneth the heart but a true friend; to whom you mayimpart griefs, joys, fears, hopes, suspicions, counsels,and whatsoever lieth upon the heart to oppress it,in a kind of civil shrift or confession.

It is a strange thing to observe how high a rate greatkings and monarchs do set upon this fruit of friendshipwhereof we speak; so great, as they purchase it manytimes at the hazard of their own safety and greatness.For princes, in regard of the distance of their fortunefrom that of their subjects and servants, cannot gatherthis fruit, except (to make themselves capable thereof)they raise some persons to be as it were companionsand almost equals to themselves; which many timessorteth to inconvenience. The modern languagesgive unto such persons the name of favorites, or privadoes;as if it were matter of grace or conversation.But the Roman name attaineth the true use and causethereof, naming them “participes curarum”;for it is that which tieth the knot. And we seeplainly that this hath been done, not by weak andpassionate princes only, but by the wisest and mostpolitic that ever reigned; who have oftentimes joinedto themselves some of their servants, whom both themselveshave called friends, and allowed others likewise tocall them in the same manner, using the word whichis received between private men.

L. Sylla, when he commanded Rome, raised Pompey (aftersurnamed the Great) to that height that Pompey vauntedhimself for Sylla’s overmatch. For whenhe had carried the consulship for a friend of his againstthe pursuit of Sylla, and that Sylla did a littleresent thereat, and began to speak great, Pompey turnedupon him again, and in effect bade him be quiet; “forthat more men adored the sun rising than the sun setting.”With Julius Caesar, Decimus Brutus had obtained thatinterest, as he set him down in his testament forheir in remainder after his nephew; and this was theman that had power with him to draw him forth to hisdeath. For when Caesar would have dischargedthe Senate in regard of some ill presages, and speciallya dream of Calpurnia, this man lifted him gently bythe arm out of his chair, telling him he hoped he wouldnot dismiss the Senate till his wife had dreamt abetter dream. And it seemeth his favor was sogreat as Antonius, in a letter which is recited verbatimin one of Cicero’s Philippics, calleth him “venefica”—“witch”;as if he had enchanted Caesar. Augustus raisedAgrippa (though of mean birth) to that height as,when he consulted with Maecenas about the marriage

of his daughter Julia, Maecenas took the liberty totell him, “that he must either marry his daughterto Agrippa or take away his life: there was nothird way, he had made him so great.” WithTiberius Caesar, Sejanus had ascended to that heightas they two were termed and reckoned as a pair offriends. Tiberius in a letter to him saith, “Haecpro amicitia nostra non occultavi” [these things,from our friendship, I have not concealed from you];and the whole Senate dedicated an altar to Friendship,as to a goddess, in respect of the great dearnessof friendship between them two. The like, ormore, was between Septimius Severus and Plautianus.For he forced his eldest son to marry the daughterof Plautianus; and would often maintain Plautianusin doing affronts to his son; and did write also,in a letter to the Senate, by these words: “Ilove the man so well, as I wish he may over-live me.”Now, if these princes had been as a Trajan or a MarcusAurelius, a man might have thought that this had proceededof an abundant goodness of nature; but being men sowise, of such strength and severity of mind, and soextreme lovers of themselves, as all these were, itproveth most plainly that they found their own felicity(though as great as ever happened to mortal men) butas an half-piece, except they might have a friendto make it entire: and yet, which is more, theywere princes that had wives, sons, nephews; and yetall these could not supply the comfort of friendship.

It is not to be forgotten what Comineus observethof his first master, Duke Charles the Hardy; namely,that he would communicate his secrets with none, andleast of all those secrets which troubled him most.Whereupon he goeth on and saith, that toward his lattertime “that closeness did impair and a littleperish his understanding.” Surely Comineusmought have made the same judgment also, if it hadpleased him, of his second master Louis the Eleventh,whose closeness was indeed his tormentor. Theparable of Pythagoras is dark, but true: “Corne edito,”—“Eat not the heart.”Certainly, if a man would give it a hard phrase, thosethat want friends to open themselves unto are cannibalsof their own hearts. But one thing is most admirable(wherewith I will conclude this first fruit of friendship),which is, that this communicating of a man’sself to his friend works two contrary effects; forit redoubleth joys, and cutteth griefs in halves.For there is no man that imparteth his joys to hisfriend, but he joyeth the more; and no man that impartethhis griefs to his friend, but he grieveth the less.So that it is, in truth, of operation upon a man’smind of like virtue as the alchymists use to attributeto their stone for man’s body; that it workethall contrary effects, but still to the good and benefitof nature. But yet without praying in aid of alchymists,there is a manifest image of this in the ordinarycourse of nature: for in bodies, union strengthenethand cherisheth any natural action, and on the otherside, weakeneth and dulleth any violent impression;and even so it is of minds.

The second fruit of friendship is healthful and sovereignfor the understanding, as the first is for the affections.For friendship maketh indeed a fair day in the affections,from storm and tempests, but it maketh daylight inthe understanding, out of darkness and confusion ofthoughts. Neither is this to be understood onlyof faithful counsel, which a man receiveth from hisfriend; but before you come to that, certain it isthat whosoever hath his mind fraught with many thoughts,his wits and understanding do clarify and break upin the communicating and discoursing with another;he tosseth his thoughts more easily; he marshaleththem more orderly; he seeth how they look when theyare turned into words; finally, he waxeth wiser thanhimself; and that more by an hour’s discoursethan by a day’s meditation. It was wellsaid by Themistocles to the King of Persia, “Thatspeech was like cloth of Arras, opened and put abroad;whereby the imagery doth appear in figure: whereasin thoughts they lie but as in packs.” Neitheris this second fruit of friendship, in opening theunderstanding, restrained only to such friends asare able to give a man counsel (they indeed are best);but even without that, a man learneth of himself, andbringeth his own thoughts to light, and whetteth hiswits as against a stone, which itself cuts not.In a word, a man were better relate himself to a statueor picture, than to suffer his thoughts to pass insmother.

Add now, to make this second fruit of friendship complete,that other point which lieth more open, and fallethwithin vulgar observation; which is faithful counselfrom a friend. Heraclitus saith well in one ofhis enigmas, “Dry light is ever the best;”and certain it is, that the light that a man receivethby counsel from another, is drier and purer than thatwhich cometh from his own understanding and judgment;which is ever infused and drenched in his affectionsand customs. So as there is as much differencebetween the counsel that a friend giveth, and thata man giveth himself, as there is between the counselof a friend and of a flatterer; for there is no suchflatterer as is a man’s self, and there is nosuch remedy against flattery of a man’s selfas the liberty of a friend. Counsel is of twosorts: the one concerning manners, the otherconcerning business. For the first, the best preservativeto keep the mind in health is the faithful admonitionof a friend. The calling of a man’s selfto a strict account is a medicine sometimes too piercingand corrosive; reading good books of morality is alittle flat and dead; observing our faults in othersis sometimes improper for our case: but the bestreceipt (best I say to work and best to take) is theadmonition of a friend. It is a strange thingto behold what gross errors and extreme absurditiesmany (especially of the greater sort) do commit forwant of a friend to tell them of them, to the greatdamage both of their fame and fortune: for, as

St. James saith, they are as men “that looksometimes into a glass, and presently forget theirown shape and favor.” As for business,a man may think, if he will, that two eyes see no morethan one; or, that a gamester seeth always more thana looker-on; or, that a man in anger is as wise ashe that hath said over the four-and-twenty letters;or, that a musket may be shot off as well upon thearm as upon a rest; and such other fond and high imaginations,to think himself all in all: but when all isdone, the help of good counsel is that which settethbusiness straight: and if any man think that hewill take counsel, but it shall be by pieces; askingcounsel in one business of one man, and in anotherbusiness of another man, it is well (that is to say,better, perhaps, than if he asked none at all); buthe runneth two dangers: one, that he shall notbe faithfully counseled; for it is a rare thing, exceptit be from a perfect and entire friend, to have counselgiven, but such as shall be bowed and crooked to someends which he hath that giveth it: the other,that he shall have counsel given, hurtful and unsafe(though with good meaning), and mixed partly of mischief,and partly of remedy; even as if you would call aphysician, that is thought good for the cure of thedisease you complain of, but is unacquainted withyour body; and therefore may put you in a way fora present cure, but overthroweth your health in someother kind, and so cure the disease and kill the patient:but a friend that is wholly acquainted with a man’sestate will beware, by furthering any present business,how he dasheth upon the other inconvenience. Andtherefore, rest not upon scattered counsels: theywill rather distract and mislead, than settle anddirect.

After these two noble fruits of friendship (peacein the affections, and support of the judgment), followeththe last fruit, which is like the pomegranate, fullof many kernels; I mean aid, and bearing a part inall actions and occasions. Here the best wayto represent to life the manifold use of friendship,is to cast and see how many things there are whicha man cannot do himself: and then it will appearthat it was a sparing speech of the ancients to say,“that a friend is another himself;” forthat a friend is far more than himself. Men havetheir time, and die many times in desire of some thingswhich they principally take to heart; the bestowingof a child, the finishing of a work, or the like.If a man have a true friend, he may rest almost securethat the care of those things will continue afterhim; so that a man hath, as it were, two lives inhis desires. A man hath a body, and that bodyis confined to a place; but where friendship is, alloffices of life are, as it were, granted to him andhis deputy; for he may exercise them by his friend.How many things are there, which a man cannot, withany face or comeliness, say or do himself; A man canscarce allege his own merits with modesty, much less

extol them; a man cannot sometimes brook to supplicate,or beg, and a number of the like: but all thesethings are graceful in a friend’s mouth, whichare blushing in a man’s own. So again,a man’s person hath many proper relations whichhe cannot put off. A man cannot speak to hisson but as a father; to his wife but as a husband;to his enemy but upon terms: whereas a friendmay speak as the case requires, and not as it sortethwith the person: but to enumerate these thingswere endless; I have given the rule, where a man cannotfitly play his own part, if he have not a friend hemay quit the stage.

DEFECTS OF THE UNIVERSITIES

From ‘The Advancement of Learning’ (Bookii.)

Amongst so many great foundations of colleges in Europe,I find it strange that they are all dedicated to professions,and none left free to arts and sciences at large.For if men judge that learning should be referredto action, they judge well: but in this they fallinto the error described in the ancient fable, inwhich the other parts of the body did suppose thestomach had been idle, because it neither performedthe office of motion, as the limbs do, nor of sense,as the head doth; but yet notwithstanding it is thestomach that digesteth and distributeth to all therest. So if any man think philosophy and universalityto be idle studies, he doth not consider that allprofessions are from thence served and supplied.And this I take to be a great cause that hath hinderedthe progression of learning, because these fundamentalknowledges have been studied but in passage. Forif you will have a tree bear more fruit than it hathused to do, it is not anything you can do to the boughs,but it is the stirring of the earth and putting newmold about the roots that must work it. Neitheris it to be forgotten, that this dedicating of foundationsand dotations to professory learning hath not onlyhad a malign aspect and influence upon the growthof sciences, but hath also been prejudicial to Statesand governments. For hence it proceedeth thatprinces find a solitude in regard of able men to servethem in causes of estate, because there is no educationcollegiate which is free; where such as were so disposedmought give themselves to histories, modern languages,books of policy and civil discourse, and other thelike enablements unto service of estate.

And because founders of colleges do plant, and foundersof lectures do water, it followeth well in order tospeak of the defect which is in public lectures; namely,in the smallness and meanness of the salary or rewardwhich in most places is assigned unto them; whetherthey be lectures of arts, or of professions For itis necessary to the progression of sciences that readersbe of the most able and sufficient men; as those whichare ordained for generating and propagating of sciences,and not for transitory use. This cannot be, except

their condition and endowment be such as may contentthe ablest man to appropriate his whole labor andcontinue his whole age in that function and attendance;and therefore must have a proportion answerable tothat mediocrity or competency of advancement, whichmay be expected from a profession or the practiceof a profession. So as, if you will have sciencesflourish, you must observe David’s military law,which was, “That those which staid with thecarriage should have equal part with those which werein the action”; else will the carriages be illattended. So readers in sciences are indeed theguardians of the stores and provisions of scienceswhence men in active courses are furnished, and thereforeought to have equal entertainment with them; otherwiseif the fathers in sciences be of the weakest sortor be ill maintained,

“Et patrum invalidireferent jejunia nati:”

[Weakness of parents will show in feebleness of offspring.]

Another defect I note, wherein I shall need some alchemistto help me, who call upon men to sell their booksand to build furnaces; quitting and forsaking Minervaand the Muses as barren virgins, and relying uponVulcan. But certain it is, that unto the deep,fruitful, and operative study of many sciences, speciallynatural philosophy and physic, books be not only theinstrumentals; wherein also the beneficence of menhath not been altogether wanting. For we seespheres, globes, astrolabes, maps, and the like, havebeen provided as appurtenances to astronomy and cosmography,as well as books. We see likewise that some placesinstituted for physic have annexed the commodity ofgardens for simples of all sorts, and do likewisecommand the use of dead bodies for anatomies.But these do respect but a few things. In general,there will hardly be any main proficience in the disclosingof nature, except there be some allowance for expensesabout experiments; whether they be experiments appertainingto Vulcanus or Daedalus, furnace or engine, or anyother kind. And therefore, as secretaries andspials of princes and states bring in bills for intelligence,so you must allow the spials and intelligencers ofnature to bring in their bills; or else you shall beill advertised.

And if Alexander made such a liberal assignation toAristotle of treasure for the allowance of hunters,fowlers, fishers, and the like, that he mought compilean history of nature, much better do they deserveit that travail in arts of nature.

Another defect which I note, is an intermission orneglect in those which are governors in universitiesof consultation, and in princes or superior personsof visitation; to enter into account and consideration,whether the readings, exercises, and other customsappertaining unto learning, anciently begun and sincecontinued, be well instituted or no; and thereuponto ground an amendment or reformation in that whichshall be found inconvenient. For it is one of

your Majesty’s own most wise and princely maxims,“that in all usages and precedents, the timesbe considered wherein they first began; which if theywere weak or ignorant, it derogateth from the authorityof the usage, and leaveth it for suspect.”And therefore inasmuch as most of the usages and ordersof the universities were derived from more obscuretimes, it is the more requisite they be re-examined.In this kind I will give an instance or two, for example’ssake, of things that are the most obvious and familiar.The one is a matter, which, though it be ancient andgeneral, yet I hold to be an error; which is, thatscholars in universities come too soon and too unripeto logic and rhetoric, arts fitter for graduates thanchildren and novices. For these two, rightly taken,are the gravest of sciences, being the arts of arts;the one for judgment, the other for ornament.And they be the rules and directions how to set forthand dispose matter: and therefore for minds emptyand unfraught with matter, and which have not gatheredthat which Cicero calleth sylva and supellex,stuff and variety, to begin with those arts (as ifone should learn to weigh or to measure or to paintthe wind) doth work but this effect, that the wisdomof those arts, which is great and universal, is almostmade contemptible, and is degenerate into childishsophistry and ridiculous affectation. And further,the untimely learning of them hath drawn on by consequencethe superficial and unprofitable teaching and writingof them, as fitteth indeed to the capacity of children.Another is a lack I find in the exercises used in theuniversities, which do make too great a divorce betweeninvention and memory. For their speeches areeither premeditate, in verbis conceptis, wherenothing is left to invention, or merely extemporal,where little is left to memory; whereas in life andaction there is least use of either of these, butrather of intermixtures of premeditation and invention,notes and memory. So as the exercise fittethnot the practice, nor the image the life; and it isever a true rule in exercises, that they be framedas near as may be to the life of practice; for otherwisethey do pervert the motions and faculties of the mind,and not prepare them. The truth whereof is notobscure, when scholars come to the practices of professions,or other actions of civil life; which when they setinto, this want is soon found by themselves, and soonerby others. But this part, touching the amendmentof the institutions and orders of universities, Iwill conclude with the clause of Caesar’s letterto Oppius and Balbus, “Hoc quem admodum fieripossit, nonnulla mihi in mentem veniunt, et multareperiri possunt: de iis rebus rogo vos ut cogitationemsuscipiatis.” [How this may be done, some wayscome to my mind and many may be devised; I ask youto take these things into consideration.]

Another defect which I note ascendeth a little higherthan the precedent. For as the proficience oflearning consisteth much in the orders and institutionsof universities in the same States and kingdoms, soit would be yet more advanced, if there were more intelligencemutual between the universities of Europe than nowthere is. We see there be many orders and foundations,which though they be divided under several sovereigntiesand territories, yet they take themselves to have akind of contract, fraternity, and correspondence onewith the other, insomuch as they have Provincialsand Generals. And surely as nature createth brotherhoodin families, and arts mechanical contract brotherhoodsin communalties, and the anointment of God superinducetha brotherhood in kings and bishops; so in like mannerthere cannot but be a fraternity in learning and illumination,relating to that paternity which is attributed toGod, who is called the Father of illuminations or lights.

The last defect which I will note is, that there hathnot been, or very rarely been, any public designationof writers or inquirers concerning such parts of knowledgeas may appear not to have been already sufficientlylabored or undertaken; unto which point it is an inducementto enter into a view and examination what parts oflearning have been prosecuted, and what omitted.For the opinion of plenty is amongst the causes ofwant, and the great quantity of books maketh a showrather of superfluity than lack; which surcharge neverthelessis not to be remedied by making no more books, butby making more good books, which, as the serpent ofMoses, mought devour the serpents of the enchanters.

The removing of all the defects formerly enumerated,except the last, and of the active part also of thelast (which is the designation of writers), are operabasilica [kings’ works]; towards which theendeavors of a private man may be but as an image ina cross-way, that may point at the way, but cannotgo it. But the inducing part of the latter (whichis the survey of learning) may be set forward by privatetravail. Wherefore I will now attempt to makea general and faithful perambulation of learning,with an inquiry what parts thereof lie fresh and waste,and not improved and converted by the industry of man;to the end that such a plot made and recorded to memory,may both minister light to any public designation,and also serve to excite voluntary endeavors.Wherein nevertheless my purpose is at this time tonote only omissions and deficiencies, and not to makeany redargution of errors or incomplete prosecutions.For it is one thing to set forth what ground liethunmanured, and another thing to correct ill husbandryin that which is manured.

In the handling and undertaking of which work I amnot ignorant what it is that I do now move and attempt,nor insensible of mine own weakness to sustain mypurpose. But my hope is, that if my extreme loveto learning carry me too far, I may obtain the excuseof affection; for that “it is not granted toman to love and to be wise.” But I knowwell I can use no other liberty of judgment than Imust leave to others; and I, for my part, shall beindifferently glad either to perform myself, or acceptfrom another, that duty of humanity, “Nam quierranti comiter monstrat viam,” etc. [Tokindly show the wanderer the path.] I do foresee likewisethat of those things which I shall enter and registeras deficiencies and omissions, many will conceive andcensure that some of them are already done and extant;others to be but curiosities, and things of no greatuse; and others to be of too great difficulty andalmost impossibility to be compassed and effected.But for the two first, I refer myself to the particularsFor the last, touching impossibility, I take it thosethings are to be held possible which may be done bysome person, though not by every one; and which maybe done by many, though not by any one; and whichmay be done in the succession of ages, though notwithin the hour-glass of one man’s life; andwhich may be done by public designation, though notby private endeavor. But notwithstanding, ifany man will take to himself rather that of Solomon,“Dicit piger, Leo est in via” [the sluggardsays there is a lion in the path], than that of Virgil,“Possunt quia posse videntur” [they can,because they think they can], I shall be content thatmy labors be esteemed but as the better sort of wishes,for as it asketh some knowledge to demand a questionnot impertinent, so it requireth some sense to makea wish not absurd.

TO MY LORD TREASURER BURGHLEY

From ‘Letters and Life,’ by James Spedding

My Lord:

With as much confidence as mine own honest and faithfuldevotion unto your service and your honorable correspondenceunto me and my poor estate can breed in a man, doI commend myself unto your Lordship. I wax nowsomewhat ancient; one and thirty years is a great dealof sand in the hour-glass. My health, I thankGod, I find confirmed; and I do not fear that actionshall impair it, because I account my ordinary courseof study and meditation to be more painful than mostparts of action are. I ever bare a mind (in somemiddle place that I could discharge) to serve herMajesty; not as a man born under Sol, that loveth honor;nor under Jupiter, that loveth business (for the contemplativeplanet carrieth me away wholly); but as a man bornunder an excellent Sovereign, that deserveth the dedicationof all men’s abilities. Besides, I do notfind in myself so much self-love, but that the greaterparts of my thoughts are to deserve well (if I were

able) of my friends, and namely of your Lordship;who being the Atlas of this commonwealth, the honorof my house, and the second founder of my poor estate,I am tied by all duties, both of a good patriot andof an unworthy kinsman, and of an obliged servant,to employ whatsoever I am to do you service.Again, the meanness of my estate does somewhat moveme; for though I cannot excuse myself that I am eitherprodigal or slothful, yet my health is not to spend,nor my course to get. Lastly, I confess that Ihave as vast contemplative ends as I have moderatecivil ends: for I have taken all knowledge tobe my province; and if I could purge it of two sortsof rovers, whereof the one with frivolous disputations,confutations, and verbosities, the other with blindexperiments and auricular traditions and impostures,hath committed so many spoils, I hope I should bringin industrious observations, grounded conclusions,and profitable inventions and discoveries; the beststate of that province. This, whether it be curiosity,or vain glory, or nature, or (if one take it favorably)philanthropia, is so fixed in my mind as itcannot be removed. And I do easily see, that placeof any reasonable countenance doth bring commandmentof more wits than of a man’s own; which is thething I greatly affect. And for your Lordship,perhaps you shall not find more strength and lessencounter in any other. And if your Lordshipshall find now, or at any time, that I do seek or affectany place whereunto any that is nearer unto your Lordshipshall be concurrent, say then that I am a most dishonestman. And if your Lordship will not carry me on,I will not do as Anaxagoras did, who reduced himselfwith contemplation unto voluntary poverty: butthis I will do; I will sell the inheritance that Ihave, and purchase some lease of quick revenue, orsome office of gain that shall be executed by deputy,and so give over all care of service, and become somesorry book-maker, or a true pioneer in that mine oftruth, which (he said) lay so deep. This whichI have writ unto your Lordship is rather thoughtsthan words, being set down without all art, disguising,or reservation. Wherein I have done honor bothto your Lordship’s wisdom, in judging that thatwill be best believed of your Lordship which is truest,and to your Lordship’s good nature, in retainingnothing from you. And even so I wish your Lordshipall happiness, and to myself means and occasion tobe added to my faithful desire to do you service.From my lodging at Gray’s Inn.

IN PRAISE OF KNOWLEDGE

From ‘Letters and Life,’ by James Spedding

Silence were the best celebration of that which Imean to commend; for who would not use silence, wheresilence is not made, and what crier can make silencein such a noise and tumult of vain and popular opinions?

My praise shall be dedicated to the mind itself.The mind is the man and the knowledge of the mind.A man is but what he knoweth. The mind itselfis but an accident to knowledge; for knowledge is adouble of that which is; the truth of being and thetruth of knowing is all one.

Are not the pleasures of the affections greater thanthe pleasures of the senses? And are not thepleasures of the intellect greater than the pleasuresof the affections? Is not knowledge a true andonly natural pleasure, whereof there is no satiety?Is it not knowledge that doth alone clear the mindof all perturbation? How many things are therewhich we imagine not? How many things do we esteemand value otherwise than they are! This ill-proportionedestimation, these vain imaginations, these be theclouds of error that turn into the storms of perturbation.Is there any such happiness as for a man’s mindto be raised above the confusion of things, wherehe may have the prospect of the order of nature andthe error of men?

But is this a vein only of delight, and not of discovery?of contentment, and not of benefit? Shall henot as well discern the riches of nature’s warehouse,as the benefit of her shop? Is truth ever barren?Shall he not be able thereby to produce worthy effects,and to endow the life of man with infinite commodities?

But shall I make this garland to be put upon a wronghead? Would anybody believe me, if I should verifythis upon the knowledge that is now in use? Arewe the richer by one poor invention, by reason of allthe learning that hath been these many hundred years?The industry of artificers maketh some small improvementof things invented; and chance sometimes in experimentingmaketh us to stumble upon somewhat which is new; butall the disputation of the learned never brought tolight one effect of nature before unknown. Whenthings are known and found out, then they can descantupon them, they can knit them into certain causes,they can reduce them to their principles. If anyinstance of experience stand against them, they canrange it in order by some distinctions. But allthis is but a web of the wit, it can work nothing.I do not doubt but that common notions, which we callreason, and the knitting of them together, which wecall logic, are the art of reason and studies.But they rather cast obscurity than gain light to thecontemplation of nature. All the philosophy ofnature which is now received, is either the philosophyof the Grecians, or that other of the Alchemists.That of the Grecians hath the foundations in words,in ostentation, in confutation, in sects, in schools,in disputations. The Grecians were (as one ofthemselves saith), “you Grecians, ever children.”They knew little antiquity; they knew (except fables)not much above five hundred years before themselves;they knew but a small portion of the world. Thatof the Alchemists hath the foundation in imposture,in auricular traditions and obscurity; it was catchinghold of religion, but the principle of it is, “Populusvult decipi.” So that I know no great differencebetween these great philosophies, but that the oneis a loud-crying folly, and the other is a whisperingfolly. The one is gathered out of a few vulgar

observations, and the other out of a few experimentsof a furnace. The one never faileth to multiplywords, and the other ever faileth to multiply gold.Who would not smile at Aristotle, when he admireththe eternity and invariableness of the heavens, asthere were not the like in the bowels of the earth?Those be the confines and borders of these two kingdoms,where the continual alteration and incursion are.The superficies and upper parts of the earth are fullof varieties. The superficies and lower part ofthe heavens (which we call the middle region of theair) is full of variety. There is much spiritin the one part that cannot be brought into mass.There is much massy body in the other place that cannotbe refined to spirit. The common air is as thewaste ground between the borders. Who would notsmile at the astronomers? I mean not these newcarmen which drive the earth about, but the ancientastronomers, which feign the moon to be the swiftestof all planets in motion, and the rest in order, thehigher the slower; and so are compelled to imaginea double motion; whereas how evident is it, that thatwhich they call a contrary motion is but an abatementof motion. The fixed stars overgo Saturn, andso in them and the rest all is but one motion, andthe nearer the earth the slower; a motion also whereofair and water do participate, though much interrupted.

But why do I in a conference of pleasure enter intothese great matters, in sort that pretending to knowmuch, I should forget what is seasonable? Pardonme, it was because all [other] things may be endowedand adorned with speeches, but knowledge itself ismore beautiful than any apparel of words that canbe put upon it.

And let not me seem arrogant, without respect to thesegreat reputed authors. Let me so give every manhis due, as I give Time his due, which is to discovertruth. Many of these men had greater wits, farabove mine own, and so are many in the universitiesof Europe at this day. But alas, they learn nothingthere but to believe: first to believe that othersknow that which they know not; and after [that] themselvesknow that which they know not. But indeed facilityto believe, impatience to doubt, temerity to answer,glory to know, doubt to contradict, end to gain, slothto search, seeking things in words, resting in partof nature; these, and the like, have been the thingswhich have forbidden the happy match between the mindof man and the nature of things, and in place thereofhave married it to vain notions and blind experiments.And what the posterity and issue of so honorable amatch may be, it is not hard to consider. Printing,a gross invention; artillery, a thing that lay notfar out of the way; the needle, a thing partly knownbefore; what a change have these three made in theworld in these times; the one in state of learning,the other in state of the war, the third in the stateof treasure, commodities, and navigation. And

those, I say, were but stumbled upon and lighted uponby chance. Therefore, no doubt the sovereigntyof man lieth hid in knowledge; wherein many thingsare reserved, which kings with their treasure cannotbuy, nor with their force command; their spials andintelligencers can give no news of them, their seamenand discoverers cannot sail where they grow. Nowwe govern nature in opinions, but we are thrall untoher in necessity; but if we would be led by her ininvention, we should command her in action.

TO THE LORD CHANCELLOR, TOUCHING THE HISTORY OF BRITAIN

From ‘Letters and Life,’ by James Spedding

It may please your good Lordship:

Some late act of his Majesty, referred to some formerspeech which I have heard from your Lordship, bredin me a great desire, and by strength of desire aboldness to make an humble proposition to your Lordship,such as in me can be no better than a wish: butif your Lordship should apprehend it, may take somegood and worthy effect. The act I speak of, isthe order given by his Majesty, as I understand, forthe erection of a tomb or monument for our late sovereignLady Queen Elizabeth: wherein I may note much,but this at this time; that as her Majesty did alwaysright to his Highness’s hopes, so his Majestydoth in all things right to her memory; a very justand princely retribution. But from this occasion,by a very easy ascent, I passed furder, being putin mind, by this Representative of her person, of themore true and more firm Representative, which is ofher life and government. For as Statuaes andPictures are dumb histories, so histories are speakingPictures. Wherein if my affection be not too great,or my reading too small, I am of this opinion, thatif Plutarch were alive to write lives by parallels,it would trouble him for virtue and fortune both tofind for her a parallel amongst women. And thoughshe was of the passive sex, yet her government wasso active, as, in my simple opinion, it made moreimpression upon the several states of Europe, thanit received from thence. But I confess unto yourLordship I could not stay here, but went a littlefurder into the consideration of the times which havepassed since King Henry the 8th; wherein I find thestrangest variety that in like number of successionsof any hereditary monarchy hath ever been known.The reign of a child; the offer of an usurpation (thoughit were but as a Diary Ague); the reign of a ladymarried to a foreign Prince; and the reign of a ladysolitary and unmarried. So that as it cometh topass in massive bodies, that they have certain trepidationsand waverings before they fix and settle; so it seemeththat by the providence of God this monarchy, beforeit was to settle in his Majesty and his generations(in which I hope it is now established for ever), ithad these prelusive changes in these barren princes.Neither could I contain myself here (as it is easier

to produce than to stay a wish), but calling to remembrancethe unworthiness of the history of England (in themain continuance thereof), and the partiality and obliquityof that of Scotland, in the latest and largest authorthat I have seen: I conceived it would be honorfor his Majesty, and a work very memorable, if thisisland of Great Britain, as it is now joined in Monarchyfor the ages to come, so were joined in History forthe times past; and that one just and complete Historywere compiled of both nations. And if any manthink it may refresh the memory of former discords,he may satisfy himself with the verse, “olimhaec meminisse juvabit:” for the case beingnow altered, it is matter of comfort and gratulationto remember former troubles.

Thus much, if it may please your Lordship, was inthe optative mood. It is true that I did looka little in the potential; wherein the hope whichI conceived was grounded upon three observations.The first, of the times, which do flourish in learning,both of art and language; which giveth hope not onlythat it may be done, but that it may be well done.For when good things are undertaken in ill times, itturneth but to loss; as in this very particular wehave a fresh example of Polydore Vergile, who beingdesigned to write the English History by K. Henry the8th (a strange choice to chuse a stranger), and forhis better instruction having obtained into his handsmany registers and memorials out of the monasteries,did indeed deface and suppress better things thanthose he did collect and reduce. Secondly, I dosee that which all the world seeth in his Majesty,both a wonderful judgment in learning and a singularaffection towards learning, and the works of true honorwhich are of the mind and not of the hand. Forthere cannot be the like honor sought in the buildingof galleries, or the planting of elms along highways,and the like manufactures, things rather of magnificencethan of magnanimity, as there is in the uniting ofstates, pacifying of controversies, nourishing andaugmenting of learning and arts, and the particularactions appertaining unto these; of which kind Cicerojudged truly, when he said to Caesar, “Quantumoperibus tuis detrahet vetustas, tantum addet laudibus.”And lastly, I called to mind, that your Lordship atsometimes hath been pleased to express unto me a greatdesire, that something of this nature should be performed;answerably indeed to your other noble and worthy coursesand actions, wherein your Lordship sheweth yourselfnot only an excellent Chancellor and Counselor, butalso an exceeding favorer and fosterer of all goodlearning and virtue, both in men and matters, personsand actions: joining and adding unto the greatservices towards his Majesty, which have, in smallcompass of time, been accumulated upon your Lordship,many other deservings both of the Church and Commonwealthand particulars; so as the opinion of so great andwise a man doth seem unto me a good warrant both of

the possibility and worth of this matter. Butall this while I assure myself, I cannot be mistakenby your Lordship, as if I sought an office or employmentfor myself. For no man knoweth better than yourLordship, that (if there were in me any faculty thereunto,as I am most unable), yet neither my fortune nor professionwould permit it. But because there be so manygood painters both for hand and colors, it needethbut encouragement and instructions to give life andlight unto it.

So in all humbleness I conclude my presenting to yourgood Lordship this wish: that if it perish itis but a loss of that which is not. And thuscraving pardon that I have taken so much time fromyour Lordship, I always remain

Your Lps. very humblyand much bounden

FR. BACON.

GRAY’S INN, this 2d of April, 1605.

TO VILLIERS ON HIS PATENT AS VISCOUNT

From ‘Letters and Life,’ by James Spedding

Sir:

I have sent you now your patent of creation of LordBlechly of Blechly, and of Viscount Villiers.Blechly is your own, and I like the sound of the namebetter than Whaddon; but the name will be hid, foryou will be called Viscount Villiers. I haveput them both in a patent, after the manner of thepatents of Earls where baronies are joined; but thechief reason was, because I would avoid double prefaceswhich had not been fit; nevertheless the ceremonyof robing and otherwise must be double.

And now, because I am in the country, I will sendyou some of my country fruits; which with me are goodmeditations; which when I am in the city are chokedwith business.

After that the King shall have watered your new dignitieswith his bounty of the lands which he intends you,and that some other things concerning your means whichare now likewise in intention shall be settled uponyou; I do not see but you may think your private fortunesestablished; and, therefore, it is now time that youshould refer your actions chiefly to the good of yoursovereign and your country. It is the life ofan ox or beast always to eat, and never to exercise;but men are born (and especially Christian men), notto cram in their fortunes, but to exercise their virtues;and yet the other hath been the unworthy, and (thanksbe to God) sometimes the unlucky humor of great personsin our times. Neither will your further fortunebe the further off: for assure yourself thatfortune is of a woman’s nature, that will soonerfollow you by slighting than by too much wooing.And in this dedication of yourself to the public,I recommend unto you principally that which I thinkwas never done since I was born; and which not donehath bred almost a wilderness and solitude in theKing’s service; which is, that you countenance,and encourage, and advance able men and virtuous men,and meriting men in all kinds, degrees, and professions.

For in the time of the Cecils, the father and theson, able men were by design and of purpose suppressed;and though of late choice goeth better both in churchand commonwealth, yet money, and turn-serving, andcunning canvasses, and importunity prevail too much.And in places of moment rather make able and honestmen yours, than advance those that are otherwise becausethey are yours. As for cunning and corrupt men,you must (I know) sometimes use them; but keep themat a distance; and let it appear that you make useof them, rather than that they lead you. Aboveall, depend wholly (next to God) upon the King; andbe ruled (as hitherto you have been) by his instructions;for that is best for yourself. For the King’scare and thoughts concerning you are according tothe thoughts of a great King; whereas your thoughtsconcerning yourself are and ought to be accordingto the thoughts of a modest man. But let me notweary you. The sum is that you think goodnessthe best part of greatness; and that you rememberwhence your rising comes, and make return accordingly.

God ever keep you.

GORHAMBURY, August 12th, 1616

CHARGE TO JUSTICE HUTTON

From ‘Letters and Life,’ by James Spedding

Mr. Serjeant Hutton:

The King’s most excellent Majesty, being dulyinformed of your learning, integrity, discretion,experience, means, and reputation in your country,hath thought fit not to leave you these talents tobe employed upon yourself only, but to call you toserve himself and his people, in the place of oneof his Justices of the court of common pleas.

The court where you are to serve, is the local centreand heart of the laws of this realm. Here thesubject hath his assurance by fines and recoveries.Here he hath his fixed and invariable remedies bypraecipes and writs of right. Here Justiceopens not by a by-gate of privilege, but by the greatgate of the King’s original writs out of theChancery. Here issues process of outlawry; ifmen will not answer law in this centre of law, theyshall be cast out of the circle of law. And thereforeit is proper for you by all means with your wisdomand fortitude to maintain the laws of the realm.Wherein, nevertheless, I would not have you head-strong,but heart-strong; and to weigh and remember with yourself,that the twelve Judges of the realm are as the twelvelions under Solomon’s throne; they must be lions,but yet lions, under the throne; they must shew theirstoutness in elevating and bearing up the throne.

To represent unto youthe lines and portraitures of a good
judge:—Thefirst is, That you should draw your learning out
of your books, not outof your brain.

2. That you shouldmix well the freedom of your own opinion
with the reverence ofthe opinion of your fellows.

3. That you shouldcontinue the studying of your books, and
not to spend on uponthe old stock.

4. That you shouldfear no man’s face, and yet not turn
stoutness into bravery.

5. That you shouldbe truly impartial, and not so as men may
see affection throughfine carriage.

6. That you bea light to jurors to open their eyes, but not
a guide to lead themby the noses.

7. That you affectnot the opinion of pregnancy and
expedition by an impatientand catching hearing of the
counselors at the bar.

8. That your speechbe with gravity, as one of the sages of
the law; and not talkative,nor with impertinent flying out
to show learning.

9. That your hands, and the handsof your hands (I mean those about you), be clean,and uncorrupt from gifts, from meddling in titles,and from serving of turns, be they of great ones orsmall ones.

10. That you containthe jurisdiction of the court within the
ancient merestones,without removing the mark.

11. Lastly, Thatyou carry such a hand over your ministers
and clerks, as thatthey may rather be in awe of you, than
presume upon you.

These and the like points of the duty of a Judge,I forbear to enlarge; for the longer I have livedwith you, the shorter shall my speech be to you; knowingthat you come so furnished and prepared with thesegood virtues, as whatsoever I shall say cannot benew unto you. And therefore I will say no moreunto you at this time, but deliver you your patent.

A PRAYER, OR PSALM

From ‘Letters and Life,’ by James Spedding

Most gracious Lord God, my merciful Father, from myyouth up, my Creator, my Redeemer, my Comforter.Thou (O Lord) soundest and searchest the depths andsecrets of all hearts; thou knowledgest the uprightof heart, thou judgest the hypocrite, thou ponderestmen’s thoughts and doings as in a balance, thoumeasurest their intentions as with a line, vanityand crooked ways cannot be hid from thee.

Remember (O Lord) how thy servant hath walked beforethee: remember what I have first sought, andwhat hath been principal in mine intentions. Ihave loved thy assemblies, I have mourned for the divisionsof thy Church, I have delighted in the brightnessof thy sanctuary. This vine which thy right handhath planted in this nation, I have ever prayed untothee that it might have the first and the latter rain;and that it might stretch her branches to the seasand to the floods. The state and bread of thepoor and oppressed have been precious in mine eyes:I have hated all cruelty and hardness of heart:I have (though in a despised weed) procured the goodof all men. If any have been mine enemies, Ithought not of them; neither hath the sun almost setupon my displeasure; but I have been as a dove, freefrom superfluity of maliciousness. Thy creatureshave been my books, but thy Scriptures much more.I have sought thee in the courts, fields, and gardens,but I have found thee in thy temples.

Thousands have been my sins, and ten thousand my transgressions;but thy sanctifications have remained with me, andmy heart, through thy grace, hath been an unquenchedcoal upon thy altar. O Lord, my strength, I havesince my youth met with thee in all my ways, by thyfatherly compassions, by thy comfortable chastisements,and by thy most visible providence. As thy favorshave increased upon me, so have thy corrections; soas thou hast been alway near me, O Lord; and ever asmy worldly blessings were exalted, so secret dartsfrom thee have pierced me; and when I have ascendedbefore men, I have descended in humiliation beforethee.

And now when I thought most of peace and honor, thyhand is heavy upon me, and hath humbled me, accordingto thy former loving-kindness, keeping me still inthy fatherly school, not as a bastard, but as a child.Just are thy judgments upon me for my sins, which aremore in number than the sands of the sea, but haveno proportion to thy mercies; for what are the sandsof the sea, to the sea, earth, heavens? and all theseare nothing to thy mercies.

Besides my innumerable sins, I confess before thee,that I am debtor to thee for the gracious talent ofthy gifts and graces which I have neither put intoa napkin, nor put it (as I ought) to exchangers, whereit might have made best profit; but mis-spent it inthings for which I was least fit; so as I may trulysay, my soul hath been a stranger in the course ofmy pilgrimage. Be merciful into me (O Lord) formy Saviour’s sake, and receive me unto thy bosom,or guide me in thy ways.

FROM THE ‘APOPHTHEGMS’

My Lo. of Essex, at the succor of Rhoan, made twenty-fourknights, which at that time was a great matter.Divers (7.) of those gentlemen were of weak and smallmeans; which when Queen Elizabeth heard, she said,“My Lo. mought have done well to have builthis alms-house before he made his knights.”

21. Many men, especially such as affect gravity,have a manner after other men’s speech to shaketheir heads. Sir Lionel Cranfield would say,“That it was as men shake a bottle, to see ifthere was any wit in their head or no.”

33. Bias was sailing, and there fell out a greattempest, and the mariners, that were wicked and dissolutefellows, called upon the gods; but Bias said to them,“Peace, let them not know ye are here.”

42. There was a Bishop that was somewhat a delicateperson, and bathed twice a day. A friend of hissaid to him, “My lord, why do you bathe twicea day?” The Bishop answered, “Because Icannot conveniently bathe thrice.”

55. Queen Elizabeth was wont to say of her instructionsto great officers, “That they were like to garments,strait at the first putting on, but did by and bywear loose enough.”

64. Sir Henry Wotton used to say, “Thatcritics are like brushers of noblemen’s clothes.”

66. Mr. Savill was asked by my lord of Essexhis opinion touching poets; who answered my lord,“He thought them the best writers, next to thosethat write prose.”

85. One was saying, “That his great-grandfatherand grandfather and father died at sea.”Said another that heard him, “And I were as you,I would never come at sea.” “Why,(saith he) where did your great-grandfather and grandfatherand father die?” He answered, “Where butin their beds.” Saith the other, “AndI were as you, I would never come in bed.”

97. Alonso of Arragon was wont to say, in commendationof age, That age appeared to be best in four things:“Old wood best to burn; old wine to drink; oldfriends to trust; and old authors to read.”

119. One of the fathers saith, “That thereis but this difference between the death of old menand young men: that old men go to death, anddeath comes to young men.”

TRANSLATION OF THE 137TH PSALM

From ‘Works,’ Vol.xiv.

Whenas we sat all sad and desolate,
By Babylon upon the river’s side,
Eased from the tasks which in our captive state
We were enforced daily to abide,
Our harps we had brought with us to the field,
Some solace to our heavy souls to yield.

But soon we found we failed ofour account,
For when our minds some freedom did obtain,
Straightways the memory of Sion Mount
Did cause afresh our wounds to bleed again;
So that with present gifts, and future fears,
Our eyes burst forth into a stream of tears.

As for our harps, since sorrowstruck them dumb,
We hanged them on the willow-trees were near;
Yet did our cruel masters to us come,
Asking of us some Hebrew songs to hear:
Taunting us rather in our misery,
Than much delighting in our melody.

Alas (said we) who can once forceor frame
His grieved and oppressed heart to sing
The praises of Jehovah’s glorious name,
In banishment, under a foreign king?
In Sion is his seat and dwelling-place,
Thence doth he shew the brightness of hisface.

Hierusalem, where God his thronehath set,
Shall any hour absent thee from my mind?
Then let my right hand quite her skill forget,
Then let my voice and words no passage find;
Nay, if I do not thee prefer in all
That in the compass of my thoughts can fall.

Remember thou, O Lord, the cruelcry
Of Edom’s children, which did ring andsound,
Inciting the Chaldean’s cruelty,
“Down with it, down with it, even untothe ground.”
In that good day repay it unto them,
When thou shalt visit thy Hierusalem.

And thou, O Babylon, shalt havethy turn
By just revenge, and happy shall he be,
That thy proud walls and towers shall waste andburn,
And as thou didst by us, so do by thee.
Yea, happy he that takes thy children’sbones,
And dasheth them against the pavement stones.

THE WORLD’S A BUBBLE

From ‘Works,’ Vol.xiv.

The world’s a bubble, andthe life of man
less than a span;
In his conception wretched, from the womb
so to the tomb:
Curst from the cradle, and brought up to years
with cares and fears.
Who then to frail mortality shall trust,
But limns the water, or but writes in dust.

Yet since with sorrowhere we live opprest,
whatlife is best?
Courts are but onlysuperficial schools
todandle fools.
The rural parts areturned into a den
ofsavage men.
And where’s thecity from all vice so free,
But may be termed theworst of all the three?

Domestic cares afflictthe husband’s bed,
orpains his head.
Those that live singletake it for a curse,
ordo things worse.
Some would have children;those that have them moan,
orwish them gone.
What is it then to haveor have no wife,
But single thraldom,or a double strife?

Our own affections stillat home to please
isa disease:
To cross the seas toany foreign soil
perilsand toil.
Wars with their noiseaffright us: when they cease,
weare worse in peace.
What then remains, butthat we still should cry
Not to be born, or beingborn to die.

WALTER BAGEHOT

(1826-1877)

BY FORREST MORGAN

Walter Bagehot was born February 3d, 1826, at Langport,Somersetshire, England; and died there March 24th,1877. He sprang on both sides from, and was rearedin, a nest of wealthy bankers and ardent Liberals,steeped in political history and with London countryhouses where leaders of thought and politics resorted;and his mother’s brother-in-law was Dr. Prichardthe ethnologist. This heredity, progressive bydisposition and conservative by trade, and this entourage,produced naturally enough a mind at once rapid of insightand cautious of judgment, devoted almost equally tobusiness action and intellectual speculation, andon its speculative side turned toward the fields ofpolitical history and sociology.

[Illustration: WALTER BAGEHOT]

But there were equally important elements not traceable.His freshness of mental vision, the strikingly novelpoints of view from which he looked at every subject,was marvelous even in a century so fertile of variedindependences: he complained that “the mostgalling of yokes is the tyranny of your next-doorneighbor,” the obligation of thinking as hethinks. He had a keen, almost reckless wit anddelicious buoyant humor, whose utterances never pall

by repetition; few authors so abound in tenaciouslyquotable phrases and passages of humorous intellectuality.What is rarely found in connection with much humor,he had a sensitive dreaminess of nature, stronglypoetic in feeling, whence resulted a large appreciationof the subtler classes of poetry; of which he wasan acute and sympathizing critic. As part of thistemperament, he had a strong bent toward mysticism,—inone essay he says flatly that “mysticism istrue,”—which gave him a rare insightinto the religious nature and some obscure problemsof religious history; though he was too cool, scientific,and humorous to be a great theologian.

Above all, he had that instinct of selective art,in felicity of words and salience of ideas, whichelevates writing into literature; which long aftera thought has merged its being and use in those ofwider scope, keeps it in separate remembrance andretains for its creator his due of credit throughthe artistic charm of the shape he gave it.

The result of a mixture of traits popularly thoughtincompatible, and usually so in reality,—agreat relish for the driest business facts and a creativeliterary gift,—was absolutely unique.Bagehot explains the general sterility of literatureas a guide to life by the fact that “so fewpeople who can write know anything;” and begana reform in his own person, by applying all his highestfaculties—the best not only of his thoughtbut of his imagination and his literary skill—tothe theme of his daily work, banking and businessaffairs and political economy. There have beenmany men of letters who were excellent business menand hard bargainers, sometimes indeed merchants orbankers, but they have held their literature as faras possible off the plane of their bread-winning;they have not used it to explain and decorate the latterand made that the motive of art. Bagehot lovedbusiness not alone as the born trader loves it, forits profit and its gratification of innate likings,—“businessis really pleasanter than pleasure, though it doesnot look so,” he says in substance,—butas an artist loves a picturesque situation or a journalista murder; it pleased his literary sense as materialfor analysis and composition. He had in a highdegree that union of the practical and the musingfaculties which in its (as yet) highest degree madeShakespeare; but even Shakespeare did not write dramason how to make theatres pay, or sonnets on real-estatespeculation.

Bagehot’s career was determined, as usual, partlyby character and partly by circumstances. Hegraduated at London University in 1848, and studiedfor and was called to the bar; but his father ownedan interest in a rich old provincial bank and a goodshipping-business, and instead of the law he joinedin their conduct. He had just before, however,passed a few months in France, including the time ofLouis Napoleon’s coup d’etat inDecember, 1851; and from Paris he wrote to the London

Inquirer (a Unitarian weekly) a remarkable series ofletters on that event and its immediate sequents,defending the usurpation vigorously and outlininghis political creed, from whose main lines he swervedbut little in after life. Waiving the questionwhether the defense was valid,—and likeall first-rate minds, Bagehot is even more instructivewhen he is wrong than when he is right, because thewrong is sure to be almost right and the truth onits side neglected,—the letters are fullof fresh, acute, and even profound ideas, sharp expositionof those primary objects of government which demagoguesand buncombe legislators ignore, racy wit, sarcasm,and description (in one passage he rises for a momentinto really blood-stirring rhetoric), and proofs ofhis capacity thus early for reducing the confusedcross-currents of daily life to the operation of greatembracing laws. No other writing of a youth oftwenty-five on such subjects—or almost none—isworth remembering at all for its matter; while thisis perennially wholesome and educative, as well ascapital reading.

From this on he devoted most of his spare time toliterature: that he found so much spare time,and produced so much of a high grade while winningrespect as a business manager, proves the excellentquality of his business brain. He was one ofthe editors of the National Review, a very able andreadable English quarterly, from its foundation in1854 to its death in 1863, and wrote for it twentyliterary, biographical, and theological papers, whichare among his best titles to enduring remembrance,and are full of his choicest flavors, his wealth ofthought, fun, poetic sensitiveness, and deep religiousfeeling of the needs of human nature. Previousto this, he had written some good articles for theProspective Review, and he wrote some afterwards forthe Fortnightly Review (including the series afterwardsgathered into ’Physics and Politics’),and other periodicals.

But his chief industry and most peculiar work wasdetermined by his marriage in 1858 to the daughterof James Wilson, an ex-merchant who had founded theEconomist as a journal of trade, banking, and investment,and made it prosperous and rather influential.Mr. Wilson was engaging in politics, where he roseto high office and would probably have ended in theCabinet; but being sent to India to regulate its finances,died there in 1860. Bagehot thereupon took controlof the paper, and was the paper until his deathin 1877; and the position he gave it was as uniqueas his own. On banking, finance, taxation, andpolitical economy in general his utterances had suchweight that Chancellors of the Exchequer consultedhim as to the revenues, and the London business worldeagerly studied the paper for guidance. But hewent far beyond this, and made it an unexampled forcein politics and governmental science, personal tohimself. For the first time a great politicalthinker applied his mind week by week to discussing

the problems presented by passing politics, and expoundingthe drift and meaning of current events in his nationand the others which bore closest on it, as Franceand America. That he gained such a hearing wasdue not alone to his immense ability, and to a stylecarefully modeled on the conversation of businessmen with each other, but to his cool moderation andevident aloofness from party as party. He dissectedeach like a man of science: party was to hima tool and not a religion. He gibed at the Tories;but the Tories forgave him because he was half a Toryat heart,—he utterly distrusted popularinstincts and was afraid of popular ignorance.He was rarely warm for the actual measures of theLiberals; but the Liberals knew that he intensely despisedthe pig-headed obstructiveness of the typical Tory,and had no kinship with the blind worshipers of thestatus quo. To natives and foreignersalike for many years the paper was single and invaluable:in it one could find set forth acutely and dispassionatelythe broad facts and the real purport of all greatlegislative proposals, free from the rant and mendacity,the fury and distortion, the prejudice and counter-prejudiceof the party press.

An outgrowth of his treble position as banker, economicwriter, and general litterateur, was his charmingbook ‘Lombard Street.’ Most writersknow nothing about business, he sets forth, most businessmen cannot write, therefore most writing about businessis either unreadable or untrue: he put all hisliterary gifts at its service, and produced a bookas instructive as a trade manual and more delightfulthan most novels. Its luminous, easy, half-playful“business talk” is irresistibly captivating.It is a description and analysis of the London moneymarket and its component parts,—the Bankof England, the joint-stock banks, the private banks,and the bill-brokers. It will live, however, asliterature and as a picture, not as a banker’sguide; as the vividest outline of business London,of the “great commerce” and the fabricof credit which is the basis of modern civilizationand of which London is the centre, that the worldhas ever known.

Previous to this, the most widely known of his works—’TheEnglish Constitution,’ much used as a text-book—hadmade a new epoch in political analysis, and placedhim among the foremost thinkers and writers of histime. Not only did it revolutionize the acceptedmode of viewing that governmental structure, but asa treatise on government in general its novel typesof classification are now admitted commonplaces.Besides its main themes, the book is a great storeof thought and suggestion on government, society,and human nature,—for as in all his works,he pours on his nominal subject a flood of illuminationand analogy from the unlikeliest sources; and a pieceof eminently pleasurable reading from end to end.Its basic novelty lay in what seems the most naturalof inquiries, but which in fact was left for Bagehot’s

original mind even to think of,—the actualworking of the governmental system in practice, asdistinguished from legal theory. The result ofthis novel analysis was startling: old powersand checks went to the rubbish heap, and a whollynew set of machinery and even new springs of forceand life were substituted. He argued that theactual use of the English monarchy is not to do thework of government, but through its roots in the pastto gain popular loyalty and support for the real government,which the masses would not obey if they realized itsgenuine nature; that “it raises the army thoughit does not win the battle.” He showedthat the function of the House of Peers is not as aco-ordinate power with the Commons (which is the realgovernment), but as a revising body and an index ofthe strength of popular feeling. Constitutionalgovernments he divides into Cabinet, where the peoplecan change the government at any time, and thereforefollow its acts and debates eagerly and instructedly;and Presidential, where they can only change it atfixed terms, and are therefore apathetic and ill-informedand care little for speeches which can effect nothing.

Just before ‘Lombard Street’ came hisscientific masterpiece, ’Physics and Politics’;a work which does for human society what the ’Originof Species’ does for organic life, expoundingits method of progress from very low if not the lowestforms to higher ones. Indeed, one of its mainlines is only a special application of Darwin’s“natural selection” to societies, notingthe survival of the strongest (which implies in thelong run the best developed in all virtues that makefor social cohesion) through conflict; but the bookis so much more than that, in spite of its heavy debtto all scientific and institutional research, thatit remains a first-rate feat of original constructivethought. It is the more striking from its almostludicrous brevity compared with the novelty, variety,and pregnancy of its ideas. It is scarcely morethan a pamphlet; one can read it through in an evening:yet there is hardly any book which is a master-keyto so many historical locks, so useful a standardfor referring scattered sociological facts to, so clarifyingto the mind in the study of early history. Thework is strewn with fertile and suggestive observationsfrom many branches of knowledge. Its leadingidea of the needs and difficulties of early societiesis given in one of the citations.

The unfinished ‘Economic Studies’ arepartially a re-survey of the same ground on a morelimited scale, and contain in addition a mass of thenicest and shrewdest observations on modern trade andsociety, full of truth and suggestiveness. Allthe other books printed under his name are collectionseither from the Economist or from outside publications.

As a thinker, Bagehot’s leading positions maybe roughly summarized thus: in history, thatreasoning from the present to the past is generallywrong and frequently nonsense; in politics, that abstractsystems are foolish, that a government which does notbenefit its subjects has no rights against one thatwill, that the masses had much better let the upperranks do the governing than meddle with it themselves,that all classes are too eager to act without thinkingand ought not to attempt so much; in society, thatdemocracy is an evil because it leaves no speciallytrained upper class to furnish models for refinement.But there is vastly more besides this, and his valuelies much more in the mental clarification affordedby his details than in the new principles of actionafforded by his generalizations. He leaves mensaner, soberer, juster, with a clearer sense of perspective,of real issues, that more than makes up for a slightdiminution of zeal.

As pure literature, the most individual trait in hiswritings sprang from his scorn of mere word-mongeringdivorced from actual life. “A man oughtto have the right of being a Philistine if he chooses,”he tells us: “there is a sickly incompletenessin men too fine for the world and too nice to worktheir way through it.” A great man of letters,no one has ever mocked his craft so persistently.A great thinker, he never tired of humorously magnifyingthe active and belittling the intellectual temperament.Of course it was only half-serious: he admitsthe force and utility of colossal visionaries likeShelley, constructive scholars like Gibbon, asceticartists like Milton, even light dreamers like HartleyColeridge; indeed, intellectually he appreciates allintellectual force, and scorns feeble thought whichhas the effrontery to show itself, and those who are“cross with the agony of a new idea.”But his heart goes out to the unscholarly Cavalierwith his dash and his loyalty, to the county memberwho “hardly reads two books per existence,”and even to the rustic who sticks to his old ideasand whom “it takes seven weeks to comprehendan atom of a new one.” A petty surfaceconsistency must not be exacted from the miscellaneousutterances of a humorist: all sorts of complementaryhalf-truths are part of his service. His ownquite just conception of humor, as meaning merelyfull vision and balanced judgment, is his best defense:“when a man has attained the deep conceptionthat there is such a thing as nonsense,” hesays, “you may be sure of him for ever after.”At bottom he is thoroughly consistent: holdingthat the masses should work in contented deferenceto their intellectual guides, but those guides shouldqualify themselves by practical experience of life,that poetry is not an amusement for lazy sybaritesbut the most elevating of spiritual influences, thatreligions cut the roots of their power by trying toavoid supernaturalism and cultivate intelligibility,and that the animal basis of human life is a screenexpressly devised to shut off direct knowledge ofGod and make character possible.

To make his acquaintance first is to enter upon astore of high and fine enjoyment, and of strong andvivifying thought, which one must be either very richof attainment or very feeble of grasp to find unprofitableor pleasureless.

THE VIRTUES OF STUPIDITY

From ‘Letters on the French Coup d’Etat’

I fear you will laugh when I tell you what I conceiveto be about the most essential mental quality fora free people whose liberty is to be progressive,permanent, and on a large scale: it is much stupidity.Not to begin by wounding any present susceptibilities,let me take the Roman character; for with one greatexception,—I need not say to whom I allude,—theyare the great political people of history. Now,is not a certain dullness their most visible characteristic?What is the history of their speculative mind? a blank;what their literature? a copy. They have leftnot a single discovery in any abstract science, nota single perfect or well-formed work of high imagination.The Greeks, the perfection of human and accomplishedgenius, bequeathed to mankind the ideal forms of self-idolizingart, the Romans imitated and admired; the Greeks explainedthe laws of nature, the Romans wondered and despised;the Greeks invented a system of numerals second onlyto that now in use, the Romans counted to the endof their days with the clumsy apparatus which we stillcall by their name; the Greeks made a capital andscientific calendar, the Romans began their month whenthe Pontifex Maximus happened to spy out the new moon.Throughout Latin literature, this is the perpetualpuzzle:—Why are we free and they slaves,we praetors and they barbers? why do the stupid peoplealways win and the clever people always lose?I need not say that in real sound stupidity the Englishare unrivaled: you’ll hear more wit andbetter wit in an Irish street row than would keepWestminster Hall in humor for five weeks.

* * * * *

In fact, what we opprobriously call “stupidity,”though not an enlivening quality in common society,is nature’s favorite resource for preservingsteadiness of conduct and consistency of opinion; itenforces concentration: people who learn slowly,learn only what they must. The best securityfor people’s doing their duty is, that they shouldnot know anything else to do; the best security forfixedness of opinion is, that people should be incapableof comprehending what is to be said on the other side.These valuable truths are no discoveries of mine:they are familiar enough to people whose businessit is to know them. Hear what a douce and agedattorney says of your peculiarly promising barrister:—“Sharp?Oh, yes! he’s too sharp by half. He is notsafe, not a minute, isn’t that youngman.” I extend this, and advisedly maintainthat nations, just as individuals, may be too cleverto be practical and not dull enough to be free....

And what I call a proper stupidity keeps a man fromall the defects of this character: it chainsthe gifted possessor mainly to his old ideas, it takeshim seven weeks to comprehend an atom of a new one;it keeps him from being led away by new theories,for there is nothing which bores him so much; it restrainshim within his old pursuits, his well-known habits,his tried expedients, his verified conclusions, histraditional beliefs. He is not tempted to levityor impatience, for he does not see the joke and isthick-skinned to present evils. Inconsistencyputs him out: “What I says is this here,as I was a-saying yesterday,” is his notionof historical eloquence and habitual discretion.He is very slow indeed to be excited,—hispassions, his feelings, and his affections are dulland tardy strong things, falling in a certain knowndirection, fixed on certain known objects, and forthe most part acting in a moderate degree and at asluggish pace. You always know where to findhis mind. Now, this is exactly what (in politicsat least) you do not know about a Frenchman.

REVIEW WRITING

From ‘The First Edinburgh Reviewers’

Review writing exemplifies the casual character ofmodern literature: everything about it is temporaryand fragmentary. Look at a railway stall:you see books of every color,—blue, yellow,crimson, “ring-streaked, speckled, and spotted,”—onevery subject, in every style, of every opinion, withevery conceivable difference, celestial or sublunary,maleficent, beneficent—but all small.People take their literature in morsels, as they takesandwiches on a journey....

And the change in appearance of books has been accompanied—hasbeen caused—by a similar change in readers.What a transition from the student of former ages!from a grave man with grave cheeks and a considerateeye, who spends his life in study, has no interestin the outward world, hears nothing of its din andcares nothing for its honors, who would gladly learnand gladly teach, whose whole soul is taken up witha few books of ’Aristotle and his Philosophy,’—tothe merchant in the railway, with a head full of sums,an idea that tallow is “up,” a convictionthat teas are “lively,” and a mind revertingperpetually from the little volume which he reads tothese mundane topics, to the railway, to the shares,to the buying and bargaining universe. We mustnot wonder that the outside of books is so different,when the inner nature of those for whom they are writtenis so changed.

In this transition from ancient writing to modern,the review-like essay and the essay-like review filla large space. Their small bulk, their slightpretension to systematic completeness,—theiravowal, it might be said, of necessary incompleteness,—thefacility of changing the subject, of selecting pointsto attack, of exposing only the best corner for defense,are great temptations. Still greater is the advantage

of “our limits.” A real revieweralways spends his first and best pages on the partsof a subject on which he wishes to write, the easycomfortable parts which he knows. The formidabledifficulties which he acknowledges, you foresee bya strange fatality that he will only reach two pagesbefore the end; to his great grief, there is no opportunityfor discussing them. As a young gentleman atthe India House examination wrote “Time up”on nine unfinished papers in succession, so you mayoccasionally read a whole review, in every articleof which the principal difficulty of each successivequestion is about to be reached at the conclusion.Nor can any one deny that this is the suitable skill,the judicious custom of the craft.

LORD ELDON

From ‘The First Edinburgh Reviewers’

As for Lord Eldon, it is the most difficult thingin the world to believe that there ever was such aman; it only shows how intense historical evidenceis, that no one really doubts it. He believedin everything which it is impossible to believe in,—inthe danger of Parliamentary Reform, the danger ofCatholic Emancipation, the danger of altering theCourt of Chancery, the danger of altering the courtsof law, the danger of abolishing capital punishmentfor trivial thefts, the danger of making land-ownerspay their debts, the danger of making anything more,the danger of making anything less. It seems asif he maturely thought, “Now, I know the presentstate of things to be consistent with the existenceof John Lord Eldon; but if we begin altering thatstate, I am sure I do not know that it will be consistent.”As Sir Robert Walpole was against all committees ofinquiry on the simple ground, “If they oncebegin that sort of thing, who knows who will be safe?”so that great Chancellor (still remembered in his ownscene) looked pleasantly down from the woolsack, andseemed to observe, “Well, it is a queerthing that I should be here, and here I mean to stay.”

TASTE

From ‘Wordsworth, Tennyson, and Browning’

There is a most formidable and estimable insanetaste. The will has great though indirect powerover the taste, just as it has over the belief.There are some horrid beliefs from which human naturerevolts, from which at first it shrinks, to whichat first no effort can force it. But if we fixthe mind upon them, they have a power over us, justbecause of their natural offensiveness. They arelike the sight of human blood. Experienced soldierstell us that at first, men are sickened by the smelland newness of blood, almost to death and fainting;but that as soon as they harden their hearts and stiffentheir minds, as soon as they will bear it,then comes an appetite for slaughter, a tendency togloat on carnage, to love blood (at least for the moment)with a deep, eager love. It is a principle that

if we put down a healthy instinctive aversion, natureavenges herself by creating an unhealthy insane attraction.For this reason, the most earnest truth-seeking menfall into the worst delusions. They will notlet their mind alone; they force it toward some uglything, which a crotchet of argument, a conceit ofintellect recommends: and nature punishes theirdisregard of her warning by subjection to the uglyone, by belief in it. Just so, the most industriouscritics get the most admiration. They think itunjust to rest in their instinctive natural horror;they overcome it, and angry nature gives them overto ugly poems and marries them to detestable stanzas.

CAUSES OF THE STERILITY OF LITERATURE

From ‘Shakespeare, the Man,’ etc.

The reason why so few good books are written is, thatso few people that can write know anything. Ingeneral, an author has always lived in a room, hasread books, has cultivated science, is acquainted withthe style and sentiments of the best authors, buthe is out of the way of employing his own eyes andears. He has nothing to hear and nothing to see.His life is a vacuum. The mental habits of RobertSouthey, which about a year ago were so extensivelypraised in the public journals, are the type of literaryexistence, just as the praise bestowed on them showsthe admiration excited by them among literary people.He wrote poetry (as if anybody could) before breakfast;he read during breakfast. He wrote history untildinner; he corrected proof-sheets between dinner andtea; he wrote an essay for the Quarterly afterwards;and after supper, by way of relaxation, composed ’TheDoctor’—a lengthy and elaborate jest.Now, what can any one think of such a life?—excepthow clearly it shows that the habits best fitted forcommunicating information, formed with the best care,and daily regulated by the best motives, are exactlythe habits which are likely to afford a man the leastinformation to communicate. Southey had no events,no experiences. His wife kept house and allowedhim pocket-money, just as if he had been a Germanprofessor devoted to accents, tobacco, and the datesof Horace’s amours....

The critic in the ‘Vicar of Wakefield’lays down that you should always say that thepicture would have been better if the painter hadtaken more pains; but in the case of the practicedliterary man, you should often enough say that thewritings would have been much better if the writerhad taken less pains. He says he has devoted hislife to the subject; the reply is, “Then youhave taken the best way to prevent your making anythingof it. Instead of reading studiously what Burgersdiciusand Aenesidemus said men were, you should have goneout yourself and seen (if you can see) what they are.”But there is a whole class of minds which prefer theliterary delineation of objects to the actual eyesightof them. Such a man would naturally think literaturemore instructive than life. Hazlitt said of Mackintosh,“He might like to read an account ofIndia; but India itself, with its burning, shiningface, would be a mere blank, an endless waste to him.Persons of this class have no more to say to a matterof fact staring them in the face, without a labelin its mouth, than they would to a hippopotamus."...

After all, the original way of writing books may turnout to be the best. The first author, it is plain,could not have taken anything from books, since therewere no books for him to copy from; he looked at thingsfor himself. Anyhow the modern system fails, forwhere are the amusing books from voracious studentsand habitual writers?

Moreover, in general, it will perhaps be found thatpersons devoted to mere literature commonly becomedevoted to mere idleness. They wish to producea great work, but they find they cannot. Havingrelinquished everything to devote themselves to this,they conclude on trial that this is impossible; theywish to write, but nothing occurs to them: thereforethey write nothing and they do nothing. As hasbeen said, they have nothing to do; their life hasno events, unless they are very poor; with any decentmeans of subsistence, they have nothing to rouse themfrom an indolent and musing dream. A merchantmust meet his bills, or he is civilly dead and uncivillyremembered; but a student may know nothing of time,and be too lazy to wind lip his watch.

THE SEARCH FOR HAPPINESS

From ‘William Cowper’

If there be any truly painful fact about the worldnow tolerably well established by ample experienceand ample records, it is that an intellectual andindolent happiness is wholly denied to the childrenof men. That most valuable author, Lucretius,who has supplied us and others with an almost inexhaustiblesupply of metaphors on this topic, ever dwells onthe life of his gods with a sad and melancholy feelingthat no such life was possible on a crude and cumbersomeearth. In general, the two opposing agenciesare marriage and lack of money; either of these breaksthe lot of literary and refined inaction at once andforever. The first of these, as we have seen,Cowper had escaped; his reserved and negligent reverieswere still free, at least from the invasion of affection.To this invasion, indeed, there is commonly requisitethe acquiescence or connivance of mortality; but allmen are born—not free and equal, as theAmericans maintain, but, in the Old World at least—baselysubjected to the yoke of coin. It is in vain thatin this hemisphere we endeavor after impecuniary fancies.In bold and eager youth we go out on our travels:we visit Baalbec and Paphos and Tadmor and Cythera,—ancientshrines and ancient empires, seats of eager love orgentle inspiration; we wander far and long; we havenothing to do with our fellow-men,—whatare we, indeed, to diggers and counters? we wanderfar, we dream to wander forever—but we dreamin vain. A surer force than the subtlest fascinationof fancy is in operation; the purse-strings tie usto our kind. Our travel coin runs low, and wemust return, away from Tadmor and Baalbec, back toour steady, tedious industry and dull work, to “lavieille Europe” (as Napoleon said), “quim’ennuie.” It is the same in thought:in vain we seclude ourselves in elegant chambers,in fascinating fancies, in refined reflections.

ON EARLY READING

From ‘Edward Gibbon’

In school work Gibbon had uncommon difficulties andunusual deficiencies; but these were much more thancounterbalanced by a habit which often accompaniesa sickly childhood, and is the commencement of a studiouslife,—the habit of desultory reading.The instructiveness of this is sometimes not comprehended.S. T. Coleridge used to say that he felt a great superiorityover those who had not read—and fondlyread—fairy tales in their childhood:he thought they wanted a sense which he possessed,the perception, or apperception—we do notknow which he used to say it was—of theunity and wholeness of the universe. As to fairytales, this is a hard saying; but as to desultory reading,it is certainly true. Some people have known atime in life when there was no book they could notread. The fact of its being a book went immenselyin its favor. In early life there is an opinionthat the obvious thing to do with a horse is to rideit; with a cake, to eat it; with sixpence, to spendit. A few boys carry this further, and thinkthe natural thing to do with a book is to read it.There is an argument from design in the subject:if the book was not meant for that purpose, for whatpurpose was it meant? Of course, of any understandingof the works so perused there is no question or idea.There is a legend of Bentham, in his earliest childhood,climbing to the height of a huge stool, and sittingthere evening after evening, with two candles, engagedin the perusal of Rapin’s history; it might aswell have been any other book. The doctrine ofutility had not then dawned on its immortal teacher;cui bono was an idea unknown to him. Hewould have been ready to read about Egypt, about Spain,about coals in Borneo, the teak-wood in India, thecurrent in the River Mississippi, on natural historyor human history, on theology or morals, on the stateof the Dark Ages or the state of the Light Ages, onAugustulus or Lord Chatham, on the first century orthe seventeenth, on the moon, the millennium, or thewhole duty of man. Just then, reading is an endin itself. At that time of life you no more thinkof a future consequence—of the remote,the very remote possibility of deriving knowledge fromthe perusal of a book, than you expect so great aresult from spinning a peg-top. You spin thetop, and you read the book; and these scenes of lifeare exhausted. In such studies, of all prose,perhaps the best is history: one page is so likeanother, battle No. 1 is so much on a par with battleNo. 2. Truth may be, as they say, stranger thanfiction, abstractedly; but in actual books, novelsare certainly odder and more astounding than correcthistory.

It will be said, What is the use of this? why notleave the reading of great books till a great age?why plague and perplex childhood with complex factsremote from its experience and inapprehensible by itsimagination? The reply is, that though in allgreat and combined facts there is much which childhoodcannot thoroughly imagine, there is also in very manya great deal which can only be truly apprehended forthe first time at that age. Youth has a principleof consolidation; we begin with the whole. Smallsciences are the labors of our manhood; but the rounduniverse is the plaything of the boy. His freshmind shoots out vaguely and crudely into the infiniteand eternal. Nothing is hid from the depth ofit; there are no boundaries to its vague and wanderingvision. Early science, it has been said, beginsin utter nonsense; it would be truer to say that itstarts with boyish fancies. How absurd seem thenotions of the first Greeks! Who could believenow that air or water was the principle, the pervadingsubstance, the eternal material of all things?Such affairs will never explain a thick rock.And what a white original for a green and sky-blueworld! Yet people disputed in these ages notwhether it was either of those substances, but whichof them it was. And doubtless there was a greatdeal, at least in quantity, to be said on both sides.Boys are improved; but some in our own day have asked,“Mamma, I say, what did God make the world of?”and several, who did not venture on speech, have hadan idea of some one gray primitive thing, felt a difficultyas to how the red came, and wondered that marble couldever have been the same as moonshine. Thisis in truth the picture of life. We begin withthe infinite and eternal, which we shall never apprehend;and these form a framework, a schedule, a set of co-ordinatesto which we refer all which we learn later. Atfirst, like the old Greek, “We look up to thewhole sky, and are lost in the one and the all;”in the end we classify and enumerate, learn each star,calculate distances, draw cramped diagrams on the unboundedsky, write a paper on a Cygni and a treatise on eDraconis, map special facts upon the indefinite void,and engrave precise details on the infinite and everlasting.So in history: somehow the whole comes in boyhood,the details later and in manhood. The wonderfulseries, going far back to the times of old patriarchswith their flocks and herds, the keen-eyed Greek,the stately Roman, the watching Jew, the uncouth Goth,the horrid Hun, the settled picture of the unchangingEast, the restless shifting of the rapid West, therise of the cold and classical civilization, its fall,the rough impetuous Middle Ages, the vague warm pictureof ourselves and home,—when did we learnthese? Not yesterday nor to-day: but longago, in the first dawn of reason, in the original flowof fancy. What we learn afterwards are but theaccurate littlenesses of the great topic, the datesand tedious facts. Those who begin late learnonly these; but the happy first feel the mystic associationsand the progress of the whole.

However exalted may seem the praises which we havegiven to loose and unplanned reading, we are not sayingthat it is the sole ingredient of a good education.Besides this sort of education, which some boys willvoluntarily and naturally give themselves, there needs,of course, another and more rigorous kind, which mustbe impressed upon them from without. The terribledifficulty of early life—the useof pastors and masters really is, that they compelboys to a distinct mastery of that which they do notwish to learn. There is nothing to be said fora preceptor who is not dry. Mr. Carlyle describes,with bitter satire, the fate of one of his heroeswho was obliged to acquire whole systems of informationin which he, the hero, saw no use, and which he kept,as far as might be, in a vacant corner of his mind.And this is the very point: dry language, tediousmathematics, a thumbed grammar, a detested slate formgradually an interior separate intellect, exact inits information, rigid in its requirements, disciplinedin its exercises. The two grow together; theearly natural fancy touching the far extremities ofthe universe, lightly playing with the scheme of allthings; the precise, compacted memory slowly accumulatingspecial facts, exact habits, clear and painful conceptions.At last, as it were in a moment, the cloud breaksup, the division sweeps away; we find that in factthese exercises which puzzled us, these languageswhich we hated, these details which we despised, arethe instruments of true thought; are the very keysand openings, the exclusive access to the knowledgewhich we loved.

THE CAVALIERS. Photogravure from a Paintingby F. Vinea.

[Illustration]

THE CAVALIERS

From ‘Thomas Babington Macaulay’

What historian has ever estimated the Cavalier character?There is Clarendon, the grave, rhetorical, decorouslawyer, piling words, congealing arguments; very stately,a little grim. There is Hume, the Scotch metaphysician,who has made out the best case for such people asnever were, for a Charles who never died, for a Straffordwho would never have been attainted; a saving, calculatingNorth-country man, fat, impassive, who lived on eightpencea day. What have these people to do with an enjoyingEnglish gentleman? It is easy for a doctrinaireto bear a post-mortem examination,—it ismuch the same whether he be alive or dead; but notso with those who live during their life, whose essenceis existence, whose being is in animation. Thereseem to be some characters who are not made for history,as there are some who are not made for old age.A Cavalier is always young. The buoyant life arisesbefore us, rich in hope, strong in vigor, irregularin action; men young and ardent, “framed inthe prodigality of nature”; open to every enjoyment,alive to every passion, eager, impulsive; brave withoutdiscipline, noble without principle; prizing luxury,despising danger; capable of high sentiment, but ineach of whom the

“Addiction wasto courses vain,
His companies unlettered,rude, and shallow,
His hours filled upwith riots, banquets, sports,
And never noted in himany study,
Any retirement, anysequestration
From open haunts andpopularity.”

We see these men setting forth or assembling to defendtheir king or church, and we see it without surprise;a rich daring loves danger, a deep excitability likesexcitement. If we look around us, we may seewhat is analogous: some say that the battle ofthe Alma was won by the “uneducated gentry”;the “uneducated gentry” would be Cavaliersnow. The political sentiment is part of the character;the essence of Toryism is enjoyment. Talk ofthe ways of spreading a wholesome conservatism throughoutthis country! Give painful lectures, distributeweary tracts (and perhaps this is as well,—youmay be able to give an argumentative answer to a fewobjections, you may diffuse a distinct notion of thedignified dullness of politics); but as far as communicatingand establishing your creed are concerned, try a littlepleasure. The way to keep up old customs is toenjoy old customs; the way to be satisfied with thepresent state of things is to enjoy that state of things.Over the “Cavalier” mind this world passeswith a thrill of delight; there is an exaltation ina daily event, zest in the “regular thing,”joy at an old feast.

MORALITY AND FEAR

From ‘Bishop Butler’

The moral principle (whatever may be said to the contraryby complacent thinkers) is really and to most mena principle of fear. The delights of a good consciencemay be reserved for better things, but few men whoknow themselves will say that they have often feltthem by vivid and actual experience; a sensation ofshame, of reproach, of remorse, of sin (to use theword we instinctively shrink from because it expressesthe meaning), is what the moral principle really andpractically thrusts on most men. Conscience isthe condemnation of ourselves; we expect a penalty.As the Greek proverb teaches, “where there isshame there is fear”; where there is the deepand intimate anxiety of guilt,—the feelingwhich has driven murderers and other than murderersforth to wastes and rocks and stones and tempests,—wesee, as it were, in a single complex and indivisiblesensation, the pain and sense of guilt and the painfulanticipation of its punishment. How to be freefrom this, is the question; how to get loose fromthis; how to be rid of the secret tie which bindsthe strong man and cramps his pride, and makes himangry at the beauty of the universe,—whichwill not let him go forth like a great animal, likethe king of the forest, in the glory of his might,but restrains him with an inner fear and a secret forebodingthat if he do but exalt himself he shall be abased,if he do but set forth his own dignity he will offend

ONE who will deprive him of it. This, as hasoften been pointed out, is the source of the bloodyrites of heathendom. You are going to battle,you are going out in the bright sun with dancing plumesand glittering spear; your shield shines, and yourfeathers wave, and your limbs are glad with the consciousnessof strength, and your mind is warm with glory andrenown; with coming glory and unobtained renown:for who are you to hope for these; who are youto go forth proudly against the pride of the sun, withyour secret sin and your haunting shame and your realfear? First lie down and abase yourself; strikeyour back with hard stripes; cut deep with a sharpknife, as if you would eradicate the consciousness;cry aloud; put ashes on your head; bruise yourselfwith stones,—then perhaps God may pardonyou. Or, better still (so runs the incoherentfeeling), give him something—your ox, yourass, whole hecatombs if you are rich enough; anything,it is but a chance,—you do not know whatwill please him; at any rate, what you love best yourself,—thatis, most likely, your first-born son. Then, aftersuch gifts and such humiliation, he may be appeased,he may let you off; he may without anger let you goforth, Achilles-like, in the glory of your shield;he may not send you home as he would else,the victim of rout and treachery, with broken armsand foul limbs, in weariness and humiliation.Of course, it is not this kind of fanaticism thatwe impute to a prelate of the English Church; humansacrifices are not respectable, and Achilles was notrector of Stanhope. But though the costume andcircumstances of life change, the human heart doesnot; its feelings remain. The same anxiety, thesame consciousness of personal sin which led in barbaroustimes to what has been described, show themselvesin civilized life as well. In this quieter period,their great manifestation is scrupulosity: acare about the ritual of life; an attention to meatsand drinks, and “cups and washings.”Being so unworthy as we are, feeling what we feel,abased as we are abased, who shall say that thoseare beneath us? In ardent, imaginative youth theymay seem so; but let a few years come, let them dullthe will or contract the heart or stain the mind;then the consequent feeling will be, as all experienceshows, not that a ritual is too mean, too low, toodegrading for human nature, but that it is a mercywe have to do no more,—that we have onlyto wash in Jordan, that we have not even to go outinto the unknown distance to seek for Abana and Pharpar,rivers of Damascus. We have no right to judge;we cannot decide; we must do what is laid down forus,—we fail daily even in this; we mustnever cease for a moment in our scrupulous anxietyto omit by no tittle and to exceed by no iota.

THE TYRANNY OF CONVENTION

From ‘Sir Robert Peel’

It might be said that this [necessity for newspapersand statesmen of following the crowd] is only oneof the results of that tyranny of commonplace whichseems to accompany civilization. You may talkof the tyranny of Nero and Tiberius; but the realtyranny is the tyranny of your next-door neighbor.What law is so cruel as the law of doing what he does?What yoke is so galling as the necessity of being likehim? What espionage of despotism comes to yourdoor so effectually as the eye of the man who livesat your door? Public opinion is a permeatinginfluence, and it exacts obedience to itself; it requiresus to think other men’s thoughts, to speak othermen’s words, to follow other men’s habits.Of course, if we do not, no formal ban issues; no corporealpain, no coarse penalty of a barbarous society is inflictedon the offender; but we are called “eccentric”;there is a gentle murmur of “most unfortunateideas,” “singular young man,” “well-intentioned,I dare say; but unsafe, sir, quite unsafe.”

Whatever truth there may be in these splenetic observationsmight be expected to show itself more particularlyin the world of politics: people dread to bethought unsafe in proportion as they get their livingby being thought to be safe. Those who desirea public career must look to the views of the livingpublic; an immediate exterior influence is essentialto the exertion of their faculties. The confidenceof others is your fulcrum: you cannot—manypeople wish you could—go into Parliamentto represent yourself; you must conform to the opinionsof the electors, and they, depend on it, will notbe original. In a word, as has been most wiselyobserved, “under free institutions it is necessaryoccasionally to defer to the opinions of other people;and as other people are obviously in the wrong, thisis a great hindrance to the improvement of our politicalsystem and the progress of our species.”

HOW TO BE AN INFLUENTIAL POLITICIAN

From ‘Bolingbroke’

It is very natural that brilliant and vehement menshould depreciate Harley; for he had nothing whichthey possess, but had everything which they commonlydo not possess. He was by nature a moderate man.In that age they called such a man a “trimmer,”but they called him ill: such a man does notconsciously shift or purposely trim his course,—hefirmly believes that he is substantially consistent.“I do not wish in this House,” he wouldsay in our age, “to be a party to any extremecourse. Mr. Gladstone brings forward a greatmany things which I cannot understand; I assure youhe does. There is more in that bill of his abouttobacco than he thinks; I am confident there is.Money is a serious thing, a very serious thing.And I am sorry to say Mr. Disraeli commits the partyvery much: he avows sentiments which are injudicious;I cannot go along with him, nor can Sir John.He was not taught the catechism; I know he was not.

There is a want in him of sound and sober religion,—andSir John agrees with me,—which would keephim from distressing the clergy, who are very important.Great orators are very well; but as I said, how isthe revenue? And the point is, not be led away,and to be moderate, and not to go to an extreme.As soon as it seems very clear, then I beginto doubt. I have been many years in Parliament,and that is my experience.” We may laughat such speeches, but there have been plenty of themin every English Parliament. A great Englishdivine has been described as always leaving out theprinciple upon which his arguments rested; even ifit was stated to him, he regarded it as far-fetchedand extravagant. Any politician who has thistemper of mind will always have many followers; andhe may be nearly sure that all great measures willbe passed more nearly as he wishes them to be passedthan as great orators wish. Nine-tenths of mankindare more afraid of violence than of anything else;and inconsistent moderation is always popular, becauseof all qualities it is most opposite to violence,—mostlikely to preserve the present safe existence.

CONDITIONS OF CABINET GOVERNMENT

From ‘The English Constitution’

The conditions of fitness are two: first, youmust get a good legislature; and next, you must keepit good. And these are by no means so nearlyconnected as might be thought at first sight.To keep a legislature efficient, it must have a sufficientsupply of substantial business: if you employthe best set of men to do nearly nothing, they willquarrel with each other about that nothing; where greatquestions end, little parties begin. And a veryhappy community, with few new laws to make, few oldbad laws to repeal, and but simple foreign relationsto adjust, has great difficulty in employing a legislature,—thereis nothing for it to enact and nothing for it to settle.Accordingly, there is great danger that the legislature,being debarred from all other kinds of business, maytake to quarreling about its elective business; thatcontroversies as to ministries may occupy all its time,and yet that time be perniciously employed; that aconstant succession of feeble administrations, unableto govern and unfit to govern, may be substitutedfor the proper result of cabinet government, a sufficientbody of men long enough in power to evince their sufficiency.The exact amount of non-elective business necessaryfor a parliament which is to elect the executive cannot,of course, be formally stated,—there areno numbers and no statistics in the theory of constitutions;all we can say is, that a parliament with little business,which is to be as efficient as a parliament with muchbusiness, must be in all other respects much better.An indifferent parliament may be much improved by thesteadying effect of grave affairs; but a parliamentwhich has no such affairs must be intrinsically excellent,or it will fail utterly.

But the difficulty of keeping a good legislature isevidently secondary to the difficulty of first gettingit. There are two kinds of nations which canelect a good parliament. The first is a nationin which the mass of the people are intelligent, andin which they are comfortable. Where there isno honest poverty, where education is diffused andpolitical intelligence is common, it is easy for themass of the people to elect a fair legislature.The ideal is roughly realized in the North Americancolonies of England, and in the whole free States ofthe Union: in these countries there is no suchthing as honest poverty,—physical comfort,such as the poor cannot imagine here, is there easilyattainable by healthy industry; education is diffusedmuch, and is fast spreading,—ignorant emigrantsfrom the Old World often prize the intellectual advantagesof which they are themselves destitute, and are annoyedat their inferiority in a place where rudimentary cultureis so common. The greatest difficulty of suchnew communities is commonly geographical: thepopulation is mostly scattered; and where populationis sparse, discussion is difficult. But in a countryvery large as we reckon in Europe, a people reallyintelligent, really educated, really comfortable,would soon form a good opinion. No one can doubtthat the New England States, if they were a separatecommunity, would have an education, a political capacity,and an intelligence such as the numerical majorityof no people equally numerous has ever possessed:in a State of this sort, where all the community isfit to choose a sufficient legislature, it is possible,it is almost easy, to create that legislature.If the New England States possessed a cabinet governmentas a separate nation, they would be as renowned inthe world for political sagacity as they now are fordiffused happiness.

WHY EARLY SOCIETIES COULD NOT BE FREE

From ‘Physics and Politics’

I believe the general description in which Sir JohnLubbock sums up his estimate of the savage mind suitsthe patriarchal mind: “Savages,” hesays, “have the character of children with thepassions and strength of men."...

And this is precisely what we should expect.“An inherited drill,” science says, “makesmodern nations what they are; their born structurebears the trace of the laws of their fathers:”but the ancient nations came into no such inheritance,—theywere the descendants of people who did what was rightin their own eyes; they were born to no tutored habits,no preservative bonds, and therefore they were at themercy of every impulse and blown by every passion....

Again, I at least cannot call up to myself the looseconceptions (as they must have been) of morals whichthen existed. If we set aside all the elementderived from law and polity which runs through ourcurrent moral notions, I hardly know what we shallhave left. The residuum was somehow and in somevague way intelligible to the ante-political man;but it must have been uncertain, wavering, and unfitto be depended upon. In the best cases it existedmuch as the vague feeling of beauty now exists inminds sensitive but untaught,—a still smallvoice of uncertain meaning, an unknown something modifyingeverything else and higher than anything else, yetin form so indistinct that when you looked for it,it was gone; or if this be thought the delicate fictionof a later fancy, then morality was at least to befound in the wild spasms of “wild justice,”half punishment, half outrage: but anyhow, beingunfixed by steady law, it was intermittent, vague,and hard for us to imagine....

To sum up:—Law—rigid,definite, concise law—is the primary wantof early mankind; that which they need above anythingelse, that which is requisite before they can gainanything else. But it is their greatest difficultyas well as their first requisite; the thing most outof their reach as well as that most beneficial tothem if they reach it. In later ages, many raceshave gained much of this discipline quickly thoughpainfully,—a loose set of scattered clanshas been often and often forced to substantial settlementby a rigid conqueror; the Romans did half the workfor above half Europe. But where could the firstages find Romans or a conqueror? men conquer by thepower of government, and it was exactly governmentwhich then was not. The first ascent of civilizationwas at a steep gradient, though when now we look downupon it, it seems almost nothing.

How the step from no polity to polity was made, distincthistory does not record.... But when once politieswere begun, there is no difficulty in explaining whythey lasted. Whatever may be said against theprinciple of “natural selection” in otherdepartments, there is no doubt of its predominancein early human history: the strongest killed outthe weakest as they could. And I need not pauseto prove that any form of polity is more efficientthan none; that an aggregate of families owning evena slippery allegiance to a single head would be sureto have the better of a set of families acknowledgingno obedience to any one, but scattering loose aboutthe world and fighting where they stood. Homer’sCyclops would be powerless against the feeblest band;so far from its being singular that we find no otherrecord of that state of man, so unstable and sureto perish was it that we should rather wonder at evena single vestige lasting down to the age when for picturesquenessit became valuable in poetry.

But though the origin of polity is dubious, we areupon the terra firma of actual records whenwe speak of the preservation of polities. Perhapsevery young Englishman who comes nowadays to Aristotleor Plato is struck with their conservatism: freshfrom the liberal doctrines of the present age, hewonders at finding in those recognized teachers somuch contrary teaching. They both, unlike as theyare, hold with Xenophon so unlike both, that man is“the hardest of all animals to govern.”Of Plato it might indeed be plausibly said that theadherents of an intuitive philosophy, being “theTories of speculation,” have commonly been proneto conservatism in government; but Aristotle, thefounder of the experience philosophy, ought accordingto that doctrine to have been a Liberal if any oneever was a Liberal. In fact, both of these menlived when men “had not had time to forget”the difficulties of government: we have forgottenthem altogether. We reckon as the basis of ourculture upon an amount of order, of tacit obedience,of prescriptive governability, which these philosophershoped to get as a principal result of their culture;we take without thought as a datum what theyhunted as a quaesitum.

In early times the quantity of government is muchmore important than its quality. What you wantis a comprehensive rule binding men together, makingthem do much the same things, telling them what toexpect of each other,—fashioning them alikeand keeping them so: what this rule is, doesnot matter so much. A good rule is better thana bad one, but any rule is better than none; while,for reasons which a jurist will appreciate, none canbe very good. But to gain that rule, what maybe called the “impressive” elements ofa polity are incomparably more important than itsuseful elements. How to get the obedience of men,is the hard problem; what you do with that obedienceis less critical.

To gain that obedience, the primary condition is theidentity—not the union, but the sameness—ofwhat we now call “church” and “state."...No division of power is then endurable without danger,probably without destruction: the priest mustnot teach one thing and the king another; king mustbe priest and prophet king,—the two mustsay the same because they are the same. The ideaof difference between spiritual penalties and legalpenalties must never be awakened,—indeed,early Greek thought or early Roman thought would neverhave comprehended it; there was a kind of rough publicopinion, and there were rough—very rough—handswhich acted on it. We now talk of “politicalpenalties” and “ecclesiastical prohibition”and “the social censure”; but they wereall one then. Nothing is very like those oldcommunities now, but perhaps a trades-union is asnear as most things: to work cheap is thoughtto be a “wicked” thing, and so some Broadheadputs it down.

The object of such organizations is to create whatmay be called a cake of custom. All theactions of life are to be submitted to a single rulefor a single object,—that gradually created“hereditary drill” which science teachesto be essential, and which the early instinct of mensaw to be essential too. That this regimeforbids free thought is not an evil,—orrather, though an evil, it is the necessary basisfor the greatest good; it is necessary for making themold of civilization and hardening the soft fibreof early man.

BENEFITS OF FREE DISCUSSION IN MODERN TIMES

From ‘Physics and Politics’

In this manner polities of discussion broke up theold bonds of custom which were now strangling mankind,though they had once aided and helped it; but thisis only one of the many gifts which those politieshave conferred, are conferring, and will confer onmankind. I am not going to write a eulogium onliberty, but I wish to set down three points whichhave not been sufficiently noticed.

Civilized ages inherit the human nature which wasvictorious in barbarous ages, and that nature is inmany respects not at all suited to civilized circumstances.A main and principal excellence in the early timesof the human races is the impulse to action. Theproblems before men are then plain and simple:the man who works hardest, the man who kills the mostdeer, the man who catches the most fish—evenlater on, the man who tends the largest herds or theman who tills the largest field—is theman who succeeds; the nation which is quickest to killits enemies or which kills most of its enemies isthe nation which succeeds. All the inducementsof early society tend to foster immediate action,all its penalties fall on the man who pauses; the traditionalwisdom of those times was never weary of inculcatingthat “delays are dangerous,” and thatthe sluggish man—the man “who roastethnot that which he took in hunting”—willnot prosper on the earth, and indeed will very soonperish out of it: and in consequence an inabilityto stay quiet, an irritable desire to act directly,is one of the most conspicuous failings of mankind.

Pascal said that most of the evils of life arose from“man’s being unable to sit still in aroom”; and though I do not go that length, itis certain that we should have been a far wiser racethan we are if we had been readier to sit quiet,—weshould have known much better the way in which itwas best to act when we came to act. The riseof physical science, the first great body of practicaltruth provable to all men, exemplifies this in theplainest way: if it had not been for quiet peoplewho sat still and studied the sections of the cone,if other quiet people had not sat still and studiedthe theory of infinitesimals, or other quiet peoplehad not sat still and worked out the doctrine of chances(the most “dreamy moonshine,” as the purely

practical mind would consider, of all human pursuits),if “idle star-gazers” had not watchedlong and carefully the motions of the heavenly bodies,—ourmodern astronomy would have been impossible, and withoutour astronomy “our ships, our colonies, ourseamen,” all which makes modern life modernlife, could not have existed. Ages of sedentary,quiet, thinking people were required before that noisyexistence began, and without those pale preliminarystudents it never could have been brought into being.And nine-tenths of modern science is in this respectthe same: it is the produce of men whom theircontemporaries thought dreamers, who were laughedat for caring for what did not concern them, who asthe proverb went “walked into a well from lookingat the stars,” who were believed to be uselessif any one could be such. And the conclusion isplain that if there had been more such people, if theworld had not laughed at those there were, if ratherit had encouraged them, there would have been a greataccumulation of proved science ages before there was.It was the irritable activity, the “wish to bedoing something,” that prevented it,—mostmen inherited a nature too eager and too restlessto be quiet and find out things: and even worse,with their idle clamor they “disturbed the broodinghen”; they would not let those be quiet whowished to be so, and out of whose calm thought muchgood might have come forth.

If we consider how much science has done and how muchit is doing for mankind, and if the over-activityof men is proved to be the cause why science cameso late into the world and is so small and scanty still,that will convince most people that our over-activityis a very great evil; but this is only part and perhapsnot the greatest part, of the harm that over-activitydoes. As I have said, it is inherited from timeswhen life was simple, objects were plain, and quickaction generally led to desirable ends: if Akills B before B kills A, then A survives, and thehuman race is a race of A’s. But the issuesof life are plain no longer: to act rightly inmodern society requires a great deal of previous study,a great deal of assimilated information, a great dealof sharpened imagination; and these prerequisitesof sound action require much time, and I was goingto say much “lying in the sun,” a longperiod of “mere passiveness.”

[Argument to show that the same vice of impatiencedamages war, philanthropy, commerce, and even speculation.]

But it will be said, What has government by discussionto do with these things? will it prevent them, oreven mitigate them? It can and does do both,in the very plainest way. If you want to stopinstant and immediate action, always make it a conditionthat the action shall not begin till a considerablenumber of persons have talked over it and have agreedon it. If those persons be people of differenttemperaments, different ideas, and different educations,you have an almost infallible security that nothing

or almost nothing will be done with excessive rapidity.Each kind of persons will have their spokesman; eachspokesman will have his characteristic objection andeach his characteristic counter-proposition:and so in the end nothing will probably be done, orat least only the minimum which is plainly urgent.In many cases this delay may be dangerous, in manycases quick action will be preferable; a campaign,as Macaulay well says, cannot be directed by a “debatingsociety,” and many other kinds of action alsorequire a single and absolute general: but forthe purpose now in hand—that of preventinghasty action and insuring elaborate consideration—thereis no device like a polity of discussion.

The enemies of this object—the people whowant to act quickly—see this very distinctly:they are forever explaining that the present is “anage of committees,” that the committees do nothing,that all evaporates in talk. Their great enemyis parliamentary government: they call it, afterMr. Carlyle, the “national palaver”; theyadd up the hours that are consumed in it and the speecheswhich are made in it, and they sigh for a time whenEngland might again be ruled, as it once was, by aCromwell,—that is, when an eager absoluteman might do exactly what other eager men wished,and do it immediately. All these invectives areperpetual and many-sided; they come from philosopherseach of whom wants some new scheme tried, from philanthropistswho want some evil abated, from revolutionists whowant some old institution destroyed, from new-eraistswho want their new era started forthwith: andthey all are distinct admissions that a polity ofdiscussion is the greatest hindrance to the inheritedmistake of human nature,—to the desire toact promptly, which in a simple age is so excellent,but which in a later and complex time leads to somuch evil.

The same accusation against our age sometimes takesa more general form: it is alleged that our energiesare diminishing, that ordinary and average men havenot the quick determination nowadays which they usedto have when the world was younger, that not onlydo not committees and parliaments act with rapid decisiveness,but that no one now so acts; and I hope that in factthis is true, for according to me it proves that thehereditary barbaric impulse is decaying and dying out.So far from thinking the quality attributed to usa defect, I wish that those who complain of it werefar more right than I much fear they are. Still,certainly, eager and violent action is somewhatdiminished, though only by a small fraction of whatit ought to be; and I believe that this is in greatpart due, in England at least, to our government bydiscussion, which has fostered a general intellectualtone, a diffused disposition to weigh evidence, aconviction that much may be said on every side ofeverything which the elder and more fanatic ages ofthe world wanted. This is the real reason why

our energies seem so much less than those of our fathers.When we have a definite end in view, which we knowwe want and which we think we know how to obtain, wecan act well enough: the campaigns of our soldiersare as energetic as any campaigns ever were; the speculationsof our merchants have greater promptitude, greateraudacity, greater vigor than any such speculationsever had before. In old times a few ideas gotpossession of men and communities, but this is happilynow possible no longer: we see how incompletethese old ideas were; how almost by chance one seizedon one nation and another on another; how often oneset of men have persecuted another set for opinionson subjects of which neither, we now perceive, knewanything. It might be well if a greater numberof effectual demonstrations existed among mankind:but while no such demonstrations exist, and whilethe evidence which completely convinces one man seemsto another trifling and insufficient, let us recognizethe plain position of inevitable doubt; let us notbe bigots with a doubt and persecutors without a creed.We are beginning to see this, and we are railed atfor so beginning: but it is a great benefit, andit is to the incessant prevalence of detective discussionthat our doubts are due; and much of that discussionis due to the long existence of a government requiringconstant debates, written and oral.

ORIGIN OF DEPOSIT BANKING

From ‘Lombard Street’

In the last century, a favorite subject of literaryingenuity was “conjectural history,” asit was then called: upon grounds of probability,a fictitious sketch was made of the possible originof things existing. If this kind of speculationwere now applied to banking, the natural and firstidea would be that large systems of deposit bankinggrew up in the early world just as they grow up nowin any large English colony. As soon as any suchcommunity becomes rich enough to have much money,and compact enough to be able to lodge its money insingle banks, it at once begins so to do. Englishcolonists do not like the risk of keeping their money,and they wish to make an interest on it; they carryfrom home the idea and the habit of banking, and theytake to it as soon as they can in their new world.Conjectural history would be inclined to say thatall banking began thus; but such history is rarelyof any value,—the basis of it is false.It assumes that what works most easily when establishedis that which it would be the most easy to establish,and that what seems simplest when familiar would bemost easily appreciated by the mind though unfamiliar;but exactly the contrary is true,—manythings which seem simple, and which work well whenfirmly established, are very hard to establish amongnew people and not very easy to explain to them.Deposit banking is of this sort. Its essenceis, that a very large number of persons agree to trusta very few persons, or some one person: bankingwould not be a profitable trade if bankers were nota small number, and depositors in comparison an immensenumber. But to get a great number of persons todo exactly the same thing is always very difficult,and nothing but a very palpable necessity will makethem on a sudden begin to do it; and there is no suchpalpable necessity in banking.

If you take a country town in France, even now, youwill not find any such system of banking as ours:check-books are unknown, and money kept on runningaccount by bankers is rare: people store theirmoney in a caisse at their houses. Steadysavings, which are waiting for investment and whichare sure not to be soon wanted, may be lodged withbankers; but the common floating cash of the communityis kept by the community themselves at home,—theyprefer to keep it so, and it would not answer a banker’spurpose to make expensive arrangements for keepingit otherwise. If a “branch,” suchas the National Provincial Bank opens in an Englishcountry town, were opened in a corresponding Frenchone, it would not pay its expenses: you couldnot get any sufficient number of Frenchmen to agreeto put their money there.

And so it is in all countries not of British descent,though in various degrees. Deposit banking isa very difficult thing to begin, because people donot like to let their money out of their sight; especially,do not like to let it out of sight without security;still more, cannot all at once agree on any singleperson to whom they are content to trust it unseenand unsecured. Hypothetical history, which explainsthe past by what is simplest and commonest in thepresent, is in banking, as in most things, quite untrue.

The real history is very different. New wantsare mostly supplied by adaptation, not by creationor foundation; something having been created to satisfyan extreme want, it is used to satisfy less pressingwants or to supply additional conveniences. Onthis account, political government, the oldest institutionin the world, has been the hardest worked: atthe beginning of history, we find it doing everythingwhich society wants done and forbidding everythingwhich society does not wish done. In trade,at present, the first commerce in a new place is ageneral shop, which, beginning with articles of realnecessity, comes shortly to supply the oddest accumulationof petty comforts. And the history of bankinghas been the same: the first banks were not foundedfor our system of deposit banking, or for anythinglike it; they were founded for much more pressingreasons, and having been founded, they or copies fromthem were applied to our modern uses.

[Gives a sketch of banks started as finance companiesto make or float government loans, and to give goodcoin; and sketches their function of remitting money.]

These are all uses other than those of deposit banking,which banks supplied that afterwards became in ourEnglish sense deposit banks: by supplying theseuses, they gained the credit that afterwards enabledthem to gain a living as deposit banks; being trustedfor one purpose, they came to be trusted for a purposequite different,—ultimately far more important,though at first less keenly pressing. But thesewants only affect a few persons, and therefore bringthe bank under the notice of a few only. Thereal introductory function which deposit banks atfirst perform is much more popular; and it is onlywhen they can perform this most popular kind of businessthat deposit banking ever spreads quickly and extensively.

This function is the supply of the paper circulationto the country; and it will be observed that I amnot about to overstep my limits and discuss this asa question of currency. In what form the bestpaper currency can be supplied to a country is a questionof economical theory with which I do not meddle here:I am only narrating unquestionable history, not dealingwith an argument where every step is disputed; andpart of this certain history is, that the best wayto diffuse banking in a community is to allow thebanker to issue bank notes of small amount that cansupersede the metal currency. This amounts toa subsidy to each banker to enable him to keep opena bank till depositors choose to come to it....

The reason why the use of bank paper commonly precedesthe habit of making deposits in banks is very plain:it is a far easier habit to establish. In theissue of notes the banker, the person to be most benefited,can do something,—he can pay away his own“promises” in loans, in wages, or in paymentof debts,—but in the getting of depositshe is passive; his issues depend on himself, his depositson the favor of others. And to the public thechange is far easier too: to collect a greatmass of deposits with the same banker, a great numberof persons must agree to do something; but to establisha note circulation, a large number of persons needonly do nothing,—they receive thebanker’s notes in the common course of theirbusiness, and they have only not to take thosenotes to the banker for payment. If the publicrefrain from taking trouble, a paper circulation isimmediately in existence. A paper circulationis begun by the banker, and requires no effort on thepart of the public,—on the contrary, itneeds an effort of the public to be rid of notes onceissued; but deposit banking cannot be begun by thebanker, and requires a spontaneous and consistent effortin the community: and therefore paper issue isthe natural prelude to deposit banking.

JENS BAGGESEN

(1764-1826)

Jens Baggesen was born in the little Danish town Korsoerin 1764, and died in exile in the year 1826.Thus he belonged to two centuries and to two literaryperiods. He had reached manhood when the FrenchRevolution broke out; he witnessed Napoleon’srise, his victories, and his fall. He was a fullcontemporary of Goethe, who survived him only six years;he saw English literature glory in men like Byronand Moore, and lived to hear of Byron’s deathin Greece. In his first works he stood a truerepresentative of the culture and literature of theeighteenth century, and was hailed as its exponentby the Danish poet Herman Wessel; towards the endof the century he was acknowledged to be the greatestof living Danish poets. Then with the new agecame the Norwegian, Henrik Steffens, with his enthusiasticlectures on German romanticism, calling out the geniusof Oehlenschlaeger, and the eighteenth century wasdoomed; Baggesen nevertheless greeted Oehlenschlaegerwith sincere admiration, and when the ‘Aladdin’of that poet appeared, Baggesen sent him his rhymedletter ‘From Nureddin-Baggesen to Aladdin-Oehlenschlaeger.’

[Illustration: Jens Baggesen.]

Baggesen was the son of poor people, and strangershelped him to his scientific education. Whenhis first works were recognized he became the friendand protege of the Duke of Augustenborg, who providedhim with the means for an extended journey throughthe Continent, during which he met the greatest menof his time. The Duke of Augustenborg meanwhilesecured him several positions, which could not holdhim for any length of time, nor keep him at home inDenmark. He went abroad a second time to studypedagogics, literature, and philosophy, came home again,wandered forth once more, returned a widower, was forsome time director of the National Theatre in Copenhagen;but found no rest, married again, and in 1800 wentto France to live. Eleven years later he was professorin Kiel, returning thence to Copenhagen, where meanwhilehis fame had been eclipsed by the genius of Oehlenschlaeger.Secure in the knowledge of his powers, Oehlenschlaegerhad carelessly published two or three dramatic poemsnot worthy of his pen, and Baggesen entered on a violentcontroversy with him in which he stood practicallyby himself against the entire reading public, whosesympathies were with Oehlenschlaeger. Alone andmisunderstood, restless and unhappy, he left Denmarkin 1820, never to return. Six years later hedied, longing to see his country again, but unableto reach it.

His first poetry was published in 1785, a volume of‘Comic Tales,’ which made its mark atonce. The following year appeared in quick successionsatires, rhymed epistles, and elegies, which, addingto his fame, added also to the purposeless fermentand unrest which had taken possession of him.He considered tragedy his proper field, yet had allowedhimself to appear as humorist and satirist.

When the great historic events of the time took place,and over-threw all existing conditions, this innerrestlessness drove him to and fro without purposeor will. One day he was enthusiastic over Voss’sidyls, the next he was carried away by Robespierre’swildest speeches. One year he adopted Kant’sChristian name Immanuel in transport over his works,the next he called the great philosopher “anempty nut, and moreover hard to crack.”The romanticism in Denmark as well as in Germany reducedhim to a state of utter confusion; but in spite ofthis he continued a child of the old order, whichwas already doomed. And with all his unrest anddiscord he remained nevertheless the champion of “form,”“the poet of the graces,” as he has beencalled.

This gift of form has given him his literary importance.He built a bridge from the eighteenth to the nineteenthcentury; and when the new romantic school oversteppedits privileges, it was he who called it to order.The most conspicuous act of his literary life was thecontroversy with Oehlenschlaeger, and the wittiestproduct of his pen is the reckless criticism of Oehlenschlaeger’sopera ‘Ludlam’s Cave.’ JohannLudvig Heiberg, the greatest analytical critic ofwhom Denmark can boast, remained Baggesen’sardent admirer; and Heiberg’s influential althoughnot always just criticism of Oehlenschlaeger as a poetwas no doubt called forth by Baggesen’s attack.Some years later Henrik Hertz made Baggesen his subject.In 1830 appeared ‘Letters from Ghosts,’poetic epistles from Paradise. Nobody knew thatHertz was the author. It was Baggesen’svoice from beyond the grave, Baggesen’s criticismupon the literature of 1830. It was one of thewittiest, and in versification one of the best, booksin Danish literature.

Baggesen’s most important prose work is ‘TheLabyrinth,’ afterwards called ‘The Wanderingsof a Poet.’ It is a poetic description ofhis journeys, unique in its way, rich in impressionsand full of striking remarks, written in a piquant,graceful, and easy style.

As long as Danish literature remains, Baggesen’sname will be known; though his writings are not nowwidely read, and are important chiefly because oftheir influence on the literary spirit of his own time.His familiar poem ‘There was a time when I wasvery little,’ during the controversy with Oehlenschlaeger,was seized upon by Paul Moeller, parodied, and changedinto ‘There was a time when Jens was much bigger.’Equally well known is his ‘Ode to My Country,’with the familiar lines:—

“Alas, in no placeis the thorn as tiny,
Alas, inno place blooms as red a rose,
Alas, in no place isthere couch as downy
As wherewe little children found repose.”

A COSMOPOLITAN

From ‘The Labyrinth’

Forster, a little nervous, alert, and piquant man,with gravity written on his forehead, perspicacityin his eye, and love around his lips, conquered mecompletely. I spoke to him of everything excepthis journeys; but the traveler showed himself fullof unmistakable humanity. He seemed to me thecosmopolitan spirit personified. It was as ifthe world were present when I was alone with him.

We talked about his friend Jacobi, about the lateKing of Prussia, about the literature of Germany,and about the present Pole-high standard of taste.I was much pleased to find in him the art critic Isought. He said that we must admire everythingwhich is good and beautiful, whether it originatesWest, East, South, or North. The taste of thebee is the true one. Difference in language andclimate, difference of nationality, must not affect

my interest in fair and noble things. The unknownrepels the animal, but should not repel the humancreature. Suppose you say that Voltaire is animalin comparison with Shakespeare or Klopstock, or thatthey are animal in comparison with him: it isa blunder to demand pears of an apple-tree, as itis ridiculous to throw away the apple because it isnot a pear. The entire world of nature teachesus this aesthetic tolerance, and yet we have as littleacquired it as we have freedom of conscience.We plant white and red roses in the same bed, butwho puts the ‘Messiah’ and the ‘Henriade’on the same shelf? He only who reads neitherthe one nor the other. True religion worshipsGod; true taste worships the beautiful without regardof person or nation. German? French?Italian? or English? All the same! But nothingmediocre.

I was flushed with pleasure; I gave him my hand.“That may be said of other things than poetry!”I said.—“Of all art!” he answered.—“Ofall that is human!” we both concluded.

Deplorable indolence which clothes our mind in thefirst heavy cloak ready to hand, so that all the sunbeamsof the world cannot persuade us to throw it off, muchless to assume another! The man who is exclusivelya nationalist is a snail forever chained to his house.Psyche had wings given her for a never-ending, eternalflight. We may not imprison her, be the cageever so large.

He considered that Lessing had wronged the great representativeof the French language; and the remark of Claudius,“Voltaire says he weeps, and Shakespeare doesweep,” appeared to him like the saying, “Muchthat is new and beautiful has M. Arouet said; butit is a pity that the beautiful is not new and thenew not beautiful,”—more witty thantrue. The English think that Shakespeare, asthe Germans think that Lessing, really weeps; theFrench think the same of Voltaire. But the firstweeps for the whole world, it is said, the last onlyfor his own people. What the French call “LeNord” is, to be sure, rather a large territory,but not the entire world! France calls “whimpering”in one case and “blubbering” in anotherwhat we call weeping. The general mistake isthat we do not understand the nature of the peopleand the language, in which and for whom the weepingis done.

We must be English when we read Shakespeare, Germanwhen we read Klopstock, French when we read Voltaire.The man whose soul cannot shed its national costumeand don that of other nations ought not to read, muchless to judge, their masterpieces. He will belooking at the moon by day and at the sun by night,and see the first without lustre and the last notat all.

PHILOSOPHY ON THE HEATH

From ‘The Labyrinth’

Caillard was a man of experience, taste, and knowledge.He told me the story of his life from beginning toend, he confided to me his principles and his affairs,and I took him to be the happiest man in the world.“I have everything,” he said, “allthat I have wished for or can wish for: health,riches, domestic peace (being unmarried), a tolerablygood conscience, books—and as much senseas I need to enjoy them. I experience only onesingle want, lack only one single pleasure in thisworld; but that one is enough to embitter my life andclass me with other unfortunates.”

I could not guess what might yet be wanting to sucha man under such conditions, “It cannot be liberty,”I said, “for how can a rich merchant in a freetown lack this?”

“No! Heaven save me—I neitherwould nor could live one single day without liberty.”

“You do not happen to be in love with some cruelor unhappy princess?”

“That is still less the case.”

“Ah!—now I have it, no doubt—yoursoul is consumed with a thirst for truth, for a satisfactoryanswer to the many questions which are but philosophicriddles. You are seeking what so many brave menfrom Anaxagoras to Spinoza have sought in vain—thecorner-stone of philosophy, the foundation of thestructure of our ideas.”

He assured me that in this respect he was quite atease. “Then, in spite of your good health,you must be subject to that miserable thing, a coldin the head?” I said.

“Uno minor—Jove,dives
Liber, honoratus, pulcherrex denique regum,
Praecipue sanus—nisicum pituita molesta est.”

—HORACE.

When he denied this too, I gave up trying to solvethe meaning of his dark words.

O happiness! of all earthly chimeras thou art themost chimerical! I would rather seek dry figson the bottom of the sea and fresh ones on this heath,—Iwould rather seek liberty, or truth itself, or thephilosopher’s stone, than to run after thee,most deceitful of lights, will-o’-the-wisp ofour human life!

I thought that at last I had found a perfectly happy,an enviable man; and now—behold! thoughI have not the ten-thousandth part of his wealth,though I have not the tenth part of his health, thoughI may not have a third of his intellect, althoughI have all the wants which he has not and the onewant under which he suffers, yet I would not changeplaces with him!

From this moment he was the object of my sincerestpity. But what did this awful curse prove tobe? Listen and tremble!

“Of what use is it all to me?” he said:“coffee, which I love more than all the winesof this earth and more than all the women of this earth,coffee which I love madly—coffee is forbiddenme!”

Laugh who lists! Inasmuch as everything in thisworld, viewed in a certain light, is tragic, it wouldbe excusable to weep: but inasmuch as everythingviewed in another light is comic, a little laughtercould not be taken amiss; only beware of laughingat the sigh with which my happy man pronounced thesewords, for it might be that in laughing at him youlaugh at yourself, your father, your grandfather, yourgreat-grandfather, your great-great-grandfather, andso on, including your entire family as far back asAdam.

If, in laughing at such discontent, you laugh in advanceat your son, your son’s son’s son, andso forth to the last descendant of your entire family,this is a matter which I do not decide. It willdepend upon the road humanity chooses to take.If it continues as it is going, some coffee-want orother will forever strew it with thorns.

Had he said, “Chocolate is forbidden me,”or tea, or English ale, or madeira, or strawberries,you would have found his misery equally absurd.

The great Alexander is said to have wept because hefound no more worlds to conquer. The man whobemoans the loss of a world and the man who bemoansthe loss of coffee are to my mind equally unbalancedand equally in need of forgiveness. The desirefor a cup of coffee and the desire for a crown, thehankering after the flavor or even the fragrance ofthe drink and the hankering after fame, are equallymad and equally—human.

If history is to be believed, Adam possessed all theadvantages and comforts, all the necessities and luxuriesa first man could reasonably demand.... Lordof all living things, and sharing his dominion withhis beloved, what did he lack?

Among ten thousand pleasures, the fruit of one singletree was forbidden him. Good-by content and peace!Good-by forever all his bliss!

I acknowledge that I should have yielded to the sametemptation; and he who does not see that this fatewould have overtaken his entire family, past and tocome, may have studied all things from the Milky Wayin the sky to the milky way in his kitchen, may havestudied all stones, plants, and animals, and all foliosand quartos dealing therewith, but never himself orman.

As we do not know the nature of the fruit which Adamcould not do without, it may as well have been coffeeas any other. That it was pleasant to the eyesmeans no more than that it was forbidden. Everyforbidden thing is pleasant to the eyes.

“Of what use is it all to me?” said Adam,looking around him in Eden, at the rising sun, theblushing hills, the light-green forest, the gloriouswaterfall, the laden fruit-trees, and, most beautifulof all, the smiling woman—“of whatuse is it all to me, when I dare not taste this—coffeebean?”

“And of what use is it all to me?” saidMr. Caillard, and looked around him on the Lueneburgheath: “coffee is forbidden me; one singlecup of coffee would kill me.”

“If it will be any comfort to you,” Isaid, “I may tell you that I am in the samecase.” “And you do not despair attimes?”—“No,” I replied,“for it is not my only want. If like youI had everything else in life, I also might despair.”

THERE WAS A TIME WHEN I WAS VERYLITTLE

There was a time, when I, an urchinslender,
Could hardly boast of having any height.
Oft I recall those days with feelings tender;
With smiles, and yet the tear-drops dim mysight.

Within my tender mother’sarms I sported,
I played at horse upon my grandsire’sknee;
Sorrow and care and anger, ill-reported,
As little known as gold or Greek, to me.

The world was little to my childishthinking,
And innocent of sin and sinful things;
I saw the stars above me flashing, winking—
To fly and catch them, how I longed for wings!

I saw the moon behindthe hills declining,
And thought,O were I on yon lofty ground,
I’d learn thetruth; for here there’s no divining
How largeit is, how beautiful, how round!

In wonder, too, I sawGod’s sun pursuing
His westwardcourse, to ocean’s lap of gold;
And yet at morn theEast he was renewing
With wide-spread,rosy tints, this artist old.

Then turned my thoughtsto God the Father gracious,
Who fashionedme and that great orb on high,
And the night’sjewels, decking heaven spacious;
From poleto pole its arch to glorify.

With childish pietymy lips repeated
The prayerlearned at my pious mother’s knee:
Help me remember, Jesus,I entreated,
That I mustgrow up good and true to Thee!

Then for the householddid I make petition,
For kindred,friends, and for the town’s folk, last;
The unknown King, theoutcast, whose condition
Darkenedmy childish joy, as he slunk past.

All lost, all vanished,childhood’s days so eager!
My peace,my joy with them have fled away;
I’ve only memoryleft: possession meagre;
Oh, nevermay that leave me, Lord, I pray.

PHILIP JAMES BAILEY

(1816-)

In Bailey we have a striking instance of the man whosereputation is made suddenly by a single work, whichobtains an amazing popularity, and which is presentlyalmost forgotten except as a name. When in 1839the long poem ‘Festus’ appeared, its authorwas an unknown youth, who had hardly reached his majority.Within a few months he was a celebrity. Thatso dignified and suggestive a performance should havecome from so young a poet was considered a marvelof precocity by the literary world, both English andAmerican.

The author of ‘Festus’ was born at Basford,Nottinghamshire, England, April 22nd, 1816. Educatedat the public schools of Nottingham, and at GlasgowUniversity, he studied law, and at nineteen enteredLincoln’s Inn. In 1840 he was admittedto the bar. But his vocation in life appearsto have been metaphysical and spiritual rather thanlegal.

His ‘Festus: a Poem,’ containingfifty-five episodes or successive scenes,—somethirty-five thousand lines,—was begun inhis twentieth year. Three years later it wasin the hands of the English reading public. LikeGoethe’s ‘Faust’ in pursuing thecourse of a human soul through influences emanatingfrom the Supreme Good and the Supreme Evil; in havingHeaven and the World as its scene; in its inclusionof God and the Devil, the Archangels and Angels, the

Powers of Perdition, and withal many earthly typesin its action,—it is by no means a mereimitation of the great German. Its plan is wider.It incorporates even more impressive spiritual materialthan ‘Faust’ offers. Not only is itsmortal hero, Festus, conducted through an amazing pilgrimage,spiritual and redeemed by divine Love, but we havein the poem a conception of close association withChristianity, profound ethical suggestions, a floodof theology and philosophy, metaphysics and science,picturing Good and Evil, love and hate, peace andwar, the past, the present, and the future, earth,heaven, and hell, heights and depths, dominions, principalities,and powers, God and man, the whole of being and ofnot-being,—all in an effort to unmask thelast and greatest secrets of Infinity. And morethan all this, ‘Festus’ strives to portraythe sufficiency of Divine Love and of the Divine Atonementto dissipate, even to annihilate, Evil. For evenLucifer and the hosts of darkness are restored topurity and to peace among the Sons of God, the Childrenof Light! The Love of God is set forth as limitless.We have before us the birth of matter at the Almighty’sfiat; and we close the work with the salvation andecstasy—described as decreed from the Beginning—ofwhatever creature hath been given a spiritual existence,and made a spiritual subject and agency. Thereis in the doctrine of ‘Festus’ no suchthing as the “Son of Perdition” who shallbe an ultimate castaway.

Few English poems have attracted more general noticefrom all intelligent classes of readers than did ‘Festus’on its advent. Orthodoxy was not a little aghastat its theologic suggestions. Criticism of itas a literary production was hampered not a littleby religious sensitiveness. The London LiteraryGazette said of it:—“It is an extraordinaryproduction, out-Heroding Kant in some of its philosophy,and out-Goetheing Goethe in the introduction of theThree Persons of the Trinity as interlocutors in itswild plot. Most objectionable as it is on thisaccount, it yet contains so many exquisite passagesof genuine poetry, that our admiration of the author’sgenius overpowers the feeling of mortification at itsbeing misapplied, and meddling with such dangeroustopics.” The advance of liberal ideas withinthe churches has diminished such criticism, but thework is still a stumbling-block to the less speculativeof sectaries.

The poem is far too long, and its scope too vast foreven a genius of much higher and riper gifts thanBailey’s. It is turgid, untechnical inverse, wordy, and involved. Had Bailey writtenat fifty instead of at twenty, it might have showna necessary balance and felicity of style. But,with all these shortcomings, it is not to be relegatedto the library of things not worth the time to know,to the list of bulky poetic failures. Its authorblossomed and fruited marvelously early; so earlyand with such unlooked-for fruit that the unthinking

world, which first received him with exaggerated honor,presently assailed him with undue dispraise.‘Festus’ is not mere solemn and verbosecommonplace. Here and there it has passages ofgreat force and even of high beauty. The author’swhole heart and brain were poured into it, and neitherwas a common one. With all its ill-based daringand manifest crudities, it was such a tour de forcefor a lad of twenty as the world seldom sees.Its sluggish current bears along remarkable knowledge,great reflection, and the imagination of a fertileas well as a precocious brain. It is a streamwhich carries with it things new and old, and servesto stir the mind of the onlooker with unwonted thoughts.Were it but one fourth as long, it would still remaina favorite poem. Even now it has passed throughnumerous editions, and been but lately republishedin sumptuous form after fifty years of life; and inthe catalogue of higher metaphysico-religious poetryit will long maintain an honorable place. Itis cited here among the books whose fame rather thanwhose importance demand recognition.

FROM ‘FESTUS’

LIFE

Festus— Men’scallings all Are mean and vain; their wishesmore so: oft The man is bettered by hispart or place. How slight a chance may raiseor sink a soul!

Lucifer—Whatmen call accident is God’s own part.
He lets ye work yourwill—it is his own:
But that ye mean not,know not, do not, he doth.

Festus—What is lifeworth without a heart to feel The great and lovelyharmonies which time And nature change responsive,all writ out By preconcertive hand which swellsthe strain To divine fulness; feel the poetry,The soothing rhythm of life’s fore-orderedlay; The sacredness of things?—forall things are Sacred so far,—theworst of them, as seen By the eye of God, theyin the aspect bide Of holiness: nor shalloutlaw sin be slain, Though rebel banned, withinthe sceptre’s length; But privileged evenfor service. Oh! to stand Soul-raptured,on some lofty mountain-thought, And feel thespirit expand into a view Millennial, life-exalting,of a day When earth shall have all leisure forhigh ends Of social culture; ends a liberal lawAnd common peace of nations, blent with chargeDivine, shall win for man, were joy indeed:Nor greatly less, to know what might be now,Worked will for good with power, for one briefhour. But look at these, these individualsouls: How sadly men show out of joint withman! There are millions never think a noblethought; But with brute hate of brightness baya mind Which drives the darkness out of them,like hounds. Throw but a false glare roundthem, and in shoals They rush upon perdition:that’s the race. What charm is inthis world-scene to such minds? Blindedby dust? What can they do in heaven, A stateof spiritual means and ends? Thus must Idoubt—perpetually doubt.

Lucifer—Who neverdoubted never half believed. Where doubt,there truth is—’tis her shadow.I Declare unto thee that the past is not.I have looked over all life, yet never seen Theage that had been. Why then fear or dream Aboutthe future? Nothing but what is, is; ElseGod were not the Maker that he seems, As constantin creating as in being. Embrace the present.Let the future pass. Plague not thyselfabout a future. That Only which comes directfrom God, his spirit, Is deathless. Naturegravitates without Effort; and so all mortalnatures fall Deathwards. All aspirationis a toil; But inspiration cometh from above,And is no labor. The earth’s inbornstrength Could never lift her up to yon stars,whence She fell; nor human soul, by native worth,Claim heaven as birthright, more than man maycall Cloudland his home. The soul’sinheritance, Its birth-place, and its death-place,is of earth; Until God maketh earth and soulanew; The one like heaven, the other like himself.So shall the new creation come at once; Sin,the dead branch upon the tree of life Shall becut off forever; and all souls Concluded in God’sboundless amnesty.

Festus—Thouwindest and unwindest faith at will.
What am I to believe?

Lucifer— Thou mayest believe
But that thou art forcedto.

Festus— Then I feel, perforce,
That instinct of immortallife in me,
Which prompts me toprovide for it.

Lucifer— Perhaps.Festus—Man hath a knowledgeof a time to come— His most importantknowledge: the weight lies Nearest the shortend; and the world depends Upon what is to be.I would deny The present, if the future.Oh! there is A life to come, or all’s adream.

Lucifer—And allMay be a dream. Thou seest in thine, men,deeds, Clear, moving, full of speech and order;then Why may not all this world be but a dreamOf God’s? Fear not! Some morningGod may waken.

Festus—I would itwere. This life’s a mystery. Thevalue of a thought cannot be told; But it isclearly worth a thousand lives Like many men’s.And yet men love to live As if mere life wereworth their living for. What but perditionwill it be to most? Life’s more thanbreath and the quick round of blood; It is agreat spirit and a busy heart. The cowardand the small in soul scarce do live. Onegenerous feeling—one great thought—onedeed Of good, ere night, would make life longerseem Than if each year might number a thousanddays, Spent as is this by nations of mankind.We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, notbreaths; In feelings, not in figures on a dial.We should count time by heart-throbs. Hemost lives Who thinks most—feels thenoblest—acts the best. Life’sbut a means unto an end—that end Beginning,mean, and end to all things—God. Thedead have all the glory of the world. Whywill we live and not be glorious? We nevercan be deathless till we die. It is thedead win battles. And the breath Of thosewho through the world drive like a wedge, Tearingearth’s empires up, nears Death so close Itdims his well-worn scythe. But no! the braveDie never. Being deathless, they but changeTheir country’s arms for more—theircountry’s heart. Give then the deadtheir due: it is they who saved us. Therapid and the deep—the fall, the gulph,Have likenesses in feeling and in life.And life, so varied, hath more loveliness Inone day than a creeping century Of sameness.But youth loves and lives on change, Till thesoul sighs for sameness; which at last Becomesvariety, and takes its place. Yet some willlast to die out, thought by thought, And powerby power, and limb of mind by limb, Like lampsupon a gay device of glass, Till all of soulthat’s left be dry and dark; Till eventhe burden of some ninety years Hath crashedinto them like a rock; shattered Their systemas if ninety suns had rushed To ruin earth—orheaven had rained its stars; Till they becomelike scrolls, unreadable, Through dust and mold.Can they be cleaned and read? Do human spiritswax and wane like moons?

Lucifer—The eye dims,and the heart gets old and slow; The lithe limbsstiffen, and the sun-hued locks Thin themselvesoff, or whitely wither; still, Ages not spirit,even in one point, Immeasurably small; from orbto orb, Rising in radiance ever like the sunShining upon the thousand lands of earth.

THE PASSING-BELL

Clara—Trueprophet mayst thou be. But list: that sound
The passing-bell thespirit should solemnize;
For, while on its emancipatepath, the soul
Still waves its upwardwings, and we still hear
The warning sound, itis known, we well may pray.

Festus—Butpray for whom?

Clara—Itmeans not. Pray for all.
Pray for the good man’ssoul:

He is leaving earthfor heaven,
And it soothes us tofeel that the best
May be forgiven.

Festus—Pray for thesinful soul: It fleeth, we know not where;But wherever it be let us hope; For Godis there.

Clara—Pray for therich man’s soul: Not all be unjust,nor vain; The wise he consoled; and he savedThe poor from pain.

Festus—Pray for thepoor man’s soul: The death of thislife of ours He hath shook from his feet; heis one Of the heavenly powers.

Pray for the old man’ssoul:
He hath labored long;through life
It was battle or march.He hath ceased,
Serene, from strife.

Clara—Pray for theinfant’s soul: With its spirit crownunsoiled, He hath won, without war, a realm;Gained all, nor toiled.

Festus—Pray for thestruggling soul: The mists of the straitsof death Clear off; in some bright star-isleIt anchoreth.

Pray for the soul assured:
Though it wrought ina gloomy mine,
Yet the gems it earnedwere its own,
That soul’s divine.

Clara—Pray for thesimple soul: For it loved, and therein waswise; Though itself knew not, but with heavenConfused the skies.

Festus—Pray for thesage’s soul: ’Neath his welkinwide of mind Lay the central thought of God,Thought undefined.

Pray for the souls ofall
To our God, that allmay be
With forgiveness crowned,and joy
Eternally.

Clara—Hush! for thebell hath ceased; And the spirit’s fateis sealed; To the angels known; to man Bestunrevealed.

THOUGHTS

FESTUS—Well,farewell, Mr. Student. May you never
Regret those hours whichmake the mind, if they
Unmake the body; forthe sooner we
Are fit to be all mind,the better. Blessed
Is he whose heart isthe home of the great dead,
And their great thoughts.Who can mistake great thoughts
They seize upon themind; arrest and search,
And shake it; bow thetall soul as by wind;
Rush over it like ariver over reeds,
Which quaver in thecurrent; turn us cold,
And pale, and voiceless;leaving in the brain
A rocking and a ringing;glorious,
But momentary, madnessmight it last,
And close the soul withheaven as with a seal!
In lieu of all thesethings whose loss thou mournest,
If earnestly or notI know not, use
The great and good andtrue which ever live;
And are all common topure eyes and true.
Upon the summit of eachmountain-thought
Worship thou God, withheaven-uplifted head
And arms horizon-stretched;for deity is seen
From every elevationof the soul.
Study the light; attemptthe high; seek out
The soul’s brightpath; and since the soul is fire,
Of heat intelligential,turn it aye
To the all-Fatherlysource of light and life;
Piety purifies the soulto see
Visions, perpetually,of grace and power,
Which, to their sightwho in ignorant sin abide,
Are now as e’erincognizable. Obey
Thy genius, for a ministerit is
Unto the throne of Fate.Draw towards thy soul,
And centralize, therays which are around
Of the divinity.Keep thy spirit pure
From worldly taint,by the repellent strength
Of virtue. Thinkon noble thoughts and deeds,

Ever. Count o’erthe rosary of truth;
And practice preceptswhich are proven wise,
It matters not thenwhat thou fearest. Walk
Boldly and wisely inthat light thou hast;—
There is a hand abovewill help thee on.
I am an omnist, andbelieve in all
Religions; fragmentsof one golden world
To be relit yet, andtake its place in heaven,
Where is the whole,sole truth, in deity.
Meanwhile, his word,his law, writ soulwise here,
Study; its truths love;practice its behests—
They will be with theewhen all else have gone.
Mind, body, passionall wear out; not faith
Nor truth. Keepthy heart cool, or rule its heat
To fixed ends; wasteit not upon itself.
Not all the agony maybeof the damned
Fused in one pang, vieswith that earthquake throb
Which wakens soul fromlife-waste, to let see
The world rolled byfor aye, and we must wait
For our next chancethe nigh eternity;
Whether it be in heaven,or elsewhere.

DREAMS

FESTUS—Thedead of night: earth seems but seeming;
The soul seems but asomething dreaming.
The bird is dreamingin its nest,
Of song, and sky, andloved one’s breast;
The lap-dog dreams,as round he lies,
In moonshine, of hismistress’s eyes;
The steed is dreaming,in his stall,
Of one long breathlessleap and fall;
The hawk hath dreamedhim thrice of wings
Wide as the skies hemay not cleave;
But waking, feels themclipped, and clings
Mad to the perch ’tweremad to leave:
The child is dreamingof its toys;
The murderer, of calmhome joys;
The weak are dreamingendless fears;
The proud of how theirpride appears;
The poor enthusiastwho dies,
Of his life-dreams thesacrifice,
Sees, as enthusiastonly can,
The truth that madehim more than man;
And hears once more,in visioned trance,
That voice commandingto advance,
Where wealth is gained—love,wisdom won,
Or deeds of danger daredand done.
The mother dreamethof her child;
The maid of him whohath beguiled;
The youth of her heloves too well;
The good of God; theill of hell;
Who live of death; oflife who die;
The dead of immortality.
The earth is dreamingback her youth;
Hell never dreams, forwoe is truth;
And heaven is dreamingo’er her prime,
Long ere the morningstars of time;
And dream of heavenalone can I,
My lovely one, whenthou art nigh.

CHORUS OF THE SAVED

From the Conclusion

Father of goodness,
Son of love,
Spirit ofcomfort,
Be withus!
God who hast made us,
God who hast saved,
God who hast judgedus,
Theewe praise.
Heaven our spirits,
Hallow our hearts;
Let us have God-light
Endlessly.
Ours is the wide world,
Heaven on heaven;
What have we done, Lord,
Worthythis?
Oh! we have loved thee;
Thatalone
Maketh our glory,
Duty,meed.
Oh! we have loved thee!
Lovewe will
Ever,and every
Soulof us.
God of the saved,
God of the tried,
God of the lost ones,
Bewith all!
Let us be near thee
Everand aye;
Oh! let us love thee
Infinite!

JOANNA BAILLIE

(1762-1851)

Joanna Baillie’s early childhood was passedat Bothwell, Scotland, where she was born in 1762.Of this time she drew a picture in her well-knownbirthday lines to her sister:—

“Dear Agnes, gleamed with joy,and dashed with tears, O’er us have glidedalmost sixty years Since we on Bothwell’s bonnybraes were seen, By those whose eyes long closedin death have been: Two tiny imps, who scarcelystooped to gather The slender harebell, or thepurple heather; No taller than the foxglove’sspiky stem, That dew of morning studs with silverygem. Then every butterfly that crossed ourview With joyful shout was greeted as it flew,And moth and lady-bird and beetle bright In sheenygold were each a wondrous sight. Then aswe paddled barefoot, side by side, Among the sunnyshallows of the Clyde, Minnows or spotted parwith twinkling fin, Swimming in mazy rings thepool within, A thrill of gladness through ourbosoms sent Seen in the power of early wonderment.”

[Illustration: JOANNA BAILLIE]

When Joanna was six her father was appointed to thecharge of the kirk at Hamilton. Her early growthwent on, not in books, but in the fearlessness withwhich she ran upon the top of walls and parapets ofbridges and in all daring. “Look at MissJack,” said a farmer, as she dashed by:“she sits her horse as if it were a bit of herself.”At eleven she could not read well. “’Twasthou,” she said in lines to her sister—

“’Twas thouwho woo’dst me first to look
Upon the page of printedbook,
That thing by me abhorred,and with address
Didst win me from mythoughtless idleness,
When all too old becomewith bootless haste
In fitful sports theprecious time to waste.
Thy love of tale andstory was the stroke
At which my dormantfancy first awoke,
And ghosts and witchesin my busy brain
Arose in sombre show,a motley train.”

In 1776 Dr. James Baillie was made Professor of Divinityat Glasgow University. During the two years thefamily lived in the college atmosphere, Joanna firstread ‘Comus,’ and, led by the delight itawakened, the great epic of Milton. It was herethat her vigor and disputatious turn of mind “castan awe” over her companions. After herfather’s death she settled, in 1784, with hermother and brother and sister in London.

She had made herself familiar with English literature,and above all she had studied Shakespeare with enthusiasm.Circumscribed now by the brick and mortar of Londonstreets, in exchange for the fair views and libertiesof her native fruitlands, Joanna found her first expressionin a volume of ‘Fugitive Verses,’ publishedin 1790. The book caused so little comment thatthe words of but one friendly hand are preserved:that the poems were “truly unsophisticated representationsof nature.”

Joanna’s walk was along calm and unhurried ways.She could have had a considerable place in societyand the world of “lions” if she had cared.The wife of her uncle and name-father, the anatomistDr. John Hunter, was no other than the famous Mrs.Anne Hunter, a songwright of genius; her poem ‘TheSon of Alknomook Shall Never Complain’ is oneof the classics of English song, and the best renderingof the Indian spirit ever condensed into so smalla space. She was also a woman of grace and dignity,a power in London drawing-rooms, and Haydn set songsof hers to music. But the reserved Joanna wastempted to no light triumphs. Eight years laterwas published her first volume of ‘Plays on thePassions.’ It contained ‘Basil,’a tragedy on love; ‘The Trial,’ a comedyon the same subject; and ‘De Montfort,’a tragedy on hatred.

The thought of essaying dramatic composition had burstupon the author one summer afternoon as she sat sewingwith her mother. She had a high moral purposein her plan of composition, she said in her preface,—thatpurpose being the ultimate utterance of the drama.Plot and incident she set little value upon, and sherejected the presentation of the most splendid eventif it did not appertain to the development of thepassion. In other words, what is and was commonlyof secondary consideration in the swift passage ofdramatic action became in her hands the stated andparamount object. Feeling and passion are notprecipitated by incident in her drama as in real life.The play ’De Montfort’ was presented atDrury Lane Theatre in 1800; but in spite of everyeffort and the acting of John Kemble and Mrs. Siddons,it had a run of but eleven nights.

In 1802 Miss Baillie published her second volume of’Plays on the Passions.’ It containeda comedy on hatred; ‘Ethwald,’ a tragedyon ambition; and a comedy on ambition. Her adherenceto her old plan brought upon her an attack from Jeffreyin the Edinburgh Review. He claimed that thecomplexity of the moral nature of man made Joanna’stheory false and absurd, that a play was too narrowto show the complete growth of a passion, and thatthe end of the drama is the entertainment of the audience.He asserted that she imitated and plagiarized Shakespeare;while he admitted her insight into human nature, hergrasp of character, and her devotion to her work.

About the time of the appearance of this volume, Joannafixed her residence with her mother and sister, amongthe lanes and fields of Hampstead, where they continuedthroughout their lives. The first volume of ‘MiscellaneousPlays’ came out in 1804. In the prefaceshe stated that her opinions set forth in her firstpreface were unchanged. But the plays had a freerconstruction. “Miss Baillie,” wroteJeffrey in his review, “cannot possibly writea tragedy, or an act of a tragedy, without showinggenius and exemplifying a more dramatic conceptionand expression than any of her modern competitor”‘Constantine Palaeologus,’ which the volumecontained, had the liveliest commendation and popularity,and was several times put upon the stage with spectaculareffect.

In the year of the publication of Joanna’s ‘MiscellaneousPlays,’ Sir Walter Scott came to London, andseeking an introduction through a common friend, madethe way for a lifelong friendship between the two,He had just brought out ‘The Lay of the LastMinstrel.’ Miss Baillie was already a famouswriter, with fast friends in Lucy Aikin, Mary Berry,Mrs. Siddons, and other workers in art and literature;but the hearty commendation of her countryman, whichshe is said to have come upon unexpectedly when reading‘Marmion’ to a group of friends, she valuedbeyond other praise. The legend is that she readthrough the passage firmly to the close, and onlylost self-control in her sympathy with the emotionof a friend:—

“—Thewild harp that silent hung
By silver Avon’sholy shore
Till twice one hundredyears rolled o’er,
Whenshe the bold enchantress came,
From the pale willowsnatched the treasure,
Withfearless hand and heart in flame,
And swept it with akindred measure;
Till Avon’s swans,while rung the grove
With Montfort’shate and Basil’s love,
Awakening at the inspiredstrain,
Deemed their own Shakespearelived again.”

The year 1810 saw ‘The Family Legend,’a play founded on a tragic history of the Campbellclan. Scott wrote a prologue and brought out theplay in the Edinburgh Theatre. “You haveonly to imagine,” he told the author, “allthat you could wish to give success to a play, andyour conceptions will still fall short of the completeand decided triumph of ‘The Family Legend.’”

The attacks which Jeffrey had made upon her versewere continued when she published, in 1812, her thirdvolume of ‘Plays on the Passions.’His voice, however, did not diminish the admirationfor the character-drawing with which the book wasgreeted, or for the lyric outbursts occurring nowand then in the dramas.

Joanna’s quiet Hampstead life was broken in1813 by a genial meeting in London with the ambitiousMadame de Stael, and again with the vivacious littleIrishwoman, Maria Edgeworth. She was keeping herpromise of not writing more; but during a visit toSir Walter in 1820 her imagination was touched byScotch tales, and she published ‘Metrical Legends’the following year. In this vast Abbotsford shefinally consented to meet Jeffrey. The pluckylittle writer and the unshrinking critic at once becamefriends, and thenceforward Jeffrey never went to Londonwithout visiting her in Hampstead.

Her moral courage throughout life recalls the physicalcourage which characterized her youth. She neverconcealed her religious convictions, and in 1831 shepublished her ideas in ’A View of the GeneralTenor of the New Testament Regarding the Nature andDignity of Jesus Christ.’ In 1836, havingfinally given up the long hope of seeing her playsbecome popular upon the stage, she prepared a completeedition of her dramas with the addition of three playsnever before made public,—’Romiero,’a tragedy, ‘The Alienated Manor,’ a comedyon jealousy, and ‘Henriquez,’ a tragedyon remorse. The Edinburgh Review immediately putforth a eulogistic notice of the collected edition,and at last admitted that the reviewer had changedhis judgment, and esteemed the author as a dramatistabove Byron and Scott.

“May God support both you and me, and give uscomfort and consolation when it is most wanted,”wrote Miss Baillie to Mary Berry in 1837. “Asfor myself, I do not wish to be one year younger thanI am; and have no desire, were it possible, to beginlife again, even under the most honorable circumstances.I have great cause for humble thankfulness, and Iam thankful.”

In 1840 Jeffrey wrote:—“I have beentwice out to Hampstead, and found Joanna Baillie asfresh, natural, and amiable as ever, and as littlelike a tragic muse.” And again in 1842:—“Sheis marvelous in health and spirit; not a bit deaf,blind, or torpid.” About this time she publishedher last book, a volume of ‘Fugitive Verses.’

“A sweeter picture of old age was never seen,”wrote Harriet Martineau. “Her figure wassmall, light, and active; her countenance, in itsexpression of serenity, harmonized wonderfully withher gay conversation and her cheerful voice.Her eyes were beautiful, dark, bright, and penetrating,with the full innocent gaze of childhood. Herface was altogether comely, and her dress did justiceto it. She wore her own silvery hair and a mobcap, with its delicate lace border fitting close aroundher face. She was well dressed, in handsome darksilks, and her lace caps and collars looked alwaysnew. No Quaker was ever neater, while she keptup with the times in her dress as in her habit of mind,as far as became her years. In her whole appearancethere was always something for even the passing strangerto admire, and never anything for the most familiarfriend to wish otherwise.” She died, “withoutsuffering, in the full possession of her faculties,”in her ninetieth year, 1851.

Her dramatic and poetical works are collected in onevolume (1843). Her Life, with selections fromher songs, may be found in ’The Songstress ofScotland,’ by Sarah Tytler and J.L. Watson(1871).

WOO’D AND MARRIED AND A’

The bride she is winsome and bonny,
Her hair it is snooded sae sleek,
And faithfu’ and kind is her Johnny,
Yet fast fa’ the tears on her cheek.
New pearlins are cause of her sorrow,
New pearlins and plenishing too:
The bride that has a’ to borrow.
Has e’en right mickle ado.
Woo’d and married and a’!
Woo’d and married and a’!
Isna she very weel aff
To be woo’d and married at a’?

Her mither then hastily spak:—
“The lassie is glaikit wi’ pride;
In my pouch I had never a plack
On the day when I was a bride.
E’en tak’ to your wheel and be clever,
And draw out your thread in the sun;
The gear that is gifted, it never
Will last like the gear that is won.
Woo’d and married and a’!
Wi’ havins and tocher sae sma’!
I think ye are very weel aff
To be woo’d and married at a’!”

“Toot, toot!” quo’her gray-headed faither,
“She’s less o’ a bride thana bairn;
She’s ta’en like a cout frae theheather,
Wi’ sense and discretion to learn.
Half husband, I trow, and half daddy,
As humor inconstantly leans,
The chiel maun be patient and steady
That yokes wi’ a mate in her teens.
A kerchief sae douce and sae neat,
O’er her locks that the wind used toblaw!
I’m baith like to laugh and to greet
When I think o’ her married at a’.”

Then out spak’ the wilybridegroom,
Weel waled were his wordies I ween:—
“I’m rich, though my coffer be toom,
Wi’ the blinks o’ your bonny bluee’en.
I’m prouder o’ thee by my side,
Though thy ruffles or ribbons be few,
Than if Kate o’ the Croft were my bride,
Wi’ purfles and pearlins enow.
Dear and dearest of ony!
Ye’re woo’d and buiket and a’!
And do ye think scorn o’ your Johnny,
And grieve to be married at a’?”

She turn’d, and she blush’d,and she smil’d,
And she looket sae bashfully down;
The pride o’ her heart was beguil’d,
And she played wi’ the sleeves o’her gown;
She twirlet the tag o’ her lace,
And she nippet her bodice sae blue,
Syne blinket sae sweet in his face,
And aff like a maukin she flew.
Woo’d and married and a’!
Wi’ Johnny to roose her and a’!
She thinks hersel’ very weel aff
To be woo’d and married at a’!

IT WAS ON A MORN WHEN WE WERETHRANG

It was on a morn when we werethrang,
The kirn it croon’d, the cheese wasmaking,
And bannocks on the girdle baking,
When ane at the door chapp’t loud and lang.
Yet the auld gudewife, and her mays sae tight,
Of a’ this bauld din took sma’notice I ween;
For a chap at the door in braid daylight
Is no like a chap that’s heard at e’en.

But the docksy auldlaird of the Warlock glen,
Whawaited without, half blate, half cheery,
Andlanged for a sight o’ his winsome deary,
Raised up the latchand cam’ crousely ben.
His coat it was new,and his o’erlay was white,
His mittensand hose were cozie and bien;
But a wooer that comesin braid daylight
Is no likea wooer that comes at e’en.

He greeted the carlineand lasses sae braw,
Andhis bare lyart pow sae smoothly he straikit,
Andhe looket about, like a body half glaikit,
On bonny sweet Nanny,the youngest of a’.
“Ha, laird!”quo’ the carline, “and look ye that way?
Fye, letna’ sie fancies bewilder you clean:
An elderlin man, inthe noon o’ the day,
Should bewiser than youngsters that come at e’en.

“Na, na,”quo’ the pawky auld wife, “I trow
You’llno fash your head wi’ a youthfu’ gilly,
Aswild and as skeig as a muirland filly:
Black Madge is far betterand fitter for you.”
He hem’d and hehaw’d, and he drew in his mouth,
And he squeezedthe blue bannet his twa hands between;
For a wooer that comeswhen the sun’s i’ the south
Is mairlandward than wooers that come at e’en.

“Black Madge issae carefu’”—“What’sthat to me?”
“She’ssober and cydent, has sense in her noodle;
She’sdouce and respeckit”—“I carenaa bodle:
Love winna be guided,and fancy’s free.”
Madge toss’d backher head wi’ a saucy slight,
And Nanny,loud laughing, ran out to the green;
For a wooer that comeswhen the sun shines bright
Is no likea wooer that comes at e’en.

Then away flung thelaird, and loud mutter’d he,
“A’the daughters of Eve, between Orkney and Tweed O!
Blackor fair, young or auld, dame or damsel or widow,
May gang in their prideto the de’il for me!”
But the auld gudewife,and her mays sae tight,
Cared littlefor a’ his stour banning, I ween;
For a wooer that comesin braid daylight
Is no likea wooer that comes at e’en.

FY, LET US A’TO THE WEDDING

(An Auld Sang, New Buskit)

Fy, let us a’to the wedding,
Forthey will be lilting there;
For Jock’sto be married to Maggy,
The lass wi’ thegowden hair.

And there will be jibingand jeering,
And glancingof bonny dark een,
Loud laughing and smooth-gabbitspeering
O’questions baith pawky and keen.

And there will be Bessythe beauty,
Wha raisesher cockup sae hie,
And giggles at preachingsand duty,—
Guid grantthat she gang na’ ajee!

And there will be auldGeordie Taunner,
Wha cofta young wife wi’ his gowd;
She’ll flauntwi’ a silk gown upon her,
But wow!he looks dowie and cow’d.

And brown Tibbey Foulerthe Heiress
Will perkat the tap o’ the ha’,
Encircled wi’suitors, wha’s care is
To catchup her gloves when they fa’,—

Repeat a’ herjokes as they’re cleckit,
And haverand glower in her face,
When tocherless maysare negleckit,—
A cryingand scandalous case.

And Mysie, wha’sclavering aunty
Wud matchher wi’ Laurie the Laird,
And learns the youngfule to be vaunty,
But neitherto spin nor to caird.

And Andrew, wha’sgranny is yearning
To see him a clericalblade,
Was sent to the collegefor learning,
And cam’back a coof as he gaed.

And there will be auldWidow Martin,
That ca’shersel thritty and twa!
And thraw-gabbit Madge,wha for certain
Was jiltedby Hab o’ the Shaw.

And Elspy the sewstersae genty,
A patternof havens and sense.
Will straik on her mittenssae dainty,
And crackwi’ Mess John i’ the spence.

And Angus, the seero’ ferlies,
That sitson the stane at his door,
And tells about bogles,and mair lies
Than tongueever utter’d before.

And there will be Bauldythe boaster
Sae readywi’ hands and wi’ tongue;
Proud Paty and sillySam Foster,
Wha quarrelwi’ auld and wi’ young:

And Hugh the town-writer,I’m thinking,
That tradesin his lawerly skill,
Will egg on the fightingand drinking
To bringafter-grist to his mill;

And Maggy—na,na! we’ll be civil,
And letthe wee bridie a-be;
A vilipend tongue isthe devil,
And ne’erwas encouraged by me.

Then fy, let us a’to the wedding,
For theywill be lilting there
Frae mony a far-distantha’ding,
The funand the feasting to share.

For they will get sheep’shead, and haggis,
And browsto’ the barley-mow;
E’en he that comeslatest, and lag is,
May feastupon dainties enow.

Veal florentines inthe o’en baken,
Weel plenish’dwi’ raisins and fat;
Beef, mutton, and chuckies,a’ taken
Het reekingfrae spit and frae pat:

And glasses (I trow‘tis na’ said ill),
To drinkthe young couple good luck,
Weel fill’d wi’a braw beechen ladle
Frae punch-bowlas big as Dumbuck.

And then will come dancingand daffing,
And reelin’and crossin’ o’ hans,
Till even auld Luckyis laughing,
As backby the aumry she stans.

Sic bobbing and flingingand whirling,
While fiddlersare making their din;
And pipers are droningand skirling
As loudas the roar o’ the lin.

Then fy, let us a’ to thewedding,
For they will be lilting there,
For Jock’s to be married to Maggy,
The lass wi’ the gowden hair.

THE WEARY PUND O’ TOW

A young gudewife is in myhouse
And thrifty means to be,
But aye she’s runnin’ to thetown
Some ferlie there to see.
The weary pund, the weary pund, the weary pundo’ tow,
I soothly think, ere it be spun, I’llwear a lyart pow.

And when she sets her to herwheel
To draw her threads wi’ care,
In comes the chapman wi’ his gear,
And she can spin nae mair.
The weary pund, etc.

And she, like ony merry may,
At fairs maun still be seen,
At kirkyard preachings near the tent,
At dances on the green.
The weary pund, etc.

Her dainty ear a fiddle charms,
A bagpipe’s her delight,
But for the crooning o’ her wheel
She disna care a mite.
The weary pund, etc.

You spake, my Kate, of snaw-whitewebs,
Made o’ your linkum twine,
But, ah! I fear our bonny burn
Will ne’er lave web o’ thine.
The weary pund, etc.

Nay, smile again, my winsomemate;
Sic jeering means nae ill;
Should I gae sarkless to my grave,
I’ll lo’e and bless thee still.
The weary pund, etc.

FROM ‘DE MONTFORT’:A TRAGEDY

ACT V—SCENE III

Moonlight. A wild path in a wood, shaded withtrees. Enter De Montfort_, with a strongexpression of disquiet, mixed with fear, upon hisface, looking behind him, and bending his ear to theground, as if he listened to something._

De Montfort—Howhollow groans the earth beneath my tread:
Is there an echo here?Methinks it sounds
As though some heavyfootsteps followed me.
I will advance no farther.
Deep settled shadowsrest across the path,
And thickly-tangledboughs o’erhang this spot.
O that a tenfold gloomdid cover it,
That ’mid themurky darkness I might strike!
As in the wild confusionof a dream,
Things horrid, bloody,terrible do pass,
As though they passednot; nor impress the mind
With the fixed clearnessof reality.

[An owl is heard screamingnear him.]

[Starting.] What soundis that?

[Listens, and the owlcries again.]

It isthe screech-owl’s cry.
Foul bird of night! What spirit guides theehere?
Art thou instinctive drawn to scenes of horror?
I’ve heard of this.
[Pauses and listens.]
How those fallen leaves so rustle on the path,
With whispering noise, as though the earth aroundme
Did utter secret things.
The distant river, too, bears to mine ear
A dismal wailing. O mysterious night!
Thou art not silent; many tongues hast thou.
A distant gathering blast sounds through thewood,
And dark clouds fleetly hasten o’er thesky;
Oh that a storm would rise, a raging storm;
Amidst the roar of warring elements
I’d lift my hand and strike! but this palelight,
The calm distinctness of each stilly thing,
Is terrible.—[Starting.] Footsteps,and near me, too!
He comes! he comes! I’ll watch himfarther on—
I cannot do it here.
[Exit.]

Enter Rezenvelt, and continues his way slowlyfrom the bottom of the stage; as he advances to thefront, the owl screams, he stops and listens, andthe owl screams again.

Rezenvelt—Ha! doesthe night-bird greet me on my way? How muchhis hooting is in harmony With such a scene asthis! I like it well. Oft when a boy,at the still twilight hour, I’ve leantmy back against some knotted oak, And loudlymimicked him, till to my call He answer wouldreturn, and through the gloom We friendly converseheld. Between me and the star-bespangledsky, Those aged oaks their crossing brancheswave, And through them looks the pale and placidmoon. How like a crocodile, or winged snake,Yon sailing cloud bears on its dusky length!And now transformed by the passing wind, Methinksit seems a flying Pegasus. Ay, but a shapelessband of blacker hue Comes swiftly after.—A hollow murm’ring wind sounds through thetrees; I hear it from afar; this bodes a storm.I must not linger here—

[A bell heard atsome distance.] The convent bell.
’Tis distant still:it tells their hour of prayer.
It sends a solemn soundupon the breeze,
That, to a fearful,superstitious mind,
In such a scene, wouldlike a death-knell come.
[Exit.]

TO MRS. SIDDONS

Gifted of heaven! whohast, in days gone by,
Moved every heart, delightedevery eye;
While age and youth,of high and low degree,
In sympathy were joined,beholding thee,
As in the Drama’sever-changing scene
Thou heldst thy splendidstate, our tragic queen!
No barriers there thyfair domains confined,
Thy sovereign sway waso’er the human mind;
And in the triumph ofthat witching hour,
Thy lofty bearing wellbecame thy power.

The impassioned changesof thy beauteous face,
Thy stately form, andhigh imperial grace;
Thine arms impetuoustossed, thy robe’s wide flow,
And the dark tempestgathered on thy brow;
What time thy flashingeye and lip of scorn
Down to the dust thymimic foes have borne;
Remorseful musings,sunk to deep dejection,
The fixed and yearninglooks of strong affection;
The active turmoil awrought bosom rending,
When pity, love, andhonor, are contending;—
They who beheld allthis, right well, I ween,
A lovely, grand, andwondrous sight have seen.

Thy varied accents,rapid, fitful, slow,
Loud rage, and fear’ssnatched whisper, quick and low;
The burst of stifledlove, the wail of grief,
And tones of high command,full, solemn, brief;
The change of voice,and emphasis that threw
Light on obscurity,and brought to view
Distinctions nice, whengrave or comic mood,
Or mingled humors, terseand new, elude
Common perception, asearth’s smallest things
To size and form thevesting hoar-frost brings,
That seemed as if somesecret voice, to clear

The raveled meaning,whispered in thine ear,
And thou hadst e’enwith him communion kept,
Who hath so long inStratford’s chancel slept;
Whose lines, where nature’sbrightest traces shine,
Alone were worthy deemedof powers like thine;—
They who have heardall this, have proved full well
Of soul-exciting soundthe mightiest spell.
But though time’slengthened shadows o’er thee glide,
And pomp of regal stateis cast aside,
Think not the gloryof thy course is spent,
There’s moonlightradiance to thy evening lent,
That to the mental worldcan never fade,
Till all who saw thee,in the grave are laid.
Thy graceful form stillmoves in nightly dreams,
And what thou wast,to the lulled sleeper seems;
While feverish fancyoft doth fondly trace
Within her curtainedcouch thy wondrous face.
Yea; and to many a wight,bereft and lone,
In musing hours, thoughall to thee unknown,
Soothing his earthlycourse of good and ill,
With all thy potentcharm, thou actest still.
And now in crowded roomor rich saloon,
Thy stately presencerecognized, how soon
On thee the glance ofmany an eye is cast,
In grateful memory ofpleasures past!
Pleased to behold thee,with becoming grace,
Take, as befits theewell, an honored place;
Where blest by manya heart, long mayst thou stand,
Among the virtuous matronsof our land!

A SCOTCH SONG

The gowan glitters on the sward,
The lavrock’s in the sky,
And collie on my plaid keeps ward,
And time is passing by.
Oh no! sad and slow
And lengthened on the ground,
The shadow of our trysting bush
It wears so slowly round!

My sheep-bell tinkles frae thewest,
My lambs are bleating near,
But still the sound that I lo’e best,
Alack! I canna’ hear.
Oh no! sad and slow,
The shadow lingers still,
And like a lanely ghaist I stand
And croon upon the hill.

I hear below the water roar,
The mill wi’ clacking din,
And Lucky scolding frae her door,
To ca’ the bairnies in.
Oh no! sad and slow,
These are na’ sounds for me,
The shadow of our trysting bush,
It creeps so drearily!

I coft yestreen, frae ChapmanTarn,
A snood of bonny blue,
And promised when our trysting cam’,
To tie it round her brow.
Oh no! sad and slow,
The mark it winna’ pass;
The shadow of that weary thorn
Is tethered on the grass.

Oh, now I see her on the way,
She’s past the witch’s knowe,
She’s climbing up the Browny’s brae,
My heart is in a lowe!
Oh no! ‘tis no’ so,
’Tis glam’rie I have seen;
The shadow of that hawthorn bush
Will move na’ mair till e’en.

My book o’ grace I’lltry to read,
Though conn’d wi’ little skill,
When collie barks I’ll raise my head,
And find her on the hill.
Oh no! sad and slow,
The time will ne’er be gane,
The shadow of the trysting bush
Is fixed like ony stane.

SONG, ‘POVERTY PARTS GOODCOMPANY’

For an old Scotch Air

When my o’erlay was whiteas the foam o’ the lin,
And siller was chinkin my pouches within,
When my lambkins were bleatin on meadow and brae,
As I went to my love in new cleeding sae gay,
Kind was she, and my friends were free,
But poverty parts good company.

How swift passed theminutes and hours of delight,
When piper played cheerly,and crusie burned bright,
And linked in my handwas the maiden sae dear,
As she footed the floorin her holyday gear!
Woeis me; and can it then be,
Thatpoverty parts sic company?

We met at the fair,and we met at the kirk,
We met i’ thesunshine, we met i’ the mirk;
And the sound o’her voice, and the blinks o’ her een,
The cheerin and lifeof my bosom hae been.
Leavesfrae the tree at Martinmass flee,
Andpoverty parts sweet company.

At bridal and infareI braced me wi’ pride,
The broose I hae won,and a kiss o’ the bride;
And loud was the laughtergood fellows among,
As I uttered my banteror chorused my song;
Dowieand dree are jestin and glee,
Whenpoverty spoils good company.

Wherever I gaed, kindlylasses looked sweet,
And mithers and auntieswere unco discreet;
While kebbuck and bickerwere set on the board:
But now they pass byme, and never a word!
Saelet it be, for the worldly and slee
Wi’poverty keep nae company.

But the hope of my loveis a cure for its smart,
And the spae-wife hastauld me to keep up my heart;
For, wi’ my lastsaxpence, her loof I hae crost,
And the bliss that isfated can never be lost,
Thoughcruelly we may ilka day see
Howpoverty parts dear company.

THE KITTEN

Wanton droll, whoseharmless play
Beguiles the rustic’sclosing day,
When, drawn the eveningfire about,
Sit aged crone and thoughtlesslout,
And child upon his three-footstool,
Waiting until his suppercool,
And maid whose cheekoutblooms the rose,
As bright the blazingfagot glows,
Who, bending to thefriendly light,
Plies her task withbusy sleight,
Come, show thy tricksand sportive graces,
Thus circled round withmerry faces:
Backward coiled andcrouching low,
With glaring eyeballswatch thy foe,
The housewife’sspindle whirling round,
Or thread or straw thaton the ground
Its shadow throws, byurchin sly
Held out to lure thyroving eye;
Then stealing onward,fiercely spring
Upon the tempting, faithlessthing.
Now, wheeling roundwith bootless skill,
Thy bo-peep tail provokes

thee still,
As still beyond thycurving side
Its jetty tip is seento glide;
Till from thy centrestarting far,
Thou sidelong veer’stwith rump in air
Erected stiff, and gaitawry,
Like madam in her tantrumshigh;
Though ne’er amadam of them all,
Whose silken kirtlesweeps the hall,
More varied trick andwhim displays
To catch the admiringstranger’s gaze.
Doth power in measuredverses dwell,
All thy vagaries wildto tell?
Ah, no! the start, thejet, the bound,
The giddy scamper roundand round,
With leap and toss andhigh curvet,
And many a whirlingsomerset,
(Permitted by the modernmuse
Expression technicalto use)—These
mock the deftest rhymester’sskill,
But poor in art, thoughrich in will.

The featest tumbler,stage bedight,
To thee is but a clumsywight,
Who every limb and sinewstrains
To do what costs theelittle pains;
For which, I trow, thegaping crowd
Requite him oft withplaudits loud.

But, stopped the whilethy wanton play,
Applauses too thy painsrepay:
For then, beneath someurchin’s hand
With modest pride thoutakest thy stand,
While many a strokeof kindness glides
Along thy back and tabbysides.
Dilated swells thy glossyfur,
And loudly croons thybusy purr,
As, timing well theequal sound,
Thy clutching feet bepatthe ground,
And all their harmlessclaws disclose
Like prickles of anearly rose,
While softly from thywhiskered cheek
Thy half-closed eyespeer, mild and meek.

But not alone by cottagefire
Do rustics rude thyfeats admire.
The learned sage, whosethoughts explore
The widest range ofhuman lore,
Or with unfettered fancyfly
Through airy heightsof poesy,
Pausing smiles withaltered air
To see thee climb hiselbow-chair,
Or, struggling on themat below,
Hold warfare with hisslippered toe.
The widowed dame orlonely maid,
Who, in the still butcheerless shade
Of home unsocial, spendsher age,
And rarely turns a letteredpage,
Upon her hearth forthee lets fall
The rounded cork orpaper ball,
Nor chides thee on thywicked watch,
The ends of raveledskein to catch,
But lets thee have thywayward will,
Perplexing oft her betterskill.

E’en he whosemind, of gloomy bent,
In lonely tower or prisonpent,
Reviews the coil offormer days,
And loathes the worldand all its ways,
What time the lamp’sunsteady gleam
Hath roused him fromhis moody dream,
Feels, as thou gambol’stround his seat,
His heart of pride lessfiercely beat,
And smiles, a link inthee to find
That joins it stillto living kind.

Whence hast thou then,thou witless puss!
The magic power to charmus thus?
Is it that in thy glaringeye
And rapid movementswe descry—
Whilst we at ease, securefrom ill,
The chimney corner snuglyfill—
A lion darting on hisprey,
A tiger at his ruthlessplay?
Or is it that in theewe trace,
With all thy variedwanton grace,
An emblem, viewed withkindred eye
Of tricky, restlessinfancy?
Ah! many a lightly sportivechild,
Who hath like thee ourwits beguiled,
To dull and sober manhoodgrown,
With strange recoilour hearts disown.

And so, poor kit! mustthou endure,
When thou becom’sta cat demure,
Full many a cuff andangry word,
Chased roughly fromthe tempting board.
But yet, for that thouhast, I ween,
So oft our favored playmatebeen,
Soft be the change whichthou shalt prove!
When time hath spoiledthee of our love,
Still be thou deemedby housewife fat
A comely, careful, mousingcat,
Whose dish is, for thepublic good,
Replenished oft withsavory food,
Nor, when thy span oflife is past,
Be thou to pond or dung-hillcast,
But, gently borne ongoodman’s spade,
Beneath the decent sodbe laid;
And children show withglistening eyes
The place where poorold pussy lies.

HENRY MARTYN BAIRD

(1832-)

That stirring period of the history of France whichin certain of its features has been made so familiarby Dumas through the ’Three Musketeers’series and others of his fascinating novels, is thatwhich has been the theme of Dr. Baird in the substantialwork to which so many years of his life have beendevoted. It is to the elucidation of one portiononly of the history of this period that he has givenhimself; but although in this, the story of the Huguenots,nominally only a matter of religious belief was involved,it in fact embraced almost the entire internal politicsof the nation, and the struggles for supremacy ofits ambitious families, as well as the effort to achievereligious freedom.

[Illustration: HENRY M. BAIRD]

In these separate but related works the incidentsof the whole Protestant movement have been treated.The first of these, ’The History of the Riseof the Huguenots in France’ (1879), carries thestory to the time of Henry of Valois (1574), coveringthe massacre of St. Bartholomew; the second, ‘TheHuguenots and Henry of Navarre’ (1886), coversthe Protestant ascendancy and the Edict of Nantes,and ends with the assassination of Henry in 1610;and the third, ’The Huguenots and the Revocationof the Edict of Nantes’ (1895), completes themain story, and indeed brings the narrative down toa date much later than the title seems to imply.

It may be said, perhaps, that Dr. Baird holds a brieffor the plaintiff in the case; but his work does notproduce the impression of being that of a violentlyprejudiced, although an interested, writer. Heis cool and careful, writing with precision, and avoidingeven the effects which the historian may reasonablyfeel himself entitled to produce, and of which theperiod naturally offers so many.

Henry Martyn Baird was born in Philadelphia, January17th, 1832, and was educated at the University ofthe City of New York and the University of Athens,and at Union and Princeton Theological Seminaries.In 1855 he became a tutor at Princeton; and in thefollowing year he published an interesting volumeon ’Modern Greece, a Narrative of Residence andTravel.’ In 1859 he was appointed to thechair of Greek Language and Literature in the Universityof the City of New York.

In addition to the works heretofore named, he is theauthor of a biography of his father, Robert Baird,D.D.

THE BATTLE OF IVRY

From ‘The Huguenots and Henry of Navarre’:Charles Scribner’s Sons.

The battle began with a furious cannonade from theKing’s artillery, so prompt that nine roundsof shot had been fired before the enemy were readyto reply, so well directed that great havoc was madein the opposing lines. Next, the light horseof M. de Rosne, upon the extreme right of the Leaguers,made a dash upon Marshal d’Aumont, but werevaliantly received. Their example was followedby the German reiters, who threw themselves upon thedefenders of the King’s artillery and upon thelight horse of Aumont, who came to their relief; then,after their customary fashion, wheeled around, expectingto pass easily through the gaps between the friendlycorps of Mayenne and Egmont, and to reload their firearmsat their leisure in the rear, by way of preparationfor a second charge.

Owing to the blunder of Tavannes, however, they meta serried line of horse where they looked for an openfield; and the Walloon cavalry found themselves compelledto set their lances in threatening position to wardoff the dangerous onset of their retreating allies.Another charge, made by a squadron of the Walloonlancers themselves, was bravely met by Baron Biron.His example was imitated by the Duke of Montpensierfarther down the field. Although the one leaderwas twice wounded, and the other had his horse killedunder him, both ultimately succeeded in repulsingthe enemy.

It was about this time that the main body of Henry’shorse became engaged with the gallant array of cavalryin their front. Mayenne had placed upon the leftof his squadron a body of four hundred mounted carabineers.These, advancing first, rode rapidly toward the King’sline, took aim, and discharged their weapons with deadlyeffect within twenty-five paces. Immediatelyafterward the main force of eighteen hundred lancers

presented themselves. The King had fastened agreat white plume to his helmet, and had adorned hishorse’s head with another, equally conspicuous.“Comrades!” he now exclaimed to thoseabout him, “Comrades! God is for us!There are his enemies and ours! If you lose sightof your standards, rally to my white plume; you willfind it on the road to victory and to honor.”The Huguenots had knelt after their fashion; againGabriel d’Amours had offered for them a prayerto the God of battles: but no Joyeuse dreamedof suspecting that they were meditating surrenderor flight. The King, with the brave Huguenotminister’s prediction of victory still ringingin his ears, plunged into the thickest of the fight,two horses’ length ahead of his companions.That moment he forgot that he was King of France andgeneral-in-chief, both in one, and fought as if hewere a private soldier. It was indeed a boldventure. True, the enemy, partly because of theconfusion induced by the reiters, partly from therapidity of the King’s movements, had lost insome measure the advantage they should have derivedfrom their lances, and were compelled to rely mainlyupon their swords, as against the firearms of theiropponents. Still, they outnumbered the knightsof the King’s squadron more than as two to one.No wonder that some of the latter flinched and actuallyturned back; especially when the standard-bearer ofthe King, receiving a deadly wound in the face, lostcontrol of his horse, and went riding aimlessly aboutthe field, still grasping the banner in grim desperation.But the greater number emulated the courage of theirleader. The white plume kept them in the roadto victory and to honor. Yet even this beaconseemed at one moment to fail them. Another cavalier,who had ostentatiously decorated his helmet much afterthe same fashion as the King, was slain in the hand-to-handconflict, and some, both of the Huguenots and of theirenemies, for a time supposed the great Protestantchampion himself to have fallen.

But although fiercely contested, the conflict wasnot long. The troopers of Mayenne wavered, andfinally fled. Henry of Navarre emerged from theconfusion, to the great relief of his anxious followers,safe and sound, covered with dust and blood not hisown. More than once he had been in great personalperil. On his return from the melee, he halted,with a handful of companions, under the pear-treesindicated beforehand as a rallying-point, when hewas descried and attacked by three bands of Walloonhorse that had not yet engaged in the fight. Onlyhis own valor and the timely arrival of some of histroops saved the imprudent monarch from death or captivity.

The rout of Mayenne’s principal corps was quicklyfollowed by the disintegration of his entire army.The Swiss auxiliaries of the League, though compelledto surrender their flags, were, as ancient allies ofthe crown, admitted to honorable terms of capitulation.To the French, who fell into the King’s hands,he was equally clement. Indeed, he spared noefforts to save their lives. But it was otherwisewith the German lansquenets. Their treacheryat Arques, where they had pretended to come over tothe royal side only to turn upon those who had believedtheir protestations and welcomed them to their ranks,was yet fresh in the memory of all. They receivedno mercy at the King’s hands.

Gathering his available forces together, and strengthenedby the accession of old Marshal Biron, who had beencompelled, much against his will, to remain a passivespectator while others fought, Henry pursued the remnantsof the army of the League many a mile to Mantes andthe banks of the Seine. If their defeat by agreatly inferior force had been little to the creditof either the generals or the troops of the League,their precipitate flight was still less decorous.The much-vaunted Flemish lancers distinguished themselves,it was said, by not pausing until they found safetybeyond the borders of France; and Mayenne, never renownedfor courage, emulated or surpassed them in the eagernesshe displayed, on reaching the little town from whichthe battle took its name, to put as many leagues aspossible between himself and his pursuers. “Theenemy thus ran away,” says the Englishman WilliamLyly, who was an eye-witness of the battle; “Mayenneto Ivry, where the Walloons and reiters followed sofast that there standing, hasting to draw breath,and not able to speak, he was constrained to draw hissword to strike the flyers to make place for his ownflight.”

The battle had been a short one. Between tenand eleven o’clock the first attack was made;in less than an hour the army of the League was routed.It had been a glorious action for the King and hisold Huguenots, and not less for the loyal Roman Catholicswho clung to him. None seemed discontented butold Marshal Biron, who, when he met the King comingout of the fray with battered armor and blunted sword,could not help contrasting the opportunity his Majestyhad enjoyed to distinguish himself with his own enforcedinactivity, and exclaimed, “Sire, this is notright! You have to-day done what Biron ought tohave done, and he has done what the King should havedone.” But even Biron was unable to denythat the success of the royal arms surpassed all expectation,and deserved to rank among the wonders of history.The preponderance of the enemy in numbers had beengreat. There was no question that the impetuousattacks of their cavalry upon the left wing of theKing were for a time almost successful. The officialaccounts might conveniently be silent upon the point,but the truth could not be disguised that at the moment

Henry plunged into battle a part of his line was grievouslyshaken, a part was in full retreat, and the prospectwas dark enough. Some of his immediate followers,indeed, at this time turned countenance and were disposedto flee, whereupon he recalled them to their dutywith the words, “Look this way, in order thatif you will not fight, at least you may see me die.”But the steady and determined courage of the King,well seconded by soldiers not less brave, turned thetide of battle. “The enemy took flight,”says the devout Duplessis Mornay, “terrifiedrather by God than by men; for it is certain that theone side was not less shaken than the other.”And with the flight of the cavalry, Mayenne’sinfantry, constituting, as has been seen, three-fourthsof his entire army, gave up the day as lost, withoutstriking a blow for the cause they had come to support.How many men the army of the League lost in killedand wounded it is difficult to say. The Princeof Parma reported to his master the loss of two hundredand seventy of the Flemish lancers, together withtheir commander, the Count of Egmont. The historianDe Thou estimates the entire number of deaths on theside of the League, including the combatants that fellin the battle and the fugitives drowned at the crossingof the river Eure, by Ivry, at eight hundred.The official account, on the other hand, agrees withMarshal Biron, in stating that of the cavalry alonemore than fifteen hundred died, and adds that fourhundred were taken prisoners; while Davila swellsthe total of the slain to the incredible sum of upwardof six thousand men.

SIR SAMUEL WHITE BAKER

(1821-1893)

The Northwest Passage, the Pole itself, and the sourcesof the Nile—how many have struggled throughice and snow, or burned themselves with tropic heat,in the effort to penetrate these secrets of the earth!And how many have left their bones to whiten on thedesert or lie hidden beneath icebergs at the end ofthe search!

Of the fortunate ones who escaped after many perils,Baker was one of the most fortunate. He exploredthe Blue and the White Nile, discovered at least oneof the reservoirs from which flows the great riverof Egypt, and lived to tell the tale and to receivedue honor, being knighted by the Queen therefor, fetedby learned societies, and sent subsequently by theKhedive at the head of a large force with commissionto destroy the slave trade. In this he appearsto have been successful for a time, but for a timeonly.

[Illustration: SIR SAMUEL BAKER]

Baker was born in London, June 8th, 1821, and diedDecember 30th, 1893. With his brother he established,in 1847, a settlement in the mountains of Ceylon,where he spent several years. His experiencesin the far East appear in books entitled ‘TheRifle and Hound in Ceylon’ and ’EightYears Wandering in Ceylon.’ In 1861, accompaniedby his young wife and an escort, he started up theNile, and three years later, on the 14th of March,1864, at length reached the cliffs overlooking theAlbert Nyanza, being the first European to beholdits waters. Like most Englishmen, he was an enthusiasticsportsman, and his manner of life afforded him a greatvariety of unusual experiences. He visited Cyprusin 1879, after the execution of the convention betweenEngland and Turkey, and subsequently he traveled toSyria, India, Japan, and America. He kept voluminousnotes of his various journeys, which he utilized inthe preparation of numerous volumes:—’TheAlbert Nyanza’; ’The Nile Tributariesof Abyssinia’; ‘Ismaeilia,’ a narrativeof the expedition under the auspices of the Khedive;‘Cyprus as I Saw It in 1879’; togetherwith ‘Wild Beasts and Their Ways,’ ’TrueTales for My Grandsons,’ and a story entitled‘Cast Up by the Sea,’ which was for manyyears a great favorite with the boys of England andAmerica. They are all full of life and incident.One of the most delightful memories of them whichreaders retain is the figure of his lovely wife, sofull of courage, loyalty, buoyancy, and charm.He had that rarest of possibilities, spirit-stirringadventure and home companionship at once.

HUNTING IN ABYSSINIA

From ‘The Nile Tributaries of Abyssinia’

On arrival at the camp, I resolved to fire the entirecountry on the following day, and to push still fartherup the course of the Settite to the foot of the mountains,and to return to this camp in about a fortnight, bywhich time the animals that had been scared away bythe fire would have returned. Accordingly, onthe following morning, accompanied by a few of theaggageers, I started upon the south bank of the river,and rode for some distance into the interior, to theground that was entirely covered with high witheredgrass. We were passing through a mass of kittarthorn bush, almost hidden by the immensely high grass,when, as I was ahead of the party, I came suddenlyupon the tracks of rhinoceros; these were so unmistakablyrecent that I felt sure we were not far from the animalsthemselves. As I had wished to fire the grass,I was accompanied by my Tokrooris, and my horse-keeper,Mahomet No. 2. It was difficult ground for themen, and still more unfavorable for the horses, aslarge disjointed masses of stone were concealed inthe high grass.

We were just speculating as to the position of therhinoceros, and thinking how uncommonly unpleasantit would be should he obtain our wind, when whiff!whiff! whiff! We heard the sharp whistling snort,with a tremendous rush through the high grass andthorns close to us; and at the same moment two ofthese determined brutes were upon us in full charge.I never saw such a scrimmage; sauve qui peut!There was no time for more than one look behind.I dug the spurs into Aggahr’s flanks, and claspinghim round the neck, I ducked my head down to his shoulder,well protected with my strong hunting cap, and I keptthe spurs going as hard as I could ply them, blindlytrusting to Providence and my good horse, over bigrocks, fallen trees, thick kittar thorns, and grassten feet high, with the two infernal animals in fullchase only a few feet behind me. I heard theirabominable whiffing close to me, but so did my horsealso, and the good old hunter flew over obstaclesthat I should have thought impossible, and he dashedstraight under the hooked thorn bushes and doubledlike a hare. The aggageers were all scattered;Mahomet No. 2 was knocked over by a rhinoceros; allthe men were sprawling upon the rocks with their guns,and the party was entirely discomfited. Havingpassed the kittar thorn, I turned, and seeing thatthe beasts had gone straight on, I brought Aggahr’shead round, and tried to give chase, but it was perfectlyimpossible; it was only a wonder that the horse hadescaped in ground so difficult for riding. Althoughmy clothes were of the strongest and coarsest Arabcotton cloth, which seldom tore, but simply lost athread when caught in a thorn, I was nearly naked.My blouse was reduced to shreds; as I wore sleevesonly half way from the shoulder to the elbow, my nakedarms were streaming with blood; fortunately my huntingcap was secured with a chin strap, and still morefortunately I had grasped the horse’s neck,otherwise I must have been dragged out of the saddleby the hooked thorns. All the men were cut andbruised, some having fallen upon their heads amongthe rocks, and others had hurt their legs in fallingin their endeavors to escape. Mahomet. No.2, the horse-keeper, was more frightened than hurt,as he had been knocked down by the shoulder, and notby the horn of the rhinoceros, as the animal had notnoticed him: its attention was absorbed by thehorse.

I determined to set fire to the whole country immediately,and descending the hill toward the river to obtaina favorable wind, I put my men in a line, extendingover about a mile along the river’s bed, andthey fired the grass in different places. Witha loud roar, the flame leaped high in air and rushedforward with astonishing velocity; the grass was asinflammable as tinder, and the strong north wind drovethe long line of fire spreading in every directionthrough the country.

We now crossed to the other side of the river to avoidthe flames, and we returned toward the camp.On the way I made a long shot and badly wounded atetel, but lost it in thick thorns; shortly after,I stalked a nellut (A. Strepsiceros),and bagged it with the Fletcher rifle.

We arrived early in camp, and on the following daywe moved sixteen miles farther up stream, and campedunder a tamarind-tree by the side of the river.No European had ever been farther than our last camp,Delladilla, and that spot had only been visited byJohann Schmidt and Florian. In the previous year,my aggageers had sabred some of the Base at this verycamping-place; they accordingly requested me to keepa vigilant watch during the night, as they would bevery likely to attack us in revenge, unless they hadbeen scared by the rifles and by the size of our party.They advised me not to remain long in this spot, asit would be very dangerous for my wife to be leftalmost alone during the day, when we were hunting,and that the Base would be certain to espy us fromthe mountains, and would most probably attack and carryher off when they were assured of our departure.She was not very nervous about this, but she immediatelycalled the dragoman, Mahomet, who knew the use ofa gun, and she asked him if he would stand by her incase they were attacked in my absence; the faithfulservant replied, “Mahomet fight the Base?No, Missus; Mahomet not fight; if the Base come, Missusfight; Mahomet run away; Mahomet not come all theway from Cairo to get him killed by black fellers;Mahomet will run—Inshallah!” (PleaseGod.)

This frank avowal of his military tactics was veryreassuring. There was a high hill of basalt,something resembling a pyramid, within a quarter ofa mile of us; I accordingly ordered some of my menevery day to ascend this look-out station, and I resolvedto burn the high grass at once, so as to destroy allcover for the concealment of an enemy. That eveningI very nearly burned our camp; I had several timesordered the men to clear away the dry grass for aboutthirty yards from our resting-place; this they hadneglected to obey. We had been joined a few daysbefore by a party of about a dozen Hamran Arabs, whowere hippopotami hunters; thus we mustered very strong,and it would have been the work of about half an hourto have cleared away the grass as I had desired.

The wind was brisk, and blew directly toward our camp,which was backed by the river. I accordinglytook a fire-stick, and I told my people to look sharp,as they would not clear away the grass. I walkedto the foot of the basalt hill, and fired the grassin several places. In an instant the wind sweptthe flame and smoke toward the camp. All was confusion;the Arabs had piled the camel-saddles and all theircorn and effects in the high grass about twenty yardsfrom the tent; there was no time to remove all thesethings; therefore, unless they could clear away thegrass so as to stop the fire before it should reachthe spot, they would be punished for their lazinessby losing their property. The fire traveled quickerthan I had expected, and, by the time I had hastenedto the tent, I found the entire party working frantically;the Arabs were slashing down the grass with their

swords, and sweeping it away with their shields, whilemy Tokrooris were beating it down with long sticksand tearing it from its withered and fortunately tinder-rottenroots, in desperate haste. The flames rushedon, and we already felt the heat, as volumes of smokeenveloped us; I thought it advisable to carry thegunpowder (about 20 lbs.) down to the river, togetherwith the rifles; while my wife and Mahomet draggedthe various articles of luggage to the same placeof safety. The fire now approached within aboutsixty yards, and dragging out the iron pins, I letthe tent fall to the ground. The Arabs had swepta line like a high-road perfectly clean, and they werestill tearing away the grass, when they were suddenlyobliged to rush back as the flames arrived.

Almost instantaneously the smoke blew over us, butthe fire had expired upon meeting the cleared ground.I now gave them a little lecture upon obedience toorders; and from that day, their first act upon haltingfor the night was to clear away the grass, lest Ishould repeat the entertainment. In countriesthat are covered with dry grass, it should be an invariablerule to clear the ground around the camp before night;hostile natives will frequently fire the grass to windwardof a party, or careless servants may leave their pipesupon the ground, which fanned by the wind would quicklycreate a blaze. That night the mountain affordeda beautiful appearance as the flames ascended the steepsides, and ran flickering up the deep gullies witha brilliant light.

We were standing outside the tent admiring the scene,which perfectly illuminated the neighborhood, whensuddenly an apparition of a lion and lioness stoodfor an instant before us at about fifteen yards distance,and then disappeared over the blackened ground beforeI had time to snatch a rifle from the tent. Nodoubt they had been disturbed from the mountain bythe fire, and had mistaken their way in the countryso recently changed from high grass to black ashes.In this locality I considered it advisable to keepa vigilant watch during the night, and the Arabs weretold off for that purpose.

A little before sunrise I accompanied the howartis,or hippopotamus hunters, for a day’s sport.There were numbers of hippos in this part of the river,and we were not long before we found a herd. Thehunters failed in several attempts to harpoon them,but they succeeded in stalking a crocodile after amost peculiar fashion. This large beast was lyingupon a sandbank on the opposite margin of the river,close to a bed of rushes.

The howartis, having studied the wind, ascended forabout a quarter of a mile, and then swam across theriver, harpoon in hand. The two men reached theopposite bank, beneath which they alternately wadedor swam down the stream toward the spot upon whichthe crocodile was lying. Thus advancing undercover of the steep bank, or floating with the streamin deep places, and crawling like crocodiles across

the shallows, the two hunters at length arrived atthe bank or rushes, on the other side of which themonster was basking asleep upon the sand. Theywere now about waist-deep, and they kept close tothe rushes with their harpoons raised, ready to castthe moment they should pass the rush bed and comein view of the crocodile. Thus steadily advancing,they had just arrived at the corner within about eightyards of the crocodile, when the creature either sawthem, or obtained their wind; in an instant it rushedto the water; at the same moment, the two harpoonswere launched with great rapidity by the hunters.One glanced obliquely from the scales; the other stuckfairly in the tough hide, and the iron, detached fromthe bamboo, held fast, while the ambatch float, runningon the surface of the water, marked the course ofthe reptile beneath.

The hunters chose a convenient place, and recrossedthe stream to our side, apparently not heeding thecrocodiles more than we should pike when bathing inEngland. They would not waste their time by securingthe crocodile at present, as they wished to kill ahippopotamus; the float would mark the position, andthey would be certain to find it later. We accordinglycontinued our search for hippopotami; these animalsappeared to be on the qui vive, and, as thehunters once more failed in an attempt, I made a cleanshot behind the ear of one, and killed it dead.At length we arrived at a large pool, in which wereseveral sandbanks covered with rushes, and many rockyislands. Among these rocks were a herd of hippopotami,consisting of an old bull and several cows; a younghippo was standing, like an ugly little statue, ona protruding rock, while another infant stood uponits mother’s back that listlessly floated onthe water.

This was an admirable place for the hunters.They desired me to lie down, and they crept into thejungle out of view of the river; I presently observedthem stealthily descending the dry bed about two hundredpaces above the spot where the hippos were baskingbehind the rocks. They entered the river, andswam down the centre of the stream toward the rock.This was highly exciting:—the hippos werequite unconscious of the approaching danger, as, steadilyand rapidly, the hunters floated down the strong current;they neared the rock, and both heads disappeared asthey purposely sank out of view; in a few secondslater they reappeared at the edge of the rock uponwhich the young hippo stood. It would be difficultto say which started first, the astonished young hippointo the water, or the harpoons from the hands of thehowartis! It was the affair of a moment; the huntersdived directly they had hurled their harpoons, and,swimming for some distance under water, they cameto the surface, and hastened to the shore lest an infuriatedhippopotamus should follow them. One harpoon hadmissed; the other had fixed the bull of the herd,at which it had been surely aimed. This was grand

sport! The bull was in the greatest fury, androse to the surface, snorting and blowing in his impotentrage; but as the ambatch float was exceedingly large,and this naturally accompanied his movements, he triedto escape from his imaginary persecutor, and divedconstantly, only to find his pertinacious attendantclose to him upon regaining the surface. Thiswas not to last long; the howartis were in earnest,and they at once called their party, who, with twoof the aggageers, Abou Do and Suleiman, were nearat hand; these men arrived with the long ropes thatform a portion of the outfit for hippo hunting.

The whole party now halted on the edge of the river,while two men swam across with one end of the longrope. Upon gaining the opposite bank, I observedthat a second rope was made fast to the middle of themain line; thus upon our side we held the ends oftwo ropes, while on the opposite side they had onlyone; accordingly, the point of junction of the tworopes in the centre formed an acute angle. Theobject of this was soon practically explained.Two men upon our side now each held a rope, and oneof these walked about ten yards before the other.Upon both sides of the river the people now advanced,dragging the rope on the surface of the water untilthey reached the ambatch float that was swimming toand fro, according to the movements of the hippopotamusbelow. By a dexterous jerk of the main line, thefloat was now placed between the two ropes, and itwas immediately secured in the acute angle by bringingtogether the ends of these ropes on our side.

The men on the opposite bank now dropped their line,and our men hauled in upon the ambatch float thatwas held fast between the ropes. Thus cleverlymade sure, we quickly brought a strain upon the hippo,and, although I have had some experience in handlingbig fish, I never knew one pull so lustily as theamphibious animal that we now alternately coaxed andbullied. He sprang out of the water, gnashed hishuge jaws, snorted with tremendous rage, and lashedthe river into foam; he then dived, and foolishlyapproached us beneath the water. We quickly gatheredin the slack line, and took a round turn upon a largerock, within a few feet of the river. The hipponow rose to the surface, about ten yards from thehunters, and, jumping half out of the water, he snappedhis great jaws together, endeavoring to catch the rope,but at the same instant two harpoons were launchedinto his side. Disdaining retreat and maddenedwith rage, the furious animal charged from the depthsof the river, and, gaining a footing, he reared hisbulky form from the surface, came boldly upon thesandbank, and attacked the hunters open-mouthed.He little knew his enemy; they were not the men tofear a pair of gaping jaws, armed with a deadly arrayof tusks, but half a dozen lances were hurled at him,some entering his mouth from a distance of five orsix paces, at the same time several men threw handfuls

of sand into his enormous eyes. This baffled himmore than the lances; he crunched the shafts betweenhis powerful jaws like straws, but he was beaten bythe sand, and, shaking his huge head, he retreatedto the river. During his sally upon the shore,two of the hunters had secured the ropes of the harpoonsthat had been fastened in his body just before hischarge; he was now fixed by three of these deadlyinstruments, but suddenly one rope gave way, havingbeen bitten through by the enraged beast, who wasstill beneath the water. Immediately after thishe appeared on the surface, and, without a moment’shesitation, he once more charged furiously from thewater straight at the hunters, with his huge mouthopen to such an extent that he could have accommodatedtwo inside passengers. Suleiman was wild withdelight, and springing forward lance in hand, he droveit against the head of the formidable animal, butwithout effect. At the same time, Abou Do metthe hippo sword in hand, reminding me of Perseus slayingthe sea-monster that would devour Andromeda, but thesword made a harmless gash, and the lance, alreadyblunted against the rocks, refused to penetrate thetough hide; once more handfuls of sand were peltedupon his face, and again repulsed by this blindingattack, he was forced to retire to his deep hole andwash it from his eyes. Six times during the fightthe valiant bull hippo quitted his watery fortress,and charged resolutely at his pursuers; he had brokenseveral of their lances in his jaws, other lanceshad been hurled, and, falling upon the rocks, theywere blunted, and would not penetrate. The fighthad continued for three hours, and the sun was aboutto set, accordingly the hunters begged me to give himthe coup de grace, as they had hauled him closeto the shore, and they feared he would sever the ropewith his teeth. I waited for a good opportunity,when he boldly raised his head from water about threeyards from the rifle, and a bullet from the littleFletcher between the eyes closed the last act.

THE SOURCES OF THE NILE

From ‘The Albert Nyanza’

The name of this village was Parkani. For severaldays past our guides had told us that we were verynear to the lake, and we were now assured that weshould reach it on the morrow. I had noticed alofty range of mountains at an immense distance west,and I had imagined that the lake lay on the otherside of this chain; but I was now informed that thosemountains formed the western frontier of the M’wootanN’zige, and that the lake was actually withina march of Parkani. I could not believe it possiblethat we were so near the object of our search.The guide Rabonga now appeared, and declared thatif we started early on the following morning we shouldbe able to wash in the lake by noon!

That night I hardly slept. For years I had strivento reach the “sources of the Nile.”In my nightly dreams during that arduous voyage I hadalways failed, but after so much hard work and perseverancethe cup was at my very lips, and I was to drink atthe mysterious fountain before another sun shouldset—at that great reservoir of Nature thatever since creation had baffled all discovery.

I had hoped, and prayed, and striven through all kindsof difficulties, in sickness, starvation, and fatigue,to reach that hidden source; and when it had appearedimpossible, we had both determined to die upon theroad rather than return defeated. Was it possiblethat it was so near, and that to-morrow we could say,“the work is accomplished”?

The 14th March. The sun had not risen when Iwas spurring my ox after the guide, who, having beenpromised a double handful of beads on arrival at thelake, had caught the enthusiasm of the moment.The day broke beautifully clear, and having crosseda deep valley between the hills, we toiled up theopposite slope. I hurried to the summit.The glory of our prize burst suddenly upon me!There, like a sea of quicksilver, lay far beneaththe grand expanse of water,—a boundlesssea horizon on the south and southwest, glitteringin the noonday sun; and on the west at fifty or sixtymiles distance blue mountains rose from the bosomof the lake to a height of about 7,000 feet aboveits level.

It is impossible to describe the triumph of that moment;—herewas the reward for all our labor—for theyears of tenacity with which we had toiled throughAfrica. England had won the sources of the Nile!Long before I reached this spot I had arranged togive three cheers with all our men in English stylein honor of the discovery, but now that I looked downupon the great inland sea lying nestled in the veryheart of Africa, and thought how vainly mankind hadsought these sources throughout so many ages, andreflected that I had been the humble instrument permittedto unravel this portion of the great mystery whenso many greater than I had failed, I felt too seriousto vent my feelings in vain cheers for victory, andI sincerely thanked God for having guided and supportedus through all dangers to the good end. I wasabout 1,500 feet above the lake, and I looked downfrom the steep granite cliff upon those welcome waters—uponthat vast reservoir which nourished Egypt and broughtfertility where all was wilderness—uponthat great source so long hidden from mankind; thatsource of bounty and of blessings to millions of humanbeings; and as one of the greatest objects in nature,I determined to honor it with a great name. Asan imperishable memorial of one loved and mournedby our gracious Queen and deplored by every Englishman,I called this great lake “the Albert Nyanza.”The Victoria and the Albert lakes are the two sourcesof the Nile.

ARTHUR JAMES BALFOUR

(1848-)

Although the prominence of Arthur James Balfour inEnglish contemporary life is in the main that of astatesman, he has a high place as a critic of philosophy,especially in its relation to religion. Duringthe early part of his life his interests were entirelythose of a student. He was born in 1848, a memberof the Cecil family, and a nephew of the Prime Minister,Lord Salisbury. His tastes were those of a retiredthinker. He cared for literature, music, andphilosophy, but very little for the political world;so little that he never read the newspapers. Thistendency was increased by his delicate health.When, therefore, as a young man in the neighborhoodof thirty, he was made Secretary for Scotland, peoplelaughed. His uncle’s choice proved to bea wise one, however; and he later, in 1886, gave hisnephew the very important position of Irish Secretary,at a time when some of the ablest and most experiencedstatesmen had failed. Mr. Balfour won an unexpectedsuccess and a wide reputation, and from that timeon he developed rapidly into one of the most skillfulstatesmen of the Conservative party. By traditionand by temperament he is an extreme Tory; and it isin the opposition, as a skillful fencer in debateand a sharp critic of pretentious schemes, that hehas been most admired and most feared. However,he is kept from being narrowly confined to the traditionalpoint of view by the philosophic interests and trainingof his mind, which he has turned into practical fairness.Some of his speeches are most original in suggestion,and all show a literary quality of a high order.His writings on other subjects are also broad, scholarly,and practical. ‘A Defense of PhilosophicDoubt’ is thought by some philosophers to bethe ablest work of destructive criticism since Hume.‘The Foundations of Belief’ covers somewhatthe same ground and in more popular fashion.‘Essays and Addresses’ is a collectionof papers on literature and sociology.

[Illustration: ARTHUR J. BALFOUR]

THE PLEASURES OF READING

From his Rectorial Address before the University ofGlasgow

I confess to have been much perplexed in my searchfor a topic on which I could say something to whichyou would have patience to listen, or on which I mightfind it profitable to speak. One theme howeverthere is, not inappropriate to the place in whichI stand, nor I hope unwelcome to the audience whichI address. The youngest of you have left behindthat period of youth during which it seems inconceivablethat any book should afford recreation except a story-book.Many of you are just reaching the period when, atthe end of your prescribed curriculum, the whole fieldand compass of literature lies outspread before you;when, with faculties trained and disciplined, andthe edge of curiosity not dulled or worn with use,you may enter at your leisure into the intellectualheritage of the centuries.

Now the question of how to read and what to read hasof late filled much space in the daily papers, ifit cannot strictly speaking be said to have profoundlyoccupied the public mind. But you need be underno alarm. I am not going to supply you with anew list of the hundred books most worth reading,nor am I about to take the world into my confidencein respect of my “favorite passages from thebest authors.” Nor again do I address myselfto the professed student, to the fortunate individualwith whom literature or science is the business aswell as the pleasure of life. I have not thequalifications which would enable me to undertakesuch a task with the smallest hope of success.My theme is humble, though the audience to whom Idesire to speak is large: for I speak to theordinary reader with ordinary capacities and ordinaryleisure, to whom reading is, or ought to be, not abusiness but a pleasure; and my theme is the enjoyment—not,mark you, the improvement, nor the glory, nor theprofit, but the enjoyment—which maybe derived by such an one from books.

It is perhaps due to the controversial habits engenderedby my unfortunate profession, that I find no easiermethod of making my own view clear than that of contrastingwith it what I regard as an erroneous view held bysomebody else; and in the present case the doctrinewhich I shall choose as a foil to my own, is one whichhas been stated with the utmost force and directnessby that brilliant and distinguished writer, Mr. FredericHarrison. He has, as many of you know, recentlygiven us, in a series of excellent essays, his opinionon the principles which should guide us in the choiceof books. Against that part of his treatise whichis occupied with specific recommendations of certainauthors I have not a word to say. He has resistedall the temptations to eccentricity which so easilybeset the modern critic. Every book which hepraises deserves his praise, and has long been praisedby the world at large. I do not, indeed, holdthat the verdict of the world is necessarily bindingon the individual conscience. I admit to thefull that there is an enormous quantity of hollowdevotion, of withered orthodoxy divorced from livingfaith, in the eternal chorus of praise which goesup from every literary altar to the memory of theimmortal dead. Nevertheless every critic is boundto recognize, as Mr. Harrison recognizes, that hemust put down to individual peculiarity any differencehe may have with the general verdict of the ages;he must feel that mankind are not likely to be in aconspiracy of error as to the kind of literary workwhich conveys to them the highest literary enjoyment,and that in such cases at least securus judicatorbis terrarum.

But it is quite possible to hold that any work recommendedby Mr. Harrison is worth repeated reading, and yetto reject utterly the theory of study by which theserecommendations are prefaced. For Mr. Harrisonis a ruthless censor. His index expurgatoriusincludes, so far as I can discover, the whole catalogueof the British Museum, with the exception of a smallremnant which might easily be contained in about thirtyor forty volumes. The vast remainder he contemplateswith feelings apparently not merely of indifference,but of active aversion. He surveys the boundlessand ever-increasing waste of books with emotions compoundedof disgust and dismay. He is almost tempted tosay in his haste that the invention of printing hasbeen an evil one for humanity. In the habitsof miscellaneous reading, born of a too easy accessto libraries, circulating and other, he sees many soul-destroyingtendencies; and his ideal reader would appear to bea gentleman who rejects with a lofty scorn all inhistory that does not pass for being first-rate inimportance, and all in literature that is not admittedto be first-rate in quality.

Now, I am far from denying that this theory is plausible.Of all that has been written, it is certain that theprofessed student can master but an infinitesimalfraction. Of that fraction the ordinary readercan master but a very small part. What advice,then, can be better than to select for study the fewmasterpieces that have come down to us, and to treatas non-existent the huge but undistinguished remainder?We are like travelers passing hastily through someancient city; filled with memorials of many generationsand more than one great civilization. Our timeis short. Of what may be seen we can only seeat best but a trifling fragment. Let us thentake care that we waste none of our precious momentsupon that which is less than the most excellent.So preaches Mr. Frederic Harrison; and when a doctrinewhich put thus may seem not only wise but obvious,is further supported by such assertions that habitsof miscellaneous reading “close the mind to whatis spiritually sustaining” by “stuffingit with what is simply curious,” or that suchmethods of study are worse than no habits of studyat all because they “gorge and enfeeble”the mind by “excess in that which cannot nourish,”I almost feel that in venturing to dissent from it,I may be attacking not merely the teaching of commonsense but the inspirations of a high morality.

Yet I am convinced that for most persons the viewsthus laid down by Mr. Harrison are wrong; and thatwhat he describes, with characteristic vigor, as “animpotent voracity for desultory information,”is in reality a most desirable and a not too commonform of mental appetite. I have no sympathy whateverwith the horror he expresses at the “incessantaccumulation of fresh books.” I am nevertempted to regret that Gutenberg was born into theworld. I care not at all though the “cataract

of printed stuff,” as Mr. Harrison calls it,should flow and still flow on until the cataloguesof our libraries should make libraries themselves.I am prepared, indeed, to express sympathy almostamounting to approbation for any one who would checkall writing which was not intended for theprinter. I pay no tribute of grateful admirationto those who have oppressed mankind with the dubiousblessing of the penny post. But the ground ofthe distinction is plain. We are always obligedto read our letters, and are sometimes obliged to answerthem. But who obliges us to wade through the piled-uplumber of an ancient library, or to skim more thanwe like off the frothy foolishness poured forth inceaseless streams by our circulating libraries?Dead dunces do not importune us; Grub Street doesnot ask for a reply by return of post. Even theirliving successors need hurt no one who possesses thevery moderate degree of social courage required tomake the admission that he has not read the last newnovel or the current number of a fashionable magazine.

But this is not the view of Mr. Harrison. Tohim the position of any one having free access toa large library is fraught with issues so tremendousthat, in order adequately to describe it, he has toseek for parallels in two of the most highly-wroughtepisodes in fiction: the Ancient Mariner, becalmedand thirsting on the tropic ocean; Bunyan’sChristian in the crisis of spiritual conflict.But there is here, surely, some error and some exaggeration.Has miscellaneous reading all the dreadful consequenceswhich Mr. Harrison depicts? Has it any of them?His declaration about the intellect being “gorgedand enfeebled” by the absorption of too muchinformation, expresses no doubt with great vigor ananalogy, for which there is high authority, betweenthe human mind and the human stomach; but surely itis an analogy which may be pressed too far. Ihave often heard of the individual whose excellentnatural gifts have been so overloaded with huge massesof undigested and indigestible learning that theyhave had no chance of healthy development. Butthough I have often heard of this personage, I havenever met him, and I believe him to be mythical.It is true, no doubt, that many learned people aredull; but there is no indication whatever that theyare dull because they are learned. True dullnessis seldom acquired; it is a natural grace, the manifestationsof which, however modified by education, remain insubstance the same. Fill a dull man to the brimwith knowledge, and he will not become less dull, asthe enthusiasts for education vainly imagine; butneither will he become duller, as Mr. Harrison appearsto suppose. He will remain in essence what healways has been and always must have been. Butwhereas his dullness would, if left to itself, havebeen merely vacuous, it may have become, under curefulcultivation, pretentious and pedantic.

I would further point out to you that while thereis no ground in experience for supposing that a keeninterest in those facts which Mr. Harrison describesas “merely curious” has any stupefyingeffect upon the mind, or has any tendency to renderit insensible to the higher things of literature andart, there is positive evidence that many of thosewho have most deeply felt the charm of these higherthings have been consumed by that omnivorous appetitefor knowledge which excites Mr. Harrison’s especialindignation. Dr. Johnson, for instance, thoughdeaf to some of the most delicate harmonies of verse,was without question a very great critic. Yetin Dr. Johnson’s opinion, literary history,which is for the most part composed of facts whichMr. Harrison would regard as insignificant, aboutauthors whom he would regard as pernicious, was themost delightful of studies. Again, consider thecase of Lord Macaulay. Lord Macaulay did everythingMr. Harrison says he ought not to have done.From youth to age he was continuously occupied in“gorging and enfeebling” his intellect,by the unlimited consumption of every species of literature,from the masterpieces of the age of Pericles to thelatest rubbish from the circulating library. Itis not told of him that his intellect suffered bythe process; and though it will hardly be claimedfor him that he was a great critic, none will denythat he possessed the keenest susceptibilities forliterary excellence in many languages and in everyform. If Englishmen and Scotchmen do not satisfyyou, I will take a Frenchman. The most accomplishedcritic whom France has produced is, by general admission,Ste.-Beuve. His capacity for appreciatingsupreme perfection in literature will be disputedby none; yet the great bulk of his vast literary industrywas expended upon the lives and writings of authorswhose lives Mr. Harrison would desire us to forget,and whose writings almost wring from him the wishthat the art of printing had never been discovered.

I am even bold enough to hazard the conjecture (Itrust he will forgive me) that Mr. Harrison’slife may be quoted against Mr. Harrison’s theory.I entirely decline to believe, without further evidence,that the writings whose vigor of style and of thoughthave been the delight of us all are the product ofhis own system. I hope I do him no wrong, butI cannot help thinking that if we knew the truth, weshould find that he followed the practice of thoseworthy physicians who, after prescribing the mostabstemious diet to their patients, may be seen partakingfreely, and to all appearances safely, of the mostsucculent and the most unwholesome of the forbiddendishes.

It has to be noted that Mr. Harrison’s listof the books which deserve perusal would seem to indicatethat in his opinion, the pleasures to be derived fromliterature are chiefly pleasures of the imagination.Poets, dramatists, and novelists form the chief portionof the somewhat meagre fare which is specificallypermitted to his disciples. Now, though I havealready stated that the list is not one of which anyperson is likely to assert that it contains bookswhich ought to be excluded, yet, even from the pointof view of what may be termed aesthetic enjoyment,the field in which we are allowed to take our pleasuresseems to me unduly restricted.

Contemporary poetry, for instance, on which Mr. Harrisonbestows a good deal of hard language, has and musthave, for the generation which produces it, certainqualities not likely to be possessed by any other.Charles Lamb has somewhere declared that a pun losesall its virtues as soon as the momentary quality ofthe intellectual and social atmosphere in which itwas born has changed its character. What is trueof this, the humblest effort of verbal art, is truein a different measure and degree of all, even ofthe highest, forms of literature. To some extentevery work requires interpretation to generations whoare separated by differences of thought or educationfrom the age in which it was originally produced.That this is so with every book which depends forits interest upon feelings and fashions which haveutterly vanished, no one will be disposed, I imagine,to deny. Butler’s ‘Hudibras,’for instance, which was the delight of a gay and wittysociety, is to me at least not unfrequently dull.Of some works, no doubt, which made a noise in theirday it seems impossible to detect the slightest raceof charm. But this is not the case with ‘Hudibras.’Its merits are obvious. That they should haveappealed to a generation sick of the reign of the“Saints” is precisely what we should haveexpected. But to us, who are not sick of thereign of the Saints, they appeal but imperfectly.The attempt to reproduce artificially the frame ofmind of those who first read the poem is not onlyan effort, but is to most people, at all events, anunsuccessful effort. What is true of ‘Hudibras’is true also, though in an inconceivably smaller degree,of those great works of imagination which deal withthe elemental facts of human character and human passion.Yet even on these, time does, though lightly, lay hishand. Wherever what may be called “historicsympathy” is required, there will be some diminutionof the enjoyment which those must have felt who werethe poet’s contemporaries. We look, so tospeak, at the same splendid landscape as they, butdistance has made it necessary for us to aid our naturalvision with glasses, and some loss of light will thusinevitably be produced, and some inconvenience fromthe difficulty of truly adjusting the focus.Of all authors, Homer would, I suppose, be thoughtto suffer least from such drawbacks. But yet inorder to listen to Homer’s accents with theears of an ancient Greek, we must be able, among otherthings, to enter into a view about the gods which isas far removed from what we should describe as religioussentiment, as it is from the frigid ingenuity of thoselater poets who regarded the deities of Greek mythologyas so many wheels in the supernatural machinery withwhich it pleased them to carry on the action of theirpieces. If we are to accept Mr. Herbert Spencer’sviews as to the progress of our species, changes ofsentiment are likely to occur which will even moreseriously interfere with the world’s delight

in the Homeric poems. When human beings becomeso nicely “adjusted to their environment”that courage and dexterity in battle will have becomeas useless among civic virtues as an old helmet isamong the weapons of war; when fighting gets to belooked upon with the sort of disgust excited in usby cannibalism; and when public opinion shall regarda warrior much in the same light that we regard ahangman,—I do not see how any fragment ofthat vast and splendid literature which depends forits interest upon deeds of heroism and the joy ofbattle is to retain its ancient charm.

About these remote contingencies, however, I am gladto think that neither you nor I need trouble our heads;and if I parenthetically allude to them now, it ismerely as an illustration of a truth not always sufficientlyremembered, and as an excuse for those who find inthe genuine, though possibly second-rate, productionsof their own age, a charm for which they search invain among the mighty monuments of the past.

But I leave this train of thought, which has perhapsalready taken me too far, in order to point out amore fundamental error, as I think it, which arisesfrom regarding literature solely from this high aestheticstandpoint. The pleasures of imagination, derivedfrom the best literary models, form without doubtthe most exquisite portion of the enjoyment whichwe may extract from books; but they do not, in my opinion,form the largest portion if we take into account massas well as quality in our calculation. Thereis the literature which appeals to the imaginationor the fancy, some stray specimens of which Mr. Harrisonwill permit us to peruse; but is there not also theliterature which satisfies the curiosity? Isthis vast storehouse of pleasure to be thrown hastilyaside because many of the facts which it contains arealleged to be insignificant, because the appetite towhich they minister is said to be morbid? Considera little. We are here dealing with one of thestrongest intellectual impulses of rational beings.Animals, as a rule, trouble themselves but littleabout anything unless they want either to eat it orto run away from it. Interest in and wonder atthe works of nature and the doings of man are productsof civilization, and excite emotions which do notdiminish but increase with increasing knowledge andcultivation. Feed them and they grow; ministerto them and they will greatly multiply. We hearmuch indeed of what is called “idle curiosity”;but I am loth to brand any form of curiosity as necessarilyidle. Take, for example, one of the most singular,but in this age one of the most universal, forms inwhich it is accustomed to manifest itself: Imean that of an exhaustive study of the contents ofthe morning and evening papers. It is certainlyremarkable that any person who has nothing to getby it should destroy his eyesight and confuse hisbrain by a conscientious attempt to master the dulland doubtful details of the European diary daily transmitted

to us by “Our Special Correspondent.”But it must be remembered that this is only a somewhatunprofitable exercise of that disinterested love ofknowledge which moves men to penetrate the Polar snows,to build up systems of philosophy, or to explore thesecrets of the remotest heavens. It has in itthe rudiments of infinite and varied delights.It can be turned, and it should be turnedinto a curiosity for which nothing that has been done,or thought, or suffered, or believed, no law whichgoverns the world of matter or the world of mind,can be wholly alien or uninteresting.

Truly it is a subject for astonishment that, insteadof expanding to the utmost the employment of thispleasure-giving faculty, so many persons should setthemselves to work to limit its exercise by all kindsof arbitrary regulations. Some there are, forexample, who tell us that the acquisition of knowledgeis all very well, but that it must be usefulknowledge; meaning usually thereby that it must enablea man to get on in a profession, pass an examination,shine in conversation, or obtain a reputation forlearning. But even if they mean something higherthan this, even if they mean that knowledge to beworth anything must subserve ultimately if not immediatelythe material or spiritual interests of mankind, thedoctrine is one which should be energetically repudiated.I admit, of course, at once, that discoveries the mostapparently remote from human concerns have often provedthemselves of the utmost commercial or manufacturingvalue. But they require no such justificationfor their existence, nor were they striven for withany such object. Navigation is not the finalcause of astronomy, nor telegraphy of electro-dynamics,nor dye-works of chemistry. And if it be truethat the desire of knowledge for the sake of knowledgewas the animating motive of the great men who firstwrested her secrets from nature, why should it notalso be enough for us, to whom it is not given todiscover, but only to learn as best we may what hasbeen discovered by others?

Another maxim, more plausible but equally pernicious,is that superficial knowledge is worse than no knowledgeat all. That “a little knowledge is a dangerousthing” is a saying which has now got currencyas a proverb stamped in the mint of Pope’s versification;of Pope, who with the most imperfect knowledge ofGreek translated Homer, with the most imperfect knowledgeof the Elizabethan drama edited Shakespeare, and withthe most imperfect knowledge of philosophy wrote the’Essay on Man.’ But what is this“little knowledge” which is supposed tobe so dangerous? What is it “little”in relation to? If in relation to what thereis to know, then all human knowledge is little.If in relation to what actually is known by somebody,then we must condemn as “dangerous” theknowledge which Archimedes possessed of mechanics,or Copernicus of astronomy; for a shilling primerand a few weeks’ study will enable any student

to outstrip in mere information some of the greatestteachers of the past. No doubt, that little knowledgewhich thinks itself to be great may possibly be adangerous, as it certainly is a most ridiculous thing.We have all suffered under that eminently absurd individualwho on the strength of one or two volumes, imperfectlyapprehended by himself, and long discredited in theestimation of everyone else, is prepared to supplyyou on the shortest notice with a dogmatic solutionof every problem suggested by this “unintelligibleworld” or the political variety of the samepernicious genus, whose statecraft consists in theready application to the most complex question ofnational interest of some high-sounding commonplacewhich has done weary duty on a thousand platforms,and which even in its palmiest days was never fitfor anything better than a peroration. But inour dislike of the individual, do not let us mistakethe diagnosis of his disease. He suffers notfrom ignorance but from stupidity. Give him learningand you make him not wise, but only more pretentiousin his folly.

I say then that so far from a little knowledge beingundesirable, a little knowledge is all that on mostsubjects any of us can hope to attain; and that, asa source not of worldly profit but of personal pleasure,it may be of incalculable value to its possessor.But it will naturally be asked, “How are weto select from among the infinite number of thingswhich may be known, those which it is best worth whilefor us to know?” We are constantly being toldto concern ourselves with learning what is important,and not to waste our energies upon what is insignificant.But what are the marks by which we shall recognizethe important, and how is it to be distinguished fromthe insignificant. A precise and complete answerto this question which shall be true for all men cannotbe given. I am considering knowledge, recollect,as it ministers to enjoyment; and from this pointof view each unit of information is obviously of importancein proportion as it increases the general sum of enjoymentwhich we obtain, or expect to obtain, from knowledge.This, of course, makes it impossible to lay down preciserules which shall be an equally sure guide to all sortsand conditions of men; for in this, as in other matters,tastes must differ, and against real difference oftaste there is no appeal.

There is, however, one caution which it may be worthyour while to keep in view:—Do not be persuadedinto applying any general proposition on this subjectwith a foolish impartiality to every kind of knowledge.There are those who tell you that it is the broad generalitiesand the far-reaching principles which govern the world,which are alone worthy of your attention. A factwhich is not an illustration of a law, in the opinionof these persons appears to lose all its value.Incidents which do not fit into some great generalization,events which are merely picturesque, details which

are merely curious, they dismiss as unworthy the interestof a reasoning being. Now, even in science thisdoctrine in its extreme form does not hold good.The most scientific of men have taken profound interestin the investigation of facts from the determinationof which they do not anticipate any material additionto our knowledge of the laws which regulate the Universe.In these matters, I need hardly say that I speak whollywithout authority. But I have always been underthe impression that an investigation which has costhundreds of thousands of pounds; which has stirredon three occasions the whole scientific communitythroughout the civilized world; on which has beenexpended the utmost skill in the construction of instrumentsand their application to purposes of research (I referto the attempts made to determine the distance ofthe sun by observation of the transit of Venus),—would,even if they had been brought to a successful issue,have furnished mankind with the knowledge of no newastronomical principle. The laws which governthe motions of the solar system, the proportions whichthe various elements in that system bear to one another,have long been known. The distance of the sunitself is known within limits of error relativelyspeaking not very considerable. Were the measuringrod we apply to the heavens based on an estimate ofthe sun’s distance from the earth which waswrong by (say) three per cent., it would not to thelay mind seem to affect very materially our view eitherof the distribution of the heavenly bodies or of theirmotions. And yet this information, this pieceof celestial gossip, would seem to have been the chiefastronomical result expected from the successful prosecutionof an investigation in which whole nations have interestedthemselves.

But though no one can, I think, pretend that sciencedoes not concern itself, and properly concern itself,with facts which are not to all appearance illustrationsof law, it is undoubtedly true that for those whodesire to extract the greatest pleasure from science,a knowledge, however elementary, of the leading principlesof investigation and the larger laws of nature, isthe acquisition most to be desired. To him whois not a specialist, a comprehension of the broad outlinesof the universe as it presents itself to his scientificimagination is the thing most worth striving to attain.But when we turn from science to what is rather vaguelycalled history, the same principles of study do not,I think, altogether apply, and mainly for this reason:that while the recognition of the reign of law isthe chief amongst the pleasures imparted by science,our inevitable ignorance makes it the least amongthe pleasures imparted by history.

It is no doubt true that we are surrounded by adviserswho tell us that all study of the past is barren,except in so far as it enables us to determine theprinciples by which the evolution of human societiesis governed. How far such an investigation hasbeen up to the present time fruitful in results, itwould be unkind to inquire. That it will everenable us to trace with accuracy the course which Statesand nations are destined to pursue in the future,or to account in detail for their history in the past,I do not in the least believe. We are borne alonglike travelers on some unexplored stream. We mayknow enough of the general configuration of the globeto be sure that we are making our way towards theocean. We may know enough, by experience or theory,of the laws regulating the flow of liquids, to conjecturehow the river will behave under the varying influencesto which it may be subject. More than this wecannot know. It will depend largely upon causeswhich, in relation to any laws which we are even likelyto discover may properly be called accidental, whetherwe are destined sluggishly to drift among fever-strickenswamps, to hurry down perilous rapids, or to glidegently through fair scenes of peaceful cultivation.

But leaving on one side ambitious sociological speculations,and even those more modest but hitherto more successfulinvestigations into the causes which have in particularcases been principally operative in producing greatpolitical changes, there are still two modes in whichwe can derive what I may call “spectacular”enjoyment from the study of history. There isfirst the pleasure which arises from the contemplationof some great historic drama, or some broad and well-markedphase of social development. The story of therise, greatness, and decay of a nation is like somevast epic which contains as subsidiary episodes thevaried stories of the rise, greatness, and decay ofcreeds, of parties, and of statesmen. The imaginationis moved by the slow unrolling of this great pictureof human mutability, as it is moved by the contrastedpermanence of the abiding stars. The ceaselessconflict, the strange echoes of long-forgotten controversies,the confusion of purpose, the successes in which laydeep the seeds of future evils, the failures thatultimately divert the otherwise inevitable danger,the heroism which struggles to the last for a causeforedoomed to defeat, the wickedness which sides withright, and the wisdom which huzzas at the triumph offolly,—fate, meanwhile, amidst this turmoiland perplexity, working silently towards the predestinedend,—all these form together a subjectthe contemplation of which need surely never weary.

But yet there is another and very different speciesof enjoyment to be derived from the records of thepast, which requires a somewhat different method ofstudy in order that it may be fully tasted. Insteadof contemplating as it were from a distance the largeraspects of the human drama, we may elect to move infamiliar fellowship amid the scenes and actors ofspecial periods. We may add to the interest wederive from the contemplation of contemporary politics,a similar interest derived from a not less minute,and probably more accurate, knowledge of some comparativelybrief passage in the political history of the past.We may extend the social circle in which we move,a circle perhaps narrowed and restricted through circumstancesbeyond our control, by making intimate acquaintances,perhaps even close friends, among a society long departed,but which, when we have once learnt the trick of it,we may, if it so pleases us, revive.

It is this kind of historical reading which is usuallybranded as frivolous and useless; and persons whoindulge in it often delude themselves into thinkingthat the real motive of their investigation into bygonescenes and ancient scandals is philosophic interestin an important historical episode, whereas in truthit is not the philosophy which glorifies the details,but the details which make tolerable the philosophy.Consider, for example, the case of the French Revolution.The period from the taking of the Bastile to the fallof Robespierre is about the same as that which verycommonly intervenes between two of our general elections.On these comparatively few months, libraries havebeen written. The incidents of every week arematters of familiar knowledge. The characterand the biography of every actor in the drama hasbeen made the subject of minute study; and by commonadmission there is no more fascinating page in thehistory of the world. But the interest is notwhat is commonly called philosophic, it is personal.Because the Revolution is the dominant fact in modernhistory, therefore people suppose that the doingsof this or that provincial lawyer, tossed into temporaryeminence and eternal infamy by some freak of the revolutionarywave, or the atrocities committed by this or that mob,half drunk with blood, rhetoric, and alcohol, are oftranscendent importance. In truth their interestis great, but their importance is small. Whatwe are concerned to know as students of the philosophyof history is, not the character of each turn andeddy in the great social cataract, but the mannerin which the currents of the upper stream drew surelyin towards the final plunge, and slowly collected themselvesafter the catastrophe again, to pursue at a differentlevel their renewed and comparatively tranquil course.

Now, if so much of the interest of the French Revolutiondepends upon our minute knowledge of each passingincident, how much more necessary is such knowledgewhen we are dealing with the quiet nooks and cornersof history; when we are seeking an introduction, letus say, into the literary society of Johnson, or thefashionable society of Walpole. Society, deador alive, can have no charm without intimacy, and nointimacy without interest in trifles which I fear Mr.Harrison would describe as “merely curious.”If we would feel at our ease in any company, if wewish to find humor in its jokes, and point in itsrepartees, we must know something of the beliefs andthe prejudices of its various members, their lovesand their hates, their hopes and their fears, theirmaladies, their marriages, and their flirtations.If these things are beneath our notice, we shall notbe the less qualified to serve our Queen and country,but need make no attempt to extract pleasure fromone of the most delightful departments of literature.

That there is such a thing as trifling informationI do not of course question; but the frame of mindin which the reader is constantly weighing the exactimportance to the universe at large of each circumstancewhich the author presents to his notice, is not oneconducive to the true enjoyment of a picture whoseeffect depends upon a multitude of slight and seeminglyinsignificant touches, which impress the mind oftenwithout remaining in the memory. The best methodof guarding against the danger of reading what isuseless is to read only what is interesting; a truthwhich will seem a paradox to a whole class of readers,fitting objects of our commiseration, who may be oftenrecognized by their habit of asking some adviser fora list of books, and then marking out a scheme ofstudy in the course of which all are to be conscientiouslyperused. These unfortunate persons apparentlyread a book principally with the object of gettingto the end of it. They reach the word Finiswith the same sensation of triumph as an Indian feelswho strings a fresh scalp to his girdle. Theyare not happy unless they mark by some definite performanceeach step in the weary path of self-improvement.To begin a volume and not to finish it would be todeprive themselves of this satisfaction; it would beto lose all the reward of their earlier self-denialby a lapse from virtue at the end. To skip, accordingto their literary code, is a species of cheating; itis a mode of obtaining credit for erudition on falsepretenses; a plan by which the advantages of learningare surreptitiously obtained by those who have notwon them by honest toil. But all this is quitewrong. In matters literary, works have no savingefficacy. He has only half learnt the art ofreading who has not added to it the even more refinedaccomplishments of skipping and of skimming; and thefirst step has hardly been taken in the directionof making literature a pleasure until interest inthe subject, and not a desire to spare (so to speak)the author’s feelings, or to accomplish an appointedtask, is the prevailing motive of the reader.

I have now reached, not indeed the end of my subject,which I have scarcely begun, but the limits inexorablyset by the circumstances under which it is treated.Yet I am unwilling to conclude without meeting anobjection to my method of dealing with it, which hasI am sure been present to the minds of not a few whohave been good enough to listen to me with patience.It will be said that I have ignored the higher functionsof literature; that I have degraded it from its rightfulplace, by discussing only certain ways in which itmay minister to the entertainment of an idle hour,leaving wholly out of sight its contributions to whatMr. Harrison calls our “spiritual sustenance.”Now, this is partly because the first of these topicsand not the second was the avowed subject of my address;but it is partly because I am deliberately of opinionthat it is the pleasures and not the profits, spiritualor temporal, of literature which most require to bepreached in the ear of the ordinary reader. Ihold indeed the faith that all such pleasures ministerto the development of much that is best in man—mentaland moral; but the charm is broken and the object lostif the remote consequence is consciously pursued tothe exclusion of the immediate end. It will not,I suppose, be denied that the beauties of nature areat least as well qualified to minister to our higherneeds as are the beauties of literature. Yetwe do not say we are going to walk to the top of suchand such a hill in order to drink in “spiritualsustenance.” We say we are going to lookat the view. And I am convinced that this, whichis the natural and simple way of considering literatureas well as nature, is also the true way. The habitof always requiring some reward for knowledge beyondthe knowledge itself, be that reward some materialprize or be it what is vaguely called self-improvement,is one with which I confess I have little sympathy,fostered though it is by the whole scheme of our moderneducation. Do not suppose that I desire the impossible.I would not if I could destroy the examination system.But there are times, I confess, when I feel temptedsomewhat to vary the prayer of the poet, and to askwhether Heaven has not reserved, in pity to this much-educatinggeneration, some peaceful desert of literature asyet unclaimed by the crammer or the coach; where itmight be possible for the student to wander, evenperhaps to stray, at his own pleasure without findingevery beauty labeled, every difficulty engineered,every nook surveyed, and a professional cicerone standingat every corner to guide each succeeding traveleralong the same well-worn round. If such a wishwere granted, I would further ask that the domainof knowledge thus “neutralized” shouldbe the literature of our own country. I grantto the full that the systematic study of someliterature must be a principal element in the educationof youth. But why should that literature be ourown? Why should we brush off the bloom and freshness

from the works to which Englishmen and Scotchmen mostnaturally turn for refreshment,—namely,those written in their own language? Why shouldwe associate them with the memory of hours spent inweary study; in the effort to remember for purposesof examination what no human being would wish to rememberfor any other; in the struggle to learn something,not because the learner desires to know it, becausehe desires some one else to know that he knows it?This is the dark side of the examination system; asystem necessary and therefore excellent, but onewhich does, through the very efficiency and thoroughnessof the drill by which it imparts knowledge, to someextent impair the most delicate pleasures by whichthe acquisition of knowledge should be attended.

How great those pleasures may be, I trust there aremany here who can testify. When I compare theposition of the reader of to-day with that of hispredecessor of the sixteenth century. I am amazedat the ingratitude of those who are tempted even fora moment to regret the invention of printing and themultiplication of books. There is now no moodof mind to which a man may not administer the appropriatenutriment or medicine at the cost of reaching downa volume from his bookshelf. In every departmentof knowledge infinitely more is known, and what isknown is incomparably more accessible, than it wasto our ancestors. The lighter forms of literature,good, bad, and indifferent, which have added so vastlyto the happiness of mankind, have increased beyondpowers of computation; nor do I believe that thereis any reason to think that they have elbowed outtheir more serious and important brethren. Itis perfectly possible for a man, not a professed student,and who only gives to reading the leisure hours ofa business life, to acquire such a general knowledgeof the laws of nature and the facts of history thatevery great advance made in either department shallbe to him both intelligible and interesting; and hemay besides have among his familiar friends many adeparted worthy whose memory is embalmed in the pagesof memoir or biography. All this is ours for theasking. All this we shall ask for, if only itbe our happy fortune to love for its own sake thebeauty and the knowledge to be gathered from books.And if this be our fortune, the world may be kindor unkind, it may seem to us to be hastening on thewings of enlightenment and progress to an imminentmillennium, or it may weigh us down with the senseof insoluble difficulty and irremediable wrong; butwhatever else it be, so long as we have good healthand a good library, it can hardly be dull.

THE BALLAD

(Popular or Communal)

BY F.B. GUMMERE

The popular ballad, as it is understood for the purposeof these selections, is a narrative in lyric form,with no traces of individual authorship, and is preservedmainly by oral tradition. In its earliest stagesit was meant to be sung by a crowd, and got its namefrom the dance to which it furnished the sole musicalaccompaniment. In these primitive communitiesthe ballad was doubtless chanted by the entire folk,in festivals mainly of a religious character.Explorers still meet something of the sort in savagetribes: and children’s games preserve amongus some relics of this protoplasmic form of verse-making,in which the single poet or artist was practicallyunknown, and spontaneous, improvised verses aroseout of the occasion itself; in which the whole communitytook part; and in which the beat of foot—alongwith the gesture which expressed narrative elementsof the song—was inseparable from the wordsand the melody. This native growth of song, inwhich the chorus or refrain, the dance of a festalmultitude, and the spontaneous nature of the words,were vital conditions, gradually faded away beforethe advance of cultivated verse and the vigor of productionin what one may call poetry of the schools. Veryearly in the history of the ballad, a demand for moreart must have called out or at least emphasized theartist, the poet, who chanted new verses while thethrong kept up the refrain or burden. Moreover,as interest was concentrated upon the words or story,people began to feel that both dance and melody wereseparable if not alien features; and thus they demandedthe composed and recited ballad, to the harm and ultimateruin of that spontaneous song for the festal, dancingcrowd. Still, even when artistry had found a footingin ballad verse, it long remained mere agent and mouthpiecefor the folk; the communal character of the balladwas maintained in form and matter. Events ofinterest were sung in almost contemporary and entirelyimprovised verse; and the resulting ballads, carriedover the borders of their community and passed downfrom generation to generation, served as newspaperto their own times and as chronicle to posterity.It is the kind of song to which Tacitus bears witnessas the sole form of history among the early Germans;and it is evident that such a stock of ballads musthave furnished considerable raw material to the epic.Ballads, in whatever original shape, went to the makingof the English ‘Beowulf,’ of the German‘Nibelungenlied.’ Moreover, a studyof dramatic poetry leads one back to similar communalorigins. What is loosely called a “chorus,”—originally,as the name implies, a dance—out of whicholder forms of the drama were developed, could betraced back to identity with primitive forms of theballad. The purely lyrical ballad, even, thechanson of the people, so rare in English butso abundant among other races, is evidently a growthfrom the same root.

If, now, we assume for this root the name of communalpoem, and if we bear in mind the dominant importanceof the individual, the artist, in advancing stagesof poetry, it is easy to understand why for civilizedand lettered communities the ballad has ceased to haveany vitality whatever. Under modern conditionsthe making of ballads is a closed account. Forour times poetry means something written by a poet,and not something sung more or less spontaneouslyby a dancing throng. Indeed, paper and ink, theagents of preservation in the case of ordinary verse,are for ballads the agents of destruction. Thebroadside press of three centuries ago, while it rescuedhere and there a genuine ballad, poured out a massof vulgar imitations which not only displaced and destroyedthe ballad of oral tradition, but brought contemptupon good and bad alike. Poetry of the people,to which our ballad belongs, is a thing of the past.Even rude and distant communities, like those of Afghanistan,cannot give us the primitive conditions. The communalballad is rescued, when rescued at all, by the fragilechances of a written copy or of oral tradition; andwe are obliged to study it under terms of artisticpoetry,—that is, we are forced to take throughthe eye and the judgment what was meant for the earand immediate sensation. Poetry for thepeople, however, “popular poetry” in themodern phrase, is a very different affair. Streetsongs, vulgar rhymes, or even improvisations of theconcert-halls, tawdry and sentimental stuff,—thesethings are sundered by the world’s width frompoetry of the people, from the folk in verse,whether it echo in a great epos which chants the clashof empires or linger in a ballad of the countrysidesung under the village linden. For this balladis a part of the poetry which comes from the peopleas a whole, from a homogeneous folk, large or small;while the song of street or concert-hall is deliberatelycomposed for a class, a section, of the community.It would therefore be better to use some other termthan “popular” when we wish to specifythe ballad of tradition, and so avoid all taint ofvulgarity and the trivial. Nor must we go tothe other extreme. Those high-born people whofigure in traditional ballads—Childe Waters,Lady Maisry, and the rest—do not requireus to assume composition in aristocratic circles; forthe lower classes of the people in ballad days hadno separate literature, and a ballad of the folk belongedto the community as a whole. The same habit ofthought, the same standard of action, ruled alike thenoble and his meanest retainer. Oral transmission,the test of the ballad, is of course nowhere possiblesave in such an unlettered community. Since allcritics are at one in regard to this homogeneous characterof the folk with whom and out of whom these songshad their birth, one is justified in removing alldoubt from the phrase by speaking not of the popularballad but of the communal ballad, the ballad of acommunity.

With regard to the making of a ballad, one must repeata caution, hinted already, and made doubly importantby a vicious tendency in the study of all phases ofculture. It is a vital mistake to explain primitiveconditions by exact analogy with conditions of modernsavagery and barbarism. Certain conclusions,always guarded and cautious to a degree, may indeedbe drawn; but it is folly to insist that what now goeson among shunted races, belated detachments in thegreat march of culture, must have gone on among thedominant and mounting peoples who had reached thesame external conditions of life. The homogeneousand unlettered state of the ballad-makers is not tobe put on a level with the ignorance of barbarism,nor explained by the analogy of songs among modernsavage tribes. Fortunately we have better material.The making of a ballad by a community can be illustratedfrom a case recorded by Pastor Lyngbye in his invaluableaccount of life on the Faroe Islands a century ago.Not only had the islanders used from most ancient timestheir traditional and narrative songs as music forthe dance, but they had also maintained the old fashionof making a ballad. In the winter, says Lyngbye,dancing is their chief amusement and is an affair ofthe entire community. At such a dance, one ormore persons begin to sing; then all who are presentjoin in the ballad, or at least in the refrain.As they dance, they show by their gestures and expressionthat they follow with eagerness the course of thestory which they are singing. More than this,the ballad is often a spontaneous product of the occasion.A fisherman, who has had some recent mishap with hisboat, is pushed by stalwart comrades into the middleof the throng, while the dancers sing verses abouthim and his lack of skill,—verses improvisedon the spot and with a catching and clamorous refrain.If these verses win favor, says Lyngbye, they arerepeated from year to year, with slight additionsor corrections, and become a permanent ballad.Bearing in mind the extraordinary readiness to improviseshown even in these days by peasants in every partof Europe, we thus gain some definite notion aboutthe spontaneous and communal elements which went tothe making of the best type of primitive verse; forthese Faroe islanders were no savages, but simplya homeogeneous and isolated folk which still heldto the old ways of communal song.

Critics of the ballad, moreover, agree that it haslittle or no subjective traits,—an easyinference from the conditions just described.There is no individuality lurking behind the wordsof the ballad, and above all, no evidence of thatindividuality in the form of sentiment. Sentimentand individuality are the very essence of modern poetry,and the direct result of individualism in verse.Given a poet, sentiment—and it may be nobleand precious enough—is sure to follow.But the ballad, an epic in little, forces one’sattention to the object, the scene, the story, andaway from the maker.

“The king sitsin Dumferling town.”

begins one of the noblest of all ballads; while oneof the greatest of modern poems opens with somethingpersonal and pathetic, key-note to all that follows:—

“My heart aches,and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense ...”

Even when a great poet essays the ballad, either heputs sentiment into it, or else he keeps sentimentout of it by a tour de force. Admirableand noble as one must call the conclusion of an artisticballad such as Tennyson’s ‘Revenge,’it is altogether different from the conclusion ofsuch a communal ballad as ‘Sir Patrick Spens.’That subtle quality of the ballad which lies in solutionwith the story and which—as in ’ChildMaurice’ or ‘Babylon’ or ’Edward’—compelsin us sensations akin to those called out by the sentimentof the poet, is a wholly impersonal if strangely effectivequality, far removed from the corresponding elementsof the poem of art. At first sight, one mightsay that Browning’s dramatic lyrics had thisimpersonal quality. But compare the close of‘Give a Rouse,’ chorus and all, with theclose of ‘Child Maurice,’ that swift andrelentless stroke of pure tragedy which called outthe enthusiasm of so great a critic as Gray.

The narrative of the communal ballad is full of leapsand omissions; the style is simple to a fault; thediction is spontaneous and free. Assonance frequentlytakes the place of rhyme, and a word often rhymeswith itself. There is a lack of poetic adornmentin the style quite as conspicuous as the lack of reflectionand moralizing in the matter. Metaphor and simileare rare and when found are for the most part standingphrases common to all the ballads; there is never poetryfor poetry’s sake. Iteration is the chiefmark of ballad style; and the favorite form of thiseffective figure is what one may call incrementalrepetition. The question is repeated with theanswer; each increment in a series of related factshas a stanza for itself, identical, save for the newfact, with the other stanzas. ‘Babylon’furnishes good instances of this progressive iteration.Moreover, the ballad differs from earlier Englishepics in that it invariably has stanzas and rhyme;of the two forms of stanza, the two-line stanza witha refrain is probably older than the stanza with fouror six lines.

This necessary quality of the stanza points to theorigin of the ballad in song; but longer ballads,such as those that make up the ’Gest of RobinHood,’ an epic in little, were not sung as lyricsor to aid the dance, but were either chanted in amonotonous fashion or else recited outright.Chappell, in his admirable work on old English music(’Music of the Olden Time,’ ii. 790),names a third class of “characteristic airsof England,”—the “historicaland very long ballads, ... invariably of simple construction,usually plaintive.... They were rarely if everused for dancing.” Most of the longer ballads,

however, were doubtless given by one person in a sortof recitative; this is the case with modern balladsof Russia and Servia, where the bystanders now andthen join in a chorus. Precisely in the sameway ballads were divorced from the dance, originallytheir vital condition; but in the refrain, which isattached to so many ballads, one finds an element whichhas survived from those earliest days of communalsong.

Of oldest communal poetry no actual ballad has comedown to us. Hints and even fragments, however,are pointed out in ancient records, mainly as thematerial of chronicle or legend. In the Bible(Numbers xxi. 17), where “Israel sang this song,”we are not going too far when we regard the fragmentas part of a communal ballad. “Spring up,O well: sing ye unto it: the princes diggedthe well, the nobles of the people digged it, by thedirection of the lawgiver, with their staves.”Deborah’s song has something of the communalnote; and when Miriam dances and sings with her maidens,one is reminded of the many ballads made by dancingand singing bands of women in mediaeval Europe,—forinstance, the song made in the seventh century tothe honor of St. Faro, and “sung by the womenas they danced and clapped their hands.”The question of ancient Greek ballads, and their relationto the epic, is not to be discussed here; nor canwe make more than an allusion to the theory of Niebuhrthat the early part of Livy is founded on, old Romanballads. A popular discussion of this mattermay be found in Macaulay’s preface to his own‘Lays of Ancient Rome.’ The balladsof modern Europe are a survival of older communalpoetry, more or less influenced by artistic and individualconditions of authorship, but wholly impersonal, andwith an appeal to our interest which seems to comefrom a throng and not from the solitary poet.Attention was early called to the ballads of Spain;printed at first as broadsides, they were gatheredinto a volume as early as 1550. On the otherhand, ballads were neglected in France until veryrecent times; for specimens of the French ballad, andfor an account of it, the reader should consult ProfessorCrane’s ’Chansons Populaires de France,’New York, 1891. It is with ballads of the Germanicrace, however, that we are now concerned. Denmark,Norway, Sweden, Iceland, the Faroe Islands; Scotlandand England; the Netherlands and Germany: allof these countries offer us admirable specimens ofthe ballad. Particularly, the great collectionsof Grundtvig (’Danmarks Gamle Folkeviser’)for Denmark, and of Child (’The English andScottish Popular Ballads’) for our own tongue,show how common descent or borrowing connects theindividual ballads of these groups. “Almostevery Norwegian, Swedish, or Icelandic ballad,”says Grundtvig, “is found in a Danish versionof Scandinavian ballads; moreover, a larger numbercan be found in English and Scottish versions thanin German or Dutch versions.” Again, wefind certain national preferences in the character

of the ballads which have come down to us. Scandinaviakept the old heroic lays (Kaempeviser); Germany wovethem into her epic, as witness the Nibelungen Lay;but England and Scotland have none of them in anyshape. So, too, the mythic ballad, scantily representedin English, and practically unknown in Germany, aboundsin Scandinavian collections. The Faroe Islandsand Norway, as Grundtvig tells us, show the best recordfor ballads preserved by oral tradition; while nobleladies of Denmark, three or four centuries ago, didhigh service to ballad literature by making collectionsin manuscript of the songs current then in the castleas in the cottage.

For England, one is compelled to begin the list ofknown ballads with the thirteenth century. ‘TheBattle of Maldon,’ composed in the last decadeof the tenth century, though spirited enough and fullof communal vigor, has no stanzaic structure, followsin metre and style the rules of the Old English epic,and is only a ballad by courtesy; about the balladsused a century or two later by historians of England,we can do nothing but guess; and there is no firmground under the critic’s foot until he comesto the Robin Hood ballads, which Professor Child assignsto the thirteenth century. ‘The Battle ofOtterburn’ (1388) opens a series of balladsbased on actual events and stretching into the eighteenthcentury. Barring the Robin Hood cycle,—anepic constructed from this attractive material liesbefore us in the famous ’Gest of Robin Hood,’printed as early as 1489,—the chief sourcesof the collector are the Percy Manuscript, “writtenjust before 1650,”—on which, notwithout omissions and additions, the bishop based his‘Reliques,’ first published in 1765,—andthe oral traditions of Scotland, which Professor Childrefers to “the last one hundred and thirty years.”Information about the individual ballads, their sources,history, literary connections, and above all, theirvarying texts, must be sought in the noble work ofProfessor F.J. Child. For present purposes,a word or two of general information must suffice.As to origins, there is a wide range. The churchfurnished its legend, as in ‘St. Stephen’;romance contributed the story of ‘Thomas Rymer’;and the light, even cynical fabliau is responsiblefor ’The Boy and the Mantle.’ Balladswhich occur in many tongues either may have a commonorigin or else may owe their manifold versions, asin the case of popular tales, to a love of borrowing;and here, of course, we get the hint of wider issues.For the most part, however, a ballad tells some movingstory, preferably of fighting and of love. Tragedyis the dominant note; and English ballads of the besttype deal with those elements of domestic disasterso familiar in the great dramas of literature, inthe story of Orestes, or of Hamlet, or of the Cid.Such are ‘Edward,’ ‘Lord Randal,’‘The Two Brothers,’ ‘The Two Sisters,’‘Child Maurice,’ ‘Bewick and Graham,’‘Clerk Colven,’ ’Little Musgrave

and Lady Barnard,’ ‘Glasgerion,’and many others. Another group of ballads, representedby the ‘Baron of Brackley’ and ‘CaptainCar,’ give a faithful picture of the feuds andceaseless warfare in Scotland and on the border.A few fine ballads—’Sweet William’sGhost,’ ’The Wife of Usher’s Well’—touchupon the supernatural. Of the romantic ballads,‘Childe Waters’ shows us the higher, and‘Young Beichan’ the lower, but still soundand communal type. Incipient dramatic tendenciesmark ‘Edward’ and ‘Lord Randal’;while, on the other hand, a lyric note almost carries‘Bonnie George Campbell’ out of balladry.Finally, it is to be noted that in the ‘Nut-BrownMaid,’ which many would unhesitatingly referto this class of poetry, we have no ballad at all,but a dramatic lyric, probably written by a woman,and with a special plea in the background.

[Illustration: Signature: F.B. Gummere]

ROBIN HOOD AND GUY OF GISBORNE[8]

1. When shawes[9] beene sheene[10],and shradds[11] full fayre,
And leeves both large and longe,
It is merry, walking in the fayre forrest,
To heare the small birds’ songe.

2. The woodweele[12] sang,and wold not cease,
Amongst the leaves a lyne[13];
And it is by two wight[14] yeomen,
By deare God, that I meane.

* * * * *

3. “Me thought they[15]did me beate and binde,
And tooke my bow me fro;
If I bee Robin alive in this lande,
I’ll be wrocken[16] on both themtwo.”

4. “Sweavens[17] areswift, master,” quoth John,
“As the wind that blowes ore a hill;
For if it be never soe lowde this night,
To-morrow it may be still.”

5. “Buske ye, bowneye[18], my merry men all,
For John shall go with me;
For I’ll goe seeke yond wight yeomen
In greenwood where they bee.”

6. They cast on their gowneof greene,
A shooting gone are they,
Until they came to the merry greenwood,
Where they had gladdest bee;
There were they ware of a wight yeoman,
His body leaned to a tree.

7. A sword and a dagger hewore by his side,
Had beene many a man’s bane[19],
And he was cladd in his capull-hyde[20],
Topp, and tayle, and mayne.

8. “Stand you still,master,” quoth Litle John,
“Under this trusty tree,
And I will goe to yond wight yeoman,
To know his meaning trulye.”

9. “A, John, by methou setts noe store,
And that’s a farley[21] thinge;
How offt send I my men before,
And tarry myselfe behinde?”

10. “It is noe cunninga knave to ken,
And a man but heare him speake;
And it were not for bursting of my bowe,
John, I wold thy head breake.”

11. But often words theybreeden bale,
That parted Robin and John;
John is gone to Barnesdale,
The gates[22] he knowes eche one.

12. And when hee came toBarnesdale,
Great heavinesse there hee hadd;
He found two of his fellowes
Were slaine both in a slade[23],

13. And Scarlett a footeflyinge was,
Over stockes and stone,
For the sheriffe with seven score men
Fast after him is gone.

14. “Yet one shooteI’ll shoote,” sayes Litle John,
“With Crist his might and mayne;
I’ll make yond fellow that flyes soefast
To be both glad and faine.”

15. John bent up a good veiwebow[24],
And fetteled[25] him to shoote;
The bow was made of a tender boughe,
And fell downe to his foote.

16. “Woe worth[26]thee, wicked wood,” sayd Litle John,
“That ere thou grew on a tree!
For this day thou art my bale,
My boote[27] when thou shold bee!”

17. This shoote it was butlooselye shott,
The arrowe flew in vaine,
And it mett one of the sheriffe’s men;
Good William a Trent was slaine.

18. It had beene better forWilliam a Trent
To hange upon a gallowe
Then for to lye in the greenwoode,
There slaine with an arrowe.

19. And it is sayed, whenmen be mett,
Six can doe more than three:
And they have tane Litle John,
And bound him fast to a tree.

20. “Thou shalt bedrawen by dale and downe,” quoth the sheriffe[28],
“And hanged hye on a hill:”
“But thou may fayle,” quoth LitleJohn
“If it be Christ’s owne will.”

21. Let us leave talkingof Litle John,
For hee is bound fast to a tree,
And talke of Guy and Robin Hood
In the green woode where they bee.

22. How these two yeomentogether they mett,
Under the leaves of lyne,
To see what marchandise they made
Even at that same time.

23. “Good morrow, goodfellow,” quoth Sir Guy;
“Good morrow, good fellow,”quoth hee;
“Methinkes by this bow thou bearesin thy hand,
A good archer thou seems to bee.”

24. “I am wilfull ofmy way[29],” quoth Sir Guy,
“And of my morning tyde:”
“I’ll lead thee through the wood,”quoth Robin,
“Good fellow, I’ll be thy guide.”

25. “I seeke an outlaw,”quoth Sir Guy,
“Men call him Robin Hood;
I had rather meet with him upon a day
Then forty pound of golde.”

26. “If you tow mett,it wold be seene whether were better
Afore yee did part awaye;
Let us some other pastime find,
Good fellow, I thee pray.”

27. “Let us some othermasteryes make,
And we will walke in the woods even;
Wee may chance meet with Robin Hood
At some unsett steven[30].”

28. They cutt them downethe summer shroggs[31]
Which grew both under a bryar,
And sett them three score rood in twinn[32],
To shoote the prickes[33] full neare.

29. “Leade on, goodfellow,” sayd Sir Guye,
“Leade on, I doe bidd thee:”
“Nay, by my faith,” quoth RobinHood,
“The leader thou shalt bee.”

30. The first good shootthat Robin ledd,
Did not shoote an inch the pricke froe,
Guy was an archer good enoughe,
But he could neere shoote soe.

31. The second shoote SirGuy shott,
He shott within the garlande[34],
But Robin Hoode shott it better than hee,
For he clove the good pricke-wande.

32. “God’s blessingon thy heart!” sayes Guye,
“Goode fellow, thy shooting is goode;
For an thy hart be as good as thy hands,
Thou were better than Robin Hood.”

33. “Tell me thy name,good fellow,” quoth Guye,
“Under the leaves of lyne:”
“Nay, by my faith,” quoth goodRobin,
“Till thou have told me thine.”

34. “I dwell by daleand downe,” quoth Guye,
“And I have done many a curst turne;
And he that calles me by my right name,
Calles me Guye of good Gysborne.”

35. “My dwelling isin the wood,” sayes Robin;
“By thee I set right nought;
My name is Robin Hood of Barnesdale,
A fellow thou hast long sought.”

36. He that had neither beenea kithe nor kin
Might have seene a full fayre sight.
To see how together these yeomen went,
With blades both browne and bright.

37. To have seene how theseyeomen together fought
Two howers of a summer’s day;
It was neither Guy nor Robin Hood
That fettled them to flye away.

38. Robin was reacheles[35]on a roote,
And stumbled at that tyde,
And Guy was quicke and nimble with-all,
And hitt him ore the left side.

39. “Ah, deere Lady!”sayd Robin Hoode,
“Thou art both mother and may[36]!
I thinke it was never man’s destinye
To dye before his day.”

40. Robin thought on OurLady deere,
And soone leapt up againe,
And thus he came with an awkwarde[37] stroke;
Good Sir Guy hee has slayne.

41. He tooke Sir Guy’shead by the hayre,
And sticked it on his bowe’s end:
“Thou has beene traytor all thy life,
Which thing must have an ende.”

42. Robin pulled forth anIrish kniffe,
And nicked Sir Guy in the face,
That he was never on[38] a woman borne
Could tell who Sir Guye was.

43. Saies, Lye there, lyethere, good Sir Guye,
And with me not wrothe;
If thou have had the worse stroakes at myhand,
Thou shalt have the better cloathe.

44. Robin did off his gowneof greene,
Sir Guye he did it throwe;
And he put on that capull-hyde
That clad him topp to toe.

45. “Tis bowe, thearrowes, and litle horne,
And with me now I’ll beare;
For now I will goe to Barnesdale,
To see how my men doe fare.”

46. Robin sett Guye’shorne to his mouth,
A lowd blast in it he did blow;
That beheard the sheriffe of Nottingham,
As he leaned under a lowe[39].

47. “Hearken! hearken!”sayd the sheriffe,
“I heard noe tydings but good;
For yonder I heare Sir Guye’s horneblowe,
For he hath slaine Robin Hoode.”

48. “For yonder I heareSir Guye’s horne blowe,
It blowes soe well in tyde,
For yonder conies that wighty yeoman
Cladd in his capull-hyde.”

49. “Come hither, thougood Sir Guy,
Aske of mee what thou wilt have:”
“I’ll none of thy gold,”sayes Robin Hood,
“Nor I’ll none of it have.”

50. “But now I haveslaine the master,” he sayd,
“Let me goe strike the knave;
This is all the reward I aske,
Nor noe other will I have.”

51. “Thou art a madman,”said the sheriffe,
“Thou sholdest have had a knight’sfee;
Seeing thy asking hath beene soe badd,
Well granted it shall be.”

52. But Litle John heardhis master speake,
Well he knew that was his steven[40];
“Now shall I be loset,” quothLitle John,
“With Christ’s might in heaven.”

53. But Robin hee hyed himtowards Litle John,
Hee thought hee wold loose him belive;
The sheriffe and all his companye
Fast after him did drive.

54. “Stand abacke!stand abacke!” sayd Robin;
“Why draw you mee soe neere?
It was never the use in our countrye
One’s shrift another should heere.”

55. But Robin pulled forthan Irysh kniffe,
And losed John hand and foote,
And gave him Sir Guye’s bow in hishand,
And bade it be his boote.

56. But John tooke Guye’sbow in his hand
(His arrowes were rawstye[41] by the roote);
The sherriffe saw Litle John draw a bow
And fettle him to shoote.

57. Towards his house inNottingham
He fled full fast away,
And so did all his companye,
Not one behind did stay.

58. But he cold neither soefast goe,
Nor away soe fast runn,
But Litle John, with an arrow broade,
Did cleave his heart in twinn.

[Footnote 8: This ballad is agood specimen of the Robin Hood Cycle, and isremarkable for its many proverbial and alliterativephrases. A few lines have been lost between stanzas2 and 3. Gisborne is a “market-town in theWest Riding of the County of York, on the bordersof Lancashire.” For the probable tuneof the ballad, see Chappell’s ’PopularMusic of the Olden Time,’ ii. 397.]

[Footnote 9: Woods, groves.—Thistouch of description at the outset is commonin our old ballads, as well as in the mediaevalGerman popular lyric, and may perhaps spring fromthe old “summer-lays” and chorus ofpagan times.]

[Footnote 10: Beautiful;German, schoen.]

[Footnote 11: Coppicesor openings in a wood.]

[Footnote 12: Insome glossaries the woodpecker, but here of
course a song-bird,—perhaps,as Chappell suggests, the
woodlark.]

[Footnote 13: A,on; lyne, lime or linden.]

[Footnote 14: Sturdy,brave.]

[Footnote 15: Robin now tellsof a dream in which “they” (=thetwo “wight yeomen,” who are Guy and, asProfessor Child suggests, the Sheriff of Nottingham)maltreat him; and he thus foresees trouble “fromtwo quarters.”]

[Footnote 16: Revenged.]

[Footnote 17: Dreams.]

[Footnote 18: Tautologicalphrase,—“prepare and make
ready.”]

[Footnote 19: Murder,destruction.]

[Footnote 20: Horse’shide.]

[Footnote 21: Strange.]

[Footnote 22: Paths.]

[Footnote 23: Greenvalley between woods.]

[Footnote 24: Perhapsthe yew-bow.]

[Footnote 25: Madeready.]

[Footnote 26: “Woebe to thee.” Worth is the old
subjunctive presentof an exact English equivalent to the
modern German werden.]

[Footnote 27: Notethese alliterative phrases. Boote,
remedy.]

[Footnote 28: As Percy noted,this “quoth the sheriffe,” was probablyadded by some explainer. The reader, however,must remember the license of slurring or contractingthe syllables of a word, as well as the oppositefreedom of expansion. Thus in the secondline of stanza 7, man’s is to be pronouncedman-es.]

[Footnote 29: Ihave lost my way.]

[Footnote 30: Atsome unappointed time,—by chance.]

[Footnote 31: Stuntedshrubs.]

[Footnote 32: Apart.]

[Footnote 33: “Prickesseem to have been the long-range
targets, buttsthe near.”—Furnivall.]

[Footnote 34: Garlande,perhaps “the ring within which the
prick was set”;and the pricke-wande perhaps a pole or
stick. The termsare not easy to understand clearly.]

[Footnote 35: Reckless,careless.]

[Footnote 36: Maiden.]

[Footnote 37: Dangerous,or perhaps simply backward,
backhanded.]

[Footnote 38: Onis frequently used for of.]

[Footnote 39: Hillock.]

[Footnote 40: Voice.]

[Footnote 41: Rusty]

THE HUNTING OF THE CHEVIOT

[This is the older andbetter version of the famous ballad.
The younger versionwas the subject of Addison’s papers in
the Spectator.]

1. The Percy outof Northumberlande,
anda vowe to God mayd he
Thathe would hunte in the mountayns
ofCheviot within days thre,
Inthe magger[42] of doughty Douglas,
andall that ever with him be.

2. The fattistehartes in all Cheviot
hesayd he would kyll, and cary them away:
“Bemy feth,” sayd the doughty Douglas agayn,
“Iwill let[43] that hontyng if that I may.”

3. Then the Percyout of Banborowe cam,
withhim a myghtee meany[44],
Withfifteen hondred archares bold of blood and bone;
theywere chosen out of shyars thre.

4. This began ona Monday at morn,
inCheviot the hillys so he;
Thechyld may rue that ys unborn,
itwas the more pitte.

5. The dryvarsthorowe the woodes went,
forto reas the deer;
Bowmenbyckarte uppone the bent[45]
withtheir browd arrows cleare.

6. Then the wyldthorowe the woodes went,
onevery syde shear;
Greahondesthorowe the grevis glent[46],
forto kyll their deer.

7. This beganein Cheviot the hyls abone,
yerlyon a Monnyn-day;
Bethat it drewe to the hour of noon,
ahondred fat hartes ded ther lay.

8. They blewe amort[47] uppone the bent,
theysemblyde on sydis shear;
Tothe quyrry then the Percy went,
tosee the bryttlynge[48] of the deere.

9. He sayd, “It wasthe Douglas promys
this day to met me hear;
But I wyste he wolde faylle, verament;”
a great oth the Percy swear.

10. At the laste a squyarof Northumberlande
lokyde at his hand full ny;
He was war a the doughtie Douglas commynge,
with him a myghte meany.

11. Both with spear, bylle,and brande,
yt was a myghte sight to se;
Hardyar men, both of hart nor hande,
were not in Cristiante.

12. They were twenty hondredspear-men good,
withoute any fail;
They were borne along be the water a Twyde,
yth bowndes of Tividale.

13. “Leave of the brytlyngof the deer,” he said,
“and to your bows look ye tayk goodhede;
For never sithe ye were on your mothers borne
had ye never so mickle nede.”

14. The doughty Douglas ona stede,
he rode alle his men beforne;
His armor glytteyrde as dyd a glede[49];
a boldar barne was never born.

15. “Tell me whosemen ye are,” he says,
“or whose men that ye be:
Who gave youe leave to hunte in this Cheviotchays,
in the spyt of myn and of me.”

16. The first man that everhim an answer mayd,
yt was the good lord Percy:
“We wyll not tell the whose men weare,” he says,
“nor whose men that we be;
But we wyll hounte here in this chays,
in spyt of thyne and of the.”

17. “The fattiste hartesin all Cheviot
we have kyld, and cast to carry them away:”
“Be my troth,” sayd the doughtyDouglas agayn,
“therefor the tone of us shall diethis day.”

18. Then sayd the doughteDouglas
unto the lord Percy,
“To kyll alle thes giltles men,
alas, it wear great pitte!”

19. “But, Percy, thoweart a lord of lande,
I am a yerle callyd within my contre;
Let all our men uppone a parti stande,
and do the battell of the and of me.”

20. “Nowe Cristes curseon his crowne,” sayd the lord Percy,
“whosoever thereto says nay;
Be my troth, doughty Douglas,” he says,
“thow shalt never se that day.”

21. “Nethar in Ynglonde,Skottlonde, nor France,
nor for no man of a woman born,
But, and fortune be my chance,
I dar met him, one man for one.”

22. Then bespayke a squyarof Northumberlande,
Richard Wytharyngton was his name:
“It shall never be told in Sothe-Ynglonde,”he says,
“To Kyng Kerry the Fourth for shame.”

23. “I wat youe byngreat lordes twa,
I am a poor squyar of lande:
I wylle never se my captayne fyght on a fylde,
and stande my selffe and looke on,
But whylle I may my weppone welde,
I wylle not fayle both hart and hande.”

24. That day, that day, thatdredfull day!
the first fit here I fynde[50];
And you wyll hear any more a the hountynga the Cheviot
yet ys ther mor behynde.

25. The Yngglyshe men hadtheir bowys ybent,
ther hartes were good yenoughe;
The first of arrows that they shote off,
seven skore spear-men they sloughe.

26. Yet bides the yerle Douglasupon the bent,
a captayne good yenoughe,
And that was sene verament,
for he wrought hem both wo and wouche.

27. The Douglas partyd hishost in thre,
like a chief chieftain of pryde;
With sure spears of myghtty tre,
they cum in on every syde:

28. Throughe our Yngglyshearchery
gave many a wounde fulle wyde;
Many a doughty they garde to dy,
which ganyde them no pryde.

29. The Ynglyshe men letther bowes be,
and pulde out brandes that were brighte;
It was a heavy syght to se
bryght swordes on basnites lyght.

30. Thorowe ryche male andmyneyeple[51],
many sterne they strocke down straight;
Many a freyke[52] that was fulle fre,
there under foot dyd lyght.

31. At last the Douglas andthe Percy met,
lyk to captayns of myght and of mayne;
The swapte together tylle they both swat,
with swordes that were of fine milan.

32. These worthy freckysfor to fyght,
ther-to they were fulle fayne,
Tylle the bloode out off their basnetes sprente,
as ever dyd hail or rayn.

33. “Yield thee, Percy,”sayd the Douglas,
“and i faith I shalle thee brynge
Where thowe shalte have a yerls wagis
of Jamy our Scottish kynge.”

34. “Thou shalte havethy ransom fre,
I hight[53] the here this thinge;
For the manfullyste man yet art thow
that ever I conqueryd in fielde fighttynge.”

35. “Nay,” saydthe lord Percy,
“I tolde it thee beforne,
That I wolde never yeldyde be
to no man of a woman born.”

36. With that ther came anarrow hastely,
forthe off a myghtty wane[54];
It hath strekene the yerle Douglas
in at the brest-bane.

37. Thorowe lyvar and lungesbothe
the sharpe arrowe ys gane,
That never after in all his lyfe-days
he spayke mo wordes but ane:
That was, “Fyghte ye, my myrry men,whyllys ye may,
for my lyfe-days ben gane.”

38. The Percy leanyde onhis brande,
and sawe the Douglas de;
He tooke the dead man by the hande,
and said, “Wo ys me for thee!”

39. “To have savydethy lyfe, I would have partyde with
my landes for years three,
For a better man, of hart nor of hande,
was not in all the north contre.”

40. Of all that see a Scottishknyght,
was callyd Sir Hewe the Monggombyrry;
He saw the Douglas to the death was dyght,
he spendyd a spear, a trusti tree.

41. He rode upon a corsiare
throughe a hondred archery;
He never stynttyde nor never blane[55],
till he came to the good lord Percy.

42. He set upon the lordePercy
a dynte that was full sore;
With a sure spear of a myghtte tree
clean thorow the body he the Percy ber[56],

43. A the tother syde thata man might see
a large cloth-yard and mare;
Two better captayns were not in Cristiante
than that day slain were there.

44. An archer off Northumberlande
saw slain was the lord Percy;
He bore a bende bowe in his hand,
was made of trusti tree;

45. An arrow, that a cloth-yardewas long,
to the harde stele halyde he;
A dynt that was both sad and soar
he set on Sir Hewe the Monggombyrry.

46. The dynt yt was bothsad and sore,
that he of Monggombyrry set;
The swane-fethars that his arrowe bar
with his hart-blood they were wet.

47. There was never a freakone foot wolde flee,
but still in stour[57] dyd stand,
Hewyng on eache other, whyle they myghtedree,
with many a balefull brande.

48. This battell begane inCheviot
an hour before the none,
And when even-songe bell was rang,
the battell was not half done.

49. They took ... on eitherhande
by the lyght of the mone;
Many hade no strength for to stande,
in Cheviot the hillys abon.

50. Of fifteen hundred archersof Ynglonde
went away but seventy and three;
Of twenty hundred spear-men of Scotlonde,
but even five and fifty.

51. But all were slayne Cheviotwithin;
they had no strength to stand on by;
The chylde may rue that ys unborne,
it was the more pitte.

52. There was slayne, withethe lord Percy,
Sir John of Agerstone,
Sir Rogar, the hinde Hartly,
Sir Wyllyam, the bold Hearone.

53. Sir George, the worthyLoumle,
a knyghte of great renown,
Sir Raff, the ryche Rugbe,
with dyntes were beaten downe.

54. For Wetharryngton myharte was wo,
that ever he slayne shulde be;
For when both his leggis were hewyn in to,
yet he kneeled and fought on hys knee.

55. There was slayne, withthe doughty Douglas,
Sir Hewe the Monggombyrry,
Sir Davy Lwdale, that worthy was,
his sister’s son was he.

56. Sir Charles a Murre inthat place,
that never a foot wolde fie;
Sir Hewe Maxwelle, a lorde he was,
with the Douglas dyd he die.

57. So on the morrowe theymayde them biers
off birch and hasell so gray;
Many widows, with weepyng tears,
came to fetch ther makys[58] away.

58. Tivydale may carpe ofcare,
Northumberland may mayk great moan,
For two such captayns as slayne were there,
on the March-parti shall never be none.

59. Word ys commen to Eddenburrowe,
to Jamy the Scottische kynge,
That doughty Douglas, lyff-tenant of theMarches,
he lay slean Cheviot within.

60. His handdes dyd he wealand wryng,
he sayd, “Alas, and woe ys me!
Such an othar captayn Skotland within,”
he sayd, “i-faith should never be.”

61. Worde ys commyn to lovelyLondone,
till the fourth Harry our kynge.
That lord Percy, leyff-tenante of the Marchis
he lay slayne Cheviot within.

62. “God have mercion his soule,” sayde Kyng Harry,
“good lord, yf thy will it be!
I have a hondred captayns in Ynglonde,”he sayd,
“as good as ever was he:
But Percy, and I brook my lyfe,
thy deth well quyte shall be.”

63. As our noble kynge maydhis avowe,
lyke a noble prince of renown,
For the deth of the lord Percy
he dyd the battle of Hombyll-down:

64. Where syx and thirtySkottishe knyghtes
on a day were beaten down:
Glendale glytteryde on their armor bryght,
over castille, towar, and town.

65. This was the hontyngeof the Cheviot,
that tear[59] begane this spurn;
Old men that knowen the grownde well enoughe
call it the battell of Otterburn.

66. At Otterburn begane thisspume
upon a Monnynday;
There was the doughty Douglas slean,
the Percy never went away.

67. There was never a tymeon the Marche-partes
sen the Douglas and the Percy met,
But yt ys mervele and the rede blude ronnenot,
as the rain does in the stret.

68. Jesus Christ our bales[60]bete,
and to the bliss us bring!
Thus was the hunting of the Cheviot;
God send us alle good ending!

[Footnote 42: ‘Maugre,’in spite of.]

[Footnote 43: Hinder.]

[Footnote 44: Company.]

[Footnote 45: Skirmishedon the field.]

[Footnote 46: Ran throughthe groves.]

[Footnote 47: Blastblown when game is killed.]

[Footnote 48: Quartering,cutting.]

[Footnote 49: Flame.]

[Footnote 50: Perhaps“finish.”]

[Footnote 51: “Agauntlet covering hand and forearm.”]

[Footnote 52: Man.]

[Footnote 53: Promise.]

[Footnote 54: Meaninguncertain.]

[Footnote 55: Stopped.]

[Footnote 56: Pierced.]

[Footnote 57: Stressof battle.]

[Footnote 58: Mates.]

[Footnote 59: Thatthere (?).]

[Footnote 60: Evils.]

JOHNIE COCK

1. Up Johnie raise[61]in a May morning,
Calldfor water to wash his hands,
Andhe has called for his gude gray hounds
Thatlay bound in iron bands, bands,
Thatlay bound in iron bands.

2. “Ye’llbusk[62], ye’ll busk my noble dogs,
Ye’llbusk and make them boun[63],
ForI’m going to the Braidscaur hill
Toding the dun deer doun.”

3. Johnie’smother has gotten word o’ that,
Andcare-bed she has ta’en[64]:
“OJohnie, for my benison,
Ibeg you’l stay at hame;
Forthe wine so red, and the well-baken bread,
MyJohnie shall want nane.”

4. “Thereare seven forsters at Pickeram Side,
AtPickeram where they dwell,
Andfor a drop of thy heart’s bluid
Theywad ride the fords of hell.”

5. But Johnie hascast off the black velvet,
Andput on the Lincoln twine,
Andhe is on the goode greenwood
Asfast as he could gang.

6. Johnie lookiteast, and Johnie lookit west,
Andhe lookit aneath the sun,
Andthere he spied the dun deer sleeping
Aneatha buss o’ whun[65].

7. Johnie shot,and the dun deer lap[66],
Andshe lap wondrous wide,
Untilthey came to the wan water,
Andhe stem’d her of her pride.

8. He has ta’enout the little pen-knife,
’Twasfull three quarters[67] long,
Andhe has ta’en out of that dun deer
Theliver but and[68] the tongue.

9. They eat of the flesh,and they drank of the blood,
And the blood it was so sweet,
Which caused Johnie and his bloody hounds
To fall in a deep sleep.

10. By then came an old palmer,
And an ill death may he die!
For he’s away to Pickeram Side
As fast as he can drie[69].

11. “What news, whatnews?” says the Seven Forsters,
“What news have ye brought to me?”
“I have no news,” the palmersaid,
“But what I saw with my eye.”

12. “As I came in byBraidisbanks,
And down among the whuns,
The bonniest youngster e’er I saw
Lay sleepin amang his hunds.”

13. “The shirt thatwas upon his back
Was o’ the holland fine;
The doublet which was over that
Was o’ the Lincoln twine.”

14. Up bespake the SevenForsters,
Up bespake they ane and a’:
“O that is Johnie o’ CockleysWell,
And near him we will draw.”

15. O the first stroke thatthey gae him,
They struck him off by the knee,
Then up bespake his sister’s son:
“O the next’ll gar[70] himdie!”

16. “O some they countye well wight men,
But I do count ye nane;
For you might well ha’ waken’dme,
And ask’d gin I wad be ta’en.”

17. “The wildest wolfas in a’ this wood
Wad not ha’ done so by me;
She’d ha’ wet her foot i’the wan water,
And sprinkled it o’er my brae,
And if that wad not ha’ waken’dme,
She wad ha’ gone and let me be.”

18. “O bows of yew,if ye be true,
In London, where ye were bought,
Fingers five, get up belive[71],
Manhuid shall fail me nought.”

19. He has kill’d theSeven Forsters,
He has kill’d them all but ane,
And that wan scarce to Pickeram Side,
To carry the bode-words hame.

20. “Is there nevera [bird] in a’ this wood
That will tell what I can say;
That will go to Cockleys Well,
Tell my mither to fetch me away?”

21. There was a [bird] intothat wood,
That carried the tidings away,
And many ae[72] was the well-wight man
At the fetching o’ Johnie away.

[Footnote 61: Rose.]

[Footnote 62: Prepare.]

[Footnote 63: Ready.]

[Footnote 64: Has fallenill with anxiety.]

[Footnote 65: Bush of whin,furze.]

[Footnote 66: Leaped.]

[Footnote 67: Quarter—thefourth part of a yard.]

[Footnote 68: “Butand”—as well as.]

[Footnote 69: Bear,endure.]

[Footnote 70: Make,cause.]

[Footnote 71: Quickly.]

[Footnote 72: One.]

SIR PATRICK SPENS

1. The king sitsin Dumferling toune,
Drinkingthe blude-reid wine:
“Owhar will I get guid sailor,
Tosail this ship of mine?”

2. Up and spakan eldern knight,
Satat the kings right kne:
“SirPatrick Spens is the best sailor,
Thatsails upon the sea.”

3. The king haswritten a braid letter[73],
Andsign’d it wi’ his hand,
Andsent it to Sir Patrick Spens,
Waswalking on the sand.

4. The first linethat Sir Patrick read,
Aloud laugh laughed he;
Thenext line that Sir Patrick read,
Thetear blinded his ee.

5. “O whais this has done this deed,
Thisill deed done to me,
Tosend me out this time o’ the year,
Tosail upon the sea!”

6. “Makehaste, make haste, my mirry men all,
Ourguide ship sails the morne:”
“Osay na sae, my master dear,
ForI fear a deadlie storme.”

7. “Late,late yestreen I saw the new moone[74],
Wi’the auld moone in hir arme,
AndI fear, I fear, my dear master,
Thatwe will come to harme”

8. O our Scotsnobles were right laith
Toweet their cork-heeled shoone;
Butlang owre a’ the play wer play’d,
Theirhats they swam aboone.

9. O lang, lang may theirladies sit,
Wi’ their fans into their hand,
Or e’er they see Sir Patrick Spens
Cum sailing to the land.

10. O lang, lang may theladies stand,
Wi’ their gold kerns[75] in theirhair,
Waiting for their ain dear lords,
For they’ll se thame na mair.

11. Half owre, half owreto Aberdour,
It’s “fiftie fadom deep,
And their lies guid Sir Patrick Spens,
Wi’ the Scots lords at his feet.”

[Footnote 73: “Abraid letter, open or patent, in
opposition to close rolls.”—Percy.]

[Footnote 74: Note that itis the sight of the new moon
late in the evening which makes a badomen.]

[Footnote 75: Combs.]

THE BONNY EARL OF MURRAY[76]

1. Ye highlands,and ye Lowlands,
Ohwhere have you been?
Theyhave slain the Earl of Murray,
Andthey layd him on the green.

2. “Now waebe to thee, Huntly!
Andwherefore did you sae?
Ibade you bring him wi’ you,
Butforbade you him to slay.”

3. He was a brawgallant,
Andhe rid at the ring[77];
Andthe bonny Earl of Murray,
Ohhe might have been a king!

4. He was a braw gallant,
And he play’d at the ba’;
And the bonny Earl of Murray
Was the flower amang them a’.

5. He was a braw gallant,
And he play’d at the glove[78];
And the bonny Earl of Murray,
Oh he was the Queen’s love!

6. Oh lang will his lady
Look o’er the Castle Down,
E’er she see the Earl of Murray
Come sounding thro the town!

[Footnote 76: James Stewart,Earl of Murray, was killed by
the Earl of Huntly’s followers, February,1592. The second
stanza is spoken, of course, by the King.]

[Footnote 77: Piercingwith the lance a suspended ring, as
one rode at full speed,was a favorite sport of the day.]

[Footnote 78: Probablythis reference is to the glove worn by
knights as a lady’sfavor.]

MARY HAMILTON

1. Word’sgane to the kitchen,
Andword’s gane to the ha’,
ThatMarie Hamilton has born a bairn
Tothe highest Stewart of a’.

2. She’styed it in her apron
Andshe’s thrown it in the sea;
Says,“Sink ye, swim ye, bonny wee babe,
You’llne’er get mair o’ me.”

3. Down then camthe auld Queen,
Goud[79]tassels tying her hair:
“OMarie, where’s the bonny wee babe
ThatI heard greet[80] sae sair?”

4. “Therewas never a babe intill my room,
Aslittle designs to be;
Itwas but a touch o’ my sair side,
Cameo’er my fair bodie.”

5. “O Marie,put on your robes o’ black,
Orelse your robes o’ brown,
Forye maun gang wi’ me the night,
Tosee fair Edinbro town.”

6. “I winnaput on my robes o’ black,
Noryet my robes o’ brown;
ButI’ll put on my robes o’ white,
Toshine through Edinbro town.”

7. When she gaedup the Cannogate,
Shelaugh’d loud laughters three;
Butwhen she cam down the Cannogate
Thetear blinded her ee.

8. When she gaedup the Parliament stair,
Theheel cam aff her shee[81];
Andlang or she cam down again
Shewas condemn’d to dee.

9. When she cam down theCannogate,
The Cannogate sae free,
Many a ladie look’d o’er her window,
Weeping for this ladie.

10. “Make never meen[82]for me,” she says,
“Make never meen for me;
Seek never grace frae a graceless face,
For that ye’ll never see.”

11. “Bring me a bottleof wine,” she says,
“The best that e’er ye hae,
That I may drink to my weil-wishers,
And they may drink to me.”

12. “And here’sto the jolly sailor lad
That sails upon the faem;
But let not my father nor mother get wit
But that I shall come again.”

13. “And here’sto the jolly sailor lad
That sails upon the sea;
But let not my father nor mother get wit
O’ the death that I maun dee.”

14. “Oh little didmy mother think,
The day she cradled me,
What lands I was to travel through,
What death I was to dee.”

15. “Oh little didmy father think,
The day he held up[83] me,
What lands I was to travel through,
What death I was to dee.”

16. “Last night I wash’dthe Queen’s feet,
And gently laid her down;
And a’ the thanks I’ve gottenthe nicht
To be hangd in Edinbro town!”

17. “Last nicht therewas four Maries,
The nicht there’ll be but three;
There was Marie Seton, and Marie Beton,
And Marie Carmichael, and me.”

[Footnote 79: Gold.]

[Footnote 80: Weep.]

[Footnote 81: Shoe.]

[Footnote 82: Moan.]

[Footnote 83: Held up, liftedup, recognized as his lawful
child,—a world-wide and ancient ceremony.]

BONNIE GEORGE CAMPBELL

1. High upon Highlands,
andlow upon Tay,
BonnieGeorge Campbell
radeout on a day.

2. Saddled andbridled
andgallant rade he;
Hamecam his guid horse,
butnever cam he.

3. Out cam hisauld mither
greetingfu’ sair,
Andout cam his bonnie bride
rivingher hair.

4. Saddled andbridled
andbooted rade he;
Toom[84]hame cam the saddle,
butnever came he.

5. “My meadowlies green,
andmy corn is unshorn,
Mybarn is to build,
andmy babe is unborn.”

6. Saddled andbridled
andbooted rade he;
Toomhame cam the saddle,
butnever cam he.

[Footnote 84: Empty.]

BESSIE BELL AND MARYGRAY[85]

1. O Bessie Belland Mary Gray,
Theywar twa bonnie lasses!
Theybiggit[86] a bower on yon burn-brae[87],
Andtheekit[88] it oer wi rashes.

2. They theekitit oer wi’ rashes green,
Theytheekit it oer wi’ heather:
Butthe pest cam frae the burrows-town,
Andslew them baith thegither.

3. They thoughtto lie in Methven kirk-yard
Amangtheir noble kin;
Butthey maun lye in Stronach haugh,
Tobiek forenent the sin[89].

4. And Bessie Belland Mary Gray,
Theywar twa bonnie lasses;
Theybiggit a bower on yon burn-brae,
Andtheekit it oer wi’ rashes.

THE THREE RAVENS[90]

1. There were three ravenssat on a tree,
Downe a downe, hay down, hay downe[91],
There were three ravens sat on a tree, Witha downe.
There were three ravens sat on a tree,
They were as blacke as they might be.
With a downe derrie, derrie, derrie, downe,downe.

2. The one of them said tohis mate,
“Where shall we our breakfast take?”

3. “Downe in yondergreene field
There lies a knight slain under his shield.”

4. His hounds they lie downat his feete,
So well they can their master keepe[92].

5. His haukes they flie soeagerly,
There’s no fowle dare him come nie.

6. Downe there comes a fallowdoe,
As great with young as she might goe.

7. She lift up his bloudyhead,
And kist his wounds that were so red.

8. She got him up upon herbacke,
And carried him to earthen lake[93].

9. She buried him beforethe prime,
She was dead herselfe ere even-song time.

10. God send every gentleman
Such haukes, such hounds, and such a leman[94].

[Footnote 85: Founded onan actual event of the plague, near
Perth, in 1645. See the interesting accountin Professor
Child’s ‘Ballads,’ Part VII,p. 75f.]

[Footnote 86: Built.]

[Footnote 87: A hill slopingdown to a brook.]

[Footnote 88: Thatched.]

[Footnote 89: Tobake in the rays of the sun.]

[Footnote 90: Thecounterpart, or perhaps parody, of this
ballad, called ‘TheTwa Corbies,’ is better known than the
exquisite original.]

[Footnote 91: Therefrain, or burden, differs in another
version of the ballad.]

[Footnote 92: Guard.]

[Footnote 93: Shroudof earth, burial.]

[Footnote 94: Sweetheart,darling, literally ‘dear-one’
(liefman). Theword had originally no offensive meaning.]

LORD RANDAL

1. Where hae yebeen, Lord Randal, my son?
Owhere hae ye been, my handsome young man?
“Ihae been to the wild wood; mother, make my bed soon,
ForI’m weary wi’ hunting, and fain wald liedown.”

2. “Wheregat ye your dinner, Lord Randal, my son?
Wheregat ye your dinner, my handsome young man?”
“Idin’d wi’ my true-love; mother, make mybed soon,
ForI’m weary wi’ hunting, and fain wald liedown.”

3. “Whatgat ye to your dinner, Lord Randal, my son?
Whatgat ye to your dinner, my handsome young man?”
“Igat eels boiled in broo[95]; mother, make my bed soon,
ForI’m weary wi’ hunting, and fain wald liedown.”

4. “Whatbecame o’ your bloodhounds, Lord Randal, my son?
Whatbecame’ o’ your bloodhounds, my handsomeyoung man?”
“Othey swell’d and they died; mother, make my bedsoon,
ForI’m weary wi’ hunting, and fain wald liedown.”

5. “O I fearyou are poison’d, Lord Randal, my son!
OI fear you are poison’d, my handsome young man!”
“Oyes! I’m poison’d; mother, make mybed soon,
ForI’m sick at the heart, and I fain wald lie down[96].”

[Footnote 95: Broth.]

[Footnote 96: Frogs, toads,snakes, and the like were often
served for fish, and of course were supposedto act as a
poison. One variant has a verse to elaboratethis:—

“Where gat she thoseeels, Lord Randal, my son?
Where gat she those eels, my handsome youngman?”
“‘Neath the bush o’ brownbracken; mother, make my bed soon,
For I’m weary wi’ hunting,and fain wald lie down.”
]

EDWARD[97]

1. “Why dois your brandsae drap wi bluid,
Edward, Edward,
Why dois your brand sae drap wi bluid,
And why sae sad gang yee O?”
“O I hae killed my hauke sae guid,
Mither, mither,
O I hae killed my hauke sae guid,
And I had nae mair hot hee O.”

2. “Your haukis bluidwas nevir sae reid,
Edward, Edward,
Your haukis bluid was nevir sae reid,
My deir son I tell thee O.”
“O I hae killed my reid-roan steid,
Mither, mither,
O I hae killed my reid-roan steid,
That erst was sae fair and frie O.”

3. “Your steid wasauld, and ye hae gat mair,
Edward, Edward,
Your steid was auld, and ye hae gat mair,
Sum other dule ye drie O[98].”
“O I hae killed my fadir deir,
Mither, mither,
O I hae killed my fadir deir,
Alas, and wae is mee O!”

4. “And whatten penancewul ye drie, for that,
Edward, Edward,
And whatten penance wul ye drie, for that?
My deir son, now tell me O.”
“I’ll set my feit in yonderboat,
Mither, mither,
I’ll set my feit in yonder boat,
And I’ll fare over the sea O.”

5. “And what wul yedoe wi’ your towers and your ha’,
Edward, Edward,
And what wul ye doe wi’ your towersand your ha’,
That were sae fair to see O?”
“I’ll let them stand till theydoun fa’,
Mither, mither,
I’ll let them stand till they dounfa’,
For here nevir mair maun I bee O.”

6. “And what wul yeleive to your bairns and your wife,
Edward, Edward,
And what wul ye leive to your bairns and yourwife,
When ye gang over the sea O?”
“The warldis room; let them beg thraelife,
Mither, mither,
The warldis room; let them beg thrae life,
For them never mair wul I see O.”

7. “And what wul yeleive to your ain mither dear,
Edward, Edward,
And what will ye leive to your ain mitherdear?
My dear son, now tell me O.”
“The curse of hell frae me sall yebeir,
Mither, mither,
The curse of hell frae me sall ye beir,
Sic counsels ye gave to me O.”

[Footnote 97: One of thefinest of our ballads. It was sent
from Scotland to Percy by David Dalrymple.]

[Footnote 98: You suffersome other sorrow.]

THE TWA BROTHERS

1. There were twa brethrenin the north,
They went to the school thegither;
The one unto the other said,
“Will you try a warsle[99] afore?”

2. They warsledup, they warsled down,
TillSir John fell to the ground,
Andthere was a knife in Sir Willie’s pouch,
Giedhim a deadlie wound.

3. “Oh britherdear, take me on your back,
Carryme to yon burn clear,
Andwash the blood from off my wound,
Andit will bleed nae mair.”

4. He took himup upon his back,
Carriedhim to yon burn clear,
Andwashed the blood from off his wound,
Butaye it bled the mair.

5. “Oh britherdear, take me on your back,
Carryme to yon kirk-yard,
Anddig a grave baith wide and deep.
Andlay my body there.”

6. He’s taenhim up upon his back,
Carriedhim to yon kirk-yard,
Anddug a grave baith deep and wide,
Andlaid his body there.

7. “But whatwill I say to my father dear,
Ginhe chance to say, Willie, whar’s John?”
“Ohsay that he’s to England gone,
Tobuy him a cask of wine.”

8. “And whatwill I say to my mother dear,
Ginshe chance to say, Willie, whar’s John?”
“Ohsay that he’s to England gone,
Tobuy her a new silk gown.”

9. “And what will Isay to my sister dear,
Gin she chance to say, Willie, whar’sJohn?”
“Oh say that he’s to England gone,
To buy her a wedding ring.”

10. “But what willI say to her you loe[100] dear,
Gin she cry, Why tarries my John?”
“Oh tell her I lie in Kirk-land fair,
And home again will never come.”

[Footnote 99: Wrestle.]

[Footnote 100: Love.]

BABYLON; OR THE BONNIE BANKS O’FORDIE

1. There were three ladieslived in a bower,
Eh vow bonnie,
And they went out to pull a flower
On the bonnie banks o’ Fordie.

2. They hadna pu’eda flower but ane,
Whenup started to them a banisht man.

3. He’s ta’enthe first sister by her hand,
Andhe’s turned her round and made her stand.

4. “It’swhether will ye be a rank robber’s wife,
Orwill ye die by my wee pen-knife?”

5. “It’sI’ll not be a rank robber’s wife,
ButI’ll rather die by your wee pen-knife!”

6. He’s killedthis may, and he’s laid her by,
Forto bear the red rose company.

7. He’s taken the secondane by the hand,
And he’s turned her round and made herstand.

8. “It’s whetherwill ye be a rank robber’s wife,
Or will ye die by my wee pen-knife?”

9. “I’ll notbe a rank robber’s wife,
But I’ll rather die by your wee pen-knife.”

10. He’s killed thismay, and he’s laid her by,
For to bear the red rose company.

11. He’s taken theyoungest ane by the hand,
And he’s turned her round and madeher stand.

12. Says, “Will yebe a rank robber’s wife,
Or will ye die by my wee pen-knife?”

13. “I’ll notbe a rank robber’s wife,
Nor will I die by your wee pen-knife.”

14. “For I hae a brotherin this wood,
And gin ye kill me, it’s he’llkill thee.”

15. “What’s thybrother’s name? Come tell to me.”
“My brother’s name is Baby Lon.”

16. “O sister, sister,what have I done!
O have I done this ill to thee!”

17. “O since I’vedone this evil deed,
Good sall never be seen o’ me.”

18. He’s taken outhis wee pen-knife,
And he’s twyned[101] himsel o’his own sweet life.

[Footnote 101: Parted, deprived.]

CHILDE MAURICE[102]

1. Childe Maurice huntedi’ the silver wood,
He hunted it round about,
And noebodye that he found therein,
Nor none there was without.

2. He says, “Come hither,thou little foot-page,
That runneth lowlye by my knee,
For thou shalt goe to John Steward’swife
And pray her speake with me.”

3. “....
....
I, and greete thou doe that ladye well,
Ever soe well fro me.”

4. “And, as it falls,as many times
As knots beene knit on a kell[103],
Or marchant men gone to leeve London
Either to buy ware or sell.”

5. “And, as it falles,as many times
As any hart can thinke,
Or schoole-masters are in any schoole-house
Writing with pen and inke:
For if I might, as well as she may,
This night I would with her speake.”

6. “And heere I sendher a mantle of greene,
As greene as any grasse,
And bid her come to the silver wood,
To hunt with Child Maurice.”

7. “And there I sendher a ring of gold,
A ring of precious stone,
And bid her come to the silver wood,
Let[104] for no kind of man.”

8. One while this littleboy he yode[105],
Another while he ran,
Until he came to John Steward’s hall,
I-wis[106] he never blan[107].

9. And of nurture the childhad good,
He ran up hall and bower free,
And when he came to this ladye faire,
Sayes, “God you save and see[108]!”

10. “I am come fromChild Maurice,
A message unto thee;
And Child Maurice, he greetes you well,
And ever soe well from me.”

11. “And as it falls,as oftentimes
As knots beene knit on a kell,
Or marchant men gone to leeve London
Either for to buy ware or sell.”

12. “And as oftentimeshe greetes you well
As any hart can thinke,
Or schoolemasters are in any schoole,
Wryting with pen and inke.”

13. “And heere he sendsa mantle of greene[109],
As greene as any grasse,
And he bids you come to the silver wood,
To hunt with Child Maurice.”

14. “And heere he sendsyou a ring of gold,
A ring of the precious stone;
He prayes you to come to the silver wood,
Let for no kind of man.”

15. “Now peace, nowpeace, thou little foot-page,
For Christes sake, I pray thee!
For if my lord heare one of these words,
Thou must be hanged hye!”

16. John Steward stood underthe castle wall,
And he wrote the words everye one,
....
....

17. And he called upon hishors-keeper,
“Make ready you my steede!”
I, and soe he did to his chamberlaine,
“Make ready thou my weede[110]!”

18. And he cast a lease[111]upon his backe,
And he rode to the silver wood,
And there he sought all about,
About the silver wood.

19. And there he found himChild Maurice
Sitting upon a blocke,
With a silver combe in his hand,
Kembing his yellow lockes.
....

20. But then stood up himChild Maurice,
And sayd these words trulye:
“I doe not know your ladye,”he said,
“If that I doe her see.”

21. He sayes, “Hownow, how now, Child Maurice?
Alacke, how may this be?
For thou hast sent her love-tokens,
More now then two or three;”

22. “For thou hastsent her a mantle of greene,
As greene as any grasse,
And bade her come to the silver woode
To hunt with Child Maurice.”

23. “And thou hastsent her a ring of gold,
A ring of precyous stone,
And bade her come to the silver wood,
Let for no kind of man.”

24. “And by my faith,now, Child Maurice,
The tone[112] of us shall dye!”
“Now be my troth,” sayd ChildMaurice,
“And that shall not be I.”

25. But he pulled forth abright browne[113] sword,
And dryed it on the grasse,
And soe fast he smote at John Steward,
I-wisse he never did rest.

26. Then he[114] pulled forthhis bright browne sword,
And dryed it on his sleeve,
And the first good stroke John Stewart stroke,
Child Maurice head he did cleeve.

27. And he pricked it onhis sword’s poynt,
Went singing there beside,
And he rode till he came to that ladye faire,
Whereas this ladye lyed[115].

28. And sayes, “Dostthou know Child Maurice head,
If that thou dost it see?
And lap it soft, and kisse it oft,
For thou lovedst him better than me.”

29. But when she looked onChild Maurice head,
She never spake words but three:—
“I never beare no childe but one,
And you have slaine him trulye.”

30. Sayes[116], “Wickedbe my merrymen all,
I gave meate, drinke, and clothe!
But could they not have holden me
When I was in all that wrath!”

31. “For I have slaineone of the curteousest knights
That ever bestrode a steed,
So[117] have I done one of the fairest ladyes
That ever ware woman’s weede!”

[Footnote 102: It is worth whileto quote Gray’s praise of this ballad:—“Ihave got the old Scotch ballad on which ‘Douglas’[the well-known tragedy by Home] was founded.It is divine.... Aristotle’s bestrules are observed in a manner which shows theauthor never had heard of Aristotle.”—Letterto Mason, in ‘Works,’ ed. Gosse,ii. 316.]

[Footnote 103: That is, the pageis to greet the lady as many times as there areknots in nets for the hair (kell), or merchantsgoing to dear (leeve, lief) London, or thoughtsof the heart, or schoolmasters in all schoolhouses.These multiplied and comparative greetings arecommon in folk-lore, particularly in German popularlyric.]

[Footnote 104:Let (desist) is an infinitive depending on
bid.]

[Footnote 105:Went, walked.]

[Footnote 106:Certainly.]

[Footnote 107:Stopped.]

[Footnote 108:Protect.]

[Footnote 109:These, of course, are tokens of the Childe’s
identity.]

[Footnote 110:Clothes.]

[Footnote 111:Leash.]

[Footnote 112:That one = the one. That is the old neuter
form of the definitearticle. Cf. the tother for
that other.]

[Footnote 113:Brown, used in this way, seems to mean
burnished, or glistening,and is found in Anglo-Saxon.]

[Footnote 114:He, John Steward.]

[Footnote 115:Lived.]

[Footnote 116:John Steward.]

[Footnote 117:Compare the similar swiftness of tragic
development in ’Babylon.’]¸

THE WIFE OF USHER’SWELL

1. There liveda wife at Usher’s Well,
Anda wealthy wife was she;
Shehad three stout and stalwart sons,
Andsent them o’er the sea.

2. They hadna beena week from her,
Aweek but barely ane,
Whenword came to the carlin[118] wife
Thather three sons were gane.

3. They hadna beena week from her,
Aweek but barely three,
Whenword came to the carlin wife
Thather sons she’d never see.

4. “I wishthe wind may never cease,
Norfashes[119] in the flood,
Tillmy three sons come hame to me,
Inearthly flesh and blood.”

5. It fell aboutthe Martinmass[120],
Whennights are lang and mirk,
Thecarlin wife’s three sons came hame,
Andtheir hats were o’ the birk[121].

6. It neither grewin syke[122] nor ditch,
Noryet in ony sheugh[123],
Butat the gates o’ Paradise,
Thatbirk grew fair eneugh.

* * * * *

7. “Blowup the fire, my maidens!
Bringwater from the well!
Fora’ my house shall feast this night,
Sincemy three sons are well.”

8. And she hasmade to them a bed,
She’smade it large and wide,
Andshe’s ta’en her mantle her about,
Satdown at the bed-side.

* * * * *

9. Up then crew the red,red cock[124],
And up and crew the gray;
The eldest to the youngest said,
“’Tis time we were away.”

10. The cock he hadna craw’dbut once,
And clapp’d his wing at a’,
When the youngest to the eldest said,
“Brother, we must awa’.”

11. “The cock dothcraw, the day doth daw.
The channerin[125] worm doth chide;
Gin we be mist out o’ our place,
A sair pain we maun bide.”

12. “Fare ye weel,my mother dear!
Fareweel to barn and byre!
And fare ye weel, the bonny lass
That kindles my mother’s fire!”

[Footnote 118: Old woman.]

[Footnote 119: Lockhart’sclever emendation for the fishes
of the Ms. Fashes = disturbances, storms.]

[Footnote 120: November 11th.Another version gives the time
as “the hallow days of Yule.”]

[Footnote 121: Birch.]

[Footnote 122:Marsh.]

[Footnote 123:Furrow, ditch.]

[Footnote 124: In folk-lore, thebreak of day is announced to demons and ghostsby three cocks,—usually a white, a red,and a black; but the colors, and even the numbers,vary. At the third crow, the ghosts mustvanish. This applies to guilty and innocentalike; of course, the sons are “spirits ofhealth.”]

[Footnote 125:Fretting.]

SWEET WILLIAM’SGHOST

1. Whan bells warrung, an mass was sung,
Awat[126] a’ man to bed were gone,
ClarkSanders came to Margret’s window,
Withmony a sad sigh and groan.

2. “Are yesleeping, Margret,” he says,
“Orare ye waking, presentlie?
Giveme my faith and trouth again,
Awat, true-love, I gied to thee.”

3. “Yourfaith and trouth ye’s never get,
Norour true love shall never twin[127],
Tillye come with me in my bower,
Andkiss me both cheek and chin.”

4. “My mouthit is full cold, Margret,
Ithas the smell now of the ground;
Andif I kiss thy comely mouth,
Thylife-days will not be long.”

5. “Cocksare crowing a merry mid-larf[128],
Iwat the wild fule boded day;
Giveme my faith and trouth again,
Andlet me fare me on my way.”

6. “Thy faithand trouth thou shall na get,
Norour true love shall never twin,
Tillye tell me what comes of women
Awat that dy’s in strong traveling[129].”

7. “Theirbeds are made in the heavens high,
Downat the foot of our good Lord’s knee,
Wellset about wi’ gilly-flowers,
Awat sweet company for to see.”

8. “O cocksare crowing a merry mid-larf,
Awat the wild fule boded day;
Thesalms of Heaven will be sung,
Andere now I’ll be missed away.”

9. Up she has taen a brightlong wand,
And she has straked her trouth thereon[130];
She has given it him out at the shot-window,
Wi mony a sad sigh and heavy groan.

10. “I thank you, Margret,I thank you, Margret,
And I thank you heartilie;
Gin ever the dead come for the quick,
Be sure, Margret, I’ll come againfor thee.”

11. It’s hose and shoonan gound[131] alane
She clame the wall and followed him,
Until she came to a green forest,
On this she lost the sight of him.

12. “Is there any roomat your head, Sanders?
Is there any room at your feet?
Or any room at your twa sides?
Where fain, fain woud I sleep.”

13. “There is nae roomat my head, Margret,
There is nae room at my feet;
There is room at my twa sides,
For ladys for to sleep.”

14. “Cold meal[132]is my covering owre,
But an[133] my winding sheet:
My bed it is full low, I say,
Among hungry worms I sleep.”

15. “Cold meal is mycovering owre,
But an my winding sheet:
The dew it falls nae sooner down
Than ay it is full weet.”

[Footnote 126: “I wot,”“I know,” = truly, in sooth. The same
in 5-2, 6-4, 7-4, 8-2.]

[Footnote 127: Part, separate.She does not yet know he is
dead.]

[Footnote 128: Probably thedistorted name of a town; a =
in. “Cocks are crowing in merry—,and the wild-fowl announce
the dawn.”]

[Footnote 129:That die in childbirth.]

[Footnote 130: Margaret thus giveshim back his troth-plight by “stroking”it upon the wand, much as savages and peasants believethey can rid themselves of a disease by rubbing theaffected part with a stick or pebble and flingingthe latter into the road.]

[Footnote 131:Gown.]

[Footnote 132:Mold, earth.]

[Footnote 133:But and==also.]

HONORE DE BALZAC

(1799-1850)

BY WILLIAM P. TRENT

Honore de Balzac, by common consent the greatest ofFrench novelists and to many of his admirers the greatestof all writers of prose fiction, was born at Tours,May 16th, 1799. Neither his family nor his placeof birth counts for much in his artistic development;but his sister Laure, afterwards Madame Surville,—towhom we owe a charming sketch of her brother and manyof his most delightful letters,—made himher hero through life, and gave him a sympathy thatwas better than any merely literary environment.He was a sensitive child, little comprehended by hisparents or teachers, which probably accounts for thefact that few writers have so well described the feelingsof children so situated [See ‘Le lys dans lavallee’ (The Lily in the Valley) and ’LouisLambert’]. He was not a good student, butundermined his health by desultory though enormousreading and by writing a precocious Treatise on theWill, which an irate master burned and the futurenovelist afterwards naively deplored. When broughthome to recuperate, he turned from books to nature,and the effects of the beautiful landscape of Touraineupon his imagination are to be found throughout hiswritings, in passages of description worthy of a nature-worshiperlike Senancour himself. About this time a vaguedesire for fame seems to have seized him,—adesire destined to grow into an almost morbid passion;and it was a kindly Providence that soon after (1814)led his family to quit the stagnant provinces forthat nursery of ambition, Paris. Here he studiedunder new masters, heard lectures at the Sorbonne,read in the libraries, and finally, at the desireof his practical father, took a three years’course in law.

[Illustration: HON. DE BALZAC.]

He was now at the parting of the ways, and he chosethe one nearest his heart. After much discussion,it was settled that he should not be obliged to returnto the provinces with his family, or to enter uponthe regular practice of law, but that he might tryhis luck as a writer on an allowance purposely fixedlow enough to test his constancy and endurance.Two years was the period of probation allotted, duringwhich time Balzac read still more widely and walkedthe streets studying the characters he met, all thewhile endeavoring to grind out verses for a tragedyon Cromwell. This, when completed, was promptlyand justly damned by his family, and he was temporarily

forced to retire from Paris. He did not giveup his aspirations, however, and before long he wasback in his attic, this time supporting himself byhis pen. Novels, not tragedies, were what thepublic most wanted, so he labored indefatigably tosupply their needs and his own necessities; not relinquishing,however, the hope that he might some day watch theperformance of one of his own plays. His perseverancewas destined to be rewarded, for he lived to writefive dramas which fill a volume of his collected works;but only one, the posthumous comedy ‘Mercadet’,was even fairly successful. Yet that Balzac haddramatic genius his matured novels abundantly prove.

The ten romances, however, that he wrote for cheapbooksellers between 1822 and 1829 displayed so littlegenius of any sort that he was afterwards unwillingto cover their deficiencies with his great name.They have been collected as youthful works (’Oeuvresde jeunesse’), and are useful to a completeunderstanding of the evolution of their author’sgenius; but they are rarely read even by his most devotedadmirers. They served, however, to enable himto get through his long and heart-rending period ofapprenticeship, and they taught him how to expresshimself; for this born novelist was not a born writerand had to labor painfully to acquire a style whichonly at rare moments quite fitted itself to the subjecthe had in hand.

Much more interesting than these early sensationalromances were the letters he wrote to his sister Laure,in which he grew eloquent over his ambition and gavehimself needed practice in describing the characterswith whom he came in contact. But he had not themeans to wait quietly and ripen, so he embarked ina publishing business which brought him into debt.Then, to make up his losses, he became partner in aprinting enterprise which failed in 1827, leavinghim still more embarrassed financially, but endowedwith a fund of experience which he turned to richaccount as a novelist. Henceforth the sordid worldof debt, bankruptcy, usury, and speculation had nomystery for him, and he laid it bare in novel afternovel, utilizing also the knowledge he had gainedof the law, and even pressing into service the technicalitiesof the printing office [See ‘Illusions perdues’(Lost Illusions)]. But now at the age of twenty-eighthe had over 100,000 francs to pay, and had writtennothing better than some cheap stories; the task ofwiping out his debts by his writings seemed thereforea more hopeless one than Scott’s. Nothingdaunted, however, he set to work, and the year thatfollowed his second failure in business saw the compositionof the first novel he was willing to acknowledge,‘Les Chouans.’ This romance of Brittanyin 1799 deserved the praise it received from pressand public, in spite of its badly jointed plot andoverdrawn characters. It still appeals to manyreaders, and is important to the ‘Comedie humaine’as being the only novel of the “Military Scenes.”.

The ’Physiology of Marriage’ followedquickly (1829-30), and despite a certain pruriencyof imagination, displayed considerable powers of analysis,powers destined shortly to distinguish a story whichranks high among its author’s works, ‘LaMaison du chat-qui-pelote’ (1830). Thisdelightful novelette, the queer title of which isnearly equivalent to ’At the Sign of the Catand the Racket,’ showed in its treatment of theheroine’s unhappy passion the intuition andpenetration of the born psychologist, and in its admirabledescription of bourgeois life the pictorial geniusof the genuine realist. In other words the youthfulromancer was merged once for all in the matured novelist.The years of waiting and observation had done theirwork, and along the streets of Paris now walked themost profound analyst of human character that hadscrutinized society since the days when William Shakespeare,fresh from Stratford, trod the streets and lanes ofElizabethan London.

The year 1830 marks the beginning not merely of Balzac’ssuccess as the greatest of modern realists, but alsoof his marvelous literary activity. Novel afternovel is begun before its predecessor is finished;short stories of almost perfect workmanship are completed;sketches are dashed off that will one day find theirappropriate place in larger compositions, as yet existingonly in the brain of the master. Nor is it merelya question of individual works: novels and storiesare to form different series,—’Scenesfrom Private Life,’ ’Philosophical Novelsand Tales,’—which are themselvesdestined to merge into ’Studies of Manners inthe Nineteenth Century,’ and finally into the‘Comedie humaine’ itself. Yet itwas more than a swarm of stories that was buzzing inhis head; it was a swarm of individuals often moretruly alive to him than the friends with whom he lovedto converse about them. And just because he knewthese people of his brain, just because he enteredinto the least details of their daily lives, Balzacwas destined to become much more than a mere philosopheror student of society; to wit, a creator of characters,endowed with that “absolute dramatic vision”which distinguishes Homer and Shakespeare and Chaucer.But because he was also something of a philosopherand student of sociology, he conceived the stupendousidea of linking these characters with one another andwith their several environments, in order that hemight make himself not merely the historian but alsothe creator of an entire society. In other words,conservative though he was, Balzac had the audacityto range himself by the side of Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire,and to espouse the cause of evolution even in itsinfancy. The great ideas of the mutability ofspecies and of the influence of environment and hereditywere, he thought, as applicable to sociology as tozooelogy, and as applicable to fiction as to either.So he meditated the ‘Comedie humaine’ forseveral years before he announced it in 1842, andfrom being almost the rival of Saint-Hilaire he becamealmost the anticipator of Darwin.

But this idea of evolution was itself due to the evolutionof his genius, to which many various elements contributed:his friendships and enmities with contemporary authors,his intimacies with women of refinement and fashion,his business struggles with creditors and publishers,his frequent journeys to the provinces and foreigncountries; and finally his grandiose schemes to surroundhimself with luxury and the paraphernalia of power,not so much for his own sake as for the sake of herwhose least smile was a delight and an inspiration.About each of these topics an interesting chapter mightbe written, but here a few words must suffice.

After his position as an author was more or less assured,Balzac’s relations with the leaders of his craft—suchas Victor Hugo, Theophile Gautier, and George Sand—wereon the whole cordial. He had trouble with Sainte-Beuve,however, and often felt that his brother-writers begrudgedhis success. His constant attacks on contemporaryjournalists, and his egotistic and erratic mannersnaturally prejudiced the critics, so that even themarvelous romance entitled ‘La Peau de chagrin’(The Magic Skin: 1831),—a work ofsuperb genius,—speedily followed as it wasby ‘Eugenie Grandet’ and ‘Le PereGoriot,’ did not win him cordial recognition.One or two of his friendships, however, gave him aknowledge of higher social circles than he was by birthentitled to, a fact which should be remembered inface of the charge that he did not know high life,although it is of course true that a writer like Balzac,possessing the intuition of genius, need not frequentsalons or live in hovels in order to describe themwith absolute verisimilitude.

With regard to Balzac’s debts, the fact shouldbe noted that he might have paid them off more easilyand speedily had he been more prudent. He cutinto the profits of his books by the costly changeshe was always making in his proof-sheets,—changeswhich the artist felt to be necessary, but againstwhich the publishers naturally protested. Inreality he wrote his books on his proof-sheets, forhe would cut and hack the original version and makenew insertions until he drove his printers wild.Indeed, composition never became easy to him, althoughunder a sudden inspiration he could sometimes dashoff page after page while other men slept. Hehad, too, his affectations; he must even have a specialand peculiar garb in which to write. All theseeccentricities and his outside distractions and ambitions,as well as his noble and pathetic love affair, enteredinto the warp and woof of his work with effects thatcan easily be detected by the careful student, whoshould remember, however, that the master’sfoibles and peculiarities never for one moment sethim outside the small circle of the men of supremegenius. He belongs to them by virtue of his tremendousgrasp of life in its totality, his superhuman forceof execution and the inevitableness of his art atits best.

The decade from 1830 to 1840 is the most prolificperiod of Balzac’s genius in the creation ofindividual works; that from 1840 to 1850 is his greatperiod of philosophical co-ordination and arrangement.In the first he hewed out materials for his house;in the second he put them together. This statementis of course relatively true only, for we owe to thesecond decade three of his greatest masterpieces:’Splendeurs et miseres des courtisanes,’and ‘La Cousine Bette’ and ‘Le CousinPons,’ collectively known as ‘Les Parentspauvres’ (Poor Relations). And what a periodof masterful literary activity the first decade presents!For the year 1830 alone the Vicomte de Spoelberchde Lovenjoul gives seventy-one entries, many of slightimportance, but some familiar to every student ofmodern literature, such as ‘El Verdugo,’’La Maison du chat-qui-pelote,’ ‘Gobseck,’‘Adieu,’ ‘Une Passion dans le desert’(A Passion in the Desert), ‘Un Episode sousla Terreur’ (An Episode of the Terror).For 1831 there are seventy-six entries, among themsuch masterpieces as ‘Le Reequisitionnaire’(The Conscript), ‘Les Proscrits’ (TheOutlaws), ‘La Peau de chagrin,’ and ‘Jesus-Christen Flandre.’ In 1832 the number of entriesfalls to thirty-six, but among them are ’LeColonel Chabert,’ ‘Le Cure de Tours’(The Priest of Tours), ’La Grande Breteche,’‘Louis Lambert,’ and ‘Les Marana.’After this year there are fewer short stories.In 1833 we have ‘Le Medecin de campagne’(The Country Doctor), and ‘Eugenie Grandet,’with parts of the ’Histoire des treize’(Story of the Thirteen), and of the ‘Contes drolatiques’(Droll Tales). The next year gives us ‘LaRecherche de l’absolu’ (Search for theAbsolute) and ‘Le Pere Goriot’ (Old Goriot)and during the next six there were no less than adozen masterpieces. Such a decade of accomplishmentis little short of miraculous, and the work was doneunder stress of anxieties that would have crushed anynormal man.

But anxieties and labors were lightened by a friendshipwhich was an inspiration long before it ripened intolove, and were rendered bearable both by Balzac’sconfidence in himself and by his ever nearer view ofthe goal he had set himself. The task before himwas as stupendous as that which Comte had undertaken,and required not merely the planning and writing ofnew works but the utilization of all that he had previouslywritten. Untiring labor had to be devoted to thismanipulation of old material, for practically the greatoutput of the five years 1829-1834 was to be co-ordinatedinternally, story being brought into relation withstory and character with character. This meantthe creation and management of an immense number ofpersonages, the careful investigation of the variouslocalities which served for environments, and theprofound study of complicated social and politicalproblems. No wonder, then, that the second decadeof his maturity shows a falling off in abundance,though not in intensity of creative power; and thatthe gradual breaking down of his health, under thestrain of his ceaseless efforts and of his abnormalhabits of life, made itself more and more felt inthe years that followed the great preface which in1842 set forth the splendid design of the ‘Comediehumaine.’

This preface, one of the most important documentsin literary history, must be carefully studied byall who would comprehend Balzac in his entirety.It cannot be too often repeated that Balzac’sscientific and historical aspirations are importantonly in so far as they caused him to take a greatstep forward in the development of his art. Thenearer the artist comes to reproducing for us lifein its totality, the higher the rank we assign himamong his fellows. Tried by this canon, Balzacis supreme. His interweaving of characters andevents through a series of volumes gives a verisimilitudeto his work unrivaled in prose fiction, and paralleledonly in the work of the world-poets. In otherwords, his use of co-ordination upon a vast scalemakes up for his lack of delicacy and sureness oftouch, as compared with what Shakespeare and Homerand Chaucer have taught us to look for. Hencehe is with them even if not of them.

This great claim can be made for the Balzac of the‘Comedie humaine’ only; it could not bemade for the Balzac of any one masterpiece like ‘LePere Goriot,’ or even for the Balzac of all themasterpieces taken in lump and without co-ordination.Balzac by co-ordination has in spite of his limitationsgiven us a world, just as Shakespeare and Homer havedone; and so Taine was profoundly right when he puthim in the same category with the greatest of allwriters. When, however, he added St. Simon toShakespeare, and proclaimed that with them Balzac wasthe greatest storehouse of documents that we haveon human nature, he was guilty not merely of confoundinggenres of art, but also of laying stress onthe philosophic rather than on the artistic side offiction. Balzac does make himself a great storehouseof documents on human nature, but he also does somethingfar more important, he sets before us a world of livingmen and women.

To have brought this world into existence, to havegiven it order in the midst of complexity, and thatin spite of the fact that death overtook him beforehe could complete his work, would have been sufficientto occupy a decade of any other man’s life;but he, though harassed with illness and with hopesof love and ambition deferred, was strong enough todo more. The year 1840 saw the appearance of ‘Pierrette,’and the establishment of the ill-fated ‘Revueparisienne.’ The following year saw ‘UrsuleMirouet,’ and until 1848 the stream of greatworks is practically unbroken. The ‘Splendeurset miseres’ and the ’Parents pauvres’have been named already, but to these must be added’Un Menage de garcon’ (A Bachelor’sHouse-keeping), ‘Modeste Mignon,’ and ’LesPaysans’ (The Peasants). The three followingyears added nothing to his work and closed his life,but they brought him his crowning happiness.On March 14th, 1850, he was married to Mme. Hanska,at Berditchef; on August 18th, 1850, he died at Paris.

Madame Evelina de Hanska came into Balzac’slife about 1833, just after he had shaken off theunfortunate influence of the Duchesse de Castries.The young Polish countess was much impressed, we aretold, by reading the ‘Scenes de la vie privee’(Scenes of Private Life), and was somewhat perplexedand worried by Balzac’s apparent change of methodin ’La Peau de chagrin.’ She wroteto him over the signature “L’Etrangere”(A Foreigner), and he answered in a series of lettersrecently published in the Revue de Paris. Notlong after the opening of this correspondence thetwo met, and a firm friendship was cemented betweenthem. The lady was about thirty, and marriedto a Russian gentleman of large fortune, to whom shehad given an only daughter. She was in the habitof traveling about Europe to carry on this daughter’seducation, and Balzac made it his pleasure and dutyto see her whenever he could, sometimes journeyingas far as Vienna. In the interim he would writeher letters which possess great charm and importanceto the student of his life. The husband madeno objection to the intimacy, trusting both to hiswife and to Balzac; but for some time before the deathof the aged nobleman, Balzac seems to have distrustedhimself and to have held slightly aloof from the womanwhom he was destined finally to love with all the fervorof his nature. Madame Hanska became free in thewinter of 1842-3, and the next summer Balzac visitedSt. Petersburg to see her. His love soon becamean absorbing passion, but consideration for her daughter’sfuture withheld the lady’s consent to a betrothaltill 1846. It was a period of weary waiting,in which our sympathies are all on one side; for ifever a man deserved to be happy in a woman’slove, it was Balzac. His happiness came, butalmost too late to be enjoyed. His last two years,which he spent in Poland with Madame de Hanska, wereoppressed by illness, and he returned to his belovedParis only to die. The struggle of thirty yearswas over, and although his immense genius was not yetfully recognized, his greatest contemporary, VictorHugo, was magnanimous enough to exclaim on hearingthat he was dying, “Europe is on the point oflosing a great mind.” Balzac’s disciplesfeel that Europe really lost its greatest writer sinceShakespeare.

In the definitive edition of Balzac’s writingsin twenty-four volumes, seventeen are occupied bythe various divisions of the ’Comedie humaine.’The plays take up one volume; and the correspondence,not including of course the letters to “L’Etrangere,”another; the ’Contes drolatiques’ makestill another; and finally we have four volumes filledwith sketches, tales, reviews, and historical and politicalarticles left uncollected by their author.

The ‘Contes’ are thirty in number, dividedinto “dixains,” each with its appropriateprologue and epilogue. They purport to have beencollected in the abbeys of Touraine, and set forthby the Sieur de Balzac for the delight of Pantagruelistsand none others. Not merely the spirit but thevery language of Rabelais is caught with remarkableverve and fidelity, so that from the point of viewof style Balzac has never done better work. Abook which holds by Rabelais on the one hand and bythe Queen of Navarre on the other is not likely, however,to appeal to that part of the English and Americanreading public that expurgates its Chaucer, and blushesat the mention of Fielding and Smollett. Suchreaders will do well to avoid the ‘Contes drolatiques;’although, like ‘Don Juan,’ they containa great deal of what was best in their author, of hisfrank, ebullient, sensuous nature, lighted up hereat least by a genuine if scarcely delicate humor.Of direct suggestion of vice Balzac was, naturally,as incapable as he was of smug puritanism; but it mustbe confessed that as a raconteur his properaudience, now that the monastic orders have passedaway, would be a group of middle-aged club-men.

The ‘Comedie humaine’ is divided intothree main sections: first and most important,the ‘Etudes de moeurs’ (Studies of Manners),second the ‘Etudes philosophiques’ (PhilosophicStudies), and finally the ’Etudes analytiques’(Analytic Studies). These divisions, as M. Barrierepoints out in his ‘L’Oeuvre de H. de Balzac’(The Work of Balzac), were intended to bear to oneanother the relations that moral science, psychology,and metaphysics do to one another with regard to thelife of man, whether as an individual or as a memberof society. No single division was left completeat the author’s death; but enough was finishedand put together to give us the sense of moving ina living, breathing world, no matter where we makeour entry. This, as we have insisted, is thereal secret of his greatness. To think, for example,that the importance of ‘Seraphita’ liesin the fact that it gives Balzac’s view of Swedenborgianism,or that the importance of ’Louis Lambert’lies in its author’s queer theories about thehuman will, is entirely to misapprehend his true positionin the world of literature. His mysticism, hispsychology, his theories of economics, his reactionarydevotion to monarchy, and his idealization of the Churchof Rome, may or may not appeal to us, and have certainlynothing that is eternal or inevitable about them;but in his knowledge of the human mind and heart heis as inevitable and eternal as any writer has everbeen, save only Shakespeare and Homer.

The ‘Etudes de moeurs’ were systematicallydivided by their author into ‘Scenes of PrivateLife,’ ‘Scenes of Provincial Life,’’Scenes of Country Life,’ ‘Scenesof Parisian Life,’ ‘Scenes of PoliticalLife,’ and ’Scenes of Military Life,’—thelast three divisions representing more or less exceptionalphases of existence. The group relating to Parisis by far the most important and powerful, but theprovincial stories show almost as fine workmanship,and furnish not a few of the well-known masterpieces.Less interesting, though still important, are the‘Scenes of Private Life,’ which consistof twenty-four novels, novelettes, and tales, underthe following titles: ‘Beatrix,’ ’AlbertSavarus,’ ‘La Fausse maitresse’ (TheFalse Mistress), ‘Le Message’ (The Message),‘La Grande Breteche,’ ‘Etude de femme’(Study of Woman), ‘Autre etude de femme’(Another Story of Woman), ‘Madame Firmiani,’‘Modeste Mignon,’ ‘Un Debut dansla vie’ (An Entrance upon Life), ‘PierreGrassou,’ ‘Memoires de deux jeunes mariees’(Recollections of a Young Couple), ‘La Maisondu chat-qui-pelote,’ ‘Le Bal de Sceaux’(The Ball of Sceaux), ‘Le Contrat de mariage’(The Marriage Contract), ’La Vendetta,’‘La Paix du menage’ (Household Peace),‘Une Double famille’ (A Double Family),‘Une Fille d’Eve’ (A Daughter ofEve), ‘Honorine,’ ‘La Femme abandonnee’(The Abandoned Wife), ‘La Grenadiere,’’La Femme de trente ans’ (The Woman ofThirty).

Of all these stories, hardly one shows genuine greatnessexcept the powerful tragic tale ‘La Grande Breteche,’which was subsequently incorporated in ‘Autreetude de femme,’ This story of a jealous husband’swalling up his wife’s lover in a closet of herchamber is as dramatic a piece of writing as Balzacever did, and is almost if not quite as perfect ashort story as any that has since been written inFrance. ‘La Maison du chat-qui-pelote’has been mentioned already on account of its importancein the evolution of Balzac’s realism, but whilea delightful novelette, it is hardly great, its charmcoming rather from its descriptions of bourgeois lifethan from the working out of its central theme, theinfelicity of a young wife married to an unfaithfulartist. ‘Modeste Mignon’ is interesting,and more romantic than Balzac’s later workswere wont to be; but while it may be safely recommendedto the average novel-reader, few admirers of its authorwould wish to have it taken as a sample of their master.‘Beatrix’ is a powerful story in its delineationof the weakness of the young Breton nobleman, Calystedu Guenie. It derives a factitious interest fromthe fact that George Sand is depicted in ‘CamilleMaupin,’ the nom de plume of Mlle.des Touches, and perhaps Balzac himself in ClaudeVignon, the critic. Less factitious is the interestderived from Balzac’s admirable delineationof a doting mother and aunt, and from his realistichandling of one of the cleverest of his ladies of lightreputation, Madame Schontz; his studies of such characters

of the demi-monde—especially ofthe wonderful Esther of the ’Splendeurs et miseres’—servingplainly, by the way, as a point of departure for Dumasfils. Yet ‘Beatrix’ is an ablerather than a truly great book, for it neither elevatesnor delights us. In fact, all the stories in thisseries are interesting rather than truly great; butall display Balzac’s remarkable analytic powers.Love, false or true, is of course their main theme;wrought out to a happy issue in ‘La Bourse,’a charming tale, or to a death of despair in ‘LaGrenadiere’ The childless young married womanis contrasted with her more fortunate friend surroundedby little ones (’Memoires de deux jeunes mariees’),the heartless coquette flirts once too often (’LeBal de Sceaux’), the eligible young man is takenin by a scheming mother (’Le Contrat du mariage’),the deserted husband labors to win back his wife (’Honorine’),the tempted wife learns at last the real nature ofher peril (’Une Fille d’Eve’); inshort, lovers and mistresses, husbands and wives,make us participants of all the joys and sorrows thatform a miniature world within the four walls of everyhouse.

The ‘Scenes of Provincial Life’ numberonly ten stories, but nearly all of them are masterpieces.They are ‘Eugenie Grandet,’ ’Le Lysdans la vallee,’ ‘Ursule Mirouet,’‘Pierrette,’ ‘Le Cure de Tours,’’La Rabouilleuse,’ ‘La Vielle fille’(The Old Maid), ’Le Cabinet des antiques’(The Cabinet of Antiques), ‘L’IllustreGaudissart’ (The Illustrious Gaudissart), and‘La Muse du departement’ (The DepartmentalMuse). Of these ‘Eugenie Grandet’is of course easily first in interest, pathos, andpower. The character of old Grandet, the miserlyfather, is presented to us with Shakespearean vividness,although Eugenie herself has, less than the Shakespeareancharm. Any lesser artist would have made thetyrant himself and his yielding wife and daughtersseem caricatures rather than living people. Itis only the Shakespeares and Balzacs who are ableto make their Shylocks and lagos, their Grandets andPhilippe Brideaus, monsters and human beings at oneand the same time. It is only the greater artists,too, who can bring out all the pathos inherent inthe subjection of two gentle women to a tyrant intheir own household. But it is Balzac the inimitablealone who can portray fully the life of the provinces,its banality, its meanness, its watchful selfishness,and yet save us through the perfection of his artfrom the degradation which results from contact withlow and sordid life. The reader who rises unaffectedfrom a perusal of ’Eugenie Grandet’ wouldbe unmoved by the grief of Priam in the tent of Achilles,or of Othello in the death-chamber of Desdemona.

‘Le Lys dans la vallee’ has been pronouncedby an able French critic to be the worst novel heknows; but as a study of more or less ethereal andslightly morbid love it is characterized by remarkablepower. Its heroine, Madame Mortsauf, tied toa nearly insane husband and pursued by a sentimentallover, undergoes tortures of conscience through anagonizing sense of half-failure in her duty. Balzachimself used to cite her when he was charged withnot being able to draw a pure woman; but he has creatednobler types. The other stories of the group arealso decidedly more interesting. The distressof the abbe Birotteau over his landlady’s treatment,and the intrigues of the abbe Troubert (’Le Curede Tours’) absorb us as completely as the careerof Caesar himself in Mommsen’s famous chapter.The woes of the little orphan subjected to the tyrannyof her selfish aunt and uncle (’Pierrette’),the struggles of the rapacious heirs for the Mirouetfortune (’Ursule Mirouet,’) a story whichgives us one of Balzac’s purest women, treatsinterestingly of mesmerism (and may be read withoutfear by the young), the siege of Mlle. Cormon’smature affections by her two adroit suitors (’UneVielle fille’), the intrigues against the peaceof the d’Esgrignons and the sublime devotionto their interests of the notary Chesnel (’LeCabinet des antiques’), and finally the ignoblepassions that fought themselves out around the senileJean Jacques Rouget, under the direction of the diabolicalex-soldier Philippe Brideau (’La Rabouilleuse,’sometimes entitled ’Un Menage de Garcon’),form the absorbing central themes of a group of novels—orrather stories, for few of them attain considerablelength—unrivaled in the annals of realisticfiction.

The ‘Scenes of Country Life,’ comprising‘Les Paysans,’ ’Le Medecin de campagne,’and ‘Le Cure de village’ (The Village Priest),take high rank among their author’s works.Where Balzac might have been crudely naturalistic,he has preferred to be either realistic as in the firstnamed admirable novel, or idealistic as in the twolatter. Hence he has created characters likethe country physician, Doctor Benassis, almost asgreat a boon to the world of readers as that philanthropisthimself was to the little village of his adoption.If Madame Graslin of ’Le Cure de village’fails to reach the height of Benassis, her career hasat least a sensational interest which his lacked; andthe country curate, the good abbe Bonnet, surely makesup for her lack on the ideal side. This story,by the way, is important for the light it throws onthe workings of the Roman Church among the common people;and the description of Madame Graslin’s deathis one of Balzac’s most effective pieces ofwriting.

We are now brought to the ‘Parisian Scenes,’and with the exception of ‘Eugenie Grandet,’to the best-known masterpieces. There are twentytitles; but as two of these are collective in character,the number of novels and stories amounts to twenty-four,as follows:—’Le Pere Goriot,’‘Illusions perdues,’ ‘Splendeurset miseres des courtisanes,’ ‘Les Secretsde la princesse de Cadignan’ (The Secrets ofthe Princess of Cadignan), ‘Histoire des treize’[containing ‘Ferragus,’ ’La Duchessede Langeais,’ and ‘La Fille aux yeux d’or’(The Girl with the Golden Eyes)], ‘Sarrasine,’‘Le Colonel Chabert,’ ‘L’lnterdiction’(The Interdiction), ‘Les Parents pauvres’(Poor Relations, including ’La Cousine Bette’and ’Le Cousin Pons’), ‘La Messede l’athee’ (The Atheist’s Mass),‘Facino Cane,’ ‘Gobseck,’ ‘LaMaison Nucingen,’ ’Un Prince de la Boheme’(A Prince of Bohemia), ’Esquisse d’hommed’affaires’ (Sketch of a Business man),‘Gaudissart II.’ ’Les Comedienssans le savoir’ (The Unconscious Humorists),‘Les Employes’ (The Employees), ‘Histoirede Cesar Birotteau,’ and ‘Les Petits bourgeois’(Little Bourgeois). Of these twenty-four titlessix belong to novels, five of which are of great power,nine to novelettes and short stories too admirableto be passed over without notice, eight to novelettesand stories of interest and value which need not,however, detain us, and one, ‘Les Petits bourgeois’,to a novel of much promise unfortunately left incomplete.‘Les Secrets de la princesse de Cadignan’is remarkable chiefly as a study of the blind passionthat often overtakes a man of letters. Danield’Arthez, the author, a fine character and afavorite with Balzac, succumbs to the wiles of thePrincess of Cadignan (formerly the dashing and fascinatingDuchesse de Maufrigneuse) and is happy in his subjection.The ‘Histoire des treize’ contains threenovelettes, linked together through the fact thatin each a band of thirteen young men, sworn to assistone another in conquering society, play an importantpart. This volume is the most frankly sensationalof Balzac’s works. ‘La Duchesse deLangeais’ however, is more than sensational:it gives perhaps Balzac’s best description ofthe Faubourg St. Germain and one of his ablest analysesof feminine character, while in the description ofGeneral Montriveau’s recognition of the Duchessin the Spanish convent the novelist’s dramaticpower is seen at its highest. ‘La Filleaux yeux d’or,’ which concludes the volumedevoted to the mysterious brotherhood, may be considered,with ‘Sarrasine,’ one of the dark closetsof the great building known as the ‘Comedie humaine.’Both stories deal with unnatural passions, and thefirst is one of Balzac’s most effective compositions.For sheer voluptuousness of style there is littlein literature to parallel the description of the boudoirof the uncanny heroine. Very different from thesestories is ’Le Colonel Chabert,’ the recordof the misfortunes of one of Napoleon’s heroic

soldiers, who after untold hardships returns to Franceto find his wife married a second time and determinedto deny his existence. The law is invoked, butthe treachery of the wife induces the noble old manto put an end to the proceedings, after which he sinksinto an indigent and pathetic senility. Balzachas never drawn a more heart-moving figure, nor hashe ever sounded more thoroughly the depths of humanselfishness. But the description of the battleof Eylau and of Chabert’s sufferings in retreatwould alone suffice to make the story memorable.‘L’Interdiction’ is the proper pendantto the history of this unfortunate soldier. Init another husband, the Marquis d’Espard, suffersfrom the selfishness of his wife, one of the worstcharacters in the range of Balzac’s fiction.That she may keep him from alienating his propertyto discharge a moral obligation she endeavors to provehim insane. The legal complications which ensuebring forward one of Balzac’s great figures,the judge of instruction, Popinot; but to appreciatehim the reader must go to the marvelous book itself.‘Gobseck’ is a study of a Parisian usurer,almost worthy of a place beside the description ofold Grandet; while ‘Les Employes’ is arealistic study of bureaucratic life, which, besidesshowing a wonderful familiarity with the details ofa world of which Balzac had little personal experience,contains several admirably drawn characters and asufficient amount of incident. But it is timeto leave these sketches and novels in miniature, andto pass by the less important ‘Scenes’of this fascinating Parisian life, in order to considerin some detail the five novels of consummate power.

First of these in date of composition, and in popularestimation at least among English readers, comes,‘Le Pere Goriot.’ It is certainlytrite to call the book a French “Lear,”but the expression emphasizes the supreme artisticpower that could treat the motif of one ofShakespeare’s plays in a manner that never forcesa disadvantageous comparison with the great tragedy.The retired vermicelli-maker is not as grand a figureas the doting King of Britain, but he is as real.The French daughters, Anastasie, Countess de Restaud,and Delphine, Baroness de Nucingen, are not such typesof savage wickedness as Regan and Goneril, but theyfit the nineteenth century as well as the Britishprincesses did their more barbarous day. Yet thereis no Cordelia in ‘Le Pere Goriot,’ forthe pale Victorine Taillefer cannot fill the placeof that noblest of daughters. This is but to saythat Balzac’s bourgeois tragedy lacks that elementof the noble that every great poetic tragedy musthave. The self-immolation of old Goriot to thecold-hearted ambitions of his daughters is not noble,but his parental passion touches the infinite, andso proves the essential kinship of his creator withthe creator of Lear. This touch of the infinite,as in ’Eugenie Grandet,’ lifts the bookup from the level of a merely masterly study of characters

or a merely powerful novel to that of the suprememasterpieces of human genius. The marvelouslylifelike description of the vulgar Parisian boarding-house,the fascinating delineation of the character of thatking of convicts, Vautrin, and the fine analysis ofthe ambitions of Rastignac (who comes nearer perhapsto being the hero of the ‘Comedie humaine’than any other of its characters, and is here presentedto us at the threshold of his successful career) remainin the memory of every reader, but would never alonehave sufficed to make Balzac’s name worthy ofimmortality. The infinite quality of Goriot’spassion would, however, have conferred this honor onhis creator had he never written another book.

‘Illusions perdues’ and ‘Splendeurset miseres des courtisanes’ might almost beregarded as one novel in seven parts. More thanany other of his works they show the sun of Balzac’sgenius at its meridian. Nowhere else does hegive us plots so absorbing, nowhere else does he bringus so completely in contact with the world his imaginationhas peopled. The first novel devotes two of itsparts to the provinces and one to Paris. Theprovincial stories centre around two brothers-in-law,David Sechard and Lucien de Rubempre, types of thepractical and the artistic intellect respectively.David, after struggling for fame and fortune, succumbsand finds his recompense in the love of his wife Eve,Lucien’s sister, one of Balzac’s noblewomen. Lucien, on the other hand, after someprovincial successes as a poet, tries the great worldof Paris, yields to its temptations, fails ignominiously,and attempts suicide, but is rescued by the greatVautrin, who has escaped from prison and is aboutto renew his war on society disguised as a Spanishpriest. Vautrin has conceived the idea that ashe can take no part in society, he will have a representativein it and taste its pleasures through him. Lucienaccepts this disgraceful position and plunges oncemore into the vortex, supported by the strong armof the king of the convicts. His career and thatof his patron form the subject of the four parts ofthe ’Splendeurs et miseres’ and are toocomplicated to be described here. Suffice it tosay that probably nowhere else in fiction are the novelof character and the novel of incident so splendidlycombined; and certainly nowhere else in the rangeof his work does Balzac so fully display all his masterqualities. That the story is sensational cannotbe denied, but it is at least worthy of being calledthe Iliad of Crime. Nemesis waits upon both Lucienand Vautrin, and upon the poor courtesan Esther whomthey entrap in their toils, and when the two formerare at last in custody, Lucien commits suicide.Vautrin baffles his acute judge in a wonderful interview;but with his cherished hope cut short by Lucien’sdeath, finally gives up the struggle. Here thenovel might have ended; yet Balzac adds a fourth part,in order to complete the career of Vautrin. Thefamous convict is transformed into a government spy,and engages to use his immense power against his formercomrades and in defense of the society he has hithertowarred upon. The artistic propriety of this transformationmay be questioned, but not the power and interestof the novel of which it is the finishing touch.

Many readers would put the companion novels ‘LaCousine Bette’ and ’Le Cousin Pons’at the head of Balzac’s works. They havenot the infinite pathos of ‘Le Pere Goriot,’or the superb construction of the first three partsof the ‘Splendeurs et miseres,’ but forsheer strength the former at least is unsurpassedin fiction. Never before or since have the effectsof vice in dragging down a man below the level of thelowest brute been so portrayed as in Baron Hulot;never before or since has female depravity been soillustrated as in the diabolical career of ValerieMarneffe, probably the worst woman in fiction.As for Cousine Bette herself, and her power to breedmischief and crime, it suffices to say that she isworthy of a place beside the two chief characters.

‘Le Cousin Pons’ is a very different book;one which, though pathetic in the extreme, may besafely recommended to the youngest reader. Thehero who gives his name to the story is an old musicianwho has worn out his welcome among his relations,but who becomes an object of interest to them whenthey learn that his collection of bric-a-brac is valuableand that he is about to die. The intrigues thatcirculate around this collection and the childlikeGerman, Schmucke, to whom Pons has bequeathed it,are described as only the author of ‘Le Curede Tours’ could have succeeded in doing; butthe book contains also an almost perfect descriptionof the ideal friendship existing between Pons andSchmucke. One remembers them longer than one doesFrazier, the scoundrelly advocate who cheats poorSchmucke; a fact which should be cited against thosewho urge that Balzac is at home with his vicious charactersonly.

The last novel of this group, ‘Cesar Birotteau,’is the least powerful, though not perhaps the leastpopular. It is an excellent study of bourgeoislife, and therefore fills an important place in thescheme of the ‘Comedy,’ describing asit does the spreading ambitions of a rich but stupidperfumer, and containing an admirable study of bankruptcy.It may be dismissed with the remark that around theinnocent Caesar surge most of the scoundrels thatfigure in the ‘Comedie humaine,’ and withthe regret that it should have been completed whilethe far more powerful ‘Les Petits bourgeois’was left unfinished.

We now come to the concluding parts of the ‘Etudesde moeurs.’ the ‘Scenes’ describingPolitical and Military Life. In the first groupare five novels and stories: ‘L’Enversde l’histoire contemporaine’ (The UnderSide of Contemporary History, a fine story, but rathersocial than political), ‘Une Tenebreuse affaire’(A Shady Affair), ’Un Episode sous la Terreur,’‘Z. Marcas,’ and ‘Le Deputed’Arcis’ (The Deputy of Arcis). Ofthese the ‘Episode’ is probably the mostadmirable, although ’Z. Marcas’ hasnot a little strength. The ‘Depute,’like ’Les Petits bourgeois,’ was continuedby M. Charles Rabou and a considerable part of itis not Balzac’s; a fact which is to be regretted,

since practically it is the only one of these storiesthat touches actual politics as the term is usuallyunderstood. The military scenes are only two innumber, ‘Les Chouans’ and ‘Une Passiondans le desert.’ The former of these hasbeen sufficiently described already; the latter isone of the best known of the short stories, but ratherdeserves a place beside ’La Fille aux yeux d’or.’Indeed, for Balzac’s best military scenes wemust go to ’Le Colonel Chabert’ or to‘Adieu.’

We now pass to those subterranean chambers of thegreat structure we are exploring, the ‘Etudesphilosophiques.’ They are twenty in number,four being novels, one a composite volume of tales,and the rest stories. The titles run as follows:—’LaPeau de chagrin,’ ‘L’Elixir de longuevie’ (The Elixir of Life), ‘Melmoth reconcilie,’‘Le Chef-d’oeuvre inconnu’ (TheAnonymous Masterpiece), ‘Gambara,’ ‘MassimilaDoni,’ ’Le Requisitionnaire,’ ‘Adieu,’‘El Verdugo,’ ‘Les Marana,’’L’Auberge rouge’ (The Red Inn),‘Un Drame au bord de la mer’ (A SeasideDrama), ‘L’Enfant maudit’ (A ChildAccursed) ‘Maitre Cornelius’ (Master Cornelius),‘Sur Catherine de Medicis,’ ‘La Recherchede l’absolu,’ ‘Louis Lambert,’‘Seraphita,’ ‘Les Proscrits,’and ’Jesus-Christ en Flandre.’

Of the novels, ‘La Peau de chagrin’ iseasily first. Its central theme is the world-oldconflict between the infinite desires and the finitepowers of man. The hero, Raphael, is hardly, asM. Barriere asserts, on a level with Hamlet, Faust,and Manfred, but the struggle of his infinite andhis finite natures is almost as intensely interestingas the similar struggles in them. The introductionof the talisman, the wild ass’s skin that accomplishesall the wishes of its owner, but on condition thatit is to shrink away in proportion to the intensityof those wishes, and that when it disappears the owner’slife is to end, gave to the story a weird interestnot altogether, perhaps, in keeping with its realisticsetting, and certainly forcing a disastrous comparisonwith the three great poems named. But when allallowances are made, one is forced to conclude that‘La Peau de chagrin’ is a novel of extraordinarypower and absorbing interest; and that its descriptionof its hero’s dissipations in the libertinecircles of Paris, and its portrayal of the sublimedevotion of the heroine Pauline for her slowly perishinglover, are scarcely to be paralleled in literature.Far less powerful are the short stories on similarthemes, entitled ’L’Elixir de longue vie,’and ‘Melmoth reconcilie’ (Melmoth Reconciled),which give us Balzac’s rehandling of the DonJuan of Moliere and Byron, and the Melmoth of Maturin.

Below the ‘Peau de chagrin,’ but stillamong its author’s best novels, should be placed‘La Recherche de l’absolu,’ which,as its title implies, describes the efforts of a chemistto “prove by chemical analysis the unity ofcomposition of matter.” In the pursuit ofhis philosophic will-o’-the-wisp, BalthazarClaes loses his fortune and sacrifices his noble wifeand children. His madness serves, however, tobring into relief the splendid qualities of these latter;and it is just here, in its human rather than in itsphilosophic bearings, that the story rises to realgreatness. Marguerite Claes, the daughter, isa noble heroine; and if one wishes to see how Balzac’scharacters and ideas suffer when treated by anotherthough an able hand, one has but to read in conjunctionwith this novel the ‘Maitre Guerin’ ofthe distinguished dramatist Emile Augier. A properpendant to this history of a noble genius pervertedis ‘La Confidence des Ruggieri,’ the secondpart of that remarkable composite ‘Sur Catherinede Medicis,’ a book which in spite of its mixtureof history, fiction, and speculative politics is oneof the most suggestive of Balzac’s minor productions.

Concerning ‘Seraphita’ and ‘LouisLambert,’ the remaining novels of this series,certain noted mystics assert that they contain theessence of Balzac’s genius, and at least suggestthe secret of the universe. Perhaps an ordinarycritic may content himself with saying that both booksare remarkable proofs of their author’s power,and that the former is notable for its marvelous descriptionsof Norwegian scenery.

Of the lesser members of the philosophic group, nearlyall are admirable in their kind and degree. ‘LeChef-d’oeuvre inconnu’ and ‘Gambara’treat of the pains of the artistic life and temperament.‘Massimila Doni,’ like ‘Gambara,’treats of music, but also gives a brilliant pictureof Venetian life. ‘Le requisitionnaire,’perhaps the best of Balzac’s short stories,deals with the phenomenon of second sight, as ‘Adieu’does with that of mental alienation caused by a suddenshock. ’Les Marana’ is an absorbingstudy of the effects of heredity; ’L’Aubergerouge’ is an analysis of remorse, as is also’Un Drame au bord de la mer’; while ‘L’Enfantmaudit’ is an analysis of the effects of extremesensibility, especially as manifested in the passionof poetic love. Finally, ‘Maitre Cornelius’is a study of avarice, in which is set a remarkableportrait of Louis XI.; ‘Les Proscrits’is a masterly sketch of the exile of Dante at Paris;and ‘Jesus-Christ en Flandre’ is an exquisiteallegory, the most delicate flower, perhaps, of Balzac’sgenius.

It remains only to say a few words about the thirddivision of the ‘Comedie humaine,’ viz.,the ‘Etudes analytiques.’ Only twomembers of the series, the ‘Physiologie du mariage’and the ’Petites miseres de la vie conjugale,’were ever completed, and they are not great enoughto make us regret the loss of the ‘Pathologyof Social Life’ and the other unwritten volumes.For the two books we have are neither novels nor profoundstudies, neither great fiction nor great psychology.That they are worth reading for their suggestivenesswith regard to such important subjects as marriageand conjugal life goes without saying, since theyare Balzac’s; but that they add greatly to hisreputation, not even his most ardent admirer wouldbe hardy enough to affirm.

And now in conclusion, what can one say about thisgreat writer that will not fall far short of his deserts?Plainly, nothing, yet a few points may be accentuatedwith profit. We should notice in the first placethat Balzac has consciously tried almost every formof prose fiction, and has been nearly always splendidlysuccessful. In analytic studies of high, middle,and low life he has not his superior. In thenovel of intrigue and sensation he is easily a master,while he succeeds at least fairly in a form of fictionat just the opposite pole from this, to wit, the idyl(’Le Lys dans la vallee’). In charactersketches of extreme types, like ‘Gobseck,’his supremacy has long been recognized, and he isalmost as powerful when he enters the world of mysticism,whither so few of us can follow him. As a writerof novelettes he is unrivaled and some of his shortstories are worthy to rank with the best that hisfollowers have produced. In the extensive useof dialect he was a pioneer; in romance he has ‘LaPeau de chagrin’ and ‘La Recherche del’absolu’ to his credit; while some ofthe work in the tales connected with the name of Catherinede Medici shows what he could have done in historicalfiction had he continued to follow Scott. Andwhat is true of the form of his fiction is true ofits elements. Tragedy, comedy, melodrama areall within his reach; he can call up tears and shudders,laughter and smiles at will. He knows the wholerange of human emotions, and he dares to penetrateinto the arcana of passions almost too terrible orloathsome for literature to touch.

In style, in the larger sense of the word, he is almostequally supreme. He is the father of modern realismand remains its greatest exponent. He retainsalways some of the good elements of romance,—thatis to say, he sees the thing as it ought to be,—andhe avoids the pitfalls of naturalism, being a painterand not a photographer. In other words, likeall truly great writers he never forgets his ideals;but he is too impartial to his characters and hastoo fast a grip on life to fall into the unrealitiesof sentimentalism. It is true that he lacked thespontaneity that characterized his great forerunner,

Shakespeare, and his great contemporary, George Sand;but this loss was made up by the inevitable and impersonalcharacter of his work when once his genius was thoroughlyaroused to action. His laborious method of describingby an accumulation of details postponed the play ofhis powers, which are at their height in the actionof his characters; yet sooner or later the inert massesof his composition were fused into a burning whole.But if Balzac is primarily a dramatist in the creationand manipulation of his characters, he is also a supremepainter in his presentation of scenes. And whatcharacters and what scenes has he not set before us!Over two thousand personages move through the ‘Comediehumaine,’ whose biographies MM. Cerfberrand Christophe have collected for us in their admirable‘Repertoire de la comedie humaine,’ andwhose chief types M. Paul Flat has described in thefirst series of his ‘Essais sur Balzac.’Some of these personages are of course shadowy; butan amazingly large number live for us as truly asShakespeare’s heroes and heroines do. Norwill any one who has trod the streets of Balzac’sParis, or spent the summer with him at the chateaudes Aigues (’Les Paysans’), or in thebeautiful valleys of Touraine, ever forget the master’spictures.

Yet the Balzac who with intangible materials createdliving and breathing men and women and unfading scenes,has been accused of vitiating the French languageand has been denied the possession of verbal style.On this point French critics must give the final verdict;but a foreigner may cite Taine’s defense of thatstyle, and maintain that most of the liberties takenby Balzac with his native language were forced onhim by the novel and far-reaching character of hiswork. Nor should it be forgotten that he wascapable at times of almost perfect passages of description,and that he rarely confounded, as novelists are tooapt to do, the provinces of poetry and prose.

But one might write a hundred essays on Balzac andnot exhaust him. One might write a volume onhis women, a volume to refute the charge that hisbad men are better drawn than his good, a volume todiscuss Mr. Henry James’s epigrammatic declarationthat a five-franc piece may be fairly called the protagonistof the ‘Comedie humaine.’ In shortone might go on defending and praising and even criticizingBalzac for a lifetime, and be little further advancedthan when one began; for to criticize Balzac, is itnot to criticize life itself?

[Illustration: Signature W.P. Trent]

THE MEETING IN THE CONVENT

From ‘The Duchess of Langeais’

In a Spanish town on an island of the Mediterraneanthere is a convent of the Barefooted Carmelites, wherethe rule of the Order instituted by Saint Theresais still kept with the primitive rigor of the reformationbrought about by that illustrious woman. Extraordinaryas this fact may seem, it is true. Though themonasteries of the Peninsula and those of the Continentwere nearly all destroyed or broken up by the outburstof the French Revolution and the turmoil of the Napoleonicwars, yet on this island, protected by the Britishfleets, the wealthy convent and its peaceful inmateswere sheltered from the dangers of change and generalspoliation. The storms from all quarters whichshook the first fifteen years of the nineteenth centurysubsided ere they reached this lonely rock near thecoast of Andalusia. If the name of the greatEmperor echoed fitfully upon its shores, it may bedoubted whether the fantastic march of his glory orthe flaming majesty of his meteoric life ever reachedthe comprehension of those saintly women kneeling intheir distant cloister.

A conventual rigor, which was never relaxed, gaveto this haven a special place in the thoughts andhistory of the Catholic world. The purity ofits rule drew to its shelter from different parts ofEurope sad women, whose souls, deprived of human ties,longed for the death in life which they found herein the bosom of God. No other convent was sofitted to wean the heart and teach it that aloofnessfrom the things of this world which the religiouslife imperatively demands. On the Continent maybe found a number of such Houses, nobly planned tomeet the wants of their sacred purpose. Someare buried in the depths of solitary valleys; othershang, as it were, in mid-air above the hills, clingingto the mountain slopes or projecting from the vergeof precipices. On all sides man has sought outthe poesy of the infinite, the solemnity of silence:he has sought God; and on the mountain-tops, in theabysmal depths, among the caverned cliffs he has foundHim. Yet nowhere as on this European islet, halfAfrican though it be, can he find such differing harmoniesall blending to lift the soul and quell its springsof anguish; to cool its fevers, and give to the sorrowsof life a bed of rest.

The monastery is built at the extremity of the islandat its highest part, where the rock by some convulsionof Nature has been rent sharply down to the sea, andpresents at all points keen angles and edges, slightlyeaten away at the water-line by the action of the waves,but insurmountable to all approach. The rockis also protected from assault by dangerous reefsrunning far out from its base, over which frolic theblue waters of the Mediterranean. It is only fromthe sea that the visitor can perceive the four principalparts of the square structure, which adheres minutelyas to shape, height, and the piercing of its windowsto the prescribed laws of monastic architecture.

On the side towards the town the church hides themassive lines of the cloister, whose roof is coveredwith large tiles to protect it from winds and storms,and also from the fierce heat of the sun. Thechurch, the gift of a Spanish family, looks down uponthe town and crowns it. Its bold yet elegantfacade gives a noble aspect to the little maritimecity. Is it not a picture of terrestrial sublimity?See the tiny town with clustering roofs, rising likean amphitheatre from the picturesque port upward tothe noble Gothic frontal of the church, from whichspring the slender shafts of the bell-towers withtheir pointed finials: religion dominating life:offering to man the end and the way of living,—imageof a thought altogether Spanish. Place this sceneupon the bosom of the Mediterranean beneath an ardentsky; plant it with palms whose waving fronds mingletheir green life with the sculptured leafage of theimmutable architecture; look at the white fringes ofthe sea as it runs up the reef and they sparkle uponthe sapphire of its wave; see the galleries and theterraces built upon the roofs of houses, where theinhabitants come at eve to breathe the flower-scentedair as it rises through the tree-tops from their littlegardens. Below, in the harbor, are the whitesails. The serenity of night is coming on; listento the notes of the organ, the chant of evening orisons,the echoing bells of the ships at sea: on allsides sound and peace,—oftenest peace.

Within the church are three naves, dark and mysterious.The fury of the winds evidently forbade the architectto build out lateral buttresses, such as adorn allother cathedrals, and between which little chapelsare usually constructed. Thus the strong wallswhich flank the lesser naves shed no light into thebuilding. Outside, their gray masses are shoredup from point to point by enormous beams. Thegreat nave and its two small lateral galleries arelighted solely by the rose-window of stained glass,which pierces with miraculous art the wall above thegreat portal, whose fortunate exposure permits a wealthof tracery and dentellated stone-work belonging tothat order of architecture miscalled Gothic.

The greater part of the three naves is given up tothe inhabitants of the town who come to hear Massand the Offices of the Church. In front of thechoir is a latticed screen, within which brown curtainshang in ample folds, slightly parted in the middleto give a limited view of the altar and the officiatingpriest. The screen is divided at intervals bypillars that hold up a gallery within the choir whichcontains the organ. This construction, in harmonywith the rest of the building, continues, in sculpturedwood, the little columns of the lateral gallerieswhich are supported by the pillars of the great nave.Thus it is impossible for the boldest curiosity, ifany such should dare to mount the narrow balustradeof these galleries, to see farther into the choirthan the octagonal stained windows which pierce theapse behind the high altar.

At the time of the French expedition into Spain forthe purpose of re-establishing the authority of FerdinandVII., and after the fall of Cadiz, a French generalwho was sent to the island to obtain its recognitionof the royal government prolonged his stay upon itthat he might reconnoitre the convent and gain, ifpossible, admittance there. The enterprise wasa delicate one. But a man of passion,—aman whose life had been, so to speak, a series ofpoems in action, who had lived romances instead ofwriting them; above all a man of deeds,—mightwell be tempted by a project apparently so impossible.To open for himself legally the gates of a conventof women! The Pope and the Metropolitan Archbishopwould scarcely sanction it. Should he use forceor artifice? In case of failure was he not certainto lose his station and his military future, besidesmissing his aim? The Duc d’Angouleme wasstill in Spain; and of all the indiscretions whichan officer in favor with the commander-in-chief couldcommit, this alone would be punished without pity.The general had solicited his present mission for thepurpose of following up a secret hope, albeit no hopewas ever so despairing. This last effort, however,was a matter of conscience. The house of theseBarefooted Carmelites was the only Spanish conventwhich had escaped his search. While crossingfrom the mainland, a voyage which took less than anhour, a strong presentiment of success had seized hisheart. Since then, although he had seen nothingof the convent but its walls, nothing of the nuns,not so much as their brown habit; though he had heardonly the echoes of their chanted liturgies,—hehad gathered from those walls and from these chantsfaint indications that seemed to justify his fragilehope. Slight as the auguries thus capriciouslyawakened might be, no human passion was ever more violentlyroused than the curiosity of this French general.To the heart there are no insignificant events; itmagnifies all things; it puts in the same balancethe fall of an empire and the fall of a woman’sglove,—and oftentimes the glove outweighsthe empire. But let us give the facts in theiractual simplicity: after the facts will come thefeelings.

An hour after the expedition had landed on the islandthe royal authority was re-established. A fewSpaniards who had taken refuge there after the fallof Cadiz embarked on a vessel which the general allowedthem to charter for their voyage to London. Therewas thus neither resistance nor reaction. Thislittle insular restoration could not, however, beaccomplished without a Mass, at which both companiesof the troops were ordered to be present. Notknowing the rigor of the Carmelite rule, the generalhoped to gain in the church some information aboutthe nuns who were immured in the convent, one of whommight be a being dearer to him than life, more preciouseven than honor. His hopes were at first cruellydisappointed. Mass was celebrated with the utmostpomp. In honor of this solemn occasion the curtainswhich habitually hid the choir were drawn aside, andgave to view the rich ornaments, the priceless pictures,and the shrines incrusted with jewels whose brilliancysurpassed that of the votive offerings fastened bythe mariners of the port to the pillars of the greatnave. The nuns, however, had retired to the seclusionof the organ gallery.

Yet in spite of this check, and while the Mass ofthanksgiving was being sung, suddenly and secretlythe drama widened into an interest as profound asany that ever moved the heart of man. The Sisterwho played the organ roused an enthusiasm so vividthat not one soldier present regretted the order whichhad brought him to the church. The men listenedto the music with pleasure; the officers were carriedaway by it. As for the general, he remained toall appearance calm and cold: the feelings withwhich he heard the notes given forth by the nun areamong the small number of earthly things whose expressionis withheld from impotent human speech, but which—likedeath, like God, like eternity—can be perceivedonly at their slender point of contact with the heartof man. By a strange chance the music of the organseemed to be that of Rossini,—a composerwho more than any other has carried human passioninto the art of music, and whose works by their numberand extent will some day inspire an Homeric respect.From among the scores of this fine genius the nunseemed to have chiefly studied that of Moses in Egypt;doubtless because the feelings of sacred music arethere carried to the highest pitch. Perhaps thesetwo souls—one so gloriously European, theother unknown—had met together in some intuitiveperception of the same poetic thought. This ideaoccurred to two officers now present, true dilettanti,who no doubt keenly regretted the Theatre Favart intheir Spanish exile. At last, at the Te Deum,it was impossible not to recognize a French soul inthe character which the music suddenly took on.The triumph of his Most Christian Majesty evidentlyroused to joy the heart of that cloistered nun.Surely she was a Frenchwoman. Presently the patrioticspirit burst forth, sparkling like a jet of lightthrough the antiphonals of the organ, as the Sisterrecalled melodies breathing the delicacy of Parisiantaste, and blended them with vague memories of ournational anthems. Spanish hands could not haveput into this graceful homage paid to victorious armsthe fire that thus betrayed the origin of the musician.

“France is everywhere!” said a soldier.

The general left the church during the Te Deum; itwas impossible for him to listen to it. The notesof the musician revealed to him a woman loved to madness;who had buried herself so deeply in the heart of religion,hid herself so carefully away from the sight of theworld, that up to this time she had escaped the keensearch of men armed not only with immense power, butwith great sagacity and intelligence. The hopeswhich had wakened in the general’s heart seemedjustified as he listened to the vague echo of a tenderand melancholy air, ’La Fleuve du Tage,’—aballad whose prelude he had often heard in Paris inthe boudoir of the woman he loved, and which thisnun now used to express, amid the joys of the conquerors,the suffering of an exiled heart. Terrible moment!to long for the resurrection of a lost love; to findthat love—still lost; to meet it mysteriouslyafter five years in which passion, exasperated bythe void, had been intensified by the useless effortsmade to satisfy it.

Who is there that has not, once at least in his life,upturned everything about him, his papers and hisreceptacles, taxing his memory impatiently as he seekssome precious lost object; and then felt the ineffablepleasure of finding it after days consumed in the search,after hoping and despairing of its recovery,—spendingupon some trifle an excitement of mind almost amountingto a passion? Well, stretch this fury of searchthrough five long years; put a woman, a heart, a lovein the place of the insignificant trifle; lift thepassion into the highest realms of feeling; and thenpicture to yourself an ardent man, a man with theheart of lion and the front of Jove, one of those menwho command, and communicate to those about them,respectful terror,—you will then understandthe abrupt departure of the general during the TeDeum, at the moment when the prelude of an air, onceheard in Paris with delight under gilded ceilings,vibrated through the dark naves of the church by thesea.

He went down the hilly street which led up to theconvent, without pausing until the sonorous echoesof the organ could no longer reach his ear. Unableto think of anything but of the love that like a volcaniceruption rent his heart, the French general only perceivedthat the Te Deum was ended when the Spanish contingentpoured from the church. He felt that his conductand appearance were open to ridicule, and he hastilyresumed his place at the head of the cavalcade, explainingto the alcalde and to the governor of the town thata sudden indisposition had obliged him to come outinto the air. Then it suddenly occurred to himto use the pretext thus hastily given, as a means ofprolonging his stay on the island. Excusing himselfon the score of increased illness, he declined topreside at the banquet given by the authorities ofthe island to the French officers, and took to hisbed, after writing to the major-general that a passingillness compelled him to turn over his command tothe colonel. This commonplace artifice, naturalas it was, left him free from all duties and ableto seek the fulfilment of his hopes. Like a manessentially Catholic and monarchical, he inquired thehours of the various services, and showed the utmostinterest in the duties of religion,—a pietywhich in Spain excited no surprise.

The following day, while the soldiers were embarking,the general went up to the convent to be present atvespers. He found the church deserted by thetownspeople, who in spite of their natural devotionwere attracted to the port by the embarkation of thetroops. The Frenchman, glad to find himself alonein the church, took pains to make the clink of hisspurs resound through the vaulted roof; he walked noisily,and coughed, and spoke aloud to himself, hoping toinform the nuns, but especially the Sister at theorgan, that if the French soldiers were departing,one at least remained behind. Was this singular

method of communication heard and understood?The general believed it was. In the Magnificatthe organ seemed to give an answer which came to himin the vibrations of the air. The soul of thenun floated towards him on the wings of the notesshe touched, quivering with the movements of the sound.The music burst forth with power; it glorified thechurch. This hymn of joy, consecrated by thesublime liturgy of Roman Christianity to the upliftingof the soul in presence of the splendors of the ever-livingGod, became the utterance of a heart terrified at itsown happiness in presence of the splendors of a perishablelove, which still lived, and came to move it oncemore beyond the tomb where this woman had buried herself,to rise again the bride of Christ.

The organ is beyond all question the finest, the mostdaring, the most magnificent of the instruments createdby human genius. It is an orchestra in itself,from which a practiced hand may demand all things;for it expresses all things. Is it not, as itwere, a coign of vantage, where the soul may poiseitself ere it springs into space, bearing, as it flies,the listening mind through a thousand scenes of lifetowards the infinite which parts earth from heaven?The longer a poet listens to its gigantic harmonies,the more fully will he comprehend that between kneelinghumanity and the God hidden by the dazzling rays ofthe Holy of Holies, the hundred voices of terrestrialchoirs can alone bridge the vast distance and interpretto Heaven the prayers of men in all the omnipotenceof their desires, in the diversities of their woe,with the tints of their meditations and their ecstasies,with the impetuous spring of their repentance, andthe thousand imaginations of their manifold beliefs.Yes! beneath these soaring vaults the harmonies bornof the genius of sacred things find a yet unheard-ofgrandeur, which adorns and strengthens them.Here the dim light, the deep silence, the voices alternatingwith the solemn tones of the organ, seem like a veilthrough which the luminous attributes of God himselfpierce and radiate. Yet all these sacred richesnow seem flung like a grain of incense on the frailaltar of an earthly love, in presence of the eternalthrone of a jealous and avenging Deity. The joyof the nun had not the gravity which properly belongsto the solemnity of the Magnificat. She gave tothe music rich and graceful modulations, whose rhythmsbreathed of human gayety; her measures ran into thebrilliant cadences of a great singer striving to expressher love, and the notes rose buoyantly like the carolof a bird by the side of its mate. At momentsshe darted back into the past, as if to sport thereor to weep there for an instant. Her changingmoods had something discomposed about them, like theagitations of a happy woman rejoicing at the returnof her lover. Then, as these supple strains ofpassionate emotion ceased, the soul that spoke returnedupon itself; the musician passed from the major to

the minor key, and told her hearer the story of herpresent. She revealed to him her long melancholy,the slow malady of her moral being,—everyday a feeling crushed, every night a thought subdued,hour by hour a heart burning down to ashes. Aftersoft modulations the music took on slowly, tint bytint, the hue of deepest sadness. Soon it pouredforth in echoing torrents the well-springs of grief,till suddenly the higher notes struck clear like thevoice of angels, as if to tell to her lost love—lost,but not forgotten—that the reunion of theirsouls must be in heaven, and only there: hopemost precious! Then came the Amen. In thatno joy, no tears, nor sadness, nor regrets, but a returnto God. The last chord that sounded was grave,solemn, terrible. The musician revealed the nunin the garb of her vocation; and as the thunder ofthe basses rolled away, causing the hearer to shudderthrough his whole being, she seemed to sink into thetomb from which for a brief moment she had risen.As the echoes slowly ceased to vibrate along the vaultedroofs, the church, made luminous by the music, fellsuddenly into profound obscurity.

The general, carried away by the course of this powerfulgenius, had followed her, step by step, along herway. He comprehended in their full meaning thepictures that gleamed through that burning symphony;for him those chords told all. For him, as forthe Sister, this poem of sound was the future, thepast, the present. Music, even the music of anopera, is it not to tender and poetic souls, to woundedand suffering hearts, a text which they interpretas their memories need? If the heart of a poetmust be given to a musician, must not poetry and lovebe listeners ere the great musical works of art areunderstood? Religion, love, and music: arethey not the triple expression of one fact, the needof expansion, the need of touching with their own infinitethe infinite beyond them, which is in the fibre ofall noble souls? These three forms of poesy endin God, who alone can unwind the knot of earthly emotion.Thus this holy human trinity joins itself to the holinessof God, of whom we make to ourselves no conceptionunless we surround him by the fires of love and thegolden cymbals of music and light and harmony.

The French general divined that on this desert rock,surrounded by the surging seas, the nun had cherishedmusic to free her soul of the excess of passion thatconsumed it. Did she offer her love as a homageto God? Did the love triumph over the vows shehad made to Him? Questions difficult to answer.But, beyond all doubt, the lover had found in a heartdead to the world a love as passionate as that whichburned within his own.

When vespers ended he returned to the house of thealcalde, where he was quartered. Giving himselfover, a willing prey, to the delights of a successlong expected, laboriously sought, his mind at firstcould dwell on nothing else,—he was stillloved. Solitude had nourished the love of thatheart, just as his own had thriven on the barriers,successively surmounted, which this woman had placedbetween herself and him. This ecstasy of thespirit had its natural duration; then came the desireto see this woman, to withdraw her from God, to winher back to himself,—a bold project, welcometo a bold man. After the evening repast, he retiredto his room to escape questions and think in peace,and remained plunged in deep meditation throughoutthe night. He rose early and went to Mass.He placed himself close to the latticed screen, hisbrow touching the brown curtain. He longed torend it away; but he was not alone, his host had accompaniedhim, and the least imprudence might compromise thefuture of his love and ruin his new-found hopes.The organ was played, but not by the same hand; themusician of the last two days was absent from itskey-board. All was chill and pale to the general.Was his mistress worn out by the emotions which hadwellnigh broken down his own vigorous heart?Had she so truly shared and comprehended his faithfuland eager love that she now lay exhausted and dyingin her cell? At the moment when such thoughtsas these rose in the general’s mind, he heardbeside him the voice beloved; he knew the clear ringof its tones. The voice, slightly changed by atremor which gave it the timid grace and modesty ofa young girl, detached itself from the volume of song,like the voice of a prima donna in the harmonies ofher final notes. It gave to the ear an impressionlike the effect to the eye of a fillet of silver orgold threading a dark frieze. It was indeed she!Still Parisian, she had not lost her gracious charm,though she had forsaken the coronet and adornmentsof the world for the frontlet and serge of a Carmelite.Having revealed her love the night before in the praisesaddressed to the Lord of all, she seemed now to sayto her lover:—“Yes, it is I:I am here. I love forever; yet I am aloof fromlove. Thou shalt hear me; my soul shall enfoldthee; but I must stay beneath the brown shroud ofthis choir, from which no power can tear me.Thou canst not see me.”

“It is she!” whispered the general tohimself, as he raised his head and withdrew his handsfrom his face; for he had not been able to bear erectthe storm of feeling that shook his heart as the voicevibrated through the arches and blended with the murmurof the waves. A storm raged without, yet peacewas within the sanctuary. The rich voice stillcaressed the ear, and fell like balm upon the parchedheart of the lover; it flowered in the air about him,from which he breathed the emanations of her spiritexhaling her love through the aspirations of its prayer.

The alcalde came to rejoin his guest, and found himbathed in tears at the elevation of the Host whichwas chanted by the nun. Surprised to find suchdevotion in a French officer, he invited the confessorof the convent to join them at supper, and informedthe general, to whom no news had ever given such pleasure,of what he had done. During the supper the generalmade the confessor the object of much attention, andthus confirmed the Spaniards in the high opinion theyhad formed of his piety. He inquired with graveinterest the number of the nuns, and asked detailsabout the revenues of the convent and its wealth, withthe air of a man who politely wished to choose topicswhich occupied the mind of the good old priest.Then he inquired about the life led by the sisters.Could they go out? Could they see friends?

“Senhor,” said the venorable priest, “therule is severe. If the permission of our HolyFather must be obtained before a woman can enter ahouse of Saint Bruno [the Chartreux] the like ruleexists here. It is impossible for any man toenter a convent of the Bare-footed Carmelites, unlesshe is a priest delegated by the archbishop for dutyin the House. No nun can go out. It is true,however, that the Great Saint, Mother Theresa, didfrequently leave her cell. A Mother-superior canalone, under authority of the archbishop, permit anun to see her friends, especially in case of illness.As this convent is one of the chief Houses of theOrder, it has a Mother-superior residing in it.We have several foreigners,—among thema Frenchwoman, Sister Theresa, the one who directsthe music in the chapel.”

“Ah!” said the general, feigning surprise:“she must have been gratified by the triumphof the House of Bourbon?”

“I told them the object of the Mass; they arealways rather curious.”

“Perhaps Sister Theresa has some interests inFrance; she might be glad to receive some news, orask some questions?”

“I think not; or she would have spoken to me.”

“As a compatriot,” said the general, “Ishould be curious to see—that is, if itwere possible, if the superior would consent, if—”

“At the grating, even in the presence of thereverend Mother, an interview would be absolutelyimpossible for any ordinary man, no matter who hewas; but in favor of a liberator of a Catholic throneand our holy religion, possibly, in spite of the rigidrule of our Mother Theresa, the rule might be relaxed,”said the confessor. “I will speak aboutit.”

“How old is Sister Theresa?” asked thelover, who dared not question the priest about thebeauty of the nun.

“She is no longer of any age,” said thegood old man, with a simplicity which made the generalshudder.

III

The next day, before the siesta, the confessorcame to tell the general that Sister Theresa and theMother-superior consented to receive him at the gratingthat evening before the hour of vespers. Afterthe siesta, during which the Frenchman hadwhiled away the time by walking round the port inthe fierce heat of the sun, the priest came to showhim the way into the convent.

He was guided through a gallery which ran the lengthof the cemetery, where fountains and trees and numerousarcades gave a cool freshness in keeping with thatstill and silent spot. When they reached the endof this long gallery, the priest led his companioninto a parlor, divided in the middle by a gratingcovered with a brown curtain. On the side whichwe must call public, and where the confessor left thegeneral, there was a wooden bench along one side ofthe wall; some chairs, also of wood, were near thegrating. The ceiling was of wood, crossed byheavy beams of the evergreen oak, without ornament.Daylight came from two windows in the division setapart for the nuns, and was absorbed by the browntones of the room; so that it barely showed the pictureof the great black Christ, and those of Saint Theresaand the Blessed Virgin, which hung on the dark panelsof the walls.

The feelings of the general turned, in spite of theirviolence, to a tone of melancholy. He grew calmin these calm precincts. Something mighty asthe grave seized him beneath these chilling rafters.Was it not the eternal silence, the deep peace, thenear presence of the infinite? Through the stillnesscame the fixed thought of the cloister,—thatthought which glides through the air in the half-lights,and is in all things,—the thought unchangeable;nowhere seen, which yet grows vast to the imagination;the all-comprising phrase, the peace of God.It enters there, with living power, into the leastreligious heart. Convents of men are not easilyconceivable; man seems feeble and unmanly in them.He is born to act, to fulfil a life of toil; and heescapes it in his cell. But in a monastery ofwomen what strength to endure, and yet what touchingweakness! A man may be pushed by a thousand sentimentsinto the depths of an abbey; he flings himself intothem as from a precipice. But the woman is drawnonly by one feeling; she does not unsex herself,—sheespouses holiness. You may say to the man, Whydid you not struggle? but to the cloistered woman lifeis a struggle still.

The general found in this mute parlor of the seagirtconvent memories of himself. Love seldom reachesupward to solemnity; but love in the bosom of God,—isthere nothing solemn there? Yes, more than a manhas the right to hope for in this nineteenth century,with our manners and our customs what they are.

The general’s soul was one on which such impressionsact. His nature was noble enough to forget self-interest,honors, Spain, the world, or Paris, and rise to theheights of feeling roused by this unspeakable terminationof his long pursuit. What could be more tragic?How many emotions held these lovers, reunited at laston this granite ledge far out at sea, yet separatedby an idea, an impassable barrier. Look at thisman, saying to himself, “Can I triumph over Godin that heart?”

A slight noise made him quiver. The brown curtainwas drawn back; he saw in the half-light a woman standing,but her face was hidden from him by the projectionof a veil, which lay in many folds upon her head.According to the rule of the Order she was clothedin the brown garb whose color has become proverbial.The general could not see the naked feet, which wouldhave told him the frightful emaciation of her body;yet through the thick folds of the coarse robe thatswathed her, his heart divined that tears and prayersand passion and solitude had wasted her away.

The chill hand of a woman, doubtless the Mother-superior,held back the curtain, and the general, examiningthis unwelcome witness of the interview, encounteredthe deep grave eyes of an old nun, very aged, whoseclear, even youthful, glance belied the wrinkles thatfurrowed her pale face.

“Madame la duchesse,” he said, in a voiceshaken by emotion, to the Sister, who bowed her head,“does your companion understand French?”

“There is no duchess here,” replied thenun. “You are in presence of Sister Theresa.The woman whom you call my companion is my Mother inGod, my superior here below.”

These words, humbly uttered by a voice that once harmonizedwith the luxury and elegance in which this woman hadlived queen of the world of Paris, that fell fromlips whose language had been of old so gay, so mocking,struck the general as if with an electric shock.

“My holy Mother speaks only Latin and Spanish,”she added.

“I understand neither. Dear Antoinette,make her my excuses.”

As she heard her name softly uttered by a man onceso hard to her, the nun was shaken by emotion, betrayedonly by the light quivering of her veil, on whichthe light now fully fell.

“My brother,” she said, passing her sleevebeneath her veil, perhaps to wipe her eyes, “myname is Sister Theresa.”

Then she turned to the Mother, and said to her inSpanish a few words which the general plainly heard.He knew enough of the language to understand it, perhapsto speak it. “My dear Mother, this gentlemanpresents to you his respects, and begs you to excusehim for not laying them himself at your feet; buthe knows neither of the languages which you speak.”

The old woman slowly bowed her head; her countenancetook an expression of angelic sweetness, tempered,nevertheless, by the consciousness of her power anddignity.

“You know this gentleman?” she asked,with a piercing glance at the Sister.

“Yes, my Mother.”

“Retire to your cell, my daughter,” saidthe Superior in a tone of authority.

The general hastily withdrew to the shelter of thecurtain, lest his face should betray the anguish thesewords cost him; but he fancied that the penetratingeyes of the Superior followed him even into the shadow.This woman, arbiter of the frail and fleeting joy hehad won at such cost, made him afraid; he trembled,he whom a triple range of cannon could not shake.

The duchess walked to the door, but there she turned.“My Mother,” she said, in a voice horriblycalm, “this Frenchman is one of my brothers.”

“Remain, therefore, my daughter,” saidthe old woman, after a pause.

The jesuitism of this answer revealed such love andsuch regret, that a man of less firmness than thegeneral would have betrayed his joy in the midst ofa peril so novel to him. But what value couldthere be in the words, looks, gestures of a love thatmust be hidden from the eyes of a lynx, the clawsof a tiger? The Sister came back.

“You see, my brother,” she said, “whatI have dared to do that I might for one moment speakto you of your salvation, and tell you of the prayerswhich day by day my soul offers to heaven on your behalf.I have committed a mortal sin,—I have lied.How many days of penitence to wash out that lie!But I shall suffer for you. You know not, my brother,the joy of loving in heaven, of daring to avow affectionsthat religion has purified, that have risen to thehighest regions, that at last we know and feel withthe soul alone. If the doctrines—ifthe spirit of the saint to whom we owe this refugehad not lifted me above the anguish of earth to aworld, not indeed where she is, but far above my lowerlife, I could not have seen you now. But I cansee you, I can hear you, and remain calm.”

“Antoinette,” said the general, interruptingthese words, “suffer me to see you—you,whom I love passionately, to madness, as you once wouldhave had me love you.”

“Do not call me Antoinette, I implore you:memories of the past do me harm. See in me onlythe Sister Theresa, a creature trusting all to thedivine pity. And,” she added, after a pause,“subdue yourself, my brother. Our Motherwould separate us instantly if your face betrayedearthly passions, or your eyes shed tears.”

The general bowed his head, as if to collect himself;when he again lifted his eyes to the grating he sawbetween two bars the pale, emaciated, but still ardentface of the nun. Her complexion, where once hadbloomed the loveliness of youth,—where oncethere shone the happy contrast of a pure, clear whitenesswith the colors of a Bengal rose,—now hadthe tints of a porcelain cup through which a feeblelight showed faintly. The beautiful hair of whichthis woman was once so proud was shaven; a white bandbound her brows and was wrapped around her face.Her eyes, circled with dark shadows due to the austeritiesof her life, glanced at moments with a feverish light,of which their habitual calm was but the mask.In a word, of this woman nothing remained but hersoul.

“Ah! you will leave this tomb—you,who are my life! You belonged to me; you werenot free to give yourself—not even to God.Did you not promise to sacrifice all to the leastof my commands? Will you now think me worthyto claim that promise, if I tell you what I have donefor your sake? I have sought you through thewhole world. For five years you have been thethought of every instant, the occupation of every hour,of my life. My friends—friends all-powerfulas you know—have helped me to search theconvents of France, Spain, Italy, Sicily, America.My love has deepened with every fruitless search.Many a long journey I have taken on a false hope.I have spent my life and the strong beatings of myheart about the walls of cloisters. I will notspeak to you of a fidelity unlimited. What isit?—nothing compared to the infinitude ofmy love! If in other days your remorse was real,you cannot hesitate to follow me now.”

“You forget that I am not free.”

“The duke is dead,” he said hastily.

Sister Theresa colored. “May Heaven receivehim!” she said, with quick emotion: “hewas generous to me. But I did not speak of thoseties: one of my faults was my willingness tobreak them without scruple for you.”

“You speak of your vows,” cried the general,frowning. “I little thought that anythingwould weigh in your heart against our love. Butdo not fear, Antoinette; I will obtain a brief fromthe Holy Father which will absolve your vows.I will go to Rome; I will petition every earthly power;if God himself came down from heaven I—”

“Do not blaspheme!”

“Do not fear how God would see it! Ah!I wish I were as sure that you will leave these wallswith me; that to-night—to-night, you wouldembark at the feet of these rocks. Let us go tofind happiness! I know not where—atthe ends of the earth! With me you will come backto life, to health—in the shelter of mylove!”

“Do not say these things,” replied theSister; “you do not know what you now are tome. I love you better than I once loved you.I pray to God for you daily. I see you no longerwith the eyes of my body. If you but knew, Armand,the joy of being able, without shame, to spend myselfupon a pure love which God protects! You do notknow the joy I have in calling down the blessingsof heaven upon your head. I never pray for myself:God will do with me according to his will. Butyou—at the price of my eternity I wouldwin the assurance that you are happy in this world,that you will be happy in another throughout the ages.My life eternal is all that misfortunes have leftme to give you. I have grown old in grief; Iam no longer young or beautiful. Ah! you woulddespise a nun who returned to be a woman; no sentiment,not even maternal love, could absolve her. Whatcould you say to me that would shake the unnumberedreflections my heart has made in five long years,—andwhich have changed it, hollowed it, withered it?Ah! I should have given something less sad toGod!”

“What can I say to you, dear Antoinette?I will say that I love you; that affection, love,true love, the joy of living in a heart all ours,—whollyours, without one reservation,—is so rare,so difficult to find, that I once doubted you; I putyou to cruel tests. But to-day I love and trustyou with all the powers of my soul. If you willfollow me I will listen throughout life to no voicebut thine. I will look on no face—”

“Silence, Armand! you shorten the sole momentswhich are given to us to see each other here below.”

“Antoinette! will you follow me?”

“I never leave you. I live in your heart—butwith another power than that of earthly pleasure,or vanity, or selfish joy. I live here for you,pale and faded, in the bosom of God. If God isjust, you will be happy.”

“Phrases! you give me phrases! But if Iwill to have you pale and faded,—if I cannotbe happy unless you are with me? What! will youforever place duties before my love? Shall I neverbe above all things else in your heart? In thepast you put the world, or self—I know notwhat—above me; to-day it is God, it is mysalvation. In this Sister Theresa I recognizethe duchess; ignorant of the joys of love, unfeelingbeneath a pretense of tenderness! You do not loveme! you never loved me!—”

“Oh, my brother!—”

“You will not leave this tomb. You lovemy soul, you say: well! you shall destroy itforever and ever. I will kill myself—”

“My Mother!” cried the nun, “I havelied to you; this man is my lover.”

The curtain fell. The general, stunned, heardthe doors close with violence.

“She loves me still!” he cried, comprehendingall that was revealed in the cry of the nun.“I will find means to carry her away!”

He left the island immediately, and returned to France.

Translation copyrighted by Roberts Brothers.

‘AN EPISODE UNDER THE TERROR’

On the 22d of January, 1793, towards eight o’clockin the evening, an old gentlewoman came down the sharpdeclivity of the Faubourg Saint-Martin, which endsnear the church of Saint-Laurent in Paris. Snowhad fallen throughout the day, so that footfalls couldbe scarcely heard. The streets were deserted.The natural fear inspired by such stillness was deepenedby the terror to which all France was then a prey.

The old lady had met no one. Her failing sighthindered her from perceiving in the distance a fewpedestrians, sparsely scattered like shadows, alongthe broad road of the faubourg. She was walkingbravely through the solitude as if her age were atalisman to guard her from danger; but after passingthe Rue des Morts she fancied that she heard the firm,heavy tread of a man coming behind her. The thoughtseized her mind that she had been listening to itunconsciously for some time. Terrified at theidea of being followed, she tried to walk faster toreach a lighted shop-window, and settle the doubt which

thus assailed her. When well beyond the horizontalrays of light thrown across the pavement, she turnedabruptly and saw a human form looming through thefog. The indistinct glimpse was enough. Shestaggered for an instant under the weight of terror,for she no longer doubted that this unknown man hadtracked her, step by step, from her home. Thehope of escaping such a spy lent strength to her feeblelimbs. Incapable of reasoning, she quickenedher steps to a run, as if it were possible to escapea man necessarily more agile than she. Afterrunning for a few minutes, she reached the shop ofa pastry-cook, entered it, and fell, rather than sat,down on a chair which stood before the counter.

As she lifted the creaking latch of the door, a youngwoman, who was at work on a piece of embroidery, lookedup and recognized through the glass panes the antiquatedmantle of purple silk which wrapped the old lady,and hastened to pull open a drawer, as if to take fromthence something that she had to give her. Theaction and the expression of the young woman not onlyimplied a wish to get rid of the stranger, as of someone most unwelcome, but she let fall an exclamationof impatience at finding the drawer empty. Then,without looking at the lady, she came rapidly frombehind the counter, and went towards the back-shopto call her husband, who appeared at once.

“Where have you put —— ——?”she asked him, mysteriously, calling his attentionto the old lady by a glance, and not concluding hersentence.

Although the pastry-cook could see nothing but theenormous black-silk hood circled with purple ribbonswhich the stranger wore, he disappeared, with a glanceat his wife which seemed to say, “Do you supposeI should leave that on your counter?”

Surprised at the silence and immobility of her customer,the wife came forward, and was seized with a suddenmovement of compassion as well as of curiosity whenshe looked at her. Though the complexion of theold gentlewoman was naturally livid, like that ofa person vowed to secret austerities, it was easyto see that some recent alarm had spread an unusualpaleness over her features. Her head-coveringwas so arranged as to hide the hair, whitened no doubtby age, for the cleanly collar of her dress provedthat she wore no powder. The concealment of thisnatural adornment gave to her countenance a sort ofconventual severity; but its features were grave andnoble. In former days the habits and mannersof people of quality were so different from those ofall other classes that it was easy to distinguishpersons of noble birth. The young shop-womanfelt certain, therefore, that the stranger was a ci-devant,and one who had probably belonged to the court.

“Madame?” she said, with involuntary respect,forgetting that the title was proscribed.

The old lady made no answer. Her eyes were fixedon the glass of the shop-window, as if some alarmingobject were painted upon it.

“What is the matter, citoyenne?”asked the master of the establishment, re-entering,and drawing the attention of his customer to a littlecardboard box covered with blue paper, which he heldout to her.

“It is nothing, nothing, my friends,”she answered in a gentle voice, as she raised hereyes to give the man a thankful look. Seeing aphrygian cap upon his head, a cry escaped her:—“Ah!it is you who have betrayed me!”

The young woman and her husband replied by a deprecatinggesture of horror which caused the unknown lady toblush, either for her harsh suspicion or from therelief of feeling it unjust.

“Excuse me,” she said, with childlikesweetness. Then taking a gold louis fromher pocket, she offered it to the pastry-cook.“Here is the sum we agreed upon,” sheadded.

There is a poverty which poor people quickly divine.The shopkeeper and his wife looked at each other witha glance at the old lady that conveyed a mutual thought.The louis was doubtless her last. The handsof the poor woman trembled as she offered it, and hereyes rested upon it sadly, yet not with avarice.She seemed to feel the full extent of her sacrifice.Hunger and want were traced upon her features in linesas legible as those of timidity and ascetic habits.Her clothing showed vestiges of luxury. It wasof silk, well-worn; the mantle was clean, though faded;the laces carefully darned; in short, here were therags of opulence. The two shopkeepers, dividedbetween pity and self-interest, began to soothe theirconscience with words:—

“Citoyenne, you seem very feeble—”

“Would Madame like to take something?”asked the wife, cutting short her husband’sspeech.

“We have some very good broth,” he added.

“It is so cold, perhaps Madame is chilled byher walk; but you can rest here and warm yourself.”

“The devil is not so black as he is painted,”cried the husband.

Won by the kind tone of these words, the old ladyadmitted that she had been followed by a man and wasafraid of going home alone.

“Is that all?” said the man with the phrygiancap. “Wait for me, citoyenne.”

He gave the louis to his wife. Then movedby a species of gratitude which slips into the shopkeepingsoul when its owner receives an exorbitant price foran article of little value, he went to put on hisuniform as a National guard, took his hat, slung onhis sabre, and reappeared under arms. But thewife meantime had reflected. Reflection, as oftenhappens in many hearts, had closed the open hand ofher benevolence. Uneasy, and alarmed lest herhusband should be mixed up in some dangerous affair,she pulled him by the flap of his coat, intendingto stop him; but the worthy man, obeying the impulseof charity, promptly offered to escort the poor ladyto her home.

“It seems that the man who has given her thisfright is prowling outside,” said his wife nervously.

“I am afraid he is,” said the old lady,with much simplicity.

“Suppose he should be a spy. Perhaps itis a conspiracy. Don’t go. Take backthe box.” These words, whispered in thepastry-cook’s ear by the wife of his bosom,chilled the sudden compassion that had warmed him.

“Well, well, I will just say two words to theman and get rid of him,” he said, opening thedoor and hurrying out.

The old gentlewoman, passive as a child and half paralyzedwith fear, sat down again. The shopkeeper almostinstantly reappeared; but his face, red by natureand still further scorched by the fires of his bakery,had suddenly turned pale, and he was in the grasp ofsuch terror that his legs shook and his eyes werelike those of a drunken man.

“Miserable aristocrat!” he cried, furiously,“do you want to cut off our heads? Go outfrom here; let me see your heels, and don’t dareto come back; don’t expect me to supply youwith the means of conspiracy!”

So saying, the pastry-cook endeavored to get backthe little box which the old lady had already slippedinto one of her pockets. Hardly had the boldhands of the shopkeeper touched her clothing, than,preferring to encounter danger with no protectionbut that of God rather than lose the thing she hadcome to buy, she recovered the agility of youth, andsprang to the door, through which she disappeared abruptly,leaving the husband and wife amazed and trembling.

As soon as the poor lady found herself alone in thestreet she began to walk rapidly; but her strengthsoon gave way, for she once more heard the snow creakingunder the footsteps of the spy as he trod heavily uponit. She was obliged to stop short: the manstopped also. She dared not speak to him, noreven look at him; either because of her terror, orfrom some lack of natural intelligence. Presentlyshe continued her walk slowly; the man measured hisstep by hers, and kept at the same distance behindher; he seemed to move like her shadow. Nine o’clockstruck as the silent couple repassed the church ofSaint-Laurent. It is the nature of all souls,even the weakest, to fall back into quietude aftermoments of violent agitation; for manifold as ourfeelings may be, our bodily powers are limited.Thus the old lady, receiving no injury from her apparentpersecutor, began to think that he might be a secretfriend watching to protect her. She gatheredup in her mind the circumstances attending other apparitionsof the mysterious stranger as if to find plausiblegrounds for this consoling opinion, and took pleasurein crediting him with good rather than sinister intentions.Forgetting the terror he had inspired in the pastry-cook,she walked on with a firmer step towards the upperpart of the Faubourg Saint-Martin.

At the end of half an hour she reached a house standingclose to the junction of the chief street of the faubourgwith the street leading out to the Barriere de Pantin.The place is to this day one of the loneliest in Paris.The north wind blowing from Belleville and the ButtesChaumont whistled among the houses, or rather cottages,scattered through the sparsely inhabited little valley,where the inclosures are fenced with walls built ofmud and refuse bones. This dismal region seemsthe natural home of poverty and despair. Theman who was intent on following the poor creaturewho had had the courage to thread these dark and silentstreets seemed struck with the spectacle they offered.He stopped as if reflecting, and stood in a hesitatingattitude, dimly visible by a street lantern whoseflickering light scarcely pierced the fog. Feargave eyes to the old gentlewoman, who now fancied thatshe saw something sinister in the features of thisunknown man. All her terrors revived, and profitingby the curious hesitation that had seized him, sheglided like a shadow to the doorway of the solitarydwelling, touched a spring, and disappeared with phantasmagoricrapidity.

The man, standing motionless, gazed at the house,which was, as it were, a type of the wretched buildingsof the neighborhood. The tottering hovel, builtof porous stone in rough blocks, was coated with yellowplaster much cracked, and looked ready to fall beforea gust of wind. The roof, of brown tiles coveredwith moss, had sunk in several places, and gave theimpression that the weight of snow might break it downat any moment. Each story had three windows whoseframes, rotted by dampness and shrunken by the heatof the sun, told that the outer cold penetrated tothe chambers. The lonely house seemed like anancient tower that time had forgotten to destroy.A faint light gleamed from the garret windows, whichwere irregularly cut in the roof; but the rest ofthe house was in complete obscurity. The old womanwent up the rough and clumsy stairs with difficulty,holding fast to a rope which took the place of baluster.She knocked furtively at the door of a lodging underthe roof, and sat hastily down on a chair which anold man offered her.

“Hide! hide yourself!” she cried.“Though we go out so seldom, our errands areknown, our steps are watched—”

“What has happened?” asked another oldwoman sitting near the fire.

“The man who has hung about the house sinceyesterday followed me to-night.”

At these words the occupants of the hovel looked ateach other with terror in their faces. The oldman was the least moved of the three, possibly becausehe was the one in greatest danger. Under the pressureof misfortune or the yoke of persecution a man of couragebegins, as it were, by preparing for the sacrificeof himself: he looks upon his days as so manyvictories won from fate. The eyes of the two women,fixed upon the old man, showed plainly that he alonewas the object of their extreme anxiety.

“Why distrust God, my sisters?” he said,in a hollow but impressive voice. “We chantedpraises to his name amid the cries of victims andassassins at the convent. If it pleased him tosave me from that butchery, it was doubtless for somedestiny which I shall accept without a murmur.God protects his own, and disposes of them accordingto his will. It is of you, not of me, that weshould think.”

“No,” said one of the women: “whatis our life in comparison with that of a priest?”

“Ever since the day when I found myself outsideof the Abbaye des Chelles,” said the nun besidethe fire, “I have given myself up for dead.”

“Here,” said the one who had just comein, holding out the little box to the priest, “hereare the sacramental wafers—Listen!”she cried, interrupting herself. “I hearsome one on the stairs.”

At these words all three listened intently. Thenoise ceased.

“Do not be frightened,” said the priest,“even if some one asks to enter. A personon whose fidelity we can safely rely has taken measuresto cross the frontier, and he will soon call here forletters which I have written to the Duc de Langeaisand the Marquis de Beauseant, advising them as tothe measures they must take to get you out of thisdreadful country, and save you from the misery or thedeath you would otherwise undergo here.”

“Shall you not follow us?” said the twonuns softly, but in a tone of despair.

“My place is near the victims,” said thepriest, simply.

The nuns were silent, looking at him with devout admiration.

“Sister Martha,” he said, addressing thenun who had fetched the wafers, “this messengermust answer ‘Fiat voluntas’ to theword ‘Hosanna.’”

“There is some one on the stairway,” exclaimedthe other nun, hastily opening a hiding-place burrowedat the edge of the roof.

This time it was easy to hear the steps of a man soundingthrough the deep silence on the rough stairs, whichwere caked with patches of hardened mud. Thepriest slid with difficulty into a narrow hiding-place,and the nuns hastily threw articles of apparel overhim.

“You can shut me in, Sister Agatha,” hesaid, in a smothered voice.

He was scarcely hidden when three knocks upon thedoor made the sisters tremble and consult each otherwith their eyes, for they dared not speak. Fortyyears’ separation from the world had made themlike plants of a hot-house which wilt when broughtinto the outer air. Accustomed to the life ofa convent, they could not conceive of any other; andwhen one morning their bars and gratings were flungdown, they had shuddered at finding themselves free.It is easy to imagine the species of imbecility whichthe events of the Revolution, enacted before theireyes, had produced in these innocent souls. Quiteincapable of harmonizing their conventual ideas withthe exigencies of ordinary life, not even comprehendingtheir own situation, they were like children who hadalways been cared for, and who now, torn from theirmaternal providence, had taken to prayers as otherchildren take to tears. So it happened that inpresence of immediate danger they were dumb and passive,and could think of no other defence than Christianresignation.

The man who sought to enter interpreted their silenceas he pleased; he suddenly opened the door and showedhimself. The two nuns trembled when they recognizedthe individual who for some days had watched the houseand seemed to make inquiries about its inmates.They stood quite still and looked at him with uneasycuriosity, like the children of savages examininga being of another sphere. The stranger was verytall and stout, but nothing in his manner or appearancedenoted that he was a bad man. He copied theimmobility of the sisters and stood motionless, lettinghis eye rove slowly round the room.

Two bundles of straw placed on two planks served asbeds for the nuns. A table was in the middleof the room; upon it a copper candlestick, a few plates,three knives, and a round loaf of bread. The fireon the hearth was very low, and a few sticks of woodpiled in a corner of the room testified to the povertyof the occupants. The walls, once covered witha coat of paint now much defaced, showed the wretchedcondition of the roof through which the rain had trickled,making a network of brown stains. A sacred relic,saved no doubt from the pillage of the Abbaye desChelles, adorned the mantel-shelf of the chimney.Three chairs, two coffers, and a broken chest of drawerscompleted the furniture of the room. A doorwaycut near the fireplace showed there was probably aninner chamber.

The inventory of this poor cell was soon made by theindividual who had presented himself under such alarmingauspices. An expression of pity crossed his features,and as he threw a kind glance upon the frightenedwomen he seemed as much embarrassed as they. Thestrange silence in which they all three stood andfaced each other lasted but a moment; for the strangerseemed to guess the moral weakness and inexperienceof the poor helpless creatures, and he said, in avoice which he strove to render gentle, “I havenot come as an enemy, citoyennes.”

Then he paused, but resumed:—“Mysisters, if harm should ever happen to you, be surethat I shall not have contributed to it. I havecome to ask a favor of you.”

They still kept silence.

“If I ask too much—if I annoy you—Iwill go away; but believe me, I am heartily devotedto you, and if there is any service that I could renderyou, you may employ me without fear. I, and Ialone, perhaps, am above law—since thereis no longer a king.”

The ring of truth in these words induced Sister Agatha,a nun belonging to the ducal house of Langeais, andwhose manners indicated that she had once lived amidthe festivities of life and breathed the air of courts,to point to a chair as if she asked their guest tobe seated. The unknown gave vent to an expressionof joy, mingled with melancholy, as he understoodthis gesture. He waited respectfully till thesisters were seated, and then obeyed it.

“You have given shelter,” he said, “toa venerable priest not sworn in by the Republic, whoescaped miraculously from the massacre at the Conventof the Carmelites.”

“Hosanna,” said Sister Agatha,suddenly interrupting the stranger, and looking athim with anxious curiosity.

“That is not his name, I think,” he answered.

“But, Monsieur, we have no priest here,”cried Sister Martha, hastily, “and—”

“Then you should take better precautions,”said the unknown gently, stretching his arm to thetable and picking up a breviary. “I do notthink you understand Latin, and—”

He stopped short, for the extreme distress paintedon the faces of the poor nuns made him fear he hadgone too far; they trembled violently, and their eyesfilled with tears.

“Do not fear,” he said; “I knowthe name of your guest, and yours also. Duringthe last three days I have learned your poverty, andyour great devotion to the venerable Abbe of—”

“Hush!” exclaimed Sister Agatha, ingenuouslyputting a finger on her lip.

“You see, my sisters, that if I had the horribledesign of betraying you, I might have accomplishedit again and again.”

As he uttered these words the priest emerged fromhis prison and appeared in the middle of the room.

“I cannot believe, Monsieur,” he saidcourteously, “that you are one of our persecutors.I trust you. What is it you desire of me?”

The saintly confidence of the old man, and the nobilityof mind imprinted on his countenance, might have disarmedeven an assassin. He who thus mysteriously agitatedthis home of penury and resignation stood contemplatingthe group before him; then he addressed the priestin a trustful tone, with these words:—

“My father, I came to ask you to celebrate amass for the repose of the soul—of—ofa sacred being whose body can never lie in holy ground.”

The priest involuntarily shuddered. The nuns,not as yet understanding who it was of whom the unknownman had spoken, stood with their necks stretched andtheir faces turned towards the speakers, in an attitudeof eager curiosity. The ecclesiastic looked intentlyat the stranger; unequivocal anxiety was marked onevery feature, and his eyes offered an earnest andeven ardent prayer.

“Yes,” said the priest at length.“Return here at midnight, and I shall be readyto celebrate the only funeral service that we are ableto offer in expiation of the crime of which you speak.”

The unknown shivered; a joy both sweet and solemnseemed to rise in his soul above some secret grief.Respectfully saluting the priest and the two saintlywomen, he disappeared with a mute gratitude which thesegenerous souls knew well how to interpret.

Two hours later the stranger returned, knocked cautiouslyat the door of the garret, and was admitted by Mademoisellede Langeais, who led him to the inner chamber of thehumble refuge, where all was in readiness for theceremony. Between two flues of the chimney thenuns had placed the old chest of drawers, whose brokenedges were concealed by a magnificent altar-clothof green moire. A large ebony and ivory crucifixhanging on the discolored wall stood out in strongrelief from the surrounding bareness, and necessarilycaught the eye. Four slender little tapers, whichthe sisters had contrived to fasten to the altar withsealing-wax, threw a pale glimmer dimly reflectedby the yellow wall. These feeble rays scarcelylit up the rest of the chamber, but as their lightfell upon the sacred objects it seemed a halo fallingfrom heaven upon the bare and undecorated altar.

The floor was damp. The attic roof, which slopedsharply on both sides of the room, was full of chinksthrough which the wind penetrated. Nothing couldbe less stately, yet nothing was ever more solemn thanthis lugubrious ceremony. Silence so deep thatsome far-distant cry could have pierced it, lent asombre majesty to the nocturnal scene. The grandeurof the occasion contrasted vividly with the povertyof its circumstances, and roused a feeling of religiousterror. On either side of the altar the old nuns,kneeling on the tiled floor and taking no thoughtof its mortal dampness, were praying in concert withthe priest, who, robed in his pontifical vestments,placed upon the altar a golden chalice incrusted withprecious stones,—a sacred vessel rescued,no doubt, from the pillage of the Abbaye des Chelles.Close to this vase, which was a gift of royal munificence,the bread and wine of the consecrated sacrifice werecontained in two glass tumblers scarcely worthy ofthe meanest tavern. In default of a missal thepriest had placed his breviary on a corner of thealtar. A common earthenware platter was providedfor the washing of those innocent hands, pure andunspotted with blood. All was majestic and yetpaltry; poor but noble; profane and holy in one.

The unknown man knelt piously between the sisters.Suddenly, as he caught sight of the crape upon thechalice and the crucifix,—for in defaultof other means of proclaiming the object of this funeralrite the priest had put God himself into mourning,—themysterious visitant was seized by some all-powerfulrecollection, and drops of sweat gathered on his brow.The four silent actors in this scene looked at eachother with mysterious sympathy; their souls, actingone upon another, communicated to each the feelingsof all, blending them into the one emotion of religiouspity. It seemed as though their thought had evokedfrom the dead the sacred martyr whose body was devouredby quicklime, but whose shade rose up before themin royal majesty. They were celebrating a funeralMass without the remains of the deceased. Beneath

these rafters and disjointed laths four Christian soulswere interceding with God for a king of France, andmaking his burial without a coffin. It was thepurest of all devotions; an act of wonderful loyaltyaccomplished without one thought of self. Doubtlessin the eyes of God it was the cup of cold water thatweighed in the balance against many virtues.The whole of monarchy was there in the prayers of thepriest and the two poor women; but also it may havebeen that the Revolution was present likewise, inthe person of the strange being whose face betrayedthe remorse that led him to make this solemn offeringof a vast repentance.

Instead of pronouncing the Latin words, “Introiboad altare Dei” etc., the priest, with divineintuition, glanced at his three assistants, who representedall Christian France, and said, in words which effacedthe penury and meanness of the hovel, “We enternow into the sanctuary of God.”

At these words, uttered with penetrating unction,a solemn awe seized the participants. Beneaththe dome of St. Peter’s in Rome, God had neverseemed more majestic to man than he did now in thisrefuge of poverty and to the eyes of these Christians,—sotrue is it that between man and God all mediationis unneeded, for his glory descends from himself alone.The fervent piety of the nameless man was unfeigned,and the feeling that held these four servants of Godand the king was unanimous. The sacred wordsechoed like celestial music amid the silence.There was a moment when the unknown broke down andwept: it was at the Pater Noster, to which thepriest added a Latin clause which the stranger doubtlesscomprehended and applied,—“Et remittescelus regicidis sicut Ludovicus eis remisit semetipse”(And forgive the regicides even as Louis XVI. himselfforgave them). The two nuns saw the tears coursingdown the manly cheeks of their visitant, and droppingfast on the tiled floor.

The Office of the Dead was recited. The “Dominesalvum fac regem,” sung in low tones, touchedthe hearts of these faithful royalists as they thoughtof the infant king, now captive in the hands of hisenemies, for whom this prayer was offered. Theunknown shuddered; perhaps he feared an impendingcrime in which he would be called to take an unwillingpart.

When the service was over, the priest made a signto the nuns, who withdrew to the outer room.As soon as he was alone with the unknown, the oldman went up to him with gentle sadness of manner, andsaid in the tone of a father,—

“My son, if you have steeped your hands in theblood of the martyr king, confess yourself to me.There is no crime which, in the eyes of God, is notwashed out by a repentance as deep and sincere as yoursappears to be.”

At the first words of the ecclesiastic an involuntarymotion of terror escaped the stranger; but he quicklyrecovered himself, and looked at the astonished priestwith calm assurance.

“My father,” he said, in a voice thatnevertheless trembled, “no one is more innocentthan I of the blood shed—”

“I believe it!” said the priest.

He paused a moment, during which he examined afreshhis penitent; then, persisting in the belief thathe was one of those timid members of the Assemblywho sacrificed the inviolate and sacred head to savetheir own, he resumed in a grave voice:—

“Reflect, my son, that something more than takingno part in that great crime is needed to absolve fromguilt. Those who kept their sword in the scabbardwhen they might have defended their king have a heavyaccount to render to the King of kings. Oh, yes,”added the venerable man, moving his head from rightto left with an expressive motion; “yes, heavy,indeed! for, standing idle, they made themselves theaccomplices of a horrible transgression.”

“Do you believe,” asked the stranger,in a surprised tone, “that even an indirectparticipation will be punished? The soldier orderedto form the line—do you think he was guilty?”

The priest hesitated. Glad of the dilemma thatplaced this puritan of royalty between the dogma ofpassive obedience, which according to the partisansof monarchy should dominate the military system, andthe other dogma, equally imperative, which consecratesthe person of the king, the stranger hastened to acceptthe hesitation of the priest as a solution of thedoubts that seemed to trouble him. Then, so asnot to allow the old Jansenist time for further reflection,he said quickly:—

“I should blush to offer you any fee whateverin acknowledgment of the funeral service you havejust celebrated for the repose of the king’ssoul and for the discharge of my conscience. Wecan only pay for inestimable things by offerings whichare likewise beyond all price. Deign to accept,Monsieur, the gift which I now make to you of a holyrelic; the day may come when you will know its value.”

As he said these words he gave the ecclesiastic alittle box of light weight. The priest took itas it were involuntarily; for the solemn tone in whichthe words were uttered, and the awe with which thestranger held the box, struck him with fresh amazement.They re-entered the outer room, where the two nunswere waiting for them.

“You are living,” said the unknown, “ina house whose owner, Mucius Scaevola, the plastererwho lives on the first floor, is noted in the Sectionfor his patriotism. He is, however, secretly attachedto the Bourbons. He was formerly huntsman toMonseigneur the Prince de Conti, to whom he owes everything.As long as you stay in this house you are in greatersafety than you can be in any other part of France.Remain here. Pious souls will watch over youand supply your wants; and you can await without dangerthe coming of better days. A year hence, on the21st of January” (as he uttered these last wordshe could not repress an involuntary shudder), “Ishall return to celebrate once more the Mass of expiation—”

He could not end the sentence. Bowing to thesilent occupants of the garret, he cast a last lookupon the signs of their poverty and disappeared.

To the two simple-minded women this event had allthe interest of a romance. As soon as the venerableabbe told them of the mysterious gift so solemnlyoffered by the stranger, they placed the box upon thetable, and the three anxious faces, faintly lightedby a tallow-candle, betrayed an indescribable curiosity.Mademoiselle de Langeais opened the box and took fromit a handkerchief of extreme fineness, stained withsweat. As she unfolded it they saw dark stains.

“That is blood!” exclaimed the priest.

“It is marked with the royal crown!” criedthe other nun.

The sisters let fall the precious relic with gesturesof horror. To these ingenuous souls the mysterythat wrapped their unknown visitor became inexplicable,and the priest from that day forth forbade himselfto search for its solution.

The three prisoners soon perceived that, in spiteof the Terror, a powerful arm was stretched over them.First, they received firewood and provisions; next,the sisters guessed that a woman was associated withtheir protector, for linen and clothing came to themmysteriously, and enabled them to go out without dangerof observation from the aristocratic fashion of theonly garments they had been able to secure; finally,Mucius Scaevola brought them certificates of citizenship.Advice as to the necessary means of insuring the safetyof the venerable priest often came to them from unexpectedquarters, and proved so singularly opportune thatit was quite evident it could only have been givenby some one in possession of state secrets. Inspite of the famine which then afflicted Paris, theyfound daily at the door of their hovel rations ofwhite bread, laid there by invisible hands. Theythought they recognized in Mucius Scaevola the agentof these mysterious benefactions, which were alwaystimely and intelligent; but the noble occupants ofthe poor garret had no doubt whatever that the unknownindividual who had celebrated the midnight Mass onthe 22d of January, 1793, was their secret protector.They added to their daily prayers a special prayerfor him; night and day these pious hearts made supplicationfor his happiness, his prosperity, his redemption.They prayed that God would keep his feet from snaresand save him from his enemies, and grant him a longand peaceful life.

Their gratitude, renewed as it were daily, was necessarilymingled with curiosity that grew keener day by day.The circumstances attending the appearance of thestranger were a ceaseless topic of conversation andof endless conjecture, and soon became a benefit ofa special kind, from the occupation and distractionof mind which was thus produced. They resolvedthat the stranger should not be allowed to escape theexpression of their gratitude when he came to commemoratethe next sad anniversary of the death of Louis XVI.

That night, so impatiently awaited, came at length.At midnight the heavy steps resounded up the woodenstairway. The room was prepared for the service;the altar was dressed. This time the sisters openedthe door and hastened to light the entrance.Mademoiselle de Langeais even went down a few stairsthat she might catch the first glimpse of their benefactor.

“Come!” she said, in a trembling and affectionatevoice. “Come, you are expected!”

The man raised his head, gave the nun a gloomy look,and made no answer. She felt as though an icygarment had fallen upon her, and she kept silence.At his aspect gratitude and curiosity died within theirhearts. He may have been less cold, less taciturn,less terrible than he seemed to these poor souls,whose own emotions led them to expect a flow of friendshipfrom his. They saw that this mysterious beingwas resolved to remain a stranger to them, and theyacquiesced with resignation. But the priest fanciedhe saw a smile, quickly repressed, upon the stranger’slip as he saw the preparations made to receive him.He heard the Mass and prayed, but immediately disappeared,refusing in a few courteous words the invitation givenby Mademoiselle de Langeais to remain and partakeof the humble collation they had prepared for him.

After the 9th Thermidor the nuns and the Abbe de Marolleswere able to go about Paris without incurring anydanger. The first visit of the old priest wasto a perfumery at the sign of the “Queen of Flowers,”kept by the citizen and citoyenne Ragon, formerlyperfumers to the Court, well known for their faithfulnessto the royal family, and employed by the Vendeensas a channel of communication with the princes androyal committees in Paris. The abbe, dressedas the times required, was leaving the doorstep ofthe shop, situated between the church of Saint-Rochand the Rue des Fondeurs, when a great crowd comingdown the Rue Saint-Honore hindered him from advancing.

“What is it?” he asked of Madame Ragon.

“Oh, nothing!” she answered. “Itis the cart and the executioner going to the PlaceLouis XV. Ah, we saw enough of that last year!but now, four days after the anniversary of the 21stof January, we can look at the horrid procession withoutdistress.”

“Why so?” asked the abbe. “Whatyou say is not Christian.”

“But this is the execution of the accomplicesof Robespierre. They have fought it off as longas they could, but now they are going in their turnwhere they have sent so many innocent people.”

The crowd which filled the Rue Saint-Honore passedon like a wave. Above the sea of heads the Abbede Marolles, yielding to an impulse, saw, standingerect in the cart, the stranger who three days beforehad assisted for the second time in the Mass of commemoration.

“Who is that?” he asked; “the onestanding—”

“That is the executioner,” answered MonsieurRagon, calling the man by his monarchical name.

“Help! help!” cried Madame Ragon.“Monsieur l’Abbe is fainting!”

She caught up a flask of vinegar and brought him quicklyback to consciousness.

“He must have given me,” said the oldpriest, “the handkerchief with which the kingwiped his brow as he went to his martyrdom. Poorman! that steel knife had a heart when all Francehad none!”

The perfumers thought the words of the priest werean effect of delirium.

Translation copyrighted by Roberts Brothers.

A PASSION IN THE DESERT

“The sight was fearful!” she exclaimed,as we left the menagerie of Monsieur Martin.

She had been watching that daring speculator as hewent through his wonderful performance in the denof the hyena.

“How is it possible,” she continued, “totame those animals so as to be certain that he cantrust them?”

“You think it a problem,” I answered,interrupting her, “and yet it is a natural fact.”

“Oh!” she cried, an incredulous smileflickering on her lip.

“Do you think that beasts are devoid of passions?”I asked. “Let me assure you that we teachthem all the vices and virtues of our own state ofcivilization.”

She looked at me in amazement.

“The first time I saw Monsieur Martin,”I added, “I exclaimed, as you do, with surprise.I happened to be sitting beside an old soldier whoseright leg was amputated, and whose appearance had attractedmy notice as I entered the building. His face,stamped with the scars of battle, wore the undauntedlook of a veteran of the wars of Napoleon. Moreover,the old hero had a frank and joyous manner which attractsme wherever I meet it. He was doubtless one ofthose old campaigners whom nothing can surprise, whofind something to laugh at in the last contortionsof a comrade, and will bury a friend or rifle hisbody gayly; challenging bullets with indifference;making short shrift for themselves or others; andfraternizing, as a usual thing, with the devil.After looking very attentively at the proprietor ofthe menagerie as he entered the den, my companioncurled his lip with that expression of satirical contemptwhich well-informed men sometimes put on to mark thedifference between themselves and dupes. As Iuttered my exclamation of surprise at the coolnessand courage of Monsieur Martin, the old soldier smiled,shook his head, and said with a knowing glance, ‘Anold story!’

“‘How do you mean an old story?’I asked. ’If you could explain the secretof this mysterious power, I should be greatly obligedto you.’

“After a while, during which we became betteracquainted, we went to dine at the first cafe we couldfind after leaving the menagerie. A bottle ofchampagne with our dessert brightened the old man’srecollections and made them singularly vivid.He related to me a circumstance in his early historywhich proved that he had ample cause to pronounceMonsieur Martin’s performance ‘an old story.’”

When we reached her house, she was so persuasive andcaptivating, and made me so many pretty promises,that I consented to write down for her benefit thestory told me by the old hero. On the followingday I sent her this episode of a historical epic,which might be entitled, ’The French in Egypt.’

* * * * *

At the time of General Desaix’s expedition toUpper Egypt a Provencal soldier, who had fallen intothe hands of the Maugrabins, was marched by thosetireless Arabs across the desert which lies beyondthe cataracts of the Nile. To put sufficientdistance between themselves and the French army, theMaugrabins made a forced march and did not halt untilafter nightfall. They then camped about a wellshaded with palm-trees, near which they had previouslyburied a stock of provisions. Not dreaming thatthe thought of escape could enter their captive’smind, they merely bound his wrists, and lay down tosleep themselves, after eating a few dates and givingtheir horses a feed of barley. When the boldProvencal saw his enemies too soundly asleep to watchhim, he used his teeth to pick up a scimitar, withwhich, steadying the blade by means of his knees,he contrived to cut through the cord which bound hishands, and thus recovered his liberty. He at onceseized a carbine and a poniard, took the precautionto lay in a supply of dates, a small bag of barley,some powder and ball, buckled on the scimitar, mountedone of the horses, and spurred him in the directionwhere he supposed the French army to be. Impatientto meet the outposts, he pressed the horse, whichwas already wearied, so severely that the poor animalfell dead with his flanks torn, leaving the Frenchmanalone in the midst of the desert.

After marching for a long time through the sand withthe dogged courage of an escaping galley-slave, thesoldier was forced to halt, as darkness drew on:for his utter weariness compelled him to rest, thoughthe exquisite sky of an eastern night might well havetempted him to continue the journey. Happilyhe had reached a slight elevation, at the top of whicha few palm-trees shot upward, whose leafage, seen froma long distance against the sky, had helped to sustainhis hopes. His fatigue was so great that he threwhimself down on a block of granite, cut by Natureinto the shape of a camp-bed, and slept heavily, withouttaking the least precaution to protect himself whileasleep. He accepted the loss of his life as inevitable,and his last waking thought was one of regret forhaving left the Maugrabins, whose nomad life beganto charm him now that he was far away from them andfrom every other hope of succor.

He was awakened by the sun, whose pitiless beams fallingvertically upon the granite rock produced an intolerableheat. The Provencal had ignorantly flung himselfdown in a contrary direction to the shadows thrownby the verdant and majestic fronds of the palm-trees.He gazed at these solitary monarchs and shuddered.They recalled to his mind the graceful shafts, crownedwith long weaving leaves, which distinguish the Saraceniccolumns of the cathedral of Arles. The thoughtovercame him, and when, after counting the trees,he threw his eyes upon the scene around him, an agonyof despair convulsed his soul. He saw a limitlessocean. The sombre sands of the desert stretchedout till lost to sight in all directions; they glitteredwith dark lustre like a steel blade shining in thesun. He could not tell if it were an ocean ora chain of lakes that lay mirrored before him.A hot vapor swept in waves above the surface of thisheaving continent. The sky had the Oriental glowof translucent purity, which disappoints because itleaves nothing for the imagination to desire.The heavens and the earth were both on fire.Silence added its awful and desolate majesty.Infinitude, immensity pressed down upon the soul onevery side; not a cloud in the sky, not a breath inthe air, not a rift on the breast of the sand, whichwas ruffled only with little ridges scarcely risingabove its surface. Far as the eye could reachthe horizon fell away into space, marked by a slenderline, slim as the edge of a sabre,—likeas in summer seas a thread of light parts this earthfrom the heaven it meets.

The Provencal clasped the trunk of a palm-tree asif it were the body of a friend. Sheltered fromthe sun by its straight and slender shadow, he wept;and presently sitting down he remained motionless,contemplating with awful dread the implacable Naturestretched out before him. He cried aloud, asif to tempt the solitude to answer him. His voice,lost in the hollows of the hillock, sounded afar witha thin resonance that returned no echo; the echo camefrom the soldier’s heart. He was twenty-twoyears old, and he loaded his carbine.

“Time enough!” he muttered, as he putthe liberating weapon on the sand beneath him.

Gazing by turns at the burnished blackness of thesand and the blue expanse of the sky, the soldierdreamed of France. He smelt in fancy the guttersof Paris; he remembered the towns through which hehad passed, the faces of his comrades, and the mosttrifling incidents of his life. His southernimagination saw the pebbles of his own Provence inthe undulating play of the heated air, as it seemedto roughen the far-reaching surface of the desert.Dreading the dangers of this cruel mirage, he wentdown the little hill on the side opposite to that bywhich he had gone up the night before. His joywas great when he discovered a natural grotto, formedby the immense blocks of granite which made a foundation

for the rising ground. The remnants of a matshowed that the place had once been inhabited, andclose to the entrance were a few palm-trees loadedwith fruit. The instinct which binds men to lifewoke in his heart. He now hoped to live untilsome Maugrabin should pass that way; possibly he mighteven hear the roar of cannon, for Bonaparte was atthat time overrunning Egypt. Encouraged by thesethoughts, the Frenchman shook down a cluster of theripe fruit under the weight of which the palms werebending; and as he tasted this unhoped-for manna,he thanked the former inhabitant of the grotto forthe cultivation of the trees, which the rich and lusciousflesh of the fruit amply attested. Like a trueProvencal, he passed from the gloom of despair toa joy that was half insane. He ran back to thetop of the hill, and busied himself for the rest ofthe day in cutting down one of the sterile trees whichhad been his shelter the night before.

Some vague recollection made him think of the wildbeasts of the desert, and foreseeing that they wouldcome to drink at a spring which bubbled through thesand at the foot of the rock, he resolved to protecthis hermitage by felling a tree across the entrance.Notwithstanding his eagerness, and the strength whichthe fear of being attacked while asleep gave to hismuscles, he was unable to cut the palm-tree in piecesduring the day; but he succeeded in bringing it down.Towards evening the king of the desert fell; and thenoise of his fall, echoing far, was like a moan fromthe breast of Solitude. The soldier shuddered,as though he had heard a voice predicting evil.But, like an heir who does not long mourn a parent,he stripped from the beautiful tree the arching greenfronds—its poetical adornment—andmade a bed of them in his refuge. Then, tiredwith his work and by the heat of the day, he fellasleep beneath the red vault of the grotto.

In the middle of the night his sleep was broken bya strange noise. He sat up; the deep silencethat reigned everywhere enabled him to hear the alternatingrhythm of a respiration whose savage vigor could notbelong to a human being. A terrible fear, increasedby the darkness, by the silence, by the rush of hiswaking fancies, numbed his heart. He felt thecontraction of his hair, which rose on end as his eyes,dilating to their full strength, beheld through thedarkness two faint amber lights. At first hethought them an optical delusion; but by degrees theclearness of the night enabled him to distinguish objectsin the grotto, and he saw, within two feet of him,an enormous animal lying at rest.

Was it a lion? Was it a tiger? Was it acrocodile? The Provencal had not enough educationto know in what sub-species he ought to class theintruder; but his terror was all the greater becausehis ignorance made it vague. He endured the crueltrial of listening, of striving to catch the peculiartiesof this breathing without losing one of its inflections,and without daring to make the slightest movement.A strong odor, like that exhaled by foxes, only farmore pungent and penetrating, filled the grotto.When the soldier had tasted it, so to speak, by thenose, his fear became terror; he could no longer doubtthe nature of the terrible companion whose royal lairhe had taken for a bivouac. Before long, thereflection of the moon, as it sank to the horizon,lighted up the den and gleamed upon the shining, spottedskin of a panther.

The lion of Egypt lay asleep, curled up like a dog,the peaceable possessor of a kennel at the gate ofa mansion; its eyes, which had opened for a moment,were now closed; its head was turned towards the Frenchman.A hundred conflicting thoughts rushed through the mindof the panther’s prisoner. Should he killit with a shot from his musket? But ere the thoughtwas formed, he saw there was no room to take aim; themuzzle would have gone beyond the animal. Supposehe were to wake it? The fear kept him motionless.As he heard the beating of his heart through the deadsilence, he cursed the strong pulsations of his vigorousblood, lest they should disturb the sleep which gavehim time to think and plan for safety. Twicehe put his hand on his scimitar, with the idea ofstriking off the head of his enemy; but the difficultyof cutting through the close-haired skin made him renouncethe bold attempt. Suppose he missed his aim?It would, he knew, be certain death. He preferredthe chances of a struggle, and resolved to await thedawn. It was not long in coming. As daylightbroke, the Frenchman was able to examine the animal.Its muzzle was stained with blood. “It haseaten a good meal,” thought he, not caring whetherthe feast were human flesh or not; “it willnot be hungry when it wakes.”

It was a female. The fur on the belly and onthe thighs was of sparkling whiteness. Severallittle spots like velvet made pretty bracelets roundher paws. The muscular tail was also white, butit terminated with black rings. The fur of theback, yellow as dead gold and very soft and glossy,bore the characteristic spots, shaded like a full-blownrose, which distinguish the panther from all otherspecies of felis. This terrible hostesslay tranquilly snoring, in an attitude as easy andgraceful as that of a cat on the cushions of an ottoman.Her bloody paws, sinewy and well-armed, were stretchedbeyond her head, which lay upon them; and from hermuzzle projected a few straight hairs called whiskers,which shimmered in the early light like silver wires.

If he had seen her lying thus imprisoned in a cage,the Provencal would have admired the creature’sgrace, and the strong contrasts of vivid color whichgave to her robe an imperial splendor; but as it was,his sight was jaundiced by sinister forebodings.The presence of the panther, though she was stillasleep, had the same effect upon his mind as the magneticeyes of a snake produce, we are told, upon the nightingale.The soldier’s courage oozed away in presenceof this silent peril, though he was a man who gatherednerve before the mouths of cannon belching grape-shot.And yet, ere long, a bold thought entered his mind,and checked the cold sweat which was rolling from hisbrow. Roused to action, as some men are when,driven face to face with death, they defy it and offerthemselves to their doom, he saw a tragedy beforehim, and he resolved to play his part with honor tothe last.

“Yesterday,” he said, “the Arabsmight have killed me.”

Regarding himself as dead, he waited bravely, butwith anxious curiosity, for the waking of his enemy.When the sun rose, the panther suddenly opened hereyes; then she stretched her paws violently, as ifto unlimber them from the cramp of their position.Presently she yawned and showed the frightful armamentof her teeth, and her cloven tongue, rough as a grater.

“She is like a dainty woman,” thoughtthe Frenchman, watching her as she rolled and turnedon her side with an easy and coquettish movement.She licked the blood from her paws, and rubbed herhead with a reiterated movement full of grace.

“Well done! dress yourself prettily, my littlewoman,” said the Frenchman, who recovered hisgayety as soon as he had recovered his courage.“We are going to bid each other good-morning;”and he felt for the short poniard which he had takenfrom the Maugrabins.

At this instant the panther turned her head towardsthe Frenchman and looked at him fixedly, without moving.Th

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