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WORLD'S BEST LITERATURE

ANCIENT AND MODERN

CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER

EDITOR

HAMILTON WRIGHT MABIELUCIA GILBERT RUNKLEGEORGE HENRY WARNER

ASSOCIATE EDITORS

Connoisseur Edition

VOL. V. 

THE ADVISORY COUNCIL

 * * * * *

CRAWFORD H. TOY, A. M. , LL. D. , Professor of Hebrew, HARVARD UNIVERSITY, Cambridge, Mass. 

THOMAS R. LOUNSBURY, LL. D. , L. H. D. , Professor of English in the Sheffield Scientific School of YALE UNIVERSITY, New Haven, Conn. 

WILLIAM M. SLOANE, PH. D. , L. H. D. , Professor of History and Political Science, PRINCETON UNIVERSITY, Princeton, N. J. 

BRANDER MATTHEWS, A. M. , LL. B. , Professor of Literature, COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY, New York City. 

JAMES B. ANGELL, LL. D. , President of the UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN, Ann Arbor, Mich. 

WILLARD FISKE, A. M. , PH. D. , Late Professor of the Germanic and Scandinavian Languages and Literatures, CORNELL UNIVERSITY, Ithaca, N. Y. 

EDWARD S. HOLDEN, A. M. , LL. D. , Director of the Lick Observatory, and Astronomer, UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, Berkeley, Cal. 

ALCÉE FORTIER, LIT. D. , Professor of the Romance Languages, TULANE UNIVERSITY, New Orleans, La. 

WILLIAM P. TRENT, M. A. , Dean of the Department of Arts and Sciences, and Professor of English and History, UNIVERSITY OF THE SOUTH, Sewanee, Tenn. 

PAUL SHOREY, PH. D. , Professor of Greek and Latin Literature, UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO, Chicago, Ill. 

WILLIAM T. HARRIS, LL. D. , United States Commissioner of Education, BUREAU OF EDUCATION, Washington, D. C. 

MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN, A. M. , LL. D. , Professor of Literature in the CATHOLIC UNIVERSITY OF AMERICA, Washington, D. C. 

TABLE OF CONTENTS

VOL. V

 LIVED PAGEOTTO EDWARD LEOPOLD VON BISMARCK 1815- 1929

 BY MUNROE SMITH

 Letters--To Fran von Arnim To His Wife: Aug. 7, 1851; June 6, 1859; June 8, 1859; June 28, 1859; July 26, 1859 To Oscar von Arnim To His Wife: Aug. 4, 1862; July 9, 1866; Sept. 3, 1870; June 23, 1852 Personal Characteristics of the Members of the Frankfort Diet From a Speech on the Military Bill

BJÖRNSTJERNE BJÖRNSON 1832- 1959

 BY WILLIAM MORTON PAYNE

 Over the Lofty Mountains ('Arne') The Cloister in the South ('Arnljot Gelline') The Plea of King Magnus ('Sigurd Slembe') Sin and Death (same) The Princess Sigurd Slembe's Return How the Mountain Was Clad ('Arne') The Father

WILLIAM BLACK 1841- 1983

 The End of Macleod of Dare Sheila in London ('A Princess of Thule')

RICHARD DODDRIDGE BLACKMORE 1825- 2011

 A Desperate Venture ('Lorna Doone') A Wedding and a Revenge (same) Landing the Trout ('Alice Lorraine') A Dane in the Dike ('Mary Anerley')

WILLIAM BLAKE 1757-1827 2041

 Song The Piper and the Child Song Holy Thursday The Two Songs Cradle Song Night The Little Black Boy The Tiger

CHARLES BLANC 1813-1882 2051

 Rembrandt ('The Dutch School of Painters') Albert Dürer's 'Melancholia' (same) Ingres ('Life of Ingres') Calamatta's Studio ('Contemporary Artists') Blanc's Début as Art Critic (same) Delacroix's 'Bark of Dante' (same) Genesis of the 'Grammar' Moral Influence of Art ('Grammar of Painting and Engraving') Poussin's 'Shepherds of Arcadia' (same) Landscape (same) Style (same) Law of Proportion in Architecture (same)

STEEN STEENSEN BLICHER 1782-1848 2064

 A Picture The Knitting-Room The Hosier

MATHILDE BLIND 1847-1896 2075

 From 'Love in Exile' The Mystic's Vision Seeking From 'Tarantella' Songs of Summer O Moon, Large Golden Summer Moon A Parable Love's Somnambulist Green Leaves and Sere

GIOVANNI BOCCACCIO 1313-1375 2089

 BY W. J. STILLMAN

 Frederick of the Alberighi and His Falcon The Jew Converted to Christianity by Going to Rome The Story of Saladin and the Jew Usurer The Story of Griselda

FRIEDRICH MARTIN VON BODENSTEDT 1819-1892 2116

 Two Wine Song Unchanging The Poetry of Mirza-Schaffy ('Thousand and One Days in the East') Mirza-Schaffy (same) The School of Wisdom (same) An Excursion into Armenia (same) Mirza-Jussuf Wisdom and Knowledge

JOHANN JAKOB BODMER 1698-1783 2128

 Kinship of the Arts ('Rubens') Poetry and Painting ('Holbein') Tribute to Tobacco ('Dürer')

BOËTIUS 475-525 2133

 Of the Greatest Good ('Consolations of Philosophy')

NICHOLAS BOILEAU-DESPRÉAUX 1636-1711 2141

 Advice to Authors ('The Art of Poetry') The Pastoral, the Elegy, the Ode, and the Epigram (same) To Molière ('The Satires')

GASTON BOISSIER 1823-2152 2152

 Madame de Sévigné as a Letter-Writer ('Life of Madame de Sévigné') French Society in the Seventeenth Century (same) How Horace Lived at his Country-House ('The Country of Horace and Virgil')

GEORGE H. BOKER 1823-1890 2163

 The Black Regiment The Sword-Bearer Sonnets

SAINT BONAVENTURA 1221-1274 2169

 BY THOMAS DAVIDSON

 On the Beholding of God in His Footsteps in This Sensible World

GEORGE BORROW 1803-1881 2175

 BY JULIAN HAWTHORNE

 At the Horse-Fair ('Lavengro') A Meeting ('The Bible in Spain')

JUAN BOSCAN 1493-?1540 2203

 On the Death of Garcilaso A Picture of Domestic Happiness ('Epistle to Mendoza')

JACQUES BÉNIGNE BOSSUET 1627-1704 2209

 BY ADOLPHE COHN

 From the Sermon upon 'The Unity of the Church' Opening of the Funeral Oration on Henrietta of France From the 'Discourse upon Universal History' Public Spirit in Rome

JAMES BOSWELL 1740-1795 2227

 BY CHARLES F. JOHNSON

 An Account of Corsica A Tour to Corsica The Life of Samuel Johnson

PAUL BOURGET 1852- 2252

 The American Family ('Outre-Mer') The Aristocratic Vision of M. Renan ('Study of M. Renan')

SIR JOHN BOWRING 1792-1872 2263

 The Cross of Christ Watchman! What of the Night? Hymn From Luis de Gongora: Not All Nightingales From John Kollar: Sonnet From Bogdanovich (Old Russian): Song From Bobrov: The Golden Palace From Dmitriev: The Dove and The Stranger From Sarbiewski: Sapphics to A Rose

HJALMAR HJORTH BOYESEN 1848-1895 2272

 A Norwegian Dance ('Gunnar')

MARY ELIZABETH BRADDON 1837- 2279

 Advent of the Hirelings ('The Christmas Hirelings') "How Bright She Was--" etc. ('Mohawks')

GEORG BRANDES 1842- 2299

 BY WILLIAM MORTON PAYNE

 Björnson ('Eminent Authors of the Nineteenth Century') The Historical Movement in Modern Literature ('Main Currents in the Literature of the Nineteenth Century')

SEBASTIAN BRANDT 1458-1521 2311

 The Universal Shyp Of Hym That Togyder Wyll Serve Two Maysters Of To[o] Moche Spekynge or Bablynge

FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS

VOLUME V

 * * * * *

 PAGESaint Dunstan (Colored Plate) FrontispieceBismarck (Portrait) . . . . . . . 1930"The Surrender at Sedan" (Photogravure) . . 1944Richard Doddridge Blackmore (Portrait) . . 2012"Rembrandt and His Wife" (Photogravure) . . 2055Giovanni Boccaccio (Portrait) . . . . 2090"The Decameron" (Photogravure) . . . . 2108"Fatima" (Photogravure) . . . . . . 2120"Domestic Happiness" (Photogravure) . . . 2206

VIGNETTE PORTRAITS

Björnstjerne BjörnsonWilliam BlackWilliam BlakeMathilde BlindFriedrich M. Von BodenstedtJohann Jakob BodmerBoëtiusNicholas Boileau-DespréauxGaston BoissierGeorge H. BokerGeorge BorrowJacques Bénigne BossuetJames BoswellPaul BourgetSir John BowringHjalmar Hjorth BoyesenGeorg BrandesSebastian Brandt

OTTO EDWARD LEOPOLD VON BISMARCK

(1815-)

BY MUNROE SMITH

Otto Edward Leopold, fourth child of Charles and Wilhelmina vonBismarck, was born at Schönhausen in Prussia, April 1, 1815. The familywas one of the oldest in the "Old Mark" (now a part of the province ofSaxony), and not a few of its members had held important military ordiplomatic positions under the Prussian crown. The young Otto passed hisschool years in Berlin, and pursued university studies in law (1832-5)at Göttingen and at Berlin. At Göttingen he was rarely seen at lectures, but was a prominent figure in the social life of the student body: theold university town is full of traditions of his prowess in duels anddrinking bouts, and of his difficulties with the authorities. In 1835 hepassed the State examination in law, and was occupied for three years, first in the judicial and then in the administrative service of theState, at Berlin, Aix-la-Chapelle, and Potsdam. In 1838 he left thegovernmental service and studied agriculture at the Eldena Academy. Fromhis twenty-fourth to his thirty-sixth year (1839-51) his life was thatof a country squire. He took charge at first of property held by hisfather in Pomerania; upon his father's death in 1845 he assumed themanagement of the family estate of Schönhausen. Here he held the localoffices of captain of dikes and of deputy in the provincial Diet. Thelatter position proved a stepping-stone into Prussian and Germanpolitics; for when Frederick William IV. Summoned the "United Diet" ofthe kingdom (1847), Bismarck was sent to Berlin as an alternate delegatefrom his province. 

The next three years were full of events. The revolution of 1848 forcedall the German sovereigns who had thus far retained absolute power, among them the King of Prussia, to grant representative constitutions totheir people. The same year witnessed the initiation of a great popularmovement for the unification of Germany. A national Parliament wasassembled at Frankfort, and in 1849 it offered to the King of Prussiathe German imperial crown; but the constitution it had drafted was sodemocratic, and the opposition of the German princes so great, thatFrederick William felt obliged to refuse the offer. An attempt was thenmade, at a Parliament held in Erfurt, to establish a "narrower Germany"under Prussian leadership; but this movement also came to nothing. TheAustrian government, paralyzed for a time by revolts in its ownterritories, had re-established its power and threatened Prussia withwar. Russia supported Austria, and Prussia submitted at Olmütz (1850). In these stirring years, Bismarck--first as a member of the United Dietand then as a representative in the new Prussian Chamber ofDeputies--made himself prominent by hostility to the constitutionalmovement and championship of royal prerogative. He defended the King'srefusal of the imperial crown, because "all the real gold in it would begotten by melting up the Prussian crown"; and he compared the pact whichthe King, by accepting the Frankfort constitution, would make with thedemocracy, to the pact between the huntsman and the devil in the'Freischütz': sooner or later, he declared, the people would come to theEmperor, and pointing to the Imperial arms, would say, "Do you fancythis eagle was given you for nothing?" He sat in the Erfurt Parliament, but had no faith in its success. He opposed the constitution which itadopted, although this was far more conservative than that drafted atFrankfort, because he deemed it still too revolutionary. During theAustro-Prussian disputes of 1850 he expressed himself, like the rest ofthe Prussian Conservatives, in favor of reconciliation with Austria, andhe even defended the convention of Olmütz. 

After Olmütz, the German Federal Diet, which had disappeared in 1848, was reconstituted at Frankfort, and to Frankfort Bismarck was sent, in1857, as representative of Prussia. This position, which he held formore than seven years, was essentially diplomatic, since the FederalDiet was merely a permanent congress of German ambassadors; andBismarck, who had enjoyed no diplomatic training, owed his appointmentpartly to the fact that his record made him _persona grata_ to the"presidential power, " Austria. He soon forfeited the favor of that Stateby the steadfastness with which he resisted its pretensions to superiorauthority, and the energy with which he defended the constitutionalparity of Prussia and the smaller States; but he won the confidence ofthe home government, and was consulted by the King and his ministerswith increasing frequency on the most important questions of Europeandiplomacy. He strove to inspire them with greater jealousy of Austria. He favored closer relations with Napoleon III. , as a make-weight againstthe Austrian influence, and was charged by some of his opponents with anundue leaning toward France; but as he explained in a letter to afriend, if he had sold himself, it was "to a Teutonic and not to aGallic devil. "

[Illustration: BISMARCK]

In the winter of 1858-9, as the Franco-Austrian war drew nearer, Bismarck's anti-Austrian attitude became so pronounced that hisgovernment, by no means ready to break with Austria, but ratherdisposed to support that power against France, felt it necessary to puthim, as he himself expressed it, "on ice on the Neva. " From 1859 to 1862he held the position of Prussian ambassador at St. Petersburg. In 1862he was appointed ambassador at Paris. In the autumn of the same year hebecame Minister-President of Prussia. 

The new Prussian King, William I. , had become involved in a controversywith the Prussian Chamber of Deputies over the reorganization of thearmy; his previous ministers were unwilling to press the reform againsta hostile majority; and Bismarck, who was ready to assume theresponsibility, was charged with the premiership of the new cabinet. "Under some circumstances, " he said later, "death upon the scaffold isas glorious as upon the battlefield. " From 1862 to 1866 he governedPrussia without the support of the lower chamber and without a regularbudget. He informed a committee of the Deputies that the questions ofthe time were not to be settled by-debates, but by "blood and iron. "

In the diplomatic field it was his effort to secure a position ofadvantage for the struggle with Austria for the control of Germany, --astruggle which, six years before, he had declared to be inevitable. During his stay in St. Petersburg he had strengthened the friendlyfeeling already subsisting between Prussia and Russia; and in 1863 hegave the Russian government useful support in crushing a Polishinsurrection. To a remonstrance from the English ambassador, somewhatarrogantly delivered in the name of Europe, Bismarck responded, "Who isEurope?" While in Paris he had convinced himself that no seriousinterference was to be apprehended from Napoleon. That monarch overratedAustria; regarded Bismarck's plans, which appear to have been explainedwith extraordinary frankness, as chimerical; and pronounced Bismarck"not a serious person. " Bismarck, on the other hand, privately expressedthe opinion that Napoleon was "a great unrecognized incapacity. " When, in 1863, the death of Frederick VII. Of Denmark without direct heirsraised again the ancient Schleswig-Holstein problem, Bismarck saw thatthe opportunity had come for the solution of the German question. 

The events of the next seven years are familiar history. In 1864 Prussiaand Austria made war on Denmark, and obtained a joint sovereignty overthe duchies of Holstein and Schleswig. In 1866, with Italy as her ally, Prussia drove Austria out of the German Confederation; annexedSchleswig, Holstein, Hanover, Electoral Hesse, and Frankfort; andbrought all the German States north of the Main, except Luxemburg, intothe North German Confederation, of which the King of Prussia wasPresident and Bismarck Chancellor. When war was declared by France in1870, the South German States also placed their forces at the King ofPrussia's disposal; and before the war was over they joined the newlyestablished German Empire, which thus included all the territories ofthe old Confederation except German Austria and Luxemburg. The oldConfederation was a mere league of sovereign States; the new Empire wasa nation. To this Empire, at the close of the war, the French Republicpaid an indemnity of five milliards of francs, and ceded Alsaceand Lorraine. 

In giving the German people political unity Bismarck realized theirstrongest and deepest desire; and the feeling entertained toward himunderwent a sudden revulsion. From 1862 to 1866 he had been the besthated man in Germany. The partial union of 1867--when, as he expressedit, Germany was "put in the saddle"--made him a national hero. Thereconciliation with the people was the more complete because, atBismarck's suggestion, a German Parliament was created, elected byuniversal suffrage, and because the Prussian ministers (to the greatindignation of their conservative supporters) asked the PrussianDeputies to grant them indemnity for their unconstitutional conduct ofthe government during the preceding four years. For the next ten yearsBismarck had behind him, in Prussian and in German affairs, asubstantial nationalist majority. At times, indeed, he had to restraintheir zeal. In 1867, for instance, when they desired to take Baden aloneinto the new union, --the rest of South Germany being averse toentrance, --Bismarck was obliged to tell them that it would be a poorpolicy "to skim off the cream and let the rest of the milk turn sour. "

Bismarck remained Chancellor of the Empire as well as Minister-Presidentof Prussia until 1890, when William II. Demanded his resignation. Duringthese years the military strength of the Empire was greatly increased;its finances were placed upon an independent footing; its authority wasextended in legislative matters, and its administrative system wasdeveloped and consolidated. Conflicts with the Roman Catholic hierarchy(1873-87), and with the Social Democracy (1878-90) resultedindecisively; though Bismarck's desire to alleviate the misery which inhis opinion caused the socialistic movement gave rise to a series ofremarkable laws for the insurance of the laboring classes againstaccident, disease, and old age. With a return to the protective system, which Bismarck advocated for fiscal reasons, he combined the attempt toenlarge Germany's foreign market by the establishment of imperialcolonies in Africa and in the Pacific Ocean. In other respects hisforeign policy, after 1870, was controlled by the desire to preservepeace. "Germany, " he said, "belongs to the satisfied nations. " When theRussian friendship cooled, he secured an alliance with Austria (1879), which Italy also joined (1882); and the "triple alliance" thus formedcontinued to dominate European politics for many years after Bismarck'swithdrawal from office. 

Of Bismarck's State papers, the greater portion are still buried in thePrussian archives. The most important series that has been publishedconsists of his dispatches from Frankfort (Poschinger, Preussen imBundestag, 1851-8, 4 vols. ). These are marked by clearness of statement, force of argument, and felicity of illustration. The style, althoughless direct and simple than that of his unofficial writings, is stillexcellent. A large part of the interest attaching to these early paperslies in their acute characterization of the diplomatists with whom hehad to deal. His analysis of their motives reveals from the outset thatthorough insight into human nature which was to count for so much in hissubsequent diplomatic triumphs. Of his later notes and dispatches, suchas have seen the light may be found in Hahn's documentary biography('Fürst Bismarck, ' 5 vols. ). His reports and memorials on economic andfiscal questions have been collected by Poschinger in 'Bismarck alsVolkswirth. '

Of Bismarck's parliamentary speeches there exists a full collection(reproduced without revision from the stenographic reports) in fifteenvolumes. Bismarck was not an orator in the ordinary acceptation of theword. His mode of address was conversational; his delivery wasmonotonous and halting. He often hesitated, searching for a word; butwhen it came, it usually seemed the only word that could have expressedhis meaning, and the hesitation that preceded it gave it a singularemphasis. It seemed to be his aim to convince his hearers, not to winthem; his appeal was regularly to their intelligence, not to theiremotions. When the energy and warmth of his own feelings had carried himinto something like a flight of oratory, there was apt to follow, at thenext moment, some plain matter-of-fact statement that brought thediscussion back at once to its ordinary level. Such an anti-climax wasoften very effective: the obvious effort of the speaker to keep hisemotions under restraint vouched for the sincerity of the precedingoutburst. It should be added that he appreciated as few Germans do therhetorical value of understatement. 

He was undoubtedly at his literary best in conversation and in hisletters. We have several volumes of Bismarck anecdotes, Bismarcktable-talk, etc. The best known are those of Busch, which have beentranslated into English--and in spite of the fact that his sayings cometo us at second hand and colored by the personality of the transmitter, we recognize the qualities which, by the universal testimony of thosewho knew him, made him one of the most fascinating of talkers. Thesequalities, however, come out most clearly in a little volume of letters('Bismarck briefe'), chiefly addressed to his wife. (These letters havebeen excellently translated into English by F. Maxse. ) They arecharacterized throughout by vivid and graphic descriptions, a subtlesense of humor, and real wit; and they have in the highest degree--farmore than his State papers or speeches--the literary quality, and thatindescribable something which we call style. 

Bismarck furnishes, once for all, the answer to the old French question, whether a German can possibly have _esprit_--witness his response to theGerman prince who desired his advice regarding the offer of the crown ofone of the Balkan States:--"Accept, by all means: it will be a charmingrecollection for you. " He possessed also to a high degree the power ofsumming up a situation or characterizing a movement in a single phrase;and his sayings have enriched the German language with more quotationsthan the spoken words of any German since Luther. 

Of the numerous German biographies, Harm's gives the greatest amount ofdocumentary material; Hesekiel's (which has been translated intoEnglish) is the most popular. The best French biography is by Simon; theonly important English work is that by Lowe. For bibliography, seeSchulze and Roller, (Bismarck-Literatur) (1895), which contains about600 titles. The Frankfort dispatches and the speeches have beentranslated into French, but not into English. 

[Illustration: signature of Munroe Smith]

TO FRAU VON ARNIM

SCHÖNHAUSEN, August 7th, 1850. 

The fact is, this journey, and I see it more clearly the nearer itapproaches, gives me a right of reversion on the new lunatic asylum, orat least a seat for life in the Second Chamber. I can already see myselfon the platform of the Genthiner station; then both of us packed in thecarriage, surrounded with all sorts of child's necessaries--anembarrassing company; Johanna ashamed to suckle the baby, whichaccordingly roars itself blue; then the passports, the inn; then atStettin railway station with both bellowing monkeys; then waiting anhour at Angermünde for the horses; and how are we to get fromKröchlendorf to Külz? It would be perfectly awful if we had to remainfor the night at Stettin. I did that last year with Marie and hersquallings. I was in such a state of despair yesterday over all thesevisions that I was positively determined to give the whole thing up, andat last went to bed with the resolve at least to go straight through, without stopping anywhere; but what will one not commit for the sake ofdomestic peace? The young cousins, male and female, must becomeacquainted, and who knows when Johanna will see you again? She pouncedupon me last night with the boy in her arms, and with all those wileswhich formerly lost us Paradise; of course she succeeded in wringing myconsent that everything should remain as before. I feel, however, that Iam as one to whom fearful injustice is done, and I am certain that Ishall have to travel next year with three cradles, wet-nurses, long-clothes, and counterpanes. I am now awake by six o'clock, andalready in a gentle simmer of anger; I cannot get to sleep, owing to allthe visions of traveling which my imagination paints in the darkestcolors, even up to the "picnics" on the sandhills of Stolpmünde. Andthen if one were only paid for it! But to travel away the last remnantsof a once handsome fortune with sucking babies!--I am very unhappy!

Well--Wednesday, then, in Gerswalde--I should have done probably betterby driving over Passow, and you would not have had so far to Prenzlau asto G----. However, it is now a _fait accompli_, and the pain ofselection is succeeded by the quiet of resignation. Johanna is somewhatnervous about her dresses, supposing you Boitzenburgers have company. 

TO HIS WIFE

FRANKFORT, August 7th, 1851. 

I wanted to write to you yesterday and to-day, but, owing to all theclatter and bustle of business, could not do so until now, late in theevening on my return from a walk through the lovely summer-night breeze, the moonlight, and the murmuring of poplar leaves, which I took to brushaway the dust of the day's dispatches and papers. Saturday afternoon Idrove out with Rochow and Lynar to Rüdesheim; there I took a boat, rowedout upon the Rhine, and swam in the moonlight, with nothing but nose andeyes out of the water, as far as the Mäusethürm near Bingen, where thebad bishop came to his end. It gives one a peculiar dreamy sensation tofloat thus on a quiet warm night in the water, gently carried down bythe current, looking above on the heavens studded with the moon andstars, and on each side the banks and wooded hill-tops and thebattlements of the old castles bathed in the moonlight, whilst nothingfalls on one's ear but the gentle splashing of one's own movements. Ishould like to swim like this every evening. I drank some very fair wineafterwards, and then sat a long time with Lynar smoking on thebalcony--the Rhine below us. My little New Testament and thestar-studded heavens brought us on the subject of religion, and I arguedlong against the Rousseau-like sophism of his ideas, without, however, achieving more than to reduce him to silence. He was badly treated as achild by _bonnes_ and tutors, without ever having known his parents. Later on, in consequence of much the same sort of education as myself, he picked up the same ideas in his youth; but is more satisfied and moreconvinced by them than ever I was. 

Next day we took the steamer to Coblenz, stopped there an hour forbreakfast, and came back the same way to Frankfort, where we arrived inthe evening. I undertook this expedition with the intention of visitingold Metternich, who had invited me to do so at Johannisberg; but I wasso much pleased with the Rhine that I preferred to make my way over toCoblenz and to postpone the visit. When you and I saw it we had justreturned from the Alps, and the weather was bad; on this fresh summermorning, however, and after the dusty monotony of Frankfort, the Rhinehas risen very considerably in my estimation. I promise myself completeenjoyment in spending a couple of days with you at Rüdesheim; the placeis so quiet and rural, honest people and cheap living. We will hire asmall boat and row at our leisure downwards, climb up the Niederwald anda castle or two, and return with the steamer. One can leave this placeearly in the morning, stay eight hours at Rüdesheim, Bingen, orRheinstein, etc. , and be back again in the evening. My appointment hereappears now to be certain. 

Moscow, June 6th, 1859. 

I will send you at least a sign of life from here, while I am waitingfor the samovar; and a young Russian in a red shirt is exerting himselfbehind me with vain attempts to light a fire--he puffs and blows, but itwill not burn. After having complained so much about the scorching heatlately, I woke to-day between Twer and here, and thought I was dreamingwhen I saw the country and its fresh verdure covered far and wide withsnow. I shall wonder at nothing again, and having convinced myself ofthe fact beyond all doubt, I turned quickly on the other side to sleepand roll on farther, although the play of colors--from green towhite--in the red dawn of day was not without its charm. I do not knowif the snow still lies at Twer; here it has thawed away, and a cool grayrain is rattling on the green tin of the roofs. Green has every reasonto be the Russian favorite color. Of the five hundred miles I havepassed in traveling here, I have slept away about two hundred, but eachhand-breadth of the remainder was green in every shade. Towns andvillages, and more particularly houses, with the exception of therailway stations, I did not observe. Bushy forests with birch-treescover swamp and hill, a fine growth of grass beneath, long tracts ofmeadow-land between; so it goes on for fifty, one hundred, two hundredmiles. Ploughed land I do not remember to have remarked, nor heather, nor sand. Solitary grazing cows or horses awoke one at times to thepresumption that there might be human beings in the neighborhood. Moscow, seen from above, looks like a field of young wheat: the soldiersare green, the cupolas green, and I do not doubt that the eggs on thetable before me were laid by green hens. 

You will want to know how I come to be here. I also have already askedmyself this question, and the answer I received was that change is thesoul of life. The truth of this profound saying becomes especiallyobvious after having lived for ten weeks in a sunny room of a hotel, with the look-out on pavements. The charms of moving become ratherblunted if they occur repeatedly within a short period; I thereforedetermined to forego them, handed over all paper to----, gave Engel mykeys, declared that I would put up in a week at Stenbock's house, anddrove to the Moscow station. This was yesterday at noon, and thismorning, at eight o'clock, I alighted here at the Hôtel de France. Firstof all I shall pay a visit to a charming acquaintance of former times, who lives in the country, about twenty versts from here; to-morrowevening I shall be here again; Wednesday and Thursday shall visit theKremlin and so forth; and Friday or Saturday sleep in the beds whichEngel will meantime buy. Slow harnessing and fast driving lie in thecharacter of this people. I ordered the carriage two hours ago: toevery call which I have been uttering for each successive ten minutes ofan hour and a half, the answer is, "Immediately, " given withimperturbably friendly composure; but there the matter rests. You knowmy exemplary patience in waiting, but everything has its limits;afterwards there will be wild galloping, so that on these bad roadshorse and carriage break down, and at last we reach the place on foot. Ihave meanwhile drunk three glasses of tea and annihilated several eggs;the efforts at getting warm have also so perfectly succeeded that I feelthe need of fresh air. I should, out of sheer impatience, commenceshaving if I had a glass. This city is very straggling, and veryforeign-looking, with its green-roofed churches and innumerable cupolas;quite different from Amsterdam, but both the most original cities Iknow. No German guard has a conception of the luggage people drag withthem into the railway carriage; not a Russian goes without two realpillows in white pillow-cases, children in baskets, and masses ofeatables of every kind. Out of politeness they bowed me into a sleepingcar, where I was worse off than in my seat. Altogether, it isastonishing to me to see the fuss made here about a journey. 

Moscow, June 8th. 

This city is really, as a _city_, the handsomest and most originalexisting: the environs are cheerful, not pretty, not ugly; but the viewfrom the top of the Kremlin on this panorama of green-roofed houses, gardens, churches, spires of the strangest possible form and color, mostly green, or red or bright blue, generally crowned at the top with agigantic golden onion, and mostly five or more on one church, --there arecertainly a thousand steeples!--anything more strangely beautiful thanall this lit up by the slanting rays of the setting sun it is impossibleto see. The weather has cleared up again, and I should stay here a fewdays longer if there were not rumors of a great battle in Italy, whichmay perhaps bring diplomatic work in its train, so I will be off thereand get back to my post. The house in which I am writing is, curiouslyenough, one of the few that survived 1812; old, thick walls, like thoseat Schönhausen, Oriental architecture, big Moorish rooms. 

June 28th, Evening. 

After a three hours' drive through the gardens in an open carriage, anda view of all its beauties in detail, I am drinking tea, with a prospectof the golden evening sky and green woods. At the Emperor's they want tobe _en famille_ the last evening, as I can perfectly well understand;and I, as a convalescent, have sought retirement, and have indeed donequite enough to-day for my first outing. I am smoking my cigar in peace, and drinking excellent tea, and see, through the smoke of both, a sunsetof really rare beauty. I send you the inclosed jasmine as a proof thatit really grows and blossoms here in the open air. On the other hand, Imust own that I have been shown the common chestnut in shrub-form as arare growth, which in winter is wrapped up; otherwise, there are veryfine large oaks, ash-trees, limes, poplars, and birches as thickas oaks. 

Petersburg, July 26, 1859. 

Half an hour ago a cabinet courier woke me with war and peace. Ourpolicy drifts more and more into the Austrian wake; and when we haveonce fired a shot on the Rhine, it is over with the Italian-Austrianwar, and in its place a Prussian-French comes on the scene, in whichAustria, after we have taken the burden from her shoulders, stands by usor fails to stand by us just so far as her own interests require. Shewill certainly not allow us to play a very brilliant victor's part. 

As God wills! After all, everything here is only a question of time:nations and individuals, folly and wisdom, war and peace, they come andgo like the waves, but the sea remains. There is nothing on this earthbut hypocrisy and jugglery; and whether fever or grape-shot tear offthis fleshly mask, fall it must sooner or later: and then, granted thatthey are equal in height, a likeness will after all turn up between aPrussian and an Austrian which will make it difficult to distinguishthem. The stupid and the clever, too, look pretty much alike when theirbones are well picked. With such views, a man certainly gets rid of hisspecific patriotism; but it would indeed be a subject for despair if oursalvation depended on them. 

TO HIS BROTHER-IN-LAW, OSCAR VON ARNIM

RHEINFELD, August 16th, 1861. 

I have just received the news of the terrible misfortune which hasbefallen you and Malwine, My first thought was to come to you at once, but in wanting to do so I overrated my powers. My _régime_ has touchedme up a good deal, and the thought of suddenly breaking it off met withsuch decided opposition that I have resolved to let Johanna go alone. Such a blow goes beyond the reach of human consolation. And yet it is anatural desire to be near those we love in their sorrow, and to lamentwith them in common. It is the only thing we can do. A heavier sorrowcould scarcely have befallen you. To lose such an amiable and aso-happily-thriving child in such a way, and to bury along with him allthe hopes which were to be the joys of your old days, --sorrow over sucha loss will not depart from you as long as you live on this earth; thisI feel with you, with deep and painful sympathy. We are powerless andhelpless in God's mighty hand, so far as he will not himself help us, and can do nothing but bow down in humility under his dispensations. Hecan take from us all that he gave, and make us utterly desolate; and ourmourning for it will be all the bitterer, the more we allow it to run toexcess in contention and rebellion against his almighty ordinance. Donot mingle your just grief with bitterness and repining, but bring hometo yourself that a son and a daughter are left to you, and that withthem, and even in the feeling of having possessed another beloved childfor fifteen years, you must consider yourself blessed in comparison withthe many who have never had children nor known a parent's joy. 

I do not want to trouble you with feeble grounds for consolation, butonly to tell you in these lines how I, as friend and brother, feel yoursuffering like my own, and am moved by it to the very core. How allsmall cares and vexations, which daily accompany our life, vanish at theiron appearance of real misfortune! and I feel like so many reproachesthe reminiscences of all complaints and covetous wishes, over which Ihave so often forgotten how much blessing God gives us, and how muchdanger surrounds us without touching us. We are not to attach ourselvesto this world, and not regard it as our home. Another twenty, or inhappiest case thirty years, and we are both of us beyond the cares ofthis life, and our children have reached our present standpoint, andfind with astonishment that the freshly begun life is already going downhill. It would not be worth while to dress and undress if it were overwith that. 

Do you still remember these words of a fellow-traveler from Stolpemünde?The thought that death is the transition to another life will certainlydo little to alleviate your grief; for you might think that your belovedson might have been a true and dear companion to you during the time youare still living in this world, and would have continued, by God'sblessing, the memory of you here. The circle of those whom we lovecontracts itself and receives no increase till we have grandchildren. Atour time of life we form no fresh bonds which are capable of replacingthose that die off. Let us therefore keep the closer together in loveuntil death separates us from one another, as it now separates your sonfrom us. Who knows how soon? Won't you come with Malle to Stolpmünde, and stay quietly with us for a few weeks or days? At all events I shallcome to you at Kröchlendorf, or wherever else you are, in three or fourweeks. I greet my dearest Malle with all my heart. May God give her, aswell as you, strength to bear and patiently submit. 

TO HIS WIFE

BIARRITZ, August 4th, 1862. 

I am afraid I have caused some confusion in our correspondence, as Iinduced you to write too soon to places where I have not yet arrived. Itwill be better for you to address your letters to Paris, just as thoughI were there; the embassy then sends them after me, and I can morequickly send word there if I alter my route. Yesterday evening Ireturned from St. Sebastian to Bayonne, where I slept, and am nowsitting here in a corner-room of the Hotel de l'Europe, with charmingview on the blue sea, which drives its white foam through the curiouscliffs against the lighthouse. I have a bad conscience for seeing somany beautiful things without you. If one could transport you herethrough the air, I would go directly back again to St. Sebastian, andtake you with me. Fancy the Siebengebirge with the Drachenfels placed bythe sea; close by, Ehrenbreitstein, and between the two, pushing itsway into the land, an arm of the sea, somewhat broader than the Rhine, and forming a round bay behind the mountains. In this you bathe intransparently clear water, so heavy and so salt that you swim on the topof it by yourself, and look through the broad gate of rocks into thesea, or landward where the mountain chains top each other, alwayshigher, always bluer. 

The women of the middle and lower classes are strikingly pretty, occasionally beautiful; the men surly and uncivil; and the comforts oflife to which we are accustomed are missing. The heat is not worse herethan there, and I do not mind it; find myself, on the contrary, verywell, thank God. The day before yesterday there was a storm, such as Ihave never seen anything like. I had to take a run three times before Icould succeed in getting up a flight of three steps on the jetty; piecesof stone and large fragments of trees were carried through the air. Unfortunately, therefore, I countermanded my place in a sailing vesselto Bayonne, for I could not suppose that after four hours all would bequiet and cheerful. I lost thus a charming sail along the coast, remained a day more at St. Sebastian, and left yesterday in thediligence, rather uncomfortably packed between nice little Spanishwomen, with whom I could not talk a syllable. So much Italian, however, they understood that I could demonstrate to them my satisfaction withtheir exterior. I looked to-day at a railway guide to see how I couldget from here--that is, from Toulouse--by railway over Marseilles toNice, then by boat to Genoa; from there over Venice, Trieste, Vienna, Breslau, Posen, Stargard to Cöslin! If it were only possible to go overBerlin! I cannot very well pass through there just now. 

TO HIS WIFE

HOHENMAUTH, Monday, July 9th, 1866. 

Do you still remember, my heart, how nineteen years ago we passedthrough here on the way from Prague to Vienna? No mirror showed thefuture, neither when, in 1852, I went along this line with the goodLynar. Matters are going well with us; if we are not immoderate in ourdemands, and do not imagine that we have conquered the world, we shallacquire a pace which will be worth the trouble. But we are just asquickly intoxicated as discouraged, and I have the ungrateful task ofpouring water in the foaming wine, and making them see that we are notliving alone in Europe, but with three neighbors still. The Austriansare in Moravia, and we are already so bold that their positions to-dayare fixed for our headquarters to-morrow. Prisoners are still coming in, and one hundred and eighty guns since the 3d up to to-day. If they callup their southern army, with God's good help we shall beat them again. Confidence is universal. I could hug our fellows, each facing death sogallantly, so quiet, obedient, well-behaved, with empty stomachs, wetclothes, wet camp, little sleep, the soles of their boots falling off, obliging to everybody, no looting, no incendiarism, paying where theycan, and eating moldy bread. There must after all abide in our man ofthe soil a rich store of the fear of God, or all that would beimpossible. News of acquaintances is difficult to obtain; people aremiles apart from one another; no one knows where the other is, andnobody to send; men enough, but no horses. I have had Philip searchedfor, for four days; he is _slightly_ wounded in the head by a lance, asG---- wrote to me, but I cannot find out where he is, and now we arealready forty miles farther on. 

The King exposed himself very much indeed on the 3d, and it was a verygood thing that I was with him; for all warnings on the part of otherswere of no avail, and no one would have ventured to speak as I allowedmyself to do the last time, and with success, after a heap of ten menand fifteen horses of the Sixth Regiment of cuirassiers were wallowingin their blood near us, and the shells whizzed round the sovereign inthe most unpleasant proximity. The worst luckily did not burst. Butafter all I like it better than if he should err on the other side. Hewas enchanted with his troops, and rightly, so that he did not seem toremark all the whistling and bursting about him; as quiet andcomfortable as on the Kreuzberg, and kept constantly finding battalionsthat he wanted to thank and say good evening to, until there we wereagain under fire. But he has had to hear so much about it, that he willleave it alone for the future, and you can be at ease; besides, I hardlybelieve in another real battle. 

If you have _no_ news of a person, you can all implicitly believe thathe lives and is well, as all casualties occurring to one's acquaintancesare known in twenty-four hours at the longest. We have not come at allinto communication with Herwarth and Steinmetz, but know that they areboth well. G----- quietly leads his squadron with his arm in a sling. Good-bye, I must go on duty. 

YOUR MOST TRUE V. B. 

TO HIS WIFE

Note. --This letter did not reach its destination, but, together with theentire post, was captured by franc-tireurs and published by a Frenchnewspaper. 

 VENDRESSE, 3 September [1870]. 

 _My Dear Heart_:

 I left my present quarters before early dawn the day before yesterday, came back to-day, and have in the mean time witnessed the great battle of Sedan, in which we made about thirty thousand prisoners, and threw the remainder of the French army, which we have been pursuing since Bar-le-Duc, into the fortress, where they had to surrender themselves, along with the Emperor, prisoners of war. Yesterday morning at five o'clock, after I had been negotiating until one o'clock A. M. With Moltke and the French generals about the capitulation to be concluded, I was awakened by General Reille, with whom I am acquainted, to tell me that Napoleon wished to speak with me. Unwashed and unbreakfasted, I rode towards Sedan, found the Emperor in an open carriage, with three aides-de-camp and three in attendance on horseback, halted on the road before Sedan. I dismounted, saluted him just as politely as at the Tuileries, and asked for his commands. He wished to see the King; I told him, as the truth was, that his Majesty had his quarters fifteen miles away, at the spot where I am now writing. In answer to Napoleon's question where he should go to, I offered him, as I was not acquainted with the country, my own quarters at Donchéry, a small place in the neighborhood, close by Sedan. He accepted, and drove, accompanied by his six Frenchmen, by me and by Carl (who in the mean time had ridden after me) through the lonely morning towards our lines. Before coming to the spot, he began to hesitate on account of the possible crowd, and he asked me if he could alight in a lonely cottage by the wayside; I had it inspected by Carl, who brought word that it was mean and dirty. "N'importe, " said N. , and I ascended with him a rickety, narrow staircase. In an apartment of ten feet square, with a deal table and two rush-bottomed chairs, we sat for an hour; the others were below. A powerful contrast with our last meeting in the Tuileries in 1867. Our conversation was a difficult thing, if I wanted to avoid touching on topics which could not but affect painfully the man whom God's mighty hand had cast down. I had sent Carl to fetch officers from the town and to beg Moltke to come. We then sent one of the former to reconnoitre, and discovered two and one-half miles off, in Fresnois, a small château situated an a park. Thither I accompanied him with an escort of the cuirassier regiment of life-guards, which had meantime been brought up; and there we concluded with the French general-in-chief, Wimpffen, the capitulation by virtue of which forty to sixty thousand Frenchmen, --I do not know it accurately at present, --with all they possess, became our prisoners. Yesterday and the day before cost France one hundred thousand men and an Emperor. This morning the latter, with all his suite and horses and carriages, started for Wilhelmshöhe, near Cassel. 

 _THE SURRENDER AT SEDAN_. 

 Photogravure from a Painting by Anton Von Werner. 

 The surrender, at Sedan, in 1870, of the French army of 84, 000 under Napoleon III. , MacMahon and Wimpffen, to the Germans, 250, 000 strong, under William I. , was the signal for the downfall of the French empire and the establishment of the republic. In the accompanying picture, the figure seated at the extreme left is GENERAL FAURE; the middle figure of the group of three, standing, is GENERAL CASTELNAU. GENERAL WIMPFFEN, who succeeded MacMahon as commander Sept. 1 and signed the capitulation Sept. 2, stands in a stooping posture, leaning upon his chair and the table. Across the table, his right hand resting upon it, and standing erect, is GENERAL MOLTKE, The seated figure in the foreground is BISMARCK; behind whom, writing, stands COUNT NOSTIZ. 

 [Illustration]

 It is an event of great weight in the world's history, a victory for which we will humbly thank the Almighty, and which decides the war, even if we have to carry it on against France shorn of her Emperor. 

 I must conclude. With heartfelt joy I learnt from your and Maria's letters that Herbert has arrived among you. Bill I spoke to yesterday, as already telegraphed, and embraced him from horseback in his Majesty's presence, while he stood motionless in the ranks. He is very healthy and happy. I saw Hans and Fritz Carl, both Billows, in the Second dragoon guards, well and cheerful. 

 Good-by, my heart; love to the children. 

 Your

 V. B. 

 TO HIS WIFE

 OFEN, June 23d, 1852. 

 I have just come from the steamer, and do not know how better to employ the moment I have at my disposal before Hildebrand follows with my things, than by sending you a little sign of life from this very easterly but very beautiful world. The Emperor has been graciously pleased to assign me quarters in his castle; and here I am in a large vaulted hall, sitting at an open window through which the evening bells of Pesth are pealing. The outlook is charming. The castle stands high; beneath me, first, the Danube, spanned by the suspension bridge; across it, Pesth; and further off the endless plain beyond Pesth, fading away into the purple haze of evening. To the left of Pesth I look up the Danube; far, very far away on my left, --that is, on its right bank, --it is first bordered by the town of Ofen; back of that are hills, blue and still bluer, and then comes the brown-red in the evening sky that glows behind them. Between the two towns lies the broad mirror of water, like that at Linz, broken by the suspension bridge and a wooded island. The journey here, too, at least from Gran to Pesth, would have delighted you. Imagine the Odenwald and the Taunus pushed near to each other, and the space between filled with the waters of the Danube. The shady side of the trip was its sunny side; it was as hot as if Tokay was to be grown on the boat: and the number of tourists was great, but--only think of it--not an Englishman! They cannot yet have discovered Hungary. There were, however, odd customers enough, of all races, oriental and occidental, greasy and washed. A very amiable general was my chief traveling companion; I sat and smoked with him nearly the whole time, up on the paddle-box. 

 I am growing impatient as to what has become of Hildebrand; I lean out of the window, partly mooning and partly watching for him as if he were a sweetheart, for I crave a clean shirt--if you could only be here for a moment, and if you too could now see the dull silver of the Danube, the dark hills on a pale-red background, and the lights that shine up from below in Pesth, Vienna would go down a good way in your estimation as compared with "Buda-Pesth, " as the Hungarians call it. You see that I too can go into raptures over nature. Now that Hildebrand has really turned up, I shall calm my fevered blood with a cup of tea, and soon after go to bed. 

 JUNE 24TH: Evening. 

 As yet I have had no opportunity to send this off. Again the lights are gleaming up from Pesth; on the horizon, in the direction of the Theiss, there are flashes of lightning; above us the sky is clear and the stars are shining. I have been a good deal in uniform to-day; presented my credentials, in formal audience, to the young ruler of this country, and received a very agreeable impression. After dinner the whole court made an excursion into the hills, to the "Fair Shepherdess"--who, however, has long been dead; King Matthias Corvinus loved her several hundred years ago. There is a view from there (over wooded hills, something like those by the Neckar) of Ofen, its hills, and the plain. A country festival had brought together thousands of people; they pressed about the Emperor, who had mingled with the throng, with ringing shouts of "eljen" [_vive_]; they danced the csardas, waltzed, sang, played music, climbed into the trees, and crowded the court. On a grassy slope there was a supper table for some twenty persons, with seats on one side only, while the other was left free for the view of forest, castle, city, and country. Above us were tall beeches, with climbing Hungarians on the branches; behind and quite near us, a closely crowded and crowding mass of people; further off, music from wind instruments, alternating with song--wild gipsy melodies. Illumination--moonlight and sunset-red, with torches scattered through the forest. It might all be produced without a change as grand scenic effect in a romantic opera. Next to me sat the white-haired Archbishop of Gran, in a black silk gown with a red hood; on the other side a very amiable, trig cavalry general. You see the picture was rich in contrasts. Then we drove home in the moonlight with an escort of torches. .. . 

 It is very quiet and comfortable up here now; I hear nothing but the ticking of a clock on the wall, and the distant rumble of carriages below. May angels watch over you; over me, a grenadier in a bearskin does it, six inches of whose bayonet I see projecting above the window-sill, a couple of arm's-lengths from me, and reflecting a ray of light. He is standing above the terrace on the Danube, and thinking perhaps of his Nancy. 

PERSONAL CHARACTERISTICS OF THE MEMBERS OF THEFRANKFORT DIET

Confidential Dispatch to Minister Von Manteuffel, May 30th, 1853

In connection with my report of to-day regarding the attitude of certainenvoys in the Kettenburg affair, I take the liberty of making someconfidential remarks regarding the personal traits of my colleagues ingeneral, in case it should interest your Excellency to have theinformation. 

Herr von Prokesch is probably well enough known in Berlin to makefurther indications of his personal characteristics unnecessary; at thesame time, I cannot refrain from remarking that the calmness and easewith which he advances false statements of fact, or contests truestatements, surpass my expectations, although I have been led to expecta good deal in this direction. These qualities are supplemented by asurprising degree of coolness in dropping a subject or making a changeof front, as soon as the untruth which he has taken as his point ofdeparture is identified beyond the possibility of evasion. In case ofnecessity he covers a retreat of this sort by an ebullition of moralindignation, or by an attack, often of a very personal character, whichtransfers the discussion to a new and quite different field. His chiefweapons in the petty war which I am obliged to wage with him, as oftenas the interests which we represent diverge, are: (1) Passiveresistance, _i. E. _, a dilatory treatment of the affair, by which heforces upon me the rôle of a tiresome dun, and not infrequently, byreason of the nature of the affair, that of a paltry dun. (2) In case ofattack, the _fait accompli_, in the shape of apparently insignificantusurpations on the part of the Chair. These are commonly so calculatedthat any protest on my part cannot but seem like a deliberate search forpoints of controversy or like captious verbal criticism. It is thereforescarcely possible for me to avoid, in my dealings with him, theappearance of quarrelsomeness, unless I am willing to sacrifice theinterests of Prussia to a degree which every concession wouldincrease. .. . 

The Bavarian envoy, Herr von Schrenk, I place among the best elements inthe assembly, as regards both his capacity and his character. He is athorough and industrious worker, and practical in his views andopinions; although his predominantly juristic training and mode ofthinking make him at times disputatious, and tend to impede the progressof affairs. In official intercourse he is frank and obliging, so long ashis [Bavarian] patriotism, which is high-strung and extremely irritable, is treated with consideration; a foible for which I take particularpains to make allowance. 

Our Saxon colleague, Herr von Nostitz, inspires in me less confidence. It seems to me that he has at bottom a traditional inclination towardPrussia and its political system, which is nourished in part by aProtestantism that is more rationalistic than orthodox, and by his fearof Ultramontane tendencies. I believe, however, --and I should be glad tofind that I do him an injustice, --that on the whole, personal intereststake precedence with him over political interests, and that thesuppleness of his character permits him to view the latter in whateverlight best suits the former. His economic position is dependent upon hisplace, aside from the salary, by reason of the fact that he owns a househere in which he lives, which he bought before 1848 at a high price, andwhich he has vainly attempted to rent for the last five years. Hispolitical course is therefore controlled by his desire of remaining inhis official position under every contingency; and with the presenttendency of the Saxon government, Austria has certainly more opportunityto help him in keeping his place than has Prussia. This circumstanceindeed does not prevent Herr von Nostitz from avoiding, as far as hisinstructions will allow, any patent injury to Prussia; but with hisgreat capacity for labor, his intelligence, and his long experience, heconstitutes the most effective support of all Austria's efforts in thefederal assembly. He is particularly adroit in formulating reports andpropositions in awkward controversial questions; he knows how to givehis draught a color of compromise without the least sacrifice of anyAustrian interest, as soon as the correct interpretation comes to theaid of the apparently indeterminate expression. When his draughts becomethe basis of subsequent discussion, it is then usually discovered forthe first time that the real purpose for which they were drawn iscontained in what seemed to be casual and incidental words. If thecurrent in Dresden should shift in the Prussian direction, the valuablepersonal assistance which Herr von Nostitz is able to render by means ofhis sense, his experience, and the credit both have won him, would bethrown on the Prussian side with the same certainty as now on theAustrian, unless too strong a tie were found in the fact that one of hissons is being educated in the Austrian Naval School, while another isalready an officer in the imperial service. 

Herr von Bothmer returned to this place a few days ago as representativeof Hanover; I learn from him, however, with regret, that his furtherstay here is in no wise assured. Not only is his a straightforwardcharacter that awakens confidence, but he is also the only one of mycolleagues who has sufficient independence to give me anything more thanpassive assistance when I am obliged to protest against the conduct ofthe Chair. 

His opposite is found in Herr von Reinhard. While Herr von Bothmer isthorough, clear, and objective in his productions, those of theWürtemberg envoy bear the stamp of superficiality and confused thinking. His removal from the federal assembly might justly be regarded as agreat gain for us. I do not know whether his departure from Berlin wasconnected with circumstances which have left in him a lasting dislike ofPrussia, or whether confused political theories (regarding which heexpresses himself with more ease and with greater interest thanregarding practical affairs) have brought him to believe that thePrussian influence in Germany is deleterious: but at all events hisantipathy to us exceeds the degree which, in view of the politicalsituation of Würtemberg, can be supposed to exist in the mind of hissovereign; and I have reason to assume that his influence upon theinstructions which are sent him, and his activity, so far as this isindependent of instructions, are exerted, as a matter of principle, tothe disadvantage of Prussia. .. . In his bearing towards me personallythere is nothing which would justify the conclusion that his feelingsare of the sort I have indicated; and it is only rarely that a point isreached in our debates at which, moderated by a certain timidity, hissuppressed bitterness against Prussia breaks out. I may remarkincidentally that it is he who invariably appears at our sessions last, and too late; and who, through want of attention and through subsequentparticipation in the discussion on the basis of misapprehensions, occasions further repetitions and waste of time. 

The envoy from Baden, Herr von Marschall, is not without sense andfitness for affairs, but is scrupulously careful to avoid theresponsibility of an independent opinion, and to discover in the leastdubitable matter an intermediate point of view from it may be possibleto agree with both sides, or at least to disagree with neither. If thereis no escape, he inclines, either for family reasons or because hisgovernment is more afraid of Vienna than of Berlin, to the Austrian siderather than to ours. Support against the Chair--as, for example, in thematter of the order of business, upon which he is charged with areport--I can hardly expect from him. 

Our colleague from the Electorate, Herr von Trott, takes as little partas possible in the affairs of the Diet; especially avoids reports andcommittee work; and is frequently absent, making the representative fromDarmstadt his proxy. He prefers country life and hunting toparticipation in assemblies, and gives the impression rather of a jovialand portly squire than of an envoy. He confines himself to announcinghis vote, briefly and in the exact language of his instructions; andwhile the latter are invariably drawn by the Minister, Hassenpflug, inaccordance with the directions received from Austria, it does not appearto me that either Austria or the States of the Darmstadt coalition enjoythe personal support of Herr von Trott any more than we do--animpartiality which is rendered easy to the Hessian envoy as much by hisdistaste for affairs, and I like to think by the revolt of hisessentially honorable nature against all that savors of intrigue, as byhis formerly indubitable sympathy for Prussia's interests. 

We find a more inimical element in the Grand-Ducal Hessian envoy, Baronvon Münch-Bellinghausen. While this gentleman is attached from the startto the interests of Austria by his family connections with the formerpresidential envoy of the same name, his antagonism to Prussia isconsiderably intensified by his strong, and I believe sincere, zeal forthe Catholic Church. In private intercourse he is a man of agreeablemanners; and as regards his official attitude, I have to this extent nocause of complaint--that beyond the degree of reserve imposed upon himby the anti-Prussian policy of his government, I have observed in him notendency towards intrigue or insincerity. For the rest, he is a naturalopponent of the Prussian policy in all cases where this does not go handin hand with Austria and the Catholic Church; and the warmth with whichhe not infrequently supports his opinion against me in discussion, I canregard only as a proof of the sincerity of his political convictions. Itis certainly, however, an anomalous thing that a Protestant sovereign, who at this moment is in conflict with Catholic bishops, is representedin the Confederacy by Herr von Münch. .. . 

One of our trustiest allies is Herr von Scherff, who personally isaltogether devoted to the Prussian interests, and has moreover a son inour military service; he is experienced in affairs, and prudent to thepoint of timidity. This latter trait, as well as the sort of influencewhich his Majesty the King of the Netherlands exercises upon the federalinstructions, often prevents him from giving me, in the sessions of theDiet, that degree of support which I should otherwise receive from him. Outside of the sessions I have always been able to count on him withconfidence, whenever I have called upon him for advice, and whenever ithas been a question of his aiding me through his influence upon someother envoy or through the collection of information. With his RoyalHighness the Prince of Prussia, Herr von Scherff and his family justlystand in special favor. 

 * * * * *

Nassau and Brunswick are represented by the Baron von Dungern, aharmless character, who has neither the personal capacity nor thepolitical credit requisite to give him influence in the FederalAssembly. If the difference that exists in most questions between theattitude of Brunswick and that of Nassau is settled in most cases infavor of the views held by Nassau, (i. E. , by Austria, ) this is partlydue indeed to the connection of Herr von Dungern and his wife withfamilies that are in the Austrian interest, and to the fact that theenvoy, who has two sons in the Austrian military service, feels moredread of Austria's resentment than of Prussia's; but the chief mistakelies in the circumstance that Brunswick is represented by a servant ofthe Duke of Nassau, who lives here in the immediate neighborhood of hisown court, --a court controlled by Austrian influences, --but maintainswith Brunswick, I imagine, connections so closely restricted to what isabsolutely necessary that they can hardly be regarded as an equivalentfor the five thousand florins which his Highness Duke Williamcontributes to his salary. 

The Mecklenburg envoy, Herr von Oertzen, justifies in all respects thereputation of an honorable man which I had heard attributed to himbefore he assumed his present position. In the period immediatelyfollowing the reopening of the Federal Diet, he, like a large number ofhis fellow-countrymen, showed an unmistakable leaning to Austria; butit seems to me indubitable that his observation for two years of themethods which Austrian policy employs here through the organ of theChair has aroused in Herr von Oertzen's loyal nature, in spite of thefact that he too has a son in the Austrian army, a reaction whichpermits me to count fully upon him as far as his personal attitude isconcerned, and upon his political support as far as his instructions--ofthe character of which, on the whole, I cannot complain--in any wisepermit. In any case I can depend upon his pursuing, under allcircumstances, an open and honorable course. .. . His attitude in thedebates is always tranquil, and in favor of compromise. .. . 

The representative of the Fifteenth Curia is Herr von Eisendecher, a manwhose ready sociability, united with wit and vivacity in conversation, prepossesses one in his favor. He was formerly an advanced Gothaite, andit seems that this tendency of his has shaded over into a livelysympathy for the development of the Confederation as a strong, unified, central power; since in this way, and with the help of Austria, hethinks that a substitute will be discovered for the unsuccessful effortstowards unity in the Prussian sense. The Curia, it is reported, is soorganized that the two Anhalts and the two Schwarzburgs, if they areunited among themselves, outvote Oldenburg. 

It is in a simpler way and without stating his reasons that therepresentative of the Sixteenth Curia, Baron von Holzhausen, throws hisinfluence on the Austrian side of the scales. It is said of him that inmost cases he draws up his own instructions, even when he has ample timeto send for them, and that he meets any protest raised by his principalsby holding his peace, or by an adroit use of the large number of membersof his Curia and the lack of connection between them. To this it is tobe added that the majority of the little princes are not disposed tospend upon their federal diplomacy the amount that would be required fora regular and organized chancelry and correspondence; and that if Herrvon Holzhausen, who after the departure of Baron von Strombeck obtainedthe place as the lowest asker, should resign from their service, theywould hardly be able, with the means at their disposal, to secure soimposing a representative as this prosperous gentleman, who is decoratedwith sundry grand-crosses and the title of privy councillor, and is amember of the oldest patrician family of Frankfort. The nearestrelations of Herr von Holzhausen, who is himself unmarried andchildless, are in the service of Austria. Moreover, his family pride, which is developed to an unusual degree, points back with all itsmemories to the imperial city patriciate that was so closely associatedwith the glorious era of the Holy Roman Empire; and Prussia's entireposition seems to him a revolutionary usurpation, which has played themost material part in the destruction of the privileges of theHolzhausens. His wealth leads me to assume that the ties that bind himto Austria are merely ambitious tendencies--such as the desire for animperial order or for the elevation of the family to the rank ofAustrian counts--and not pecuniary interests, unless his possession of alarge quantity of [Austrian] mining shares is to be regarded in thelatter light. 

If your Excellency will permit me, in closing, to sum up the results ofmy report, they amount to what follows:--

The only envoys in the Federal Diet who are devoted to our interests asregards their personal views are Herren von Fritsch, von Scherff, andvon Oertzen. Herein the first of these follows at the same time theinstructions of the government which he represents. Personally assuredto Austria, on the other hand, without it being possible to make thesame assertion as regards the governments they represent, are Herren vonEisendecher and von Holzhausen, and von Dungern as representingBrunswick. On the Austrian side, besides these, are almost always, inaccordance with the instructions of their governments, Herr von Nostitz, Herr von Reinhard, Herr von Münch, Herr von Trott (who, however, displays greater moderation than his Darmstadt colleague), and Herr vonDungern as representing Nassau. 

A position in part more independent, in part more mediatory, is assumedby Herren von Schrenk, von Bothmer, von Bülow, von Marschall, and by therepresentatives of the Free Cities; and yet in the attitude of theseenvoys also, Austrian influences are not infrequently noticeable. 

FROM A SPEECH ON THE MILITARY BILL

IN THE GERMAN IMPERIAL DIET, FEBRUARY 6TH, 1888

When I say that we must constantly endeavor to be equal to allcontingencies, I mean by that to claim that we must make greaterexertions than other powers in order to attain the same result, becauseof our geographical position. We are situated in the middle of Europe. We have at least three fronts of attack. France has only its easternfrontier, Russia only its western frontier, on which it can be attacked. We are, moreover, in consequence of the whole development of the world'shistory, in consequence of our geographical position, and perhaps inconsequence of the slighter degree of internal cohesion which the Germannation as compared with others has thus far possessed, more exposed thanany other people to the risk of a coalition. God has placed us in asituation in which we are prevented by our neighbors from sinking intoany sort of indolence or stagnation. He has set at our side the mostwar-like and the most restless of nations, the French; and he haspermitted warlike inclinations, which in former centuries existed in nosuch degree, to grow strong in Russia. Thus we get a certain amount ofspurring on both sides, and are forced into exertions which otherwiseperhaps we should not make. The pikes in the European carp-pond preventus from becoming carps, by letting us feel their prickles on both ourflanks; they constrain us to exertions which perhaps we should notvoluntarily make; they constrain us Germans also to a harmony amongourselves that is repugnant to our inmost nature: but for them, ourtendency would rather be to separate. But the Franco-Russian press inwhich we are caught forces us to hold together, and by its pressure itwill greatly increase our capacity for cohesion, so that we shall reachin the end that state of inseparableness which characterizes nearly allother nations, and which we still lack. But we must adapt ourselves tothis decree of Providence by making ourselves so strong that the pikescan do no more than enliven us. .. . 

The bill gives us an increase in troops trained to arms--a possibleincrease: if we do not need it, we need not call for it; we can leave itat home. But if we have this increase at our disposal, and if we havethe weapons for it, . .. Then this new law constitutes a reinforcementof the guarantees of peace, a reinforcement of the league of peace, thatis precisely as strong as if a fourth great power with an army of700, 000 men--and this was formerly the greatest strength thatexisted--had joined the alliance. This powerful reinforcement will also, I believe, have a quieting effect upon our own countrymen, and lessen insome degree the nervousness of our public opinion, our stock-market, andour press. I hope it will act upon them as a sedative when they clearlycomprehend that from the moment at which this law is signed andpublished the men are there. The armament too may be said to be ready, in the shape of what is absolutely necessary: but we must procure abetter, for if we form an army of triarians of the best human materialthat we have, --of the men above thirty, the husbands and fathers, --wemust have for them the best weapons there are. We must not send theminto the fight with an outfit that we do not regard as good enough forour young troops of the line. The solid men, the heads of families, these stalwart figures that we can still remember from the time thatthey held the bridge of Versailles, --these men must have the best rifleson their shoulders, the completest armament, and the amplest clothing toprotect them from wind and weather. We ought not to economizethere. --But I hope it will tranquilize our fellow-citizens, if they arereally thinking of the contingency (which I do not expect to occur) ofour being attacked simultaneously on two sides, --of course, as I havepointed out in reviewing the events of the last forty years, there isalways the possibility of any sort of coalition, --I hope it willtranquillize them to remember that if this happens, we can have amillion good soldiers to defend each of our frontiers. At the same timewe can keep in the rear reserves of half a million and more, of amillion even, and we can push these forward as they are needed. I havebeen told, "That will only result in the others going still higher. " Butthey cannot. They have long ago reached their limits. .. . In numbers theyhave gone as high as we, but in quality they cannot compete with us. Bravery, of course, is equal among all civilized nations; the Russianand the Frenchman fight as bravely as the German: but our men, our700, 000 new men, have seen service; they are soldiers who have servedtheir time, and who have not yet forgotten their training. Besides--andthis is a point in which no people in the world can compete with us--wehave the material for officers and under-officers to command thisenormous army. It is here that competition is excluded, because itinvolves a peculiarly broad extension of popular culture, such as existsin Germany and in no other country. .. . 

There is a further advantage that will result from the adoption of thislaw: the very strength at which we are aiming necessarily makes uspeaceful. That sounds paradoxical, but it is true. With the powerfulmachine which we are making of the German army no aggression will beattempted. If I saw fit--assuming a different situation to exist fromthat which in my conviction does exist'--to come before you here to-dayand say to you, "We are seriously menaced by France and Russia; theprospect is that we shall be attacked: such at least is my conviction, as a diplomatist, on the basis of the military information that we havereceived; it is to our advantage to defend ourselves by anticipating theattack, and to strike at once; an offensive war is a better one for usto wage, and I accordingly ask the Imperial Diet for a credit of amilliard or half a milliard, in order to undertake to-day the waragainst our two neighbors, "--well, gentlemen, I do not know whether youwould have such confidence in me as to grant such a request. I hope not. But if you did, it would not be enough for me. If we in Germany desireto wage a war with the full effect of our national power, it must be awar with which all who help to wage it, and all who make sacrifices forit--with which, in a word, all the nation--must be in sympathy. It mustbe a people's war; it must be a war that is carried on with the sameenthusiasm as that of 1870, when we were wickedly attacked. I rememberstill the joyful shouts that rang in our ears at the Cologne station; itwas the same thing from Berlin to Cologne; it was the same thing here inBerlin. The waves of popular approval bore us into the war, whether weliked it or not. So it must be, if a national force like ours is to bebrought fully into operation. It will be very difficult, however, tomake it clear to the provinces, to the federal states and to theirpeople, that a war is inevitable, that it must come. It will be asked:"Are you so sure of it? Who knows?" If we finally come to the point ofmaking the attack, all the weight of the imponderables, which weigh muchmore than the material weights, will be on the side of our antagonistwhom we have attacked. "Holy Russia" will be filled with indignation atthe attack. France will glisten with weapons to the Pyrenees. The samething will happen everywhere. A war into which we are not borne by thewill of the people--such a war will of course be carried on, if in thelast instance the established authorities consider and have declared itto be necessary. It will be carried on with energy and perhapsvictoriously, as soon as the men come under fire and have seen blood;but there will not be back of it, from the start, the same dash and heatas in a war in which we are attacked. .. . 

I do not believe--to sum up--that any disturbance of the peace is inimmediate prospect; and I ask you to deal with the law that lies beforeyou, independently of any such idea or apprehension, simply as a meansfor making the great force which God has lodged in the German nationcompletely available in the event of our needing it. If we do not needit, we shall not call for it. We seek to avoid the chance of our needingit. This effort on our part is still, in some degree, impeded bythreatening newspaper articles from foreign countries; and I wish toaddress to foreign countries especially the admonition to discontinuethese threats. They lead to nothing. The threat which we receive, notfrom the foreign government, but in the press, is really a piece ofincredible stupidity, if you think what it means--that by a certaincombination of words, by a certain threatening shape given to printer'sink, a great and proud power like the German Empire is assumed to becapable of intimidation. This should be discontinued; and then it wouldbe made easier for us to assume a more conciliatory and obligingattitude toward our two neighbors. Every country is responsible in thelong run, somehow and at some time, for the windows broken by its press;the bill is presented some day or other, in the ill-humor of the othercountry. We can easily be influenced by love and good-will, --too easilyperhaps, --but most assuredly not by threats. We Germans fear God, butnothing else in the world; and it is the fear of God that makes us loveand cherish peace. But whoever, despite this, breaks it, will find thatthe warlike patriotism that in 1813, when Prussia was weak, small, andexhausted by plunder, brought her whole population under her banners, has to-day become the common heritage of the whole German nation; andwhoever attacks the German nation will find it united in arms, and inevery soldier's heart the firm faith "God will be with us. "

BJÖRNSTJERNE BJÖRNSON

(1832-)

BY WILLIAM M. PAYNE

Of the two great writers who have, more than any others, made it possiblefor Norway to share in the comity of intellectual intercourse socharacteristic of the modern literary movement, it must be granted thatBjörnson is, more distinctly than Ibsen, the representative of theircommon nationality. Both are figures sufficiently commanding to belong, in a sense, to the literature of the whole world, and both have had amarked influence upon the ideals of other peoples than that from whichthey sprung; but the wider intellectual scope of Ibsen has been gainedat some sacrifice of the strength that comes from taking firm root inone's native soil, and speaking first and foremost to the hearts ofone's fellow-countrymen. What we may call the cosmopolitan standpoint ofthe greater part of his work has made its author less typically aNorwegian than Björnson has always remained. It is not merely that theone writer has chosen to spend the best years of his life in countriesnot his own, while the other has never long absented himself from thescarred and storm-beaten shores of the land, rich in historic memoriesand "dreams of the saga-night, " that gave him birth and nurture. Tourguénieff lived apart from his fellow-countrymen for as many years asIbsen has done, yet remained a Russian to the core. It is rather adifference of native intellectual bent that has left Björnson to standas the typical representative of the Norwegian spirit, while the mostfamous of his contemporaries has given himself up to the pursuit ofabstractions, and has been swept along by a current of thought resultingfrom the confluence of many streams. The intensely national character ofBjörnson's manifold activity is well illustrated by a remark of GeorgBrandes, to the effect that mention of Björnson's name in the presenceof any gathering of Norwegians is like running up the national flag. Andit seems, on the whole, that the sum total of his literary achievementmust be reckoned the greatest to be set down to the credit of any oneNorwegian since Norway began to develop a literature of her own. Farnobler and finer than that of either Wergeland or Welhaven, the two mostconspicuous of his predecessors, this achievement is challenged by thatof Ibsen alone, and even then in but a single aspect. It is only asdramatists that suspense of judgment between the two men is for a momentadmissible; as a poet the superiority of Björnson is unquestionable, while his rank as the greatest of Norwegian novelists is altogetherbeyond dispute. 

[Illustration: BJÖRNSON]

The chief facts of Björnson's life may be briefly set forth. The son ofa parish priest, he was born December 8th, 1832, at Kvikne. When the boywas six years of age, his family removed to the Romsdal, and a few yearslater Björnstjerne was sent to school at Molde. His childhood was thuspassed in the midst of the noblest scenery of Norway, and in regions ofthe richest legendary association. The austere sublimity of theJötunheim--the home of the frost-giants--first impressed his childishsensibilities, but was soon exchanged for the more varied andpicturesque but hardly less magnificent scenery of the western fjords. At the age of seventeen the boy was sent to school in Christiania, andin 1852 entered the University. Instead of devoting himself to hisstudies, he wrote a play called 'Valborg, ' which was actually acceptedby the management of the Christiania Theatre. The piece was, however, never printed or even performed; for the author became so conscious ofits imperfections that he withdrew it from rehearsal. But it gave himthe _entrée_ of the playhouse, a fact which did much to determine thedirection of his literary activities. He left the University with hiscourse uncompleted, and for two or three years thereafter supportedhimself by journalism. In 1857, at the age of twenty-four, his seriousliterary career began with the publication of 'Synnöve Solbakken, ' hisfirst novel, and 'Mellern Slagene' (Between the Battles), his firstprinted dramatic work. In this year also, upon the invitation of OleBull, he went to Bergen, where he remained for two years as director ofthe theatre. In 1860 he secured from the government a traveling stipend, and spent the greater part of the next two years abroad, mostly in Rome, busily writing all the time. Returning to Norway, he has since remainedthere for the most part, although his winters have frequently been spentin other countries. For a long time he lived regularly in Paris severalmonths of each year; one winter (1879-80) he was the guest of the GrandDuke of Meiningen; the following (1880-81) he spent in the UnitedStates, lecturing in many cities. Since 1874 his Norwegian home has beenat Aulestad in the Gausdal, where he has an estate, and occupies acapacious dwelling--half farm-house, half villa--whose broad verandaslook out upon the charming open landscape of Southern Norway. For thelast twenty years he has been almost as conspicuous a figure in thepolitical as in the literary arena, and the recognized leader of theNorwegian republican movement. Numerous kinds of social and religiouscontroversy have also engaged his attention, and made his life astirring one in many ways. 

In attempting to classify Björnson's writings for the purpose ofrendering some critical account of the man's work, the first impulse isto group them into the three divisions of fiction, lyric, and drama. Butthe most obvious fact of his long literary life is after all not so muchthat he has done great work in all three of these fundamental forms, asthat the whole spirit and method of his work, whatever the form, underwent a radical transformation about midway in his career. For thefirst twenty years of his active life, roughly speaking, he was anartist pure and simple; during the subsequent twenty years, also roughlyspeaking, he has been didactic, controversial, and _tendentious. _ (Thelast word is good Spanish and German and ought to be good English. ) Forthe purpose of the following summary analysis, I have therefore thoughtit best to make the fundamental grouping chronological rather thanformal, since the plays and the novels of the first period have muchmore in common with one another than either the plays or the novels ofthe first period have in common with the plays or the novels ofthe second. 

Björnson's work in lyrical and other non-dramatic poetry belongs almostwholly to the first period. It consists mainly of short pieces scatteredthrough the idyllic tales and saga-plays that nearly make up the sum ofhis activity in its purely creative and poetic phase. Some of theselyrics strike the very highest and purest note of song, and have securedlasting lodgment on the lips of the people. One of them, indeed, hasbecome pre-eminently the national song of Norway, and may be heardwherever Norsemen are gathered together upon festal occasions. It beginsin this fashion:--

 "Ay, we love this land of ours, Crowned with mountain domes; Storm-scarred o'er the sea it towers With a thousand homes. Love it, as with love unsated Those who gave us birth, While the saga-night, dream-weighted, Broods upon our earth. "

Another patriotic song, hardly less popular, opens with the followingstanza:--

 "There's a land where the snow is eternally king, To whose valleys alone come-the joys of the spring, Where the sea beats a shore rich, with lore of the past, But this land to its children is dear to the last. "

The fresh beauty of such songs as these is, however, almost utterlyuncommunicable in another language. Somewhat more amenable to thetranslator is the song 'Over de Höje Fjelde' (Over the Lofty Mountains), which occurs in 'Arne, ' and which is perhaps the best of Björnson'slyrics. An attempt at a version of this poem will be found among theillustrative examples appended to the present essay. The scatteredverses of Björnson were collected into a volume of 'Digte og Sange'(Poems and Songs) in 1870, and in the same year was published 'ArnljotGelline, ' the author's only long poem not dramatic in form. This unevenand in passages extraordinarily beautiful work is a sort of epic infifteen songs, difficult to read, yet simple enough in general outline. Arnljot Gelline was a sort of freebooter of the eleventh century, whosefierce deeds were preserved in popular tradition. The 'Heimskringla'tells us how, grown weary of his lawless life, he joined himself to Olafthe Holy, accepted baptism, and fell at Stiklestad righting forChristianity and the King. From this suggestion, the imagination of thepoet has worked out a series of episodes in Arnljot's life, beginningwith his capture of the fair Ingigerd--whose father he slew, and who, struggling against her love, took refuge in a cloister--and ending withthe day of the portentous battle against the heathen. It is all veryimpressive, and sometimes very subtle, while occasional sections, suchas Ingigerd's appeal for admission to the cloister, and Arnljot'sapostrophe to the sea, must be reckoned among the finest of Björnson'sinspirations. Since 1870 Björnson has published little verse, althoughpoems of an occasional character and incidental lyrics have now and thenfound their way into print. 'Lyset' (The Light), a cantata, is the onlyrecent example of any magnitude. 

Björnson first became famous as the delineator of the Norwegian peasant. He felt that the peasant is the lineal descendant of the man of thesagas, and that in him lies the real strength of the national character. The story of 'Synnöve Solbakken' (1857) was quickly followed by 'Arne'(1858), 'En Glad Gut' (A Happy Boy: 1860), and a number of small piecesin similar vein. They were at once recognized both at home and abroad assomething deeper and truer of their sort than had hitherto been achievedin the Scandinavian countries, and perhaps in Europe. In their formeraspect, they were a reaction from the conventional ideals hithertodominant in Danish literature (which had set the pace for most ofBjörnson's predecessors); and in their latter and wider aspect they werethe Norwegian expression of the tendency that had produced the Germanand French peasant idyls of Auerbach and George Sand. They embodied areturn to Nature in a spirit that may, with a difference, be calledWordsworthian. They substituted a real nineteenth-century pastoral forthe sham pastoral of the eighteenth century. They reproduced the simplestyle of the sagas, and reduced life to its primitive elements. Thestories of 'Fiskerjenten' (The Fisher Maiden: 1868), and 'Brude Slaaten'(The Bridal March: 1873), belong, on the whole, with this group;although they are differentiated by a touch of modernity from which adiscerning critic might have prophesied something of the author's comingdevelopment. These stories have been translated into many languages, andhave long been familiar to English readers. It is worth noting that'Synnöve Solbakken, ' the first of them all, appeared in English a yearafter the publication of the original, in a translation by Mary Howitt. This fact seems to have escaped the bibliographers; which is notsurprising, since the name of the author was not given upon thetitle-page, and the name of the story was metamorphosed into 'Trustand Trial. '

The inspiration of the sagas, strong as it is in these tales, is stillmore evident in the series of dramas that run parallel with them. Theseinclude 'Mellem Slagene' (Between the Battles: 1858), 'Halte Hulda'(Lame Hulda: 1858), 'Kong Sverre' (1861), 'Sigurd Slembe' (1862), and'Sigurd Jorsalfar' (Sigurd the Jerusalem-Farer: 1872). The first two ofthese pieces are short and comparatively unimportant. 'Kong Sverre' is alonger and far more ambitious work; while in 'Sigurd Slembe, ' a trilogyof plays, the saga-phase of Björnson's genius reached its culmination. This noble work, which may almost claim to be the greatest work inNorwegian literature, is based upon the career of a twelfth-centurypretender to the throne of Norway, and the material was found in the'Heimskringla. ' There are few more signal illustrations in literature ofthe power of genius to transfuse with its own life a bare mediævalchronicle, and to create from a few meagre suggestions a vital andimpressive work of art. One thinks instinctively, in seeking for someadequate parallel, of what Goethe did with the materials of the Faustlegend, or of what Shakespeare did with the indications offered for'King Lear' and 'Cymbeline' by Holinshed's chronicle-history. And thetwo greatest names in modern literature are suggested not only by thisgeneral fact of creative power, but also more specifically by certaincharacters in the trilogy. Audhild, the Icelandic maiden beloved ofSigurd, has more than once been compared with the gracious and patheticfigure of Gretchen; and Earl Harald is one of the most successfulattempts since Shakespeare to incarnate once again the Hamlet type ofcharacter, with its gentleness, its intellectuality, its tragic irony, and the defect of will which forces it to sink beneath the too heavyburden set upon its shoulders by fate. 'Sigurd Jorsalfar, ' the last ofthe saga-plays, was planned as the second part of a dramatic sequence, of which the first was never written. Another work in this manner, having for its protagonist the great national hero, Olaf Trygvason, wasalso planned and even begun; but the author's energy flagged, and hefelt himself irresistibly impelled to devote himself to more modernthemes dealt with in a more modern way. But before leaving this phase ofBjörnson's work, mention must be made of 'Maria Stuart i Skotland'(1864), chronologically interjected among the saga-plays, and dealingwith the more definite history of the hapless Queen of Scots in much ofthe saga-spirit. Björnson felt that the Scots had inherited no little ofthe Norse blood and temper, and believed that the psychology of hissaga-heroes was adequate to account for the group of men whose fortuneswere bound up with those of Mary Stuart in Scotland. He finds his key tothe problem of her career in the fact that she was by nature incapableof yielding herself up wholly to a man or a cause, yet was surrounded bymen who demanded of her just such whole-souled allegiance. Bothwell andKnox were pre-eminently men of this stamp; as were also, in some degree, Darnley and Rizzio. The theory may seem fanciful, but there is no doubtthat Björnson's treatment of this fascinating subject is one of thestrongest it has ever received, and that his play takes rank with suchEuropean masterpieces as Scott's novel, and Alfieri's tragedy, andSwinburne's great poetic trilogy. 

The late sixties and the early seventies were with Björnson a period ofunrest and transformation. His previous work had been that of a geniusisolated, comparatively speaking, and concentrated upon a small part ofhuman life. His frequent journeys abroad and the wider range of hisreading now brought him into the full current of European thought, andled to a substitution of practical ideals for those of the visionary. Hefelt that he must _reculer pour mieux sauter_, and for nearly a decadehe produced little original work. Yet his first attempt at a modernproblem-play, 'De Nygifte' (The Newly Married Pair), curiously enough, dates from as far back as 1865. This work was, however, a mere trifle, and has interest chiefly as a forerunner of what was to come. It was notuntil 1874 that Björnson became conscious that his new thought was ripeenough to bear fruit, and that he began with 'Redaktören' (The Editor)the series of plays dealing with social problems that have been thecharacteristic work of his second period. It is interesting to note, forcomparison, the fact that the similar striking transformation of energyin Ibsen's case dates from 1877, when 'Samfundet's Stötter' (The Pillarsof Society) was produced, and that this work had, like Björnson's'Redaktören, ' a forerunner in 'De Unges Forbund' (The League of Youth), published in 1869. The list of Björnson's problem-plays--many of whichhave been extraordinarily successful upon the stage, both in theScandinavian countries and in Germany--includes in addition to'Redaktören, ' seven other pieces. They are: 'En Fallit' (A Bankruptcy:1875), 'Kongen' (The King: 1877), 'Leonarda' (1879), 'Det Ny System'(The New System: 1879), 'En Hanske' (A Glove: 1883), 'Over Ævne' (Beyondthe Strength: 1883), and 'Geografi og Kjærlighed' (Geography and Love:1885). A sequel to 'Over Ævne' has also recently appeared. The mostnoteworthy of these works, considered as acting plays, are 'Redaktören'and 'En Fallit. ' The one has for its subject the degradation of modernjournalism; the other attacks the low standard of commercial moralityprevailing in modern society. 'En Hanske' plants itself squarely uponthe proposition that the obligations of morality are equally bindingupon both sexes; a problem treated by Ibsen, after a somewhat differentfashion, in 'Gengangere' (Ghosts). This play has occasioned much heateddiscussion, for its theme is of the widest interest, besides beingpivotal as regards Björnson's sociological views. 'Over Ævne' is acuriously wrought and delicate treatment of religious mysticism, fascinating to read, but not very definite in outcome. 'Kongen' isprobably the most remarkable, all things considered, of this series ofplays, and Björnson told me some years ago that he considered it themost important of his works. Taking frankly for granted that monarchy, whether absolute or constitutional, is an outworn institution, the playdiscusses the question whether it may not be possible so to transformthe institution as to fit it for a prolongation of existence. Theinterest centres about the character of a king who is profoundlyconvinced that the principle he embodies is an anachronism or a lie, andwho seeks to do away with the whole structure of convention, andceremonial, and hypocrisy, that the centuries have built about thethrone and its occupants. But his dearest hopes are frustrated by theforces of malice, and dull conservatism, and invincible stupidity; theburden proves too heavy for him, the fight too unequal, and he takes hisown life in a moment of despair. The terrible satirical power of certainscenes in this play would be difficult to match were our choice to rangethrough the whole literature of Revolt. Its production brought upon theauthor a storm of furious denunciation. He had outraged both throne andaltar, and his sacrilegious hand had not spared things the mostsacrosanct. But a less passionate judgment, while still deprecatingsomething of the author's violence, will recognize the fact that thecore of the work is a noble idealism in both politics and religion, andwill justify the hot indignation with which the author assails the shamsthat in modern society stifle the breath of free and generous souls. 

During all these years of writing for the stage Björnson did not, however, forget that he was also a novelist; and it is in fiction thathe has scored the greatest of his recent triumphs. But the world of'Synnöve' and 'Arne' is now far behind him. The transition from hisearlier to his later manner as a novelist is marked by two or threestories delicate in conception but uncertain of utterance, andrelatively unimportant. These books are 'Magnhild' (1877), 'KaptejnMansana' (1879), and 'Stöv' (Dust: 1882). They were, however, significant of a new development of the author's genius, for they werethe precursors of two great novels soon thereafter to follow. 'DetFlager i Byen og paa Havnen' (Flags are Flying in Town and Harbor)appeared in 1884. (Paa Guds Veje) (In God's Way) was published in 1889. These books are experiments upon a larger scale than their author hadpreviously attempted in fiction, and neither of them exhibits theperfect mastery that went to the simpler making of the early peasanttales. They are somewhat confused and turbulent in style, and it isevident that their author is groping for adequate means of handling theunwieldy material brought to his workshop by so many currents of modernthought. The central theme of 'Det Flager' (in its English translationcalled, by the way, 'The Heritage of the Kurts') is the influence ofheredity upon the life of a family group. The process of rehabilitation, resulting from the introduction of a healthy and vigorous strain into astock weakened by the vices and passions of several generations, andaided by a scientific system of education, is carried on before oureyes, and the story of this process is the substance of the book. Regeneration is not wholly achieved, but the end leaves us hopeful forthe future; and the flags that fly over town and harbor in the closingchapter have a symbolical significance, for they announce a victory ofspirit over sense, not alone in the case of certain individuals, butalso in the case of the whole community with which they are identified. If this book comes to be forgotten as a novel (which is not likely), itwill have a fair chance of being remembered, along with 'Levana' and'Emile, ' as a sort of educational classic. 'Paa Gud's Veje, ' the lastgreat work of Björnson, is also strongly didactic in tone, yet itattains at its highest to a tranquillity of which the author seemed formany years to have lost the secret. The struggle it depicts is thatbetween religious bigotry and liberalism as they contend for the masteryin a Norwegian town; and the moral is that "God's way" is the way ofpeople who order their lives aright and keep their souls sweet and pure, rather than the way of the Pharisee who pins his faith to observancesand allows the letter of his religion to overshadow the spirit. Not anunchristian inculcation, surely; yet for it and for similar earlierutterances Björnson has been held up as Antichrist by the ministers of anarrow Lutheran orthodoxy, very much as the spokesmen of an antiquatedcaste-system of society have esteemed his ideas to be those of the mostruthless and radical of iconoclasts. But he is a stout fighter, andattacks of this sort only serve to arouse him to new energy. And so hetoils manfully on for the enlightenment of his people, knowing that hiscause is the cause of civilization itself--of a rational socialorganization, an exalted ethical standard, and a purified religion. 

Since the period when Björnson began to merge the artist in the thinkerand prophet, his work has given a strong impetus to progress inreligious, educational, and political affairs. As regards the first ofthese matters, it must be remembered that the sort of intolerance withwhich he has had to contend more resembles that of eighteenth-centuryNew England puritanism than anything we are familiar with in our owntime. As for the second matter, all of his work may in a sense be callededucational, while such a book as 'Det Flager' shows how closely he hasconsidered the subject of education in its special and even technicalaspects. Finally, as a political thinker, he has identified himselfindissolubly with the movement for the establishment of an independentNorwegian Republic, although he is not sanguine of the near realizationof this aim. But if time should justify his prophetic attitude and givebirth to a republic in the north of Europe, however remote may be theevent, the name of Björnson will be remembered as that of one of thefounders, although as the Mazzini rather than as the Cavour of the Norse_Risorgimento_. And whatever may be the future of the land that claimshim for her own, his spirit will walk abroad long after he has ceased tolive among men. His large, genial, optimistic personality is of the sortthat cannot fail to stamp itself upon other generations than the onethat actually counts him among its members. 

[The following selections are given in translations of my own, excepting'The Princess, ' which was made by Mr. Nathan Haskell Dole, and the lasttwo, for which I am indebted to the edition of Björnson's novelstranslated by Professor Rasmus B. Anderson, and published by Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co. The extracts from 'Sigurd Slembe' are taken frommy translation of that work published by the same firm. --W. M. P. ]

[Illustration: signature of William M. Payne]

 OVER THE LOFTY MOUNTAINS

 (From 'Arne')

 Often I wonder what there may be Over the lofty mountains. Here the snow is all I see, Spread at the foot of the dark green tree; Sadly I often ponder, Would I were over yonder. 

 Strong of wing soars the eagle high Over the lofty mountains; Glad of the new day, soars to the sky, Wild in pursuit of his prey doth fly; Pauses, and, fearless of danger, Scans the far coasts of the stranger. 

 The apple-tree, whose thoughts ne'er fly Over the lofty mountains, Leaves when the summer days draw nigh, Patiently waits for the time when high The birds in its bough shall be swinging, Yet will know not what they are singing. 

 He who has yearned so long to go Over the lofty mountains-- He whose visions and fond hopes grow Dim, with the years that so restless flow-- Knows what the birds are singing, Glad in the tree-tops swinging. 

 Why, O bird, dost thou hither fare Over the lofty mountains? Surely it must be better there, Broader the view and freer the air; Com'st thou these longings to bring me-- These only, and nothing to wing me?

 Oh, shall I never, never go Over the lofty mountains? Must all my thoughts and wishes so Held in these walls of ice and snow Here be imprisoned forever? Till death shall escape be never?

 Hence! I will hence! Oh, so far from here, Over the lofty mountains! Here 'tis so dull, so unspeakably drear; Young is my heart and free from fear-- Better the walls to be scaling Than here in my prison lie wailing. 

 One day, I know, shall my free soul roam Over the lofty mountains. O my God, fair is thy home, Ajar is the door for all who come; Guard it for me yet longer, Till my soul through striving grows stronger. 

 THE CLOISTER IN THE SOUTH

 From 'Arnljot Gelline'

 "Who would enter so late the cloister in?" "A maid forlorn from the land of snow. " "What sorrow is thine, and what thy sin?" "The deepest sorrow the heart can know. I have nothing done, Yet must still endeavor, Though my strength is none, To wander ever. Let me in, to seek for my pain surcease;-- I can find no peace. "

 "From what far-off land hast thou taken flight?" "From the land of the North, a weary way. " "What stayed thy feet at our gate this night?" "The chant of the nuns, for I heard them pray, And the song gave peace To my soul, and blessed me; It offered release From the grief that oppressed me. Let me in, so if peace to give be thine, I may make it mine. "

 "Name me the grief that thy life hath crossed. " "Rest may I never, never know. " "Thy father, thy lover, thou hast then lost?" "I lost them both at a single blow, And all I held dear In my deepest affection, Ay, all that was near To my heart's recollection. Let me in, I am failing, I beg, I implore, I can bear no more. "

 "How was it that thou thy father lost?" "He was slain, and I saw the deed. " "How was it that thou thy lover lost?" "My father he slew, and I saw the deed. I wept so bitterly When he roughly would woo me, He at last set me free, And forbore to pursue me. Let me in, for the horror my soul doth fill That I love him still. "

 CHORUS OF NUNS WITHIN THE CHURCH

 Come child, come bride, To God's own side. From grief find rest On Jesus' breast. Rest thy burden of sorrow On Horeb's height; Like the lark, with to-morrow Shall thy soul take flight. 

 Here stilled is all yearning, No passion returning, No terror come near thee Where the Saviour can hear thee! For He, if in need be Thy storm-beaten soul, Though it bruised as a reed be, Shall raise it up whole. 

 THE PLEA OF KING MAGNUS

 From 'Sigurd Slembe'

 "But once more let me the heavens see, When the stars their watch are keeping, " Young Magnus begged, and fell on his knee; It was sad to see, And the women away turned weeping. 

 "Let me once more the mountains see, And the blue of the ocean far-reaching, Only once more, and then let it be!" And he fell on his knee, While his friends were for pity beseeching. 

 "Let me go to the church, that the sacred sight Of the blood of God may avail me; That my eyes may bathe in its holy light, Ere the day take flight, And my vision forever shall fail me!"

 But the sharp steel sped, and the shadows fell, As the darkness the day o'erpowers. "Magnus our king, farewell, farewell!" "So farewell, farewell, All my friends of so many glad hours. "

 Copyrighted by Houghton, Mifflin and Company, Boston. 

 SIN AND DEATH

 From 'Sigurd Slembe'

 Sin and Death, at break of day, Day, day, Spoke together with bated breath; Marry thee, sister, that I may stay, Stay, stay, In thy house, quoth Death. 

 Death laughed aloud when Sin was wed, Wed, wed, And danced on the bridal day; But bore that night from the bridal bed, Bed, bed, The groom in a shroud away. 

 Death came to her sister at break of day, Day, day, And Sin drew a weary breath; He whom thou lovest is mine for aye, Aye, aye, Mine he is, quoth Death. 

 Copyrighted by Houghton, Mifflin and Company, Boston. 

/& THE PRINCESS

 The Princess sat lone in her maiden bower, The lad blew his horn at the foot of the tower. "Why playest thou alway? Be silent, I pray, It fetters my thoughts that would flee far away, As the sun goes down. "

 In her maiden bower sat the Princess forlorn, The lad had ceased to play on his horn. "Oh, why art thou silent? I beg thee to play! It gives wings to my thoughts that would flee far away, As the sun goes down. "

 In her maiden bower sat the Princess forlorn, Once more with delight played the lad on his horn. She wept as the shadows grew long, and she sighed: "Oh, tell me, my God, what my heart doth betide, Now the sun has gone down. "

 Copyrighted by T. Y. Crowell and Company. 

SIGURD SLEMBE'S RETURN

_The scene is at first empty. Then_ Sigurd Slembe _enters, climbing overa rock; he comes forward in silence, but powerfully agitated. _

The Danes forsake me! The battle is lost! Thus far--and no farther!

Escape to the mountains to-night! Exchange my ships for freedom! Thereare herds of horses on the mountains: we will climb up there and thenfall upon the valleys like a snowstorm. 

But when winter comes? To begin at the beginning: the outlaw'slife--never more! I have made my last effort; had it been successful, men would have wondered at me. It has failed, and vengeance is loose. Icannot gather another force in Norway!

All over? Thus far and no farther? No! The Danes sail, but we will sailwith them! This night, this very night we will raise our yards andfollow them to the open sea. 

But whither shall we turn our prows? To Denmark? We may raise no thirdforce in Denmark. Start out again as merchant? No! Serve in foreignlands? No! Crusade? No! Hither and no farther! Sigurd, the end has come!

[_Almost sobbing. _] Death! The thought sprang up in my mind as a doorswings open, clashing upon its hinges; light, air, receive me! [_Hedraws his sword. _] No; I will fall fighting in the cause I have livedfor--my men shall have a leader!

Is there no chance of victory? no trick? Can I not get them ashore? CanI not get them in the toils? try them in point-blank fight, man to man, all the strength of despair fighting with me? Ah, could they but hearme, could I but find some high place and speak to them; tell them howclear as the sun is my right, how monstrous the wrongs I have borne, what a crime is theirs in withstanding me! You murder not me alone, butthousands upon thousands of thoughts for my fatherland's welfare; I havecarried nothing out, I have not sown the least grain, or laid one stoneupon another to witness that I have lived. Ah, I have strength forbetter things than strife; it was the desire to work that drove mehomewards; it was impatience that wrought me ill! Believe me, try me, give me but half what Harald Gille promised me, even less; I ask butvery little, if I may still live and strive to accomplish something!Jesus, my God, it was ever the little that thou didst offer me, andthat I ever scorned!

Where am I? I stand upon my own grave, and hear the great bell ring. Itremble as the tower beneath its stroke, for where now are the aims thatwere mine? The grave opens its mouth and makes reply. But life liesbehind me like a dried-up stream, and these eighteen years are lost asin a desert. The sign, the sign that was with me from my birth! In loftyflight I have followed it hither with all the strength of my soul, andhere I am struck by the arrow of death. I fall, and behold the rocksbeneath, upon which I shall be crushed. Have I, then, seen a-wrong? Ah, how the winds and currents of my life stood yonder, where it was warmand fruitful, while I toiled up where it grew ever colder, and my shipis now clasped by the drifting icebergs; a moment yet, and it must sink. Then let it sink, and all will be over. [_On his knees_. ] But in thyarms, All-Merciful, I shall find peace!

What miracle is this? For in the hour I prayed the prayer was granted!Peace, perfect peace! [_Rises_. ] Then will I go to-morrow to my lastbattle as to the altar; peace shall at last be mine for all my longings. 

[_Holds his head bowed and covered by his hands. As he, after a time, slowly removes them, he looks around_. ]

How this autumn evening brings reconciliation to my soul! Sun and waveand shore and sea flow all together, as in the thought of God allothers; never yet has it seemed so fair to me! Yet it is not mine toreign over this lovely land. How greatly I have done it ill! But how hasit all come so to pass? for in my wanderings I saw thy mountains inevery sky, I yearned for home as a child longs for Christmas, yet I cameno sooner, and when at last I came--I gave thee wound upon wound. 

But thou, in contemplative mood, now gazest upon me, and givest me atparting this fairest autumn night of thine. I will ascend yonder rockand take a long farewell. [_Mounts up_. ]

And even thus I stood eighteen years ago, --thus looked out upon the sea, blue beneath the rising sun. The fresh breezes of morning seemed waftedto me from a high future; through the sky's light veil a vision ofstrange lands was mine; in the glow of the morning sun, wealth and honorshone upon me; and to all this, the white sails of the Crusaders shouldswiftly bear me. 

Farewell, dreams of my youth! Farewell, my sweet country! Ah, to whatsorrow thou hast brought me forth! But now it will soon be over. [_Hedescends_. ]

If these ships should sail up to me this very night bearing thefulfillment of all my dreams! Could any one of them be now in truthmine, --or may a tree bear fruit twice in one year?

I give way to make room for some better man. But be thou gracious to me, and let death be mine with these feelings in my heart, for strength tobe faithful might not long be vouchsafed me. 

"Thou shalt die to-morrow!" How sure a father-confessor is that word!Now for the first time I speak truth to myself. 

_Ivar_ [_climbing' over a rock_]--Yes, here he is. [_Gives his hand tothe nun. _]

_The Nun_ [_without seeing_]--Sigurd! [_Mounts up. _] Yes, there he is!

_Sigurd_--Mother!

_The Nun_--My child, found once more! [_They remain long clasped in eachother's arms. _] My son, my son, now shalt thou no more escape me!

_Sigurd_--O my mother!

_The Nun_--Thou wilt keep away from this battle, is it not so? We twowill win another kingdom, --a much better one. 

_Sigurd_--I understand thee, mother. [_Leads her to a seat, and fallsupon his knee. _]

_The Nun_--Yes, dost thou not? Thou art not so bad as all men would haveit. I knew that well, but wanted so much to speak with thee, --and sincethou art wearied and hast lost thy hopes for this world, thou hast comeback to me, for even now there is time! And of all thy realm they mustleave thee some little plot, and there we will live by the church, sothat when the bells ring for vespers we shall be near the blessed Olaf, and with him seek the presence of the Almighty. And there we will healthy wounds with holy water, and thoughts of love, more than thou canstremember ever to have had, shall come back to thee robed in white, andwondering recollection shall have no end. For the great shall be madesmall and the small great, and there shall be questionings andrevelations and eternal happiness. Thou wilt come and thus live with me, my son, wilt thou not? Thou wilt stay from this battle and come quickly?

_Sigurd_--Mother, I have not wept till now since I lay upon the parchedearth of the Holy Land. 

_The Nun_--Thou wilt follow me?

_Sigurd_--To do thus were to escape the pledges I have made but bybreaking them. 

_The Nun_--To what art thou now pledged?

_Sigurd_--Pledged to the blind king I took from the cloister; pledged tothe men I have led hither. 

_The Nun_--And these pledges thou shalt redeem--how?

_Sigurd_--By fighting and falling at their head. 

_The Nun [springs to her feet. Sigurd also rises_. ]--No! No! No! Shall Inow, after a lifetime of sorrow, behold thy death?

_Sigurd_--Yes, mother. The Lord of life and death will have it so. 

_The Nun_--Ah! what sufferings a moment's sin may bring! [_She fallsupon his breast, then sinks, with outstretched arms_. ] O my son, spare me!

_Sigurd_--Do not tempt me, mother!

_The Nun_--Hast thou taken thought of what may follow? Hast thou thoughtof capture, of mutilation?

_Sigurd_--I have some hymns left me from childhood. I can sing them. 

_The Nun_--But I--thy mother--spare me!

_Sigurd_--Make not to me this hour more bitter than death itself. 

_The Nun_--But why now die? We have found one another. 

_Sigurd_--We two have nothing more to live for. 

_The Nun_--Wilt thou soon leave me?

_Sigurd_--Till the morning sun appear we will sit together. Let me liftthee upon this rock. [_He does so, and casts himself at her feet_. ] Itwas fair that thou shouldst come to me. All my life is now blotted out, and I am a child with thee once more. And now we will seek out togetherthe land of our inheritance. I must away for a moment to take my leave, and then I shall be ready, and I think that thou too art ready. 

_Ivar Ingemundson [falling on his knee_]--My lord, now let me be yourfriend. 

_Sigurd [extending his hand_]--Ivar, thou wilt not leave her to-morrow?

_Ivar Ingemundson_--Not until she is set free. 

_Sigurd_--And now sing me the Crusader's song. I may joyfully go henceafter that. 

 Ivar Ingemundson [_rises and sings_]--

 Fair is the earth, Fair is God's heaven; Fair is the pilgrim-path of the soul. Singing we go Through the fair realms of earth, Seeking the way to our heavenly goal. 

 Races shall come, And shall pass away: And the world from age to age shall roll; But the heavenly tones Of our pilgrim song Shall echo still in the joyous soul. 

 First heard of shepherds, By angels sung, Wide it has spread since that glad morn: Peace upon earth! Rejoice all men, For unto us is a Savior born[1]. 

[_The mother places both her hands on Sigurd's head, and they look intoone another's eyes; he then rests his head upon her breast. _]

[Footnote 1: This song is borrowed by Björnson from the Danish poet B. S. Ingemann, although it is slightly altered for its present use. ]

Copyrighted by Houghton, Mifflin and Company, Boston. 

 * * * * *

HOW THE MOUNTAIN WAS CLAD

From 'Arne'

There was a deep gorge between two mountains. Through this gorge alarge, full stream flowed heavily over a rough and stony bottom. Bothsides were high and steep, and so one side was bare; but close to itsfoot, and so near the stream that the latter sprinkled it with moistureevery spring and autumn, stood a group of fresh-looking trees, gazingupward and onward, yet unable to advance this way or that. 

"What if we should clothe the mountain?" said the juniper one day to theforeign oak, to which it stood nearer than all the others. The oaklooked down to find out who it was that spoke, and then it looked upagain without deigning a reply. The river rushed along so violently thatit worked itself into a white foam; the north wind had forced its waythrough the gorge and shrieked in the clefts of the rocks; the nakedmountain, with its great weight, hung heavily over and felt cold. "Whatif we should clothe the mountain?" said the juniper to the fir on theother side. "If anybody is to do it, I suppose it must be we, " said thefir, taking hold of its beard and glancing toward the birch. "What doyou think?" But the birch peered cautiously up, at the mountain, whichhung over it so threateningly that it seemed as if it could scarcelybreathe. "Let us clothe it, in God's name!" said the birch. And so, though there were but these three, they undertook to clothe themountain. The juniper went first. 

When they had gone a little way, they met the heather. The juniperseemed as though about to go past it. "Nay, take the heather along, "said the fir. And the heather joined them. Soon it began to glide onbefore the juniper. "Catch hold of me, " said the heather. The juniperdid so, and where there was only a wee crevice, the heather thrust in afinger, and where it first had placed a finger, the juniper took holdwith its whole hand. They crawled and crept along, the fir laboring onbehind, the birch also. "This is well worth doing, " said the birch. 

But the mountain began to ponder on what manner of insignificant objectsthese might be that were clambering up over it. And after it had beenconsidering the matter a few hundred years, it sent a little brook downto inquire. It was yet in the time of the spring freshets, and the brookstole on until it reached the heather. "Dear, dear heather, cannot youlet me pass? I am so small. " The heather was very busy; only raiseditself a little and pressed onward. In, under, and onward went thebrook. "Dear, dear juniper, cannot you let me pass? I am so small. " Thejuniper looked sharply at it; but if the heather had let it pass, why, in all reason, it must do so too. Under it and onward went the brook;and now came to the spot where the fir stood puffing on the hill-side. "Dear, dear fir, cannot you let me pass? I am really so small, " said thebrook, --and it kissed the fir's feet and made itself so very sweet. Thefir became bashful at this, and let it pass. But the birch raised itselfbefore the brook asked it. "Hi, hi, hi!" said the brook, and grew. "Ha, ha, ha!" said the brook, and grew. "Ho, ho, ho!" said the brook, andflung the heather and the juniper and the fir and the birch flat ontheir faces and backs, up and down these great hills. The mountain satup for many hundred years musing on whether it had not smiled alittle that day. 

It was plain enough: the mountain did not want to be clad. The heatherfretted over this until it grew green again, and then it startedforward. "Fresh courage!" said the heather. 

The juniper had half raised itself to look at the heather, and continuedto keep this position, until at length it stood upright. It scratchedits head and set forth again, taking such a vigorous foothold that itseemed as though the mountain must feel it. "If you will not have me, then I will have you. " The fir crooked its toes a little to find outwhether they were whole, then lifted one foot, found it whole, then theother, which proved also to be whole, then both of them. It firstinvestigated the ground it had been over, next where it had been lying, and finally where it should go. After this it began to wend its wayslowly along, and acted just as though it had never fallen. The birchhad become most wretchedly soiled, but now rose up and made itself tidy. Then they sped onward, faster and faster, upward and on either side, insunshine and in rain. "What in the world can this be?" said themountain, all glittering with dew, as the summer sun shone down on it. The birds sang, the wood-mouse piped, the hare hopped along, and theermine hid itself and screamed. 

Then the day came when the heather could peep with one eye over the edgeof the mountain. "Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!" said the heather, and awayit went. "Dear me! what is it the heather sees?" said the juniper, andmoved on until it could peer up. "Oh dear, oh dear!" it shrieked, andwas gone. "What is the matter with the juniper to-day?" said the fir, and took long strides onward in the heat of the sun. Soon it could raiseitself on its toes and peep up. "Oh dear!" Branches and needles stood onend in wonderment. It worked its way forward, came up, and was gone. "What is it all the others see, and not I?" said the birch; and liftingwell its skirts, it tripped after. It stretched its whole head up atonce. "Oh, --oh!--is not here a great forest of fir and heather, ofjuniper and birch, standing upon the table-land waiting for us?" saidthe birch; and its leaves quivered in the sunshine so that the dewtrembled. "Ay, this is what it is to reach the goal!" said the juniper. 

THE FATHER

The man whose story is here to be told was the wealthiest and mostinfluential person in his parish; his name was Thord Overaas. Heappeared in the priest's study one day, tall and earnest. 

"I have gotten a son, " said he, "and I wish to present him for baptism. "

"What shall his name be?"

"Finn, --after my father. "

"And the sponsors?"

They were mentioned, and proved to be the best men and women of Thord'srelations in the parish. 

"Is there anything else?" inquired the priest, and looked up. 

The peasant hesitated a little. 

"I should like very much to have him baptized by himself, " said he, finally. 

"That is to say, on a week-day?"

"Next Saturday, at twelve o'clock noon. "

"Is there anything else?" inquired the priest. 

"There is nothing else;" and the peasant twirled his cap, as though hewere about to go. 

Then the priest rose. "There is yet this, however, " said he, and walkingtoward Thord, he took him by the hand and looked gravely into his eyes:"God grant that the child may become a blessing to you!"

One day sixteen years later, Thord stood once more in the priest'sstudy. 

"Really, you carry your age astonishingly well, Thord, " said the priest;for he saw no change whatever in the man. 

"That is because I have no troubles, " replied Thord. 

To this the priest said nothing, but after a while he asked, "What isyour pleasure this evening?"

"I have come this evening about that son of mine who is to be confirmedto-morrow. "

"He is a bright boy. "

"I did not wish to pay the priest until I heard what number the boywould have when he takes his place in church to-morrow. "

"He will stand Number One. "

"So I have heard; and here are ten dollars for the priest. "

"Is there anything else I can do for you?" inquired the priest, fixinghis eyes on Thord. 

"There is nothing else. "

Thord went out. 

Eight years more rolled by, and then one day a noise was heard outsideof the priest's study, for many men were approaching, and at their headwas Thord, who entered first. 

The priest looked up and recognized him. 

"You come well attended this evening, Thord, " said he. 

"I am here to request that the banns may be published for my son: he isabout to marry Karen Storliden, daughter of Gudmund, who stands herebeside me. "

"Why, that is the richest girl in the parish. "

"So they say, " replied the peasant, stroking back his hair with onehand. 

The priest sat awhile as if in deep thought, then entered the names inhis book, without making any comments, and the men wrote theirsignatures underneath. Thord laid three dollars on the table. 

"One is all I am to have, " said the priest. 

"I know that very well, but he is my only child; I want to do ithandsomely. "

The priest took the money. 

"This is now the third time, Thord, that you have come here on yourson's account. "

"But now I am through with him, " said Thord, and folding up hispocket-book he said farewell and walked away. 

The men slowly followed him. 

A fortnight later, the father and son were rowing one calm, still day, across the lake to Storliden to make arrangements for the wedding. 

"This thwart is not secure, " said the son, and stood up to straightenthe seat on which he was sitting. 

At the same moment the board he was standing on slipped from under him;he threw out his arms, uttered a shriek, and fell overboard. 

"Take hold of the oar!" shouted the father, springing to his feet andholding out the oar. 

But when the son had made a couple of efforts he grew stiff. 

"Wait a moment!" cried the father, and began to row toward his son. 

Then the son rolled over on his back, gave his father one long look, andsank. 

Thord could scarcely believe it; he held the boat still, and stared atthe spot where his son had gone down, as though he must surely come tothe surface again. There rose some bubbles, then some more, and finallyone large one that burst; and the lake lay there as smooth and bright asa mirror again. 

For three days and three nights people saw the father rowing round andround the spot, without taking either food or sleep; he was dragging thelake for the body of his son. And toward morning of the third day hefound it, and carried it in his arms up over the hills to his gård. 

It might have been about a year from that day, when the priest, late oneautumn evening, heard some one in the passage outside of the door, carefully trying to find the latch. The priest opened the door, and inwalked a tall, thin man, with bowed form and white hair. The priestlooked long at him before he recognized him. It was Thord. 

"Are you out walking so late?" said the priest, and stood still in frontof him. 

"Ah, yes! it is late, " said Thord, and took a seat. 

The priest sat down also, as though waiting. A long, long silencefollowed. At last Thord said:--

"I have something with me that I should like to give to the poor; I wantit to be invested as a legacy in my son's name. "

He rose, laid some money on the table, and sat down again. The priestcounted it. 

"It is a great deal of money, " said he. 

"It is half the price of my gård. I sold it to-day. "

The priest sat long in silence. At last he asked, but gently:

"What do you propose to do now, Thord?"

"Something better. "

They sat there for awhile, Thord with downcast eyes, the priest with hiseyes fixed on Thord. Presently the priest said, slowly and softly:--

"I think your son has at last brought you a true blessing. "

"Yes, I think so myself, " said Thord, looking up, while two big tearscoursed slowly down his cheeks. 

WILLIAM BLACK

(1841-)

In view of Mr. Black's accurate and picturesque descriptions of naturalphenomena, it is interesting to know that of his varied youthfulstudies, botany most attracted him, and that he followed it up as an artpupil in the government schools. But his bent was rather for journalismthan for art or science. Before he was twenty-one he had writtencritical essays for a local newspaper on Ruskin, Carlyle, and Kingsley;and shortly afterward he wrote a series of sketches, after ChristopherNorth, that at this early age gave evidence of his peculiar talent, theartistic use of natural effects in the development of character, thepathos of the gray morning or the melancholy of the evening mist whenwoven in with tender episode or tragic occurrence. 

[Illustration: William Black]

William Black was born in Glasgow, Scotland, November 6th, 1841, andreceived his early education there. He settled in London in 1864, andwas a special correspondent of the Morning Star in the Franco-Prussianwar, but after about ten years of the life of a newspaper man, duringwhich he was an editor of the London News, he abandoned journalism fornovel-writing in 1875. In the intervals of his work he traveled much, and devoted himself with enthusiasm to out-door sports, of which hewrites with a knowledge that inspires a certain confidence in thereader. A Scotch skipper once told him he need never starve, because hecould make a living as pilot in the western Highlands; and the fidelityof his descriptions of northern Scotland have met with the questionablereward of converting a poet's haunt into a tourist's camp. Not that Mr. Black's is a game-keeper's catalogue of the phenomena of forest orstream, or the poetic way of depicting nature by similes. Thefascination of his writing lies in our conviction that it is the resultof minute observation, with a certain atmospheric quality that makes thepicture alive. More, one is conscious of a sensitive, pathetic thrill inhis writing; these sights and sounds, when they are unobtrusivelychronicled, are penetrated by a subtle human sympathy, as if the writerbent close to the earth and heard the whispers of the flowers andstones, as well as the murmur of the forest and the roar of the sea. 

He is eminently a popular writer, a vivacious delineator of life andmanners, even when he exhibits his versatility at the cost of some ofhis most attractive characteristics. In 'Sunrise' we have a combinationof romance and politics, its motive supplied by the intrigues of awide-spread communistic society. 'Kilmeny' is the story of a painter, 'Shandon Bells' of a literary man, 'The Monarch of Mincing Lane' tellsof the London streets, the heroine of 'The Handsome Humes' is anactress, the scenes in 'Briseis' are played in Athens, Scotland, andEngland. All these novels have tragic and exceptional episodes, thehumor is broad, as the humor of a pessimist always is, and the readerfinds himself laughing at a practical joke on the heels of acatastrophe. Mr. Black knows his London, especially the drawing-roomaspect of it, and his latest novel is sure to have the latest touch offad and fashion, although white heather does not cease to grow nor deerto be stalked, nor flies to be cast in Highland waters. We cannot admitthat he is exceptionally fortunate in the heroines of these novels, however, for they are perfectly beautiful and perfectly good, and natureprotests against perfection as a hurt to vanity. Our real favorites arethe dark-eyed Queen Titania, the small imperious person who drives instate in 'Strange Adventures of a Phaeton, ' and sails with such highcourage in 'White Wings, ' and the half-sentimental, half-practical, wholly self-seeking siren Bonny Leslie in 'Kilmeny' who develops intosomething a little more than coquettish in the Kitty of 'Shandon Bells. '

These and half a dozen other novels by Mr. Black entitle him to hisplace as a popular novelist; they are alternately gay and sad, they arespirited and entertaining; certain characters, like the heroine of'Sunrise, ' cast a bright effulgence over the dark plots of intrigue. ButMr. Black is at his best as the creator of the special school of fictionthat has Highland scenery and Highland character for its field. He hasmany followers and many imitators, but he remains master on his ownground. The scenes of his most successful stories, 'The Princess ofThule, ' 'A Daughter of Heth, ' 'In Far Lochaber, ' 'Macleod of Dare, ' and'Madcap Violet, ' are laid for the most part in remote rural districts, amid lake and moorland and mountain wilds of northern Scotland, whoseunsophisticated atmosphere is invaded by airs from the outer world onlyduring the brief season of hunting and fishing. 

But the visit of the worldling is long enough to furnish incident bothpoetic and tragic; and when he enters the innocent and primitive life ofthe native, as Lavender entered that of the proud and beautiful Princessof Thule sailing her boat in the far-off waters of Skye, or the cruelGertrude in the grim castle of Dare, he finds all the potencies ofpassion and emotion. 

The temperament of the Highlander is a melancholy one. The narrow life, with its isolation and its hardships, makes him pessimistic andbrooding, though endowed with the keen instinct and peculiar humor ofthose who are far removed from the artificialities of life. But Mr. Black ascribes this temperament, not to race or hardship or isolation, but to the strange sights and sounds of the sea and land on which hedwells, to the wild nights and fierce sunsets, to the dark ocean plainsthat brood over the secrets that lie in their depths. 

Under his treatment nature is subjective, and plays the part of fate. Natural scenery is as the orchestra to a Wagnerian opera. The shiftingof the clouds, the voice of the sea, the scent of the woods, are madethe most important factors in the formation of character. He whose homeis in mountain fastnesses knows the solemn glory of sunrise and sunset, and has for his heritage the high brave temper of the warrior, with themelancholy of the poet. The dweller on tawny sands, where the waves beatlazily on summer afternoons and where wild winds howl in storm, is oflike necessity capricious and melancholy. The minor key, in which Poethought all true poetry is written, is struck in these his earliernovels. Let the day be ever so beautiful, the air ever so clear, theshadows give back a sensitive, luminous darkness that reveals tragedieswithin itself. 

Not that the sentient background, as he has painted it, is to beconfounded with the "sympathy of nature with character" of the olderschool, in which hysterical emotion is accentuated by wild wind storms, and the happiness of lovers by a sunshiny day. But character, asdepicted by him in these early novels, is so far subordinate to naturethat nature assumes moral responsibility. When Macleod of Dare commitsmurder and then suicide, we accept it as the result of climaticinfluences; and the tranquil-conscienced Hamish, the would-be homicide, but obeys the call of the winds. Especially in the delightful romancesof Skye, Mr. Black reproduces the actual speech and manners ofthe people. 

And as romance of motive clothes barren rocks in rich hues and wastebogland in golden gorse, it does like loving service for homelycharacters. The dialect these people talk, without editorial comment, delights and amuses from its strangeness, and also from the convictionthat it is as real as the landscape. They tell wonderful tales of moorand fen as they tramp the woods or sail on moonlit waters, and sittingby a peat fire of a stormy night, discuss, between deep pulls of Scotchwhisky, the Erastianism that vitiates modern theology. We must look inthe pages of Scott for a more charming picture of the relation ofclansman to chief. 

But Mr. Black is his own most formidable rival. He who painted thesympathetic landscapes of northern Scotland has taught the reader thesubtle distinction between these delicate scenes and those in whichnature's moods are obtrusively chronicled. There are novels by Mr. Blackin reading which we exclaim, with the exhausted young lady at the end ofher week's sight-seeing, "What! another sunset!" And he set himself adifficult task when he attempted to draw another character so human andso lovable as the Princess of Thule, although the reader were ungraciousindeed did he not welcome the beautiful young lady with the kind heartand the proud, hurt smile, whom he became familiar with through frequentencounters in the author's other novels. And if Earlscope, who has a dimsort of kinship with the more vigorous hero of 'Jane Eyre, ' has beensucceeded by well-bred young gentlemen who never smoke in the presenceof their female relatives, though they are master hands at sailing aboat and knocking down obtrusive foreigners, Mr. Black has not since 'ADaughter of Heth' done so dramatic a piece of writing as the story ofthe Earl's death and Coquette's flight. The "Daughter of Heth, " with herfriendly simplicity and innocent wiles, and Madcap Violet, thelaughter-loving, deserve perhaps a kinder fate than a broken heart andan early grave. 

But what the novelist Gogol said of himself and his audience fifty yearsago is as true as ever: "Thankless is the task of whoever ventures toshow what passes every moment before his eyes. " When he isheart-breaking, and therefore exceptional, Mr. Black is mostinteresting. A sad ending is not necessarily depressing to the reader. "There is something, " says La Rochefoucauld, "in the misfortunes of ourbest friends that doth not displease us. "

In Mr. Black's later novels, the burden of tradition has been too heavyfor him, and he has ended them all happily, as if they were fairy tales. He chose a more artistic as well as a more faithful part when they werein keeping with life. 

THE END OF MACLEOD OF DARE

"DUNCAN. " said Hamish in a low whisper, --for Macleod had gone below, andthey thought he might be asleep in the small hushed state-room--"this isa strange-looking day, is it not? And I am afraid of it in this openbay, with an anchorage no better than a sheet of paper for an anchorage. Do you see now how strange-looking it is?"

Duncan Cameron also spoke in his native tongue, and he said:--

"That is true, Hamish. And it was a day like this there was when theSolan was sunk at her moorings in Loch Hourn. Do you remember, Hamish?And it would be better for us now if we were in Loch Tua, orLoch-na-Keal, or in the dock that was built for the steamer at Tiree. Ido not like the look of this day. "

Yet to an ordinary observer it would have seemed that the chiefcharacteristic of this pale, still day was extreme and settled calm. There was not a breath of wind to ruffle the surface of the sea; butthere was a slight glassy swell, and that only served to show curiousopalescent tints under the suffused light of the sun. There were noclouds; there was only a thin veil of faint and sultry mist all acrossthe sky: the sun was invisible, but there was a glare of yellow at onepoint of the heavens. A dead calm; but heavy, oppressed, sultry. Therewas something in the atmosphere that seemed to weigh on the chest. 

"There was a dream I had this morning, " continued Hamish, in the samelow tones. "It was about my little granddaughter Christina. You know mylittle Christina, Duncan. And she said to me, 'What have you done withSir Keith Macleod? Why have you not brought him back? He was under yourcare, grandfather. ' I did not like that dream. "

"Oh, you are becoming as bad as Sir Keith Macleod himself!" said theother. "He does not sleep. He talks to himself. You will become likethat if you pay attention to foolish dreams, Hamish. "

Hamish's quick temper leaped up. 

"What do you mean, Duncan Cameron, by saying 'as bad as Sir KeithMacleod'? You--you come from Ross: perhaps they have not good mastersthere. I tell you there is not any man in Ross, or in Sutherland either, is as good a master and as brave a lad as Sir Keith Macleod--not anyone, Duncan Cameron!"

"I did not mean anything like that, Hamish, " said the other, humbly. "But there was a breeze this morning. We could have got over to LochTua. Why did we stay here, where there is no shelter and no anchorage?Do you know what is likely to come after a day like this?"

"It is your business to be a sailor on board this yacht; it is not yourbusiness to say where she will go, " said Hamish. 

But all the same the old man was becoming more and more alarmed at theugly aspect of this dead calm. The very birds, instead of stalking amongthe still pools, or lying buoyant on the smooth waters, were excitedlycalling, and whirring from one point to another. 

"If the equinoctials were to begin now, " said Duncan Cameron, "this is afine place to meet the equinoctials! An open bay, without shelter; and aground that is no ground for an anchorage. It is not two anchors ortwenty anchors would hold in such a ground. "

Macleod appeared: the men were suddenly silent. Without a word to eitherof them--and that was not his wont--he passed to the stern of the yacht. Hamish knew from his manner that he would not be spoken to. He did notfollow him, even with all this vague dread on his mind. 

The day wore on to the afternoon. Macleod, who had been pacing up anddown the deck, suddenly called Hamish. Hamish came aft at once. 

"Hamish, " said he, with a strange sort of laugh, "do you remember thismorning, before the light came? Do you remember that I asked you about abrass-band that I heard playing?"

Hamish looked at him, and said with an earnest anxiety:--

"O Sir Keith, you will pay no heed to that! It is very common; I haveheard them say it is very common. Why, to hear a brass-band, to be sure!There is nothing more common than that. And you will not think you areunwell merely because you think you can hear a brass-band playing!"

"I want you to tell me, Hamish, " said he, in the same jesting way, "whether my eyes have followed the example of my ears, and are playingtricks. Do you think they are bloodshot, with my lying on deck in thecold? Hamish, what do you see all around?"

The old man looked at the sky, and the shore, and the sea. It was amarvelous thing. The world was all enshrouded in a salmon-colored mist:there was no line of horizon visible between, the sea and the sky. 

"It is red, Sir Keith, " said Hamish. 

"Ah! Am I in my senses this time? And what do you think of a red day, Hamish? That is not a usual thing. "

"Oh, Sir Keith, it will be a wild night this night! And we cannot stayhere, with this bad anchorage!"

"And where would you go, Hamish--in a dead calm?" Macleod asked, stillwith a smile on the wan face. 

"Where would I go?" said the old man, excitedly. "I--I will take care ofthe yacht. But you, Sir Keith; oh! you--you will go ashore now. Do youknow, sir, the sheiling that the shepherd had? It is a poor place--ohyes; but Duncan Cameron and I will take some things ashore. And do younot think we can look after the yacht? She has met the equinoctialsbefore, if it is the equinoctials that are beginning. She has met thembefore; and cannot she meet them now? But you, Sir Keith, you willgo ashore!"

Macleod burst out laughing, in an odd sort of fashion. 

"Do you think I am good at running away when there is any kind ofdanger, Hamish? Have you got into the English way? Would you call me acoward too? Nonsense, nonsense, nonsense, Hamish! I--why, I am going todrink a glass of the coal-black wine, and have done with it. I willdrink it to the health of my sweetheart, Hamish!"

"Sir Keith, " said the old man, beginning to tremble, though he but halfunderstood the meaning of the scornful mirth, "I have had charge of yousince you were a young lad. "

"Very well!"

"And Lady Macleod will ask of me, 'Such and such a thing happened: whatdid you do for my son?' Then I will say, 'Your ladyship, we were afraidof the equinoctials; and we got Sir Keith to go ashore; and the next daywe went ashore for him; and now we have brought him back toCastle Dare!'"

"Hamish, Hamish, you are laughing at me! Or you want to call me acoward? Don't you know I should be afraid of the ghost of the shepherdwho killed himself? Don't you know that the English people call mea coward?"

"May their souls dwell in the downmost hall of perdition!" said Hamish, with his cheeks becoming a gray white; "and every woman that ever cameof the accursed race!"

He looked at the old man for a second, and he gripped his hand. 

"Do not say that, Hamish--that is folly. But you have been my friend. Mymother will not forget you--it is not the way of a Macleod toforget--whatever happens to me. "

"Sir Keith!" Hamish cried, "I do not know what you mean! But you will goashore before the night?"

"Go ashore?" Macleod answered, with a return to this wild banteringtone, "when I am going to see my sweetheart? Oh no! Tell Christina, now!Tell Christina to ask the young English lady to come into the saloon, for I have something to say to her. Be quick, Hamish!"

Hamish went away; and before long he returned with the answer that theyoung English lady was in the saloon. And now he was no longer haggardand piteous, but joyful, and there was a strange light in his eyes. 

"Sweetheart, " said he, "are you waiting for me at last? I have broughtyou a long way. Shall we drink a glass now at the end of the voyage?"

"Do you wish to insult me?" said she; but there was no anger in hervoice: there was more of fear in her eyes as she regarded him. 

"You have no other message for me than the one you gave me last night, Gerty?" said he, almost cheerfully. "It is all over, then? You would goaway from me forever? But we will drink a glass before we go!"

He sprang forward, and caught both her hands in his with the grip of avise. 

"Do you know what you have done, Gerty?" said he, in a low voice. "Oh, you have soft, smooth, English ways; and you are like a rose-leaf; andyou are like a queen, whom all people are glad to serve. But do you knowthat you have killed a man's life? And there is no penalty for that inthe South, perhaps; but you are no longer in the South. And if you havethis very night to drink a glass with me, you will not refuse it? It isonly a glass of the coal-black wine!"

She struggled back from him, for there was a look in his face thatfrightened her. But she had a wonderful self-command. 

"Is that the message I was to hear?" said she, coldly. 

"Why, sweetheart, are you not glad? Is not that the only gladness leftfor you and for me, that we should drink one glass together, and clasphands, and say good-by? What else is there left? What else could come toyou and to me? And it may not be this night, or to-morrow night; but onenight I think it will come; and then, sweetheart, we will have one moreglass together, before the end. "

He went on deck. He called Hamish. 

"Hamish, " said he, in a grave, matter-of-fact way, "I don't like thelook of this evening. Did you say the sheiling was still on the island?"

"Oh yes, Sir Keith, " said Hamish, with great joy; for he thought hisadvice was going to be taken, after all. 

"Well, now, you know the gales, when they begin, sometimes last for twoor three or four days; and I will ask you to see that Christina takes agood store of things to the sheiling before the darkness comes on. Takeplenty of things now, Hamish, and put them in the sheiling, for I amafraid this is going to be a wild night. "

Now indeed all the red light had gone away; and as the sun went downthere was nothing but a spectral whiteness over the sea and the sky; andthe atmosphere was so close and sultry that it seemed to suffocate one. Moreover, there was a dead calm; if they had wanted to get away fromthis exposed place, how could they? They could not get into the gig andpull this great yacht over to Loch Tua. 

It was with a light heart that Hamish set about this thing; andChristina forthwith filled a hamper with tinned meats, and bread, andwhisky, and what not. And fuel was taken ashore, too; and candles, and astore of matches. If the gales were coming on, as appeared likely fromthis ominous-looking evening, who could tell how many days and nightsthe young master--and the English lady, too, if he desired hercompany--might not have to stay ashore, while the men took the chance ofthe sea with this yacht, or perhaps seized the occasion of some lull tomake for some place of shelter? There was Loch Tua, and there was thebay at Bunessan, and there was the little channel called Polterriv, behind the rocks opposite Iona. Any shelter at all was better than thisexposed place, with the treacherous anchorage. 

Hamish and Duncan Cameron returned to the yacht. 

"Will you go ashore now, Sir Keith?" the old man said. 

"Oh no; I am not going ashore yet. It is not yet time to run away, Hamish. "

He spoke in a friendly and pleasant fashion, though Hamish, in hisincreasing alarm, thought it no proper time for jesting. They hauled thegig up to the davits, however, and again the yacht lay in dead silencein this little bay. 

The evening grew to dusk; the only change visible in the spectral worldof pale yellow-white mist was the appearance in the sky of a number ofsmall, detached bulbous-looking clouds of a dusky blue-gray. They hadnot drifted hither, for there was no wind. They had only appeared. Theywere absolutely motionless. But the heat and the suffocation in thisatmosphere became almost insupportable. The men, with bare heads, andjerseys unbuttoned at the neck, were continually going to the cask offresh water beside the windlass. Nor was there any change when the nightcame on. If anything, the night was hotter than the evening had been. They waited in silence what might come of this ominous calm. 

Hamish came aft. 

"I beg your pardon, Sir Keith, " said he, "but I am thinking we will havean anchor-watch to-night. "

"You will have no anchor-watch to-night, " Macleod answered slowly, fromout of the darkness. "I will be all the anchor-watch you will need, Hamish, until the morning. "

"You, sir!" Hamish cried. "I have been waiting to take you ashore; andsurely it is ashore that you are going!"

Just as he had spoken, there was a sound that all the world seemed tostand still to hear. It was a low, murmuring sound of thunder; but itwas so remote as almost to be inaudible. The next moment an awful thingoccurred. The two men standing face to face in the dark suddenly foundthemselves in a blaze of blinding steel-blue light, and at the very sameinstant the thunder-roar crackled and shook all around them like thefiring of a thousand cannon. How the wild echoes went booming overthe sea!

Then they were in the black night again. There was a period of awedsilence. 

"Hamish, " Macleod said, quickly, "do as I tell you now! Lower the gig;take the men with you, and Christina, and go ashore and remain in thesheiling till the morning. "

"I will not!" Hamish cried. "O Sir Keith, would you have me do that?"

Macleod had anticipated his refusal. Instantly he went forward andcalled up Christina. He ordered Duncan Cameron and John Cameron to loweraway the gig. He got them all in but Hamish. 

"Hamish, " said he, "you are a smaller man than I. Is it on such a nightthat you would have me quarrel with you? Must I throw you intothe boat?"

The old man clasped his trembling hands together as if in prayer; and hesaid, with an agonized and broken voice:--

"O Sir Keith, you are my master, and there is nothing I will not do foryou; but only this one night you will let me remain with the yacht? Iwill give you the rest of my life; but only this one night--"

"Into the gig with you!" Macleod cried, angrily. "Why, man, don't youthink I can keep anchor-watch?" But then he added very gently, "Hamish, shake hands with me now. You were my friend, and you must get ashorebefore the sea rises. "

"I will stay in the dingy, then?" the old man entreated. 

"You will go ashore, Hamish; and this very instant, too. If the galebegins, how will you get ashore? Good-by, Hamish--_good-night!_"

Another white sheet of flame quivered all around them, just as thisblack figure was descending into the gig; and then the fierce hell ofsounds broke loose once more. Sea and sky together seemed to shudder atthe wild uproar, and far away the sounds went thundering through thehollow night. How could one hear if there was any sobbing in thatdeparting boat, or any last cry of farewell? It was Ulva calling now, and Fladda answering from over the black water; and the Dutchman issurely awake at last!

There came a stirring of wind from the east, and the sea began to moan. Surely the poor fugitives must have reached the shore now. And thenthere was a strange noise in the distance: in the awful silence betweenthe peals of thunder it would be heard; it came nearer and nearer--a lowmurmuring noise, but full of a secret life and thrill--it came alonglike the tread of a thousand armies--and then the gale struck its firstblow. The yacht reeled under the stroke, but her bows staggered up againlike a dog that has been felled, and after one or two convulsive plungesshe clung hard at the strained cables. And now the gale was growing infury, and the sea rising. Blinding showers of rain swept over, hissingand roaring; the white tongues of flame were shooting this way and thatacross the startled heavens; and there was a more awful thunder thaneven the falling of the Atlantic surge booming into the great sea-caves. In the abysmal darkness the spectral arms of the ocean rose white intheir angry clamor; and then another blue gleam would lay bare the greatheaving and wreathing bosom of the deep. What devil's dance is this?Surely it cannot be Ulva--Ulva the green-shored--Ulva that the sailors, in their love of her, call softly _Ool-a-va_--that is laughing aloudwith wild laughter on this awful night? And Colonsay, and Lunga, andFladda--they were beautiful and quiet in the still summer-time; but nowthey have gone mad, and they are flinging back the plunging sea in whitemasses of foam, and they are shrieking in their fierce joy of thestrife. And Staffa--Staffa is far away and alone; she is trembling toher core: how long will the shuddering caves withstand the mighty hammerof the Atlantic surge? And then again the sudden wild gleam startles thenight, and one sees, with an appalling vividness, the driven white wavesand the black islands; and then again a thousand echoes go booming, along the iron-bound coast. What can be heard in the roar of thehurricane, and the hissing of rain, and the thundering whirl of thewaves on the rocks? Surely not the one glad last cry: SWEETHEART! YOURHEALTH! YOUR HEALTH IN THE COAL-BLACK WINE!

 * * * * *

The poor fugitives crouching in among the rocks--is it the blinding rainor the driven white surf that is in their eyes? But they have sailors'eyes; they can see through the awful storm; and their gaze is fixed onone small green point far out there in the blackness--the starboardlight of the doomed ship. It wavers like a will-o'-the-wisp, but it doesnot recede; the old Umpire still clings bravely to her chain cables. 

And amidst all the din of the storm they hear the voice of Hamish liftedaloud in lamentation:--

"Oh, the brave lad! the brave lad! And who is to save my young masternow? and who will carry this tale back to Castle Dare? They will say tome, 'Hamish, you had charge of the young lad; you put the first gun inhis hand; you had charge of him; he had the love of a son for you: whatis it you have done with him this night?' He is my Absalom; he is mybrave young lad: oh, do you think that I will let him drown and donothing to try to save him? Do you think that? Duncan Cameron, are you aman? Will you get into the gig with me and pull out to the Umpire?"

"By God, " said Duncan Cameron, solemnly, "I will do that! I have nowife; I do not care. I will go into the gig with you, Hamish; but wewill never reach the yacht--this night or any night that is to come. "

Then the old woman Christina shrieked aloud, and caught her husband bythe arm. 

"Hamish! Hamish! Are you going to drown yourself before my eyes?"

He shook her hand away from him. 

"My young master ordered me ashore: I have come ashore. But I myself, Iorder myself back again. Duncan Cameron, they will never say that westood by and saw Macleod of Dare go down to his grave!"

They emerged from the shelter of this great rock; the hurricane was sofierce that they had to cling to one bowlder after another to savethemselves from being whirled into the sea. But were these two men bythemselves? Not likely! It was a party of five men that now clamberedalong the slippery rocks to the shingle up which they had hauled thegig, and one wild lightning-flash saw them with their hands on thegunwale, ready to drag her down to the water. There was a surf ragingthere that would have swamped twenty gigs: these five men were going oftheir own free will and choice to certain death--so much had they lovedthe young master. 

But a piercing cry from Christina arrested them. They looked out to sea. What was this sudden and awful thing? Instead of the starboard greenlight, behold! the port red light--and that moving! Oh, see! how itrecedes, wavering, flickering through the whirling vapor of the storm!And there again is the green light! Is it a witch's dance, or are theystrange death-fires hovering over the dark ocean-grave? But Hamish knowstoo well what it means; and with a wild cry of horror and despair, theold man sinks on his knees and clasps his hands, and stretches them outto the terrible sea. 

"O, Macleod, Macleod! are you going away from me forever? and we will goup the hills together and on the lochs together no more--no more--nomore! Oh, the brave lad that he was! and the good master! And who wasnot proud of him--my handsome lad--and he the last of the Macleodsof Dare?"

Arise, Hamish, and have the gig hauled up into shelter; for will you notwant it when the gale abates, and the seas are smooth, and you have togo away, to Dare, you and your comrades, with silent tongues and sombreeyes? Why this wild lamentation in the darkness of the night? Thestricken heart that you loved so well has found peace at last; thecoal-black wine has been drunk: there is an end! And you, you poor, cowering fugitives, who only see each other's terrified faces when thewan gleam of the lightning blazes through the sky, perhaps it is wellthat you should weep and wail for the young master; but that is soonover, and the day will break. And this is what I am thinking of now:when the light comes and the seas are smooth, then which of you--oh, which of you all will tell this tale to the two women at Castle Dare?

 * * * * *

So fair shines the morning sun on the white sands of Iona! Thethree-days' gale is over. Behold how Ulva--Ulva the green-shored--the_Ool-a-va_ that the sailors love--is laughing out again to the clearskies! And the great skarts on the shores of Erisgeir are spreadingabroad their dusky wings to get them dried in the sun; and the seals arebasking on the rocks in Loch-na-Keal; and in Loch Scridain the whitegulls sit buoyant on the blue sea. There go the Gometra men in theirbrown-sailed boat to look after the lobster traps at Staffa, and verysoon you will see the steamer come round the far Cailleach Point; overat Erraidh they are signaling to the men at Dubh-Artach, and they areglad to have a message from them after the heavy gale. The new, brightday has begun; the world has awakened again to the joyous sunlight;there is a chattering of the sea-birds all along the shores. It is abright, eager, glad day for all the world. But there is silence inCastle Dare!

SHEILA IN LONDON

From 'A Princess of Thule'

She asked if they were lords who owned those beautiful houses built upon the hill, and half-smothered among lilacs and ash-trees androwan-trees and ivy. 

"My darling, " Lavender had said to her, "if your papa were to come andlive here, he could buy half a dozen of these cottages, gardens and all. They are mostly the property of well-to-do shopkeepers. If this littleplace takes your fancy, what will you say when you go South--when yousee Wimbledon and Richmond and Kew, with their grand old commons andtrees? Why, you could hide Oban in a corner of Richmond Park!"

"And my papa has seen all these places?"

"Yes. Don't you think it strange he should have seen them all, and knownhe could live in any of them, and then gone away back to Borva?"

"But what would the poor people have done if he had never gone back?"

"Oh, some one else would have taken his place. "

"And then, if he were living here, or in London, he might have gottired, and he might have wished to go back to the Lewis and see all thepeople he knew; and then he would come among them like a stranger, andhave no house to go to. "

Then Lavender said, quite gently:--

"Do you think, Sheila, you will ever tire of living in the South?"

The girl looked up quickly, and said with a sort of surprisedquestioning in her eyes:--

"No, not with you. But then we shall often go to the Lewis?"

"Oh, yes, " her husband said, "as often as we can conveniently. But itwill take some time at first, you know, before you get to know all myfriends, who are to be your friends, and before you get properly fittedwith your social circle. That will take you a long time, Sheila, and youmay have many annoyances or embarrassments to encounter; but you won'tbe very much afraid, my girl?"

Sheila merely looked up to him; there was no fear in the frank, braveeyes. 

The first large town she saw struck a cold chill to her heart. On a wetand dismal afternoon they sailed into Greenock. A heavy smoke hung aboutthe black building-yards and the dirty quays; the narrow and squalidstreets were filled with mud, and only the poorer sections of thepopulation waded through the mire or hung disconsolately about thecorners of the thorough-fares. A gloomier picture could not well beconceived; and Sheila, chilled with the long and wet sail and bewilderedby the noise and bustle of the harbor, was driven to the hotel with asore heart and a downcast face. 

"This is not like London, Frank?" she said, pretty nearly ready to crywith disappointment. 

"This? No. Well, it is like a part of London, certainly, but not thepart you will live in. "

"But how can we live in the one place without passing the other andbeing made miserable by it? There was no part of Oban like this. "

"Why, you will live miles away from the docks and quays of London. Youmight live for a lifetime in London without ever knowing it had aharbor. Don't you be afraid, Sheila. You will live in a district wherethere are far finer houses than any you saw in Oban, and far finertrees; and within a few minutes' walk you will find great gardens andparks, with lakes in them and wild fowls, and you will be able to teachthe boys about how to set the helm and the sails when they are launchingtheir small boats. "

"I should like that, " said Sheila, her face brightening. 

"Perhaps you would like a boat yourself?"

"Yes, " she said, frankly. "If there were not many people there, we mightgo out sometimes in the evening--"

Her husband laughed and took her hand: "You don't understand, Sheila. The boats the boys have are little things a foot or two long--like theone in your papa's bedroom in Borva. But many of the boys would begreatly obliged to you if you would teach them how to manage the sailsproperly, for sometimes dreadful shipwrecks occur. "

"You must bring them to our house. I am very fond of little boys, whenthey begin to forget to be shy, and let you become acquaintedwith them. "

"Well, " said Lavender, "I don't know many of the boys who sail boats inthe Serpentine: you will have to make their acquaintance yourself. ButI know one boy whom I must bring to the house. He is a German-Jew boy, who is going to be another Mendelssohn, his friends say. He is a prettyboy, with ruddy-brown hair, big black eyes, and a fine forehead; and hereally sings and plays delightfully. But you know, Sheila, you must nottreat him as a boy, for he is over fourteen, I should think; and if youwere to kiss him--"

"He might be angry, " said Sheila, with perfect simplicity. 

"I might, " said Lavender; and then, noticing that she seemed a littlesurprised, he merely patted her head and bade her go and get readyfor dinner. 

Then came the great climax of Sheila's southward journey--her arrival inLondon. She was all anxiety to see her future home; and as luck wouldhave it, there was a fair spring morning shining over the city. For acouple of hours before, she had sat and looked out of thecarriage-window as the train whirled rapidly through the scarcelyawakened country, and she had seen the soft and beautiful landscapes ofthe South lit up by the early sunlight. How the bright little villagesshone, with here and there a gilt weathercock glittering on the spire ofsome small gray church, while as yet in many valleys a pale gray mistlay along the bed of the level streams or clung to the dense woods onthe upland heights! Which was the more beautiful--the sharp, clearpicture, with its brilliant colors and its awakening life, or the moremystic landscape over which was still drawn the tender veil of themorning haze? She could not tell. She only knew that England, as shethen saw it, seemed a great country that was very beautiful, that hadfew inhabitants, and that was still and sleepy and bathed in sunshine. How happy must the people be who lived in those quiet green valleys bythe side of slow and smooth rivers, and amid great woods and avenues ofstately trees, the like of which she had not imagined even inher dreams!

But from the moment that they got out at Euston Square she seemed atrifle bewildered, and could only do implicitly as her husband badeher--clinging to his hand, for the most part, as if to make sure ofguidance. She did indeed glance somewhat nervously at the hansom intowhich Lavender put her, apparently asking how such a tall and narrowtwo-wheeled vehicle could be prevented toppling over. But when he, having sent on all their luggage by a respectable old four-wheeler, gotinto the hansom beside her, and put his hand inside her arm, and badeher be of good cheer that she should have such a pleasant morning towelcome her to London, she said "Yes, " mechanically, and only looked outin a wistful fashion at the great houses and trees of Euston Square, themighty and roaring stream of omnibuses, the droves of strangers, mostlyclad in black, as if they were going to church, and the pale blue smokethat seemed to mix with the sunshine and make it cold and distant. 

They were in no hurry, these two, on that still morning; and so, toimpress Sheila all at once with a sense of the greatness and grandeur ofLondon, he made the cabman cut down by Park Crescent and Portland Placeto Regent Circus. Then they went along Oxford Street; and there werecrowded omnibuses taking young men into the city, while all thepavements were busy with hurrying passers-by. What multitudes of unknownfaces, unknown to her and unknown to each other! These people did notspeak: they only hurried on, each intent upon his own affairs, caringnothing, apparently, for the din around them, and looking so strange andsad in their black clothes in the pale and misty sunlight. 

"You are in a trance, Sheila, " he said. 

She did not answer. Surely she had wandered into some magical city, fornow the houses on one side of the way suddenly ceased, and she sawbefore her a great and undulating extent of green, with a border ofbeautiful flowers, and with groups of trees that met the sky all alongthe southern horizon. Did the green and beautiful country she had seen, shoot in thus into the heart of the town, or was there another city faraway on the other side of the trees? The place was almost as deserted asthose still valleys she had passed by in the morning. Here in the streetthere was the roar of a passing crowd; but there was a long and almostdeserted stretch of park, with winding roads and umbrageous trees, onwhich the wan sunlight fell from between loose masses ofhalf-golden cloud. 

Then they passed Kensington Gardens, and there were more people walkingdown the broad highways between the elms. 

"You are getting nearly home now, Sheila, " he said. "And you will beable to come and walk in these avenues whenever you please. "

Was this, then, her home? this section of a barrack-row of dwellings, all alike in steps, pillars, doors, and windows? When she got inside, the servant who had opened the door bobbed a courtesy to her: should sheshake hands with her and say. "And are you ferry well?" But at thismoment Lavender came running up the steps, playfully hurried her intothe house and up the stairs, and led her into her own drawing-room. "Well, darling, what do you think of your home, now that you see it?"

Sheila looked around timidly. It was not a big room, but it was a palacein height and grandeur and color compared with that little museum inBorva in which Sheila's piano stood. It was all so strange andbeautiful--the split pomegranates and quaint leaves on the upper part ofthe walls, and underneath a dull slate-color where the pictures hung;the curious painting on the frames of the mirrors; the brilliantcurtains, with their stiff and formal patterns. It was not very muchlike a home as yet; it was more like a picture that had been carefullyplanned and executed; but she knew how he had thought of pleasing her inchoosing these things, and without saying a word she took his hand andkissed it. And then she went to one of the three tall French windows andlooked out on the square. There, between the trees, was a space ofbeautiful soft green; and some children dressed in bright dresses, andattended by a governess in sober black, had just begun to play croquet. An elderly lady with a small white dog was walking along one of thegraveled paths. An old man was pruning some bushes. 

"It is very still and quiet here, " said Sheila. "I was afraid we shouldhave to live in that terrible noise always. "

"I hope you won't find it dull, my darling, " he said. 

"Dull, when you are here?"

"But I cannot always be here, you know. "

She looked up. 

"You see, a man is so much in the way if he is dawdling about a houseall day long. You would begin to regard me as a nuisance, Sheila, andwould be for sending me to play croquet with those young Carruthers, merely that you might get the rooms dusted. Besides, you know I couldn'twork here: I must have a studio of some sort--in the neighborhood, ofcourse. And then you will give me your orders in the morning as to whenI am to come round for luncheon or dinner. "

"And you will be alone all day at your work?"

"Yes. "

"Then I will come and sit with you, my poor boy, " she said. 

"Much work I should do in that case!" he said. "But we'll see. In themean time go up-stairs and get your things off: that young person belowhas breakfast ready, I dare say. "

"But you have not shown me yet where Mr. Ingram lives, " said Sheilabefore she went to the door. 

"Oh, that is miles away. You have only seen a little bit of London yet. Ingram lives about as far away from here as the distance you have justcome, but in another direction. "

"It is like a world made of houses, " said Sheila, "and all filled withstrangers. But you will take me to see Mr. Ingram?"

"By-and-by, yes. But he is sure to drop in on you as soon as he fanciesyou are settled in your new home. "

And here at last was Mr. Ingram come; and the mere sound of his voiceseemed to carry her back to Borva, so that in talking to him and waitingon him as of old, she would scarcely have been surprised if her fatherhad walked in to say that a coaster was making for the harbor, or thatDuncan was going over to Stornoway, and Sheila would have to give himcommissions. 

Her husband did not take the same interest in the social and politicalaffairs of Borva that Mr. Ingram did. Lavender had made a pretense ofassisting Sheila in her work among the poor people, but the effort was ahopeless failure. He could not remember the name of the family thatwanted a new boat, and was visibly impatient when Sheila would sit downto write out for some aged crone a letter to her grandson in Canada. NowIngram, for the mere sake of occupation, had qualified himself duringhis various visits to Lewis, so that he might have become the homeminister of the King of Borva; and Sheila was glad to have one attentivelistener as she described all the wonderful things that had happened inthe island since the previous summer. 

But Ingram had got a full and complete holiday on which to come up andsee Sheila; and he had brought with him the wild and startling proposalthat in order that she should take her first plunge into the pleasuresof civilized life, her husband and herself should drive down to Richmondand dine at the Star and Garter. 

"What is that?" said Sheila. 

"My dear girl, " said her husband, seriously, "your ignorance issomething fearful to contemplate. It is quite bewildering. How can aperson who does not know what the Star and Garter is, be told what theStar and Garter is?"

"But I am willing to go and see, " said Sheila. 

"Then I must look after getting a brougham, " said Lavender, rising. 

"A brougham on such a day as this?" exclaimed Ingram. "Nonsense! Get anopen trap of some sort; and Sheila, just to please me, will put on thatvery blue dress she used to wear in Borva, and the hat and the whitefeather, if she has got them. "

"Perhaps you would like me to put on a sealskin cap and a redhandkerchief instead of a collar, " observed Lavender, calmly. 

"You may do as you please. Sheila and I are going to dine at the Starand Garter. "

"May I put on that blue dress?" said the girl, going up to her husband. 

"Yes, of course, if you like, " said Lavender meekly, going off to orderthe carriage, and wondering by what route he could drive those twomaniacs down to Richmond so that none of his friends should see them. 

When he came back again, bringing with him a landau which could be shutup for the homeward journey at night, he had to confess that no costumeseemed to suit Sheila so well as the rough sailor dress; and he was sopleased with her appearance that he consented at once to let Bras gowith them in the carriage, on condition that Sheila should beresponsible for him. Indeed, after the first shiver of driving away fromthe square was over, he forgot that there was much unusual about thelook of this odd pleasure party. If you had told him eighteen monthsbefore that on a bright day in May, just as people were going home fromthe Park for luncheon, he would go for a drive in a hired trap with onehorse, his companions being a man with a brown wide-awake, a girldressed as though she were the owner of a yacht, and an immensedeerhound, and that in this fashion he would dare to drive up to theStar and Garter and order dinner, he would have bet five hundred to onethat such a thing would never occur so long as he preserved his senses. But somehow he did not mind much. He was very much at home with thosetwo people beside him; the day was bright and fresh; the horse went agood pace; and once they were over Hammersmith Bridge and out amongfields and trees, the country looked exceedingly pretty, and all thebeauty of it was mirrored in Sheila's eyes. 

"I can't quite make you out in that dress, Sheila, " he said. "I am notsure whether it is real and business-like or a theatrical costume. Ihave seen girls on Ryde Pier with something of the same sort on, only agood deal more pronounced, you know, and they looked like shamyachtsmen; and I have seen stewardesses wearing that color and textureof cloth--"

"But why not leave it as it is, " said Ingram--"a solitary costumeproduced by certain conditions of climate and duties, acting inconjunction with a natural taste for harmonious coloring and simpleform? That dress, I will maintain, sprang as naturally from the salt seaas Aphrodite did; and the man who suspects artifice in it, or invention, has had his mind perverted by the skepticism of modern society. "

"Is my dress so very wonderful?" said Sheila, with a grave complacence. "I am pleased that the Lewis has produced such a fine thing, and perhapsyou would like me to tell you its history. It was my papa bought a pieceof blue serge in Stornoway: it cost three shillings sixpence a yard, anda dressmaker in Stornoway cut it for me, and I made it myself. That isall the history of the wonderful dress. "

Suddenly Sheila seized her husband's arm. They had got down to the riverby Mortlake; and there, on the broad bosom of the stream, a long andslender boat was shooting by, pulled by four oarsmen clad inwhite flannel. 

"How can they go out in such a boat?" said Sheila, with great alarmvisible in her eyes. "It is scarcely a boat at all; and if they touch arock, or if the wind catches them--"

"Don't be frightened, Sheila, " said her husband. "They are quite safe. There are no rocks in our rivers, and the wind does not give us squallshere like those on Loch Roag. You will see hundreds of those boats byand by, and perhaps you yourself will go out in one. "

"Oh, never, never!" she said, almost with a shudder. 

"Why, if the people here heard you they would not know how brave asailor you are. You are not afraid to go out at night by yourself on thesea, and you won't go on a smooth inland river--"

"But those boats: if you touch them they must go over. "

She seemed glad to get away from the river. She could not be persuadedof the safety of the slender craft of the Thames; and indeed, for sometime after seemed so strangely depressed that Lavender begged andprayed of her to tell him what was the matter. It was simple enough. Shehad heard him speak of his boating adventures. Was it in such boats asthat she had just seen? and might he not be some day going out in one ofthem and an accident--the breaking of an oar, a gust of wind--

There was nothing for it but to reassure her by a solemn promise that inno circumstances whatever would he, Lavender, go into a boat without herexpress permission, whereupon Sheila was as grateful to him as though hehad dowered her with a kingdom. 

This was not the Richmond Hill of her fancy--this spacious height; withits great mansions, its magnificent elms, and its view of all thewestward and wooded country, with the blue-white streak of the riverwinding through the green foliage. Where was the farm? The famous Lassof Richmond Hill must have lived on a farm; but here surely were thehouses of great lords and nobles, which had apparently been there foryears and years. And was this really a hotel that they stopped at--thisgreat building that she could only compare to Stornoway Castle?

"Now, Sheila, " said Lavender, after they had ordered dinner and goneout, "mind you keep a tight hold on that leash, for Bras will seestrange things in the Park. "

"It is I who will see strange things, " she said; and the prophecy wasamply fulfilled. For as they went along the broad path, and came betterinto view of the splendid undulation of woodland and pasture and fern, when on the one hand they saw the Thames far below them flowing throughthe green and spacious valley, and on the other hand caught some duskyglimpse of the far white houses of London, it seemed to her that she hadgot into a new world, and that this world was far more beautiful thanthe great city she had left. She did not care so much for the famousview from the hill. She had cast one quick look to the horizon, with onethrob of expectation that the sea might be there. There was no seathere--only the faint blue of long lines of country, apparently withoutlimit. Moreover, over the western landscape a faint haze prevailed, thatincreased in the distance and softened down the more distant woods intoa sober gray. That great extent of wooded plain, lying sleepily in itspale mists, was not so cheerful as the scene around her, where thesunlight was sharp and clear, the air fresh, the trees flooded with apure and bright color. Here indeed was a cheerful and beautiful world, and she was full of curiosity to know all about it and its strangefeatures. What was the name of this tree? and how did it differ fromthat? Were not these rabbits over by the fence? and did rabbits live inthe midst of trees and bushes? What sort of wood was the fence made of?and was it not terribly expensive to have such a protection? Could nothe tell the cost of a wooden fence? Why did they not use wire netting?Was not that a loch away down there? and what was its name? A lochwithout a name! Did the salmon come up to it? and did any sea-birds evercome inland and build their nests on its margin?

"O, Bras, you must come and look at the loch. It is a long time sinceyou will see a loch. "

And away she went through the thick bracken, holding on to the swayingleash that held the galloping greyhound, and running swiftly as thoughshe had been making down for the shore to get out the Maighdean-mhara. 

"Sheila, " called her husband, "don't be foolish!"

"Sheila, " called Ingram, "have pity on an old man!"

Suddenly she stopped. A brace of partridges had sprung up at somedistance, and with a wild whirr of their wings were now directing theirlow and rapid flight toward the bottom of the valley. 

"What birds are those?" she said peremptorily. 

She took no notice of the fact that her companions were pretty nearlytoo blown to speak. There was a brisk life and color in her face, andall her attention was absorbed in watching the flight of the birds. Lavender fancied he saw in the fixed and keen look something of oldMackenzie's gray eye: it was not the first trace of a likeness to herfather he had seen. 

"You bad girl!" he said, "they are partridges. "

She paid no heed to this reproach, for what were those other things overthere underneath the trees? Bras had pricked up his ears, and there wasa strange excitement in his look and in his trembling frame. 

"Deer!" she cried, with her eyes as fixed as were those of the dogbeside her. 

"Well, " said her husband calmly, "what although they are deer?"

"But Bras--" she said; and with that she caught the leash with both herhands, "Bras won't mind them if you keep him quiet. I suppose you can managehim better than I can. I wish we had brought a whip. "

"I would rather let him kill every deer in the Park than touch him witha whip, " said Sheila proudly. 

"You fearful creature, you don't know what you say. That is hightreason. If George Ranger heard you, he would have you hanged in frontof the Star and Garter. "

"Who is George Ranger?" said Sheila with an air as if she had said, "Doyou know that I am the daughter of the King of Borva, and whoevertouches me will have to answer to my papa, who is not afraid of anyGeorge Ranger?"

"He is a great lord who hangs all persons who disturb the deer in thisPark. "

"But why do they not go away?" said Sheila impatiently. "I have neverseen any deer so stupid. It is their own fault if they are disturbed:why do they remain so near to people and to houses?"

"My dear child, if Bras wasn't here you would probably find some ofthose deer coming up to see if you had any bits of sugar or pieces ofbread about your pockets. "

"Then they are like sheep--they are not like deer, " she said with somecontempt. "If I could only tell Bras that it is sheep he will be lookingat, he would not look any more. And so small they are! They are as smallas the roe, but they have horns as big as many of the red-deer. Dopeople eat them?"

"I suppose so. "

"And what will they cost?"

"I am sure I can't tell you. "

"Are they as good as the roe or the big deer?"

"I don't know that either. I don't think I ever ate fallow-deer. But youknow they are not kept here for that purpose. A great many gentlemen inthis country keep a lot of them in their parks merely to look pretty. They cost a great deal more than they produce. "

"They must eat up a great deal of fine grass, " said Sheila almostsorrowfully. "It is a beautiful ground for sheep--no rushes, no peatmoss, only fine good grass and dry land. I should like my papa to seeall this beautiful ground. "

"I fancy he has seen it. "

"Was my papa here?"

"I think he said so. "

"And did he see those deer?"

"Doubtless. "

"He never told me of them. "

By this time they had pretty nearly got down to the little lake, andBras had been alternately coaxed and threatened into a quiescent mood. 

Sheila evidently expected to hear a flapping of sea-fowls' wings whenthey got near the margin; and looked all round for the first sudden dartfrom the banks. But a dead silence prevailed; and as there were neitherfish nor birds to watch, she went along to a wooden bench and sat downthere, one of her companions on each hand. It was a pretty scene thatlay before her--the small stretch of water ruffled with the wind, butshowing a dash of blue sky here and there--the trees in the inclosurebeyond, clad in their summer foliage, the smooth greensward shining inthe afternoon sunlight. Here at least was absolute quiet after the roarof London; and it was somewhat wistfully that she asked her husband howfar this place was from her home, and whether, when he was at work, shecould not come down here by herself. 

"Certainly, " he said, never dreaming that she would think of doing sucha thing. 

By-and-by they returned to the hotel; and while they sat at dinner agreat fire of sunset spread over the west; and the far woods became of arich purple, streaked here and there with lines of pale white mist. Theriver caught the glow of the crimson clouds above, and shone duskily redamid the dark green of the trees. Deeper and deeper grew the color ofthe sun as it sank to the horizon, until it disappeared behind one lowbar of purple cloud; and then the wild glow in the west slowly fadedaway; the river became pallid and indistinct; the white mists over thedistant woods seemed to grow denser; and then, as here and there a lampwas lit far down in the valley, one or two pale stars appeared in thesky overhead, and the night came on apace. 

"It is so strange, " Sheila said, "to find the darkness coming on, andnot to hear the sound of the waves. I wonder if it is a fine nightat Borva. "

Her husband went over to her and led her back to the table, where thecandles, shining over the white cloth and the colored glasses, offered amore cheerful picture than the darkening landscape outside. They were ina private room; so that when dinner was over, Sheila was allowed toamuse herself with the fruit, while her two companions lit their cigars. Where was the quaint old piano now; and the glass of hot whisky andwater; and the 'Lament of Monaltrie, ' or 'Love in thine eyes foreverplays'? It seemed, but for the greatness of the room, to be a repetitionof one of those evenings at Borva that now belonged to a far-off past. Here was Sheila, not minding the smoke, listening to Ingram as of old, and sometimes saying something in that sweetly inflected speech of hers;here was Ingram, talking, as it were, out of a brown study, and moroselyobjecting to pretty nearly everything Lavender said, but always ready toprove Sheila right; and Lavender himself, as unlike a married man asever, talking impatiently, impetuously, and wildly, except at such timesas he said something to his young wife, and then some brief smile andlook, or some pat on the hand, said more than words. But where, Sheilamay have thought, was the one wanting to complete the group? Has he gonedown to Borvabost to see about the cargoes of fish to be sent off in themorning? Perhaps he is talking to Duncan outside about the cleaning ofthe guns, or making up cartridges in the kitchen. When Sheila'sattention wandered away from the talk of her companions, she could nothelp listening for the sound of the waves; and as there was no suchmessage coming to her from the great wooded plain without, her fancytook her away across that mighty country she had traveled through, andcarried her up to the island of Loch Roag, until she almost fancied shecould smell the peat-smoke in the night air, and listen to the sea, andhear her father pacing up and down the gravel outside the house, perhapsthinking of her as she was thinking of him. 

This little excursion to Richmond was long remembered by those three. Itwas the last of their meetings before Sheila was ushered into the bigworld to busy herself with new occupations and cares. It was a pleasantlittle journey throughout; for as they got into the landau to drive backto town, the moon was shining high up in the southern heavens, and theair was mild and fresh, so that they had the carriage opened, andSheila, well wrapped up, lay and looked around her with a strange wonderand joy as they drove underneath the shadow of the trees and out againinto the clear sheen of the night. They saw the river, too, flowingsmoothly and palely down between its dark banks; and somehow here thesilence checked them, and they hummed no more those duets they used tosing up at Borva. Of what were they thinking, then, as they drovethrough the clear night along the lonely road? Lavender at least wasrejoicing at his great good fortune that he had secured for ever tohimself the true-hearted girl who now sat opposite to him, with themoonlight touching her face and hair; and he was laughing to himself atthe notion that he did not properly appreciate her or understand her orperceive her real character. If not he, who then? Had he not watchedevery turn of her disposition, every expression of her wishes, everygrace of her manner and look of her eyes? and was he not overjoyed tofind that the more he knew of her the more he loved her? Marriage hadincreased rather than diminished the mystery and wonder he had wovenabout her. He was more her lover now than he had been before hismarriage. Who could see in her eyes what he saw? Elderly folks can lookat a girl's eyes, and see that they are brown or blue or green, as thecase may be; but the lover looks at them and sees in them the magicmirror of a hundred possible worlds. How can he fathom the sea of dreamsthat lies there, or tell what strange fancies and reminiscences may beinvolved in an absent look? Is she thinking of starlit nights on somedistant lake, or of the old bygone days on the hills? All her formerlife is told there, and yet but half told, and he longs to becomepossessed of all the beautiful past that she has seen. Here is aconstant mystery to him, and there is a singular and wistful attractionfor him in those still deeps where the thoughts and dreams of aninnocent soul lie but half revealed. He does not see those things in theeyes of women he is not in love with; but when in after years he iscarelessly regarding this or the other woman, some chance look, somebrief and sudden turn of expression, will recall to him, as with astroke of lightning, all the old wonder-time, and his heart will go nighto breaking to think that he has grown old, and that he has forgotten somuch, and that the fair, wild days of romance and longing are passedaway forever. 

RICHARD DODDRIDGE BLACKMORE

(1825-)

The literary success of Blackmore came late in life. He was born inLongworth, Berkshire, England, in 1825, was graduated at Exeter College, Oxford, and afterwards studied law in the Middle Temple, practicing hisprofession as a conveyancer. 

But his heart was in an outdoor life. Like his own John Ridd, the heroof 'Lorna Doone, ' he is a man of the moors and fields, with a freshbreeze blowing over him and a farmer's cares in his mind. In 1854-5 hepublished several volumes of poems under the pen-name of "Melanter. "'The Bugle of the Black Sea' and a complete translation of Virgil's'Georgics' appeared in 1871. 

Other volumes of verse followed, of which it may be said that he is apoet more sensitive to influence than fertile in original impulse;although some of his prose, in which even rhythm is observed in whatseems to be an unconscious manner, displays high original quality. It istherefore fair to say of him as a poet that while his works did not gainhim the reputation that has placed him among the foremost literary menof the day, the subtle influence rural nature exerts on man, and thepart it bears in the sweet harmonies of life, are told in passages thatare resonant with melody. 

The poet's delight is in the prosperity of the fields, as if they werehis friends, and in the dumb loving motherhood with which all natureseems, to his eyes, to surround him. 

As the precursor of a summer that yielded such a mellow harvest, thespring of Mr. Blackmore's fiction was slow and intermittent. The plot ofhis stories is never probable, but in his first novel, 'Clara Vaughan, 'published in 1864, it impairs belief in the general reality of the book;and though there is hint of the power to excite sympathy of which hislatter novels prove him so great a master, the intelligence refuses suchshrieking melodrama. 'Lorna Doone' therefore came unheralded. It waspublished in London in 1869 and slowly grew in favor, then leaped intopopularity. In 1878 twenty-two editions had been printed. 

Other novels followed. 'The Maid of Sker, ' 'Alice Lorraine, ' 'Cripps theCarrier, ' 'Erema, ' 'Mary Anerley, ' 'Christowell, ' 'Sir Thomas Upton, 'came in rapid succession. The paternity of no novel of Mr. Blackmore'sis doubtful. All have marked characteristics. They are long andexceedingly minute in detail. With all his finish, he tells his storyalmost with a child's elaborateness of incident. Every change of theseasons, the history of every walk is set down. He is in love with everyfeature of the landscape, be it the wild doons of Exmoor or the wilderYorkshire coast, or, across the seas, the plains of the Sierras. He is astory-teller of the days in which it was quite unimportant whether talesshould come to an end or not. He would have saved Scheherazade all hertrouble and enjoyed the task. He cannot pass carelessly by the slightestincident; it is his nature to _approfondir_ all his surroundings: if thehero breaks his stirrup and stops at the blacksmith's to have it mended, the blacksmith will appear at the end of the story united to the rider, from the third and fourth generation, by a subtle thread of connection. But all these details, while they encumber the tale, contribute to aharmonious whole; for he has in a peculiar degree an instinct for thejudicious introduction of telling human characters that are as much apart of the detail of the scene as the trees and stones. Upon thesecharacters he expends a wealth of humor, and his humor is characteristicof Blackmore alone. It is full of unexpected turns and twists of fancy, quiet fun when we expect grave comment. Friendly old people appear, fullof innumerable quips of individuality, and breezy fields and wealthyorchards and a general mellow fruitfulness form the background ofthe play. 

Especially in his prodigality is Blackmore characteristic of Blackmore. Other writers keep their quaint reflections for their dialogue, andconfer immortality on their principal characters. But Blackmore has nosense of economy. As Mr. Saintsbury says of Thackeray, he could notintroduce a personage, however subordinate, without making him a livingcreature. He does little with a character he has described in suchpowerful lines as Stephen Anerley. The fisher village folks, wild andhardy, with their slow speech and sly sagacity, the men at sea and thewomen at home; the maimed and broken-down yet jolly old tars; theanxious little merchants, and the heavy coast-guardsmen, we learn toknow as we know the rocks and caves, the fishing cobbles in their brightcolors, the slow-tongued gossips pouring out their long-voweled speech. All these characters, although they have a general resemblance to eachother, have also a peculiar, quaint simplicity and wisdom that isBlackmoreish, as Thackeray's characters are Thackeraian. The authorsteps in and gives his puppets his little twist, the characteristicobliquity each possesses, his quips and cranks. If he would but confinethe abundant tide of his flowing and leisurely utterances, he would havemore time to bestow on really exciting and dramatic episodes, instead ofgoing off into a little corner and carefully embellishing it, while thedenouement waits and the interest grows cold. Neither can he write apage without sending a sly bolt of amused perception through it, inwhich he discovers some foible or pricks some bubble of pretension, butalways tenderly, as if he loved his victim. To the fact that Mr. Blackmore's success came late in life, we have perhaps to be thankfulfor the softened and indulgent maturity which finds a hundred excuses, and knows that nothing is as good or as bad as it seems. 

[Illustration: R. D. BLACKMORE. ]

The best expression of his genius in the delineation of character isnot--with perhaps the exception of John Ridd--in his heroes andheroines. The former are drawn with the stronger hand. The maidens arepretty girls, sweet and good and brave for the sake of their fathers, and cunning for their lovers. His young men are gallant and true; but asexemplary love is apt to run smooth, it is not here that the drama findsthe necessary amount of difficulty and pain. The interest centres insuch delicious conceptions as Parson Short, full of muscular energy andsound doctrine, in Dr. Uperandown, his salt-water parish rival, thecarrier Cripps, Parson Chowne, and the renowned highwayman Tom Faggus, of whom they were immensely proud. These people, before he has done withthem, get hold of our sympathies, while the author keeps perenniallyfresh his enjoyment of human follies. His rustics do not talk withelaborate humor, nor are they amiable, but they are racy of the soil. 

One cannot dismiss a novelist without a reference to his plots, unlessindeed he discards plots as an article of faith. Mr. Blackmore has nosuch intention. His stories are full of adventure and dramaticsituations, and his melodrama is of the lurid kind on which the calciumlight is thrown. Sometimes, as in 'The Maid of Sker' and 'Cripps' theyviolate every probability. In others, as in 'Mary Anerley, ' the mysteryis childishly simple, the oft-repeated plot of a lost child recovered bycertain strangely wrought gold buttons. In 'Erema, ' the narrativesuffers for want of vraisemblance, and loses by being related by a veryyoung girl who has had no opportunity of becoming familiar with theworld she describes. He is constantly guilty of that splendid mendacitywhich fiction loves, but which is nearly impossible to actual life. Self-sacrifice as depicted in 'Christowell, ' involving much suffering tolittle purpose, is unsatisfactory; and it is a sin against the veritiesto make unreasonable generosity the basis of fiction representing life. 

But while the reader quarrels with a waste of precious material, Mr. Blackmore pursues his meditative way, with his smile of genialobservation, himself the best of all his personages. The smell of theheather and the wild moorland odors, the honeyed grass and the fragrantthyme, the darker breathings of the sea, get into his pages and renderthem fragrant. A few villages lie on the edge of that wild region, anda living trout stream darts by, but the landscape does not obtrudeitself nor interrupt the story. The quaint philosophy flows onspontaneously, with a tender humanity and cheerful fun. A writer likethis may be pardoned if he is an indifferent builder of a tale. 

The scene of 'Lorna Doone, ' the novelist's masterpiece, is laid inDevonshire; and what Wordsworth did for the lake country, Blackmore hasdone for the fairest county in England. The time is that of Charles II. The book is historical, it is very long, it is minute in detail, and itis melodramatic: but it is alive. The strange adventures may or may nothave happened, but we believe in them, for it is real life that is setbefore us; and whatever the author may tell us of robber caves andblack-hearted villains, there is nothing incredible in any of hisconfidences. Nothing in recent novel writing is more vivid than thecontrast between these outcast nobles the Doones, robbers and brigands, living in the wilds of Bagworthy Forest, locked fast in the hills, --andthe peaceful farm-house of the yeoman Ridd who lives on the Downs. Thishome is not idealized. From the diamond-paned kitchen come savory smellsof cooking and substantial fare. Pretty Annie, whose "like has neverbeen seen for making a man comfortable, " Lizzie, who was undersized andloved books, "but knew the gift of cooking had not been vouchsafed herby God, " the sweet homely mother, and above all the manly figure of theyoung giant John, make a picture of which the gloomy castle of theDoones is the shadow. And what more charming than the story of the lovethat takes possession of the young boy, making a poet, a soldier, aknight of him, through a chance encounter with Lorna, the queen of thewild band, the grandchild of old Sir Ensor Doone?

With John Ridd, --"Grit Jan"--the author dwelt till he possessed him withhuman attributes and made him alive. Around him the interest of thestory centres. He is full of mother-wit and observation of men andthings, especially of every changing mood of the nature he regards ashis true mother. He is brave and resourceful, and rescues Lorna andhimself from numberless difficulties by his native shrewdness. And hislove is a poem, an idyl that crowns him a shepherd king in his own greenpastures. Nothing that he does in his plodding, sturdy way wearies us. His size, his strength, his good farming, the way he digs his sheep outof the snow, entertain us as well as his rescue of Lorna from the clan. 

The texture of this novel is close, the composition elaborate. It isimpossible to escape from it, the story having been once begun. 'LornaDoone' is Blackmore at his highest point, full of truest nature andloveliest thoughts. 

A DESPERATE VENTURE

From 'Lorna Doone'

The journey was a great deal longer to fetch around the southern hills, and enter by the Doone gate, than to cross the lower land and steal inby the water-slide. However, I durst not take a horse (for fear of theDoones, who might be abroad upon their usual business), but startedbetimes in the evening, so as not to hurry, or waste any strength uponthe way. And thus I came to the robbers' highway, walking circumspectly, scanning the sky-line of every hill, and searching the folds of everyvalley, for any moving figure. 

Although it was now well on toward dark, and the sun was down an hour orso, I could see the robbers' road before me, in a trough of the windinghills, where the brook plowed down from the higher barrows, and thecoving banks were roofed with furze. At present there was no onepassing, neither post nor sentinel, so far as I could descry; but Ithought it safer to wait a little, as twilight melted into night; andthen I crept down a seam of the highland, and stood upon theDoone track. 

As the road approached the entrance, it became more straight and strong, like a channel cut from rock, with the water brawling darkly along thenaked side of it. Not a tree or bush was left, to shelter a man frombullets; all was stern, and stiff, and rugged, as I could not helpperceiving, even through the darkness: and a smell as of churchyardmold, a sense of being boxed in and cooped, made me long to beout again. 

And here I was, or seemed to be, particularly unlucky; for as I drewnear the very entrance, lightly of foot, and warily, the moon (which hadoften been my friend) like an enemy broke upon me, topping the eastwardridge of rock, and filling all the open spaces with the play of waveringlight. I shrank back into the shadowy quarter on the right side of theroad, and gloomily employed myself to watch the triple entrance, onwhich the moonlight fell askew. 

All across and before the three rude and beetling archways hung a felledoak overhead, black and thick and threatening. This, as I heard before, could be let fall in a moment, so as to crush a score of men, and barthe approach of horses. Behind this tree the rocky mouth was spanned, asby a gallery, with brushwood and piled timber, all upon a ledge orstone, where thirty men might lurk unseen, and fire at any invader. Fromthat rampart it would be impossible to dislodge them, because the rockfell sheer below them twenty feet, or it may be more; while overhead ittowered three hundred, and so jutted over that nothing could be castupon them, even if a man could climb the height. And the access to thisportcullis place--if I may so call it, being no portcullis there--wasthrough certain rocky chambers known to the tenants only. 

But the cleverest of their devices, and the most puzzling to an enemy, was that, instead of one mouth only, there were three to choose from, with nothing to betoken which was the proper access, all being prettymuch alike, and all unfenced and yawning. And the common rumor was thatin times of any danger, when any force was known to be on muster intheir neighborhood, they changed their entrance every day, and divertedthe other two, by means of sliding-doors, to the chasm and dark abysses. 

Now I could see those three rough arches, jagged, black, and terrible, and I knew that only one of them could lead me to the valley; neithergave the river now any further guidance, but dived underground with asullen roar, where it met the cross-bar of the mountain. Having no meansat all of judging which was the right way of the three, and knowing thatthe other two would lead to almost certain death, in the ruggedness anddarkness--for how could a man, among precipices and bottomless depths ofwater, without a ray of light, have any chance to save his life?--I dodeclare that I was half inclined to go away, and have done with it. 

However, I knew one thing for certain, to wit, that the longer I stayeddebating, the more would the enterprise pall upon me, and the less myrelish be. And it struck me that, in times of peace, the middle way wasthe likeliest; and the others diverging right and left in their furtherparts might be made to slide into it (not far from the entrance) at thepleasure of the warders. Also I took it for good omen that I remembered(as rarely happened) a very fine line in the Latin grammar, whoseemphasis and meaning is, "Middle road is fastest. "

Therefore, without more hesitation, I plunged into the middle way, holding a long ash-staff before me, shodden at the end with iron. Presently I was in black darkness, groping along the wall, and feelinga deal more fear than I wished to feel; especially when, upon lookingback, I could no longer see the light, which I had forsaken. Then Istumbled over something hard, and sharp, and very cold; moreover, sogrievous to my legs that it needed my very best doctrine and humor toforbear from swearing in the manner they use in London. But when Iarose, and felt it, and knew it to be a culverin, I was somewhatreassured thereby, inasmuch as it was not likely that they would plantthis engine except in the real and true entrance. 

Therefore I went on again, more painfully and wearily, and presentlyfound it to be good that I had received that knock, and borne it withsuch patience; for otherwise I might have blundered full upon thesentries, and been shot without more ado. As it was, I had barely timeto draw back, as I turned a corner upon them; and if their lantern hadbeen in its place, they could scarce have failed to descry me, unlessindeed I had seen the gleam before I turned the corner. 

There seemed to be only two of them, of size indeed and stature as allthe Doones must be; but I need not have feared to encounter them both, had they been unarmed, as I was. It was plain, however, that each had along and heavy carbine, not in his hands (as it should have been), butstanding close beside him. Therefore it behooved me now to be exceedingcareful; and even that might scarce avail, without luck in proportion. So I kept well back at the corner, and laid one cheek to the rock face, and kept my outer eye round the jut in the wariest mode I could compass, watching my opportunity; and this is what I saw:

The two villains looked very happy--which villains have no right to be, but often are, meseemeth; they were sitting in a niche of rock, with thelantern in the corner, quaffing something from glass measures, andplaying at pushpin, or shepherd's chess, or basset, or some trivial gameof that sort. Each was smoking a long clay pipe, quite of new Londonshape, I could see, for the shadow was thrown out clearly; and eachwould laugh from time to time as he fancied he got the better of it. Onewas sitting with his knees up, and left hand on his thigh; and this onehad his back to me, and seemed to be the stouter. The other leaned moreagainst the rock, half sitting and half astraddle, and wearing leathernoveralls, as if newly come from riding. I could see his face quiteclearly by the light of the open lantern, and a handsomer or a bolderface I had seldom if ever set eyes upon; insomuch that it made me veryunhappy to think of his being so near my Lorna. 

"How long am I to stay crouching here?" I asked of myself at last, beingtired of hearing them cry, "Score one, " "Score two, " "No, by ----, Charlie!" "By ----, I say it is, Phelps. "

And yet my only chance of slipping by them unperceived was to wait tillthey quarreled more, and came to blows about it. Presently, as I made upmy mind to steal along towards them (for the cavern was pretty wide justthere), Charlie, or Charleworth Doone, the younger and taller man, reached forth his hand to seize the money, which he swore he had wonthat time. Upon this the other jerked his arm, vowing that he had noright to do it; whereupon Charlie flung at his face the contents of theglass he was sipping, but missed him and hit the candle, which sputteredwith a flare of blue flame (from the strength, perhaps, of the spirit), and then went out completely. At this one swore and the other laughed;and before they had settled what to do, I was past them and roundthe corner. 

And then, like a giddy fool as I was, I needs must give them astartler--the whoop of an owl, done so exactly, as John Fry had taughtme, and echoed by the roof so fearfully, that one of them dropped thetinder-box, and the other caught up his gun and cocked it--at least as Ijudged by the sounds they made. And then, too late, I knew my madness:for if either of them had fired, no doubt but what all the village wouldhave risen and rushed upon me. However, as the luck of the matter went, it proved for my advantage; for I heard one say to the other:--

"Curse it, Charlie, what was that? It scared me so, I have dropped mybox; my flint is gone, and everything. Will the brimstone catch fromyour pipe, my lad?"

"My pipe is out, Phelps, ever so long. D--n it, I am not afraid of anowl, man. Give me the lantern, and stay here. I'm not half done with youyet, my friend. "

"Well said, my boy, well said! Go straight to Carver's, mind you. Theother sleepy-heads be snoring, as there is nothing up to-night. Nodallying now under captain's window: Queen will have naught to say toyou, and Carver will punch your head into a new wick for your lantern. "

"Will he, though? Two can play at that. "

And so, after some rude jests and laughter, and a few more oaths, Iheard Charlie (or at any rate somebody) coming toward me, with a looseand not too sober footfall. As he reeled a little in his gait, and Iwould not move from his way one inch, after his talk of Lorna, but onlylonged to grasp him (if common sense permitted it), his braided coatcame against my thumb, and his leathern gaiters brushed my knee. If hehad turned or noticed it, he would have been a dead man in a moment; buthis drunkenness saved him. 

So I let him reel on unharmed; and thereupon it occurred to me that Icould have no better guide, passing as he would exactly where I wishedto be--that is to say, under Lorna's window. Therefore I followed him, without any special caution; and soon I had the pleasure of seeing hisform against the moonlit sky. 

Down a steep and winding path, with a hand-rail at the corners (such asthey have at Ilfracombe), Master Charlie tripped along--and indeed therewas much tripping, and he must have been an active fellow to recover ashe did--and after him walked I, much hoping (for his own poor sake) thathe might not turn and espy me. 

But Bacchus (of whom I read at school, with great wonder about hismeaning--and the same I may say of Venus), that great deity, preservedCharlie, his pious worshiper, from regarding consequences. So he led mevery kindly to the top of the meadow-land where the stream fromunderground broke forth, seething quietly with a little hiss of bubbles. Hence I had fair view and outline of the robbers' township, spread withbushes here and there, but not heavily overshadowed. The moon, approaching now the full, brought the forms in manner forth, clothingeach with character, as the moon (more than the sun) does to an eyeaccustomed. 

I knew that the captain's house was first, both from what Lorna had saidof it, and from my mother's description, and now again from seeingCharlie halt there for a certain time, and whistle on his fingers, andhurry on, fearing consequence. The tune that he whistled was strange tome, and lingered in my ears, as having something very new and strikingand fantastic in it. And I repeated it softly to myself, while I markedthe position of the houses and the beauty of the village. For thestream, in lieu of the street, passing between the houses, and affordingperpetual change and twinkling and reflections--moreover, by its sleepymurmur, soothing all the dwellers there--this, and the snugness of theposition, walled with rock and spread with herbage, made it look in thequiet moonlight like a little paradise. And to think of all the inmatesthere sleeping with good consciences, having plied their useful trade ofmaking others work for them, enjoying life without much labor, yet withgreat renown!

Master Charlie went down the village, and I followed him carefully, keeping as much as possible in the shadowy places, and watching thewindows of every house, lest any light should be burning. As I passedSir Ensor's house, my heart leaped up, for I spied a window, higher thanthe rest above the ground, and with a faint light moving. This couldhardly fail to be the room wherein my darling lay; for here thatimpudent young fellow had gazed while he was whistling. And here mycourage grew tenfold, and my spirit feared no evil; for lo! if Lorna hadbeen surrendered to that scoundrel Carver, she would not have been ather grandfather's house, but in Carver's accursed dwelling. 

Warm with this idea, I hurried after Charleworth Doone, being resolvednot to harm him now, unless my own life required it. And while I watchedfrom behind a tree, the door of the furthest house was opened; and, sureenough, it was Carver's self, who stood bareheaded, and half undressed, in the doorway. I could see his great black chest and arms, by the lightof the lamp he bore. 

"Who wants me this time of night?" he grumbled, in a deep, gruff voice;"any young scamp prowling after the maids shall have sore bones forhis trouble. "

"All the fair maids are for thee, are they, Master Carver?" Charlieanswered, laughing; "we young scamps must be well content with coarserstuff than thou wouldst have. "

"Would have? Ay, and will have, " the great beast muttered, angrily. "Ibide my time; but not very long. Only one word for thy good, Charlie. Iwill fling thee senseless into the river if ever I catch thy girl-facehere again. "

"Mayhap, Master Carver, it is more than thou couldst do. But I will notkeep thee; thou art not pleasant company to-night. All I want is a lightfor my lantern, and a glass of schnapps, if thou hast it. "

"What is become of thy light, then? Good for thee I am not on duty. "

"A great owl flew between me and Phelps as we watched beside theculverin, and so scared was he at our fierce bright eyes that he felland knocked the light out. "

"Likely tale, or likely lie, Charles! We will have the truth to-morrow. Here, take thy light, and be gone with thee. All virtuous men are inbed now. "

"Then so will I be; and why art thou not? Ha! have I earned my schnappsnow?"

"If thou hast, thou hast paid a bad debt! there is too much in theealready. Be off! my patience is done with. "

Then he slammed the door in the young man's face, having kindled hislantern by this time; and Charlie went up the watch-place again, muttering, as he passed me, "Bad lookout for all of us when that surlyold beast is captain. No gentle blood in him, no hospitality, not evenpleasant language, nor a good new oath in his frowzy pate! I've a mindto cut the whole of it; and but for the girls I would do so. "

My heart was in my mouth, as they say, when I stood in the shade byLorna's window, and whispered her name gently. The house was of onestory only, as the others were, with pine-ends standing forth the stone, and only two rough windows upon that western side of it, and perhapsthose two were Lorna's. The Doones had been their own builders, for noone should know their ins and outs; and of course their work was clumsy. As for their windows, they stole them mostly from the houses roundabout. But though the window was not very close, I might have whisperedlong enough before she would have answered me, frightened as she was, nodoubt, by many a rude overture. And I durst not speak aloud, because Isaw another watchman posted on the western cliff, and commanding all thevalley. And now this man (having no companion for drinking or forgambling) espied me against the wall of the house, and advanced to thebrink, and challenged me. 

"Who are you there? Answer. One, two, three and I fire at thee. "

The nozzle of his gun was pointed full upon me, as I could see, with themoonlight striking on the barrel; he was not more than fifty yards off, and now he began to reckon. Being almost desperate about it, I began towhistle, wondering how far I should get before I lost my windpipe; andas luck would have it, my lips fell into that strange tune I hadpracticed last; the one I had heard from Charlie. My mouth would hardlyframe the notes, being parched with terror; but to my surprise, the manfell back, dropped his gun, and saluted. Oh, sweetest of allsweet melodies!

That tune was Carver Doone's passport (as I heard long afterward), whichCharleworth Doone had imitated, for decoy of Lorna. The sentinel took mefor that vile Carver, who was like enough to be prowling there forprivate talk with Lorna, but not very likely to shout forth his name, ifit might be avoided. The watchman, perceiving the danger, perhaps, ofintruding on Carver's privacy, not only retired along the cliff, butwithdrew himself to good distance. 

Meanwhile he had done me the kindest service; for Lorna came to thewindow at once to see what the cause of the shout was, and drew back thecurtain timidly. Then she opened the rough lattice, and then she watchedthe cliff and trees, and then she sighed very sadly. 

"O Lorna, don't you know me?" I whispered from the side, being afraid ofstartling her by appearing over-suddenly. 

Quick though she always was of thought, she knew me not from my whisper, and was shutting the window hastily, when I caught it back andshowed myself. 

"John!" she cried, yet with sense enough not to speak aloud; "oh, youmust be mad, John!"

"As mad as a March hare, " said I, "without any news of my darling. Youknew I would come--of course you did. "

 * * * * *

A WEDDING AND A REVENGE

From 'Lorna Doone'

However humble I might be, no one knowing anything of our part of thecountry would for a moment doubt that now here was a great to-do andtalk of John Ridd and his wedding. The fierce fight with the Doones solately, and my leading of the combat (though I fought not more than needbe), and the vanishing of Sir Counselor, and the galloping madness ofCarver, and the religious fear of the women that this last was gone tohell, --for he himself had declared that his aim, while he cut throughthe yeomanry, --also their remorse that he should have been made to gothither, with all his children left behind--these things, I say (if everI can again contrive to say anything), had led to the broadestexcitement about my wedding of Lorna. We heard that people meant to comefrom more than thirty miles around, upon excuse of seeing my stature andLorna's beauty, but in good truth out of sheer curiosity and the loveof meddling. 

Our clerk had given notice that not a man should come inside the door ofhis church without shilling fee, and women (as sure to see twice asmuch) must every one pay two shillings. I thought this wrong; and aschurchwarden, begged that the money might be paid into mine own handswhen taken. But the clerk said that was against all law; and he hadorders from the parson to pay it to him without any delay. So, as Ialways obey the parson when I care not much about a thing, I let themhave it their own way, though feeling inclined to believe sometimes thatI ought to have some of the money. 

Dear mother arranged all the ins and outs of the way in which it was tobe done; and Annie and Lizzie, and all the Snowes, and even RuthHuckaback (who was there, after great persuasion), made such a sweepingof dresses that I scarcely knew where to place my feet, and longed for astaff to put by their gowns. Then Lorna came out of a pew half-way, in amanner which quite astonished me, and took my left hand in her right, and I prayed God that it were done with. 

My darling looked so glorious that I was afraid of glancing at her, yettook in all her beauty. She was in a fright, no doubt, but nobody shouldsee it; whereas I said (to myself, at least), "I will go through it likea grave-digger. "

Lorna's dress was of pure white, clouded with faint lavender (for thesake of the old Earl Brandir), and as simple as need be, except forperfect loveliness. I was afraid to look at her, as I said before, except when each of us said, "I will;" and then each dwelt uponthe other. 

It is impossible for any who have not loved as I have to conceive my joyand pride when, after ring and all was done, and the parson had blessedus, Lorna turned to look at me with her glances of subtle fun subdued bythis great act. 

Her eyes, which none on earth may ever equal or compare with, told mesuch a depth of comfort, yet awaiting further commune, that I was almostamazed, thoroughly as I knew them. Darling eyes, the sweetest eyes, theloveliest, the most loving eyes--the sound of a shot rang through thechurch, and those eyes were filled with death. 

Lorna fell across my knees when I was going to kiss her, as thebridegroom is allowed to do, and encouraged, if he needs it: a flood ofblood came out upon the yellow wood of the altar steps; and at my feetlay Lorna, trying to tell me some last message out of her faithful eyes. I lifted her up, and petted her, and coaxed her, but it was no good; theonly sign of life remaining was a spurt of bright red blood. 

Some men know what things befall them in the supreme time of theirlife--far above the time of death--but to me comes back as a hazy dream, without any knowledge in it, what I did, or felt, or thought, with mywife's arms flagging, flagging, around my neck, as I raised her up, andsoftly put them there. She sighed a long sigh on my breast, for her lastfarewell to life, and then she grew so cold, and cold, that I asked thetime of year. 

It was now Whit-Tuesday, and the lilacs all in blossom; and why Ithought of the time of year, with the young death in my arms, God or hisangels may decide, having so strangely given us. Enough that so I did, and looked, and our white lilacs were beautiful. Then I laid my wife inmy mother's arms, and begging that no one would make a noise, went forthfor my revenge. 

Of course I knew who had done it. There was but one man in the world, orat any rate in our part of it, who could have done such a thing--such athing. I use no harsher word about it, while I leaped upon our besthorse, with bridle, but no saddle, and set the head of Kickums towardthe course now pointed out to me. Who showed me the course I cannottell. I only know that I took it. And the men fell back before me. 

Weapon of no sort had I. Unarmed, and wondering at my strange attire(with a bridal vest wrought by our Annie, and red with the blood of thebride), I went forth just to find out this--whether in this world therebe or be not a God of justice. 

With my vicious horse at a furious speed, I came up Black Barrow Down, directed by some shout of men, which seemed to me but a whisper. Andthere, about a furlong before me, rode a man on a great black horse, andI knew that man was Carver Doone. 

"Your life, or mine, " I said to myself; "as the will of God may be. Butwe two live not upon this earth one more hour together. "

I knew the strength of this great man; and I knew that he was armed witha gun--if he had time to load again, after shooting my Lorna--or at anyrate with pistols, and a horseman's sword as well. Nevertheless, I hadno more doubt of killing the man before me than a cook has of spitting aheadless fowl. 

Sometimes seeing no ground beneath me, and sometimes heeding every leaf, and the crossing of the grass-blades, I followed over the long moor, reckless whether seen or not. But only once the other man turned roundand looked back again, and then I was beside a rock, with a reedy swampbehind me. 

Although he was so far before me, and riding as hard as ride he might, Isaw that he had something on the horse in front of him; something whichneeded care, and stopped him from looking backward. In the whirling ofmy wits, I fancied first that this was Lorna; until the scene I had beenthrough fell across hot brain and heart, like the drop at the close of atragedy. Rushing there through crag and quag at utmost speed of amaddened horse, I saw, as of another's fate, calmly (as on canvas laid), the brutal deed, the piteous anguish, and the cold despair. 

The man turned up the gully leading from the moor to Cloven Rocks, through which John Fry had tracked Uncle Ben, as of old related. But asCarver entered it, he turned round, and beheld me not a hundred yardsbehind; and I saw that he was bearing his child, little Ensie, beforehim. Ensie also descried me, and stretched his hands and cried to me;for the face of his father frightened him. 

Carver Doone, with a vile oath, thrust spurs into his flagging horse, and laid one hand on a pistol-stock, whence I knew that his slungcarbine had received no bullet since the one that pierced Lorna. And acry of triumph rose from the black depths of my heart. What cared I forpistols? I had no spurs, neither was my horse one to need the rowel; Irather held him in than urged him, for he was fresh as ever; and I knewthat the black steed in front, if he breasted the steep ascent, wherethe track divided, must be in our reach at once. 

His rider knew this, and having no room in the rocky channel to turn andfire, drew rein at the crossways sharply, and plunged into the blackravine leading to the Wizard's Slough. "Is it so?" I said to myself, with brain and head cold as iron: "though the foul fiend come from theslough to save thee, thou shalt carve it, Carver. "

I followed my enemy carefully, steadily, even leisurely; for I had himas in a pitfall, whence no escape might be. He thought that I feared toapproach him, for he knew not where he was; and his low disdainful laughcame back. "Laugh he who wins, " thought I. 

A gnarled and half-starved oak, as stubborn as my own resolve, andsmitten by some storm of old, hung from the crag above me. Rising frommy horse's back, although I had no stirrups, I caught a limb, and toreit (like a mere wheat-awn) from the socket. Men show the rent even nowwith wonder; none with more wonder than myself. 

Carver Doone turned the corner suddenly on the black and bottomless bog;with a start of fear he reined back his horse, and I thought he wouldhave turned upon me. But instead of that, he again rode on, hoping tofind a way round the side. 

Now there is a way between cliff and slough for those who know theground thoroughly, or have time enough to search it; but for him therewas no road, and he lost some time in seeking it. Upon this he made uphis mind; and wheeling, fired, and then rode at me. 

His bullet struck me somewhere, but I took no heed of that. Fearing onlyhis escape, I laid my horse across the way, and with the limb of oakstruck full on the forehead his charging steed. Ere the slash of thesword came nigh me, man and horse rolled over and well-nigh bore my ownhorse down with the power of their onset. 

Carver Doone was somewhat stunned, and could not arise for a moment. Meanwhile I leaped on the ground and awaited, smoothing my hair back, and baring my arms, as though in the ring for wrestling. Then the littleboy ran to me, clasped my leg, and looked up at me, and the terror inhis eyes made me almost fear myself. 

"Ensie dear, " I said quite gently, grieving that he should see hiswicked father killed, "run up yonder round the corner, and try to finda pretty bunch of bluebells for the lady. " The child obeyed me, hangingback, and looking back, and then laughing, while I prepared forbusiness. There and then I might have killed mine enemy with a singleblow while he lay unconscious, but it would have been foul play. 

With a sullen and black scowl, the Carver gathered his mighty limbs andarose, and looked round for his weapons; but I had put them well away. Then he came to me and gazed, being wont to frighten thus young men. 

"I would not harm you, lad, " he said, with a lofty style of sneering: "Ihave punished you enough for most of your impertinence. For the rest Iforgive you, because you have been good and gracious to my little son. Go and be contented. "

For answer I smote him on the cheek, lightly, and not to hurt him, butto make his blood leap up. I would not sully my tongue by speaking to aman like this. 

There was a level space of sward between us and the slough. With thecourtesy derived from London, and the procession I had seen, to thisplace I led him. And that he might breathe himself, and have every fibrecool, and every muscle ready, my hold upon his coat I loosed, and lefthim to begin with me whenever he thought proper. 

I think he felt that his time was come. I think he knew from my knittedmuscles, and the firm arch of my breast, and the way in which I stood, but most of all from my stern blue eyes, that he had found his master. At any rate, a paleness came, an ashy paleness on his cheeks, and thevast calves of his legs bowed in, as if he were out of training. 

Seeing this, villain as he was, I offered him first chance. I stretchedforth my left hand as I do to a weaker antagonist, and I let him havethe hug of me. But in this I was too generous; having forgotten mypistol-wound, and the cracking of one of my short lower ribs. CarverDoone caught me round the waist with such a grip as never yet had beenlaid upon me. 

I heard my rib go; I grasped his arm and tore the muscle out of it[2](as the string comes out of an orange); then I took him by the throat, which is not allowed in wrestling, but he had snatched at mine; and nowwas no time of dalliance. In vain he tugged and strained and writhed, dashed his bleeding fist into my face, and flung himself on me withgnashing jaws. Beneath the iron of my strength--for God that day waswith me--I had him helpless in two minutes, and his fiery eyeslolled out. 

[Footnote 2: A far more terrible clutch than this is handed down, toweaker ages, of the great John Ridd. --ED. L. D. ]

"I will not harm thee any more, " I cried, so far as I could for panting, the work being very furious: "Carver Doone, thou art beaten; own it, andthank God for it; and go thy way, and repent thyself. "

It was all too late. Even if he had yielded in his ravening frenzy--forhis beard was like a mad dog's jowl--even if he would have owned thatfor the first time in his life he had found his master, it was alltoo late. 

The black bog had him by the feet; the sucking of the ground drew onhim, like the thirsty lips of death. In our fury we had heeded neitherwet nor dry, nor thought of earth beneath us. I myself might scarcelyleap, with the last spring of o'erlabored legs, from the engulfing graveof slime. He fell back, with his swarthy breast (from which my grip hadrent all clothing), like a hummock of bog-oak, standing out thequagmire; and then he tossed his arms to heaven, and they were black tothe elbow, and the glare of his eyes was ghastly. I could only gaze andpant; for my strength was no more than an infant's from the fury and thehorror. Scarcely could I turn away, while, joint by joint, he sankfrom sight. 

LANDING THE TROUT

From 'Alice Lorraine'

The trout knew nothing of all this. They had not tasted a worm for amonth, except when a sod of the bank fell in, through cracks of the sun, and the way cold water has of licking upward. And even the flies had noflavor at all; when they fell on the water, they fell flat, and on thepalate they tasted hot, even under the bushes. 

Hilary followed a path through the meadows, with the calm bright sunsetcasting its shadow over the shorn grass, or up in the hedge-road, or onthe brown banks where the drought had struck. On his back he carried afishing-basket, containing his bits of refreshment; and in his righthand a short springy rod, the absent sailor's favorite. After longcouncil with Mabel, he had made up his mind to walk up-stream as far asthe spot where two brooks met, and formed body enough for a fly flippedin very carefully to sail downward. Here he began, and the creak of hisreel and the swish of his rod were music to him, after the whirl ofLondon life. 

The brook was as bright as the best cut-glass, and the twinkles of itsshifting facets only made it seem more clear. It twisted about a little, here and there; and the brink was fringed now and then with something, aclump of loosestrife, a tuft of avens, or a bed of floweringwater-cress, or any other of the many plants that wash and look into thewater. But the trout, the main object in view, were most objectionablytoo much in view. They scudded up the brook at the shadow of a hair, oreven the tremble of a blade of grass; and no pacific assurance couldmake them even stop to be reasoned with, "This won't do, " said Hilary, who very often talked to himself, in lack of a better comrade. "I callthis very hard upon me. The beggars won't rise till it is quite dark. Imust have the interdict off my tobacco, if this sort of thing is to goon. How I should enjoy a pipe just now! I may just as well sit on a gateand think. No, hang it, I hate thinking now. There are troubles hangingover me, as sure as the tail of that comet grows. How I detest thatcomet! No wonder the fish won't rise. But if I have to strip, and ticklethem in the dark, I won't go back without some for her. "

He was lucky enough to escape the weight of such horrible poaching uponhis conscience; for suddenly to his ears was borne the most melodious ofall sounds, the flop of a heavy fish sweetly jumping after someexcellent fly or grub. 

"Ha, my friend!" cried Hilary, "so you are up for your supper, are you?I myself will awake right early. Still I behold the ring you made. If myright hand forget not its cunning, you shall form your next ring in thefrying-pan. "

He gave that fish a little time to think of the beauty of that mouthful, and get ready for another, the while he was putting a white moth on, inlieu of his blue upright. He kept the grizzled palmer still fortail-fly, and he tried his knots, for he knew that this trout wasa Triton. 

Then, with a delicate sidling and stooping, known only to them that fishfor trout in very bright water of the summer-time, --compared with whichart the coarse work of the salmon-fisher is as that of a scene-painterto Mr. Holman Hunt's--with, or in, or by, a careful manner, not to bedescribed to those who have never studied it, Hilary won access of thewater, without any doubt in the mind of the fish concerning the prudenceof appetite. Then he flipped his short collar in, not with a cast, but aspring of the rod, and let his flies go quietly down a sharpish run intothat good trout's hole. The worthy trout looked at them both, andthought; for he had his own favorite spot for watching the world go by, as the rest of us have. So he let the grizzled palmer pass, within aninch of his upper lip; for it struck him that the tail turned up in amanner not wholly natural, or at any rate unwholesome. He looked at thewhite moth also, and thought that he had never seen one at all like it. So he went down under his root again, hugging himself upon his wisdom, never moving a fin, but oaring and helming his plump, spotted sideswith his tail. 

"Upon my word, it is too bad, " said Hilary, after three beautifulthrows, and exquisite management down-stream; "everything Kentish beatsme hollow. Now, if that had been one of our trout, I would have laid mylife upon catching him. One more throw, however. How would it be if Isunk my flies? That fellow is worth some patience. "

While he was speaking, his flies alit on the glassy ripple, like gnatsin their love-dance; and then by a turn of the wrist, he played themjust below the surface, and let them go gliding down the stickle, intothe shelfy nook of shadow where the big trout hovered. Under thesurface, floating thus, with the check of ductile influence, the twoflies spread their wings and quivered, like a centiplume moth in aspider's web. Still the old trout, calmly oaring, looked at them bothsuspiciously. Why should the same flies come so often, and why shouldthey have such crooked tails, and could he be sure that he did not spythe shadow of a human hat about twelve yards up the water? Revolvingthese things, he might have lived to a venerable age but for that nobleambition to teach, which is fatal to even the wisest. A young fish, aninsolent whipper-snapper, jumped in his babyish way at the palmer, andmissed it through over-eagerness. "I'll show you the way to catch afly, " said the big trout to him: "open your mouth like this, my son. "

With that he bolted the palmer, and threw up his tail, and turned to gohome again. Alas! his sweet home now shall know him no more. Forsuddenly he was surprised by a most disagreeable sense of grittiness, and then a keen stab in the roof of his month. He jumped, in his wrath, a foot out of the water, and then heavily plunged to the depths ofhis hole. 

"You've got it, my friend, " cried Hilary, in a tingle of fine emotions;"I hope the sailor's knots are tied with professional skill and care. You are a big one, and a clever one too. It is much if I ever land you. No net, or gaff, or anything. I only hope that there are no stakes here. Ah, there you go! Now comes the tug. "

Away went the big trout down the stream, at a pace very hard toexaggerate, and after him rushed Hilary, knowing that his line wasrather short, and that if it ran out, all was over. Keeping his eyes onthe water only, and the headlong speed of the fugitive, headlong over astake he fell, and took a deep wound from another stake. Scarcelyfeeling it, up he jumped, lifting his rod, which had fallen flat, andfearing to find no strain on it. "Aha, he is not gone yet!" he cried, asthe rod bowed like a springle-bow. 

He was now a good hundred yards down the brook from the corner where thefight began. Through his swiftness of foot, and good management, thefish had never been able to tighten the line beyond yield of endurance. The bank had been free from bushes, or haply no skill could have savedhim; but now they were come to a corner where a nut-bush quite overhungthe stream. 

"I am done for now, " said the fisherman; "the villain knows too wellwhat he is about. Here ends this adventure. "

Full though he was of despair, he jumped anyhow into the water, kept thepoint of his rod close down, reeled up a little as the fish felt weaker, and just cleared the drop of the hazel boughs. The water flapped intothe pockets of his coat, and he saw red streaks flow downward. And thenhe plunged out to an open reach of shallow water and gravel slope. 

"I ought to have you now, " he said, "though nobody knows what a rogueyou are; and a pretty dance you have led me!"

Doubting the strength of his tackle to lift even the dead weight of thefish, and much more to meet his despairing rally, he happily saw alittle shallow gut, or back-water, where a small spring ran out. Intothis by a dexterous turn he rather led than pulled the fish, who wasready to rest for a minute or two; then he stuck his rod into the bank, ran down stream, and with his hat in both hands appeared at the onlyexit from the gut. It was all up now with the monarch of the brook. Ashe skipped and jumped, with his rich yellow belly, and chaste silversides, in the green of the grass, joy and glory of the highest merit, and gratitude, glowed in the heart of Lorraine. "Two and three quartersyou must weigh. And at your very best you are! How small your head is!And how bright your spots are!" he cried, as he gave him the stroke ofgrace. "You really have been a brave and fine fellow. I hope they willknow how to fry you. "

While he cut his fly out of this grand trout's mouth, he felt for thefirst time a pain in his knee, where the point of the stake had enteredit. Under the buckle of his breeches blood was soaking away inside hisgaiters; and then he saw how he had dyed the water. After washing thewound and binding it with dock-leaves and a handkerchief, he followedthe stream through a few more meadows, for the fish began to sportpretty well as the gloom of the evening deepened; so that by the timethe gables of the old farm-house appeared, by the light of a young moon, and the comet, Lorraine had a dozen more trout in his basket, silvery-sided and handsome fellows, though none of them over a poundperhaps, except his first and redoubtable captive. 

A DANE IN THE DIKE

From 'Mary Anerley'

Now, whether spy-glass had been used by any watchful mariner, or whetheronly blind chance willed it, sure it is that one fine morning Mary metwith somebody. And this was the more remarkable, when people came tothink of it, because it was only the night before that her mother hadalmost said as much. 

"Ye munna gaw doon to t' sea be yersell, " Mistress Anerley said to herdaughter: "happen ye mought be one too many. "

Master Anerley's wife had been at "boarding-school, " as far south asSuffolk, and could speak the very best of southern English (like herdaughter Mary) upon polite occasion. But family cares and farm-houselife had partly cured her of her education, and from troubles ofdistant speech she had returned to the ease of her native dialect. 

"And if I go not to the sea by myself, " asked Mary, with natural logic, "why, who is there now to go with me?" She was thinking of her sadlymissed comrade, Jack. 

"Happen some day, perhaps, one too many. "

The maiden was almost too innocent to blush; but her father took herpart as usual. 

"The little lass sall gaw doon, " he said, "wheniver sha likes. " And soshe went down the next morning. 

A thousand years ago the Dane's Dike must have been a very grandintrenchment, and a thousand years ere that perhaps it was stillgrander; for learned men say that it was a British work, wrought outbefore the Danes had ever learned to build a ship. Whatever, however, may be argued about that, the wise and the witless do agree about onething--the stronghold inside it had been held by Danes, while severed bythe Dike from inland parts, and these Danes made a good colony of theirown, and left to their descendants distinct speech and manners, sometraces of which are existing even now. The Dike, extending from therough North Sea to the calmer waters of Bridlington Bay, is nothing morethan a deep dry trench, skillfully following the hollows of the ground, and cutting off Flamborough Head and a solid cantle of high land fromthe rest of Yorkshire. The corner so intercepted used to be and is stillcalled "Little Denmark"; and the in-dwellers feel a large contempt forall their outer neighbors. And this is sad, because Anerley Farm lieswholly outside of the Dike, which for a long crooked distance serves asits eastern boundary. 

Upon the morning of the self-same day that saw Mr. Jellicorse set forthupon his return from Scargate Hall, armed with instructions to defy thedevil, and to keep his discovery quiet--upon a lovely August morning ofthe first year of a new century, Mary Anerley, blithe and gay, cameriding down the grassy hollow of this ancient Dane's Dike. This was hershortest way to the sea, and the tide would suit (if she could onlycatch it) for a take of shrimps, and perhaps even prawns, in time forher father's breakfast. And not to lose this, she arose right early, androusing Lord Keppel, set forth for the spot where she kept her netcovered with sea-weed. The sun, though up and brisk already upon sea andforeland, had not found time to rout the shadows skulking in thedingles. But even here, where sap of time had breached the turfyramparts, the hover of the dew-mist passed away, and the steady lightwas unfolded. 

For the season was early August still, with beautiful weather come atlast; and the green world seemed to stand on tiptoe to make theextraordinary acquaintance of the sun. Humble plants which had long lainflat stood up with a sense of casting something off; and the damp heavytrunks which had trickled for a twelvemonth, or been only sponged withmoss, were hailing the fresher light with keener lines and dove-coloredtints upon their smoother boles. Then, conquering the barrier of theeastern land crest, rose the glorious sun himself, strewing before himtrees and crags in long steep shadows down the hill. Then the slopingrays, through furze and brush-land, kindling the sparkles of the dew, descended to the brink of the Dike, and scorning to halt at pettyobstacles, with a hundred golden hurdles bridged it wherever anyopening was. 

Under this luminous span, or through it where the crossing gullies ran, Mary Anerley rode at leisure, allowing her pony to choose his pace. Thatprivilege he had long secured, in right of age, and wisdom, andremarkable force of character. Considering his time of life, he lookedwell and sleek, and almost sprightly; and so, without any reservation, did his gentle and graceful rider. The maiden looked well in a placelike that, as indeed in almost any place; but now she especially set offthe color of things, and was set off by them. For instance, how couldthe silver of the dew-cloud, and golden weft of sunrise, playing throughthe dapples of a partly wooded glen, do better (in the matter ofvariety) than frame a pretty moving figure in a pink checked frock, witha skirt of russet murrey, and a bright brown hat? Not that the hatitself was bright, even under the kiss of sunshine, simply having seenalready too much of the sun, but rather that its early lustre seemed tobe revived by a sense of the happy position it was in; the clusteringhair and the bright eyes beneath it answering the sunny dance of lifeand light. Many a handsomer race, no doubt, more perfect, grand andlofty, received--at least if it was out of bed--the greeting of thatmorning sun; but scarcely any prettier one, or kinder, or more pleasant, so gentle without being weak, so good-tempered without looking void ofall temper at all. 

Suddenly the beauty of the time and place was broken by sharp, angrysound. Bang! bang! came the roar of muskets fired from the shore at themouth of the Dike, and echoing up the winding glen. At the first reportthe girl, though startled, was not greatly frightened; for the sound wascommon enough in the week when those most gallant volunteers entitledthe "Yorkshire Invincibles" came down for their annual practice ofskilled gunnery against the French. Their habit was to bring down a redcock, and tether him against a chalky cliff, and then vie with oneanother in shooting at him. The same cock had tested their skill forthree summers, but failed hitherto to attest it, preferring to return ina hamper to his hens, with a story of moving adventures. 

Mary had watched those Invincibles sometimes from a respectful distance, and therefore felt sure (when she began to think) that she had not themto thank for this little scare. For they always slept soundly in thefirst watch of the morning; and even supposing they had jumped up withnightmare, where was the jubilant crow of the cock? For the cock, beingalmost as invincible as they were, never could deny himself the glory ofa crow when the bullet came into his neighborhood. He replied to everyvolley with an elevated comb, and a flapping of his wings, and a clarionpeal, which rang along the foreshore ere the musket roar died out. Butbefore the girl had time to ponder what it was, or wherefore, round thecorner came somebody, running very swiftly. 

In a moment Mary saw that this man had been shot at, and was making forhis life away; and to give him every chance she jerked her pony aside, and called and beckoned; and without a word he flew to her. Words werebeyond him, if his breath should come back, and he seemed to have notime to wait for that. He had outstripped the wind, and his own wind, byhis speed. 

"Poor man!" cried Mary Anerley, "what a hurry you are in. But I supposeyou cannot help it. Are they shooting at you?"

The runaway nodded, for he could not spare a breath, but was deeplyinhaling for another start, and could not even bow without hindrance. But to show that he had manners, he took off his hat. Then he clapped iton his head and set off again. 

"Come back!" cried the maid; "I can show you a place. I can hide youfrom your enemies forever. "

The young fellow stopped. He was come to that pitch of exhaustion inwhich a man scarcely cares whether he is killed or dies. And his faceshowed not a sign of fear. 

"Look! That little hole--up there--by the fern. Up at once, and thiscloth over you!"

He snatched it, and was gone, like the darting lizard, up a littlepuckering side issue of the Dike, at the very same instant that threebroad figures and a long one appeared at the lip of the mouth. Thequick-witted girl rode on to meet them, to give the poor fugitive timeto get into his hole and draw the brown skirt over him. The dazzle ofthe sun, pouring over the crest, made the hollow a twinkling obscurity;and the cloth was just in keeping with the dead stuff around. The threebroad men, with heavy fusils cocked, came up from the sea-mouth of theDike, steadily panting, and running steadily with a long-enduringstride. Behind them a tall bony man with a cutlass was swinging it highin the air, and limping, and swearing with great velocity. 

"Coast-riders, " thought Mary, "and he a free-trader [smuggler]! Fouragainst one is cowardice. "

"Halt!" cried the tall man, while the rest were running past her; "halt!ground arms; never scare young ladies. " Then he flourished his hat, witha grand bow to Mary. "Fair young Mistress Anerley, I fear we spoil yourride. But his Majesty's duty must be done. Hats off, fellows, at thename of your king! Mary, my dear, the most daring villain, the devil'sown son, has just run up here--scarcely two minutes--you must have seenhim. Wait a minute; tell no lies--excuse me, I mean fibs. Your father isthe right sort. He hates those scoundrels. In the name of his Majesty, which way is he gone?"

"Was it--oh, was it a man, if you please? Captain Carroway, don't sayso. "

"A man? Is it likely that we shot at a woman? You are trifling. It willbe the worse for you. Forgive me--but we are in such a hurry. Whoa!whoa! pony. "

"You always used to be so polite, sir, that you quite surprise me. Andthose guns look so dreadful! My father would be quite astonished to seeme not even allowed to go down to the sea, but hurried back here, as ifthe French had landed. "

"How can I help it, if your pony runs away so?" For Mary all this timehad been cleverly contriving to increase and exaggerate her pony's fear, and so brought the gunners for a long way up the Dike, without givingthem any time to spy at all about. She knew that this was wicked from aloyal point of view; not a bit the less she did it. "What a troublesomelittle horse it is!" she cried. "O Captain Carroway, hold him just amoment. I will jump down, and then you can jump up, and ride after allhis Majesty's enemies. "

"The Lord forbid! He slews all out of gear, like a carronade with rottenlashings. If I boarded him, how could I get out of his way? No, no, mydear, brace him up sharp, and bear clear. "

"But you wanted to know about some enemy, captain. An enemy as bad as mypoor Lord Keppel?"

"Mary, my dear, the very biggest villain! A hundred golden guineas onhis head, and half for you. Think of your father, my dear, and Sundaygowns. And you must have a young man--by-and-by, you know--such abeautiful maid as you are. And you might get a leather purse, and giveit to him. Mary, on your duty, now?"

"Captain, you drive me so, what can I say? I cannot bear the thought ofbetraying anybody. "

"Of course not, Mary dear; nobody asks you. He must be half a mile offby this time. You could never hurt him now; and you can tell your fatherthat you have done your duty to the king. "

"Well, Captain Carroway, if you are quite sure that it is too late tocatch him, I can tell you all about him. But remember your word aboutthe fifty guineas. "

"Every farthing, every farthing, Mary, whatever my wife may say to it. Quick! quick! Which way did he run, my dear?"

"He really did not seem to me to be running at all; he was too tired. "

"To be sure, to be sure, a worn-out fox. We have been two hours afterhim; he could not run; no more can we. But which way did he go, I mean?"

"I will not say anything for certain, sir; even for fifty guineas. Buthe may have come up here--mind, I say not that he did--and if so, hemight have set off again for Sewerby. Slowly, very slowly, because ofbeing tired. But perhaps, after all, he was not the man you mean. "

"Forward, double-quick! We are sure to have him!" shouted thelieutenant--for his true rank was that--flourishing his cutlass again, and setting off at a wonderful pace, considering his limp. "Five guineasevery man Jack of you. Thank you, young mistress--most heartily thankyou. Dead or alive, five guineas!"

With gun and sword in readiness, they all rushed off; but one of theparty, named John Cadman, shook his head and looked back with greatmistrust at Mary, having no better judgment of women than this, that henever could believe even his own wife. And he knew that it was mainly bythe grace of womankind that so much contraband work was going on. Nevertheless, it was out of his power to act upon his own lowopinions now. 

The maiden, blushing deeply with the sense of her deceit, was informedby her guilty conscience of that nasty man's suspicions, and thereforegave a smack with her fern whip to Lord Keppel, impelling him to join, like a loyal little horse, the pursuit of his Majesty's enemies. But nosooner did she see all the men dispersed, and scouring the distance withtrustful ardor, than she turned the pony's head toward the sea again, and rode back round the bend of the hollow. What would her mother say ifshe lost the murrey skirt, which had cost six shillings at Bridlingtonfair? And ten times that money might be lost much better than for herfather to discover how she lost it. For Master Stephen Anerley was astraight-backed man, and took three weeks of training in the LandDefense Yeomanry, at periods not more than a year apart, so that manypeople called him "Captain" now; and the loss of his suppleness at kneeand elbow had turned his mind largely to politics, making him stifflypatriotic, and especially hot against all free-traders putting badbargains to his wife, at the cost of the king and his revenue. If thebargain were a good one, that was no concern of his. 

Not that Mary, however, could believe, or would even have such a badmind as to imagine, that any one, after being helped by her, would bemean enough to run off with her property. And now she came to think ofit, there was something high and noble, she might almost say somethingdownright honest, in the face of that poor persecuted man. And in spiteof all his panting, how brave he must have been, what a runner, and howclever, to escape from all those cowardly coast-riders shooting rightand left at him! Such a man steal that paltry skirt that her mother madesuch a fuss about! She was much more likely to find it in herclothes-press filled with golden guineas. 

Before she was as certain as she wished to be of this (by reason ofshrewd nativity), and while she believed that the fugitive must haveseized such a chance and made good his escape toward North Sea orFlamborough, a quick shadow glanced across the long shafts of the sun, and a bodily form sped after it. To the middle of the Dike leaped ayoung man, smiling, and forth from the gully which had saved his life. To look at him, nobody ever could have guessed how fast he had fled, andhow close he had lain hid. For he stood there as clean and spruce andcareless as ever a sailor can be wished to be. Limber yet stalwart, agile though substantial, and as quick as a dart while as strong as apike, he seemed cut out by nature for a true blue-jacket; but conditionhad made him a smuggler, or, to put it more gently, a free-trader. Britannia, being then at war with all the world, and alone in the right(as usual), had need of such lads, and produced them accordingly, andsometimes one too many. But Mary did not understand these laws. Thismade her look at him with great surprise, and almost doubt whether hecould be the man, until she saw her skirt neatly folded in his hand, andthen she said, "How do you do, sir?"

The free-trader looked at her with equal surprise. He had been in such ahurry, and his breath so short, and the chance of a fatal bullet afterhim so sharp, that his mind had been astray from any sense of beauty, and of everything else except the safety of the body. But now he lookedat Mary, and his breath again went from him. 

"You can run again now; I am sure of it, " said she; "and if you wouldlike to do anything to please me, run as fast as possible. "

"What have I to run away from now?" he answered, in a deep sweet voice. "I run from enemies, but not from friends. "

"That is very wise. But your enemies are still almost within call ofyou. They will come back worse than ever when they find you arenot there. "

"I am not afraid, fair lady, for I understand their ways. I have ledthem a good many dances. .. . When they cannot take another step, theywill come back to Anerley for breakfast. "

"I dare say they will; and we shall be glad to see them. My father is asoldier, and his duty is to nourish and comfort the forces of the King. "

"Then you are young Mistress Anerley? I was sure of it before. There areno two such. And you have saved my life. It is something to owe itso fairly. "

The young sailor wanted to kiss Mary's hand; but not being used to anygallantry, she held out her hand in the simplest manner to take back herriding skirt; and he, though longing in his heart to keep it, for atoken or pretext for another meeting, found no excuse for doing so. Andyet he was not without some resource. 

For the maiden was giving him a farewell smile, being quite content withthe good she had done, and the luck of recovering her property; and thatsense of right which in those days formed a part of every good youngwoman said to her plainly that she must be off. And she felt how unkindit was to keep him any longer in a place where the muzzle of a gun, witha man behind it, might appear at any moment. But he, having plentifulbreath again, was at home with himself to spend it. 

"Fair young lady, " he began, for he saw that Mary liked to be called alady, because it was a novelty, "owing more than I ever can pay youalready, may I ask a little more? Then it is that on your way down tothe sea, you would just pick up (if you should chance to see it) thefellow ring to this, and perhaps you will look at this to know it by. The one that was shot away flew against a stone just on the left of themouth of the Dike, but I durst not stop to look for it, and I must notgo back that way now. It is more to me than a hatful of gold, thoughnobody else would give a crown for it. "

"And they really shot away one of your earrings? Careless, cruel, wasteful men! What could they have been thinking of?"

"They were thinking of getting what is called 'blood-money. ' One hundredpounds for Robin Lyth. Dead or alive--one hundred pounds. ". .. 

"Then are you the celebrated Robin Lyth--the new Robin Hood, as theycall him? The man who can do almost anything?"

"Mistress Anerley, I am Robin Lyth; but, as you have seen, I cannot domuch. .. . They have missed the best chance they ever had at me; it willmake their temper very bad. If they shot at me again, they could do nogood. Crooked mood makes crooked mode. "

"You forget that I should not see such things. You may like very much tobe shot at; but--but you should think of other people. "

"I shall think of you only--I mean of your great kindness, and yourpromise to keep my ring for me. Of course you will tell nobody. Carrowaywill have me like a tiger if you do. Farewell, young lady--for one week, fare well. " With a wave of his hat he was gone, before Mary had time toretract her promise; and she thought of her mother. 

WILLIAM BLAKE

(1757-1827)

Poet-painter, visionary, and super-mystic in almost all capacities, William Blake was born in London in 1757. He was the second son ofhumble people--his father but a stocking merchant. An "odd little boy, "he was destined to be recognized as "one of the most curious andabnormal personages of the later eighteenth and earlier nineteenthcenturies. " Allan Cunningham describes him by saying that Blake at tenyears of age was an artist and at twelve a poet. He seems really to haveshown in childhood his double gift. But the boy's education wasrudimentary, his advantages not even usual, it would seem. To the end ofhis life, the mature man's works betray a defective common-schooling, alamentable lack of higher intellectual training--unless we suspect thatthe process would have disciplined his mind, to the loss of bizarreoriginality. Most of what Blake learned he taught himself, and that athaphazard. The mistiness and inexplicability of his productions is partof such a process, as well as of invincible temperament. 

[Illustration: William Blake]

In 1767 Blake was studying drawing with Mr. Pars, at the sometime famousStrand Academy, where he was reckoned a diligent but egotistical pupil. At fourteen he became apprenticed, for a livelihood, --afterwardexchanged for the painter's and illustrator's freer career, --to JamesBasire, an academic but excellent engraver, whose manner is curiouslytraceable through much of Blake's after work. Even in the formalatmosphere of the Royal Academy's antique school, Blake remained anopinionated and curiously "detached" scholar, with singular criticalnotions, with half-expressed or very boldly expressed theories as toart, religion, and most other things. In 1782 he married a young womanof equally humble derivation, who could not even sign the marriageregister. He developed her character, educated her mind, and made her adevoted and companionable wife, full of faith in him. Their curious andretired ménage was as happy in a practical and mundane aspect as couldbe hoped from even a normal one. 

In 1780 he began to exhibit, his first picture being 'The Death of EarlGodwin. ' After exhibiting five others, however, ending with 'Jacob'sDream, ' he withdrew altogether from public advertisement. Severaldevoted patrons--especially Mr. Linnell, and a certain Mr. Thomas Butts, who bought incessantly, anything and everything, --seized upon all hedrew and painted. In his literary undertakings he was for the most parthis own editor and printer and publisher. His career in verse and prosebegan early. In 1783 came forth the charming collection 'PoeticalSketches, ' juvenile as the fancies of his boyish days, but full of asensitive appreciation of nature worthy of a mature heart, and expressedwith a diction often exquisite. The volume was not really public norpublished, but printed by the kindly liberality of two friends, one ofthem Flaxman. In 1787, "under the direction of the spirit of his deadbrother, " Robert, he decided on publishing a new group of lyrics andfancies, 'Songs of Innocence, ' by engraving the text of the poems andits marginal embellishments on copper--printing the pages in varioustints, coloring or recoloring them by hand, and even binding them, withhis wife's assistance. The medium for mixing his tints, by the by, was"revealed to him by Saint Joseph. "

With this volume--now a rarity for the bibliophile--began Blake's systemof giving his literary works and many of his extraordinary artisticproductions their form and being. Like a poet-printer of our own day, Mr. William Morris, Blake insisted that each page of text, all hisdelicate illustrations, every cover even, should pass through his ownfingers, or through those of his careful and submissive helpmeet. Theexpense of their paper was the chief one to the light purse of thequeerly assorted, thrifty pair. 

In 1789 appeared another little volume of verses, 'Songs of Innocence. 'This also was ushered into existence as a dual book of pictures and ofpoetry. In 1794 came the 'Songs of Experience, ' completing that brieflyrical trio on which rests Blake's poetical reputation and his claim oncoming generations of sympathetic readers. To these early and exquisitefruits of Blake's feeling succeeded a little book 'For Children, ' themystic volume 'The Gates of Paradise, ' 'The Visions of the Daughters ofAlbion, ' 'America, a Prophecy, ' Part First of his 'Book of Urizen, ' anda collection of designs without text, treated in the methods usual withhim, besides other labors with pencil and pen. 

But the wonderful and disordered imagination of the artist and poet nowembodied itself in a strange group of writings for which no parallelexists. To realize them, one must imagine the most transcendent notionsof Swedenborg mingled with the rant of a superior kind of Mucklewrath. Such poems as 'The Book of Thel, ' in spite of beautiful allegoricpassages; 'The Gates of Paradise'; 'Tiriel, ' an extendednarrative-fantasy in irregular unrhymed verses; even the striking'Marriage of Heaven and Hell, '--may be reckoned as mere prologues tosuch productions as 'Jerusalem, ' 'The Emanation of the Giant Albion. ''Milton, ' and the "prophecies" embodied in the completed 'Urizen, ' the'Europe, ' 'Ahania, ' and 'The Book of Los. ' Such oracular works Blake putforth as dictated to him by departed spirits of supreme influence andintellectuality, or by angelic intelligences, quite apart from his ownvolition; indeed, only with his "grateful obedience. " Such claims arenot out of place in the instance of one who "saw God"; who often"conversed familiarly with Jesus Christ"; who "was" Socrates; who arguedconclusions for hours at a time with Moses, with Milton, with Dante, with the Biblical prophets, with Voltaire; who could "see Satan" almostat will--all in vivid conceptions that sprang up in his mind with suchforce as to set seemingly substantial and even speaking beings beforehim. In his assumption of the seer, Blake was not a charlatan: hebelieved fully in his supernatural privileges. To him his modest Londonlodging held great company, manifest in the spirit. 

Blake's greater "prophetic" writings ended, he busied himself withpainting and illustration. He was incessant in industry; indeed, hisordinary recreation at any time was only a change of work from onedesign to another. So were wrought out the (incomplete) series of platesfor Young's 'Night Thoughts'; the drawings for Hayley's 'Life ofCowper, ' and for the same feeble author's 'Ballads on Anecdotes relatingto Animals'; the 'Dante' designs: the 'Job' series of prints; a vaststore of aquarelle and distemper paintings and plates, and a wholegallery of "portraits" derived from sitters of distinction in pastuniversal history. These sitters, it is needless to say, were whollyinvisible to other eyes than Blake's. The subjects vary from likenessesof Saint Joseph and the Virgin Mary to those of Mahomet and Shakespeare. Sundry of the old masters, Titian included, reviewed his efforts andguided his brush! Such assertions do not ill accord with the descriptionof his once seeing a fairy's funeral, or that he first beheld God whenfour years old. 

But all his fantasies did not destroy his faith in the fundamentals oforthodoxy. He never ceased to be a believer in Christianity. Hisconvictions of a revealed religion were reiterated. While incessant inasserting that he had a solemn message-spiritual to his day andgeneration, he set aside nothing significant in the message of theScriptures. There is something touching in the anecdote of him and hisdevoted Kate told by the portrait-painter Richmond. Himself discouragedwith his imperfect work, Richmond one day visited Blake and confessedhis low mood. To his astonishment, Blake turned to his wife suddenly, and said, "It is just so with us, is it not, for weeks together, whenthe visions forsake us! What do we do then, Kate?" "We kneel down andpray, Mr. Blake. "

So passed Blake's many years, between reality and dream, labors andchimeras. The painter's life was not one of painful poverty. He and hisKate needed little money; and the seer-husband's pencils and burin, orthe private kindness so constantly shown him, provided daily bread. Despite the visions and inspirations and celestial phenomena that filledhis head, Blake withal was sane enough in everyday concerns. He livedorderly, even if he thought chaos. Almost his last strokes were on thehundred water-colors for the 'Divina Commedia, ' the 'Job' cycle, the'Ancient of Days' drawing, or a "frenzied sketch" of his wife which hemade, exclaiming in beginning it, "Stay! Keep as you are! You have everbeen an angel to me. I will draw you. " Natural decay and painful chronicailments increased. He seldom left his rooms in Fountain Court, Strand, except in a visit to the Linnells, at Hampstead. He died gently in 1827, "singing of the things he saw in Heaven. " His grave, to-day unknown, wasa common one in Bunhill Fields Cemetery. Many friends mourned him. Withall his eccentricities and the extravagances of his "visions" and"inspirations, " he was loved. His ardor of temperament was balanced bymeekness, his aggressiveness by true politeness. He was frank, abstemious, a lover of children, --who loved him, --devout in prayer, devoid of vice. Yet whenever he was in contact with his fellow-men, hewas one living and walking apart. As an influence in literature he isless considerable than in painting. In the latter art, a whole group ofcontemporary notables, intellectualists, and rhapsodists of greater orless individuality have to do with him, among whom Dante GabrielRossetti was in much his literary child, still more his child in art. 

A brief and early 'Life' of Blake, prepared by his intimate friend AllanCunningham, appeared in 1829. In 1839, for the first time, his workswere really given to the public. Mr. Gilchrist's invaluable biographyand study appeared in 1863; revised and enlarged in an edition of 1880. Mr. Swinburne's critical essay on him is a notable aid to the student. The artist-poet's complete works were edited by Mr. William MichaelRossetti in 1874, with a complete and discriminating memoir. More recentcontributions to Blake literature are the Ellis and Yeats edition of hisworks, also with a Memoir and an Interpretation; and Mr. Alfred J. Story's volume on 'The Life, Character, and Genius of William Blake. 'Some of the rarest of his literary productions, as well as the scarcestamong his drawings, are owned in America, chiefly by two privatecollectors in the Eastern States. 

 SONG

 My silks and fine array, My smiles and languished air, By love are driven away, And mournful lean Despair Brings me yew to deck my grave: Such end true lovers have. 

 His face is fair as heaven When springing buds unfold; Oh, why to _him_ was 't given, Whose heart is wintry cold? His breast is Love's all-worshiped tomb, Where all Love's pilgrims come. 

 Bring me an axe and spade, Bring me a winding-sheet; When I my grave have made, Let winds and tempests beat: Then down I'll lie, as cold as clay: True love doth never pass away. 

 SONG

 Love and harmony combine And around our souls entwine, While thy branches mix with mine And our roots together join. 

 Joys upon our branches sit, Chirping loud and singing sweet; Like gentle streams beneath our feet, Innocence and virtue meet. 

 Thou the golden fruit dost bear, I am clad in flowers fair; Thy sweet boughs perfume the air, And the turtle buildeth there. 

 There she sits and feeds her young; Sweet I hear her mournful song; And thy lovely leaves among, There is Love: I hear his tongue. 

 There his charmed nest he doth lay, There he sleeps the night away, There he sports along the day, And doth among our branches play. 

 * * * * *

 THE TWO SONGS

 I heard an Angel singing When the day was springing: "Mercy, pity, and peace, Are the world's release. "

 So he sang all day Over the new-mown hay, Till the sun went down, And the haycocks looked brown. 

 I heard a devil curse Over the heath and the furse: "Mercy could be no more If there were nobody poor, And pity no more could be If all were happy as ye: And mutual fear brings peace. Misery's increase Are mercy, pity, peace. "

 At his curse the sun went down, And the heavens gave a frown. 

 * * * * *

 NIGHT

 From 'Songs of Innocence'

 The sun descending in the west, The evening star does shine, The birds are silent in their nest, And I must seek for mine. The moon, like a flower In heaven's high bower, With silent delight, Sits and smiles in the night. 

 Farewell, green fields and happy groves Where flocks have ta'en delight; Where lambs have nibbled, silent move The feet of angels bright; Unseen they pour blessing, And joy without ceasing, On each bud and blossom, And each sleeping bosom. 

 They look in every thoughtless nest, Where birds are covered warm; They visit caves of every beast, To keep them all from harm; If they see any weeping That should have been sleeping, They pour sleep on their head, And sit down by their bed. 

 When wolves and tigers howl for prey, They pitying stand and weep; Seeking to drive their thirst away, And keep them from the sheep. But if they rush dreadful, The angels most heedful Receive each wild spirit, New worlds to inherit. 

 And there the lion's ruddy eyes Shall flow with tears of gold; And pitying the tender cries, And walking round the fold, Saying, "Wrath by His meekness, And by His health, sickness, Are driven away From our immortal day. 

 "And now beside thee, bleating lamb, I can lie down and sleep, Or think on Him who bore thy name, Graze after thee and weep. For washed in life's river, My bright mane forever Shall shine like the gold, As I guard o'er the fold. "

 THE PIPER AND THE CHILD

 Introduction to 'Songs of Innocence'

 Piping down the valleys wild, Piping songs of pleasant glee, On a cloud I saw a child, And he laughing said to me:--

 "Pipe a song about a lamb. " So I piped with merry cheer. "Piper, pipe that song again:" So I piped; he wept to hear. 

 "Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe; Sing thy songs of happy cheer:" So I sang the same again, While he wept with joy to hear. 

 "Piper, sit thee down and write, In a book that all may read. " So he vanished from my sight; And I plucked a hollow reed;

 And I made a rural pen, And I stained the water clear, And I wrote my happy songs Every child may joy to hear. 

 HOLY THURSDAY

 From 'Songs of Innocence'

 'Twas on a Holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean, Came children walking two and two, in red and blue and green: Gray-headed beadles walked before, with wands as white as snow, Till into the high dome of Paul's they like Thames waters flow. 

 Oh, what a multitude they seemed, these flowers of London town! Seated in companies they sit, with radiance all their own. The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs, Thousands of little boys and girls raising their innocent hands. 

 Now like a mighty wind they raise to heaven the voice of song, Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among: Beneath them sit the aged men, wise guardians of the poor. Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door. 

 A CRADLE SONG

 From 'Songs of Experience'

 Sleep, sleep, beauty bright, Dreaming in the joys of night; Sleep, sleep; in thy sleep Little sorrows sit and weep. 

 Sweet babe, in thy face Soft desires I can trace, Secret joys and secret smiles, Little pretty infant wiles. 

 As thy softest limbs I feel, Smiles as of the morning steal O'er thy cheek and o'er thy breast, Where thy little heart doth rest. 

 Oh, the cunning wiles that creep In thy little heart asleep! When thy little heart shall wake, Then the dreadful light shall break. 

 THE LITTLE BLACK BOY

 From 'Songs of Innocence'

 MY MOTHER bore me in the Southern wild, And I am black, but oh, my soul is white! White as an angel is the English child, But I am black, as if bereaved of light. 

 My mother taught me underneath a tree, And sitting down before the heat of day, She took me on her lap and kissed me, And, pointing to the East, began to say:--

 "Look on the rising sun: there God does live, And gives his light, and gives his heat away, And flowers and trees and beasts and men receive Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday. 

 "And we are put on earth a little space, That we may learn to bear the beams of love; And these black bodies and this sunburnt face Are but a cloud, and like a shady grove. 

 "For when our souls have learned the heat to bear, The cloud will vanish, we shall hear his voice, Saying, 'Come out from the grove, my love and care, And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice. '"

 Thus did my mother say, and kissèd me, And thus I say to little English boy: When I from black, and he from white cloud free, And round the tent of God like lambs we joy, I'll shade him from the heat till he can bear To lean in joy upon our Father's knee; And then I'll stand and stroke his silver hair, And be like him, and he will then love me. 

 THE TIGER

 From 'Songs of Experience'

 Tiger! Tiger! burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Framed thy fearful symmetry?

 In what distant deeps or skies Burned that fire within thine eyes? On what wings dared he aspire? What the hand dared seize the fire?

 And what shoulder, and what art, Could twist the sinews of thy heart? When thy heart began to beat, What dread hand formed thy dread feet?

 What the hammer, what the chain, Knit thy strength and forged thy brain? What the anvil? What dread grasp Dared thy deadly terrors clasp?

 When the stars threw down their spears, And watered heaven with their tears, Did he smile his work to see? Did He who made the lamb make thee?

CHARLES BLANC

(1813-1882)

We have few personal details of Charles Blanc. We know that he lived ina luminous world of form and thought, a life in harmony with his work;we have books containing his conception of art; we know that art was hisone absorbing passion: and this should satisfy us, for it was his ownopinion that all which does not tend to illustrate an artist'sconception of art is of but secondary importance in his life. 

Of Franco-Italian extraction, Charles Blanc was born in Castres, France, on the 15th of November, 1813. When in 1830 he and his brother Louis, youths of eighteen and nineteen, came to Paris, their aged father, anex-inspector of finance whose career had been ruined by the fall ofNapoleon, was dependent on them for support. Louis soon procured work ona newspaper; but Charles, whose ambition from his earliest years was tobecome a painter, spent his days in the Louvre, or wandering about Parislooking in the old-print-shop windows, and he thus learned much that heafterwards developed in his works. As his brother's position improved, he was enabled to study drawing with Delaroche and engraving withCalamatta. His masters gave him but little encouragement, however, andhe soon turned his thoughts to literature, his maiden effort being adescription of the Brussels Salon of 1836 for his brother's paper. 

Exquisite sensitiveness and responsiveness to beauty eminently fittedCharles Blanc for the position of art critic, and gave a charm to hisearliest writings. He brought to his new task the technical knowledge ofan artist, and a penetrating critical insight which, aided by study, ripened rapidly. The evidence of talent afforded by his first artcriticism induced Louis Blanc to confide to him successively theeditorship of several provincial papers. But Charles's inclinations weretoward the calm atmosphere of art; he was, and ever remained, indifferent to politics, and looked upon the fiery, active Louis withastonishment, even while catching his energy and ambition. On his returnto Paris he began a history of the 'French Painters of the NineteenthCentury, ' but one volume of which appeared; and the 'Painters of AllSchools, ' completed in 1876. Very little was then known of the lives ofthe painters. By illustrating each biographical sketch with engravingsof the artists' pictures, Blanc met a long-felt want. As the work wasintended for the general reader, it was not overloaded with erudition:but numerous anecdotes, combined with vivacity of style, arousedinterest in painting and created a public for the more purely technicalworks which followed. Though assisted by others in this undertaking, Blanc himself planned the method of treatment, and wrote the history ofthe Dutch and French schools; and the work justly retains his name. 

The Socialists had taken a prominent part in the events of February, 1848, which led to the overthrow of Louis Philippe; and they yielded tothe universal desire by appointing Charles Blanc Director of FineArts--a position which he had prophesied to his friends several yearsbefore that he would one day fill. When he assumed office, the positionof artists was critical; as, owing to social convulsions, government andprivate orders had dwindled into insignificance. Thanks to his energy, work was resumed on public monuments, and the greater part of the sum of900, 000 francs, voted by the National Assembly for the Champs de Marsfestival, was devoted to work which gave employment to a legion ofdecorative painters and sculptors. After the Salon of 1848, as thegovernment coffers were depleted, he obtained 80, 000 francs' worth ofSèvres porcelain from the Minister of Commerce, to give as prizes. Hecombated a proposition made by the Committee on Finance to suppress theLouvre studios of molding; he opposed the motion to reduce the corps ofprofessors at the School of Fine Arts, and defended the School of Rome, threatened with suppression. 

While Director of Fine Arts, Blanc fought his first and only duel, indefence of his brother, although he had never fired a pistol in hislife. During the political agitation of 1848, Louis was condemned by theNational Assembly, and fled to London. After his departure, he wasabused in very insulting language by one Lacombe, and Charles called thelatter to account. In the duel which followed, Lacombe was hit, but theball struck his pocket-book and glanced off, when Méry, one of theseconds, exclaimed, "That was money well invested!" and there thematter ended. 

Another event, which occurred several years previous, has a certainpsychological significance. One evening Charles Blanc was visiting afriend who resided a distance of one hundred and fifty miles from Paris. In the midst of conversation, he suddenly grew pale and exclaimed thathe had received a shock, adding that something must have happened toLouis. The next day his fears were confirmed by the receipt of a letter, telling him that the latter had been knocked down in the streets ofParis by a blow across the forehead. When Dumas père heard of thiscoincidence, he utilized it in his 'Corsican Brothers. '

Notwithstanding his fine record as an administrator and hisencouragement of talent, Blanc was sacrificed to the spirit of reactionwhich set in about 1850. His removal displeased the entire art world, so highly was he esteemed for his integrity, his progressive ideas, andhis unerring taste. On his return to private life he resumed his'History of the Painters. ' 'L'Oeuvres de Rembrandt' (1853 to 1863), containing also a life of the artist, was illustrated by the firstphotographic plates which ever appeared in a book. 

The name 'Peintres des Fêtes Galantes' was derived by Blanc from thetitle conferred on Watteau by the French Academy. Of the artists thereinmentioned, Watteau occupied the realm of poetry; Lancret that of theconventional, the fashionable; Pater that of vulgar, jovial reality;Boucher, the most distinctively French of artists, that of brilliancy, dash, and vivacity. These painters are a curious study for the historianinterested in the external forms of things. 

With the exception of Dupré, Blanc knew all the painters of whom hewrites in the 'Artistes de mon Temps' (Artists of My Time). The work istherefore replete with personal recollections. Here again the generalinterest is deepened by the warm interest which the author takes in themen and events of the time. There are many charming pages devoted toFélix Duban, Delacroix, and Calamatta; to the contemporary medallions ofDavid d'Angers; to Henri Leys, Chenavard, and Troyon; to Corot, thelover of nature who saw her through a veil of poetry; to Jules Dupré andRousseau, who saw the poetry innate in her. He introduces us to thecaricaturists Grandville and Gavarni; to Barye's lifelike animals. Onreading the lives of these men, one is struck by the fact that theyproduced their masterpieces at about the age of twenty years. 

The 'Treasures of Art in Manchester, ' and 'From Paris to Vienna, ' werepublished in 1857. The latter contained curious information about thesale of art works during the seventeenth century, with the prices theybrought, and is enlivened with short spirited sketches of artists andamateurs. In 1867 Blanc became a member of the Academic des Beaux Arts. The 'Treasures of Curiosity' is a catalogue of pictures and engravingssold between 1830 and the date of the appearance of the book. 

Devoted to purely artistic subjects, the Journal des Beaux Arts, foundedby Blanc, rendered great service to art by spreading a taste for itamong the cultivated classes. The 'Grammar of Painting and Engraving'first appeared in this periodical. Though given up to a consideration oftechnical subjects, the work abounds in poetic touches and has greatinterest for the general reader. In 1875 it was discussed in the FrenchAcademy, when its author competed for the chair left vacant by the deathof Vitel. He was not elected until the following year, though his bookmet with great success, and led to the revival of engraving in France. 

When he began his studies for the life of Ingres, which appeared in1867, he found many letters of the artist, which enabled him to followthe latter through the various phases of his life: to know the changesof his temper, the inflexibility of his character; his emotions day byday; his momentary discouragements, his great will-power; the heroicefforts he made to reach the heights; his ideas on art, his opinions ofothers as well as himself: and thanks to these documents, he was enabledto reproduce one of the most remarkable personalities, if not the mostoriginal one, of the French school. 

In 1870 he was again made Director of Fine Arts. He introduced severalreforms in the organization of the Salon, and founded a 4, 000-francprize. But the spirit of reaction could not forgive his politicalantecedents; and in 1873, on the fall of Thiers, he was removed beforehe could complete his plan for establishing a museum of copies toreproduce the masterpieces of painting. One well-deserved satisfactionwas granted him in 1878 by the creation of a chair of Æsthetics and ArtHistory in the College of France, which he was called by special decreeto fill; and there he taught for three years. 

The first part of the 'Grammar of the Decorative Arts' appeared in 1881;the second part, dealing with interior decorations, in 1882. The thirdpart, 'The Decoration of Cities, ' was not completed, owing to his suddendeath. Elected President of the French Academy in 1882, he did not enjoythis well-deserved honor long. A few weeks before his death--whichoccurred on February 17th, 1882, from the effects of an operation forcancer--he began a catalogue of the collection presented by Thiers tothe Louvre. This was the last work of a pen wielded with unimpairedvigor to the end. 

"The great artist, " wrote Blanc, "is he who guides us into the region ofhis own thoughts, into the palaces and fields of his own imagination, and while there, speaks to us the language of the gods;" and to none arethese words more applicable than to himself. In the world of thought hewas a man of great originality, though neither architect, painter, norsculptor. He had all the artist nature from a boy, and never lost thetender sensibility and _naïf_ admiration for the beautiful in nature andart which give such glow of enthusiasm to his writings. His 'Grammar ofPainting and Engraving' founded the scientific method of criticism. Inthis work he brought his intellectual qualifications and extensivereading to bear upon a subject until then treated either byphilosophical theorizers or eloquent essayists. He has left one of thepurest literary reputations in France. He was above all an idealist, andmade the World Beautiful more accessible to us. 

[Illustration: _REMBRANDT AND HIS WIFE_. Photogravure from the originalPainting by Rembrandt. Dresden Gallery. ] [Illustration]

REMBRANDT

From 'The Dutch School of Painters'

Rembrandt has taken great pains to transmit to us paintings of hisperson, or at least of his face, from the time of his youth up to thatof shrunken old age. He was a man at once robust and delicate. His broadand slightly rounded forehead presented a development that indicated apowerful imagination. His eyes were small, deep-set, bright, intelligent, and full of fire. His hair, of a warm color bordering onred and curling naturally, may possibly have indicated a Jewishextraction. His head had great character, in spite of the plainness ofhis features; a large flat nose, high cheek-bones, and a copper-coloredcomplexion imparted to his face a vulgarity which, however, was relievedby the form of his mouth, the haughty outline of his eyebrows, and thebrilliancy of his eyes. Such was Rembrandt; and the character of thefigures he painted partakes of that of his own person. That is to say, they have great expression, but are not noble; they possess much pathos, while deficient in what is termed style. 

An artist thus constituted could not but be exceedingly original, intelligent, and independent, though selfish and entirely swayed bycaprice. When he began to study nature, he entered upon his task notwith that good nature which is the distinctive characteristic of so manyof the Dutch painters, but with an innate desire to stamp upon everyobject his own peculiarity, supplementing imagination by an attentiveobservation of real life. Of all the phenomena of nature, that whichgave him most trouble was light; the difficulty he most desired toconquer was that of expression. 

ALBERT DÜRER'S 'MELANCHOLIA'

From 'The Dutch School of Painters'

The love of the extravagant and fantastic observable in Dürer's firstpictures never abandoned him. He has probably expressed the inspirationof his own soul in the figure of Melancholy, who, seated on thesea-shore, seems trying to penetrate with her gaze into infinite space. For my part, I have this picture always before me. How could it bepossible to forget an engraving of Dürer's, even though seen but once?I can see her proud and noble head resting thoughtfully upon one hand, her long hair falling in disheveled tresses upon her shoulders; herfolded wings emblematic of that impotent aspiration which directs hergaze towards heaven; a book, closed and useless as her wings, restingupon her knee. Nothing can be more gloomy, more penetrating, than theexpression of this figure. From the peculiar folds of her dress, onewould suppose she was enveloped in iron draperies. Near her is asun-dial with a bell which marks the hours as they glide away. The sunis sinking beneath the ocean, and darkness will soon envelop the earth. Above hovers a strange-looking bat with spreading wings, and bearing apennon on which is written the word "Melancholia. "

All is symbolical in this composition, of which the sentiment issublime. Melancholy holds in her right hand a pair of compasses and acircle, the emblem of that eternity in which her thoughts are lost. Various instruments appertaining to the arts and sciences lie scatteredaround her; after having made use of them, she has cast them aside andhas fallen into a profound revery. As typical of the mistrust which hascrept into her heart with avarice and doubt, a bunch of keys issuspended to her girdle; above her is an hour-glass, the emblem of hertransitory existence. Nothing could be more admirable than the face ofMelancholy, both in the severe beauty of her features and the depthof her gaze. 

Neither the sentiment of melancholy nor the word which expresses it hadappeared in art before the time of Albert Dürer. 

 * * * * *

INGRES

From the 'Life of Ingres'

Small of stature, square of figure, rough of manner, devoid ofdistinction, Ingres's personality afforded a great contrast to therefinement of his taste and the charm of his feminine figures. I canhardly conceive how a man thus built could show such delicacy in thechoice of his subjects; how those short, thick fingers could draw suchlovely, graceful forms. 

Ingres hated academic conventionality; he mingled the Florentine andGreek schools; he sought the ideal not outside of reality but in itsvery essence, in the reconciliation of style with nature. Color heconsidered of secondary importance; he not only subordinated itvoluntarily to drawing, but he did not have a natural gift for it. Ingres is the artist who has best expressed the voluptuousness not offlesh but of form; who has felt feminine beauty most profoundlyand chastely. 

CALAMATTA'S STUDIO

From 'Contemporary Artists'

I can still see Lamennais, with his worn-out coat, his round back, hisyellow, parchment-like face, his eyes sparkling beneath a foreheadimprinted with genius, and resembling somewhat Hoffmann's heroes. GeorgeSand sometimes visited us, and it seemed to me that her presence lightedup the whole studio. She always spoke to me, for she knew that I was thebrother of a distinguished writer, and when she looked over my plate Itrembled like a leaf. 

Thus our calm sedentary life was enlivened by an occasional sunbeam; andwhen I was hard at work with my graver, my mind was nourished by theminds of others. Giannone, the poet, read his commentaries onShakespeare to us, and Mercure always had a witty retort in that faultyFrench which is so amusing in an Italian mouth. Calamatta would listenin silence, his eyes glued to his drawing of the 'Joconde, ' at which heworked on his good days. 

BLANC'S DÉBUT AS ART CRITIC

From 'Contemporary Artists'

In those days things happened just as they do now; the criticism isalmost invariably the work of beginners. A youth who has acquired asmattering of learning, who has caught up the slang of the studios, andpretends to have a system or to defend a paradox, is chosen to write anaccount of the Salon. I was that youth, that novice. And after all, howbecome a workman unless you work? how become expert if you do not study, recognize your mistakes and repair them? Beneath our mistakes truthlies hidden. 

So I arrived at Brussels to exercise the trade of critic, and foundmyself in the presence of two men who were then making a brilliantdebut as painters: De Keyser and Henri Leys. I hope I shall be forgivenif I reproduce my criticism of the latter's 'Massacre of the Magistratesof Louvain. '

 "Imagine to yourself a small public square, such as might have existed in Louvain in the fourteenth century; this square filled with angry people demanding satisfaction for the death of their chief, Gautier de Lendes, assassinated by the nobles; the approach to the palace of justice crowded with men armed to the teeth; at the top of the stairs the city magistrates on their way to execution, some as calm as if about to administer justice, others bewailing that the people know not what they do; peasants awaiting them at the foot of the stairs, dagger in hand, a smile upon their lips; here and there fainting women, dead bodies being stripped, dying men being tortured, and an inextricable confusion of monks, burghers, soldiers, children and horses. Then if you fancy this scene painted with the warmth and impetuosity of a Tintoretto, or as Hugo would have written it, you will have an idea of Leys's picture. It may not be prudent to trust an enthusiastic criticism; but my opinion is shared by every one. I may be rash in praising a young man whose wings may melt in the sun; but when, as is the case with M. Leys, the artist possesses exact knowledge of the times and manners, when he has verve, dash, and deep feeling, he needs only to moderate ardor by reflection, and to ripen inspiration by study, in order to become great. "

One must admit that the above was not a bad beginning for anapprentice-connoisseur, and that I was fortunate in praising an unknownartist destined to make a great reputation. .. . There is something morereal than reality in what passes in the soul of a great artist!

 * * * * *

DELACROIX'S 'BARK OF DANTE'

From 'Contemporary Artists'

An admirable and altogether new quality is the weird harmony of colorwhich makes the painting vibrate like a drama; or in other words, thatsombre harmony itself is the foundation of the tragedy. Lyricism isexpressed by mere difference in tones, which, heightened by theircontrasts and softened by their analogy, become harmonious whileclashing with each other. A new poetry was born of the French school, until then so sober of color, so little inclined to avail itself of thematerial resources of painting. And yet the expression thus achieved byDelacroix appeals to the soul as much as to the eyes. It is not merelyoptical beauty, but spiritual beauty of the highest order, that isproduced by his superb coloring. In this picture the young painter'sgenius was revealed unto himself. He then knew that he had guessed thesecret of an art which he was to carry to a perfection undreamed ofbefore, --the orchestration of color. .. . 

Delacroix was the hero of Romanticism. His life was one long revolt inthe name of color against drawing, of flesh against marble, of freedomof attitude against traditionary precision. He is an essentially moderngenius inflamed by the poetry of Christianity, and he added tumultuouspassions and feverish emotions to the antique serenity of art. 

In those days youth was entirely given up to noble aspirations, todreams of glory, to enthusiasm for beauty of expression and feeling, toan ardent love of liberty. Men were indifferent to stock quotations, butthey rated spiritual values high. Mere theories inspired passion;quarrels on the subject of style and painting were common; men becameenthusiastic over poetry and beauty--the ideal!

GENESIS OF THE 'GRAMMAR'

At dinner one day with the dignitaries of one of the largest cities ofFrance, conversation turned upon the arts. All of the guests spoke ofthem, and well; but each intrenched himself behind his own personalviews, in virtue of the adage "One cannot argue about tastes. " Iprotested in vain against this false principle, saying that it wasinadmissible, and that the classic Brillat-Savarin would have beenshocked at such blasphemy. Even his name had no weight, and the guestsseparated gayly, after uttering heresies that made you shiver. Among theeminent men present there was one, however, who seemed somewhatmortified that he had not the most elementary idea of art; and he askedme if there was not some book in which its principles were presented ina clear and brief form. I replied that no such book existed, and that onleaving college I should have been only too happy to find such a work;and thereupon determined to write one. 

MORAL INFLUENCE OF ART

From 'Grammar of Painting and Engraving'

Painting purifies people by its mute eloquence. The philosopher writeshis thoughts for those who can think and read. The painter shows histhought to all who have eyes to see. That hidden and naked virgin, Truth, the artist finds without seeking. He throws a veil over her, encourages her to please, proves to her that she is beautiful, and whenhe has reproduced her image he makes us take her, and takes her himself, for Beauty. 

In communicating to us what has been seen and felt by others, thepainter gives new strength and compass to the soul. Who can say of howmany apparently fugitive impressions a man's morality is composed, andupon what depends the gentleness of his manners, the correctness of hishabits, the elevation of his thoughts? If the painter represents acts ofcruelty or injustice, he inspires us with horror. The 'Unhappy Family'of Proudhon moves the fibres of charity better than the homilies of apreacher. .. . Examples of the sublime are rare in painting, as thepainter is compelled to imprison every idea in a form. It may happen, nevertheless, that moved by thoughts to which he has given no form, theartist strikes the soul as a thunderbolt would the ear. It is then byvirtue of the thought perceived, but not formulated, that the picturebecomes sublime. 

POUSSIN'S 'SHEPHERDS OF ARCADIA'

From 'Grammar of Painting and Engraving'

In a wide, heavily wooded country, the sojourning-place of thathappiness sung by the poets, some peasants have discovered a tomb hiddenby a thicket of trees, and bearing this brief inscription: "Et inArcadia ego" (I too lived in Arcadia). These words, issuing from thetomb, sadden their faces, and the smiles die upon their lips. A younggirl, carelessly leaning upon the shoulder of her lover, seems tolisten, mute and pensive, to this salutation from the dead. The thoughtof death has also plunged into reverie a youth who leans over the tombwith bowed head, while the oldest shepherd points out the inscription hehas just discovered. The landscape that completes this quiet pictureshows reddened leaves upon arid rocks; hillocks that melt in the vaguehorizon, and in the distance, something ill-defined that resembles thesea. The sublime in this painting is that which we cannot see; it is thethought that hovers over it, the unexpected emotion that fills the soulof the spectator, transported suddenly beyond the tomb into theinfinite unknown. 

 * * * * *

LANDSCAPE

From 'Grammar of Painting and Engraving'

The poetry of the fields and forests is inseparable from truth. But thepainter must idealize this truth by making it express some sentiment;faithfulness of imitation alone would not suffice. The artist, master ofreality, enlightens it with his eyes, transfigures it according to hisheart, and makes it utter what is not in it--sentiment; and that whichit neither possesses nor understands--thought. 

 * * * * *

STYLE

From 'Grammar of Painting and Engraving'

Drawing is a work of the mind; every drawing is the expression of athought or sentiment, and is charged with showing us something superiorto the apparent truth when that reveals neither sentiment nor thought. But what is this superior truth? It is sometimes the character of theobject drawn, sometimes the character of the designer, and in high artis what we call style. 

The artist sees in the creations of nature what he himself carries inthe depth of his soul, tints them with the colors of his imagination, lends them the witchery of his genius. The temperament of the artistmodifies the character of objects, and even that of living figures. Butthis power of taking possession is the appanage of great hearts, ofgreat artists, of those whom we call masters, --who, instead of being theslaves of reality, dominate it. These have a style; their imitators haveonly a manner. 

Aside from the style peculiar to every great master, there is in artsomething still superior and impersonal, which is style proper. Style istruth aggrandized, simplified, freed from all insignificant details, restored to its original essence, its typical aspect. This "style" _parexcellence_, in which instead of recognizing the soul of an artist wefeel the breath of the universal soul, was realized in the Greeksculpture of the time of Pericles. 

THE LAW OF PROPORTION IN ARCHITECTURE

From 'Grammar of Painting and Engraving'

Man, from the fact that he is the only intelligent being in creation, desires to show his intelligence in his works. In order to do so hemakes them resemble himself in a measure, by impressing upon them thecharacteristic of his intelligence, which is logic, and that of hisbody, which is proportion. Architecture employs inorganic matteralone--stone, marble, brick, iron, wood, when the sap has been dried outof it and it ceases to be an organic substance; and yet, under the handof the architect, this inert matter expresses sentiments and feelings. By subjecting it to the laws of order, symmetry, and proportion, in amanner which appeals to the eye, he lends them a semblance of life andan organism conceived after his own image. By this artificialproportion, inert matter is raised to the dignity of the animal kingdom;it is rendered eloquent and capable of expressing the soul of theartist, and often that of a race. 

But human monuments have still another point in common with the body. Order, symmetry, and proportion are needed rigorously only on theexterior. Within, general beauty no longer dominates, but individuallife. If we look at the interior of the human body we find no symmetry, no arrangement but that demanded by the function of the organs. Thebrain, it is true, has two symmetrical lobes, because the brain isdestined to a life of relation, to the life of intelligence. But intheir individual functions the life of the internal organs presentsanother aspect. The stomach is a shapeless bag; the heart is a singlemuscle which is not even placed in the centre; the left lung is longerand narrower than the right; the spleen is a ganglion placed on the leftside without any corresponding organ; but all this mechanism, whichscientists consider wonderful in its irregularity, is hidden beneath alayer of similar members which repeat each other and correspond at equaldistances from a central line, and constitute symmetry in animals, beauty in man. Similar in this respect to the human body, architecturalmonuments have a double life and a double aspect. 

On the exterior, it is meet that they should be regular, symmetrical--but symmetrical from left to right like man, not from topto bottom nor from face to back. Their resemblance to man is furthershown by openings, which are as the eyes and ears of the persons whoinhabit them; their entrance occupies the centre of the edifice, as themouth is placed on the central line of the face; they have rounded orangular forms according as they have been built to express strength, avirile idea, or grace, a feminine one; lastly, they have proportion, forthere is a harmonious relation between their apparent members, and amutual dependence which subordinates the variety of the parts to theunity of the whole, and which constitutes the necessary conditions ofthe beautiful in art. 

The interior is not subjected to the necessity for duplicate members, toregularity of façade, nor to unity of appearance. Thus when the artistwho has designed the monument performs its autopsy, --so to say, --we see, as in the human body, unequal dimensions, irregular shapes, disparitieswhich resemble disorder to the eye, but which constitute theindividuality of the edifice. Within reigns relative beauty, free, withfixed rule; without reigns a necessary beauty subjected to its own laws. 

In man, character is the soul's expression. In architecture, characteris the moral physiognomy o£ a building. As a portrait without characteris but a vain shadow of the person represented, so a monument which doesnot appeal to the intelligence, which evokes no thought, is merely apile of stones, a body without a soul. The soul of architecture is thethought it expresses. 

Character tends towards beauty in man as well as in his works. If weglance at human society, we see faces which appear to be nothing morethan a sketch. Parsimonious nature has given them only sufficient lifeto move in a narrow circle; they are mere individuals; they representnothing but themselves. However, in the midst of the crowd, some men arenoticeable for an abundance of vitality, whom favorable events havedeveloped along their natural tendencies: they impersonate manyindividuals in one; their unity is equal to numbers; for good or evil, they have a character. In proportion as an individuality becomes moreenriched, more pronounced, it attains character; in proportion ascharacter loses its roughness it becomes beauty. This is also true ofarchitecture. 

STEEN STEENSEN BLICHER

(1782-1848)

Among the men nearest to the heart of the Danish people is SteenSteensen Blicher, who was born in 1782 on the border of the Jutlandheath with which his name is so inseparably linked. The descendant of aline of country parsons, he was destined like them to the ministry, andwhile awaiting his appointment he supported his family by teaching andby farming. 

When after years of hardship he finally obtained a parish on the Jutlandheath, the salary was too small to support his large family. It was onlyduring the very last years of his life that he was freed from harassingcares by the generosity of three friends, who, grateful for his literarywork, paid off his debts. 

While he was in college at Copenhagen he heard the lectures of theNorwegian Henrik Steffens, an interpreter of the German philosophic andromantic school. Steffens aroused a reaction against the formalism ofthe eighteenth century, and introduced romanticism into the North by hispowerful influence over men like Oehlenschläger, Grundtvig, and Mynsterin Denmark, and Ling and the "Phosphorists" in Sweden. Through theselectures Blicher became much interested in the Ossianic poems, of whichhe made an. Excellent Danish translation. 

The poems and dramas with which he followed this work were of no greatimportance. It was not until he began to look into the old Danishtraditions that he found his true sphere. The study of these quaint andsimple legends led him to write those national peasant stories which hebegan to publish in 1826. They are not only the best of their kind inDanish, but they bear favorable comparison with the same kind of work inother literatures. They are not written as a study of social problems, or of any philosophy of life or moods of nature as they are reflected inhuman existence; they are merely a reproduction of what the countryparson's own eyes beheld--the comedy and tragedy of the commonplace. What a less sensitive observer might have passed in silence--the brownheath, the breakers of the North Sea, the simple heart and life of thepeasant--revealed to him the poesy, now merry, now sad, which he renderswith so much art and so delicate a sympathy. Behind the believer inromanticism stands the lover of nature and of humanity. 

Among his works the best known are 'E Bindstouw' (The Knitting-room), acollection of stories and poems, full of humor, simple and naive, toldby the peasants themselves in their own homely Jutland dialect. These, as well as some of his later poems, especially 'Sneklokken' (TheSnowbell), and 'Trækfuglene' (Birds of Passage), possess a clear, true, and national lyric quality. 

Dying in 1848, Blicher was buried in Jutland, near the heath on which hespent whole days and nights of happy solitude. On one side of the stoneabove his grave is engraved a golden plover, on the other a pair ofheath-larks, and around the foot a garland of heather, in memory of thatintimate life with nature which, through his own great love for it, heendeared to all his readers. 

 * * * * *

 A PICTURE

 From the 'Poems'

 I lay on my heathery hills alone; The storm-winds rushed o'er me in turbulence loud; My head rested lone on the gray moorland stone; My eyes wandered skyward from cloud unto cloud. 

 There wandered my eyes, but my thoughts onward passed, Far beyond cloud-track or tempest's career; At times I hummed songs, and the desolate waste Was the first the sad chimes of my spirit to hear. 

 Gloomy and gray are the moorlands where rest My fathers, yet there doth the wild heather bloom, And amid the old cairns the lark buildeth her nest, And sings in the desert, o'er hill-top and tomb. 

 From Hewitt's 'Literature of Northern Europe. '

 * * * * *

THE KNITTING-ROOM

It was the eve before Christmas Eve--no, stop! I am lying--it was theeve before that, come to think of it, that there was a knitting-beegoing on at the schoolmaster's, Kristen Kornstrup's, --you know him?There were plenty that knew him, for in the winter he was schoolmaster, and in the summer he was mason, and he was alike clever at both. And hecould do more than that, for he could stop the flow of blood, anddiscover stolen goods, and make the wind turn, and read prayers overfelons, and much more too. But at this exorcising he was not so good asthe parson, for he had not been through the black school. 

So we had gathered there from the whole town, --oh, well, Lysgaard townis not so mighty big: there are only six farms and some houses, but thenthey were there too from Katballe and Testrup, and I think the lads fromKnakkeborg had drifted over too--but that doesn't matter. We had got itmeasured off at last, and all of us had got our yarn over the hook inthe ceiling above the table, and had begun to let the five needles work. Then the schoolmaster says, "Isn't there one of you that will singsomething or tell something? then it will go so nicely with the workhere. " Then she began to speak, Kirsten Pedersdatter from Paps, --for sheis always forward about speaking:--"I could sing you a little ditty ifyou cared to hear it--" "That we do, " said I, "rattle it off!"--And shesang a ditty--I had never heard it before, but I remember it wellenough, and it ran this way:--

 * * * * *

But now I will tell you a story about a Poorman [gipsy] and whathappened to him. 

"If, " said he--Mads Ur--"if you have been in Herning or thereabout, youknow that there is a great marsh south of it. That same marsh is not sovery nice to cross for those that don't know it well. 

"It was the summer I was working for Kristens that a cow sank down outthere, and it was one of those I was watching. I took her by the hornsand I took her by the tail, but she would not help herself at all, andwhen one won't do a little bit, what is going to become of one? As Istand there pulling at that same refractory cow, up comes a Poorman fromover at Rind, one of those they call knackers. 'I'll have to help you, 'said he: 'you take hold of the horns, and I'll lift the tail. ' Thatworked, for he pricked her under the tail with his pikestaff, and shewas of a mind to help herself too. 'What do you give me for that now?'said he. 'I have nothing to give you, ' said I, 'nothing but thanks. ' 'Iwon't have them, ' answered he, 'but if ever I should sink down on oneroad or another, will you lend me a hand if you are near by?' 'That Iwill do, indeed, ' answered I; and then he tramped up to town, andthat was all. 

"How was it now that I came to work in Sund's parsonage?--well, thatdoesn't matter--I could swing a scythe, but how old I was I don'tremember, for I don't rightly know how old I am now. The parson was amighty good man, but God help us for the wife he had! She was as bad tohim as any woman could be, and he hadn't a dog's chance with her. I havesaved him twice from her grip, for he was a little scared mite of athing, and she was big and strong, but I was stronger still, and I couldget the better of her. Once she chased him around the yard with a knifein her hand, and cried that she would be even with him. I did not likethat, so I took the knife from her and warned her to behaveherself, --but that wasn't what I meant to say. Well, once while I wasworking there I stood near the pond looking at the aftermath. And upcomes this same customer--this Poorman--drifting along the road towardme, and he had two women following him, and they each had a cradle ontheir backs and a child in each cradle. 'Good day to you, ' said I. 'Sameto you, ' said he; 'how is your cow? Have you let her get into the marshsince?' 'Oh, no, ' said I, 'and here is another thank-ye to you. ' 'Areyou working in this here bit of a parsonage?' said he. 'That I am, ' saidI. 'Well, now listen, ' said he; 'couldn't you hide me these two withtheir little ones a day or so? for to-morrow there is to be a raid onour people, and I wouldn't like to have these in Viborghouse; I can stowmyself away easy enough. ' 'I'll see what I can do, ' answered I; 'letthem come, say a little after bedtime, to the West house there, and I'llget a ladder ready and help them up on the hayloft, --but have you foodand drink yourself?' 'Oh, I shall do well enough, ' said he, 'and nowfarewell to you until the sun is down. ' So then they drifted along theroad to a one-horse farm, and that evening they came, sure enough, and Ihid the two women and the children until the second night; then theyslipped away again. Before I parted with them, the Poorman said, 'I'dlike to repay you this piece of work: isn't there something you wantvery much?' 'Yes, ' said I. --'What might it be?'--'Hm! The only thing isMorten's Ane Kirstine at the farm where you went last night. But herparents won't let me have her; they say I have too little, and that istrue too. ' 'Hm, man, ' says he, 'you look as if you had a pair of strongarms of your own; that is a good heirloom, and she has some pennies, --ina couple of days you might go and see what the old man's mind is. I'llhelp along the best I know how. ' I listened to that, for evil uponthem, those gipsies--they are not such fools. They can tell fortunes anddiscover stolen goods, and they can do both good and evil as itmay happen. 

"I thought over this thing a couple of days and some of the nights too, and then the third day I drifted over to Morten's. Ane Kirstine stoodalone outside the gate with her back turned, for she was busywhitewashing a wall, so I came upon her before she knew it. 'Mercy onus! is that you?' she cried, 'where have you been all these manydays?'--'I have been at home, and in the field, and on the heath, as ithappened, and now I come to take a look at you. '--'I am not worthlooking at, ' said she, and thrust her clay-covered hands down into thepail to rinse off the clay. 'I don't care, ' says I, 'whether you areyellow or gray, for you are the best friend I've got in this world; butI suppose I shall never be worthy of taking you in my arms in all honorand virtue. '--'It would be bad if that couldn't be, ' said she, 'but itmay happen we have got to wait awhile. '--'I can't wait over-long, ' saidI, 'for my mother will have no roof over her head, and either I shallhave to take the farm or else a sister; that is how it stands, and itcannot be otherwise. '--Then she began to sniffle, and dried her eyes andsighed, but said nothing. I felt sorry for her, but what was there forone to do?

"Well, some one came who could tell us what to do, and it was none otherthan that same Poorman. Along he tramps with one of his women, and hadhis glass case on his back and wanted to get into the farm. " Then heturned toward us and said:--'Well, well! what are you two doing there?Come along in with me, little girl, and I'll see if I can't manage itfor you; but you stay out here, my little man! then we'll see what maycome of it. '--They went, and I sat down on a stone that was lying thereand folded my hands. I was not over-happy. I don't know how long I satthere, for I had fallen asleep; but then I was waked by some one kissingme, and it was no other than Ane Kirstine. 'Are you sitting theresleeping?' said she; 'come along in now, it is as it ought to be. Theknacker has spoken a good word for us to mother, and when nothing couldchange her he said, "There is a black cock sitting on the perch: maybe ared one will crow over you if you don't do as I say. " At this she got alittle bit scared, and said, "Then let it be! but this I tell you, AneKirstine, I'll keep the black-headed cow for milking, and I'll have allthe hay that is my share. "--"That is no more than reasonable, " said I, "and now we have no more to quarrel about, I suppose. " Now you can letthem publish the banns when you please. ' 'And now, Ane Kirstine, ' saidI, 'this tramp here, he must have a reward, and I'll give it with a goodwill; and if we can get hold of him when we have our feast, he shallhave a pot of soup and a hen to himself and those women andchildren. '--'That is right enough, ' said she; 'and I will give them arag or so, or a few more of my half-worn clothes. '

"Well, then my mother-in-law made a splendid feast, and there was plentyof everything. The Poorman was there, too, with all his following; butthey had theirs by themselves, as you might know, seeing that they wereof the knacker kind. Him I gave a coat, and Ane Kirstine gave the womeneach a cap and a kerchief and a piece of homespun for a petticoat foreach of the young ones, and they were mighty well pleased. 

"I and Ane Kirstine had lived happily together for about four years, aswe do still, and all that time we had seen nothing of that Poorman, although we had spoken of him now and again. Sometimes we thought he hadperished, and sometimes that they had put him into Viborghouse. Well, then it was that we were to have our second boy christened, him wecalled Sören, and I went to the parson to get this thing fixed up. As Icame on the marsh to the selfsame place where I saw that Poor-customerthe first time, there was somebody lying at one edge of the bog, on hisback in the heather and with his legs in the ditch. I knew him wellenough. 'Why are you lying here alone?' said I: 'is anything the matterwith you?' 'I think I am dying, ' said he, but he gasped so I couldhardly understand him. 'Where are those women, ' said I, 'that you usedto have with you? Have they left you to lie here by the road?' He noddedhis head and whispered, 'A drop of water. ' 'That I will give you, ' saidI, and then I took some of the rainwater that stood in the ditch, in thehollow of my hat, and held it to his mouth. But that was of no use, forhe could drink no longer, but drew up his legs and opened his mouthwide, and then the spirit left him. I felt so sorry for him that when Icame to the parson's I begged that his poor ghost might be sheltered inthe churchyard. That he gave me leave to do, and then I fetched him onmy own wagon and nailed a couple of boards together and laid him downin the northwestern corner, and there he lies. "

"Well now, that was it, " said Kristen Katballe, "but why do you sitthere so still, Marie Kjölvroe? Can you neither sing nor tell ussomething?" "That is not impossible, " said she, and heaved a sigh, andsang so sadly that one might almost think it had happened to her. 

THE HOSIER

 "The greatest sorrow of all down here, Is to lose the one we hold most dear. "

Sometimes, when I have wandered far out on the wide heath, where I havehad nothing but the brown heather around me and the blue sky above me;when I walked far away from mankind and the monuments of its busy doingshere below, --which after all are only molehills to be leveled by time orby some restless Tamerlane;--when I drifted, light-hearted, free, andproud, like the Bedouin, whom no house, no narrowly bounded field chainsto the spot, but who owns, possesses, all he sees, --who does not dwell, but who goes wherever he pleases; when my far-hovering eye caught aglimpse of a house in the horizon, and was thus disagreeably arrested inits airy flight, sometimes there came (God forgive me this passingthought, it was no more than that) the wish--would that this dwelling ofman were not! there too is trouble and sorrow; there too they quarreland fight about mine and thine!--Oh! the happy desert is mine, is thine, is everybody's, is nobody's. --It is said that a forester has proposed todisturb the settlements, to plant forests on the fields of the peasantsand in place of their torn-down villages; the far more inhuman thoughthas taken possession of me at times--what if the heather-grown heathwere still here the same as it was centuries ago, undisturbed, untouchedby the hand of man! But as I have said, I did not mean it seriously. Forwhen tired and weary, suffering from hunger and thirst, I thoughtlongingly of the Arab's tent and coffee-pot, I thanked God that aheather-thatched roof--be it even miles away--promised me shelter andrefreshment. 

On a still, warm September day, several years ago, I found myselfwalking on this same heath, which, Arabically speaking, I call mine. Nowind stirred the blushing heather; the air was heavy and misty withheat. The far-off hills that limited the horizon seemed to hover likeclouds around the immense plain, and took many wonderful shapes: houses, towers, castles, men and animals; but all of dark uncertain outline, changing like dream pictures; now a cottage grew into a church, and thatin turn into a pyramid; here a spire arose, there another sank; a manbecame a horse, and this in turn an elephant; here floated a boat, therea ship with all sails set. 

My eye found its pleasure for quite a while in watching these fantasticfigures--a panorama which only the sailor and the desert-dweller haveoccasion to enjoy--when finally I began to look for a real house amongthe many false ones; I wanted right ardently to exchange all mybeautiful fairy palaces for a single human cottage. 

Success was mine; I soon discovered a real farm without spires andtowers, whose outlines became distincter and sharper the nearer I cameto it, and which, flanked by peat-stacks, looked much larger than itreally was. Its inmates were unknown to me. Their clothes were poor, their furniture simple, but I knew that the heath-dweller often hidesnoble rental in an unpainted box or in a miserable wardrobe, and a fatpocketbook inside a patched coat; when therefore my eyes fell on analcove packed full of stockings, I concluded, and quite rightly, that Iwas in the house of a rich hosier. (In parenthesis it may be said that Ido not know any poor ones. )

A middle-aged, gray-haired, but still strong man rose from his slice andoffered me his hand with these words: "Welcome!--with permission to ask, where does the good friend come from?"

Do not jeer at so ill-mannered and straightforward a question! the heathpeasant is quite as hospitable as the Scotch laird, and but a littlemore curious; after all, he cannot be blamed for wanting to know whohis guest is. 

When I had told him who I was and whence I came, he called his wife, whoimmediately put all the delicacies of the house before me and begged meinsistently, with good-hearted kindness, to eat and drink, although myhunger and thirst made all insistence unnecessary. 

I was in the midst of the repast and a political talk with my host, whena young and exceedingly beautiful peasant girl came in, whom I shouldundoubtedly have declared a lady who had fled from cruel parents and anunwished-for marriage, had not her red hands and unadulterated peasantdialect convinced me that no disguise had taken place. She nodded in afriendly way, cast a passing glance under the table, went out and camein soon again with a dish of milk and water, which she put down on thefloor with the words, "Your dog may need something too. "

I thanked her for her attention; but this was fully given to the bigdog, whose greediness soon made the dish empty, and who now in his waythanked the giver by rubbing himself up against her; and when she raisedher arms, a little intimidated, Chasseur misunderstood the movement, puthimself on the alert, and forced the screaming girl backwards toward thealcove. I called the dog back and explained his good intentions. 

I would not have invited the reader's attention to so trivial a matter, but to remark that everything is becoming to the beautiful; for indeedthis peasant girl showed, in everything she said and did, a certainnatural grace which could not be called coquetry unless you will so callan innate unconscious instinct. 

When she had left the room I asked the parents if this was theirdaughter. They answered in the affirmative, adding that she was anonly child. 

"You won't keep her very long, " I said. 

"Dear me, what do you mean by that?" asked the father; but a pleasedsmile showed that he understood my meaning. 

"I think, " I answered, "that she will hardly lack suitors. "

"Hm!" grumbled he, "of suitors we can get a plenty; but if they areworth anything, that is the question. To go a-wooing with a watch and asilver-mounted pipe does not set the matter straight; it takes more toride than to say 'Get up!' Sure as I live, " he went on, putting bothclenched hands on the table and bending to look out of the low window, "if there is not one of them--a shepherd's boy just out of theheather--oh yes, one of these customers' who run about with a couple ofdozen hose in a wallet--stupid dog! wooes our daughter with two oxen andtwo cows and a half--yes, I am on to him!--Beggar!"

All this was not addressed to me, but to the new-comer, on whom hefastened his darkened eyes as the other came along the heather pathtoward the house. The lad was still far enough away to allow me time toask my host about him, and I learned that he was the son of the nearestneighbor--who, by the way, MATHILDE BLIND

(1847-1896)

[Illustration: Mathilde Blind]

Mathilde Blind was born at Mannheim, Germany, March 21st, 1847. She waseducated principally in London, and subsequently in Zurich. Since herearly school days, with the exception of this interval of study abroad, and numerous journeys to the south of Europe and the East, she has livedin London. Upon her return from Zurich she was thrown much into contactwith Mazzini, in London, and her first essay in literature was a volumeof poems (which she published in 1867 under the pseudonym Claude Lake)dedicated to him. She was also in close personal relationship with MadoxBrown, W. M. Rossetti, and Swinburne. Her first literary work to appearunder her own name was a critical essay on the poetical works of Shelleyin the Westminster Review in 1870, based upon W. M. Rossetti's edition ofthe poet. In 1872 she wrote an account of the life and writings ofShelley, to serve as an introduction to a selection of his poems in theTauchnitz edition. She afterwards edited a selection of the letters ofLord Byron with an introduction, and a selection of his poems with amemoir. A translation of Strauss's 'The Old Faith and the New' appearedin 1873, which contained in a subsequent edition a biography of theauthor. In 1883, Miss Blind wrote the initial volume, 'George Eliot, 'for the 'Eminent Women Series, ' which she followed in 1886 in the sameseries with 'Madame Roland. ' Her first novel, 'Tarantella, ' appeared in1885. Besides these prose works, she has made frequent contributions ofliterary criticism to the Athenaeum and other reviews, and of papers andessays to the magazines; among them translations of Goethe's 'Maxims andReflections' in Fraser's Magazine, and 'Personal Recollections ofMazzin' in the Fortnightly Review. 

Her principal claim to literary fame is however based upon her verse. This is from all periods of her productivity. In addition to the book ofpoems already noticed, she has written 'The Prophecy of St. Oran, andother Poems, ' 1882; 'The Heather on Fire, ' a protest against the wrongsof the Highland crofters, 1886; 'The Ascent of Man, ' her most ambitiouswork, 1889; 'Dramas in Miniature' 1892; 'Songs and Sonnets, ' 1893; and'Birds of Passage: Songs of the Orient and Occident, ' 1895. 

'The Ascent of Man' is a poetical treatment of the modern idea ofevolution, and traces the progress of man from his primitive conditionin a state of savagery to his present development. Miss Blind has beenan ardent advocate of the betterment of the position of woman in societyand the State. To this end she has worked and written for an improvededucation, and against a one-sided morality for the sexes. In her verseshe shows characteristically a keen appreciation of nature. Her minorpoems particularly, many of which are strong in feeling and admirable inform, entitle her to a distinguished place among the lyric poetsof England. 

She died in London near the end of November, 1896. 

 FROM 'LOVE IN EXILE'

 I charge you, O winds of the West, O winds with the wings of the dove, That ye blow o'er the brows of my Love, breathing low that I sicken for love. 

 I charge you, O dews of the Dawn, O tears of the star of the morn, That ye fall at the feet of my Love with the sound of one weeping forlorn. 

 I charge you, O birds of the Air, O birds flying home to your nest, That ye sing in his ears of the joy that for ever has fled from my breast. 

 I charge you, O flowers of the Earth, O frailest of things, and most fair, That ye droop in his path as the life in me shrivels, consumed by despair. 

 O Moon, when he lifts up his face, when he seeth the waning of thee, A memory of her who lies wan on the limits of life let it be. 

 Many tears cannot quench, nor my sighs extinguish, the flames of love's fire, Which lifteth my heart like a wave, and smites it, and breaks its desire. 

 I rise like one in a dream when I see the red sun flaring low, That drags me back shuddering from sleep each morning to life with its woe. 

 I go like one in a dream; unbidden my feet know the way To that garden where love stood in blossom with the red and white hawthorn of May. 

 The song of the throstle is hushed, and the fountain is dry to its core; The moon cometh up as of old; she seeks, but she finds him no more. 

 The pale-faced, pitiful moon shines down on the grass where I weep, My face to the earth, and my breast in an anguish ne'er soothed into sleep. 

 The moon returns, and the spring; birds warble, trees burst into leaf; But Love, once gone, goes for ever, and all that endures is the grief. 

 * * * * *

 SEEKING

 In many a shape and fleeting apparition, Sublime in age or with clear morning eyes, Ever I seek thee, tantalizing Vision, Which beckoning flies. 

 Ever I seek Thee, O evasive Presence, Which on the far horizon's utmost verge, Like some wild star in luminous evanescence, Shoots o'er the surge. 

 Ever I seek Thy features ever flying, Which, ne'er beheld, I never can forget: Lightning which flames through love, and mimics dying In souls that set. 

 Ever I seek Thee through all clouds of error; As when the moon behind earth's shadow slips, She wears a momentary mask of terror In brief eclipse. 

 Ever I seek Thee, passionately yearning; Like altar fire on some forgotten fane, My life flames up irrevocably burning, And burnt in vain. 

 THE SONGS OF SUMMER

 The songs of summer are over and past! The swallow's forsaken the dripping eaves; Ruined and black 'mid the sodden leaves The nests are rudely swung in the blast: And ever the wind like a soul in pain Knocks and knocks at the window-pane. 

 The songs of summer are over and past! Woe's me for a music sweeter than theirs-- The quick, light bound of a step on the stairs, The greeting of lovers too sweet to last: And ever the wind like a soul in pain Knocks and knocks at the window-pane. 

 A PARABLE

 Between the sandhills and the sea A narrow strip of silver sand, Whereon a little maid doth stand, Who picks up shells continually, Between the sandhills and the sea. 

 Far as her wondering eyes can reach, A vastness heaving gray in gray To the frayed edges of the day Furls his red standard on the breach Between the sky-line and the beach. 

 The waters of the flowing tide Cast up the sea-pink shells and weed; She toys with shells, and doth not heed The ocean, which on every side Is closing round her vast and wide. 

 It creeps her way as if in play, Pink shells at her pink feet to cast; But now the wild waves hold her fast, And bear her off and melt away, A vastness heaving gray in gray. 

 LOVE'S SOMNAMBULIST

 Like some wild sleeper who alone, at night Walks with unseeing eyes along a height, With death below and only stars above, I, in broad daylight, walk as if in sleep Along the edges of life's perilous steep, The lost somnambulist of love. 

 I, in broad day, go walking in a dream, Led on in safety by the starry gleam Of thy blue eyes that hold my heart in thrall; Let no one wake me rudely, lest one day, Startled to find how far I've gone astray, I dash my life out in my fall. 

 THE MYSTIC'S VISION

 Ah! I shall kill myself with dreams! These dreams that softly lap me round Through trance-like hours, in which meseems That I am swallowed up and drowned; Drowned in your love, which flows o'er me As o'er the seaweed flows the sea. 

 In watches of the middle night, 'Twixt vesper and 'twixt matin bell, With rigid arms and straining sight, I wait within my narrow cell; With muttered prayers, suspended will, I wait your advent--statue-still. 

 Across the convent garden walls The wind blows from the silver seas; Black shadow of the cypress falls Between the moon-meshed olive-trees; Sleep-walking from their golden bowers, Flit disembodied orange flowers. 

 And in God's consecrated house, All motionless from head to feet, My heart awaits her heavenly Spouse, As white I lie on my white sheet; With body lulled and soul awake, I watch in anguish for your sake. 

 And suddenly, across the gloom, The naked moonlight sharply swings; A Presence stirs within the room, A breath of flowers and hovering wings: Your presence without form and void, Beyond all earthly joys enjoyed. 

 My heart is hushed, my tongue is mute, My life is centred in your will; You play upon me like a lute Which answers to its master's skill, Till passionately vibrating, Each nerve becomes a throbbing string. 

 Oh, incommunicably sweet! No longer aching and apart, As rain upon the tender wheat, You pour upon my thirsty heart; As scent is bound up in the rose, Your love within my bosom glows. 

 * * * * *

FROM 'TARANTELLA'

Sounds of human mirth and laughter from somewhere among them were bornefrom time to time to the desolate spot I had reached. It was a Festaday, and a number of young people were apparently enjoying their gamesand dances, to judge by the shouts and laughter which woke echoes ofghostly mirth in the vaults and galleries that looked as though they hadlain dumb under the pressure of centuries. 

There was I know not what of weird contrast between this gaping ruin, with its fragments confusedly scattered about like the bleaching bonesof some antediluvian monster, and the clear youthful ring of thosejoyous voices. 

I had sat down on some fragment of wall directly overhanging the sea. Inmy present mood it afforded me a singular kind of pleasure to take upstones or pieces of marble and throw them down the precipice. From timeto time I could hear them striking against the sharp projections of therocks as they leaped down the giddy height. Should I let my violinfollow in their wake?

I was in a mood of savage despair; a mood in which my heart turned atbay on what I had best loved. Hither it had led me, this art I hadworshiped! After years of patient toil, after sacrificing to it hearthand home, and the security of a settled profession, I was not a tittlefurther advanced than at the commencement of my career. For requital ofmy devoted service, starvation stared me in the face. My miserablesubsistence was barely earned by giving lessons to females, young andold, who, while inflicting prolonged tortures on their victim, stillexacted the tribute of smiles and compliments. 

Weakened and ill, I shuddered to think of returning and bowing my neckonce more to that detested yoke. 

"No! I'll never go back to that!" I cried, jumping up. "I'll sooner earna precarious livelihood by turning fisherman in this island! Any laborwill be preferable to that daily renewing torture. " I seized my violinin a desperate clutch, and feverishly leant over the wall, where I couldhear the dirge-like boom of the breakers in the hollow caves. 

Only he who is familiar with the violin knows the love one may bearit--a love keen as that felt for some frail human creature ofexquisitely delicate mold. Caressingly I passed my fingers over itsever-responsive strings, thinking, feeling rather, that I could endureno hand to handle it save mine!

No! rather than that it should belong to another, its strings should forever render up the ghost of music in one prolonged wail, as it plungedshivering from this fearful height. 

For the last time, I thought, my fingers erred over its familiar chords. A thrill of horrid exultation possessed me, such as the fell Tiberiusmay have experienced when he bade his men hurl the shrinking form of asoft-limbed favorite from this precipice. 

Possibly my shaken nerves were affected by the hideous memories clingingto these unhallowed ruins; possibly also by the oppressive heat ofthe day. 

Sea and sky, indeed, looked in harmony with unnatural sensations; asthough some dread burst of passion were gathering intensity under theirapparently sluggish calm. 

Though the sky overhead was of a sultry blue, yet above the coast-lineof Naples, standing out with preternatural distinctness, uncouth, lividclouds straggled chaotically to the upper sky, here and there reachinglank, shadowy films, like gigantic arms, far into the zenith. Flocks ofsea-birds were uneasily flying landward; screaming, they wheeled roundthe sphinx-like rocks, and disappeared by degrees in their red cleftsand fissures. 

All at once I was startled in my fitful, half-mechanical playing by apiercing scream; this was almost immediately followed by a confusednoise of sobs and cries, and a running of people to and fro, whichseemed, however, to be approaching nearer. I was just going to hurry tothe spot whence the noise proceeded, when some dozen of girls camerushing towards me. 

But before I had time to inquire into the cause of their excitement, orto observe them more closely, a gray-haired woman, with a pale, terror-stricken face, seized hold of my hand, crying:

"The Madonna be praised, he has a violin! Hasten, hasten! Follow us orshe will die!"

And then the girls, beckoning and gesticulating, laid hold of my arm, mycoat, my hand, some pulling, some pushing me along, all jabbering andcrying together, and repeating more and more urgently the only wordsthat I could make out--"Musica! Musica!"

But while I stared at them in blank amazement, thinking they must allhave lost their wits together, I was unconsciously being dragged andpulled along till we came to a kind of ruined marble staircase, downwhich they hurried me into something still resembling a spaciouschamber; for though the wild fig-tree and cactus pushed their fantasticbranches through gaps in the walls, these stood partly upright as yet, discovering in places the dull red glow of weather-stainedwall-paintings. 

The floor, too, was better preserved than any I had seen; though crackedand in part overrun by ivy, it showed portions of the original white andblack tessellated work. 

On this floor, with her head pillowed on a shattered capital, lay aprostrate figure without life or motion, and with limbs rigidly extendedas in death. 

The old woman, throwing herself on her knees before this lifelessfigure, loosened the handkerchief round her neck, and then, as though tofeel whether life yet lingered, she put her hand on the heart of theunconscious girl, when, suddenly jumping up again, she ran to me, panting:--

"O sir, good sir, play, play for the love of the Madonna!" And theothers all echoed as with one voice, "Musica! Musica!"

"Is this a time to make music?" cried I, in angry bewilderment. "Thegirl seems dying or dead. Run quick for a doctor--or stay, if you willtell me where he lives I will go myself and bring him hither withall speed. "

For all answer the gray-haired woman, who was evidently the girl'smother, fell at my feet, and clasping my knees, cried in a voice brokenby sobs, "O good sir, kind sir, my girl has been bitten by thetarantula! Nothing in the world can save her but you, if with yourplaying you can make her rise up and dance!"

Then darting back once more to the girl, who lay as motionless asbefore, she screamed in shrill despair, "She's getting as cold as ice;the death-damps will be on her if you will not play for my darling. "

And all the girls, pointing as with one accord to my violin, chimed inonce again, crying more peremptorily than before, "Musica! Musica!"

There was no arguing with these terror-stricken, imploring creatures, soI took the instrument that had been doomed to destruction, to call theseemingly dead to life with it. 

What possessed me then I know not: but never before or since did themusic thus waken within the strings of its own demoniacal will and leapresponsive to my fingers. 

Perhaps the charm lay in the devout belief which the listeners had inthe efficacy of my playing. They say your fool would cease to be one ifnobody believed in his folly. 

Well, I played, beginning with an _andante_, at the very first notes ofwhich the seemingly lifeless girl rose to her feet as if by enchantment, and stood there, taller by the head than the ordinary Capri girls hercompanions, who were breathlessly watching her. So still she stood, thatwith her shut eyes and face of unearthly pallor she might have beentaken for a statue; till, as I slightly quickened the _tempo_, aconvulsive tremor passed through her rigid, exquisitely molded limbs, and then with measured gestures of inexpressible grace she began slowlyswaying herself to and fro. Softly her eyes unclosed now, and mistily asyet their gaze dwelt upon me. There was intoxication in their fixedstare, and almost involuntarily I struck into an impassioned _allegro_. 

No sooner had the _tempo_ changed than a spirit of new life seeminglyentered the girl's frame. A smile, transforming her features, waveredover her countenance, kindling fitful lightnings of returningconsciousness in her dark, mysterious eyes. Looking about her with anexpression of wide-eyed surprise, she eagerly drank in the sounds of theviolin; her graceful movements became more and more violent, till shewhirled in ever-widening circles round about the roofless palacechamber, athwart which flurried bats swirled noiselessly through thegathering twilight. Hither and thither she glided, no sooner completingthe circle in one direction than, snapping her fingers with a passionatecry, she wheeled round in an opposite course, sometimes clapping herhands together and catching up snatches of my own melody, sometimeswaving aloft or pressing to her bosom the red kerchief or _mucadore_ shehad worn knotted in her hair, which, now unloosened, twined about herivory-like neck and shoulders in a serpentine coil. 

Fear, love, anguish, and pleasure seemed alternately to possess hermobile countenance. Her face indicated violent transitions of passion;her hands appeared as if struggling after articulate expression of theirown; her limbs were contorted with emotion: in short, every nerve andfibre in her body seemed to translate the music into movement. 

As I looked on, a demon seemed to enter my brain and fingers, hurryingme into a Bacchanalian frenzy of sound; and the faster I played, themore furiously her dizzily gliding feet flashed hither and thither in abewildering, still-renewing maze, so that from her to me and me to heran electric impulse of rhythmical movement perpetually vibrated toand fro. 

Ever and anon the semicircle of eagerly watching girls, sympatheticallythrilled by the spectacle, clapped their hands, shouting for joy; andbalancing themselves on tiptoe, joined in the headlong dance. And asthey glided to and fro, the wild roses and ivy and long tendrils of thevine, flaunting it on the crumbling walls, seemed to wave in unison anddance round the dancing girls. 

As I went on playing the never-ending, still-beginning tune, nightovertook us, and we should have been in profound obscurity but forcontinuous brilliant flashes of lightning shooting up from the horizon, like the gleaming lances hurled as from the vanguard of an armyof Titans. 

In the absorbing interest, however, with which we watched thedeliriously whirling figure, unconscious of aught but the music, we tookbut little note of the lightning. Sometimes, when from some blackturreted thunder-cloud, a triple-pronged dart came hissing and cracklingto the earth as though launched by the very hand of Jove, I saw thirteenhands suddenly lifted, thirteen fingers instinctively flying from browto breast making the sign of the cross, and heard thirteen voicesmutter as one, "Nel nome del Padre, e del Figlio, e delloSpirito Santo. "

But the ecstatic dancer paused not nor rested in her incredibleexertions; the excited girls alternately told their beads and thenjoined in the dance again, while the gray-haired mother, kneeling on themarble pediment of what might have been the fragment of a temple ofBacchus, lifted her hands in prayer to a little shrine of the Madonna, placed there, strangely enough, amidst the relics of paganism. 

All of a sudden, however, a horrific blaze, emitted from a huge focus ofintolerable light, set the whole heavens aflame. As from a fresh-createdbaleful sun, blue and livid and golden-colored lightnings were shiveredfrom it on all sides; dull, however, in comparison to the central ball, which, bursting instantaneously, bathed the sky, earth, and air in oneinsufferable glare of phosphorescent light. The deadly blue flame lit upeverything with a livid brightness unknown to day. 

Walls and faded wall-paintings, limbs of decapitated goddesses gleamingwhite through the grass and rioting weeds, tottering columns, arches, and vaults, and deserted galleries receding in endless perspective, leaped out lifelike on a background of night and storm. 

With piercing shrieks the horrified maidens scattered and fled to theremotest corner of the ruin, where they fell prone on their faces, quivering in a heap. In a voice strangled by fear, the kneeling mothercalled for protection on the Virgin and all the saints! The violindropped from my nerveless grasp, and at the self-same moment thebeautiful dancer, like one struck by a bullet, tottered and dropped tothe ground, where she lay without sense or motion. 

At that instant a clap of thunder so awful, so heaven-rending, rattledoverhead, so roared and banged and clattered among the clouds, that Ithought the shadowy ruin, tottering and rocking with the shock, wouldcome crashing about us and bury us under its remains. 

But as the thunder rolled on farther and farther, seemingly reboundingfrom cloud to cloud, I recovered my self-possession, and in mortal fearrushed to the side of the prostrate girl. I was trembling all over likea coward as I bent down to examine her. Had the lightning struck herwhen she fell so abruptly to the ground? Had life forever forsaken thatmagnificent form, those divinest limbs? Would those heavy eyelashesnever again be raised from those dazzling eyes? Breathlessly I movedaside the dusky hair covering her like a pall. Breathlessly I placed myhand on her heart; a strange shiver and spark quivered through it to myheart. Yet she was chill as ice and motionless as a stone. "She is dead, she is dead!" I moaned; and the pang for one I had never known exceededeverything I had felt in my life. 

"You mistake, signor, " some one said close beside me; and on looking upI saw the mother intently gazing down on her senseless child. "My Tollais not hurt, " she cried: "she only fell when you left off playing thetarantella; she will arise as soon as you go on. "

Pointing to the lightning still flickering and darting overhead, Icried, "But you are risking your lives for some fantastic whim, somewild superstition of yours. You are mad to brave such a storm! Youexpose your child to undoubted peril that you may ward off some illusoryevil. Let me bear her to the inn, and follow me thither. " And I wasgoing to lift the senseless form in my arms when the woman sternlyprevented me. 

In vain I argued, pleaded, reasoned with her. She only shook her headand cried piteously, "Give her music, for the love of the dear Madonna!"And the girls, who by this time had plucked up courage and gatheredround us, echoed as with one voice, "Musica! Musica!"

What was I to do? I could not drag them away by force, and certainly, for aught I knew, she might have been in equal danger from the poison orthe storm, wherever we were. As for peril to myself, I cared not. I wasin a devil of a mood, and all the pent-up bitter passion of my soulseemed to find a vent and safety-valve in that stupendous commotion ofthe elements. 

So I searched for my instrument on the ground, and now noticed, to myastonishment, that although the storm had swept away from us, the wholeruin was nevertheless brightly illuminated. On looking up I saw thetopmost branches of a solitary stone-pine one dazzle of flames. Risingstraight on high from a gap in the wall which its roots had shattered, it looked a colossal chandelier on which the lightning had kindled athousand tapers. There was not a breath of air, not a drop of rain, sothat the flames burned clear and steady as under cover of amighty dome. 

By this brilliant light, by which every object, from a human form to amarble acanthus leaf, cast sharp-edged shadows, I soon discovered myviolin on a tangle of flowering clematis, and began tuning its strings. 

No sooner had I struck into the same lively tune, than the strange beingrose again as by magic, and, slowly opening her intoxicating eyes, beganswaying herself to and fro with the same graceful gestures and movementsthat I had already observed. 

Thus I played all through the night, long after the rear-guard of thethunder-storm had disappeared below the opposite horizon whence it firstarose--played indefatigably on and on like a man possessed, and still, by the torch of the burning pine, I saw the beautiful mænad-like figurewhirling to and fro with miraculous endurance. Now and then, through thedeep silence, I heard a scarred pine-bough come crackling to the earth;now and then I heard the lowing of the stabled cattle in some distantpart of the ruin; once and again, smiting like a cry, I heard one stringsnapping after another under my pitiless hands. 

Still I played on, though a misty quiver of sparks was dancing about myeyes, till the fallow-tinted dawn gleamed faintly in the east. 

At last, at last, a change stole over the form and features of theindefatigable dancer. Her companions, overcome with fatigue, had longago sunk to the ground, where, with their little ruffled heads restingon any bit of marble, they lay sleeping calmly like little children. Only the mother still watched and prayed for her child, the unnaturaltension of whose nerves and muscles now seemed visibly to relax; for themad light of exaltation in her eyes veiled itself in softness, her feetmoved more and more slowly, and her arms, which had heretofore been inconstant motion, dropped languidly to her side. I too relaxed in my_tempo_, and the thrilling, vivacious tune melted away in adying strain. 

At the expiring notes, when I had but one string left, her tired eyesclosed as in gentlest sleep, a smile hovered about her lips, her headsank heavily forward on her bosom, and she would have fallen had not hermother received the swooning form into her outstretched arms. 

At the same moment my last string snapped, a swarming darkness cloudedmy sight, the violin fell from my wet, burning hands, and I reeledback, faint and dizzy, when I felt soft arms embracing me, and somebodysobbed and laughed, "You have saved her, Maestro; praise be to God andall His saints in heaven! May the Madonna bless you forever and ever--"I heard no more, but fell into a death-like swoon. 

 "O MOON, LARGE GOLDEN SUMMER MOON!"

 O MOON, large golden summer moon, Hanging between the linden trees, Which in the intermittent breeze Beat with the rhythmic pulse of June!

 O night-air, scented through and through With honey-colored flower of lime, Sweet now as in that other time When all my heart was sweet as you!

 The sorcery of this breathing bloom Works like enchantment in my brain, Till, shuddering back to life again, My dead self rises from its tomb. 

 And lovely with the love of yore, Its white ghost haunts the moon-white ways; But when it meets me face to face, Flies trembling to the grave once more. 

 GREEN LEAVES AND SERE

 Three tall poplars beside the pool Shiver and moan in the gusty blast; The carded clouds are blown like wool, And the yellowing leaves fly thick and fast. 

 The leaves, now driven before the blast, Now flung by fits on the curdling pool, Are tossed heaven-high and dropped at last As if at the whim of a jabbering fool. 

 O leaves, once rustling green and cool! Two met here where one moans aghast With wild heart heaving towards the past: Three tall poplars beside the pool. 

GIOVANNI BOCCACCIO

(1313-1375)

BY W. J. STILLMAN

It has been justly observed, and confirmed by all that we know of theearly history of literature, that the first forms of it were in verse. This is in accordance with a principle which is stated by HerbertSpencer on a different but related theme, that "Ornament was beforedress, " the artistic instincts underlying and preceding the utilitarianpreoccupations. History indeed was first poetry, as we had Homer beforeThucydides, and as in all countries the traditions of the past take theform of metrical, and generally musical, recitation. An excellent andpolished school of prose writers is the product of a tendency innational life of later origin than that which calls out the bards andballad-singers, and is proof of a more advanced culture. The Renaissancein Italy was but the resumption of a life long suspended, and thesuccession of the phenomena in which was therefore far more rapid thanwas possible in a nation which had to trace the path without anysurvivals of a prior awakening; and while centuries necessarilyintervened between Homer and the "Father of History, " a generationsufficed between Dante and Boccaccio, for Italian literature had only tothrow off the leaden garb of Latin form to find its new dress in thevernacular. Dante certainly wrote Italian prose, but he was more at easein verse; and while the latter provoked in him an abundance of thosehappy phrases which seem to have been born with the thought theyexpress, and which pass into the familiar stock of imagery of all latertime, the prose of the 'Convito' and the 'Vita Nuova' hardly everrecalls itself in common speech by any parallel of felicity. 

And Boccaccio too wrote poetry of no ignoble type, but probably becausehe was part of an age when verse had become the habitual form ofculture, and all who could write caught the habit of versification, --ahabit easier to fall into in Italian than in any other language. Butwhile the consecration of time has been given to the 'Commedia, ' and the'Convito' passes into the shadow and perspective of lesser things, sothe many verses of Boccaccio are overlooked, and his greatest prosework, the 'Decameron, ' is that with which his fame is mostly bound up. 

Born in 1313, at seven years of age he showed signs of a literaryfacility, and his father, a merchant of Florence, put him to schoolwith a reputable grammarian; but afterward, deciding to devote him tomerchandise, sent him to study arithmetic, --restive and profitless inwhich, he was sent to study canon law, and finding his level no betterthere, went back to traffic and to Naples in his father's business whenhe was about twenty. The story runs that the sight of the tomb of Virgilturned his thoughts to poetry; but this confusion of the _post hoc_ withthe _propter hoc_ is too common in remote and romantic legend to valuemuch. The presence of Petrarch in the court of Robert, King of Naples, is far more likely to have been the kindling of his genius to itssubsequent activity: and the passion he acquired while there for theillegitimate daughter of the King, Maria, --the Fiammetta of his laterlife, --furnished the fuel for its burning; his first work, the'Filocopo, ' being written as an offering to her. It is a prose lovestory, mixed with mythological allusions, --after the fashion of the day, which thought more of the classics than of nature; and like all hisearlier works, prolix and pedantic. 

The 'Theseide, ' a purely classic theme, the war of Theseus with theAmazons, is in verse; and was followed by the 'Ameto, ' or 'FlorentineNymphs, ' a story of the loves of Ameto, a rustic swain, with one of thenymphs of the valley of the Affrico, a stream which flows into the Arnonot far from where the poet was born, or where at least he passed hisyouth; and to which valley he seems always greatly attached, puttingthere the scene of most of his work, including the 'Decameron. ' 'Ameto'is a mythological fiction, in which the characters mingle recitations ofverse with the prose narration, and in which the gods of Greece and Romemasque in the familiar scenes. Following these came the 'AmorosaVisione, ' and 'Filostrato, ' in verse; 'Fiammetta' in prose, being theimaginary complaint of his beloved at their separation; 'NimfaleFiesolano, ' in verse, the scene also laid on the Affrico; and then the'Decameron, ' begun in 1348 and finished in 1353, after which he seems tohave gradually acquired a disgust for the world he had lived in as hehad known it, and turned to more serious studies. He wrote a life ofDante, 'II Corbaccio, ' a piece of satirical savagery, the 'Genealogy ofthe Gods, ' and various minor works; and spent much of his time inintercourse with Petrarch, whose conversation and influence were of adifferent character from that of his earlier life. 

[Illustration: G. BOCCACCIO. ]

Boccaccio died at Certaldo in the Val d'Elsa, December 2d, 1375. Of thenumerous works he left, that by which his fame as a writer isestablished is beyond any question the 'Decameron, ' or Ten Days'Entertainment; in which a merry company of gentlemen and ladies, appalled by the plague raging in their Florence, take refuge in thevillas near the city, and pass their time in story-telling and ramblesin the beautiful country around, only returning when the plague hasto a great extent abated. The superiority of the 'Decameron' is not onlyin the polish and grace of its style, the first complete departure fromthe stilted classicism of contemporary narrative, the happy naturalnessof good story-telling, --but in the conception of the work as a whole, and the marvelous imagination of the filling-in between the framework ofthe story of the plague by the hundred tales from all lands and times, with the fine thread of the narrative of the day-by-day doings of themerry and gracious company, their wanderings, the exquisite painting ofthe Tuscan landscape (in which one recognizes the Val d'Arno evento-day), and the delicate drawing of their various characters. It isonly when all these elements have been taken into consideration, and theunity wrought through such a maze of interest and mass of materialwithout ever becoming dull or being driven to repetition, that weunderstand the power of Boccaccio as an artist. 

We must take the ten days' holiday as it is painted: a gay andentrancing record of a fortunate and brilliant summer vacation, everyone of its hundred pictures united with the rest by a delicate traceryof flowers and landscape, with bird-songs and laughter, bits of tenderand chaste by-play--for there were recognized lovers in the company; andwhen this is conceived in its entirety, we must set it in the massiveframe of terrible gloom of the great plague, through which Boccacciomakes us look at his picture. And then the frame itself becomes apicture; and its ghastly horror--the apparent fidelity of thedescriptions, which makes one feel as if he had before him the evidenceof an eye-witness--gives a measure of the power of the artist and therange of his imagination, from an earthly inferno to an earthlyparadise, such as even the 'Commedia' does not give us. In thisstupendous ensemble, the individual tales become mere details, fillingin of the space or time; and, taken out of it, the whole falls into amere story-book, in which the only charm is the polish of the parts, theshine of the fragments that made the mosaic. The tales came from allquarters, and only needed to be amusing or interesting enough to makeone suppose that they had been listened to with pleasure: stories fromthe 'Gesta Romanorum, ' the mediæval chronicles, or any gossip of thepast or present, just to make a whole; the criticism one might pass onthem, I imagine, never gave Boccaccio a thought, only the way they wereplaced being important. The elaborate preparation for the story-telling;the grouping of them as a whole, in contrast with the greater story heput as their contrast and foil; the solemn gloom, the deep chiaroscuroof this framing, painted like a miniature; the artful way in which heprepares for his _lieta brigata_ the way out of the charnel-house: theseare the real 'Decameron. ' The author presents it in a prelude which hasfor its scope only to give the air of reality to the whole, as if notonly the plague, but the 'Decameron, ' had been history; and the proof ofhis perfect success is in the fact that for centuries the world has beentrying to identify the villas where the merry men and maidens met, as ifthey really had met. 

 "Whenever, most gracious ladies, I reflect how pitiful you all are by nature, I recognize that this work will in your opinion have a sad and repulsive beginning, as the painful memory of the pestilence gone by, fraught with loss to all who saw or knew of it, and which memory the work will bear on its front. But I would not that for this you read no further, through fear that your reading should be always through sighs and tears. This frightful beginning I prepare for you as for travelers a rough and steep mountain, beyond which lies a most beautiful and delightful plain, by so much the more pleasurable as the difficulty of the ascent and passage of the mountain had been great. And as the extreme of pleasure touches pain, so suffering is effaced by a joy succeeding. To this brief vexation (I call it brief, as contained in few words) follow closely the sweets and pleasures I have promised, and which would not be hoped for from such a beginning if it were not foretold. And to tell the truth, if I had been able frankly to bring you where I wished by other way than this rough one, I had willingly done so; but because I could not, without these recollections, show what was the occasion of the incidents of which you will read, I was obliged to write of them. "

The elaborate description of the plague which follows, shows not onlyBoccaccio's inventive power, --as being, like that of Defoe of the plagueof London (which is a curious parallel to this) altogether imaginary, since the writer was at Naples during the whole period of thepestilence, --but also that it was a part indispensable of the entirescheme, and described with all its ghastly minuteness simply to enhancethe value of his sunshine and merriment. He was in Naples from 1345until 1350, without any other indication of a visit to Florence than achronological table of his life, in which occurs this item:--"1348, departs in the direction of Tuscany with Louis of Taranto:" as if eithera prince on his travels would take the plague in the course of them, ora man so closely interested in the events of the time at Naples, and inthe height of his passion for Fiammetta, --the separation from whom hehad hardly endured when earlier (1345) he was separated from her by hisduty to his aged father, --would have chosen the year of the pestilence, when every one who could, fled Florence, to return there; and we findhim in May, 1349, in Naples, in the full sunshine of Fiammetta's favor, and remaining there until his father's death in 1350. 

There is indeed in Boccaccio's description of the plague that whichconvicts it of pure invention, quickened by details gathered fromeye-witnesses, --the very minuteness of the description in certainpoints not in accord with the character of the disease, as when henarrates that the hogs rooting in the garments of the dead thrown outinto the streets "presently, as if they had taken poison, after a fewdizzy turns, fell dead"; and this, which he says he saw with his owneyes, is the only incident of which he makes this declaration (theincident on which the unity of his work hinges, the meeting of the merrytroupe in the church of S. Maria Novella, being recorded on theinformation of a person "worthy of belief"). Nor does he in his ownperson intrude anywhere in the story; so that this bit of intenserealization thrown into the near foreground of his picture, as it wereby chance, and without meaning, yet certified by his own signature, isthe point at which he gets touch of his reader and convinces him ofactuality throughout the romance. 

And to my mind this opening chapter, with all its horrors andcharnel-house realization, its slight and suggestive delineation ofcharacter, all grace and beauty springing out of the chaos and socialdissolution, is not only the best part of the work, but the best ofBoccaccio's. The well-spun golden cord on which the "Novelle" are strungis ornamented, as it were, at the divisions of the days by little cameosof crafty design; but the opening, the portico of this hundred-chamberedpalace of art, has its own proportions and design, and may be taken andstudied alone. Nothing can, it seems to me, better convey the idea ofthe death-stricken city, "the surpassing city of Florence, beyond everyother in Italy most beautiful, "--a touch to enhance the depth of hisshade, than the way he brings out in broad traits the greatness of thedoom: setting in the heavens that consuming sun; the paralysis of thepanic; the avarice of men not daunted by death; the helplessness of allflesh before--

 "the just wrath of God for our correction sent upon men; for healing of such maladies neither counsel of physician nor virtue of any medicine whatever seemed to avail or have any effect--even as if nature could not endure this suffering or the ignorance of the medical attendants (of whom, besides regular physicians, there was a very great number, both men and women, who had never had any medical education whatever), who could discover no cause for the malady and therefore no appropriate remedy, so that not only very few recovered, but almost every one attacked died by the third day-after the appearance of the above-noted signs, some sooner and some later, and mostly without any fever or violent symptoms. And this pestilence was of so much greater extent that by merely communicating with the sick the well were attacked, just as fire spreads to dry or oiled matter which approaches it. .. . Of the common people, and perhaps in great part of the middle classes, the situation was far more miserable, as they, either through hope of escaping the contagion or poverty, mostly kept to their houses and sickened by thousands a day, and not being aided or attended in any respect, almost without exception died. And many there were who ended their lives in the public streets by day or night, and many who, dying in their houses, were only discovered by the stench of their dead bodies; and of these and others that died everywhere the city was full. These were mainly disposed of in the same way by their neighbors, moved more by the fear that the corruption of the dead bodies should harm them than by any charity for the deceased. They by themselves or with the aid of bearers, when they could find any, dragged out of their houses the bodies of those who had died, and laid them before the doors, where, especially in the morning, whoever went about the streets could have seen them without number, --even to that point had matters come that no more was thought of men dying than we think of goats; more than a hundred thousand human beings are believed to have been taken from life within the walls of Florence, which before the mortal pestilence were not believed to have contained so many souls. Oh! how many great palaces, how many beautiful houses, how many noble dwellings, once full of domestics, of gentlemen and ladies, became empty even to the last servant! How many historical families, how many immense estates, what prodigious riches remained without heirs! How many brave men, how many beautiful women, how many gay youths whom not only we, but Galen, Hippocrates, or Esculapius would have pronounced in excellent health, in the morning dined with their relatives, companions and friends, and the coming night supped with those who had passed away. "

The ten companions, meeting in the church of S. Maria Novella, sevenladies and three gentlemen, agree to escape this doom, and, repairing toone of the deserted villas in the neighborhood, to pass the time ofaffliction in merry doings and sayings; and with four maids and threemen-servants, move eastward out of the gloomy city. Their firsthabitation is clearly indicated as what is known to-day as the PoggioGherardi, under Maiano. After the second day they return towards thecity a short distance and establish themselves in what seems a morecommodious abode, and which I consider incontrovertibly identified asthe Villa Pasolini, or Rasponi, and which was in their day the propertyof the Memmi family, the famous pupils of Giotto. The site of this villaoverlooks the Valley of the Ladies, which figures in the framework ofthe "Novelle, " and in which then there was a lake to which Boccaccioalludes, now filled up by the alluvium of the Affrico, the author'sbeloved river, and which runs through the valley and under the villa. The valley now forms part of the estate of Professor Willard Fiske. Asthe entire adventure is imaginary, and the "merry company" had noexistence except in the dreams of Boccaccio, it is useless to seek anyevidence of actual occupation; but the care he put in the description ofthe localities and surroundings, distances, etc. , shows that he musthave had in his mind, as the framework of the story, these twolocalities. The modern tradition ascribing to the Villa Palmieri thehonor of the second habitation has no confirmation of any kind. 

The house-flitting is thus told:--

 "The dawn had already, under the near approach of the sun, from rosy become golden: when on Sunday, the Queen[3] arising and arousing all her company, and the chamberlain--having long before sent in advance to the locality where they were to go, enough of the articles required so that he might prepare what was necessary--seeing the Queen on the way, quickly loading all other things as if it were the moving of the camp, went off with the baggage, leaving the servants with the Ladies and the Gentlemen. The Queen, then, with slow steps, accompanied and followed by her Ladies and the three Gentlemen, with the escort of perhaps twenty nightingales and other birds, by a little path not too frequented, but full of green plants and flowers which by the rising sun began to open, took the road towards the west; and gossiping, laughing, and exchanging witticisms with her brigade, arrived before having gone two thousand steps at a most beautiful and rich palace, which, somewhat raised above the plain, was posted on a hill. "

[Footnote 3: Each day a Queen or King was chosen to rule over the doingsof the company and determine all questions. ]

As the description of the surroundings of the villa into which the gayassembly now entered is one of the most vivid and one of the gayestpieces of description in the brilliant counterfoil which the author hascontrived, to set off the gloom of the city, it is worth giving entire;being as well a noble example of the prose of the 'Decameron':--

 "Near to which [the balcony on which they had reposed after their walk] having ordered to open a garden which was annexed to the palace, being all inclosed in a wall, they entered in; and as it appeared to them on entering to be of a marvelous beauty altogether, they set themselves to examine it in detail. It had within, and in many directions through it, broad paths, straight as arrows and covered with arbors of vine which gave indications of having that year an excellent vintage, and they all giving out such odors to the garden, that, mingled with those of many other things which perfumed it, they seemed to be in the midst of all the perfumeries that the Orient ever knew; the sides of the paths being closed in by red and white roses and jasmine, so that not only in the morning, but even when the sun was high, they could wander at pleasure under fragrant and odoriferous shade, without entanglement. How many, of what kind, and how planted were the plants in that place, it were long to tell; but there is nothing desirable which suits our climate which was not there in abundance. In the midst of which (which is not less delightful than other things that were there, but even more so) was a meadow of the most minute herbs, and so green that it seemed almost black, colored by a thousand varieties of flowers, and closed around by green and living orange and lemon trees, which, having the ripe and the young fruit and the flowers together, gave not only grateful shade for the eyes, but added the pleasures of their odors. In the midst of that meadow was a fountain of the whitest marble with marvelous sculptures. From within this, I know not whether by a natural vein or artificial, through a figure which stood on a column in the midst of it, sprang so much water, and so high, falling also into the fountain with delightful sound, that it would at least have driven a mill. This, then (I mean the water which ran over from the fountain), through hidden channels went out of the meadow, and by little canals beautiful and artfully made becoming visible outside of it, ran all around it; and then by similar canals into every part of the garden, gathering together finally in that part of it where from the beautiful garden it escaped, and thence descending limpid to the plain, and before reaching it, with great force and not a little advantage to the master, turned two mills. To see this garden, its beautiful orderliness, the plants and the fountain with the brooks running from it, was so pleasing to the ladies and the three youths that all commenced to declare that if Paradise could be found on earth, they could not conceive what other form than that of this garden could be given to it, nor what beauty could be added to it. Wandering happily about it, twining from the branches of various trees beautiful garlands, hearing everywhere the songs of maybe twenty kinds of birds as it were in contest with each other, they became aware of another charm of which, to the others being added, they had not taken note: they saw the garden full of a hundred varieties of beautiful animals, and pointing them out one to the other, on one side ran out rabbits, on another hares, here lying roe-deer and there feeding stags, and besides these many other kinds of harmless beasts, each one going for his pleasure as if domesticated, wandering at ease; all which, beyond the other pleasures, added a greater pleasure. And when, seeing this or that, they had gone about enough, the tables being set around the beautiful fountain, first singing six songs and dancing six dances, as it pleased the Queen, they went to eat, and being with great and well-ordered service attended, and with delicate and good dishes, becoming gayer they arose and renewed music and song and dance, until the Queen on account of the increasing heat judged that whoever liked should go to sleep. Of whom some went, but others, conquered by the beauty of the place, would not go, but remained, some to read romances, some to play at chess and at tables, while the others slept. But when passed the ninth hour, they arose, and refreshing their faces with the fresh water, they came to the fountain, and in their customary manner taking their seats, waited for the beginning of the story-telling on the subject proposed by the Queen. "

Of the character of the Novelle I have need to say little: they were theshaping of the time, and made consonant with its tastes, and nobody wasthen disturbed by their tone. Some are indelicate to modern taste, andsome have passed into the classics of all time. The story of 'Griselda';that of 'The Stone of Invisibility, ' put into shape by Irving;'Frederick of the Alberighi and his Falcon'; 'The Pot of Basil'; and'The Jew Abraham, Converted to Christianity by the Immorality of theClergy, ' are stories which belong to all subsequent times, as they mayhave belonged to the ages before. Those who know what Italian societywas then, and in some places still is, will be not too censorious, judging lightness of tongue and love of a good story as necessarilyinvolving impurity. And Boccaccio has anticipated his critics in thisvein, putting his apology in the mouth of Filomena, who replies toNeifile, when the latter speaks of scandal growing out of their holiday, "This amounts to nothing where I live virtuously and my conscience in nowise reproaches me--let them who will, speak against me: I take God andthe truth for my defense. " ¸ [Illustration: signature: M. Stevenson]

 * * * * *

FREDERICK OF THE ALBERIGHI AND HIS FALCON

You must know that Coppo di Borghese Domenichi--who was in our city, andperhaps still is, a man of reverence and of great authority amongst us, both for his opinions and for his virtues, and much more for thenobility of his family, being distinguished and wealthy and of enduringreputation, being full of years and experience--was often delighted totalk with his neighbors and others of the things of the past, which he, better than anybody else, could do with excellent order and withunclouded memory. Amongst the pleasant stories which he used to tellwas this:--

In Florence there was a young man called Frederick, son of Master PhilipAlberighi, who for military ability and for courteous manners wasreputed above all other gentlemen of Tuscany, He, as often happens withgentlemen, became enamored of a gentle lady called Madonna Giovanni, inher time considered the most beautiful and most graceful woman inFlorence. In order that he might win her love he tilted and exercised inarms, made feasts and donations, and spent all his substance withoutrestraint. But Madonna Giovanni, no less honest than beautiful, caredfor none of these things which he did for her, nor for him. Frederickthen spent more than his means admitted, and gaining nothing, as easilyhappens, his money disappeared, and he remained poor and without anyother property than a poor little farm, by the income of which he wasbarely able to live; besides this, he had his falcon, one of the best inthe world. On this account, and because unable to remain in the city ashe desired, though more than ever devoted, he remained at Campi, wherehis little farm was; and there, as he might hunt, he endured his povertypatiently. 

Now it happened one day when Frederick had come to extreme poverty, thatthe husband of Madonna Giovanni became ill, and seeing death at hand, made his will; and being very rich, in this will left as his heir hisson, a well-grown boy; and next to him, as he had greatly loved MadonnaGiovanni, he made her his heir if his son should die without legitimateheirs, and then died. Remaining then a widow, as the custom is amongstour women, Madonna Giovanni went that summer with her son into thecountry on an estate of hers near to that of Frederick, so that ithappened that this boy, beginning to become friendly with Frederick andto cultivate a liking for books and birds, and having seen many timesthe falcon of Frederick fly, took an extreme pleasure in it and desiredvery greatly to have it, but did not dare to ask it, seeing that it wasso dear to Frederick. 

In this state of things it happened that the boy became ill, and on thisaccount the mother sorrowing greatly, he being that which she loved mostof everything which she had, tended him constantly and never ceasedcomforting him; and begged him that if there was anything that hewanted, to tell her, so that she certainly, if it were possible to getit, would obtain it for him. The young man, hearing many times thisproposal, said: "Mother, if you can manage that I should have the falconof Frederick, I believe that I should get well at once. " The mother, hearing this, reflected with herself and began to study what she mightdo. She knew that Frederick had long loved her, and that he had neverreceived from her even a look; on this account she said, How can I sendto him or go to him, to ask for this falcon, which is, by what I hear, the thing that he most loves, and which besides keeps him in the world;and how can I be so ungrateful as to take from a gentleman what Idesire, when it is the only thing that he has to give him pleasure?Embarrassed by such thoughts, and feeling that she was certain to haveit if she asked it of him, and not knowing what to say, she did notreply to her son, but was silent. Finally, the love of her sonovercoming her, she decided to satisfy him, whatever might happen, notsending but going herself for the falcon; and she replied, "My son, becomforted and try to get well, for I promise you that the first thingthat I do to-morrow will be to go and bring to you the falcon;" onwhich account the son in his joy showed the same day an improvement. Thelady the next day took as companion another lady, and as if for pleasurewent to the house of Frederick and asked for him. It being early, he hadnot been hawking, and was in his garden attending to certain littleoperations; and hearing that Madonna Giovanni asked for him at the door, wondering greatly, joyfully went. She, seeing him coming, with aladylike pleasure went to meet him, and Frederick having saluted herwith reverence, she said, "I hope you are well, Frederick, " and thenwent on, "I have come to recompense you for the losses which you havealready had on my account, loving me more than you need; and thereparation is, then, that I intend with this my companion to dine withyou familiarly to-day. " To this Frederick humbly replied, "Madonna, I donot remember ever to have suffered any loss on your account, but so muchgood that if I ever was worth anything, it is due to your worth, and tothe love which I have borne you; and certainly your frank visit isdearer to me than would have been the being able to spend as much moreas I have already spent, for you have come to a very poor house. " Sosaying, he received them into his house in humility and conducted theminto his garden; and then, not having any person to keep her company hesaid, "Madonna, since there is no one else, this good woman, the wife ofmy gardener, will keep you company while I go to arrange the table. "

He, although his poverty was so great, had not yet realized how he had, without method or pleasure, spent his fortune; but this morning, findingnothing with which he could do honor to the lady for whose love he hadalready entertained so many men, made him think and suffer extremely; hecursed his fortune, and as a man beside himself ran hither and thither, finding neither money nor anything to pawn. It being late, and hisdesire to honor the gentle lady in some manner, and not wishing to callon anybody else, but rather to do all himself, his eyes fell upon hisbeloved falcon, which was in his cage above the table. He therefore tookit, and finding it fat, and not having any other resource, he consideredit to be a proper food for such a woman; and without thinking anyfurther, he wrung its neck and ordered his servant that, it beingplucked and prepared, it should be put on the spit and roastedimmediately. And setting the table with the whitest of linen, of whichhe had still a little left, with a delighted countenance he returned tothe lady and told her that such dinner as he was able to prepare for herwas ready. Thereupon, the lady with her companion, rising, went todinner, and without knowing what she ate or what Frederick served, atethe good falcon. 

Then leaving the table, and after pleasant conversation with him, itappeared to the lady that it was time to say what she had come for, andso she began amiably to say to Frederick:--"Frederick, recalling yourpast life and my honesty, which perhaps you considered cruelty andseverity, I do not doubt in the least that you will be astonished at mypresumption, hearing what I have come for; but if you had ever hadchildren, through whom you might know how great is the love which onebears them, it seems to me certain that in part you would excuse me. Butas you have not, I, who have one, cannot escape the law common to allmothers; obeying which, I am obliged, apart from my own pleasure and allother convention and duty, to ask of you a gift which I know isextremely dear, and reasonably so, because no other delight and no otheramusement and no other consolation has your exhausted fortune left you;this gift is your falcon, which my boy has become so strongly enamoredof, that if I do not take it to him I fear that his illness will becomeso much aggravated that I may lose him in consequence; therefore I prayyou, not on account of the love which you bear me, but because of yournobility, which has shown greater courtesy than that of any other man, that you would be so kind, so good, as to give it to me, in order thatby this gift the life of my son may be preserved, and I be forever underobligation to you. "

Frederick, hearing what the lady demanded, and knowing that he could notserve her, because he had already given it to her to eat, commenced inher presence to weep so that he could not speak a word in reply; whichweeping the lady first believed to be for sorrow at having to give uphis good falcon more than anything else, and was about to tell him thatshe did not want it, but, hesitating, waited the reply of Frederickuntil the weeping ceased, when he spoke thus:--"Madonna, since itpleased God that I bestowed my love upon you, money, influence, andfortune have been contrary to me, and have given me great trouble; butall these things are trivial in respect to what fortune makes me atpresent suffer, from which I shall never have peace, thinking that youhave come here to my poor house--to which while I was rich you neverdeigned to come--and asked of me a little gift, and that fortune has sodecreed that I shall not be able to give it to you; and why I cannot doso I will tell you in a few words. When I heard that you in yourkindness wished to dine with me, having regard for your excellence andyour worth, I considered it worthy and proper to give you the dearestfood in my power, and therefore the falcon for which you now ask me wasthis morning prepared for you, and you have had it roasted on your plateand I had prepared it with delight; but now, seeing that you desire itin another manner, the sorrow that I cannot so please you is so greatthat never again shall I have peace;" and saying this, the feathers andthe feet and the beak were brought before them in evidence; which thingthe lady seeing and hearing, first blamed him for having entertained awoman with such a falcon, and then praised the greatness of his mind, which his poverty had not been able to diminish. Then, there being nohope of having the falcon on account of which the health of her son wasin question, in melancholy she departed and returned to her son; whoeither for grief at not being able to have the falcon, or for theillness which might have brought him to this state, did not survive formany days, and to the great sorrow of his mother passed from this life. 

She, full of tears and of sorrow, and remaining rich and still young, was urged many times by her brothers to remarry, which thing she hadnever wished; but being continually urged, and remembering the worth ofFrederick and his last munificence, and that he had killed his belovedfalcon to honor her, said to her brothers:--"I would willingly, if itplease you, remain as I am; but if it please you more that I should takea husband, certainly I will never take any other if I do not takeFrederick degli Alberighi. " At this her brothers, making fun of her, said, "Silly creature, what do you say? Why do you choose him? He hasnothing in the world. " To this she replied, "My brothers, I know wellthat it is as you say; but I prefer rather a man who has need of riches, than riches that have need of a man. " The brothers, hearing her mind, and knowing Frederick for a worthy man, --although poor, --as she wished, gave her with all her wealth to him; who, seeing this excellent womanwhom he had so much loved become his wife, and besides that, being mostrich, becoming economical, lived in happiness with her to the end ofhis days. 

THE JEW CONVERTED TO CHRISTIANITY BY GOING TO ROME

As I, gracious ladies, have heard said, there was in Paris a greatmerchant, a very good man, who was called Gianotto di Chevigné, a manmost loyal and just, who had a great business in stuffs, and who had asingular friendship with a rich Jew named Abraham, who also was amerchant and also an honest and loyal man. Gianotto, seeing his justiceand loyalty, began to feel great sorrow that the soul of so worthy andgood a man should go to perdition through want of religion, and on thataccount he began to beg in a friendly way that he would abandon theerrors of the Jewish faith and become converted to Christian truth, inwhich he could see, being holy and good, that he would always prosperand enrich himself; while in his own faith, on the contrary, he mightsee that he would diminish and come to nothing, The Jew replied that hedid not believe anything either holy or good outside of Judaism; that hein that was born and intended therein to live, and that nothing wouldever move him out of it. 

Gianotto did not cease on this account to repeat after a few dayssimilar exhortations, showing him in a coarse manner, which merchantsknow how to employ, for what reasons our faith was better than theJewish; and though the Jew was a great master in the Jewish law, nevertheless either the great friendship which he had with Gianottomoved him, or perhaps the words which the Holy Spirit put on the tongueof the foolish man accomplished it, and the Jew began finally toconsider earnestly the arguments of Gianotto; but still, tenacious inhis own faith, he was unwilling to change. As he remained obstinate, soGianotto never ceased urging him, so that finally the Jew by thiscontinual persistence was conquered, and said:--"Since, Gianotto, itwould please you that I should become a Christian and I am disposed todo so, I will first go to Rome and there see him whom you call the vicarof God on earth, and consider his manners and his customs, and similarlythose of his brother cardinals; and if they seem to me such that I can, between your words and them, understand that your religion is betterthan mine, as you have undertaken to prove to me, I will do what I havesaid; but if this should not be so, I will remain a Jew as I am. " WhenGianotto heard this he was very sorrowful, saying to himself: I havelost all my trouble which it seemed to me I had very well employed, believing that I had converted this man; because if he goes to the courtat Rome and sees the wicked and dirty life of the priests, he not only, being a Jew, will not become a Christian, but if he had become aChristian he would infallibly return to Judaism. 

Therefore Gianotto said to Abraham:--"Alas, my friend, why do you desireto take this great trouble and expense of going from here to Rome? Byland and by sea, even to a rich man as you are, it is full of trouble. Do you not believe that here we can find one who will baptize you? andif perchance you have still some doubts as to the religion which I showyou, where are there better teachers and wiser men in this faith thanthere are here, to immediately tell you what you want to know or mayask? On which account my opinion is that this voyage is superfluous: theprelates whom you would see there are such as you can see here, andbesides they are much better, as they are near to the chief Shepherd;and therefore this fatigue you will, by my counsel, save for anothertime, --for some indulgence in which I may perhaps be your companion. " Tothis the Jew replied:--"I believe, Gianotto, that it is as you say tome; but summing up the many words in one, I am altogether, if you wishthat I should do what you have been constantly begging me to do, disposed to go there; otherwise I will do nothing. " Gianotto seeing hisdetermination said, "Go, and good luck go with you;" but he thought tohimself that Abraham never would become a Christian if he had once seenthe court of Rome, but as he would lose nothing he said no more. 

The Jew mounted his horse, and as quickly as possible went to the courtof Rome, where arriving, he was by his fellow Jews honorably received;and living there without saying to anybody why he came, began cautiouslyto study the manners of the Pope and the cardinals and the prelates andall the other courtesans; and he learned, being the honest man that hewas, and being informed by other people, that from the greatest to thelowest they sinned most dishonestly, not only in natural but inunnatural ways, without any restraint or remorse to shame them; so muchso that for the poor and the dissolute of both sexes to take part in anyaffair was no small thing. Besides this he saw that they wereuniversally gluttons, wine-drinkers, and drunkards, and much devoted totheir stomachs after the manner of brute animals; given up to luxurymore than to anything else. And looking further, he saw that they werein the same manner all avaricious and desirous of money, so that humanblood, even that of Christians, and sacred interests, whatever theymight be, even pertaining to the ceremonies or to the benefices, weresold and bought with money; making a greater merchandise out of thesethings and having more shops for them than at Paris of stuffs or anyother things, and to the most open simony giving the name and support ofprocuration, and to gluttony that of sustentation: as if God, apart fromthe signification of epithets, could not know the intentions of thesewretched souls, but after the manner of men must permit himself to bedeceived by the names of things. Which, together with many other thingsof which we will say nothing, so greatly displeased the Jew, that as hewas a sober and modest man it appeared to him that he had seen enough, and proposed to return to Paris. Accordingly he did so; upon whichGianotto, seeing that he had returned, and hoping nothing less than thathe should have become a Christian, came and rejoiced greatly at hisreturn, and after some days of rest asked him what he thought of theHoly Father, the cardinals, and the other courtesans; to which the Jewpromptly replied:--"It seems to me evil that God should have givenanything to all those people, and I say to you that if I know how todraw conclusions, there was no holiness, no devotion, no good work orgood example of life in any other way, in anybody who was a priest; butluxury, avarice, and gluttony, --such things and worse, if there could beworse things in anybody; and I saw rather liberty in devilish operationsthan in divine: on which account I conclude that with all possiblestudy, with all their talent and with all their art, your Shepherd, andconsequently all the rest, are working to reduce to nothing and to driveout of the world the Christian religion, there where they ought to beits foundation and support. But from what I see, what they are drivingat does not happen, but your religion continually increases; andtherefore it becomes clearer and more evident that the Holy Spirit mustbe its foundation and support, as a religion more true and holy than anyother. On which account, where I was obstinate and immovable to yourreasoning and did not care to become a Christian, now I say to youdistinctly that on no account would I fail to become a Christian. Therefore let us go to church, and there according to the custom of yourholy religion let me be baptized. "

Gianotto, who had expected exactly the opposite conclusion to this, when he heard these things was more satisfied than ever a man wasbefore, and with him he went to Notre Dame of Paris and requested thepriest there to give Abraham baptism: who, hearing what he asked, immediately did so; and Gianotto was his sponsor and named him Giovanni, and immediately caused him by competent men to be completely instructedin our religion, which he at once learned and became a good and worthyman and of a holy life. 

THE STORY OF SALADIN AND THE JEW USURER

Saladin, whose valor was so great that he not only became from aninsignificant man Sultan of Babylon, but also gained many victories overthe Saracen and Christian kings, having in many wars and in his greatmagnificence spent all his treasure, and on account of some troublehaving need of a great quantity of money, nor seeing where he should getit quickly as he had need to, was reminded of a rich Jew whose name wasMelchisedech, who loaned at interest at Alexandria; and thinking to makeuse of him if he could, though he was so avaricious that of his owngood-will he would do nothing, the Sultan, not wishing to compel him, but driven by necessity, set himself to devise means by which the Jewshould satisfy him, and to find some manner of compelling him to do sowith a good pretext. Thus thinking, he called him, and receiving himfamiliarly, said to him: "My good man, I hear from many here that youare the wisest and in divine affairs the most profound of men, and onthat account I would like to know from you which of the three goodreligions you consider the true one: the Jewish, the Saracenic, or theChristian?" The Jew, who really was a wise man, saw too clearly that theSultan desired to catch him in his words in order to raise against himsome question, and decided not to praise any one of the religions morethan the other, so that the Sultan should not accomplish his purpose; onaccount of which, as one who seemed to have need of a reply as to whichthere could not be any reasoning, and his wits being sharpened, therequickly came to him what he ought to say, and he said:--

"My lord, the question which you have put to me is important, and inorder to explain to you what I think, it is necessary to tell you afable which you will hear. If I do not mistake, I have heard tell manytimes of a great and rich man who lived once, and who amongst otherjewels had a beautiful and valuable ring, the most precious in histreasury, which on account of its value and its beauty he desired tohonor and to leave in perpetuity to his descendants; and he ordered thatthat one of his sons to whom this ring should be left, as it had been tohim, should be considered his heir and be by all the others honored andreverenced. The one to whom this ring should be left should give asimilar order to his descendants, and do as had done his predecessor. Inshort, this ring went from hand to hand to many successors, and finallycame to the hands of one who had three sons, honest men, virtuous andall obedient to their father, on which account he loved all threeequally; and the young men, who knew the custom of the ring, as each onedesired to be the most honored amongst them, each one to the utmost ofhis power urged the father to leave the ring to him when death shouldtake him. The worthy man, who loved them all alike, not knowing himselfhow to choose to whom he should leave it, decided, having promised eachone, to satisfy all three: and secretly ordered from a good workman twoothers, which were so similar to the first that he himself who had madethem could scarcely tell which was the true one; and death approaching, he secretly gave to each one of his sons his ring. After the death ofthe father, each one wishing to enjoy the heritage and denying it to theothers, each produced a ring in evidence of his rights, and finding themso similar that no one could tell which was the true one, the questionwhich was the real heir of the father remained undecided, and it isstill undecided. And so I say to you, my lord, of the three religionsgiven to the three people by God the Father, concerning which you put methis question, that each one believes that he has as his heritage thetrue law; but as it is with the three rings, the question is still quiteundecided. "

Saladin, recognizing how this man had most cleverly escaped from thetrap which had been set before his feet, decided on that account toexpose to him his necessities and see if he was willing to help him; andso he did, saying that which he had intended to say if the Jew had notreplied so wisely as he had done. The Jew freely accorded to Saladinwhatever he asked, and Saladin gave him entire security, and besidesthat he gave him great gifts and retained him always as his friend, andkept him in excellent and honorable condition always near to himself. 

THE STORY OF GRISELDA

A long time ago, in the family of the Marquis Saluzzo, the head of thehouse was a young man called Walter, who, having neither wife norchildren, spent his time entirely in hunting and hawking, and nevertroubled himself to marry or to have a family, --on account of which hewas considered very wise. This thing not being pleasing to hisretainers, they many times begged of him that he should take a wife, inorder that he should not be without an heir and they without a master, offering to find him one descended from such a father and mother that hemight hope to have successors and they be satisfied. To which Walterreplied:--"My friends, you urge me to what I have never been disposed todo, considering how grave a matter it is to find a woman who adaptsherself to one's ways, and on the contrary how great are the burdens andhow hard the lives of those who happen on wives who do not suit them. And to say that you know daughters from the fathers and mothers, andfrom that argue that you can give me what will satisfy me, is afoolishness; since I do not know how you can learn the fathers or knowthe secrets of the mothers of these girls, since even knowing themoft-times we find the daughters very different from the fathers andmothers: but since you desire to entangle me in these chains, I wish tobe satisfied; and in order that I should not have to suffer throughothers than myself if any mistake should be made, I wish myself to bethe finder, assuring you that if I do not take this responsibility andthe woman should not be honorable, you would find out to your very greatloss how much opposed to my desire it was to have taken a wife at yoursupplication. "

The good men were satisfied, so long as he would take a wife. For a longtime the ways of a poor young woman who belonged to a little house nearhis own had attracted Walter, and as she was sufficiently beautiful, heconsidered that with her he might have a life peaceful enough; and onthat account, without going any further, he proposed to marry this one, and calling upon her father, who was very poor, arranged with him tomarry her. This being arranged, he convoked his friends and said tothem: "My friends! it has pleased and pleases you that I should disposemyself to marry, and I am so disposed more to please you than for thedesire that I should have a wife. You know what you promised me, --thatis, to be satisfied with and to honor as your lady whoever I shouldselect; and, for that the time has come that I should keep my promise toyou, and I wish you to keep yours to me, I have found very near here ayoung woman according to my heart, whom I intend to take for my wife andto bring her in a few days to my house; and for this you must think howthe entertainment of the day shall be attractive and how you willhonorably receive her, in order that I may show myself satisfied withthe fulfillment of your promise as you may consider yourselveswith mine. "

The good men, joyful, all replied that that gave them pleasure, andwhoever it might be, they would accept her for lady and would honor herin everything as their lady. This being arranged, all set themselves tomaking a magnificent, joyful, and splendid festa, which also did Walter. He prepared for the wedding festivities very abundantly andmagnificently, and invited many of his friends, great gentlemen, hisrelatives and others from all around. And beyond this he had dresses cutand made up by the figure of a young woman who, he thought, had the samefigure as the woman he proposed to marry. And besides this, he arrangedgirdles and rings and a rich and beautiful coronet, and everything thata newly married bride should demand. 

On the day settled for the wedding, Walter, about the third hour, mounted his horse, as did all those who had come to honor him, andhaving arranged everything conveniently, said, "Gentlemen, it is time togo to take the bride;" and starting with his company he arrived at thelittle villa, and going to the house of the father of the girl, andfinding her returning in great haste with water from the spring, inorder to go with the other women to see the bride of Walter, he calledher by name, --that is, Griselda, --and asked her where her father was, towhich she modestly replied, "My lord, he is in the house. " Then Walter, dismounting and commanding his men that they should wait for them, wentalong into the little house, where he found her father, whose name wasGiannucoli, and said to him, "I have come to marry Griselda, but I wishto learn certain things in your presence. " He then asked her if, shouldhe take her for his wife, she would do her best to please him, and atnothing that he should do or say would she trouble herself, and if shewould be obedient, and many such-like questions, to all of which shereplied "yes. " Then Walter took her by the hand, and in thepresence of all his company and all the other persons had her strippednaked, and calling for the dresses which he had had made, immediatelyhad her dressed and shod, and on her hair, disheveled as it was, had thecrown put; and all this being done while everybody marveled, Waltersaid:--"Gentlemen, this is she whom I intend shall be my wife if shewishes me for husband" and then, turning to her, who stood by herselfabashed and confused, said to her, "Griselda, will you take me for yourhusband?" To which Griselda replied, "Yes, my lord;" and he said, "Idesire her for my wife, and in the presence of the assembly to marryher;" and mounting her on a palfrey he led her, honorably accompanied, to his house. There the marriage ceremonies were fine and great, and thefestivities were not less than if he had married the daughter of theking of France. 

_THE DECAMERON_. 

This is a collection of 100 tales written by Boccaccio, and published in1353. Seven ladies and three gentlemen of Florence, during the plague of1348, are supposed to be enjoying themselves in a garden tellingstories--ten each day for ten days. 

Photogravure from a Painting by Jacques Wagrez. 

[Illustration]

It seemed as if the young bride, in changing her vestments, changed hermind and her manners. She was, as we have said, in figure and facebeautiful; and as she was beautiful she became so attractive, sodelightful, and so accomplished, that she did not seem to be thedaughter of Giannucoli the keeper of sheep, but of some noble lord, which made every man who had known her astonished; and besides this, shewas so obedient to her husband and so ready in service that he was mostcontented and delighted; and similarly, toward the subjects of herhusband she was so gracious and so kind that there was no one who didnot love her more than himself; and gentlemen honored her with the bestgood-will, and all prayed for her welfare and her health andadvancement. Whereupon they who had been accustomed to say that Walterhad done a foolish thing in marrying her, now said that he was thewisest and the most far-seeing man in the world, because no other thanhe would have been able to see her great virtue hidden under the poorrags of a peasant's costume. In a short time, not only in his owndominions but everywhere, she knew so well how to comport herself thatshe made the people talk of his worth and of his good conduct, and toturn to the contrary anything that was said against her husband onaccount of his having married her. 

She had not long dwelt with Walter when she bore a daughter, for whichWalter made great festivities; but a little afterwards, a new ideacoming into his mind, he wished with long experience and withintolerable proofs to try her patience. First he began to annoy herwith words, pretending to be disturbed, and saying that his men werevery discontented with her low condition, and especially when they sawthat she had children; and of the daughter, that she was born mostunfortunately; and he did nothing but grumble. But the lady, hearingthese words, without changing countenance or her demeanor in any way, said, "My lord, do with me what you think your honor and your comfortdemand, and I shall be satisfied with everything, as I know that I amless than they, and that I was not worthy of this honor to which you inyour courtesy called me. " This reply pleased Walter much, knowing thatshe was not in any arrogance raised on account of the honor which he orothers had done her. 

A little while afterwards, having often repeated to his wife that hissubjects could not endure this daughter born of her, he instructed oneof his servants and sent him to her, to whom with sorrowful face hesaid, "My lady, if I do not wish to die, I am obliged to do what my lordcommands me; he has commanded that I should take your daughter and thatI--" and here he stopped. The lady, seeing the face of the servant andhearing the words that he said, and the words said by her husband, bethinking herself, understood that this man had been ordered to killthe child; upon which, immediately taking her from the cradle, kissingher, and placing her as if in great sorrow to her heart, withoutchanging countenance she placed her in the arms of the servant and said, "Take her and do exactly what your and my lord has imposed on you to do, but do not leave her so that the beasts and the birds shall devour her, unless he should have commanded you that. " The servant having taken thechild and having repeated to Walter what his wife had said, he, marveling at her constancy, sent him with her to Bologna to one of hisrelatives, beseeching him that without ever saying whose daughter shemight be, he should carefully rear her and teach her good manners. Ithappened that the lady again in due time bore a son, who was very dearto Walter. But not being satisfied with what he had done, with greaterwounds he pierced his wife, and with a countenance of feigned vexationone day he said to her, "My lady, since you have borne this male child Ihave in no way been able to live with my people, so bitterly do theyregret that a grandchild of Giannucoli should after me remain theirlord; and I make no question that if I do not wish to be deposed, itwill be necessary to do what I did before, and in the end leave you andtake another wife. " The lady with patience heard him, and only replied, "My lord! think of your own content, and do your own pleasure, and haveno thought of me; because nothing is so agreeable to me as to see yousatisfied. " A little after, Walter, in the same manner as he had sentfor the daughter, sent for the son, and in the same way feigned to haveordered it to be killed, and sent him to nurse in Bologna as he had sentthe daughter. On account of which thing the lady behaved no otherwiseand said no other word than she had done for the daughter. At thisWalter marveled greatly, and declared to himself that no other womancould have done what she did; and had it not been that he found her mostaffectionate to her children, as he saw her to be, he would havebelieved that she could only do so because she did not care for them, although he knew her to be very prudent. His subjects, believing that hehad had the child killed, blamed him greatly and considered him a mostcruel man, and had great compassion for the lady, who, with the womenwho came to condole with her on the death of her children, never saidother thing than that that pleased her which pleased her lord who hadbegotten them. 

But many years having passed since the birth of the daughter, it seemedtime to Walter to make the last proof of her patience; and so he said tomany of his people that in no way could he endure any longer to haveGriselda for his wife, and that he recognized that he had done badly andlike a boy when he took her for wife, and that on that account heintended to apply to the Pope for a dispensation that he might takeanother wife and leave Griselda. On which account he was much reprovedby very good men, to which he replied in no other wise than that it wasconvenient that he should do so. The lady, hearing these things, andseeing that it was necessary for her to look forward to returning to herfather's house, and perhaps to watch the sheep as she had in other timesdone, and to see that another should have him to whom she wished nothingbut good, suffered greatly in her own mind; but also, as with the otherinjuries which she had endured from fortune, so with a firm countenanceshe disposed herself to support even this. Not long afterwards, Walterhad caused to be sent to him counterfeit letters from Rome, which heshowed to all his subjects to inform them that the Pope had given himthe dispensation to take another wife and leave Griselda. After which, having called her to him, in the presence of many people hesaid:--"Lady, by the dispensation made to me by the Pope I may takeanother wife and leave you; and because my ancestors were greatgentlemen and lords in this country, whereas yours have always beenworkmen, I mean that you shall not longer be my wife, but that you shallreturn to the house of your father with the dowry which you brought me, and that I shall take another wife whom I have found more fitting forme. " The lady, hearing these words, not without great difficulty andcontrary to the nature of women kept back her tears, and replied:--"Iknew always my low condition not to suit in any way your nobility, andwhat I have done, by you and by God will be recognized: nor have I everacted or held it as given to me, but simply always had it as a loan; itpleases you to take it back, and to me it ought to give pleasure toreturn it to you. Here is your ring with which you married me; take it. You command me to take back the dowry which I brought you; to do whichneither of you to pay it nor of me to receive it will demand either apurse or a beast of burden, because it has escaped your mind that youtook me naked: and if you consider it honest that this body by which Ihave borne the children begotten by you shall be seen by everybody, Iwill go away naked; but I pray you in consideration of my virginity, which I brought to you and which I cannot take away, that at least asingle shirt more than my dowry it will please you that I shall take. "Walter, who had more desire to weep than anything else, remained with ahard face and said, "You may take with you a shirt. " He was prayed byall who were about him that one garment more he should give, that itshould not be seen that she who had been his wife for thirteen years ormore should leave his house so poorly and shamefully as to go away inher shirt; but in vain were the prayers made. On which account the ladyin her shirt, and barefoot, and without anything on her head, went outof the house and returned to the house of her father with the tears andlamentations of all who saw her. 

Giannucoli, who had never been able to consider it a reality that Waltershould have taken his daughter for a wife, and expected every day thisend, had kept the clothes which had been taken from her that morningthat Walter married her; so that bringing them to her, she dressedherself in them and returned to the little service of her father's houseas she had been accustomed, supporting with a strong mind these savageattacks of fortune. When Walter had done this, he gave his people tounderstand that he had taken the daughter of one of the Counts of Panagofor a wife, and having great preparations made for the marriage, sentfor Griselda that she should come; to whom, having come, he said:--"Ibring this lady whom I have now taken, and intend on her arrival tohonor her, and you know that I have not in the house women who know howto arrange the chambers and to do many things that pertain to suchfestivities; on which account you, who better than anybody else know thethings in this house, shall put in order whatever there is to be done, and cause to be invited the ladies whom you see fit, as if you weremistress here; then, after the marriage ceremony, you can go back toyour house. " Although these words were like so many knives in the heartof Griselda, as she had not been able to divest herself of the lovewhich she bore him as she had of her good fortune, --she replied, "Mylord, I am ready and prepared;" and so entered with her coarse peasant'sclothing in the house from which she had shortly before gone in hershirt, and began to sweep and put in order the rooms, the hangings andcarpets for the halls, and to put the kitchen in order, and in everyrespect as if she had been a little servant in the house, did she puther hand. Nor did she pause until she had put everything in order andarranged it as it was most convenient. And having done this, and Walterat her indications having invited all the ladies of the country, shebegan to arrange the festivities; and when the day of the marriage came, with the apparel which she had on her back, but with the mind and mannerof a lady, received with a cheerful countenance all the ladies who came. Walter, who had had his children educated carefully by a relative inBologna who had married into the house of the Counts of Panago, --thegirl being already of the age of twelve years and the most beautifulcreature that ever was seen, and the boy being of six, --had written tohis relative at Bologna, praying him that he would be kind enough tocome with this his daughter to Saluzzo, and to arrange to bring with hima fine and honorable company, and to say to all that these things werebrought for his wife, without telling anything to anybody that it wasotherwise. Having done what the Marquis asked of him, the Count startedon his way after several days with the girl and her brother and with anoble company, and arrived at Saluzzo at the hour of dinner, when allthe peasants and many neighbors were present waiting for the new brideof Walter; who being received by the ladies and going into the hallwhere the tables were set, Griselda came forward joyfully to meet her, saying, "Welcome, my lady. " The ladies (who had much, but in vain, prayed Walter that he would arrange that Griselda should remain in thechamber, or that he would give her some one of the dresses which hadbeen hers, in order that she should not appear in this way before hisstrangers) were set at the table and had begun to be served. The girlwas looked at by every man, and everybody said that Walter had made agood exchange: but amongst the others Griselda praised her most; bothher and her little brother. 

Walter, who seemed to have finally learned as much as he desired of thepatience of his lady, and seeing that the enduring of these thingsproduced no change in her, and being certain that this did not happenfrom hypocrisy, because he knew that she was very wise, considered ittime to lighten her of the bitterness which he felt that she held hiddenin her heart under her strong self-control. Therefore, calling her inpresence of all the company, and smiling, he said, "What do you think ofour bride?" "My lord, " replied Griselda, "she seems to me very good, andif she is as wise as she is beautiful, as I believe, I do not doubt inthe least that you will live with her the most comfortable gentleman inthe world. But I pray you as much as I can that these cruelties whichyou bestowed on the other which was yours you will not give to this one, because I believe that she could not support them; partly because she isyoung, and again because she has been brought up delicately, while theother has been always accustomed to hardships from a child. " Walter, seeing that she firmly believed that this one was his wife, nor on thataccount spoke otherwise than well, made her sit down at his side andsaid:--"Griselda, it is time now that you should feel the rewards ofyour long patience, and that those who have considered me a cruel, wicked, and brutal man should know that that which I have done was donefor a purpose, wishing to teach you to be a wife, and them to know howto take and to keep one, and for myself for the establishment ofunbroken quiet while I live with you. Because when I came to take a wifeI had great fear that this could not be the case, and on that account, and to assure myself in all the ways which you know, I have tried topain you. And yet I have never perceived that either in thought or deedhave you ever contradicted my pleasure: convinced that I shall have fromyou that comfort which I desire, I now intend to return to you all atonce what I took from you on several occasions; and with the greatesttenderness to heal the wounds which I have given you; and so with ahappy soul know this one whom you believed to be my bride, and this oneher brother, as your and my children; they are those whom you and manyothers have long believed that I had cruelly caused to be killed; and Iam your husband who above all things loves you, believing that I mayboast that there is no other man who may be as well satisfied with hiswife as I am. " And so saying he embraced her and kissed her, and withher, who wept for joy, rising, went where the daughter sat stupefied, hearing these things; and, embracing her tenderly and her brother aswell, undeceived her and as many as were there. The ladies, joyfullyrising, went with Griselda to her chamber, and with the most joyfulwishes dressed her as a lady, --which even in her rags she hadseemed, --and then brought her back to the hall; and there, making withthe children a wonderful festivity, every person being most joyful overthese things, the rejoicings and the festivities were kept up for manydays, and they all considered Walter the wisest of men, as they hadconsidered bitter and intolerable the proofs which he had imposed on hiswife; and especially they considered Griselda most discreet. 

The Count of Panago returned after a few days to Bologna, and Walter, having taken Giannucoli from his work, settled him in the condition ofhis father-in-law, so that he lived with great honor and with greatcomfort and so finished his old age. And Walter afterwards, havingmarried his daughter excellently, long and happily lived with Griselda, honoring her always as much as he could. And here we may say that as inroyal houses come those who are much more worthy to keep the hogs thanto have government over men, so even into poor houses there sometimescome from Heaven divine spirits besides Griselda, who could have beenable to suffer with a countenance not merely tearless but cheerful thesevere, unheard-of proofs imposed on her by Walter; to whom it wouldperhaps not have been unjust that he should have happened on one who, when he turned her out of his house in her shirt, should have becomeunfaithful with another, as his actions would have made fitting. 

FRIEDRICH MARTIN VON BODENSTEDT

(1819-1892)

Bodenstedt was born at Peine, Hanover, April 22d, 1819. From hisearliest years his poetic nature broke through the barriers of hisprosaic surroundings; but in spite of these significant manifestations, the young poet was educated to be a merchant. He was sent to acommercial school in Brunswick, and then put to serve an apprenticeshipin business. His inclinations, however, were not to be repressed; and hedevoted all of his holidays and many hours of the night to study andwriting. At last he conquered his adverse fate, and at the age oftwenty-one entered the University. He studied at Göttingen, Munich, andBerlin, and then through a fortunate chance went to Moscow as tutor inthe family of Prince Galitzin. Here he remained three years, duringwhich time he diligently studied the Slavonic languages and literature. 

[Illustration: Bodenstedt]

The first fruits of these studies were translations from the poems ofKaslow, Pushkin, and Lermontoff (1843); which were considered equal tothe originals in poetic merit. In Stuttgart, two years later, appearedhis 'Poetische Ukraine' (Poetical Ukraine). He went to Tiflis in 1842 asinstructor in Latin and French in the Gymnasium. Here he studied theTartar and Persian languages, under the direction of the "wise man"Mirza-Schaffy (Scribe Schaffy), and began to translate Persian poems. "It was inevitable, " he afterwards said, "that with such occupations andinfluences many Persian strains crept into my own poetry. " Here he wrotehis first poems in praise of wine. Later he became an extensivetraveler, and made long tours through the Caucasus and the East. Thefruit of these journeys was the book 'Die Völker des Caucasus und ihreFreiheitskämpfe gegen die Russen' (The People of the Caucasus and theirStruggle for Freedom against the Russians), published in 1848. After hisreturn to Germany he settled in Münich to study political economy in theUniversity. 

Two years later, in 1850, appeared his delightful book in prose andpoetry, 'Tausend und ein Tag im Orient' (Thousand and One Days in theEast), a reminiscence of his Eastern wanderings and his sojourn atTiflis, The central figure is his Oriental friend Mirza-Schaffy. "Itoccurred to me, " he says, "to portray with poetic freedom the Caucasianphilosopher as he lived in my memory, with all his idiosyncrasies, andat the same time have him stand as the type of an Eastern scholar andpoet; in other words, to have him appear more important than he reallywas, for he never was a true poet, and of all the songs which he read tome as being his own, I could use only a single one, the littlerollicking song, 'Mullah, pure is the wine, and it's sin to despise it. 'For his other verse I substituted poems of my own, which were in keepingwith his character and the situations in which he appeared. " The poemsby themselves, together with others written at different times andplaces, Bodenstedt published in 1856 under the title 'Lieder desMirza-Schaffy' (Songs of Mirza-Schaffy). Quite unintentionally they haveoccasioned one of the most amusing of literary mystifications. For along time they were supposed to be real translations; and even to-day, despite the poet's own words, the "Sage of Tiflis" is considered by somea very great poet. A Tartar by birth, who had absorbed Persian culture, he was a skillful versifier, and could with facility translate simplesongs from the Persian into the Tartar language. Bodenstedt put intoMirza-Schaffy's mouth the songs which were written during hisintercourse with the Eastern sage, to give vividness to the picture ofan Eastern divan of wisdom. 

They portray Oriental life on its more sensuous, alluring side. In mostmusical, caressing verse they sing of wine and love, of the charms ofZuleika and Hafisa, of earthly bliss and the delights of living. Yetwith all their warm Eastern imagery and rich foreign dress they areessentially German in spirit, and their prevailing note of joyousness isnow and again tempered by more serious strains. 

The book was received with universal applause, and on it Bodenstedt'sfame as poet rests. It has been translated into all the Europeanlanguages, even into Hebrew and Tartar, and is now in its one hundredand forty-third German edition. Twenty-four years later Bodenstedtfollowed it with a similar collection, 'Aus dem Nachlass desMirza-Schaffy' (From the Posthumous Works of Mirza-Schaffy: 1874), wherehe shows the more serious, philosophic aspect of Eastern life. Bodenstedt's poems and his translations of Persian poetry are theculmination of the movement, begun by the Romantic School, to bringEastern thought and imagery home to the Western world. Other well-knownexamples are Goethe's 'West-Eastern Divan, ' and the poems andparaphrases of Rückert and others; but the 'Songs of Mirza-Schaffy' arethe only poems produced under exotic influences which have beenthoroughly acclimatized on German soil. 

Bodenstedt was for a time director of the court theatre at Meiningen;and though he held this difficult position for only a short time, he didmuch to lay the foundation of the success which the Meininger, as thebest German stock company of actors, achieved later on their starringtours through the country. He was ennobled in 1867, while in thisposition. He spent the last year of his life at Wiesbaden, where hedied in 1892. 

Bodenstedt was a voluminous writer; his work includes poems, romances, novels, and dramas. 'Vom Atlantischen zum Stillen Ocean' (From theAtlantic to the Pacific Ocean: 1882) is a description of his lecturingtour to the United States the year before. His autobiography, 'Erinnerungen aus Meinem Leben' (Recollections of my Life), givesinteresting glimpses into his eventful career. His mind was morereceptive than creative, and this, combined with his great technicalskill and his quick intuition, fitted him peculiarly to be a translatorand adapter. His translation of Shakespeare's works, in conjunction withPaul Heyse, Kurz, and others (fifth edition, Leipzig, 1890), isespecially noteworthy, as also his rendering of Shakespeare's sonnets. But he will live in German literature as the poet Mirza-Schaffy. 

 * * * * *

 TWO

 To one exalted aim we both are tending, I and thou! To one captivity we both are bending, I and thou! In my heart thee I close--thou me in thine; In twofold life, yet one, we both are blending, I and thou! Thee my wit draws--and me thine eye of beauty; Two fishes, from one bait we are depending, I and thou! Yet unlike fishes--through the air of Heaven, Like two brave eagles, we are both ascending, I and thou!

 WINE

 In THE goblet's magic measure, In the wine's all-powerful spirit, Lieth poison and delight: Lieth purest, basest pleasure, E'en according to the merit Of the drinker ye invite. 

 Lo, the fool in baseness sunken, Having drunk till he is tired, When he drinks, behold him drunken; When _we_ drink, we are inspired. 

 SONG

 Down on the vast deep ocean The sun his beams doth throw, Till every wavelet trembles Beneath their ruddy glow. 

 How like thou to those sunbeams Upon my song's wild sea; They tremble all and glitter, Reflecting only thee. 

 UNCHANGING

 In early days methought that all must last; Then I beheld all changing, dying, fleeting; But though my soul now grieves for much that's past, And changeful fortunes set my heart oft beating, I yet believe in mind that all will last, Because the old in new I still am meeting. 

THE POETRY OF MIRZA-SCHAFFY

From the 'Thousand and One Days in the East'

Abbas Kuli Khan was one of those gifted ambiguous natures who, withoutinspiring confidence, always know how to work an imposing effect, inasmuch as they hold to the principle of displeasing no one, as a firstrule of prudence. 

It so happened then that even Mirza-Schaffy, bribed by the flatterywhich the Khan of Baku, when he once surprised us in the Divan ofWisdom, lavished upon him, declared him to be a great Wise Man. 

The mutual praise, so overflowing in its abundance, which they bestowedon one another put them both in a very happy humor. From the Koran, fromSaadi, Hafiz, and Fizuli, each authenticated the other to be the movingembodiment of all the wisdom of earth. 

A formal emulation in old and original songs took place between them;for every piece of flattery was overlaid with a tuneful quotation. Unfortunately, however, the entertainment flowed so swiftly that I wasunable to note down any coherent account of it. 

Nevertheless, being unwilling to let the long session go by without anygain on my part, I requested the Khan to write for me one of hisartistic songs in remembrance. He nodded with an approving look, andpromised to write the most beautiful song that ever the mouth of man haduttered; a song in praise of his Fatima, playing on her stringedinstrument. 

Whilst Mirza-Schaffy raised a questioning look on hearing the praisewhich the Khan expended on himself, the latter took the kalem (reed-pen)and wrote what follows:--

 FATIMA PLAYING ON HER STRINGED INSTRUMENT

 "O'er the strings thy fingers are straying, O'er my heart stray the tones; And it wanders obeying, Far away from the zones; Up tending, Round thee bending, Round thy heart to be growing And clinging, Round thee flinging, Its glad mirth overflowing-- Oh! thou Spirit from me springing, Life on me bestowing! Dazzled, blinded, confounded, I see in thy glances The whole world and its rounded Unbounded expanses; And round us it dances In drunken confusion, Like floating illusion; Around thee I'm reeling, All round me is wheeling-- And Heaven and Ocean, In flashing commotion, Round us both as thou singest, Roll reeling and rushing-- Thou Joy to me that wingest, Thou Soul from me outgushing!"

_FATIMA_. 

Photogravure from a Painting by G. C. Saintpierre. 

 "O'er the strings thy fingers are straying, O'er my heart stray the tones. "

[Illustration]

"On the following evening, " said Mirza-Schaffy, "I appeared at theappointed hour. During the day I had written a love song which none ofwomankind could resist. I had sung it over about twenty times to myself, in order to be sure of success. Then I had been into the bath, and hadhad my head shaved so perfectly that it might have vied in whitenesswith the lilies of the vale of Senghi. The evening was calm and clear;from the garden-side where I stood, I could distinctly see my Zuléikha;she was alone with Fatima on the roof, and had her veil put a littleback, as a sign of her favor. I took courage, and pushed my cap downbehind to show my white head, just fresh shaved, to the maiden's eyes. Thou canst comprehend what an impression that would make on a woman'sheart! Alas! my head was much whiter then than it is now. But that ismore than ten years since!" he said sorrowfully, and would havecontinued in this digression if I had not interposed the words:--

"Thy head is quite white enough now to fascinate the most maidenlyheart; but thou hast not yet told me how thou sangest thy love song, andwhat impression it made upon Zuléikha. "

"I had folded the song, " said the Mirza, "round a double almond kernel, and thrown it on the roof, as a keepsake for the Beauty, before I beganto sing it; and then I began with clear voice:--

 "What is the eye of wild gazelle, the slender pine's unfolding, Compared with thy delightful eyes, and thine ethereal molding? What is the scent from Shiraz' fields, wind-borne, that's hither straying, Compared with richer scented breath from thy sweet mouth out-playing?

 What is Ghazel and Rubajat, as Hafiz ere was singing, Compared with one word's mellow tone, from thy sweet mouth outwinging?

 What is the rosy-chaliced flower, where nightingales are quaffing, Compared with thy sweet rosy mouth, and thy lips' rosy laughing? What is the sun, and what the moon, and all heaven's constellations? Love-glancing far for thee they glow with trembling scintillations! And what am I myself, my heart, my songful celebration, But slaves of royal loveliness, bright beauty's inspiration!"

"Allah, how beautiful!" I cried. "Mirza-Schaffy, thy words sound assweet as the songs of the Peris, in the world of spirits! What is Hafizto thee? What is a drop to the ocean?"

MIRZA-SCHAFFY

From the 'Thousand and One Days in the East'

My first object in Georgia was to secure an instructor in Tartar, that Imight learn as quickly as possible a language so indispensably necessaryin the countries of the Caucasus. Accident favored my choice, for mylearned teacher Mirza-Schaffy, the Wise Man of Gjändsha, as he styleshimself, is, according to his own opinion, the wisest of men. 

With the modesty peculiar to his nation, he only calls himself the firstwise man of the East; but as according to his estimation the children ofthe West are yet living in darkness and unbelief, it is a matter ofcourse with him that he soars above us in wisdom and knowledge. Moreover, he indulges the hope that, thanks to his endeavors, theillumination and wisdom of the East will also, in the progress of years, actually spread amongst us. I am already the fifth scholar, he tells me, who has made a pilgrimage to him for the purpose of participating in hisinstructions. He argues from this that the need of traveling to Tiflisand listening to Mirza-Schaffy's sayings of wisdom is ever becoming morevividly felt by us. My four predecessors, he is further of opinion, have, since their return into the West, promoted to the best of theirability the extension of Oriental civilization amongst their races. Butof me he formed quite peculiar hopes; very likely because I paid him asilver ruble for each lesson, which I understand is an unusually highpremium for the Wise Man of Gjändsha. 

It was always most incomprehensible to him how _we_ can call ourselveswise or learned, and travel over the world with these titles, before weeven understand the sacred languages. Nevertheless he very readilyexcused these pretensions in me, inasmuch as I was at least ardentlyendeavoring to acquire these languages, but above all because I had madethe lucky hit of choosing him for my teacher. 

The advantages of this lucky hit he had his own peculiar way of makingintelligible to me. "I, Mirza-Schaffy, " said he, "am the first wise manof the East! consequently thou, as my disciple, art the second. But thoumust not misunderstand me: I have a friend, Omar-Effendi, a very wiseman, who is certainly not the third among the learned of the land. If Iwere not alive, and Omar-Effendi were thy teacher, then he would be thefirst, and thou, as his disciple, the second wise man!" After such aneffusion, it was always the custom of Mirza-Schaffy to point with hisforefinger to his forehead, at the same time giving me a sly look;whereupon, according to rule, I nodded knowingly to him in mutereciprocation. 

That the Wise Man of Gjändsha knew how to render his vast superiority inthe highest degree palpable to any one who might have any misgiving onthe point, he once showed me by a striking example. 

Among the many learned rivals who envied the lessons of Mirza-Schaffy, the most conspicuous was Mirza-Jussuf, the Wise Man of Bagdad. He namedhimself after this city, because he had there pursued his studies inArabic; from which he inferred that he must possess more profoundaccomplishments than Mirza-Schaffy, whom he told me he considered a"_Fschekj_, " an ass among the bearers of wisdom. "The fellow cannot evenwrite decently, " Jussuf informed me of my reverend Mirza, "and he cannotsing at all! Now I ask thee: What is knowledge without writing? What iswisdom without song? What is Mirza-Schaffy in comparison with me?"

In this way he was continually plying me with perorations of confoundingforce, wherein he gave especial prominence to the beauty of his nameJussuf, which Moses of old had celebrated, and Hafiz sung of in lovelystrains; he exerted all his acuteness to evince to me that a name is notan empty sound, but that the significance attached to a great orbeautiful name is inherited in more or less distinction by the latestbearers of this name. He, Jussuf, for example, was a perfect model ofthe Jussuf of the land of Egypt, who walked in chastity before Potiphar, and in wisdom before the Lord. 

THE SCHOOL OF WISDOM

From the 'Thousand and One Days in the East'

"Mirza-Schaffy!" I began, when we sat again assembled in the Divan ofWisdom, "what wilt thou say when I tell thee that the wise men of theWest consider you as stupid as you do them?"

"What can I do but be amazed at their folly?" he replied. "What newthing can I learn from them, when they only repeat mine?"

He ordered a fresh chibouk, mused awhile meditatingly before him, badeus get ready the _kalemdan_ (writing-stand), and then began to sing:--

 "Shall I laughing, shall I weeping Go, because men are so brute, Always foreign sense repeating, And in self-expression mute?

 "No, the Maker's praise shall rise For the foolish generation; Else the wisdom of the wise Would be lost from observation!"

"Mirza-Schaffy, " said I, interrupting him again, "would it not be aprudent beginning to clothe thy sayings in a Western dress, to the endthat they might be a mirror for the foolish, a rule of conduct for theerring, and a source of high enjoyment for our wives and maidens, whosecharm is as great as their inclination to wisdom?"

"Women are everywhere wise, " replied my reverend teacher, "and theirpower is greater than fools imagine. Their eyes are the original seat ofall true devotion and wisdom, and he who inspires from them needs notwait for death to enter upon the joys of Paradise. The smallest fingerof woman overthrows the mightiest edifice of faith, and the youngestmaiden mars the oldest institutions of the Church!"

"But thou hast not yet given me an answer to my question, O Mirza!"

"Thou speakest wisely. The seed of my words has taken root in thy heart. Write; I will sing!"

And now he sang to me a number of wonderful songs, part of which herefollow in an English dress. 

 MIRZA-SCHAFFY'S OPINION OF THE SHAH OF PERSIA

 A learnèd scribe once came to me from far: "Mirza!" said he, "what think'st thou of the Shah? Was wisdom really born in him with years? And are his eyes as spacious as his ears?"

 "He's just as wise as all who round them bind Capuche and gown: he knows what an amount Of stupid fear keeps all his people blind, And how to turn it to his own account. "

 MIZA-SCHAFFY PRAISES THE CHARMS OF ZULÉIKHA

 Looking at thy tender little feet Makes me always wonder, sweetest maiden, How they so much beauty can be bearing!

 Looking at thy lovely little hands Makes me always wonder, sweetest maiden, How they so to wound me can be daring!

 Looking at thy rosy luring lips Makes me always wonder, sweetest maiden, How they of a kiss e'er can be sparing!

 Looking at thy meaningful bright eyes Makes me always wonder, sweetest maiden, How for greater love they can be caring

 Than I feel. Oh, look at me, and love! Warmer than my heart, thou sweetest maiden, Heart in thy love never will be sharing. 

 Listen to this rapture-reaching song! Fairer than my mouth, thou sweetest maiden, Mouth thy praise will never be declaring!

AN EXCURSION INTO ARMENIA

From the 'Thousand and One Days in the East'

Now follow me into that blessed land wherein tradition places Paradise, and wherein I also placed it, until I found that it lay in thine eyes, thou, mine Edlitam!

Follow me to the banks of the Senghi and Araxes, rich in bloom, sacredin tradition; where I sought for rest after long wandering in the mazesof a strange land, until I knew that rest is nowhere to be found but inone's own bosom; follow me into the gardens where Noah once planted thevine for his own enjoyment and heart's delight, and for the gladness ofall subsequent races of toiling men; follow me through the steepmountain-paths overhung with glaciers, to the arid table-lands ofArarat, where, clad in a garment red as blood, on his steed of nimblethigh, the wild Kurd springs along, with flashing glance and sunburntface, in his broad girdle the sharp dagger and long pistols of Damascus, and in his practiced hand the slender, death-slinging lance ofBagdad--where the nomad pitches his black tent, and with wife and childcowers round the fire that scares away the beasts of thewilderness--where caravans of camels and dromedaries wend their way, laden with the treasures of the Orient, and guided by watchful leadersin wide many-colored apparel--where the Tartar, eager for spoil, housesin hidden rocks, or in half-subterranean, rudely excavated huts; followme into the fruitful valleys, where the sons of Haïghk, like thechildren of Israel, far from the corruption of cities, still live inprimeval simplicity, plough their fields and tend their flocks, andpractice hospitality in Biblical pureness; follow me to Ararat, whichstill bears the diluvian Ark upon his king-like, hoary head--follow meinto the highlands of Armenia!

In Paradise we will be happy, and refresh our eyes with a glance at thefair daughters of the land; and at the grave of Noah we will sit down, the drinking-horn in our hand, a song on our lips, and joyous confidencein our hearts; for the God who once when the whole world deservedhanging favored mankind with a watery grave, and suffered only Noah tolive because he cultivated the vine and rejoiced in love and drinking, will also to us, who cherish like desires, be as favorable as to thefather of post-diluvian men. 

 MIRZA-JUSSUF

 See Mirza-Jussuf now, How critical a wight 'tis! The day displeases him, Because for him too bright 'tis. 

 He doesn't like the rose, -- Her thorn a sad affront is; And doesn't like mankind, Because its nose in front is. 

 On ev'rything he spies His bitter bane he passes; For naught escapes his eyes, Except that he an ass is. 

 Thus, evermore at strife With Art and Nature too, By day and night he wanders Through wastes of misty blue, Mirza-Schaffy bemocks him With sly and roguish eye, And makes of all his bitterness The sweetest melody. 

 WISDOM AND KNOWLEDGE

 Friend, wouldst know why as a rule Bookish learning marks the fool? 'Tis because, though once befriended, Learning's pact with wisdom's ended. No philosophy e'er throve In a nightcap by the stove. Who the world would understand In the world must bear a hand. If you're not to wisdom wed, Like the camel you're bested, Which has treasures rich, to bear Through the desert everywhere, But the use must ever lack Of the goods upon his back. 

JOHANN JAKOB BODMER

(1698-1783)

In the beginning of the eighteenth century, the political andintellectual life of Germany showed no signs of its imminent awakening. French supremacy was undisputed. French was spoken by polite society, and only the middle and lower classes consented to use their mothertongue. French literature was alone fashionable, and the few scientificworks that appeared were published in Latin. Life was hard and sordid. Thought and imagination languished. Such writings as existed were empty, pompous, and pedantic. Yet from this dreary waste-land was to springthat rich harvest of literature which, in a brief half-century, made theGerman nation famous. 

[Illustration: Johann Jakob Bodmer]

Klopstock, Wieland, Lessing, Herder, Goethe, and Schiller--those werethe great names that were soon to shine like stars in the literaryfirmament. But the lesser men who broke the ground and opened paths fortheir brilliant followers are almost forgotten. 

Toward the middle of the century, there lived in Zürich a modestprofessor of history, Johann Jakob Bodmer by name (born July 19th, 1698), who spoke the first word for a national literature, and who wasthe first writer to attempt a scientific criticism of contemporaryauthors. His efforts were rude beginnings of a style that culminated inthe polished essays of Lessing. It was Bodmer whose independence ofthought and feeling first revolted from the slavish imitation of Frenchculture that enchained the German mind. In his youth he had been sent toItaly to study commerce. This visit aroused his poetic and artisticnature. He forgot his business in listening to street singers, inimitation of whom he wrote Italian lyrics. He read French works on art, and wrote artificial French verses according to French models. Withequal versatility he composed German poetry, copying Opitz, whom heesteemed a great poet. Nor did he hesitate to try his skill at Latinhexameters. 

By chance a copy of Addison's Spectator fell into his hands. He turnedat once from French and Italian culture to admire English classics. Thefirst German to appreciate Milton and Shakespeare (the latter he calledthe English Sophocles), he never wavered in his devotion to the Englishschool. With his faithful friend, Johann Jakob Breitinger, aconscientious scholar, he started in Zürich a critical weekly paper onthe plan of the Spectator. It was called Discoursen der Mahlern(Discourses of the Painters), and its essays embody the first literaryeffort of the Swiss as a nation. A little weekly coterie soon gatheredabout Bodmer to discuss the conduct of the paper; but much of the spiritand enthusiasm of these councils evaporated in print, the journal beingsubjected to a rigid censorship. Not alone art and literature came underdiscussion, but social subjects. All contributions were signed with thenames of famous painters, and dealt with mistakes in education, theevils of card-playing, the duties of friendship, love and matrimony, logic, morality, pedantry, imagination, self-consciousness, and the fearof death. These discourses were chiefly written by Bodmer and hiscolleague Breitinger. The earlier papers, awkwardly expressed, often inSwiss dialect, masqueraded as the work of Holbein, Dürer, Raphael, orMichael Angelo. Although intended at first for Swiss readers only, thelittle weekly soon captured a German public. Its purpose was to kindlethe imagination, and to suggest a parallel between the art of paintingand the art of literature. Bodmer only dimly outlined what an infinitelygreater mind defined with unerring precision some twenty years later inthe 'Laocoon. ' But the service of the older man to literature is nottherefore to be undervalued. Bodmer created the function of analytic andpsychological criticism in Germany. Hitherto no writer had been calledto account for any literary offense whatever. Bodmer maintained that theman who demanded a hearing from the public must show good cause forthis demand. 

After two years the Discourses were discontinued; but Bodmer had gainedgreat influence over the young writers of the time. He increased hisreputation by translating Milton's 'Paradise Lost, ' which he considered"a masterpiece of poetic genius, and the leading work of modern times. "He deplores, however, the low standard of public taste, which, delighting in inferior poets, cannot at once rise to the greatest works. Already there existed in Leipzig a sort of literary centre, whereGottsched was regarded as a dictator in matters of taste. This literaryautocrat praised Bodmer's translation of 'Paradise Lost' more than theoriginal poem, in which he condemned the rhymeless metre. A sharpcontroversy soon divided the literary world into two hostile parties, known in German literature as the "conflict between Leipzig and Zürich. "Gottsched followed Voltaire in considering the English style rude andbarbarous; whereas Bodmer, with keener artistic perception and deeperinsight, defended Milton and Shakespeare. The quarrel, in which Zürichprevailed, called the attention of Germany to the English literature, soclosely affiliated to the German mind and taste, and hastened itsliberation from the French yoke. Besides these services, Bodmer showeduntiring zeal in rescuing from oblivion the beautiful poems and epics ofthe Middle Ages. In his essay 'The Excellent Conditions for PoeticProduction under the Rule of the Swabian Emperors, ' he directs publicattention to the exquisite lyrics of the Minnesänger. It was he whorevealed that hidden treasure of German literature, the Nibelungenlied. By his studies and translations of Middle High German, he opened thevast and important field of Germanic philology. To the end of hiseighty-five years he was occupied with preparing selections from theMinnesänger, and his joy was unbounded when his half-century of work wascrowned with success, and the first volume of these poems was placed inhis hands. 

Notwithstanding his true appreciation of poetry, he could not write it. He placed the religious above all other poetic productions, and valuedthe fable highly. 

His hospitable roof in Zürich had an ever cordial welcome for allwriters, and many were the poets who sojourned in the "Dichterherberge"(poets' inn); among them Klopstock, Wieland, and Goethe. He held theesteem of the nation long after his own writings had been crowded intoforgetfulness by the new men whose way he had prepared, --for the geniusof Herder and Lessing may be said to have completed the work that was socourageously begun by Bodmer. 

THE KINSHIP OF THE ARTS

From 'Rubens'

When I consider the close relationship of the arts that are representedby the pen, brush, and chisel, I am inclined to think that the _manes_of these excellent painters and sculptors whose names our contributorshave assumed would probably not be displeased with the liberty we havetaken. Provided these departed spirits still feel a passionate interestin our worldly affairs, they might wish to instruct these paintingwriters to follow nature as closely and skillfully with their pens asthey themselves had done with delicate brush or chisel. Nature is indeedthe one universal teacher of all artists. Painter, sculptor, author, notone can succeed unless he hold counsel with her. The writer who does notrespect her is a falsifier, and the painter or sculptor who departs fromher is a dabbler. The highest place in art belongs to the writer, forhis field comprehends most. With one stroke of the pen he will describemore than a painter can represent in a succession of pictures. On theother hand, the painter appeals more to the imagination, and leaves astronger impression than description can possibly awaken. 

POETRY AND PAINTING

From 'Holbein'

A true poet will try to paint pictures on the imagination, which at aman's birth is devoid of impressions, I hold that the imagination is avast plain, capable of comprehending all that nature may bring forth, besides innumerable illusions, fancies, and poetic figures. A writer'spen is his brush, and words are his colors, which he must blend, heighten, or tone down, so that each object may assume a natural livingform. The best poet will so paint his pictures that his readers will seethe originals reflected as in a mirror. If his imagination be vivid, words grow eloquent, he feels all that he sees: he is impelled onwardlike a madman, and he must follow whither his madness leads. This frenzyneed not be inspired by any real object, but it must kindle hisimagination to arouse a real emotion. A new conception delights thefancy. The newest is the most marvelous. To this must be given asemblance of probability, and to probability a touch of the marvelous. The poet must portray to the imagination the struggles of passion andthe emotions of the human heart. His diction must be splendid andemphatic. Casting aside all earthly love, he must depict the love thatsprings from the soul, the love felt by him whose thoughts soar towardsheaven, where God is the source of eternal beauty. The most artistic odeis that in which art is concealed, and in which the poet, unfettered, isdriven by his own ardor. 

A TRIBUTE TO TOBACCO

From 'Dürer'

Whoever excels in any direction desires to be considered anextraordinary personage. Even the coquettish Phryne, fearing that thearts in which she really excelled might be forgotten, offered to rebuildthe walls of Thebes on condition that the following inscription were cutthereon:--"The great Alexander razed these walls, but the hetaira Phrynerebuilt them. " Gentlemen, I adore tobacco, and I appeal to the world forrecognition. The floor of my room is strewn with tobacco ashes, on whichmy footsteps fall like those of the priests in the temple of Babylon. Pipes that I have buried in this tobacco desert lift their bowls hereand there like stones in a cemetery. I shall make a pyramid of theserelics, yellow, brown, and black, from which I shall reap renown asothers win it with trophies gained on the battle-field. Besides books, which I love best after tobacco, my shelves and walls hold pipescollected from all nations, and grouped as if they were guns or sabres. My favorite pipe I never fill except on birthdays or festivals. AFrenchman who brought this from Canada swore that it was an Iroquoispipe of peace. Certain people take me for an alchemist, and my pipes forretorts with chimneys; but they do me wrong. Not only do I draw smokebut food from my distilling apparatus. I should be hailed rather as aphilosopher, for while I watch the floating smoke I meditate on thevanity of man and his fleeting occupations. The moral of my tale ismoderation; for my pipe is food and drink at once, and I know no betterexample of Nature's frugality than the fact that an ounce of tobaccoprovides me with a meal. Women delight in tea even as men prize tobacco. This difference in taste leads to friction of temper. Drinkers of teainhale many a disagreeable whiff of tobacco, and lovers of tobacco aredriven to accept many an unwelcome cup of tea. I, as a sufferer, wouldgladly set on foot a formal league which should compel an armedneutrality, and protect the one belligerent from the odor of thedelicious pipe and the other from the complaisance of thetyrannous tea-cup. 

Breath is smoke, and reason is but a spark in our hearts. When the sparkis extinguished, our body perishes like smoldering ashes, and our breathfloats away like the smoke. 

BOËTIUS

(475-525)

Anicius Manlius Severinus Boëtius was born about 475 A. D. His fatherwas Flavius Manlius Boëtius, a patrician of great wealth and influence, who was trusted by the Emperor Odoacer and held the consulship in 487. The father died before his son reached manhood; and the youth was leftto the guardianship of his kinsmen Festus and Symmachus, by whom he wascarefully educated. He was remarkable early in life for his scholarship, and especially for his mastery of the Greek language, an accomplishmentunusual for a Roman of this period. He entered public life when aboutthirty years of age, but duties of State were not permitted to put anend to his studies. He had married Rusticiana, the daughter of hisguardian Symmachus. 

[Illustration: BOËTIUS]

The Roman world was now ruled by Theodoric the Ostrogoth. This leaderhad succeeded to the headship of the Ostrogoths on the death of hisfather Theodomir in 474. For a time he was a pensioner of the Byzantinecourt, with the duty of defending the lower Danube; but in 488 hedetermined to invade Italy and become a sovereign subordinate to no one. By the defeat of Odoacer in 489 he accomplished that end; and desiringto conciliate the Senatorial party at Rome, he called Boëtius from hisstudious retirement, as one who by his position and wealth couldreconcile his countrymen to the rule of a barbarian chief. 

In 510 Boëtius was made consul, and he continued in the public servicetill after his sons Symmachus and Boëtius were elevated to theconsulship in 522. Thus far he had enjoyed the full confidence ofTheodoric; but in 523 he was thrown into prison in Pavia and hisproperty confiscated, and the Senate condemned him to death. Two yearslater he was executed. Unfortunately, the only account we have of thecauses which led to this downfall is Boëtius's own in the'Consolations. ' According to this, he first incurred Theodoric'sdispleasure by getting the province of Campania excepted from theoperation of an edict requiring the provincials to sell their corn tothe government, and otherwise championing the people against oppression;was the victim of various false accusations; and finally was held atraitor for defending Albinus, chief of the Senate, from the accusationof holding treasonable correspondence with the Emperor Justin atConstantinople. "If Albinus be criminal, I and the whole Senate areequally guilty, Boëtius reports himself to have said. There is no goodreason to doubt his truthfulness in any of these matters; but he doesnot tell the whole truth, except in a sentence he lets slip later. Theodoric's act was no outbreak of barbarian suspicion and ferocity. Boëtius and the whole Senate were really guilty of holding an utterlyuntenable political position, which no sovereign on earth would endure:they wished to make the Emperor at Constantinople a court of appeal fromTheodoric, as though the latter were still a subordinate prince. Thismay not have been technical treason, but it was practicalinsubordination; and under any other barbarian ruler or any one of fiftynative ones, Rome would have flowed with blood. Theodoric contentedhimself with executing the ringleader, and the following year put todeath Boëtius's father-in-law Symmachus in fear of his plotting revenge. Even so, the executions were a bad political mistake: they must haveenraged and thoroughly alienated the Senatorial party, --that is, thechief Italian families, --and made a fusion of the foreign and nativeelements definitively out of the question. We need not blame Boëtius orthe Senate for their very natural aspiration to live under a civilizedinstead of a barbarian jurisdiction, even though they had their owncodes and courts; but the _de facto_ governing power had itsrights also. 

In 996 Boëtius's bones were removed to the church of St. Augustine, where his tomb may still be seen. As time elapsed, his death wasconsidered a martyrdom, and he was canonized as St. Severinus. 

Boëtius was a thorough student of Greek philosophy, and formed the planof translating all of Plato and Aristotle and reconciling theirphilosophies. This work he never completed. He wrote a treatise on musicwhich was used as a text-book as late as the present century; and hetranslated the works of Ptolemy on astronomy, of Nicomachus onarithmetic, of Euclid on geometry, and of Archimedes on mechanics. Hisgreat work in this line was a translation of Aristotle, which hesupplemented by a commentary in thirty books. Among his writings are anumber of works on logic and a commentary on the 'Topica' of Cicero. Inaddition to these, five theological tracts are ascribed to him, the mostimportant being a discussion of the doctrine of the Trinity. 

The work which has done most to perpetuate his name is the 'Consolationsof Philosophy, ' in five books, --written during his imprisonment atPavia, --which has been called "the last work of Roman literature. " Itis written in alternate prose and verse, and treats of his efforts tofind solace in his misfortune. The first book opens with a vision of awoman, holding a book and sceptre, who comes to him with promises ofcomfort. She is his lifelong companion, Philosophy. He tells her thestory of his troubles. In the second book, Philosophy tells him thatFortune has the right to take away what she has bestowed, and that hestill has wife and children, the most precious of her gifts; hisambition to shine as statesman and philosopher is foolish, as nogreatness is enduring. The third book takes up the discussion of theSupreme Good, showing that it consists not in riches, power, norpleasure, but only in God. In the fourth book the problems of theexistence of evil in the world and the freedom of the will are examined;and the latter subject continues through the fifth book. During theMiddle Ages this work was highly esteemed, and numerous translationsappeared. In the ninth century Alfred the Great gave to his subjects anAnglo-Saxon version; and in the fourteenth century Chaucer made anEnglish translation, which was published by Caxton in 1480. Before thesixteenth century it was translated into German, French, Italian, Spanish, and Greek. 

It is now perhaps best known for the place it occupies in the spiritualdevelopment of Dante. He turned to it for comfort after the death of hisBeatrice in 1291. Inspired by its teachings, he gave himself up for atime to the study of philosophy, with the result of his writing the'Convito, ' a book in which he often refers to his favorite author. Inhis 'Divine Comedy' he places Boëtius in the Heaven of the Sun, togetherwith the Fathers of the Church and the schoolmen. 

OF THE GREATEST GOOD

From the 'Consolations of Philosophy'

Every mortal is troubled with many and various anxieties, and yet alldesire, through various paths, to arrive at one goal; that is, theystrive by different means to attain one happiness: in a word, God. He isthe beginning and the end of every good, and he is the highesthappiness. Then said the Mind:--This, methinks, must be the highestgood, so that men should neither need, nor moreover be solicitous, aboutany other good besides it; since he possesses that which is the roof ofall other good, inasmuch as it includes all other good, and has allother kinds within it. It would not be the highest good if any goodwere external to it, because it would then have to desire some goodwhich itself had not. Then answered Reason, and said:--It is veryevident that this is the highest happiness, for it is both the roof andthe floor of all good. What is that then but the best happiness, whichgathers the other felicities all within it, and includes and holds themwithin it; and to it there is a deficiency of none, neither has it needof any, but they come all from it and again all to it, as all waterscome from the sea and again all come to the sea? There is none in thelittle fountain, which does not seek the sea, and again from the sea itreturns into the earth, and so it flows gradually through the earth, till it again comes to the same fountain that it before flowed from, andso again to the sea. 

Now, this is an example of the true good, which all mortal men desire toobtain, though they by various ways think to arrive at it. For every manhas a natural good in himself, because every mind desires to obtain thetrue good; but it is hindered by the transitory good, because it is moreprone thereto. For some men think that it is the best happiness that aman be so rich that he have need of nothing more, and they choose theirlife accordingly. Some men think that this is the highest good, that hebe among his fellows the most honorable of his fellows; and they withall diligence seek this. Some think that the supreme good is in thehighest power. These strive either themselves to rule, or else toassociate themselves to the friendship of rulers. Some persuadethemselves that it is best that a man be illustrious and celebrated andhave good fame; they therefore seek this both in peace and in war. Manyreckon it for the greatest good and for the greatest happiness that aman be always blithe in this present life, and follow all his lusts. Some indeed who desire these riches are desirous thereof because theywould have the greater power, that they may the more securely enjoythese worldly lusts, and also the riches. Many there are who desirepower because they would gather money; or again, they are desirous tospread their name. 

On account of such and other like frail and perishing advantages, thethought of every human mind is troubled with anxiety and with care. Itthen imagines that it has obtained some exalted good when it has won theflattery of the people; and to me it seems that it has bought a veryfalse greatness. Some with much anxiety seek wives, that thereby theymay above all things have children, and also live happily. Truefriends, then, I say, are the most precious things of all these worldlyfelicities. They are not indeed to be reckoned as worldly goods, but asdivine; for deceitful fortune does not produce them, but God, whonaturally formed them as relations. For of every other thing in thisworld, man is desirous, either that he may through it obtain power, orelse some worldly lust; except of the true friend, whom he lovessometimes for affection and for fidelity, though he expect to himself noother rewards. Nature joins and cements friends together withinseparable love. But with these worldly goods, and with this presentwealth, men make oftener enemies than friends. From these, and from manysuch proofs, it may be evident to all men that all the bodily goods areinferior to the faculties of the soul. We indeed think that a man is thestronger, because he is great in his body. The fairness, moreover, andthe strength of the body, rejoices and invigorates the man, and healthmakes him cheerful. In all these bodily felicities men seek one singlehappiness, as it seems to them. For whatsoever every man chiefly lovesabove all other things, that, he persuades himself, is best for him, andthat is his highest good. When therefore he has acquired that, heimagines that he may be very happy. I do not deny that these goods andthis happiness are the highest good of this present life. For every manconsiders that thing best which he chiefly loves above other things, andtherefore he deems himself very happy if he can obtain what he then mostdesires. Is not now clearly enough shown to thee the form of the falsegoods; namely, riches, and dignity, and power, and glory, and pleasure?Concerning pleasure, Epicurus the philosopher said, when he inquiredconcerning all those other goods which we before mentioned: then saidhe, that pleasure was the highest good, because all the other goodswhich we before mentioned gratify the mind and delight it, but pleasurechiefly gratifies the body. 

But we will still speak concerning the nature of men, and concerningtheir pursuits. Though, then, their mind and their nature be nowobscured, and they are by that descent fallen to evil and inclinedthither, yet they are desirous, so far as they can and may, of thehighest good. As the drunken man knows that he should go to his houseand to his rest, and yet is not able to find the way thither, so is italso with the mind, when it is weighed down by the anxieties of thisworld. It is sometimes intoxicated and misled by them, so far that itcannot rightly find out good. Nor yet does it appear to those men thatthey aught mistake who are desirous to obtain this, namely, that theyneed labor after nothing more. But they think that they are able tocollect together all these goods, so that none may be excluded from thenumber. .. . 

Two things may dignity and power do, if they come to the unwise. It maymake him honorable and respectable to other unwise persons. But when hequits the power, or the power him, then is he to the unwise neitherhonorable nor respectable. Has power, then, the custom of exterminatingand rooting out vices from the minds of great men and planting thereinvirtues? I know, however, that earthly power never sows the virtues, butcollects and gathers vices; and when it has gathered them, then itnevertheless shows and does not conceal them. For the vices of great menmany men see; because many know them and many are with them. Thereforewe always lament concerning power, and also despise it, when we see thatit comes to the worst, and to those who are to us most unworthy. 

Every virtue has its proper excellence; and the excellence and thedignity which it has, it imparts immediately to every one who loves it. Thus, wisdom is the highest virtue, and it has in it four other virtues;of which one is prudence, another temperance, the third is fortitude, the fourth justice. Wisdom makes its lovers wise, and prudent, andmoderate, and patient, and just; and it fills him who loves it withevery good quality. This they who possess the power of this world cannotdo. They cannot impart any virtue to those who love them, through theirwealth, if they have it not in their nature. Hence it is very evidentthat the rich in worldly wealth have no proper dignity; but the wealthis, come to them from without, and they cannot from without have aughtof their own. Consider now, whether any man is the less honorablebecause many men despise him. But if any man be the less honorable, thenis every foolish man the less honorable, the more authority he has, toevery wise man. Hence it is sufficiently clear that power and wealthcannot make its possessor the more honorable. But it makes him the lesshonorable, when it comes to him, if he were not before virtuous. So isalso wealth and power the worse, if he who possesses it be not virtuous. Each of them is the more worthless, when they meet with each other. 

But I can easily instruct you by an example, so that you may clearlyenough perceive that this present life is very like a shadow, and inthat shadow no man can attain the true good. If any very great man isdriven from his country, or goes on his lord's errand, and so comes to aforeign people, where no man knows him, nor he any man, nor even knowsthe language, do you think his greatness can make him honorable in thatland? Of course it cannot. But if dignity were natural to wealth andwere its own, or again if wealth were the rich man's own, then it couldnot forsake him. Let the man who possessed them be in whatsoever land hemight, then his wealth and his dignity would be with him. But becausethe wealth and the power are not his own, they forsake him; and becausethey have no natural good in themselves, they go away like a shadow orsmoke. Yet the mistaken opinion and fancy of unwise men judge that poweris the highest good. It is entirely otherwise. When a great man iseither among foreigners, or among wise men in his own country, hiswealth counts nothing to either one when they learn that he was exaltedfor no virtue, but through the applause of the ignorant. But if hispower arose from any personal merit, he would keep that even if he lostthe power. He would not lose the good that came from nature; that wouldalways follow him and always make him honorable, whatever land hewas in. .. . 

Worthless and very false is the glory of this world! Concerning this acertain poet formerly sung. When he contemned this present life, hesaid:--O glory of this world! wherefore do erring men call thee, withfalse voice, glory, when thou art none!--For man more frequently hasgreat renown, and great glory, and great honor, through the opinion ofthe unwise, than he has through his deserts. But tell me now, what ismore unmeet than this; or why men may not rather be ashamed ofthemselves than rejoice, when they hear that any one belies them. Thoughmen even rightly praise any one of the good, he ought not the sooner torejoice immoderately at the people's words. But at this he ought torejoice, that they speak truth of him. Though he rejoice at this, thatthey spread his name, it is not the sooner so extensively spread as hepersuades himself; for they cannot spread it over all the earth, thoughthey may in some land; for though it be to one known, yet it is toanother unknown. Though he in this land be celebrated, yet is he inanother not celebrated. Therefore is the people's favor to be held byevery man for nothing; since it comes not to every man according to hisdeserts, nor indeed remains always to any one. Consider first concerningnoble birth. If any one boast of it, how vain and how useless is theboast; for every one knows that all men come from one father and fromone mother. Or again, concerning the people's favor, and concerningtheir applause, I know not why we rejoice at it. Though they whom thevulgar applaud be illustrious, yet are they more illustrious and morerightly to be applauded who are dignified by virtues. For no man isreally the greater or the more praiseworthy for the excellence ofanother, or for his virtues, if he himself has it not. Are you ever thefairer for another man's beauty? A man is little the better though hehave a good father, if he himself is incapable of anything. Therefore Iadvise that you rejoice in other men's good and their nobility, but sofar only that you ascribe it not to yourself as your own; because everyman's good, and his nobility, is more in the mind than in the flesh. This only, indeed, I know of good in nobility: that it shames many a manif he is worse than his ancestors were, and he therefore endeavors withall his power to imitate the manners of some one of the best, andhis virtues. 

NICHOLAS BOILEAU-DESPRÉAUX

(1636-1711)

The name of Louis XIV. Suggests ultra-lavishness in life and taste; atime when French society, surfeited with pleasure, demanded a stimulusof continual novelty in current literature. The natural result was_preciosité_, hyperbole, falsetto sentiment, which ranked the unusualabove the natural, clever conceit above careful workmanship. It wastainted with artificiality, and now seems mawkish and superficial. 

But Boileau changed all that. Perhaps no author unendowed with geniushas ever so influenced literature, [Illustration: BOILEAU]

Aside from his work, the man and his life seem essentially commonplace. Nicholas Boileau, who, adding another name to his own, --quite a fashionthen, --was usually called Despréaux by his contemporaries, was born inParis, in the palace court, nearly opposite the royal Sainte Chapelle. He rarely went farther from the city than to the little house atAuteuil, where he spent twenty summers. So he knew his Paris veryintimately, and was limited too by knowing only her life and thought. Tohis repressed youth, guarded by a strict father and a crossservant, --for his mother died in his babyhood, --is sometimes attributedhis lack of emotional quality. But his was not an intense nature, andprobably no training could have made the didactic poet lyric orpassionate. Sincerity and common-sense were his predominating qualities, and he had the rare faculty of obedience to his own instincts. He firststudied for the priesthood, but anything like mysticism was toorepellent to his matter-of-fact mind. Then, as many of his family hadbeen lawyers, he naturally turned toward that career. But the practiceas taught him seemed senseless and arbitrary. Its rational basis upon alogical theory only dawned upon him later. In spite of his literarytastes, there was something extremely mundane about the pleasure-lovingbachelor, so fond of good eating and of jovial café revels with Racine, Furetière, Ninon de L'Enclos, and other witty Bohemians. With them hewas much happier than in the more fastidious society of the HôtelRambouillet, from which he retired after reading aloud a satiric poemnot favorably received. Neither was he happy at court, in spite of thefavor of Louis XIV. , who, entertained by his rough honesty, gave him apension of two thousand francs. Later, when appointed with Racine towrite a history of the reign, --that unfortunate history which wasaccidentally burned, --we find him an unwilling follower on royalexpeditions, his ungainly horsemanship the mock of high-bred courtiers. In fact, he was bourgeois through and through, and not at ease with thearistocrats. He was thrifty bourgeois too; so often called miserly aswell as malicious that it is pleasant to remember certain illustrationsof his nobler side. The man who offered to resign his own pension ifthat of old disfavored Corneille might be continued, and when the latterwas forced to sell his library, paid him its full value and then lefthim in lifelong possession, --was generous if he did love to save sous. His was a fine independence, which felt his art too lofty for purchase, and would accept nothing from the booksellers. 

He had always wished to be a poet. Feeble of body, asthmatic, and inlater life deaf and almost deprived of voice, he found in writing allthe charm of a brilliant and ingenious game. Then too he had somethingdefinite to say, as all his work consistently testifies. Neither richnor poor, without family cares, he could give himself unreservedly toauthorship. In 1660 he published a satire upon the vices of Paris, whichinaugurated his great success. Seven satires appeared in 1666, and heafterward added five others. Their malicious wit, their novel form, theharmonious swing of the couplet rhyme, forced immediate attention. Theyheld up contemporary literary weaknesses to scorn, and indulged in themost merciless personalities, sparing not even his own brother, the poetGilles Boileau. All retorts upon himself the author bore with complacentsuperiority which forced his adversaries to feel worsted. 

From 1666 to 1774 most of the 'Epistles' were written; and also his bestknown work, 'L'Art poétique' (The Art of Poetry). In the satires he hadbeen destructive, but he was too practical to be negative. The 'Art ofPoetry, ' modeled after Horace's work of that name, offers the theory ofpoetic composition. It is a work in four cantos of couplets: the firstsetting forth general rules of metrical composition; the second adissertation upon different forms--ode, sonnet, pastoral, and others;the third treating tragedy, comedy, and epic poetry; and the lastconsisting of general reflections and advice to authors. Briefly stated, Boileau's desire was to establish literature upon a foundation ofunchanging laws. Why did some works speedily die while others endurethrough the centuries? Because works akin to the eternal classics didnot, like much contemporary writing, reflect the trivial andevanescent. They contained what is perennially true of humanity; andstated this in a simple, interesting, and reasonable way. Above all, Boileau demands truth in subject, and the conscientious workmanshipwhich finds the most suitable form of expression. To see a word at theend of a couplet only because it rhymes with the word above it, he findsinexcusable. Without a method resulting in unity, clearness, andproportion, writing is not literature. Later, in his 'Reflections uponLonginus, ' Boileau repeated and emphasized these views. 

His mock-heroic poem 'Le Lutrin' (The Reading-Desk), ridiculing clericalpettinesses, was strong in realistic descriptions, and was perhaps hismost popular work. 

A modern poet's definition of poetry as "the heat and height of saneemotion" would have been unintelligible to Boileau. Deficient inimagination, he always saw life on its material side, and was irritatedby any display of emotion not reducible to logic. So his poetry issensible, clear argument in exquisitely careful metre. His greatstrength lay in a taste which recognized harmony and fitnessinstinctively. To us his quality is best translated by the dainty, perfect couplets of his imitator Pope. His talent, essentially French inits love of effect and classification, has strewn the language withclever saws, and his works have been studied as authoritative models bygeneration after generation of students. 

But after all, it is less as a poet than as a critic, "the lawgiver ofthe French Parnassus, " that the world has always known Boileau, Beforehim the art of criticism had hardly existed. Authors had receivedindiscriminate praise or blame, usually founded upon interested motivesor personal bias; but there had been little comparison with anacknowledged standard. This "slashing reviewer in verse, " as Saintsburycalls him, was a severe pedagogue, but his public did learn theirlesson. He made mistakes, was neither broad-minded nor profound inattainments, was occasionally unjust; but he showed readers why theyshould praise or blame; taught them appreciation of his greater friendsMolière and Racine; and pointed out to authors what their purpose shouldbe. With a greater creative power seeking self-expression, he might haveaccomplished less in literary reform. 

 ADVICE TO AUTHORS

 From 'The Art of Poetry'

 There is a kind of writer pleased with sound, Whose fustian head with clouds is compassed round-- No reason can disperse them with its light; Learn then to think, ere you pretend to write As your idea's clear, or else obscure, The expression follows, perfect or impure; What we conceive with ease we can express; Words to the notions flow with readiness. 

 Observe the language well in all you write, And swerve not from it in your loftiest flight. The smoothest verse and the exactest sense Displease if uncouth language give offense; A barbarous phrase no reader can approve; Nor bombast, noise, or affectation love. In short, without pure language, what you write Can never yield us profit or delight. 

 Take time for thinking; never work in haste; And value not yourself for writing fast; A rapid poem, with such fury writ, Shows want of judgment, not abounding wit. More pleased we are to see a river lead His gentle streams along a flowery mead, Than from high banks to hear loud torrents roar, With foamy waters, on a muddy shore. Gently make haste, of labor not afraid; A hundred times consider what you've said; Polish, repolish, every color lay, And sometimes add, but oftener take away. 

 'Tis not enough, when swarming faults are writ, That here and there are scattered sparks of wit; Each object must be fixed in the true place, And differing parts have corresponding grace; Till, by a curious art disposed, we find One perfect whole of all the pieces joined. Keep to your subject close in all you say, Nor for a sounding sentence ever stray. 

 The public censure for your writings fear, And to yourself be critic most' severe; Fantastic wits their darling follies love, But find you faithful friends that will reprove, That on your works may look with careful eyes, And of your faults be zealous enemies. Lay by an author's pride and vanity, And from a friend a flatterer descry, Who seems to like, but means not what he says; Embrace true counsel, but suspect false praise. 

 A sycophant will everything admire; Each verse, each sentence, sets his soul on fire; All is divine! there's not a word amiss! He shakes with joy and weeps with tenderness; He overpowers you with his mighty praise. 

 Truth never moves in those impetuous ways. A faithful friend is careful of your fame, And freely will your heedless errors blame; He cannot pardon a neglected line, But verse to rule and order will confine, Reprove of words the too-affected sound, -- "Here the sense flags, and your expression's bound, Your fancy tires, and your discourse grows vain; Your term's improper;--make it just and plain. " Thus 'tis a faithful friend will freedom use. But authors partial to their darling muse Think to protect it they have just pretense, And at your friendly counsel take offense. "Said you of this, that the expression's flat? Your servant, sir, you must excuse me that, " He answers you. "This word has here no grace, Pray leave it out. "--"That, sir, 's the properest place. "

 "This term I like not. "--"'Tis approved by all. " Thus, resolute not from one fault to fall, If there's a symbol as to which you doubt, 'Tis a sure reason not to blot it out. Yet still he says you may his faults confute, And over him your power is absolute. But of his feigned humility take heed: 'Tis a bait laid to make you hear him read; And when he leaves you, happy in his muse, Restless he runs some other to abuse. 

 And often finds; for in our scribbling times No fool can lack a fool to praise his rhymes; The flattest work has here within the court Met with some zealous ass for its support; And in all times a forward scribbling fop Has found some greater fool to cry him up. 

THE PASTORAL, THE ELEGY, THE ODE, AND THE EPIGRAMFrom 'The Art of Poetry'

 As A fair nymph, when rising from her bed, With sparkling diamonds dresses not her head, But without gold, or pearl, or costly scents, Gathers from neighboring fields her ornaments: Such, lovely in its dress, but plain withal, Ought to appear a perfect Pastoral. Its humble method nothing has of fierce, But hates the rattling of a lofty verse; There native beauty pleases and excites, And never with harsh sounds the ear affrights. 

 But in this style a poet, often spent In rage, throws by his rural instrument, And vainly, when disordered thoughts abound, Amidst the eclogue makes the trumpet sound; Pan flies alarmed into the neighboring woods, And frighted nymphs dive down into the floods. 

 Opposed to this, another, low in style, Makes shepherds speak a language low and vile; His writings, flat and heavy, without sound, Kissing the earth and creeping on the ground; You'd swear that Randal, in his rustic strains, Again was quavering to the country swains, And changing, without care of sound or dress, Strephon and Phyllis into Tom and Bess. 

 'Twixt these extremes 'tis hard to keep the right: For guides take Virgil and read Theocrite; Be their just writings, by the gods inspired, Your constant pattern, practiced and admired. By them alone you'll easy comprehend How poets without shame may condescend To sing of gardens, fields, of flowers and fruit, To stir up shepherds and to tune the flute;

 Of love's rewards to tell the happy hour, Daphne a tree, Narcissus make a flower, And by what means the eclogue yet has power To make the woods worthy a conqueror; This of their writings is the grace and flight; Their risings lofty, yet not out of sight. 

 The Elegy, that loves a mournful style, With unbound hair weeps at a funeral pile; It paints the lover's torments and delights, A mistress flatters, threatens, and invites; But well these raptures if you'll make us see, You must know love as well as poetry. 

 I hate those lukewarm authors, whose forced fire In a cold style describes a hot desire; That sigh by rule, and raging in cold blood, Their sluggish muse whip to an amorous mood. Their transports feigned appear but flat and vain; They always sigh, and always hug their chain, Adore their prisons and their sufferings bless, Make sense and reason quarrel as they please. 'Twas not of old in this affected tone That smooth Tibullus made his amorous moan; Nor Ovid, when, instructed from above, By nature's rule he taught the art of love. The heart in elegies forms the discourse. 

 The Ode is bolder and has greater force; Mounting to heaven in her ambitious flight, Amongst the gods and heroes takes delight; Of Pisa's wrestlers tells the sinewy force, And sings the lusty conqueror's glorious course; To Simois's streams does fierce Achilles bring, And makes the Ganges bow to Britain's king. Sometimes she flies like an industrious bee, And robs the flowers by nature's chemistry; Describes the shepherd's dances, feasts, and bliss, And boasts from Phyllis to surprise a kiss, When gently she resists with feigned remorse, That what she grants may seem to be by force. Her generous style at random oft will part, And by a brave disorder shows her art. 

 Unlike those fearful poets whose cold rime In all their raptures keeps exactest time; That sing the illustrious hero's mighty praise-- Lean writers!--by the terms of weeks and days, And dare not from least circumstances part, But take all towns by strictest rules of art. Apollo drives those fops from his abode; And some have said that once the humorous god, Resolving all such scribblers to confound, For the short Sonnet ordered this strict bound, Set rules for the just measure and the time, The easy-running and alternate rime; But above all, those licenses denied Which in these writings the lame sense supplied, Forbade a useless line should find a place, Or a repeated word appear with grace. A faultless sonnet, finished thus, would be Worth tedious volumes of loose poetry. A hundred scribbling authors, without ground, Believe they have this only phoenix found, When yet the exactest scarce have two or three, Among whole tomes, from faults and censure free; The rest, but little read, regarded less, Are shoveled to the pastry from the press. Closing the sense within the measured time, 'Tis hard to fit the reason to the rime. 

 The Epigram, with little art composed, Is one good sentence in a distich closed. These points, that by Italians first were prized, Our ancient authors knew not, or despised; The vulgar, dazzled with their glaring light, To their false pleasures quickly they invite; But public favor so increased their pride, They overwhelmed Parnassus with their tide. 

 The Madrigal at first was overcome, And the proud Sonnet fell by the same doom; With these grave Tragedy adorned her flights, And mournful Elegy her funeral rites, A hero never failed them on the stage: Without his point a lover durst not rage; The amorous shepherds took more care to prove True to his point, than faithful to their love. Each word, like Janus, had a double face, And prose, as well as verse, allowed it place; The lawyer with conceits adorned his speech, The parson without quibbling could not preach. At last affronted reason looked about, And from all serious matters shut them out; Declared that none should use them without shame, Except a scattering, in the epigram-- Provided that by art, and in due time, They turned upon the thought, and not the rime. Thus in all parts disorders did abate; Yet quibblers in the court had leave to prate, Insipid jesters and unpleasant fools, A corporation of dull, punning drolls. 'Tis not but that sometimes a dextrous muse May with advantage a turned sense abuse, And on a word may trifle with address; But above all, avoid the fond excess, And think not, when your verse and sense are lame, With a dull point to tag your epigram. 

 TO MOLIÈRE

 From 'The Satires'

 Unequaled genius, whose warm fancy knows No rhyming labor, no poetic throes; To whom Apollo has unlocked his store; Whose coin is struck from pure Parnassian ore; Thou, dextrous master, teach thy skill to me, And tell me, Molière, how to1 rhyme like thee!

 You never falter when the close comes round, Or leave the substance to preserve the sound; You never wander after words that fly, For all the words you need before you lie. But I, who--smarting for my sins of late-- With itch of rhyme am visited by fate, Expend on air my unavailing force, And, hunting sounds, am sweated like a horse. In vain I often muse from dawn till night: When I mean black, my stubborn verse says white; If I should paint a coxcomb's flippant mien, I scarcely can forbear to name the Dean; If asked to tell the strains that purest flow, My heart says Virgil, but my pen Quinault; In short, whatever I attempt to say, Mischance conducts me quite the other way. 

 At times, fatigued and fretted with the pain, When every effort for relief is vain, The fruitless chase I peevishly give o'er, And swear a thousand times to write no more: But, after thousand vows, perhaps by chance, Before my careless eyes the couplets dance. Then with new force my flame bursts out again, Pleased I resume the paper and the pen; And, all my anger and my oaths forgot, I calmly muse and resolutely blot. 

 Yet, if my eager hand, in haste to rhyme, Should tack an empty couplet at a time, Great names who do the same I might adduce; Nay, some who keep such hirelings for their use. Need blooming Phyllis be described in prose By any lover who has seen a _rose?_ Who can forget heaven's masterpiece, her eye, Where, within call, the Loves and Graces lie? Who can forget her smile, devoid of art, Her heavenly sweetness and her frozen heart? How easy thus forever to compound, And ring new changes on recurring sound; How easy, with a reasonable store Of useful epithets repeated o'er, Verb, substantive, and pronoun, to transpose, And into tinkling metre hitch dull prose. But I--who tremble o'er each word I use, And all that do not aid the sense refuse, Who cannot bear those phrases out of place Which rhymers stuff into a vacant space--Ponder my scrupulous verses o'er and o'er, And when I write five words, oft blot out four. 

 Plague on the fool who taught us to confine The swelling thought within a measured line; Who first in narrow thraldom fancy pent, And chained in rhyme each pinioned sentiment. Without this toil, contentment's soothing balm Might lull my languid soul in listless calm: Like the smooth prebend how might I recline, And loiter life in mirth and song and wine! Roused by no labor, with no care opprest, Pass all my nights in sleep, my days in rest. My passions and desires obey the rein; No mad ambition fires my temperate vein; The schemes of busy greatness I decline, Nor kneel in palaces at Fortune's shrine. In short, my life had been supremely blest If envious rhyme had not disturbed my rest: But since this freakish fiend began to roll His idle vapors o'er my troubled soul, Since first I longed in polished verse to please, And wrote with labor to be read with ease, Nailed to my chair, day after day I pore On what I write and what I wrote before; Retouch each line, each epithet review, Or burn the paper and begin anew. While thus my labors lengthen into years, I envy all the race of sonneteers. 

 Hail, happy Scudére! whose prolific brain Brings forth a monthly volume without pain; What though thy works, offending every rule, Proclaim their author an insipid fool; Still have they found, whate'er the critic says, Traders to buy and emptier fools to praise. 

 And, truly, if in rhymes the couplets close, What should it matter that the rest is prose? Who stickles now for antiquated saws, Or cramps his verses with pedantic laws? The fool can welcome every word he meets, With placid joy contemplating his feats; And while each stanza swells his wondering breast Admires them all, yet thinks the last the best. But towering Genius, hopeless to attain That unknown summit which he pants to gain, Displeased himself, enchanting all beside, Scorns each past effort that his strength supplied, And filling every reader with delight, Repents the hour when he began to write. 

 To you, who know how justly I complain, To you I turn for medicine to my pain! Grant me your talent, and impart your store, Or teach me, Molière, how to rhyme no more. 

GASTON BOISSIER

(1823-)

Marie Louis Gaston Boissier is known in Paris as one of the mostprominent professors of the Collège de France, and to the outside worldas the author of a number of scholarly books of essays, most of them onRoman subjects. Born at Nîmes in 1823, his life has been devotedentirely to literature. Soon after his graduation from the École Normalehe was made professor of rhetoric at Angoulême, and later held the sameposition at Nîmes. He has received the degree of Doctor, and occupied anumber of high positions, culminating in that of professor of Latinpoetry in the Collège de France, which he still holds. His works have ahigh value in the world of scholars, and have won him the red ribbon ofthe Legion of Honor, as well as a seat in the Académie Française, whichhe entered in 1876. His best known works, 'Cicero et ses Amis' (Ciceroand His Friends), was crowned by the Académie; and 'ProménadesArchéologiques, Rome et Naples, ' written in 1880, has been translatedinto English, as has also his life of Madame de Sévigné, which containsmany charming bits of comment on the seventeenth century. As abiographer, and also as a historian, he is quiet and accurate--neverdry. He has great charm of style, and writes with elegance, correctness, clearness, and originality. He contributes largely, also, to the Revuedes Deux Mondes and to scientific publications. 

[Illustration: GASTON BOISSIER]

MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ AS A LETTER-WRITER

From the 'Life of Madame de Sévigné'

The passages just cited appear so simple, and utter so naturally what weall experience, that they are read the first time without surprise. There seems nothing remarkable about them except this very simplicityand naturalness. Now, these are not the qualities which attractattention. It is difficult to appreciate them in works where they occur, and it is only by reading works where they are lacking that we realizeall their importance. But here, as soon as we reflect, we are astonishedto perceive that this great emotion is expressed in language strong, confident, and correct, with no hesitation and no bungling. The livelysequence of these complaints implies that they were poured forth all atonce, in a single outburst; and yet the perfection of the style seemsimpossible of attainment without some study and some retouching. It issometimes said that a strong passion at once creates the language toexpress it. I greatly doubt this. On the contrary, it seems to me thatwhen the soul is violently agitated, the words by which we try toexpress our feelings always appear dull and cold; we are tempted to makeuse of exaggerated and far-fetched expressions in order to rise to thelevel of our sorrow or joy. Hence come sometimes excessive terms, discordant metaphors. We might be inclined to regard these as thoughtout at leisure and in cold blood, while on the contrary they are theproduct of the first impulse of the effort we instinctively make to findan expression corresponding to the intensity of our passion. There isnothing of this kind in Madame de Sévigné's letters; and however violenther grief may be, it always speaks in accurate and fitting language. This is a valuable quality, and one extremely rare. That we may not besurprised at finding it so highly developed in her, we need onlyremember what has just been said of the way in which she wasunconsciously prepared to become a great writer. 

Another characteristic of Madame de Sévigné's letters, not lessremarkable, is that generally her most loving messages are cleverlyexpressed. I do not refer merely to certain isolated phrases that havesometimes appeared rather affected. "The north wind bound for Grignanmakes me ache for your chest. " "My dear, how the burden within youweighs me down!" "I dare not read your letters for fear of having readthem. " These are only occasional flashes; but almost always, when on thepoint of giving way to all her emotion, she gives her phrase aningenious turn, she makes witty observations, is bright, pleasing, elegant. All this seems to some readers to proceed from a mind quiteself-possessed, and not so far affected by passion as to be inattentiveto elegant diction. 

Just now I placed naturalness among Madame de Sévigné's leadingqualities. There are those who are not of this opinion, and contend thatnaturalness is just the merit she most lacks; but we must define ourmeaning. Naturalness for each one is what is conformable to his nature;and as each one of us has a nature of his own very different from thatof his neighbors, naturalness cannot be exactly the same in everyinstance. Moreover, education and habit give us each a second naturewhich often has more control over us than the original one. In thesociety in which Madame de Sévigné lived, people made a point ofspeaking wittily. The first few times one appeared in this society, itrequired a little study and effort to assume the same tone as the rest. One had to be on the watch for those pleasant repartees that, among thefrequenters of the Rambouillet and Richelieu houses, gave the new-comera good reputation; but after a while these happy sayings came unsought. To persons trained in such a school, what might at first sight appearsubtle and refined is ordinary and natural. Whether they speak or write, their ideas take a certain form which is not the usual one; and bright, witty, and dainty phrases, which would require labor from others, occurto them spontaneously. 

To be sure, I do not mean that Madame de Sévigné wrote well withoutknowing it. This is a thing of which a witty woman always has aninkling; and besides, her friends did not permit her to be ignorant ofit. "Your letters are delightful, " they told her, "and you are like yourletters. " It was all the easier to believe this, because she paid toherself in a whisper such compliments as others addressed to her aloud. One day, when she had recently written to her friend Dr. Bourdelot, shesaid to her daughter, "Brava! what a good answer I sent him! That is afoolish thing to say, but I had a good, wide-awake pen that day. " It isvery delightful to feel that one has wit, and we can understand howMadame de Sévigné might sometimes have yielded to this feeling with somesatisfaction. In her most private correspondence, that in which sheleast thought of the public, we might note certain passages in which shetakes pleasure in elaborating and decorating her thought, and in addingto it new details more and more dainty and ingenious. This she doeswithout effort, to satisfy her own taste and to give herself thepleasure of expressing her thought agreeably. It has been remarked thatgood talkers are not sensitive to the praises of others only: they alsowish to please themselves, independently of the public around them; andlike to hear themselves talk. It might be said in the same sense thatMadame de Sévigné sometimes likes to see herself write. This is one ofthose pretty artifices which in women do not exclude sincerity, andwhich may be united with naturalness. Copyrighted by A. C. McClurg andCompany, Chicago. 

FRENCH SOCIETY IN THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY

From the (Life of Madame de Sévigné)

Studying the seventeenth century in the histories is one thing, andseeking to become acquainted with it by reading contemporary letters isanother and a far different thing. The two procedures give rise toconflicting impressions. Historians, taking a bird's-eye view of theirsubject, portray its most general characteristics; they bring out onlythe prominent features, and sacrificing all the rest, draw pictureswhose precision and simplicity captivate our minds. We finally get intothe habit of seeing an epoch as they have painted it, and cannot imaginethere was anything in it besides the qualities they specify. But when weread letters relating, without alteration or selection, events as theytook place, the opinions of men and things we have drawn from thehistorians are greatly modified. We then perceive that good and evil areat all times mingled, and even that the proportions of the mixture varyless than one would think. Cousin says somewhere, "In a great age all isgreat. " It is just the contrary that is true: there is no age so greatthat there is not much littleness about it; and if we undertake to studyhistory we should expect this, so as not to reckon without our host. Noepoch has been more celebrated, more admired, than the reign of LouisXIV. ; there is danger lest the correspondence of Madame de Sévigné maymuch abate the warmth of our admiration. She is constantly tellingstrange stories that compel us to pause and reflect. When, in a societyrepresented as so noble, so delicate, so regular, we meet with so manyshameful disorders, so many ill-assorted households, so many personswhose fortunes are sustained only by dishonest expedients, with greatlords buying and not paying, promising and not keeping their word, borrowing and never returning, kneeling before ministers and ministers'mistresses, cheating at play like M. De Cessac, living like Caderousseat the expense of a great lady, surrendering like Soubise a wife to theking, or like Villarceaux a niece, or insisting with Bussy that "thechariest of their honor should be delighted when such a good fortunebefalls their family, "--it seems to me we have a right to conclude thatpeople then were hardly our superiors; that perhaps in some points weare better than they were; and that in any case it is not worth while toset them up as models to the disparagement of our own times. 

In one respect, however, they were unlike us. In those days there werecertain subjects on which people were generally agreed, and these wereprecisely the subjects that now give rise to the greatestdivisions, --religion and politics. Not that all were pious then, --farfrom it, --but almost all were believers, and almost none contested theprinciple of royal authority. To-day, religious belief and belief inmonarchy are well-nigh extinct; and there are hardly any left of thosecommonly received opinions, escaped by none, impregnating all, breathedin like the air, and always found at the bottom of the heart onoccasions of grave need, despite all the inward changes that experiencehas wrought. Is this a good or an evil? Should we rejoice at it orregret it? Each one will answer according to his character andinclinations. Daring minds that feel strong enough to form their ownconvictions are glad to be delivered from prejudices interfering withindependence of opinion, glad to have free scope. But the rest, who formthe vast majority, who are without such high aims, and whose life ismoreover taken up with other cares, are troubled, uncertain, ill atease, when they have to settle these great problems independently. Theyregret that they can no longer find the solutions all worked out, andsadly repeat with Jocelyn:--

 "Ah, why was I born in days stormy and dread, When the pilgrim of life hath no rest for his head; When the way disappears; when the spent human mind, Groping, doubting, still strives some new pathway to find, Unable to trust in the hopes of the Old Or to strike out a New from its perishing mold!"

This sort of anguish of spirit was unknown in the seventeenth century, as Madame de Sévigné's letters clearly show. 

HOW HORACE LIVED AT HIS COUNTRY HOUSE

From 'The Country of Horace and Virgil'

It is very annoying that Horace, who has described with so many detailsthe employment of his days while he remained in Rome, should not havethought it necessary to tell us as clearly how he spent his life in thecountry. The only thing we know with certainty is that he was very happythere: he for the first time tasted the pleasure of being a proprietor. "I take my meals, " said he, "before household gods that are mine own"("ante larem proprium vescor"). To have a hearth and domestic gods, tofix his life in a dwelling of which he was the master, was the greatesthappiness that could befall a Roman. To enjoy it, Horace had waiteduntil he was more than thirty years of age. We have seen that hisdomain, when he took possession of it, was very much neglected, and thatthe house was falling into ruins. He first had to build and plant. Donot let us pity him; these cares have their charms. One loves one'shouse when one has built or repaired it, and the very trouble our landcosts us attaches us to it. He came to it as often as he could, andalways with pleasure. Everything served him as a pretext to leave Rome. It was too hot there, or too cold; the Saturnalia were approaching--anunbearable time of the year, when all the town was out of doors; it wasthe moment to finish a work which Mæcenas had pressingly required. Well, how could anything good be done at Rome, where the noises of the street, the bustle of intercourse, the troublesome people one has to visit orreceive, the bad verses one has to listen to, take up the best part ofyour time? So he put Plato with Menander into his portmanteau, took withhim the work he had begun, promising to do wonders, and started forTibur. But when he was at home, his good resolutions did not hold out. He had something to do quite different from shutting himself up in hisstudy. He had to chat with his farmer, and superintend his laborers. Hewent to see them at work, and sometimes lent a hand himself. He dug thespade into the field, took out the stones, etc. , to the great amusementof the neighbors, who marveled both at his ardor and his clumsiness:--

 "Rident vicini glebas et saxa moventem. "

In the evening he received at his table a few of the neighboringproprietors. They were honest folk, who did not speak ill of theirneighbors, and who, unlike the fops of Rome, had not for sole topic ofconversation the races or the theatre. They handled most seriousquestions, and their rustic wisdom found ready expression in proverbsand apologues. What pleased Horace above all at these country dinnerswas that etiquette was laughed at, that everything was simple andfrugal, that one did not feel constrained to obey those silly laws whichVarro had drawn up, and which had become the code of good company. Nobody thought of electing a king of the feast, to fix for the gueststhe number of cups that must be drained. Every one ate according to hishunger and drank according to his thirst. "They were, " said Horace, "divine repasts" ("O noctes cenæque Deum"). 

Yet he did not always stay at home, however great the pleasure he feltin being there. This steady-going, regular man thought it right fromtime to time to put a little irregularity into one's life. Does not aGrecian sage--Aristotle, I think--recommend that one excess per month beindulged in, in the interest of health? It serves at least to break theround of habit. Such also was the opinion of Horace. Although the mostmoderate of men, he found it pleasant to commit an occasional wildness("dulce est desipere in loco"). With age these outbursts had become lessfrequent, yet he still loved to break the sage uniformity of hisexistence by some pleasure jaunt. Then he returned to Præneste, to Baiæ, or to Tarentum, which he had loved so much in his youth. Once he wasunfaithful to these old affections, and chose for the goal of hisjourney spots that were new to him. The occasion of the change was this:Antonius Musa, a Greek physician, had just cured Augustus of a dangerousillness, which it had been thought must prove fatal, by means of coldwater. Hydrotherapeutics at once became fashionable. People deserted thethermal springs, formerly so much sought after, to go off to Clusium, toGabii, into the mountains, where springs of icy water were found. Horacedid like the rest. In the winter of the year 730, instead of going asusual towards Baiæ, he turned his little steed towards Salerno andVelia. This was the affair of a season. Next year Marullus, theEmperor's son-in-law and heir, falling very ill, Antonius Musa washastily sent for, and applied his usual remedy. But the remedy nolonger healed, and hydrotherapeutics, which had saved Augustus, did notprevent Marullus from dying. They were at once forsaken, and the sickagain began following the road to Baiæ. 

When Horace started on these extraordinary journeys, he took a change ofdiet. "At home, " said he, "I can put up with anything; my Sabine tablewine seems to me delicious; and I regale myself with vegetables from mygarden seasoned with a slice of bacon. But when I have once left myhouse, I become more particular, and beans, beloved though they be ofPythagoras, no longer suffice me. " So before starting in the directionof Salerno, where he did not often go, he takes the precaution toquestion one of his friends as to the resources of the country; whetherone can get fish, hares, and venison there, that he may come back homeagain as fat as a Phæacian. Above all, he is anxious to know what isdrunk in those parts. He wants a generous wine to make him eloquent, and"which will give him strength, and rejuvenate him in the eyes of hisyoung Lucanian sweetheart. " We see he pushes precaution a considerablelength. He was not rich enough to possess a house of his own at Baiæ, Præneste, or Salerno, the spots frequented by all the Roman fashionableworld, but he had his wonted lodgings ("deversoria nota"), where he usedto put up. When Seneca was at Baiæ, he lived above a public bath, and hehas furnished us a very amusing account of the sounds of all kinds thattroubled his rest. Horace, who liked his ease and wished to be quiet, could not make a very long stay in those noisy places. His whimgratified, he returned as soon as possible to his peaceful house amidthe fields, and I can well imagine that those few fatiguing weeks madeit seem more pleasant and more sweet to him. 

One cannot read his works carefully without noticing that his affectionfor his country estate goes on constantly increasing. At first, when hehad passed a few weeks there, the memory of Rome used to re-awaken inhis thoughts. Those large towns, which we hate when we are forced tolive in them, have only to be left in order to be regretted! WhenHorace's slave, taking an unfair advantage of the liberty of theSaturnalia, tells his master so many unpleasant things, he reproacheshim with never being pleased where he is:--

 "Romæ rus optas, absentem villicus urbem Tollis ad astra levis?"

He was himself very much vexed at his inconstancy, and accused himselfof "only loving Rome when he was at Tibur, and only thinking of Tiburfrom the moment he found himself in Rome. " However, he cured himself atlast of this levity, which annoyed him so much. To this he bears witnessin his own favor in the letter addressed to his farmer, where he strivesto convince him that one may be happy without having a public-house nextdoor. "As for me, " he tells him, "thou knowest that I amself-consistent, and that each time hated business recalls me to Rome Ileave this spot with sadness. " He doubtless arranged matters so as tolive more and more at his country house. He looked forward to a timewhen it would be possible for him scarcely ever to leave it, and countedupon it to enable him to bear more lightly the weight of hisclosing years. 

They are heavy, whatever one may do, and age never comes withoutbringing many griefs. Firstly, the long-lived must needs leave manyfriends upon the way. Horace lost some to whom he was very tenderlyattached. He had the misfortune to survive Virgil and Tibullus tenyears. What regrets he must have felt on the death of the great poet, ofwhom he said he "knew no soul more bright, and had no better friend"!The great success of Virgil's posthumous work could only have halfconsoled him for his loss, for he regretted in him the man as well asthe poet. He had also great cause to grieve for Mæcenas, whom he sodearly loved. This favorite of the Emperor, this king of fashion, whosefortune all men envied, finished by being very unhappy. It is all verywell to take every kind of precaution in order to insure one'shappiness--to fly from business, to seek pleasure, to amass wealth, togather clever men about one, to surround one's self with all the charmsof existence; however one may try to shut the door on them, troubles andsorrows find a way in. The saddest of it all is that Mæcenas was firstunhappy through his own fault. Somewhat late in life this prudent, wiseman had been foolish enough to marry a coquette, and to fall deeply inlove with her. He had rivals, and among them the Emperor himself, ofwhom he dared not be jealous. He who had laughed so much at othersafforded the Romans a comedy at his own expense. His time was passed inleaving Terentia and taking her back again. "He has been married morethan a hundred times, " said Seneca, "although he has had but one wife. "To these domestic troubles illness was added. His health had never beengood, and age and sorrows made it worse. Pliny tells us that he passedthree whole years without being able to sleep. Enduring pain badly, hegrieved his friends beyond measure by his groans. Horace, with whom hecontinually conversed about his approaching end, answered him inbeautiful verses:--

 "Thou, Mæcenas, die first! Thou, stay of my fortune, adornment of my life! The gods will not allow it, and I will not consent. Ah! if Fate, hastening its blows, should tear from me part of myself in thee, what would betide the other? What should I henceforth do, hateful unto myself, and but half of myself surviving?"

In the midst of these sorrows, Horace himself felt that he was growingold. The hour when one finds one's self face to face with age is aserious one. Cicero, when approaching it, tried to give himself couragein advance, and being accustomed to console himself for everything bywriting, he composed his 'De Senectute, ' a charming book in which hetries to deck the closing years of life with certain beauties. He hadnot to make use of the consolations which he prepared for himself, so wedo not know whether he would have found them sufficient when the momentcame. That spirit, so young, so full of life, would I fear have resigneditself with difficulty to the inevitable decadences of age. Nor didHorace love old age, and in his 'Ars Poetica' he has drawn a somewhatgloomy picture of it. He had all the more reason to detest it because itcame to him rather early. In one of those passages where he so willinglygives us the description of his person, he tells us that his hairwhitened quickly. As a climax of misfortune he had grown very fat, andbeing short, his corpulence was very unbecoming to him. Augustus, in aletter, compares him to one of those measures of liquids which arebroader than they are high. If, in spite of these too evident signswhich warned him of his age, he had tried to deceive himself, there wasno lack of persons to disabuse him. There was the porter of Neæra, whono longer allowed his slave to enter; an affront which Horace wasobliged to put up with without complaining. "My hair whitening, " saidhe, "warns me not to quarrel. I should not have been so patient in thetime of my boiling youth, when Plancus was consul. " Then it was Neæraherself who declined to come when he summoned her, and again resigninghimself with a good enough grace, the poor poet found that after all shewas right, and that it was natural love should prefer youth toripened age. 

 "Ahi, Quo blandæ juvenum te revocant preces. "

Fortunately he was not of a melancholy disposition, like his friendsTibullus and Virgil. He even had opinions on the subject of melancholywhich differ widely from ours. Whereas, since Lamartine, we have assumedthe habit of regarding sadness as one of the essential elements ofpoetry, he thought on the contrary that poetry has the privilege ofpreventing us from being sad. "A man protected by the Muses, " said he, "flings cares and sorrows to the winds to bear away. " His philosophy hadtaught him not to revolt against inevitable ills. However painful theybe, one makes them lighter by bearing them. So he accepted old agebecause it cannot be eluded, and because no means have yet been found ofliving long without growing old. Death itself did not frighten him. Hewas not of those who reconcile themselves to it as well as they can bynever thinking about it. On the contrary, he counsels us to have italways in mind. "Think that the day which lights you is the last youhave to live. The morrow will have more charm for you if you have nothoped to see it:"--

 "Omnem crede diem tibi diluxisse supremum; Grata superveniet quæ non sperabitur hora. "

This is not, as might be supposed, one of those bravadoes of the timid, who shout before Death in order to deaden the sound of his footsteps. Horace was never more calm, more energetic, more master of his mind andof his soul, than in the works of his ripe age. The last lines of histhat remain to us are the firmest and most serene he ever wrote. 

Then, more than ever, must he have loved the little Sabine valley. Whenwe visit these beautiful tranquil spots, we tell ourselves that theyappear made to shelter the declining years of a sage. It seems as ifwith old servants, a few faithful friends, and a stock of well-chosenbooks, the time must pass there without sadness. But I must stop. SinceHorace has not taken us into his confidence respecting his last years, and nobody after him has told us of them, we are reduced to formconjectures, and we should put as few of them as possible into the lifeof a man who loved truth so well. 

Copyrighted by G. P. Putnam's Sons, New York. 

GEORGE H. BOKER

(1823-1890)

Mr. Boker was a man of leisure by inheritance, and a scholar and authorby training and choice. His work is usually deliberate, careful, andpolished: the work of a man of solid culture, of much experience andknowledge of the world; of a man of dignity and social position, not aBohemian. It is thoughtfully planned and carefully executed, but notwritten through inspiration or prompted by passion. Yet it does not lackvigor, nor are his puppets merely automata. His plays have life andforce; and they are moreover good acting dramas. 'Francesca da Rimini'especially, with Lawrence Barrett in the role of Lanciotto, wasdecidedly successful on the stage. In keeping with the character of hiswork, the scenes of his plays are all laid in foreign countries and inother times: Portugal, England, Spain, and Italy are the fields in whichhis characters play their parts. His personages have an individuality oftheir own and are consistently drawn; the action is lively, the humor isnatural and a needful foil to the tragedy. 

[Illustration: George H. Boker. ]

Mr. Boker was fond of the sonnet, as poets are apt to be who have onceyielded to its attraction, and he used it with much effect. But chieflyhis poems of the Civil War will make his name remembered. His lyreresponded sympathetically to the heroic deeds which characterized thatconflict--not always with the smoothness and polish of his more studiedwork, but worthily, and in the spirit of the time. 

He was born in Philadelphia, October 6th, 1823, and died there January2d, 1890. He was graduated from Princeton in 1842, and after studyinglaw and traveling for a number of years in Europe, settled down in hisnative city, where most of his life was spent. He was Minister to Turkeyfrom 1871 to 1875, and Minister to Russia from 1875 to 1879. His firstvolume, 'The Lesson of Life and other Poems, ' was published in 1847, andwas followed by various plays. --'Calaynos, ' 'Anne Boleyn, ' 'TheBetrothal, ' 'Leonor de Guzman, ' 'Francesca da Rimini, ' etc. , which, withsome shorter pieces, were collected in 'Plays and Poems, ' published in1856. His 'Poems of the War' appeared in 1864, and still later a numberof other volumes: 'Street Lyrics, ' 'Our Heroic Themes' (1865), 'Königsmark' (1869), 'The Book of the Dead' (1882), a very closeimitation of 'In Memoriam' in both matter and form, and'Sonnets' (1886). 

 THE BLACK REGIMENT

 From 'Plays and Poems'

 Port Hudson, May 27th, 1863. 

 Dark as the clouds of even, Ranked in the western heaven, Waiting the breath that lifts All the dread mass, and drifts Tempest and falling brand Over a ruined land;-- So still and orderly, Arm to arm, knee to knee, Waiting the great event, Stands the black regiment. 

 Down the long dusky line Teeth gleam and eyeballs shine; And the bright bayonet, Bristling and firmly set, Flashed with a purpose grand, Long ere the sharp command Of the fierce rolling drum Told them their time had come, Told them what work was sent For the black regiment. 

 "Now, " the flag-sergeant cried, "Though death and hell betide, Let the whole nation see If we are fit to be Free in this land; or bound Down, like the whining hound, -- Bound with red stripes of pain In our old chains again!" Oh, what a shout there went From the black regiment!

 "Charge!" Trump and drum awoke, Onward the bondmen broke; Bayonet and sabre-stroke Vainly opposed their rush. Through the wild battle's crush, With but one thought aflush, Driving their lords like chaff, In the guns' mouths they laugh; Or at the slippery brands Leaping with open hands, Down they tear man and horse, Down in their awful course; Trampling with bloody heel Over the crashing steel, All their eyes forward bent, Rushed the black regiment. 

 "Freedom!" their battle-cry, -- Freedom! or leave to die!" Ah! and they meant the word, -- Not as with us 'tis heard, Not a mere party shout: They gave their spirits out; Trusted the end to God, And on the gory sod Rolled in triumphant blood. Glad to strike one free blow, Whether for weal or woe; Glad to breathe one free breath, Though on the lips of death. 

 Praying--alas! in vain!-- That they might fall again, So they could once more see That bust to liberty! This was what "freedom" lent To the black regiment. 

 Hundreds on hundreds fell; But they are resting well; Scourges and shackles strong Never shall do them wrong. Oh, to the living few, Soldiers, be just and true!

 Hail them as comrades tried; Fight with them side by side; Never, in field or tent, Scorn the black regiment!

 Copyright: permission of George Boker, Esq. 

 THE SWORD-BEARER

 From 'Poems of the War'

 March 8th, 1862

 Brave Morris saw the day was lost; For nothing now remained, On the wrecked and sinking Cumberland, But to save the flag unstained. 

 So he swore an oath in the sight of Heaven, -- If he kept it the world can tell:-- "Before I strike to a rebel flag, I'll sink to the gates of hell!

 "Here, take my sword; 'tis in my way; I shall trip o'er the useless steel; For I'll meet the lot that falls to all With my shoulder at the wheel. "

 So the little negro took the sword; And oh, with what reverent care, Following his master step by step, He bore it here and there!

 A thought had crept through his sluggish brain, And shone in his dusky face, That somehow--he could not tell just how-- 'Twas the sword of his trampled race. 

 And as Morris, great with his lion heart, Rushed onward from gun to gun, The little negro slid after him, Like a shadow in the sun. 

 But something of pomp and of curious pride The sable creature wore, Which at any time but a time like that Would have made the ship's crew roar. 

 Over the wounded, dying, and dead, Like an usher of the rod, The black page, full of his mighty trust, With dainty caution trod. 

 No heed he gave to the flying ball, No heed to the bursting shell; His duty was something more than life, And he strove to do it well. 

 Down, with our starry flag apeak, In the whirling sea we sank, And captain and crew and the sword-bearer Were washed from the bloody plank. 

 They picked us up from the hungry waves;-- Alas! not all!--"And where, Where is the faithful negro lad?"-- "Back oars! avast! look there!"

 We looked; and, as Heaven may save my soul, I pledge you a sailor's word, There, fathoms deep in the sea, he lay, Still grasping the master's sword!

 We drew him out; and many an hour We wrought with his rigid form, Ere the almost smothered spark of life By slow degrees grew warm. 

 The first dull glance that his eyeballs rolled Was down towards his shrunken hand; And he smiled, and closed his eyes again As they fell on the rescued brand. 

 And no one touched the sacred sword, Till at length, when Morris came, The little negro stretched it out, With his eager eyes aflame. 

 And if Morris wrung the poor boy's hand, And his words seemed hard to speak, And tears ran down his manly cheeks, What tongue shall call him weak?

This and the sonnets on next page are copyrighted, and used bypermission of George Boker, Esq. 

 SONNETS

 Either the sum of this sweet mutiny Amongst thy features argues me some harm, Or else they practice wicked treachery Against themselves, thy heart, and hapless me. For as I start aside with blank alarm, Dreading the glitter which begins to arm Thy clouded brows, lo! from thy lips I see A smile come stealing, like a loaded bee, Heavy with sweets and perfumes, all ablaze With soft reflections from the flowery wall Whereon it pauses. Yet I will not raise One question more, let smile or frown befall, Taxing thy love where I should only praise, And asking changes that might change thee all. 

 Oh for some spirit, some magnetic spark, That used nor word, nor rhyme, nor balanced pause Of doubtful phrase, which so supinely draws My barren verse, and blurs love's shining mark With misty fancies!--Oh! to burst the dark Of smothered feeling with some new-found laws, Hidden in nature, that might bridge the flaws Between two beings, end this endless cark, And make hearts know what lips have never said! Oh! for some spell, by which one soul might move With echoes from another, and dispread Contagious music through its chords, above The touch of mimic art: that thou might'st tread Beneath thy feet this wordy show of love!

 Here let the motions of the world be still!-- Here let Time's fleet and tireless pinions stay Their endless flight!--or to the present day Bind my Love's life and mine. I have my fill Of earthly bliss: to move is to meet ill. Though lavish fortune in my path might lay Fame, power, and wealth, --the toys that make the play Of earth's grown children, --I would rather till The stubborn furrows of an arid land, Toil with the brute, bear famine and disease, Drink bitter bondage to the very lees, Than break our union by love's tender band, Or drop its glittering shackles from my hand, To grasp at empty glories such as these. 

SAINT BONAVENTURA

(1221-1274)

BY THOMAS DAVIDSON

Saint Bonaventura, whose original name was Giovanni di Fidenza, was bornat Bagnaréa in Tuscany in 1221. At the age of four he was attacked by asevere illness, during which his mother appealed to St. Francis for hisprayers, promising that if the child recovered, he should be devoted toGod and become one of Francis's followers. When the child did recover, the saint, seeing him, exclaimed "O bona ventura!" a name which clung tothe boy ever afterwards, and under which he entered religion and theorder of St. Francis in 1243. 

Soon after, he went to the then world-renowned university of Paris, where he had for his teacher an Englishman, Alexander of Hales, thefirst of the schoolmen who studied the whole of Aristotle's works, andattempted to construct a Christian theology on the basis of them. Evenat this time the young Italian's life was so saintly that his master (soit is reported) said of him that he seemed to have been born without thetaint of original sin. He graduated in the same year as Thomas Aquinas, and immediately afterward began his career as a public teacher under theauspices of the Franciscan order, while Thomas did the same under thoseof the Dominican. These two men, the greatest of the schoolmen, and thesweetest and sanest of the mystics, were bosom friends; and one canhardly imagine a loftier friendship. 

In 1256, at the early age of thirty-five, he became general of hisorder, a post which he held till his death. He did much to ennoble andpurify the order, and to bring it back to orthodoxy, from which then, asnearly always, it was strongly inclined to swerve. In 1265 Clement V. Nominated him to the see of York; but Bonaventura, unwilling probably toface so rude a climate and people, persuaded the Pope to withdraw thenomination. A few years later, under Gregory X. , he was raised to thecardinalate and appointed bishop of Albano. In 1274 he attended theCouncil of Lyons, and must have been deeply affected when he learnedthat Thomas Aquinas had died on his way thither. The success of theefforts of the council to come to terms with the Greeks was mainlydue to him. 

This was Bonaventura's last work on earth. He died before the councilwas over, and was honored with a funeral whose solemnity andmagnificence have seldom been equaled. It was attended by the Pope, theEastern Emperor, the King of Aragon, the patriarchs of Antioch andConstantinople, and a large number of bishops and priests. His relicswere preserved with much reverence by the Lyonnese until the sixteenthcentury, when the Huguenots threw them into the Saône. In 1482 he wascanonized by Sixtus IV. , and in 1588 declared a doctor of the Church bySixtus V. Dante places him in the Heaven of the Sun. 

Bonaventura is the sweetest and tenderest of all the mediæval saints. His mode of teaching was so inspiring that even in his lifetime he wasknown as the "Seraphic Doctor. " He was a voluminous writer, his works inthe Lyons edition of 1688 filling seven folio volumes. They consistlargely of sermons, and commentaries on the Scriptures and the'Sentences' of Peter the Lombard. Besides these, there is a number of'Opuscula, ' mostly of a mystic or disciplinary tendency. Most famousamong these are the 'Breviloquium, ' perhaps the best compend of mediævalChristian theology in existence; and the 'Itinerarium Mentis in Deum, ' acomplete manual of mysticism, such as was aspired to by the noblest ofthe mystics; a work worthy to be placed beside the 'Imitation ofChrist, ' though of a different sort. 

Bonaventura was above all things a mystic; that is, he belonged to thatclass of men, numerous in many ages, who, setting small store by theworld of appearance open to science, and even by science itself, seek byasceticism, meditation, and contemplation to attain a vision of theworld of reality, and finally of the supreme reality, God himself. Suchmysticism is almost certainly derived from the far East; but so far asEurope is concerned it owes its origin mainly to Plato, and his notionof a world of ideas distinct from the real world, lying outside of allmind, and attainable only by strict mental discipline. This notion, simplified by Aristotle into the notion of a transcendent God, eternallythinking himself, was developed into a hierarchic system of being by theNeo-Platonists, Plotinus, Porphyry, etc. , and from them passed into theChristian Church, partly through Augustine and the Pseudo-DionysiusAreopagita _(q. V. ), _ and partly through the Muslim and Jewish thinkersof later times. Though at first regarded with suspicion by the WesternChurch, it was too closely interwoven with Latin Christianity, and toogermane to the spirit of monasticism, not to become popular. Itsinfluence was greatly strengthened by the mighty personality of thatprince of mystics, St. Bernard (1091-1153), from whom it passed on tothe monastery school of St. Victor in Paris, where it was worthilyrepresented by the two great names of Hugo (1096-1141) and Richard(1100?-1173). From the writings of these, and from such works as the'Liber de Causis, ' recently introduced into Europe through the Muslim, Bonaventura derived that mystical system which he elaborated in his'Itinerarium' and other works. 

A magnificent edition of his works is now being edited by the fathers ofthe College of St. Bonaventura, at Quaracchi, near Florence (1882-). There is a small, very handy edition of the 'Breviloquium' and'Itinerarium' together, by Hefele (Tübingen, 1861). 

[Illustration: signature]

ON THE BEHOLDING OF GOD IN HIS FOOTSTEPS IN THISSENSIBLE WORLD

But since, as regards the mirror of sensible things, we may contemplateGod not only through them as through footprints, but also in them in sofar as he is in them by essence, power, and presence, --and thisconsideration is loftier than the preceding; therefore this kind ofconsideration occupies the second place, as the second grade ofcontemplation, whereby we must be guided to the contemplation of God inall created things which enter our minds through the bodily senses. 

We must observe, therefore, that this sensible world, which is calledthe macrocosm--that is, the long world--enters into our soul, which iscalled the microcosm--that is, the little world--through the gates ofthe five senses, as regards the apprehension, delectation, anddistinction of these sensible things; which is manifest in this way:--Inthe sensible world some things are generant, others are generated, andothers direct both these. Generant are the simple bodies; that is, thecelestial bodies and the four elements. For out of the elements, throughthe power of light, reconciling the contrariety of elements in thingsmixed, are generated and produced whatever things are generated andproduced by the operation of natural power. Generated are the bodiescomposed of the elements, as minerals, vegetables, sensible things, andhuman bodies. Directing both these and those are the spiritualsubstances: whether altogether conjunct, like the souls of the brutes;or separably conjunct, like rational souls; or altogether separate, likethe celestial spirits; which the philosophers call Intelligences, weAngels. On these, according to the philosophers, it devolves to move theheavenly bodies; and for this reason the administration of the universeis ascribed to them, as receiving from the First Cause--that is, God--that inflow of virtue which they pour forth again in relation tothe work of government, which has reference to the natural consistenceof things. But according to the theologians the direction of theuniverse is ascribed to these same beings, as regards the works ofredemption, with respect to which they are called "ministering spirits, sent forth to do service for the sake of them that shall inheritsalvation. "

Man, therefore, who is called the lesser world, has five senses, likefive gates, through which the knowledge of all the things that are inthe sensible world enters into his soul. For through sight there enterthe sublime and luminous bodies and all other colored things; throughtouch, solid and terrestrial bodies; through the three intermediatesenses, the intermediate bodies; through taste, the aqueous; throughhearing, the aërial; through smell, the vaporable, which have somethingof the humid, something of the aërial, and something of the fiery orhot, as is clear from the fumes that are liberated from spices. Thereenter, therefore, through these doors not only the simple bodies, butalso the mixed bodies compounded of these. Seeing then that with sensewe perceive not only these particular sensibles--light, sound, odor, savor, and the four primary qualities which touch apprehends--but alsothe common sensibles--number, magnitude, figure, rest, and motion; andseeing that everything which moves is moved by something else, andcertain things move and rest of themselves, as do the animals; inapprehending through these five senses the motions of bodies, we areguided to the knowledge of spiritual motions, as by an effect to theknowledge of causes. 

In the three classes of things, therefore, the whole of this sensibleworld enters the human soul through apprehension. These externalsensible things are those which first enter into the soul through thegates of the five senses. They enter, I say, not through theirsubstances, but through their similitudes, generated first in themedium, and from the medium in the external organ, and from the externalorgan in the internal organ, and from this in the apprehensive power;and thus generation in the medium, and from the medium in the organ, andthe direction of the apprehensive power upon it, produce theapprehension of all those things which the soul apprehends externally. 

This apprehension, if it is directed to a proper object, is followed bydelight. The sense delights in the object perceived through its abstractsimilitude, either by reason of its beauty, as in vision, or by reasonof its sweetness, as in smell and hearing, or by reason of itshealthfulness, as in taste and touch, properly speaking. But all delightis by reason of proportion. But since species is the ground of form, power, and action, according as it has reference to the principle fromwhich it emanates, the medium into which it passes, or the term uponwhich it acts, therefore proportion is observed in three things. It isobserved in similitude, inasmuch as it forms the ground of species orform, and so is called speciosity, because beauty is nothing butnumerical equality, or a certain disposition of parts accompanied withsweetness of color. It is observed in so far as it forms the ground ofpower or virtue, and thus is called sweetness, when the active virtuedoes not disproportionally exceed the recipient virtue, because thesense is depressed by extremes, and delighted by means. It is observedin so far as it forms the ground of efficacy and impression, which isproportional when the agent, in impressing, satisfies the need of thepatient, and this is to preserve and nourish it, as appears chiefly intaste and touch. And thus we see how, by pleasure, external delightfulthings enter through similitude into the soul, according to thethreefold method of delectation. 

After this apprehension and delight there comes discernment, by which wenot only discern whether this thing be white or black (because thisalone belongs to the outer sense), and whether this thing be wholesomeor hurtful (because this belongs to the inner sense), but also discernwhy this delights and give a reason therefor. And in this act we inquireinto the reason of the delight which is derived by the sense from theobject. This happens when we inquire into the reason of the beautiful, the sweet, and the wholesome, and discover that it is a proportion ofequality. But a ratio of equality is the same in great things and insmall. It is not extended by dimensions; it does not enter intosuccession, or pass with passing things; it is not altered by motions. It abstracts therefore from place, time, and motion; and for this reasonit is immutable, uncircumscribable, interminable, and altogetherspiritual. Discernment, then, is an action which, by purifying andabstracting, makes the sensible species, sensibly received through thesenses, enter into the intellective power. And thus the whole of thisworld enters into the human soul by the gates of the five senses, according to the three aforesaid activities. 

All these things are footprints, in which we may behold our God. For, since an apprehended species is a similitude generated in a medium andthen impressed upon the organ, and through that impression leads to theknowledge of its principle, --that is, of its object, --it manifestlyimplies that that eternal light generates from itself a similitude orsplendor co-equal, consubstantial, and co-eternal; and that He who isthe image and similitude of the invisible God, and the splendor of theglory, and the figure of the substance which is everywhere, generates byhis first generation of himself his own similitude in the form of anobject in the entire medium, unites himself by the grace of union to theindividual of rational nature, as a species to a bodily organ, so thatby this union he may lead us back to the Father as the fontal principleand object. If therefore all cognizable things generate species ofthemselves, they clearly proclaim that in them, as in mirrors, may beseen the eternal generation of the Word, the Image, and the Son, eternally emanating from God the Father. .. . 

Since therefore all things are beautiful, and in a certain waydelightful, and since beauty and delight are inseparable fromproportion, and proportion is primarily in numbers, all things must ofnecessity be full of number. For this reason, number is the chiefexemplar in the mind of the artificer, and in things the chief footprintleading to wisdom. Since this is most manifest to all and most close toGod, it leads us most closely and by seven differences to God, and makeshim known in all things, corporeal and sensible. And while we apprehendnumerical things, we delight in numerical proportions, and judgeirrefragably by the laws of these. .. . 

For every creature is by nature an effigy and similitude of that eternalWisdom: but especially so is that creature which in the book ofScriptures was assumed by the spirit of prophecy for the prefigurationof spiritual things; more especially those creatures in whose effigy Godwas willing to appear for the angelic ministry; and most especially thatcreature which he was willing to set forth as a sign, and which playsthe part not only of a sign, as that word is commonly used, but also ofa sacrament. 

GEORGE BORROW

(1803-1881)

BY JULIAN HAWTHORNE

[Illustration: GEORGE BORROW]

George Borrow lived eight-and-seventy years and published ten books. Inhis veins was mingled the blood of Cornwall and of Normandy; but thoughproud of this strain, he valued still more that personal independencewhich, together with his love of strange tongues and his passion foroutdoor life, molded his career. His nature was mystical and eccentric, and he sometimes approached--though he never crossed--the confines ofinsanity; yet his instincts were robust and plain, he was an apostle ofEnglish ale and a master of the art of self-defense, he was anuncompromising champion of the Church of England and the savage foe ofPapistry, he despised "kid-glove gentility" in life and literature, anddelighted to make his spear ring against the hollow shield of socialconvention. A nature so complicated and individual, so outspoken andaggressive, could not slip smoothly along the grooves of civilizedexistence; he was soundly loved and hated, but seldom, or neverunderstood. And the obstinate pride which gave projection to most of hisvirtues was also at the bottom of his faults: he better liked to perplexthan to open himself to his associates; he willfully repelled where hemight have captivated, Some human element was wanting in him: he wasstrong, masculine, subtle, persistent; of a lofty and austere spirit;too proud even to be personally ambitious; gifted with humor andinsight; fearless and faithful;--but no tenderness, no gentleness, noinviting human warmth ever appears in him; and though he could reverencewomen, and admire them, and appreciate them also from the standpoint ofthe senses, they had no determining sway over his life or thought. Ifthere be any man in English history whom such a summary of traits asthis recalls, it is Dean Swift. Nevertheless Borrow's differences fromhim are far greater than the resemblances between them. Giant force wasin both of them; both were enigmas; but the deeper we penetrate intoBorrow, the more we like him; not so with the blue-eyed Dean. Borrow'sdepths are dark and tortuous, but never miasmic; and as we grope our waythrough them, we may stumble upon treasures, but never upon rottenness. 

A man who can be assigned to no recognized type--who flocks by himself, as the saying is--cannot easily be portrayed: we lose the main design inour struggle with the details. Indeed, no two portraits of such a mancan be alike: they will vary according to the temperament andlimitations of the painter. It is safe to assert, however, thatinsatiable curiosity was at the base both of his character and of hisachievements. Instincts he doubtless had in plenty, but no intuitions;everything must be construed to him categorically. But his capacitykeeps pace with his curiosity; he promptly assimilates all he learns, and he can forget nothing. Probably this investigating passion had itscause in his own unlikeness to the rest of us: he was as a visitor fromanother planet, pledged to send home reports of all he saw here. Hissuccess in finding strange things is prodigious: his strange eye detectsoddities and beauties to which we to the manner born were strange. Adventures attend him everywhere, as the powers of earth and air onProspero. Here comes the King of the Vipers, the dry stubble cracklingbeneath his outrageous belly; yonder the foredoomed sailor promptlyfulfills his own prediction, falling from the yard-arm into the Bay ofBiscay; anon the ghastly visage of Mrs. Herne, of the Hairy Ones, glaresfor a moment out of the midnight hedge; again, a mysterious infatuationdrives the wealthy idler from his bed out into the inclement darkness, and up to the topmost bough of the tree, which he must "touch" ere hecan rest; and now, in the gloom of the memorable dingle, the horror offear falls upon the amateur tinker, the Evil One grapples terribly withhis soul, blots of foam fly from his lips, and he is dashed against thetrees and stones. An adventure, truly, fit to stand with any of mediævallegend, and compared with which the tremendous combat with BlazingBosville, the Flaming Tinman, is almost a relief. But in what perilousFaery Land forlorn do all these and a thousand more strange and movingincidents take place?--Why, in the quiet lanes and byways ofnineteenth-century England, or perchance in priest-ridden Spain, wherethe ordinary traveler can for the life of him discover nothing morestartling than beef and beer, garlic and crucifixes. Adventures are inthe adventurer. 

Man and nature were Borrow's study, but England was his love. In himexalted patriotism touches its apogee. How nobly and uncompromisingly ishe jealous of her honor, her glory, and her independence! In whateloquent apostrophes does he urge her to be true to her loftytraditions, to trample on base expediency and cleave to the brave andtrue! In what resounding jeremiads does he denounce woe upon hertraitors and seducers! With what savage sarcasm and scorn does hedissect the soul of the "man in black"! No other writing more powerful, picturesque, and idiomatic has been done in this century. He willadvocate no policy less austere than purity, courage, and truth. Thereis in his zeal a narrowness that augments its strength, yet lessens itseffect so far as practical issues are concerned. He is an idealist: butsurely no young man can read his stern, throbbing pages without akindling of the soul, and a resolve to be high in deed and aim; andthere is no gauging the final influence of such spiritual stimulus. England and mankind must be better for this lonely, indignant voice. 

England, and England's religion, and the Bible in its integrity, --theseare the controlling strings of Borrow's harp. Yet he had his youthfulperiod of religious doubt and philosophic sophism: has he not told howwalls and ceilings rang with the "Hey!" of the man with the face of alion, when the gray-haired boy intimated his skepticism? Butvicissitudes of soul and body, aided by the itinerant Welsh preacher, cleansed him of these errors, and he undertook and carried through thefamous crusade recorded in 'The Bible in Spain'--a narrative ofadventure and devotion which fascinated and astonished England, and setsits author abreast of the great writers of his time. It is asirresistible to-day as it was fifty years ago: it stands alone; onlyTrelawny's 'Adventures of a Younger Son' can be compared with it asnarrative, and Trelawny's book lacks the grand central feature whichgives dignity and unity to Borrow's. Being a story of fact, 'The Biblein Spain' lacks much of the literary art and felicity, as well as theimaginative charm, of 'Lavengro'; but within its own scope it is great, and nothing can supersede it. 

Gipsydom in all its aspects, though logically a side-issue with Borrow, was nevertheless the most noticeable thing relating to him: it engagedand colored him on the side of his temperament; and in the picture weform of a man, temperament tells far more than intellect because it ismore individual. Later pundits have called in question the academicaccuracy of Borrow's researches in the Romany language: but suchfrettings are beside the mark; Borrow is the only genuine expounder ofGipsyness that ever lived. He laid hold of their vitals, and they ofhis; his act of brotherhood with Mr. Jasper Petulengro is but a symbolof his mystical alliance with the race. This is not to say that hefathomed the heart of their mystery; the gipsies themselves cannot dothat: but he comprehended whatever in them is open to comprehension, andhis undying interest in them is due not only to his sympathy with theirway of life, but to the fact that his curiosity about them could neverbe quite satisfied. Other mysteries come and go, but the gipsy mysterystays with us, and was to Borrow a source of endless content. For aftersharpening his wits on the ethnological riddle, he could refresh himselfwith the psychical aspect of the matter, discovering in them theincarnation of one essential human quality, incompletely present in allmen. They are the perfect vagabonds; but the germ of vagabondage inheresin mankind at large, and is the source of the changes that have resultedin what we call civilization. Borrow's nature comprised the gipsy, butthe gipsy by no means comprised him; he wandered like them, but theobject of his wanderings was something more than to tell dukkeripens, poison pigs, mend kettles, or deal in horseflesh. Therefore he puzzledthem more than they did him. 

'The Gipsies of Spain' (1841) was his first book about them; 'Lavengro'came ten years later, and 'Romany Rye' six years after that. In 1874 hereturns to the subject in 'Roman Lavo-lil, ' a sort of dictionary andphrase-book of the language, but unlike any other dictionary andphrase-book ever conceived: it is well worth reading as a piece ofentertaining literature. His other books are translations of Norse andWelsh poetry, and a book of travels in 'Wild Wales, ' published in 1862. All these works are more than readable: the translations, though ruggedand unmusical, have about them a frank sensuousness and a primitiveforce that are amusing and attractive. But after all, Borrow is neverthoroughly himself in literature unless the gipsies are close at hand;and of all his gipsy books 'Lavengro' is by far the best. Indeed, it isso much the best and broadest thing that he produced, that the readerwho would know Borrow need never go beyond these pages. In 'Lavengro' weget the culmination of both the author and the man; it is his book inthe full sense, and may afford profitable study to any competent readerfor a lifetime. 

'Lavengro, ' in fact, is like nothing else in either biography orfiction--and it is both fictitious and biographical. It is the gradualrevelation of a strange, unique being. But the revelation does notproceed in an orderly and chronological fashion: it is not begun in thefirst chapter, and still less is it completed in the last. After acareful perusal of the book, you will admit that though it hasfascinated and impressed you, you have quite failed to understand it. Why is the author so whimsical? Wherefore these hinted but unconfessedsecrets? Why does he stop short on the brink of an important disclosure, and diverge under cover of a line of asterisks into anothersubject?--But Borrow in 'Lavengro' is not constructing a book, he iscreating one. He has the reserves of a man who respects his own nature, yet he treats the reader fairly. If you are worthy to be his friend, by-and-by you will see his heart, --look again, and yet again! Thatpassage in a former chapter was incomplete; but look ahead a hundredpages and consider a paragraph there: by itself it seems to say little;but gradually you recognize in it a part of the inwoven strand whichdisappears in one part of the knot and emerges in another. Though youcannot solve the genial riddle to-day, you may to-morrow. The only clueis sympathy. This man hides his heart for him who has the mate to it;and beneath the whimsical, indifferent, proud, and cold exterior, how itheaves and fears and loves and wonders! This is a wild, unprecedented, eloquent, mysterious, artistic yet artless book; it is alive; it tellsof an existence apart, yet in contact with the deep things of all humanexperience. No other man ever lived as Borrow did, and yet his book isan epitome of life. The magic of his personal quality beguiles us onevery page; but deeper still lie the large, immutable traits that makeall men men, and avouch the unity of mankind. 

'Romany Rye' is the continuation of 'Lavengro, ' but scarcely repeats itscharm; its most remarkable feature is an 'Appendix, ' in which Borrowexpounds his views upon things in general, including critics andpolitics. It is a marvelously trenchant piece of writing, and from theliterary point of view delightful; but it must have hurt a good manypeople's feelings at the time it was published, and even now shows theauthor on his harsh side only. We may agree with all he says, and yetwish he had uttered it in a less rasping tone. 

Like nearly all great writers, Borrow, in order to get his best effects, must have room for his imagination. Mere fact would not rouse him fully, and abstract argument still less. In 'Lavengro' he hit upon his rightvein, and he worked it in the fresh maturity of his power. The style isBorrow's own, peculiar to him: eloquent, rugged, full of liturgicalrepetitions, shunning all soft assonances and refinements, and yet withremote sea-like cadences, and unhackneyed felicities that rejoice thejaded soul. Writing with him was spontaneous, but never heedless orunconsidered; it was always the outcome of deep thought and vehementfeeling. Other writers and their books may be twain, but Borrow and hisbooks are one. Perhaps they might be improved in art, or arrangement, orsubject; but we should no longer care for them then, because they wouldcease to be Borrow. Borrow may not have been a beauty or a saint; but aman he was; and good or bad, we would not alter a hair of him. 

Nothing like an adequate biography of Borrow has ever been published: afew dates, and some more or less intelligent opinions about hischaracter and work, are the sum of what we know of him--outside his ownbooks. Some of the dates are probably guess-work; most of the opinionsare incompetent: it is time that some adequate mind assembled allavailable materials and digested them into a satisfactory book. It ishardly worth while to review the few meagre details. Borrow was born in1803 and died in 1881; his father, a soldier, failed to make a solicitorof him, and the youth, at his father's death, came up to London to liveor die by literature. After much hardship (of which the chapters in'Lavengro' describing the production of 'Joseph Sell' convey a hint), heset out on a wandering pilgrimage over England, Europe, and the East. Asagent for the British and Foreign Bible Society he traversed Spain andPortugal, sending to the Morning Herald letters descriptive of hisadventures, which afterwards were made the substance of his books. Hemarried at thirty-seven, and lived at Outton Broad nearly all his lifeafter. His wife died a dozen years before him, in 1869. She leftno children. 

His first book, a translation of Klinger's 'Faust, ' appeared in 1825;his last, 'The Gipsy Dictionary, ' in 1874; a volume called 'Penquite andPentyre, ' on Cornwall, was announced in 1857, but seems never to havebeen published, 'Targum, ' a collection of translations from thirtylanguages and dialects, was a _tour de force_ belonging to the year1835. On the whole, Borrow was not a voluminous writer; but what hewrote tells. 

[Illustration: Signature: Julian Hawthorne]

AT THE HORSE-FAIR

From 'Lavengro'

"What horse is that?" said I to a very old fellow, the counterpart ofthe old man on the pony, save that the last wore a faded suit ofvelveteen, and this one was dressed in a white frock. 

"The best in mother England, " said the very old man, taking a knobbedstick from his mouth, and looking me in the face, at first carelessly, but presently with something like interest; "he is old like myself, butcan still trot his twenty miles an hour. You won't live long, my swain;tall and overgrown ones like thee never do: yet, if you should chance toreach my years, you may boast to thy great-grand-boys, thou hast seenMarshland Shales. "

Amain I did for the horse what I would neither do for earl or baron, doffed my hat; yes! I doffed my hat to the wondrous horse, the fasttrotter, the best in mother England; and I too drew a deep ah! andrepeated the words of the old fellows around. "Such a horse as this weshall never see again: a pity that he is so old. "

Now, during all this time I had a kind of consciousness that I had beenthe object of some person's observation; that eyes were fastened upon mefrom somewhere in the crowd. Sometimes I thought myself watched frombefore, sometimes from behind; and occasionally methought that if I justturned my head to the right or left, I should meet a peering andinquiring glance; and indeed, once or twice I did turn, expecting to seesomebody whom I knew, yet always without success; though it appeared tome that I was but a moment too late, and that some one had just slippedaway from the direction to which I turned, like the figure in a magiclantern. Once I was quite sure that there were a pair of eyes glaringover my right shoulder; my attention, however, was so fully occupiedwith the objects which I have attempted to describe, that I thought verylittle of this coming and going, this flitting and dodging of I knew notwhom or what. It was after all a matter of sheer indifference to me whowas looking at me. I could only wish whomsoever it might be to be moreprofitably employed, so I continued enjoying what I saw; and now therewas a change in the scene: the wondrous old horse departed with his agedguardian; other objects of interest are at hand. Two or three men onhorseback are hurrying through the crowd; they are widely different intheir appearance from the other people of the fair--not so much indress, for they are clad something after the fashion of rustic jockeys, but in their look: no light-brown hair have they, no ruddy cheeks, noblue quiet glances belong to them; their features are dark, the lockslong, black, and shining, and their eyes are wild; they are admirablehorsemen, but they do not sit the saddle in the manner of commonjockeys, they seem to float or hover upon it like gulls upon the waves;two of them are mere striplings, but the third is a very tall man with acountenance heroically beautiful, but wild, wild, wild. As they rushalong, the crowd give way on all sides, and now a kind of ring or circusis formed, within which the strange men exhibit their horsemanship, rushing past each other, in and out, after the manner of a reel, thetall man occasionally balancing himself upon the saddle, and standingerect on one foot. He had just regained his seat after the latter feat, and was about to push his horse to a gallop, when a figure startedforward close from beside me, and laying his hand on his neck, andpulling him gently downward, appeared to whisper something into his ear;presently the tall man raised his head, and scanning the crowd for amoment in the direction in which I was standing, fixed his eyes fullupon me; and anon the countenance of the whisperer was turned, but onlyin part, and the side-glance of another pair of wild eyes was directedtowards my face; but the entire visage of the big black man, half-stooping as he was, was turned full upon mine. 

But now, with a nod to the figure who had stopped him, and with anotherinquiring glance at myself, the big man once more put his steed intomotion, and after riding round the ring a few more times, darted througha lane in the crowd, and followed by his two companions, disappeared;whereupon the figure who had whispered to him, and had subsequentlyremained in the middle of the space, came towards me, and cracking awhip which he held in his hand so loudly that the report was nearlyequal to that of a pocket-pistol, he cried in a strange tone:--

"What! the sap-engro? Lor! the sap-engro upon the hill!"

"I remember that word, " said I, "and I almost think I remember you. Youcan't be--"

"Jasper, your pal! Truth, and no lie, brother. "

"It is strange that you should have known me, " said I. "I am certain, but for the word you used, I should never have recognized you. "

"Not so strange as you may think, brother: there is something in yourface which would prevent people from forgetting you, even though theymight wish it; and your face is not much altered since the time you wotof, though you are so much grown. I thought it was you, but to make sureI dodged about, inspecting you. I believe you felt me, though I nevertouched you; a sign, brother, that we are akin, that we are duipalor--two relations. Your blood beat when mine was near, as mine alwaysdoes at the coming of a brother; and we became brothers in that lane. "

"And where are you staying?" said I: "in this town?"

"Not in the town; the like of us don't find it exactly wholesome to stayin towns: we keep abroad. But I have little to do here--come with me, and I'll show you where we stay. "

We descended the hill in the direction of the north, and passing alongthe suburb reached the old Norman bridge, which we crossed; the chalkprecipice, with the ruin on its top, was now before us; but turning tothe left we walked swiftly along, and presently came to some risingground, which ascending, we found ourselves upon a wild moor or heath. 

"You are one of them, " said I, "whom people call--"

"Just so, " said Jasper; "but never mind what people call us. "

"And that tall handsome man on the hill, whom you whispered: I supposehe's one of ye. What is his name?"

"Tawno Chikno, " said Jasper, "which means the small one; we call himsuch because he is the biggest man of all our nation. You say he ishandsome--that is not the word, brother; he's the beauty of the world. Women run wild at the sight of Tawno. An earl's daughter, near London--afine young lady with diamonds round her neck--fell in love with Tawno. Ihave seen that lass on a heath, as this may be, kneel down to Tawno, clasp his feet, begging to be his wife--or anything else--if she mightgo with him. But Tawno would have nothing to do with her: 'I have a wifeof my own, ' said he, 'a lawful Romany wife, whom I love better than thewhole world, jealous though she sometimes be. '"

"And is she very beautiful?" said I. 

"Why, you know, brother, beauty is frequently a matter of taste;however, as you ask my opinion, I should say not quite so beautifulas himself. "

We had now arrived at a small valley between two hills, or downs, thesides of which were covered with furze; in the midst of this valley werevarious carts and low tents forming a rude kind of encampment; severaldark children were playing about, who took no manner of notice of us. Aswe passed one of the tents, however, a canvas screen was lifted up, anda woman supported upon a crutch hobbled out. She was about the middleage, and besides being lame, was bitterly ugly; she was very slovenlydressed, and on her swarthy features ill-nature was most visiblystamped. She did not deign me a look, but addressing Jasper in a tonguewhich I did not understand, appeared to put some eager questions to him. 

"He's coming, " said Jasper, and passed on. "Poor fellow, " said he to me, "he has scarcely been gone an hour, and she is jealous already. Well, "he continued, "what do you think of her? you have seen her now, and canjudge for yourself--that 'ere woman is Tawno Chikno's wife!"

We went to the farthest of the tents, which stood at a slight distancefrom the rest, and which exactly resembled the one which I havedescribed on a former occasion; we went in and sat down, one on eachside of a small fire which was smoldering on the ground; there was noone else in the tent but a tall tawny woman of middle age, who wasbusily knitting. "Brother, " said Jasper, "I wish to hold some pleasantdiscourse with you. "

"As much as you please, " said I, "provided you can find anythingpleasant to talk about. "

"Never fear, " said Jasper; "and first of all we will talk of yourself. Where have you been all this long time?"

"Here and there, " said I, "and far and near, going about with thesoldiers; but there is no soldiering now, so we have sat down, fatherand family, in the town there. "

"And do you still hunt snakes?" said Jasper. 

"No, " said I, "I have given up that long ago; I do better now: readbooks and learn languages. "

"Well, I am sorry you have given up your snake-hunting; many's thestrange talk I have had with our people about your snake and yourself, and how you frightened my father and mother in the lane. "

"And where are your father and mother?"

"Where I shall never see them, brother; at least, I hope so. "

"Not dead?"

"No, not dead; they are bitchadey pawdel. "

"What's that?"

"Sent across--banished. "

"Ah! I understand; I am sorry for them. And so you are here alone?"

"Not quite alone, brother. "

"No, not alone; but with the rest--Tawno Chikno takes care of you. "

"Takes care of me, brother!"

"Yes, stands to you in the place of a father--keeps you out of harm'sway. "

"What do you take me for, brother?"

"For about three years older than myself. "

"Perhaps; but you are of the gorgios, and I am a Romany Chal. TawnoChikno take care of Jasper Petulengro!"

"Is that your name?"

"Don't you like it?"

"Very much, I never heard a sweeter; it is something like what you callme. "

"The horseshoe master and the snake-fellow--I am the first. "

"Who gave you that name?"

"Ask Pharaoh. "

"I would if he were here, but I do not see him. "

"I am Pharaoh. "

"Then you are a king. "

"Chachipen Pal. "

"I do not understand you. "

"Where are your languages? you want two things, brother: mother-sense, and gentle Romany. "

"What makes you think that I want sense?"

"That being so old, you can't yet guide yourself!"

"I can read Dante, Jasper. "

"Anan, brother. "

"I can charm snakes, Jasper. "

"I know you can, brother. "

"Yes, and horses too; bring me the most vicious in the land, if Iwhisper he'll be tame. "

"Then the more shame for you--a snake-fellow--a horse-witch--and alil-reader--yet you can't shift for yourself. I laugh at you, brother!"

"Then you can shift for yourself?"

"For myself and for others, brother. "

"And what does Chikno?"

"Sells me horses, when I bid him. Those horses on the chong were mine. "

"And has he none of his own?"

"Sometimes he has; but he is not so well off as myself. When my fatherand mother were bitchadey pawdel, which, to tell you the truth, theywere for chiving wafodo dloovu, they left me all they had, which was nota little, and I became the head of our family, which was not a smallone. I was not older than you when that happened; yet our people saidthey had never a better krallis to contrive and plan for them, and tokeep them in order. And this is so well known, that many Romany Chals, not of our family, come and join themselves to us, living with us for atime, in order to better themselves, more especially those of the poorersort, who have little of their own. Tawno is one of these. "

"Is that fine fellow poor?"

"One of the poorest, brother. Handsome as he is, he has not a horse ofhis own to ride on. Perhaps we may put it down to his wife, who cannotmove about, being a cripple, as you saw. "

"And you are what is called a Gipsy King?"

"Ay, ay; a Romany Chal. "

"Are there other kings?"

"Those who call themselves so; but the true Pharaoh is Petulengro. "

"Did Pharaoh make horse-shoes?"

"The first who ever did, brother. "

"Pharaoh lived in Egypt. "

"So did we once, brother. "

"And you left it?"

"My fathers did, brother. "

"And why did they come here?"

"They had their reasons, brother. "

"And you are not English?"

"We are not gorgios. "

"And you have a language of your own?"

"Avali. "

"This is wonderful. "

"Ha, ha!" cried the woman who had hitherto sat knitting at the fartherend of the tent without saying a word, though not inattentive to ourconversation, as I could perceive by certain glances which sheoccasionally cast upon us both. "Ha, ha!" she screamed, fixing upon metwo eyes which shone like burning coals, and which were filled with anexpression both of scorn and malignity, --"it is wonderful, is it, thatwe should have a language of our own? What, you grudge the poor peoplethe speech they talk among themselves? That's just like you gorgios: youwould have everybody stupid single-tongued idiots like yourselves. Weare taken before the Poknees of the gav, myself and sister, to give anaccount of ourselves. So I says to my sister's little boy, speakingRomany, I says to the little boy who is with us, 'Run to my son Jasperand the rest, and tell them to be off: there are hawks abroad. ' So thePoknees questions us, and lets us go, not being able to make anything ofus; but as we are going, he calls us back. 'Good woman, ' says thePoknees, 'what was that I heard you say just now to the little boy?' 'Iwas telling him, your worship, to go and see the time of day, and tosave trouble I said it in our language. ' 'Where did you get thatlanguage?' says the Poknees. ''Tis our own language, sir, ' I tells him:'we did not steal it. ' 'Shall I tell you what it is, my good woman?'says the Poknees. 'I would thank you, sir, ' says I, 'for 'tis often weare asked about it. ' 'Well, then, ' says the Poknees, 'it is no languageat all, merely a made-up gibberish. ' 'Oh, bless your wisdom, ' says Iwith a curtsey, 'you can tell us what our language is withoutunderstanding it!' Another time we meet a parson. 'Good woman, ' says he, 'what's that you are talking? Is it broken language?' 'Of course, yourreverence, ' says I, 'we are broken people; give a shilling, yourreverence, to the poor broken woman. ' Oh, these gorgios! they grudge usour very language!"

"She called you her son, Jasper?"

"I am her son, brother. "

"I thought you said your parents were . .. "

"Bitchadey pawdel; you thought right, brother. This is my wife'smother. "

"Then you are married, Jasper?"

"Ay, truly; I am husband and father, You will see wife and chabó anon. "

"Where are they now?"

"In the gav, penning dukkerin. "

"We were talking of languages, Jasper. "

"True, brother. "

"Yours must be a rum one. "

"'Tis called Romany. "

"I would gladly know it. "

"You need it sorely. "

"Would you teach it me?"

"None sooner. "

"Suppose we begin now?"

"Suppose we do, brother. "

"Not whilst I am here, " said the woman, flinging her knitting down, andstarting upon her feet; "not whilst I am here shall this gorgio learnRomany. A pretty manoeuvre, truly; and what would be the end of it? Igoes to the farming ker with my sister, to tell a fortune, and earn afew sixpences for the chabés. I sees a jolly pig in the yard, and I saysto my sister, speaking Romany, 'Do so and so, ' says I; which the farmingman hearing, asks what we are talking about. 'Nothing at all, master, 'says I; 'something about the weather, '--when who should start up frombehind a pale, where he has been listening, but this ugly gorgio, cryingout, 'They are after poisoning your pigs, neighbor, ' so that we are gladto run, I and my sister, with perhaps the farm-engro shouting after us. Says my sister to me, when we have got fairly off, 'How came that uglyone to know what you said to me?' Whereupon I answers, 'It all comes ofmy son Jasper, who brings the gorgio to our fire, and must needs beteaching him. ' 'Who was fool there?' says my sister. 'Who indeed but myson Jasper, ' I answers. And here should I be a greater fool to sit stilland suffer it; which I will not do. I do not like the look of him; helooks over-gorgeous. An ill day to the Romans when he masters Romany;and when I says that, I pens a true dukkerin. "

"What do you call God, Jasper?"

"You had better be jawing, " said the woman, raising her voice to aterrible scream; "you had better be moving off, my gorgio; hang you fora keen one, sitting there by the fire, and stealing my language beforemy face. Do you know whom you have to deal with? Do you know that I amdangerous? My name is Herne, and I comes of the Hairy Ones!"

And a hairy one she looked! She wore her hair clubbed upon her head, fastened with many strings and ligatures; but now, tearing these off, her locks, originally jet black, but now partially grizzled with age, fell down on every side of her, covering her face and back as far downas her knees. No she-bear of Lapland ever looked more fierce and hairythan did that woman, as standing in the open part of the tent, with herhead bent down and her shoulders drawn up, seemingly about toprecipitate herself upon me, she repeated again and again--

"My name is Herne, and I comes of the Hairy Ones!"--

"I call God Duvel, brother. "

"It sounds very like Devil. "

"It doth, brother, it doth. "

"And what do you call divine, I mean godly?"

"Oh! I call that duvelskoe. "

"I am thinking of something, Jasper. "

"What are you thinking of, brother?"

"Would it not be a rum thing if divine and devilish were originally oneand the same word?"

"It would, brother, it would. "

From this time I had frequent interviews with Jasper, sometimes in histent, sometimes on the heath, about which we would roam for hours, discoursing on various matters. Sometimes mounted on one of his horses, of which he had several, I would accompany him to various fairs andmarkets in the neighborhood, to which he went on his own affairs, orthose of his tribe. I soon found that I had become acquainted with amost singular people, whose habits and pursuits awakened within me thehighest interest. Of all connected with them, however, their languagewas doubtless that which exercised the greatest influence over myimagination. I had at first some suspicion that it would prove a meremade-up gibberish; but I was soon undeceived. Broken, corrupted, andhalf in ruins as it was, it was not long before I found that it was anoriginal speech; far more so indeed than one or two others of high nameand celebrity, which up to that time I had been in the habit ofregarding with respect and veneration. Indeed, many obscure pointsconnected with the vocabulary of these languages, and to which neitherclassic nor modern lore afforded any clue, I thought I could now clearup by means of this strange broken tongue, spoken by people who dweltamongst thickets and furze bushes, in tents as tawny as their faces, andwhom the generality of mankind designated, and with much semblance ofjustice, as thieves and vagabonds. But where did this speech come from, and who were they who spoke it? These were questions which I could notsolve, and which Jasper himself, when pressed, confessed his inabilityto answer. "But whoever we be, brother, " said he, "we are an old people, and not what folks in general imagine, broken gorgios; and if we are notEgyptians, we are at any rate Romany Chals!"

A MEETING

From 'The Bible in Spain'

It was at this town of Badajoz, the capital of Estremadura, that I firstfell in with those singular people, the Zincali, Gitanos, or Spanishgipsies. It was here I met with the wild Paco, the man with the witheredarm, who wielded the _cachas_ with his left hand; his shrewd wife, Antonia, skilled in _hokkano baro_, or the great trick; the fiercegipsy, Antonio Lopez, their father-in-law; and many other almostequally singular individuals of the Errate, or gipsy blood. It was herethat I first preached the gospel to the gipsy people, and commenced thattranslation of the New Testament in the Spanish gipsy tongue, a portionof which I subsequently printed at Madrid. 

After a stay of three weeks at Badajoz, I prepared to depart for Madrid. Late one afternoon, as I was arranging my scanty baggage, the gipsyAntonio entered my apartment, dressed in his _zamarra_ and high-peakedAndalusian hat. 

_Antonio_--Good evening, brother; they tell me that on the _callicaste_you intend to set out for Madrilati. 

_Myself_--Such is my intention; I can stay here no longer. 

_Antonio_--The way is far to Madrilati; there are, moreover, wars in theland, and many _chories_ walk about; are you not afraid to journey?

_Myself_--I have no fears; every man must accomplish his destiny: whatbefalls my body or soul was written in a _gabicote_ a thousand yearsbefore the foundation of the world. 

_Antonio_--I have no fears myself, brother: the dark night is the sameto me as the fair day, and the wild _carrascal_ as the market-place orthe _chardi_; I have got the _bar lachí_ in my bosom, the precious stoneto which sticks the needle. 

_Myself_--You mean the loadstone, I suppose. Do you believe that alifeless stone can preserve you from the dangers which occasionallythreaten your life?

_Antonio_--Brother, I am fifty years old, and you see me standing beforeyou in life and strength; how could that be unless the _bar lachí_ hadpower? I have been soldier and _contrabandista_, and I have likewiseslain and robbed the Busné. The bullets of the Gabiné and of the _jaracanallis_ have hissed about my ears without injuring me, for I carriedthe _bar lachí. _ I have twenty times done that which by Busné law shouldhave brought me to the _filimicha_, yet my neck has never yet beensqueezed by the cold _garrote_. Brother, I trust in the _bar lachí_ likethe Caloré of old: were I in the midst of the gulf of Bombardó without aplank to float upon, I should feel no fear; for if I carried theprecious stone, it would bring me safe to shore. The _bar lachí_ haspower, brother. 

_Myself_--I shall not dispute the matter with you, more especially as Iam about to depart from Badajoz: I must speedily bid you farewell, andwe shall see each other no more. 

_Antonio_--Brother, do you know what brings me hither?

_Myself_--I cannot tell, unless it be to wish me a happy journey: I amnot gipsy enough to interpret the thoughts of other people. 

_Antonio_--All last night I lay awake, thinking of the affairs of Egypt;and when I arose in the morning I took the _bar lachí_ from my bosom, and scraping it with a knife, swallowed some of the dust in_aguardiente_, as I am in the habit of doing when I have made up mymind; and I said to myself, I am wanted on the frontiers of Castumba ona certain matter. The strange Caloró is about to proceed to Madrilati;the journey is long, and he may fall into evil hands, peradventure intothose of his own blood; for let me tell you, brother, the Calés areleaving their towns and villages, and forming themselves into troops toplunder the Busné, for there is now but little law in the land, and nowor never is the time for the Caloré to become once more what they werein former times. So I said, the strange Caloró may fall into the handsof his own blood and be ill-treated by them, which were shame: I willtherefore go with him through the Chim del Manró as far as the frontiersof Castumba, and upon the frontiers of Castumba I will leave the LondonCaloró to find his own way to Madrilati, for there is less danger inCastumba than in the Chim del Manró, and I will then betake me to theaffairs of Egypt which call me from hence. 

_Myself_--This is a very hopeful plan of yours, my friend: and in whatmanner do you propose that we shall travel?

_Antonio_--I will tell you, brother. I have a _gras_ in the stall, eventhe one which I purchased at Olivenças, as I told you on a formeroccasion; it is good and fleet, and cost me, who am a gipsy, fifty_chulé_: upon that _gras_ you shall ride. As for myself, I will journeyupon the _macho_. 

_Myself_--Before I answer you, I shall wish you to inform me whatbusiness it is which renders your presence necessary in Castumba: yourson-in-law Paco told me that it was no longer the custom of the gipsiesto wander. 

_Antonio_--It is an affair of Egypt, brother, and I shall not acquaintyou with it; peradventure it relates to a horse or an ass, orperadventure it relates to a mule or a _macho_; it does not relate toyourself, therefore I advise you not to inquire about it--_Dosta_. Withrespect to my offer, you are free to decline it; there is a _drungruje_between here and Madrilati, and you call travel it in the _birdoche_, or with the _dromalis_; but I tell you, as a brother, that there are_chories_ upon the _drun_, and some of them are of the Errate. 

--Certainly few people in my situation would have accepted the offer ofthis singular gipsy. It was not, however, without its allurements forme; I was fond of adventure, and what more ready means of gratifying mylove of it than by putting myself under the hands of such a guide? Thereare many who would have been afraid of treachery, but I had no fears onthis point, as I did not believe that the fellow harbored the slightestill-intention towards me; I saw that he was fully convinced that I wasone of the Errate, and his affection for his own race, and his hatredfor the Busné, were his strongest characteristics. I wished moreover tolay hold of every opportunity of making myself acquainted with the waysof the Spanish gipsies, and an excellent one here presented itself on myfirst entrance into Spain. In a word, I determined to accompany thegipsy. "I will go with you, " I exclaimed; "as for my baggage, I willdispatch it to Madrid by the _birdoche_. " "Do so, brother, " he replied, "and the _gras_ will go lighter. Baggage, indeed!--what need of baggagehave you? How the Busné on the road would laugh if they saw two Caléswith baggage behind them!"

During my stay at Badajoz I had but little intercourse with theSpaniards, my time being chiefly devoted to the gipsies: with whom, fromlong intercourse with various sections of their race in different partsof the world, I felt myself much more at home than with the silent, reserved men of Spain, with whom a foreigner might mingle for half acentury without having half a dozen words addressed to him, unless hehimself made the first advances to intimacy, which after all might berejected with a shrug and a _no entiendo_; for among the many deeplyrooted prejudices of these people is the strange idea that no foreignercan speak their language, an idea to which they will still cling thoughthey hear him conversing with perfect ease; for in that case the utmostthat they will concede to his attainments is, "Habla quatro palabras ynada mas. " (He can speak four words, and no more. )

Early one morning, before sunrise, I found myself at the house ofAntonio; it was a small mean building, situated in a dirty street. Themorning was quite dark; the street, however, was partially illumined bya heap of lighted straw, round which two or three men were busilyengaged, apparently holding an object over the flames. Presently thegipsy's door opened, and Antonio made his appearance; and casting hiseye in the direction of the light, exclaimed, "The swine have killedtheir brother; would that every Busnó was served as yonder hog is. Comein, brother, and we will eat the heart of that hog. " I scarcelyunderstood his words, but following him, he led me into a low room, inwhich was a _brasero_, or small pan full of lighted charcoal; beside itwas a rude table, spread with a coarse linen cloth, upon which was breadand a large pipkin full of a mess which emitted no disagreeable savor. "The heart of the _balichó_ is in that _puchera_, " said Antonio; "eat, brother. " We both sat down and ate--Antonio voraciously. When we hadconcluded he arose. "Have you got your _li_?" he demanded. "Here it is, "said I, showing him my passport. "Good, " said he; "you may want it, Iwant none: my passport is the _bar lachí_. Now for a glass of _repañi_, and then for the road. "

We left the room, the door of which he locked, hiding the key beneath aloose brick in a corner of the passage. "Go into the street, brother, whilst I fetch the _caballerias_ from the stable. " I obeyed him. The sunhad not yet risen, and the air was piercingly cold; the gray light, however, of dawn enabled me to distinguish objects with tolerableaccuracy; I soon heard the clattering of the animal's feet, and Antoniopresently stepped forth, leading the horse by the bridle; the _macho_followed behind. I looked at the horse, and shrugged my shoulders. Asfar as I could scan it, it appeared the most uncouth animal I had everbeheld. It was of a spectral white, short in the body, but withremarkably long legs. I observed that it was particularly high in the_cruz_, or withers. "You are looking at the _grasti_, " said Antonio: "itis eighteen years old, but it is the very best in the Chim del Manró; Ihave long had my eye upon it; I bought it for my own use for the affairsof Egypt. Mount, brother, mount, and let us leave the _foros_--the gateis about being opened. "

He locked the door, and deposited the key in his _faja_. In less than aquarter of an hour we had left the town behind us. "This does not appearto be a very good horse, " said I to Antonio, as we proceeded over theplain: "it is with difficulty that I can make him move. "

"He is the swiftest horse in the Chim del Manró, brother, " said Antonio;"at the gallop and at the speedy trot, there is no one to match him. But he is eighteen years old, and his joints are stiff, especially of amorning; but let him once become heated, and the _genio del viejo_ comesupon him, and there is no holding him in with bit or bridle. I boughtthat horse for the affairs of Egypt, brother. "

About noon we arrived at a small village in the neighborhood of a highlumpy hill. "There is no Caló house in this place, " said Antonio: "wewill therefore go to the _posada_ of the Busné and refresh ourselves, man and beast. " We entered the kitchen and sat down at the board, calling for wine and bread. There were two ill-looking fellows in thekitchen smoking cigars. I said something to Antonio in theCaló language. 

"What is that I hear?" said one of the fellows, who was distinguished byan immense pair of mustaches. "What is that I hear? Is it in Caló thatyou are speaking before me, and I a _chalan_ and national? Accursedgipsy, how dare you enter this _posada_ and speak before me in thatspeech? Is it not forbidden by the law of the land in which we are, evenas it is forbidden for a gipsy to enter the _mercado_? I tell you what, friend, if I hear another word of Caló come from your mouth, I willcudgel your bones and send you flying over the house-tops with a kickof my foot. "

"You would do right, " said his companion; "the insolence of thesegipsies is no longer to be borne. When I am at Merida or Badajoz I go tothe _mercado_, and there in a corner stand the accursed gipsies, jabbering to each other in a speech which I understand not. 'Gipsygentleman, ' say I to one of them, 'what will you have for that donkey?''I will have ten dollars for it, _Caballero national_, ' says the gipsy:'it is the best donkey in all Spain. ' 'I should like to see its paces, 'say I. 'That you shall, most valorous!' says the gipsy, and jumping uponits back, he puts it to its paces, first of all whispering somethinginto its ear in Caló; and truly the paces of the donkey are mostwonderful, such as I have never seen before. I think it will just suitme; and after looking at it awhile, I take out the money and pay for it. 'I shall go to my house, ' says the gipsy; and off he runs. 'I shall goto my village, ' say I, and I mount the donkey, 'Vamonos, ' say I, but thedonkey won't move. I give him a switch, but I don't get on the betterfor that. What happens then, brother? The wizard no sooner feels theprick than he bucks down, and flings me over his head into the mire. Iget up and look about me; there stands the donkey staring at me, andthere stand the whole gipsy _canaille_ squinting at me with their filmyeyes. 'Where is the scamp who has sold me this piece of furniture?' Ishout. 'He is gone to Granada, valorous, ' says one. 'He is gone to seehis kindred among the Moors, ' says another. 'I just saw him running overthe field, in the direction of ----, with the devil close behind him, 'says a third. In a word, I am tricked. I wish to dispose of the donkey:no one, however, will buy him; he is a Caló donkey, and every personavoids him. At last the gipsies offer thirty _reals_ for him; and aftermuch chaffering I am glad to get rid of him at two dollars. It is all atrick, however; he returns to his master, and the brotherhood share thespoil amongst them: all which villainy would be prevented, in myopinion, were the Caló language not spoken; for what but the word ofCaló could have induced the donkey to behave in such anunaccountable manner?"

Both seemed perfectly satisfied with the justness of this conclusion, and continued smoking till their cigars were burnt to stumps, when theyarose, twitched their whiskers, looked at us with fierce disdain, anddashing the tobacco-ends to the ground, strode out of the apartment. 

"Those people seem no friends to the gipsies, " said I to Antonio, whenthe two bullies had departed; "nor to the Caló language either. "

"May evil glanders seize their nostrils, " said Antonio: "they have been_jonjabadoed_ by our people. However, brother, you did wrong to speak tome in Caló, in a _posada_ like this: it is a forbidden language; for, asI have often told you, the king has destroyed the law of the Calés. Letus away, brother, or those _juntunes_ may set the _justicia_ upon us. "

Towards evening we drew near to a large town or village. "That isMerida, " said Antonio, "formerly, as the Busné say, a mighty city of theCorahai. We shall stay here to-night, and perhaps for a day or two, forI have some business of Egypt to transact in this place. Now, brother, step aside with the horse, and wait for me beneath yonder wall. I mustgo before and see in what condition matters stand. "

I dismounted from the horse, and sat down on a stone beneath the ruinedwall to which Antonio had motioned me. The sun went down, and the airwas exceedingly keen; I drew close around me an old tattered gipsycloak with which my companion had provided me, and being somewhatfatigued, fell into a doze which lasted for nearly an hour. 

"Is your worship the London Caloró?" said a strange voice close besideme. 

I started, and beheld the face of a woman peering under my hat. Notwithstanding the dusk, I could see that the features were hideouslyugly and almost black; they belonged, in fact, to a gipsy crone at leastseventy years of age, leaning upon a staff. 

"Is your worship the London Caloró?" repeated she. 

"I am he whom you seek, " said I; "where is Antonio?"

"Curelando, curelando; baribustres curelós terela, " said the crone. "Come with me, Caloró of my _garlochin_, come with me to my little_ker_; he will be there anon. "

I followed the crone, who led the way into the town, which was ruinousand seemingly half deserted; we went up the street, from which sheturned into a narrow and dark lane, and presently opened the gate of alarge dilapidated house. "Come in, " said she. 

"And the _gras_?" I demanded. 

"Bring the _gras_ in too, my _chabó_, bring the _gras_ in too; there isroom for the _gras_ in my little stable. " We entered a large court, across which we proceeded till we came to a wide doorway. "Go in, mychild of Egypt, " said the hag; "go in, that is my little stable. "

"The place is as dark as pitch, " said I, "and may be a well for what Iknow; bring a light, or I will not enter. "

"Give me the _solabarri_, " said the hag, "and I will lead your horse in, my _chabó_ of Egypt--yes, and tether him to my little manger. "

She led the horse through the doorway, and I heard her busy in thedarkness; presently the horse shook himself. "_Grasti terelamos_, " saidthe hag, who now made her appearance with the bridle in her hand; "thehorse has shaken himself, he is not harmed by his day's journey; now letus go in, my Caloró, into my little room. "

We entered the house, and found ourselves in a vast room, which wouldhave been quite dark but for a faint glow which appeared at the fartherend: it proceeded from a _brasero_, beside which were squatted twodusky figures. 

"These are Callées, " said the hag; "one is my daughter and the other isher _chabi_. Sit down, my London Caloró, and let us hear you speak. "

I looked about for a chair, but could see none: at a short distance, however, I perceived the end of a broken pillar lying on the floor; thisI rolled to the _brasero_, and sat down upon it. 

"This is a fine house, mother of the gipsies, " said I to the hag, willing to gratify the desire she had expressed of hearing me speak; "afine house is this of yours, rather cold and damp, though; it appearslarge enough to be a barrack for _hundunares_. "

"Plenty of houses in this _foros_, plenty of houses in Merida, my LondonCaloró, some of them just as they were left by the Corahanós. Ah! a finepeople are the Corahanós; I often wish myself in their _chim_once more. "

"How is this, mother?" said I; "have you been in the land of the Moors?"

"Twice have I been in their country, my Caloró--twice have I been in theland of the Corahai. The first time is more than fifty years ago; I wasthen with the Sesé, for my husband was a soldier of the Crallis ofSpain, and Oran at that time belonged to Spain. "

"You were not then with the real Moors, " said I, "but only with theSpaniards who occupied part of their country. "

"I have been with the real Moors, my London Caloró. Who knows more ofthe real Moors than myself? About forty years ago I was with my _ro_ inCeuta, for he was still a soldier of the king; and he said to me oneday, 'I am tired of this place, where there is no bread and less water;I will escape and turn Corahanó; this night I will kill my sergeant, andflee to the camp of the Moor, ' 'Do so, ' said I, 'my _chabó_, and as soonas may be I will follow you and become a Corahani. ' That same night hekilled his sergeant, who five years before had called him Caló andcursed him; then running to the wall he dropped from it, and amidst manyshots he escaped to the land of the Corahai. As for myself, I remainedin the presidio of Ceuta as a sutler, selling wine and _repañí_ to thesoldiers. Two years passed by, and I neither saw nor heard from my _ro_. One day there came a strange man to my _cachimani_; he was dressed likea Corahanó, and yet he did not look like one; he looked more like a_callardó_, and yet he was not a _callardó_ either, though he was almostblack; and as I looked upon him, I thought he looked something like theErrate; and he said to me, 'Zincali, chachipé!' and then he whispered tome in queer language, which I could scarcely understand, 'Your _ro_ iswaiting; come with me, my little sister, and I will take you unto him. ''Where is he?' said I, and he pointed to the west, to the land of theCorahai, and said, 'He is yonder away; come with me, little sister, the_ro_ is waiting. ' For a moment I was afraid, but I bethought me of myhusband, and I wished to be amongst the Corahai; so I took the little_parné_ I had, and locking up the _cachimani_, went with the strangeman. The sentinel challenged us at the gate, but I gave him _repañí_, and he let us pass; in a moment we were in the land of the Corahai. About a league from the town, beneath a hill, we found four people, menand women, all very black like the strange man, and we joined ourselveswith them, and they all saluted me, 'little sister. ' That was all Iunderstood of their discourse, which was very crabbed; and they tookaway my dress and gave me other clothes, and I looked like a Corahani;and away we marched for many days amidst deserts and small villages, andmore than once it seemed to me that I was amongst the Errate, for theirways were the same. The men would _hokkawar_ with mules and asses, andthe women told _baji_, and after many days we came before a large town, and the black man said, 'Go in there, little sister, and there you willfind your _ro_;' and I went to the gate, and an armed Corahanó stoodwithin the gate, and I looked in his face, and lo! it was my _ro_. 

"Oh, what a strange town it was that I found myself in, full of peoplewho had once been Candoré, but had renegaded and become Corahai! Therewere Sesé and Laloré, and men of other nations, and amongst them weresome of the Errate from my own country; all were now soldiers of theCrallis of the Corahai, and followed him to his wars; and in that town Iremained with my _ro_ a long time, occasionally going out to him to thewars; and I often asked him about the black men who had brought methither, and he told me that he had had dealings with them, and that hebelieved them to be of the Errate. Well, brother, to be short, my _ro_was killed in the wars, before a town to which the king of the Corahailaid siege, and I became a _piuli_, and I returned to the village of therenegades, as it was called, and supported myself as well as I could;and one day, as I was sitting weeping, the black man, whom I had neverseen since the day he brought me to my _ro_, again stood before me, andhe said, 'Come with me, little sister, come with me; the _ro_ is athand;' and I went with him, and beyond the gate in the desert was thesame party of black men and women which I had seen before. 'Where is my_ro_?' said I. 'Here he is, little sister, ' said the black man, 'here heis; from this day I am the _ro_ and you are the _romi_. Come, let us go, for there is business to be done. '

"And I went with him, and he was my _ro_, and we lived amongst thedeserts, and _hokkawar'd_ and _choried_ and told _baji_; and I said tomyself, 'This is good; sure, I am amongst the Errate in a better _chim_than my own. ' And I often said that they were of the Errate, and thenthey would laugh and say that it might be so, and that they were notCorahai, but they could give no account of themselves. 

"Well, things went on in this way for years, and I had three _chai_ bythe black man; two of them died, but the youngest, who is the Calli whosits by the _brasero_, was spared. So we roamed about and _choried_ andtold _baji_; and it came to pass that once in the winter time ourcompany attempted to pass a wide and deep river, of which there are manyin the Chim del Corahai, and the boat overset with the rapidity of thecurrent, and all our people were drowned, all but myself and my _chabi_, whom I bore in my bosom. I had no friends amongst the Corahai, and Iwandered about the _despoblados_ howling and lamenting till I becamehalf _lili_, and in this manner I found my way to the coast, where Imade friends with the captain of a ship, and returned to this land ofSpain. And now I am here, I often wish myself back again amongstthe Corahai. "

Here she commenced laughing loud and long; and when she had ceased, herdaughter and grandchild took up the laugh, which they continued so longthat I concluded they were all lunatics. 

Hour succeeded hour, and still we sat crouching over the _brasero_, fromwhich, by this time, all warmth had departed; the glow had long sincedisappeared, and only a few dying sparks were to be distinguished. Theroom or hall was now involved in utter darkness; the women weremotionless and still; I shivered and began to feel uneasy. "Will Antoniobe here to-night?" at length I demanded. 

"_No tenga usted cuidado_, my London Caloró, " said the gipsy mother inan unearthly tone; "Pepindorio has been here some time. "

I was about to rise from my seat and attempt to escape from the house, when I felt a hand laid upon my shoulder, and in a moment I heard thevoice of Antonio:--

"Be not afraid; 'tis I, brother. We will have a light anon, and thensupper. "

The supper was rude enough, consisting of bread, cheese, and olives;Antonio, however, produced a leathern bottle of excellent wine. Wedispatched these viands by the light of an earthen lamp, which wasplaced upon the floor. 

"Now, " said Antonio to the youngest female, "bring me the _pajandi_, andI will sing a _gachapla_. "

The girl brought the guitar, which with some difficulty the gipsy tuned, and then, strumming it vigorously, he sang:--

 "I stole a plump and bonny fowl, But ere I well had dined, The master came with scowl and growl, And me would captive bind. 

 "My hat and mantle off I threw, And scoured across the lea; Then cried the _beng_ with loud halloo, 'Where does the gipsy flee?'"

He continued playing and singing for a considerable time, the twoyounger females dancing in the meanwhile with unwearied diligence, whilst the aged mother occasionally snapped her fingers or beat time onthe ground with her stick. At last Antonio suddenly laid down theinstrument, exclaiming:--

"I see the London Caloró is weary; enough, enough, to-morrow morethereof. We will now to the _charipé_. "

"With all my heart, " said I: "where are we to sleep?"

"In the stable, " said he, "in the manger; however cold the stable maybe, we shall be warm enough in the _bufa_. "

We remained three days at the gipsies' house, Antonio departing earlyevery morning on his mule, and returning late at night. The house waslarge and ruinous, the only habitable part of it with the exception ofthe stable being the hall, where we had supped; and there the gipsyfemales slept at night, on some mats and mattresses in a corner. 

"A strange house is this, " said I to Antonio, one morning as he was onthe point of saddling his mule, and departing, as I supposed, on theaffairs of Egypt; "a strange house and strange people. That gipsygrandmother has all the appearance of a _sowanee_. "

"All the appearance of one!" said Antonio; "and is she not really one?She knows more crabbed things and crabbed words than all the Erratebetwixt here and Catalonia. She has been amongst the wild Moors, and canmake more _draos_, poisons, and philtres than any one alive. She oncemade a kind of paste, and persuaded me to taste, and shortly after I haddone so my soul departed from my body, and wandered through horridforests and mountains, amidst monsters and _duendes_, during one entirenight. She learned many things amidst the Corahai which I should beglad to know. "

"Have you been long acquainted with her?" said I. "You appear to bequite at home in this house. "

"Acquainted with her!" said Antonio. "Did not my own brother marry theblack Calli, her daughter, who bore him the _chabí_, sixteen years ago, just before he was hanged by the Busné?"

In the afternoon I was seated with the gipsy mother in the hall; the twoCallées were absent telling fortunes about the town and neighborhood, which was their principal occupation. 

"Are you married, my London Caloró?" said the old woman to me. "Are youa _ro_?"

_Myself_--Wherefore do you ask, O Dai de los Calés?

_Gipsy Mother_--It is high time that the _lacha_ of the _chabi_ weretaken from her, and that she had a _ro_. You can do no better than takeher for _romi_, my London Caloró. 

_Myself_--I am a stranger in this land, O mother of the gipsies, andscarcely know how to provide for myself, much less for a _romi_. 

_Gipsy Mother_--She wants no one to provide for her, my London Caloró:she can at any time provide for herself and her _ro_. She can_hokkawar_, tell _baji_, and there are few to equal her at stealing _àpastesas_. Were she once at Madrilati, where they tell me you are going, she would make much treasure; therefore take her thither, for in this_foros_ she is _nahi_, as it were, for there is nothing to be gained:but in the _foros baro_ it would be another matter; she would go dressedin _lachipé_ and _sonacai_, whilst you would ride about on yourblack-tailed _gra_; and when you had got much treasure, you might returnhither and live like a Crallis, and all the Errate of the Chim del Manróshould bow down their heads to you. What say you, my London Caloró;what say you to my plan?

_Myself_--Your plan is a plausible one, mother, or at least some peoplewould think so; but I am, as you are aware, of another _chim_, and haveno inclination to pass my life in this country. 

_Gipsy Mother_--Then return to your own country, my Caloró; the _chabí_can cross the _paní_. Would she not do business in London with the restof the Caloré? Or why not go to the land of the Corahai? In which case Iwould accompany you; I and my daughter, the mother of the _chabí_. 

_Myself_--And what should we do in the land of the Corahai? It is a poorand wild country, I believe. 

_Gipsy Mother_--The London Caloró asks me what we could do in the landof the Corahai! _Aromali_! I almost think that I am speaking to a_lilipendi_. Are there not horses to _chore?_ Yes, I trow there are, andbetter ones than in this land, and asses, and mules. In the land of theCorahai you must _hokkawar_ and _chore_ even as you must here, or inyour own country, or else you are no Caloró. Can you not join yourselveswith the black people who live in the _despoblados_? Yes, surely; andglad they would be to have among them the Errate from Spain and London. I am seventy years of age, but I wish not to die in this _chim_, butyonder, far away, where both my _roms_ are sleeping. Take the _chabí_, therefore, and go to Madrilati to win the _parné_; and when you have gotit, return, and we will give a banquet to all the Busné in Merida, andin their food I will mix _drao_, and they shall eat and burst likepoisoned sheep. .. . And when they have eaten we will leave them, and awayto the land of the Moor, my London Caloró. 

During the whole time that I remained at Merida I stirred not once fromthe house; following the advice of Antonio, who informed me that itwould not be convenient. My time lay rather heavily on my hands, my onlysource of amusement consisting in the conversation of the women, and inthat of Antonio when he made his appearance at night. In these_tertulias_ the grandmother was the principal spokeswoman, andastonished my ears with wonderful tales of the land of the Moors, prisonescapes, thievish feats, and one or two poisoning adventures, in whichshe had been engaged, as she informed me, in her early youth. 

There was occasionally something very wild in her gestures, anddemeanor; more than once I observed her, in the midst of muchdeclamation, to stop short, stare in vacancy, and thrust out her palmsas if endeavoring to push away some invisible substance; she goggledfrightfully with her eyes, and once sank back in convulsions, of whichher children took no further notice than observing that she was only_lili_, and would soon come to herself. 

JUAN BOSCAN

(1493-?1540)

The reign of Juan the Second of Spain (1406-1454), characterized as itwas by a succession of conspiracies and internal commotions, representsalso one of the most important epochs in the history of Spanish poetry, which up to that period had found expression almost exclusively in thecrude though spirited historical and romantic ballads of anonymousorigin: Iliads without a Homer, as Lope de Vega called them. The firstto attempt a reform in Castilian verse was the Marquis of Villena (died1434), who introduced the allegory and a tendency to imitate classicalmodels; and although he himself left nothing of consequence, hisinfluence is plainly revealed in the works of his far greater pupils andsuccessors, the Marquis of Santillana and Juan de Mena. Strangelyenough, the reigns of Ferdinand and Isabella, and of the AustrianCharles the Fifth, covering the most brilliant and momentous period inSpanish history, are yet marked by comparative stagnation in lettersuntil after the first quarter of the sixteenth century. During thegreater part of this period the increasing pomp and formality of thecourt rendered the poetry correspondingly artificial and insincere. Itwas not in fact until after many years of constant intercourse withRome, Naples, and Florence, while the bulk of the noble youth of Spainresorted to the universities of those cities for higher education, thata wide-spread and profound admiration for Italian culture and refinementbegan to pave the way for another and more important revolution inCastilian poetry than that inaugurated by Villena. 

Juan Boscan Almogaver, who was the first of his nation to compose versesafter the manner of Petrarch, and whose successors in the sixteenthcentury include some of the most brilliant and inspired lyrists ofSpain, was born in 1493 at Barcelona, a city which had witnessed therecent triumphs of the Provencal Troubadours. Boscan, however, from thebeginning of his career, preferred to write in Castilian rather than inthe Limosin dialect. Of patrician descent, and possessed of ample means, he entered the army like the majority of the young nobles of his age. After a brief but honorable service as a soldier he traveled extensivelyabroad, which led to his becoming deeply interested in the literatureand art of Italy. Meanwhile he had produced verses in the ancient lyricstyle, but with only a moderate measure of success. 

The year 1526 found Boscan at Granada, where Andrea Navagiero, Ambassador from Venice to the Court of Charles the Fifth, was then inresidence. A common love of letters drew the two young men into closestintimacy with each other. "Being with Navagiero there one day, " saysBoscan in his 'Letter to the Duquesa de Soma, ' "and discoursing with himabout matters of wit and letters, and especially about the differentforms they take in different languages, he asked me why I did not makean experiment in Castilian of sonnets and the other forms of verse usedby good Italian authors; and not only spoke to me of it thus slightly, but urged me to do it. .. . And thus I began to try this kind of verse. Atfirst I found it somewhat difficult; for it is of a very artfulconstruction, and in many particulars different from ours. Butafterwards it seemed to me--perhaps from the love we naturally bear towhat is our own--that I began to succeed very well; and so I went onlittle by little with increasing zeal. " Little dreamed the Venetiandiplomat that, owing to his friendly advice, a school was destined toarise shortly in the poetry of Spain which would by no means have ceasedto exist after the lapse of nearly four centuries. From that day Boscandevoted himself to the exclusive composition of verses in the Italianmeasure, undeterred by the bitter opposition of the partisans of the oldschool. The incomparable Garcilaso de la Vega, then scarcely past hismajority, warmly supported the innovation of his beloved friend, andsoon far surpassed Boscan himself as a writer of sonnets and _canzones_. 

The Barcelonese poet spent the remainder of his life in comparativeretirement, although he appeared occasionally at court, and at one timesuperintended the education of the young Duke of Alva, whose nameafterwards became one of such terror in the annals of the Netherlands. Boscan's death took place at Perpignan about 1540. 

An edition of Boscan's poems, together with those of his friendGarcilaso, was published at Barcelona in 1543. The collection is dividedinto four books, three of which are devoted to the productions of theelder poet. The first consists of his early efforts in the old style, songs and ballads--'Canciones y Coplas. ' The second and third bookscontain ninety-three sonnets and _canzones_; a long poem on Hero andLeander in blank verse; an elegy and two didactic epistles in terzarima, and a half-narrative, half-allegorical poem in one hundred andthirty-five octavo stanzas. The sonnets and _canzones_ are obviousimitations of Petrarch; yet at the same time they are stamped with aspirit essentially Spanish, and occasionally evince a deep passion andmelody of their own, although they may lack the subtle fascination oftheir exquisite models. The 'Allegory, ' with its cleverly contrastedcourts of Love and Jealousy, suggests the airy, graceful humor ofAriosto, and is perhaps the most agreeable and original of all Boscan'sworks. The 'Epistle to Mendoza' is conceived in the manner of Horace, and amidst a fund of genial philosophic comment, contains a charmingpicture of the poet's domestic happiness. He also left a number oftranslations from the classics. 

While in no sense a great poet, Boscan united simplicity, dignity, andclassical taste in a remarkable degree; and, inclined as he seemed toentirely banish the ancient form of verse, he yet beyond questionintroduced a kind of poetry which was developed to a high degree ofperfection in the Castilian tongue, and which may be studied with keendelight at this day in some of the noblest poetical monuments of Spanishliterature. 

The best modern edition of Boscan's works is published under the titleof 'Las Obras de Juan Boscan' (Madrid, 1875). 

 ON THE DEATH OF GARCILASO

 Tell me, dear Garcilaso, --thou Who ever aim'dst at Good, And in the spirit of thy vow, So swift her course pursued That thy few steps sufficed to place The angel in thy loved embrace, Won instant, soon as wooed, -- Why took'st thou not, when winged to flee From this dark world, Boscan with thee?

 Why, when ascending to the star Where now thou sitt'st enshrined, Left'st thou thy weeping friend afar, Alas! so far behind? Oh, I do think, had it remained With thee to alter aught ordained By the Eternal Mind, Thou wouldst not on this desert spot Have left thy other self forgot!

 For if through life thy love was such As still to take a pride In having me so oft and much Close to thy envied side, -- I cannot doubt, I must believe, Thou wouldst at least have taken leave Of me; or, if denied, Have come back afterwards, unblest Till I too shared thy heavenly rest. 

 Translation of Wipfen. 

_DOMESTIC HAPPINESS_. 

Photogravure from a Painting by Eugen Klimsch. 

[Illustration]

 A PICTURE OF DOMESTIC HAPPINESS

 From 'Epistle to Mendoza'

 This peace that makes a happy life, -- And that is mine through my sweet wife; Beginning of my soul, and end, I've gained new being through this friend;-- She fills each thought and each desire, Up to the height I would aspire. This bliss is never found by ranging; Regret still springs from saddest changing; Such loves, and their beguiling pleasures, Are falser still than magic treasures, Which gleam at eve with golden color, And change to ashes ere the morrow. 

 But now each good that I possess, Rooted in truth and faithfulness, Imparts delight to every sense; For erst they were a mere pretense, And long before enjoyed they were, They changed their smiles to grisly care. Now pleasures please; love being single, Evils with its delights ne'er mingle. 

 * * * * *

 And thus, by moderation bounded, I live by my own goods surrounded, Among my friends, my table spread With viands we may eat nor dread; And at my side my sweetest wife, Whose gentleness admits no strife, --

 Except of jealousy the fear, Whose soft reproaches more endear; Our darling children round us gather, -- Children who will make me grandfather. And thus we pass in town our days, Till the confinement something weighs; Then to our village haunt we fly, Taking some pleasant company, -- While those we love not never come Anear our rustic, leafy home. 

 For better 'tis to philosophize, And learn a lesson truly wise From lowing herd and bleating flock, Than from some men of vulgar stock; And rustics, as they hold the plough, May often good advice bestow. Of love, too, we may have the joy: For Phoebus as a shepherd-boy Wandered once among the clover, Of some fair shepherdess the lover; And Venus wept, in rustic bower, Adonis turned to purple flower. And Bacchus 'midst the mountains drear Forgot the pangs of jealous fear;

 And nymphs that in the water play ('Tis thus that ancient fables say), And Dryads fair among the trees, Fain the sprightly Fauns would please. So in their footsteps follow we, -- My wife and I, --as fond and free, Love in our thoughts and in our talk; Direct we slow our sauntering walk To some near murmuring rivulet, Where 'neath a shady beech we sit, Hand clasped in hand, and side by side, -- With some sweet kisses, too, beside, -- Contending there, in combat kind, Which best can love with constant mind. 

 * * * * *

 Thus our village life we live, And day by day such joys receive; Till, to change the homely scene, Lest it pall while too serene, To the gay city we remove, Where other things there are to love; And graced by novelty, we find The city's concourse to our mind; While our new coming gives a joy Which ever staying might destroy. We spare all tedious compliment; Yet courtesy with kind intent, Which savage tongues alone abuse, Will often the same language use. 

 * * * * *

 And Monleon, our dearest guest, Will raise our mirth by many a jest; For while his laughter rings again, Can we to echo it refrain? And other merriment is ours, To gild with joy the lightsome hours. But all too trivial would it look, Written down gravely in a book: And it is time to say adieu, Though more I have to write to you. Another letter this shall tell: So now, my dearest friend, farewell. 

JACQUES BÉNIGNE BOSSUET

(1627-1704)

BY ADOLPHE COHN

Jaques Bénigne Bossuet, sacred orator, historian, theologian, andcontroversialist, was born in Dijon, capital of the then Burgundy, onSeptember 27th, 1627. There is no question but he is the greatestCatholic divine whom France ever knew, and one of the greatest, some say_the_ greatest, of prose writers and orators of that country. Hisimportance in the literary history of France is due, moreover, notsimply to the high excellence of his productions, but fully as much totheir representative character. The power that was wielded with absoluteauthority by Louis XIV. Found in Bossuet the theorist who gave it aphilosophical basis, and justified to the Frenchmen of the seventeenthcentury the conditions under which they lived. 

[Illustration: BOSSUET]

The future educator of Louis XIV. 's son sprang, like most of the greatFrenchmen of that time, from the upper ranks of the _bourgeoisie_. TheBossuet family had been for a long time honorably connected with thelegal profession and the judiciary: the father of Jacques Bénigne was in1627 a counselor practicing before the "Parlement de Dijon, " where hisown father had sat as "Conseiller, " or Associate Justice. Later in lifehe was himself called to a seat on the bench, when a new Parlement wasorganized in the city of Metz for the province of Lorraine (1638). Tenyears later (January 24th, 1648) Bossuet, who had received his educationpartly from the Jesuits of Dijon, partly in the celebrated Collège deNavarre in Paris, and who had been shriven for the Catholic priesthoodwhen only eight years of age, made what may be called his first publicappearance when he defended his first thesis in theology. With thisimportant event of his life we find connected the name of the mostbrilliant Frenchman of that time, the celebrated Prince deCondé, --famous already by many victories, though hardly twenty-six yearsof age, --who attended the disputation and had allowed the youngtheologian to dedicate his thesis to him. Thirty-nine years later, aftera long period of close friendship, their names were again associatedwhen the illustrious Bishop of Meaux delivered the funeral oration ofthe great warrior, and announced, at the close of a magnificent eulogy, that this would be the last occasion on which he would devote hisoratory to the praises of any man; a promise which he kept, though heoutlived his friend for no less than seventeen years. 

Bossuet's period of study lasted until the year 1652, when at the age oftwenty-five he was appointed Archdeacon of Sarrebourg. By virtue of hisposition he thenceforward, for no less than seven years, resided inMetz, a city whose peculiar position, especially in religious matters, exerted a powerful influence over the direction of his wholeintellectual life. He found there what was very rare then in France, representatives of three religions. In addition to the Catholics to whomhe was to minister, there were in Metz numerous Protestants, --bothLutherans, and Calvinists or Presbyterians, --and a not inconsiderablenumber of Jews; and the city was used to continuous theologicalcontroversy between minister, rabbi, and priest. The Protestants of Metzreceived the teachings of two brilliant ministers, David Ancillon andPaul Ferri, the latter of whom soon published a Catechism which wasconsidered by the whole body of French Protestantism the clearestexposition of its doctrines. The Catholic clergy of France had then notyet renounced the hope of bringing all the inhabitants of the country toplace themselves voluntarily under the spiritual guidance of Rome; andthe conversions that were announced from time to time from the upperranks both of Protestantism and Judaism to a certain degree justifiedsuch a hope. 

Bossuet, while constantly improving his knowledge of the writings of theFathers, especially of St. Augustine, threw himself into the contestwith characteristic energy. As against the Jews he tried to demonstratethat the coming of Christ is clearly foretold in the Prophecies. He thusbecame more familiar with the Old Testament than any other Catholictheologian of his time, and so far molded his style on that of the Biblethat it soon became difficult to distinguish in his productions thatwhich came out of the sacred writings from the utterances which belongedonly to him. This was done, however, strange to say, without anyknowledge of the Hebrew language. Bossuet never read the Bible except inGreek or Latin. There was no good French version of the Bible; and itmay be stated here that there is none to the present day which occupiesin the French language anything like the position held in English by theBible of King James, or in German by Luther's version. 

His attitude in regard to the Protestants is more interesting, becausemore characteristic of the time in which he lived. France in theseventeenth century had become convinced that harmony, unity, fixedness, are the clearest manifestations of truth, the best guaranteesof peace, happiness, and prosperity; that variety and change are signsof error and harbingers of disaster. Bossuet's whole effort in hiscontroversy with Protestantism was directed towards demonstrating thatProtestantism lacks and that Catholicism possesses the traits which wereconsidered by his contemporaries to clearly belong to truth; and as hisopponents were not unwilling to follow him on his chosen ground, as theynever for a moment denied his main proposition, --his statement of thecharacteristics of truth, --as he even managed during the controversy tobring about a number of conversions to Catholicism, he left Metz fullyconvinced that he was waging a successful warfare upon unassailableground. 

He had been in Paris less than a year when an event happened which madehim doubly sure of the soundness of his position, and tenfold increasedhis belief in the ultimate victory of his Church over all otherdenominations. The Commonwealth of England collapsed, and Charles II. Was called to the throne from which his father had been hurled by OliverCromwell. Nothing can give any idea of the shock experienced by Franceon hearing of the development and success of the Great Rebellion inEngland. No Frenchman at that time understood what the EnglishConstitution was. The course of French history had led the people ofFrance to put all the strength they possessed in the hands of theirkings, and to treat as a public enemy any one who resisted, or evenattempted to limit in any way, the royal authority. To people holdingsuch opinions the English nation after the month of January, 1649, appeared as a nation of parricides. And the feeling was intensified bythe fact that the wife of the beheaded king, Henrietta Maria, was asister of the King of France, a daughter of the beloved Henry IV. , whosedeath by Ravaillac's dagger was still mourned by every French patriot. The triumph of Cromwell, the proud position which England occupied inEurope during his protectorate, left however hardly any hope that therebellious nation would ever acknowledge the errors of her ways; and lo!in a moment, without any effort on his part, without any struggle, thedead king's son resumed his rights, and every one who had been in armsagainst him lay prostrate at his feet. The same nation that had rebelledagainst the levying of the "ship money" and the proceedings of the StarChamber allowed Charles II. Almost as absolute an authority as ever theKing of France possessed. Once cured of her political errors, wasEngland not to be soon cured of her theological errors? After repentingher rebellion against the King, was she not to repent her rebellionagainst the Pope? Such were the questions which Bossuet, which the wholeof France, began to ask. Or rather, these were to them no longerquestions: the people of France began to look across the Channel withconfident expectation of a religious counter-revolution. The collapseof the Commonwealth could not but be followed by the collapse of theReformation. 

When Louis XIV. , after Cardinal Mazarin's death, took in his own handsthe management of the affairs of the State; when the marriage of thebrilliant Henrietta of England with the Duke of Orleans made the sisterof the English King a sister-in-law to the King of France; when triumphafter triumph on the field of war, of diplomacy, of literature, of art, added to the power and glory of France, which had never swerved in herallegiance either to King or Church, --the feeling grew that only inunity of Faith, Law, and King were truth and prosperity to be found bynations. The saying "Une foi, une loi, un roi" (one faith, one law, oneking), which may be said to sum up Bossuet's religious, social, andpolitical beliefs, seemed to all an incontrovertible andself-evident axiom. 

These were the times when Bossuet's utterances grew in power andmagnificence. He was heard in a number of Parisian churches; he washeard at court, where he several times was appointed preacher either forAdvent or Lent; he delivered panegyrics of saints, and was called uponto eulogize in death those who had held the highest rank in life. He hadjust delivered the most splendid and the most touching of his funeralorations, those on Henrietta of France, widow of Charles I. Of England(November 16th, 1669), and less than a year later, on her unfortunatedaughter, Henrietta of England, Duchess of Orleans (August 21st, 1670), when the King, at the request of the upright Duke de Montausier, calledhim to court from the bishopric of Condom to which he had been raised, and intrusted to him the education of his son and heir-apparent, theDauphin of France. 

Bossuet's royal pupil never reigned. He died in 1711, four years beforehis father's death: and it must be admitted that during the thirty-oneyears that elapsed between the moment when he came out of Bossuet'shands and the end of his life, he gave no evidence of being anythingexcept a very commonplace sort of a man. No such halo surrounds him assurrounds his unfortunate son, the Duke of Burgundy, whose death twoyears after that of the Dauphin was mourned as a public calamity. Whether Bossuet's failure to make a great prince out of the Dauphin wasdue to a faulty system of education or to the unresponsive nature of thepupil, can hardly be considered to-day a matter of great interest. ButFrench literature was certainly the gainer by the appointment of Bossuetto the post of tutor to the Prince. Three of his most remarkableworks--his 'Discourse upon Universal History, ' his 'Policy according tothe Holy Writ, ' and his 'Treatise on the Knowledge of God and Man'--werewritten especially for the Dauphin, and read by him as textbooks a longtime before their publication. The opening sentence of the 'Discourse'tells us clearly the author's purpose: "Were history useless to othermen, it would still be necessary to have it studied by princes. "

In 1680 Bossuet left the Dauphin, who then married a Bavarian princess, and one year later he was called to the bishopric of Meaux. Louis XIV. Was then taking steps leading to the important and fatal venture bywhich three years later he repealed the Edict of Nantes, and forbade theexistence in France of the Protestant religion. No one can denyBossuet's share in determining the king to follow a policy so fatal tothe interests of France, but at the same time so much in accord with theviews of Rome. A natural outcome would have been the raising of Bossuet, who was certainly then the greatest orator, the greatest writer, and thegreatest theologian in the Catholic clergy, to the Cardinalate. StillBossuet was never a cardinal. 

The explanation lies in Bossuet's conduct in the year 1682. The King ofFrance in that year called together a General Assembly of the clergy ofFrance, a kind of National Council. His object was to have the clergyassert its national character, and to state that in civil matters it wassubject not to the Pope, but to the King. The various statements to thateffect constitute what is known as 'The Liberties of the GallicanChurch. ' The statements were adopted after being drafted by Bossuet, whohad at the opening of the sessions delivered before the Assembly hiscelebrated 'Sermon on the Unity of the Church, ' the main part of whichis an eloquent defense of the above-stated views. France was toopowerful then for the see of Rome not to yield, but no favors werethenceforth to be expected for the spokesman of the Frenchnational clergy. 

Still the great divine continued his efforts, and in 1688 he put forththe most complete and masterly exposition of his beliefs, his 'Historyof the Variations of the Protestant Churches. ' The Revolution of 1688-89in England did not in the least, sad though it seemed, weaken his faithin the ultimate triumph of Catholicism. In France at that time theEnglish revolution was not considered an assertion by the people ofpolitical and religious rights, but the carrying out of a detestablefamily conspiracy of a daughter and son-in-law with their father'senemy. This better than anything else explains the hatred which washarbored against William III. , and which found expression in the workseven of as free-minded a writer as La Bruyère. It is during the periodof the fiercest struggle between Louis XIV. And William III. ThatBossuet carried on with the German philosopher Leibnitz a series ofnegotiations, the object of which was the return to Catholicism ofProtestant Germany. We need hardly state that the negotiationsutterly failed. 

In another controversy which occupied Bossuet's last years he wasentirely successful. The most eloquent of his disciples, Fénélon, thenArchbishop of Cambrai, seemed to him to have fallen into dangerouserrors. He had adopted the mystic doctrine of Quietism, which had beenmade known to him first by an erratic woman, Madame Guyon. Bossuetdetermined that the eloquent archbishop must be compelled to recant. Anumber of works were published by him in support of his position, themost important one being his 'Relation on Quietism'; and he did not restuntil the Pope had condemned his rival, and Fénélon had submitted tocensure in his own cathedral at Cambrai. Some accuse Bossuet of too muchharshness in the contest. The Pope himself was reported to have said, "The Archbishop of Cambrai sinned by too much love of God, the Bishop ofMeaux by too little love of his fellow-man. "

Bossuet was then a very old man, but neither growing age nor the carethat he took of what he considered the general interests of CatholicChristianity ever kept him from giving the closest attention to thespiritual government of his flock. He was a model bishop. He died April12th, 1704, aged seventy-six years, six months, and sixteen days. 

Bossuet was a very prolific writer. In the best edition, that of AbbéCaron, begun in Versailles in 1815, his writings fill not less thanforty-one volumes. But it must be stated at once that a great deal ofthis production belongs decidedly more to theology than to Frenchliterature. Some of it is not even in French, but in Latin; forinstance, Bossuet's letter to the Pope on the subject of the educationof the Dauphin. Although in French, such works as the 'Treatise onCommunion' or the 'Explanation of John the Baptist's Revelation' aredecidedly outside the pale of literature, as the word is usuallyunderstood. We shall mention here only those works of Bossuet which, byvirtue of their perfect form and the accessibility of the subject to thegeneral reader, are to this day more or less familiar to the besteducated people in France. 

The first to be mentioned among these are the 'Sermons, ' the 'FuneralOrations, ' and the 'Discourse upon Universal History. '

Bossuet's sermons undoubtedly were among his most perfect productions. He was a born orator; his majestic bearing, his melodious and powerfulvoice, his noble gestures, made the magnificent sentences, the beautifuland striking imagery of his speeches, doubly impressive. Unfortunately, with only a few exceptions Bossuet's sermons have reached us in a veryimperfect form. He did not, as a rule, fully write them, and the art oftaking down verbatim the utterances of public speakers had not yet beeninvented. The sermon 'On the Unity of the Church' we possess becauseBossuet had committed it to writing before delivering it; otherimpressive sermons, those on 'Death, ' on the 'Conversion of the Sinner, 'on 'Providence, ' on the 'Duties of Kings, ' etc. , have reached us in asufficiently correct form to give us an idea of Bossuet's eloquence:but the reader who really wishes to know the great sacred orator ofLouis XIV. 's reign had better turn at once to the 'Funeral Orations. '

Bossuet's funeral orations were prepared with great care. They weredelivered as a rule several months after the death of the person to beeulogized, as part of a religious ceremony in which a mass was said forthe repose of his soul. 

Bossuet delivered eleven funeral orations, one of which--that of Anne ofAustria, widow of Louis XIII. And mother of Louis XIV, --is lost. Of theother ten, four are youthful productions and deal with people ofcomparatively small importance. Six remain that are known as the _great_funeral orations, and they were delivered between November 16th, 1669, and March 10th, 1687. They are those on Henrietta of France, Queen ofEngland; Henrietta of England, Duchess of Orleans; Maria Theresa ofSpain, Queen of France; Anne of Gonzaga and Clèves, Princess of thePalatinate; Michel Le Tellier, High Chancellor of France; and Louis deBourbon, Prince of Condé. 

The most remarkable of these are the first two and the last one. In thefuneral oration on Henrietta of France, Bossuet had just the kind ofsubject which he was best fitted to treat, and it must be considered hismasterpiece. It presents in magnificent style, in pompous development, acomplete exposition of his historical and political theories, togetherwith a strikingly vivid account of the great English rebellion. Hisportraits of Charles I. And Oliver Cromwell--the one, of course, altogether too enthusiastic, the other too severe--stand out in as boldrelief as the paintings of Van Dyck or Velasquez. His theory ofrevolutions, which he considers the punishments inflicted by God uponsovereigns for violations of His law, is presented with a wealth ofillustrations which was simply overwhelming for the audience thatlistened to it. It remains to this day one of the most plausible, as itwill remain forever one of the most eloquent pieces of historical andtheological reasoning. 

In the funeral oration on Henrietta of England we find little ofhistory, still less of politics. Here we have a domestic catastrophe ofappalling suddenness: a brilliant woman, the worshiped centre of themost brilliant court, one to whom the speaker himself was most tenderlyattached, so abruptly snatched away by death that the suspicion of foulplay at once arose and has not to this day been entirely dispelled. Nowhere has Bossuet, nor perhaps any other orator, so powerfullydepicted the uncertainty of everything human. The closeness with whichhe treated his subjects is well illustrated by an anecdote that isconnected with this oration. Only two or three hours before her death, when already conscious of her desperate position, the unfortunateprincess had directed that an emerald ring of hers should be after herdeath handed to the great preacher. "What a pity, " he was told, "thatsuch an incident cannot find place in a funeral oration!"--"Why not" heanswered. When he delivered the oration, the emerald ring was on one ofthe fingers of his right hand; and when speaking of the princess'svirtues and charming qualities, he alluded to the art of giving, inwhich she signally excelled. "And this art, " he went on, "never desertedher, not even, _I know it_, in the throes of death, " at the same timeraising his right hand and placing the precious jewel in full view ofthe audience. 

The funeral oration on the Prince de Condé shows us how he triumphedover difficulties. He was a warm friend and ardent admirer of thePrince, and at the same time a devoted subject of the King, rebellionagainst whom he considered a very grievous sin. Yet the Prince had foryears been a rebel against the King during the wars of the Fronde, andhad continued in the ranks of the hostile Spaniards even after all theother rebels had submitted to the royal authority. After conducting hisnarrative down to the time when the Prince, still a faithful subject, was unjustly imprisoned by order of Cardinal Mazarin, --"And, " he goeson, "since I have to speak of these things over which I would fain keepeternally silent, until this fatal imprisonment he had not even dreamedthat anything could be attempted against the State. .. . This is what madehim say (I certainly can repeat here, before these altars, the words Ireceived from his lips, since they so clearly show the bottom of hisheart)--he said then, speaking of this unfortunate prison, that he hadentered it the most innocent, and had left it the guiltiest of men. "Nearly the whole of this oration is devoted to history; it teems withbrilliant passages, the most famous of which is the narrative of thePrince's first victory, the battle of Rocroi, in 1643. 

Thoughtful readers seldom pass by the funeral oration on Anne ofGonzaga. It forms a curious incident in Bossuet's life. The greatpreacher's most striking fault was a lack of energy in his dealings withroyal characters. "He lacks bones, " some one said of him: and thus whenhis enemies so intrigued as to have him required to eulogize from thepulpit the erratic princess, who had been a political intriguer and theheroine of many scandals before repentance took hold of her, he lackedthe courage to decline the doubtful honor. But in the pulpit, orwhenever the _priest_ had to appear, and not simply the man, his bettermanhood, pure and commanding, at once took the upper hand; and so, facing his critics, --"My discourse, " he said, "which perhaps you thinkyou are to judge, will judge you when the last day comes; and if you donot depart hence better Christians, you will depart hence guiltier men!"

With the funeral orations one might mention another series of religiousdiscourses not strikingly different from them, --the panegyrics ofsaints, of which twenty have been preserved, that of Saint Paul beingindisputably the best. 

The 'Discourse upon Universal History, ' which was originally written forthe Dauphin, is a masterly attempt to give a philosophical explanationof the facts of history, beginning with the Biblical account of theCreation, and ending with the assumption by Charlemagne of the imperialcrown in 800 A. D. It is divided into three parts: The Epochs; Religion;the Empires. The first part contains the significance of twelve eventsconsidered by Bossuet as epoch-making: the Creation, the Flood, thecalling of Abraham, Moses and the giving of the Law, the taking of Troy, the building of the Temple of Solomon, the foundation of Rome, Cyrus andthe re-establishment of Hebrew nationality, the defeat of Carthage, thebirth of Christ, the triumph of the Church under Constantine, there-establishment of the Empire with Charlemagne. 

The second part, which contains thirty-one chapters, has a twofoldobject: to demonstrate that the coming of Christ is clearly foretold inthe Old Testament, and that the Roman Catholic Church is the onlyfaithful representative of true Christianity. The third part is lesstheological. It is an attempt to explain the facts of history, at leastpartially, by a study of the various influences to which the differentnations have been subjected. The general purpose of the whole work isbest explained by the last chapter of this third part, the title ofwhich is: Conclusion of the whole Discourse, in which is shown that allevents must be ascribed to a Divine Providence. 

Next to the above works we must mention the 'History of the Variationsof the Protestant Churches, ' partly a work of theological controversy, but partly also a brilliant exposition, from a strictly Catholic pointof view, of the history of the Reformation. It contains a portrait ofLuther which is almost worthy to be compared with that of Cromwell inthe funeral oration on Henrietta of France. 

The only other works of Bossuet that we would mention here are twoadmirable devotional works, the 'Meditations upon the Gospel, ' and the'Contemplations on the Mysteries of the Catholic Religion, ' the latter aclear and concise but now superannuated treatise on philosophy; the'Treatise on the Knowledge of God and Man, ' a very curious and eloquentand at the same time thoroughly Biblical treatise on theocratic policy;'Policy according to the Holy Writ'; and finally his 'Relation onQuietism, ' which shows what hard blows he could, when thoroughlyaroused, deal to a somewhat disingenuous opponent. 

[Illustration: Signature: Adolphe Cohn]

FROM THE SERMON 'UPON THE UNITY OF THE CHURCH'

When the time had come at which the Roman Empire of the West was tocollapse and Gaul was to become France, God did not allow such a noblepart of Christendom to remain long under idolatrous princes; and wishingto hand over to the kings of the French the keeping of his Church, whichhe had formerly intrusted to the emperors, he gave not to France only, but to the whole Western world, a new Constantine in the person ofClovis. The miraculous victory which he sent from heaven to each ofthese two princes in their wars was a pledge of his love, and theglorious inducement which attracted them to Christianity. Faithtriumphed, and the warlike nation of the Franks knew that the God ofClotilda was the true God of armies. 

Then Saint Remi saw that by placing the kings of France and their peoplein the bosom of Jesus Christ, he had given to the Church a set ofinvincible protectors. This great saint, this new Samuel called toanoint the kings, anointed these, in his own words, "to be the perpetualdefender of the Church and the poor": a worthy object for royalty topursue. After teaching them how to make churches flourish andpopulations thrive (believe ye that he himself is now speaking to you, as I only recite the fatherly words of this apostle of the French), dayand night he prayed to God that they should persevere in His faith andreign according to the rules he had given them; assuring them at thesame time that in enlarging their kingdom they would enlarge the kingdomof Christ, and that if they faithfully kept the laws he prescribed inthe name of God, the empire of Rome would be given to them, so that fromthe kings of France would issue Emperors worthy of that title, throughwhom Christ would reign. 

Such were the blessings which a thousand and a thousand times the greatSaint Remi poured upon the French and their kings, whom he always calledhis dear children; unceasingly praising God for his kindness, because, with a view to strengthen the incipient faith of this God-blessednation, he had deigned, through his own sinner's hands (these are hisown words), to repeat, before the eyes of all the French and of theirking, the miracles which had burst upon the world in the earlyfoundation of Christian churches. All the saints then living rejoiced;and in this decline of the Roman Empire, it seemed to them that thereappeared in the kings of France "a new Light for the whole West. " "Inocciduis partibus novi jubaris lumen effulgurat;" and not for the Westalone, but for all the Church, to which this new kingdom promised newadvances. This is what was said by Saint Avitus, the learned and holybishop of Vienne, the weighty and eloquent advocate of the Church ofRome, who was directed by his colleagues, the revered bishops of Gaul, to recommend to the Romans in the cause of Pope Symmachus the commoncause of the whole episcopacy; "because, " so said that great man, "whenthe Pope, the chief of all the bishops, is assailed, then not one bishopalone, but the whole episcopacy is in danger. "

OPENING OF THEFUNERAL ORATION ON HENRIETTA OF FRANCE

_My Lord_[4]:

[Footnote 4: This oration was delivered in the presence of the Duke ofOrleans, son-in-law of Henrietta of France; it is he whom Bossuetaddresses in beginning his speech. ]

He who reigns in heaven and who is the Lord of all the empires, to whomalone majesty, glory, and independence belong, is also the only one whoglories in dictating laws to kings, and in giving them, when it sopleases him, great and terrible lessons. Whether he raises or lowersthrones; whether he communicates his own power to princes, or reclaimsit all and leaves them nothing but their own weakness, he teaches themtheir duties in a manner both sovereign and worthy of him; for whengiving them his power, he commands them to use it, as he does, for thegood of the world; and he shows them in withdrawing it that all theirmajesty is borrowed, and that, though seated on the throne, they arenevertheless under his hand and supreme authority. Thus does he teachprinces, not only by words but by deeds and examples. "Et nunc, reges, intelligite; erudimini, qui judicatis terram. "

Christians, ye who have been called from all sides to this ceremony bythe memory of a great Queen, --daughter, wife, mother of powerful kingsand of sovereigns of three kingdoms, --this speech will bring before youone of those conspicuous examples which spread before the eyes of theworld its absolute vanity. You will see in a single life all theextremes of human affairs: boundless felicity and boundless misery; along and peaceful possession of one of the world's noblest crowns; allthat can be given of the glories of birth and rank gathered upon a headwhich is afterwards exposed to all the insults of fortune; the goodcause at first rewarded by success, then met by sudden turns andunheard-of changes; rebellion long restrained, at last over-ridingeverything; unbridled licentiousness; the destruction of all laws; royalmajesty insulted by crimes before unknown; usurpation and tyranny underthe name of liberty; a queen pursued by her enemies, and finding norefuge in either of her kingdoms; her own native land become amelancholy place of exile; many voyages across the sea undertaken by aprincess, in spite of the tempest; the ocean surprised at being crossedso often, in such different ways, and for so different causes; a throneshamefully destroyed and miraculously restored. Those are the lessonswhich are given by God to the kings; thus does He show to the world theemptiness of its pomps and splendors. If I lack words, if expression isunable to do justice to a subject of such magnitude and loftiness, things alone will speak sufficiently; the heart[5] of a great queen, formerly raised by long years of prosperity and suddenly plunged into anabyss of bitterness, will speak loudly enough; and if private charactersare not allowed to give lessons to princes upon such strangeoccurrences, a king lends me his voice to tell them. "Et nunc, reges, intelligite; erudimini, qui judicatis terram:" Understand now, ye kingsof the earth; learn, ye who judge the world. 

[Footnote 5: The Queen's heart was kept in the church where Bossuet wasspeaking. ]

But the wise and religious Princess who is the subject of this discoursewas not simply a spectacle presented to them that they may study thereinthe counsels of Divine Providence and the fatal revolutions ofmonasteries: she was her own instructor, while God instructed allprinces through her example. I have said already that the Divine Lordteaches them both by giving and by taking away their power. The Queen ofwhom I speak understood one of these lessons as well as the other, contrary as they are, which means that in good as well as in evilfortune she behaved as a Christian. In the one she was charitable, inthe other invincible. While prosperous she made her power felt by theworld through infinite blessings; when fortune forsook her, she enlargedher own treasure of virtues, so that she lost for her own good thisroyal power which she had had for the good of others. And if hersubjects, if her allies, if the Church Universal were the gainers by hergreatness, she gained by her misfortunes and humiliations more than shehad done by all her glory. 

THE GREAT REBELLION

I confess, on entering upon my undertaking, that I realize itsdifficulty more than ever. When I fasten my eyes upon the unheard-ofmisfortunes of such a great queen, I fail to find words; and my mind, revolted by so many undeserved hardships inflicted upon majesty andvirtue, would never consent to rush into such a maze of horrors, if theadmirable constancy with which this princess bore her reverses had notrisen far above the crimes by which they were caused. But at the sametime, Christians, I labor under another solicitude: what I meditate uponis no human work; I am not here a historian, about to unravel to you themysteries of cabinets, or the order of battles, or the interests ofparties; I must rise above man in order that every creature shouldtremble under the judgments of God. "I shall enter with David into thepowers of the Lord, " and I have to show you the wonders of his hand andof his resolutions: resolutions of deserved punishment for England, resolutions of compassion for the Queen's salvation; but resolutionsstamped by the finger of God, whose imprint is so striking and manifestin the events of which I have to treat, that no one can fail to bedazzled by his light. 

When we go back in time, no matter how far, and investigate in thehistories the instances of great revolutions, we find that hitherto theyhave been caused by the licentiousness or violence of princes. For whenprinces, ceasing to study their civil and military affairs, make huntingtheir only labor, or as was said by one historian, find all their gloryin their splendor, and put all their mind to the invention of newpleasures; or when, carried away by their violent natures, they cease torespect the laws and to know any bounds, and thus lose both the respectand the fear of their subjects, because the ills those subjects arebearing seem more unendurable than those they only fear, --then, eitherexcessive licentiousness or patience driven to extremity is full ofmenace to reigning houses. 

Charles I. , King of England, was just, moderate, magnanimous, very wellinformed in regard to his affairs and to the arts of government; neverwas there a prince more able to make royalty not only venerable andholy, but also loved and cherished by his people. What fault can befound with him, save clemency? I am willing to say of him what acelebrated writer said of Cæsar, that he was so clement as to becompelled to repent it. ("Cæsari proprium et peculiare sit elementiæinsigne qua usque ad poenitentiam omnes superavit. ") Let this be, then, if you will, the illustrious fault of Charles as well as of Caesar; butif any one wishes to believe that misfortune and defeat are alwaysassociated with weakness, do not let him think, for all that, he canpersuade us that either strength was wanting in Charles's courage orenergy in his resolutions. When pursued to the very last extremities byFortune's implacable malignity, and betrayed by all his people, he neverdeserted his own cause; in spite of the ill success of his unfortunatearms, though conquered he was not subdued; and just as he never whenvictorious refused that which was reasonable, when captive he alwaysrejected that which was weak and unjust. I can hardly behold his greatheart in his last trials: but certainly he showed that no rebels candeprive of his majesty a king who really knows himself; and those whosaw with what visage he appeared in Westminster Hall and in WhitehallSquare can easily judge how intrepid he was at the head of his armies, how august and imposing in the middle of his palace and court. GreatQueen, I satisfy your tenderest desires when I celebrate this monarch;and this heart, which never lived but for him, wakes up from its dustand resumes sentiment, even under this funeral drapery, at the name ofsuch a beloved husband, whom his enemies themselves will call wise andjust, and whom posterity will name among great princes, provided hishistory finds readers whose judgment does not allow itself to be swayedby events and by fortune. 

Those who are informed in regard to the facts, being compelled to admitthat the king's conduct had given no reason and not even a pretext forthe sacrilegious excesses the memory of which is abhorred by us, ascribethem to the unconquerable haughtiness of the nation; and I own that thehatred of parricides is apt to throw our minds into such an opinion: butwhen we more closely consider the history of this great kingdom, especially during the last reigns, in which not simply adult kings, buteven children under guardianship and queens themselves have wielded apower so absolute, and inspired so much terror; when we see theincredible facility with which the true Religion was by turns upset andrestored by Henry, Edward, Mary, Elizabeth, we do not find either thenation so prone to rebel nor its Parliaments so proud and factious. Rather we are compelled to reproach these people with too much docility, since they placed under the yoke even their faith and conscience. Do notlet us then make blind accusations against the inhabitants of the mostcelebrated island in the world, who according to the most reliablehistories trace their origin back to Gaul; and do not let us believethat the Mercians, the Danes, and the Saxons have so far corrupted inthem the good blood which they had received from our ancestors as tolead them to such barbarous proceedings, if some other causes had notintervened. What is it, then, that drove them on? What force, whattransport, what disturbance of the elements stirred these agitations, these violences? There is no doubt, Christians, that false religions, infidelity, the thirst of disputing on things divine without end, without rule, without submission, carried away their hearts. Those arethe enemies against which the Queen had to fight, and which neither herprudence, her leniency, nor her firmness could conquer. 

A man appeared, of a mind incredibly deep, a consummate dissembler andat the same time a powerful statesman, capable of undertaking everythingand of concealing everything, no less active and indefatigable in peacethan in war; who left nothing to fortune of that which he could takefrom it by wisdom or foresight, but withal so vigilant, so well preparedfor everything, that he never failed to improve any opportunity: inshort, one of those restless and audacious minds which seem to have beenborn in order to transform the world. How dangerous the fate of suchminds, and how many appear in history who were ruined by their veryboldness! But at the same time, what do they not achieve when it pleasesGod to make use of them! To this one it was given to deceive the peopleand to prevail against the kings. For as he had discovered that in thisinfinite medley of sects, which no longer had any fixed rules, thepleasure of dogmatic arguing without any fear of being reprimanded orrestrained by any authority, either ecclesiastical or secular, was thespell that charmed their minds, he so well managed to conciliate themthereby that out of this monstrous medley he created a formidable unit. When a man has once found a way of seducing the multitude with the baitof freedom, they afterwards blindly follow, provided they still hear thebeloved word. These, occupied with the object that had first transportedthem, were still going on without noticing that they were going toservitude; and their subtle leader--who while fighting and arguing, while uniting in himself a thousand different characters, while actingas theologian and prophet as well as soldier and captain, saw that hehad so bewitched the world that he was looked upon by the whole army asa chief sent by God for the protection of independence--began toperceive that he could drive them still further. I shall not relate toyou the story of his too prosperous undertakings nor his famousvictories which made virtue indignant, nor his long tranquillity whichastonished the world. It was God's purpose to instruct the kings not todesert his Church. He wished to reveal by one great example all thatheresy can do, how indocile and independent it naturally is, how fatalto royalty and to any legitimate authority. Moreover, when this greatGod has chosen any one for the instrument of his designs nothing canstop his course: he either chains or blinds or subdues all that iscapable of resistance. "I am the Lord, " he says through the lips ofJeremiah; "I am he who made the earth, with the men and animals; and Iplace it in the hands of whomsoever pleases me; and now I wished tosubmit these lands to Nebuchadnezzar, King of Babylon, my servant. " Hecalls him his servant, although an infidel, because he selected him forenforcing his decrees. "And I order, " he goes on, "that everything beobedient unto him, even the animals;" thus it is that everything bendsand becomes flexible when God so commands! But listen to the rest of theprophecy:--"I order that these people shall obey him, and shall obey hisson also, until the time of the one and the other do come. " See, yeChristians, how clearly marked the times are, how numbered thegenerations: God determines how long the sleep of the world shall be, and also when the awakening is to come. 

 * * * * *

God held twelve years, without relaxing, without any consolation frommen, our unfortunate Queen (let us loudly call her by this title, whichshe made a cause for thanksgiving), making her learn under his hand suchhard but useful lessons. At last, softened by her prayers and her humblepatience, he restored the royal house; Charles II. Is recognized andthe injury of the kings is avenged. Those whom arms could not conquer, nor reasoning convince, came back suddenly of their own accord:disappointed in their freedom, they at last came to detest its excesses, ashamed that they had had so much power, and horrified at their ownsuccess. We know that this magnanimous prince might have hastened thingsby making use of the hands of those who offered to destroy tyranny atone blow: but his great soul disdained these low agencies; he believedthat whatever were the conditions of kings, it behoved their majesty toact only by the laws or by arms. These laws, which he defended, restoredhim almost by themselves; he reigns, peaceful and glorious, on hisancestors' throne, and with and through him also reign justice, wisdom, and mercy. 

FROM THE 'DISCOURSE UPON UNIVERSAL HISTORY'

INTRODUCTION

Even were history useless to other men, it would still be necessary tohave it read by princes. There is no better way of making them discoverwhat can be brought about by passions and interests, by times andcircumstances, by good and bad advice. The books of historians arefilled with the actions that occupy them, and everything therein seemsto have been done for their use. If experience is necessary to them foracquiring that prudence which enables them to become good rulers, nothing is more useful to their instruction than to add to the exampleof past centuries the experiences with which they meet every day. Whileusually they learn to judge of the dangerous circumstances that surroundthem, only at the expense of their subjects and of their own glory, bythe help of history they form their judgment upon the events of the pastwithout risking anything. When they see even the most completely hiddenvices of princes exposed to the eyes of all men, in spite of theinsincere praise which they received while alive, they feel ashamed ofthe empty joy which flattery gives them, and they acknowledge that trueglory cannot obtain without real merit. 

Moreover, it would be disgraceful, --I do not say for a prince, but ingeneral for any educated man, --not to know the human kind and thememorable changes which took place in the world through the lapse ofages. If we do not learn from history to distinguish the times, we shallrepresent men under the law of nature, or under the civil law, the sameas under the sway of the gospel; we shall speak of the Persiansconquered under Alexander in the same way as of the Persians victoriousunder Cyrus; we shall represent Greece as free in the time of Philip asin the time of Themistocles or Miltiades; the Roman people as proudunder the Emperors as under the Consuls; the Church as quiet underDiocletian as under Constantine; and France, disturbed by civil warsunder Charles IX. And Henri III. , as powerful as in the time of LouisXIV. , when, united under such a great King, alone she triumphs over thewhole of Europe. 

PUBLIC SPIRIT IN ROME

He who can put into the minds of the people patience in labor, a feelingfor glory and the nation's greatness, and love of their country, canboast of having framed the political constitution best fitted for theproduction of great men. It is undoubtedly to great men that thestrength of an empire is due. Nature never fails to bring forth in allcountries lofty minds and hearts; but we must assist it in forming them. What forms and perfects them consists of strong feelings and nobleimpressions which spread through all minds and invisibly pass from oneto another. What is it that makes our nobility so proud in battle, sobold in its undertakings? It is the opinion received from childhood andestablished by the unanimous sentiment of the nation, that a noblemanwithout valor degrades himself and is no longer worthy to see the lightof day. All the Romans were nurtured in these sentiments, and the commonpeople vied with the aristocracy as to who would in action be mostfaithful to these vigorous maxims. .. . The fathers who did not bringtheir children up in these maxims, and in the manner necessary to enablethem to serve the State, were called into court before the magistratesand there adjudged guilty of a crime against the public. When such acourse has been entered upon, great men produce great men to succeedthem; and if Rome has had such men in greater number than any othercity, it is nowise due to chance; it is because the Roman State, constituted in the manner which we have described, possessed as it werethe very nature that must needs be most prolific of heroes. 

JAMES BOSWELL

(1740-1795)

BY CHARLES F. JOHNSON

James Boswell was born in Ayrshire, Scotland. His family was of ancientorigin and some social pretension, but the name derives its realdistinction from him. He attended the University of Edinburgh and wasadmitted to the Scotch bar. He was, however, of a socially excitable andadventurous spirit, which impelled him out of the humdrum life of apetty Scotch laird into the broad currents of the world, and led him toattach himself to men of intellectual distinction. He was introduced toDr. Johnson in 1763, and scrupulously sought his society till Johnson'sdeath, making at least nine journeys to London for the purpose, andrecording his conversation with painstaking assiduity. To thisenthusiastic industry we owe the 'Life, ' published in 1791, a bookallowed on all hands to fulfill the purpose of a biography, in giving anexact and lively picture of the central figure and of his environmentbetter than any other ever written. Previous to this, Boswell had spentsome time on the Continent, and, driven by the peculiar form ofhero-worship which was his overmastering impulse, he visited Corsica andbecame intimate with Pascal Paoli, the patriot who freed the island fromthe Genoese, but was subsequently conquered by the French, In 1768Boswell published 'An Account of Corsica, Memoirs of Pascal Paoli, and aJournal of a Tour to the Island. ' Of this Johnson said, "The history islike other histories, but the journal is in a high degree delightful andcurious. " Gray said the journal was "a dialogue between a green gooseand a hero. "

[Illustration: James Boswell]

In 1793 Boswell was admitted a member of the famous "Literary Club, " andsoon after persuaded Dr. Johnson to make a tour of the Hebrides, ajourney at that time presenting almost as many difficulties as a trip toLabrador does now. His journal, a book quite as entertaining as the'Life, ' was not published till 1786, two years after Johnson's death. Asstated before, Boswell's great book, the 'Life, ' was published in 1791. The author also published a number of minor works which are not worthenumerating. 

The position of James Boswell as a classic author is as well establishedas it is unique. It depends entirely on the two books mentioned: 'TheLife of Dr. Samuel Johnson' and the 'Journal of a Tour to the Hebrides, 'which may be considered as one, and indeed were amalgamated into one inCroker's edition. Further, the interest of these books depends more onthe subject-matter than on the style. No books are better known thanthese, and none are buried deeper in oblivion than his otherproductions, with the possible exception of the Corsican journal. One isas obscure as the other is immortal, though from the artistic standpointthey do not differ greatly in literary merit. But it is not just to saythat the value of Boswell's 'Life of Johnson' depends entirely on thesubject-matter. It depends rather on a happy relation or co-ordinationbetween the subject and the author. In consequence, it is hardlypossible to consider Boswell as a writer without some reference toSamuel Johnson. Not only is Johnson the central figure in the book, butin a sense he is a joint author of it. About one-third of the book is inJohnson's words, and this third is decidedly the best part. Boswell'sreputation as a great writer is unique in that it depends upon greatnessas an interviewer and reporter. 

Macaulay says, "If Boswell had not been a great fool he never would havebeen a great writer. " This is one of those paradoxical statements towhich Macaulay likes to give a glittering plausibility. It is true thatBoswell wrote a great book, and it is also true that in some regards hewas what we are accustomed to designate as a fool; but to connect thetwo as cause and effect is like saying that a man was a great athletebecause he was lame, or that Lord Byron had a beautiful face because hehad a club-foot, or that Demosthenes was a great orator because hestammered. Men have been made by their foibles, but in those casesweakness in some directions has been more than compensated for bystrength in others. Boswell lacked some of the great literary powers, but he possessed others, and those that he did possess happened to beprecisely the ones necessary to the writer of the life of SamuelJohnson. Boswell had no imagination, no moral elevation, no decided witor power of phrase, no deep insight, no invention. But he had one powerwhich lies behind all great realistic literary work; and that is, observation. Johnson furnished the power of phrase, in which he was aseminent as any Englishman between Shakespeare and Charles Lamb. Thehigher powers are not needed in a transcript of fact. Boswell possessedtoo an eye for the externals which indicate character, and--a qualityrare in the eighteenth century--absolute accuracy. Sir Joshua Reynoldssaid, "Every word of the 'Life' might be depended on as if it weregiven on oath. "

It was this habit of painstaking accuracy, rather than good taste, whichled him to avoid the vice of rhetorical amplification. It also preventedhim from missing the point of a joke of which he was unconscious. As arule, his 'Johnsoniana' are better than those of Sir John Hawkins orMrs. Piozzi, because they are more literal. In one or two instances anembellishment which improved a story was rejected by him because it wasnot true. These powers--observation, scrupulous accuracy and industry, and enthusiastic admiration of his hero--were all that he needed for theproduction of a great book; for Dr. Johnson was so unaffected, sooutspoken, and so entertaining a man, and every sentence he uttered wasso characteristic, that realism was a far better method for hisbiographer than analysis. Perhaps it is always better when the subjectis strongly marked. That Dr. Johnson was a good subject is so evidentthat the mere statement is sufficient. Mrs. Thrale-Piozzi's and even SirJohn Hawkins's books are entertaining simply because they are about him. 

The eighteenth-century man presents a number of excellent features forliterary portraiture, because he is a compound of formality andexplosiveness. The formal manners and dress and ponderous courtesy ofthe eighteenth century, combined with an outspoken way of calling thingsby their right names and a boyish petulance and quickness of temper, make a contrast that is essentially humorous, and more attractive thanthe philosophic and broad-minded temper of earlier times or thereticence and indifference of our own day. Dr. Johnson was a typicaleighteenth-century man, and epitomized these contrasts. Personally, too, he was a man for whom we must feel the most profound regard and respect. He represents the normal Englishman, a compound of moral integrity, rooted prejudice, and hatred of shams, with a mind which worksmechanically and a kind heart. We instinctively recognize this compoundas the ancestral type of our race, and are drawn to it. The real powerof our race depends upon the simplicity and solid humanity of thiscentral type, the heavy-armed and disciplined infantry about which aregrouped the more gifted and erratic types, the scouts and light-horse ofcivilization. For these general reasons Samuel Johnson seems to us thebest sitter for a literary portrait that ever fell into the hands of aliterary painter, and the excellence of his biography to depend quite asmuch upon the fact that it is a life of Samuel Johnson as upon the factthat it is a life by James Boswell. 

Boswell's private character is outside the question in a considerationof his writings. Macaulay calls him a drunkard. If this be true, itseems a little severe to call a Scotchman to account for beingintoxicated one hundred years ago. He also speaks of him as a toady; buthe was a friend of Johnson, whose detestation of sycophancy was apositive principle. Hume speaks of him as a "friend of mine, verygood-humored, very agreeable, and very mad. " Macaulay's and Carlyle'sessays may be considered as mutually corrective. The truth is thatBoswell was absolutely frank, and if a man is frank about himself onpaper he must write himself down a fool, unless he belongs to a highertype than Boswell or his critics. 

[Illustration: Charles F. Johnson Signature]

AN ACCOUNT OF CORSICA

Having said so much of the genius and character of the Corsicans, I mustbeg leave to present my readers with a very distinguished Corsicancharacter, that of Signor Clemente de' Paoli, brother of the General. 

This gentleman is the eldest son of the old General Giacinto Paoli. Heis about fifty years of age, of a middle size and dark complexion; hiseyes are quick and piercing, and he has something in the form of hismouth which renders his appearance very particular. His understanding isof the first rate, and he has by no means suffered it to lie neglected. He was married, and has an only daughter, the wife of Signor Barbaggi, one of the first men in the island. 

For these many years past, Signor Clemente, being in a state ofwidowhood, has resided at Rostino, from whence the family of Paolicomes. He lives there in a very retired manner. He is of a saturninedisposition, and his notions of religion are rather gloomy and severe. He spends his whole time in study, except what he passes at hisdevotions. These generally take up six or eight hours every day; duringall which time he is in church, and before the altar, in a fixedposture, with his hands and eyes lifted up to heaven with solemn fervor. 

He prescribes to himself an abstemious, rigid course of life, as if hehad taken the vows of some of the religious orders. He is much with theFranciscans, who have a convent at Rostino. He wears the common coarsedress of the country, and it is difficult to distinguish him from one ofthe lowest of the people. 

When he is in company he seldom speaks, and except upon importantoccasions, never goes into public, or even to visit his brother atCorte. When danger calls, however, he is the first to appear in thedefense of his country. He is then foremost in the ranks, and exposeshimself to the hottest action; for religious fear is perfectlyconsistent with the greatest bravery, according to the famous line ofthe pious Racine, --

 "I fear my God, and know no other fear. "

In the beginning of an engagement he is generally calm; and willfrequently offer up a prayer to heaven for the person at whom he isgoing to fire; saying he is sorry to be under the necessity of deprivinghim of life, but that he is an enemy to Corsica, and Providence has senthim in his way in order that he may be prevented from doing any furthermischief; that he hopes God will pardon his crimes and take him toHimself. After he has seen two or three of his countrymen fall at hisside, the case alters. His eyes flame with grief and indignation, and hebecomes like one furious, dealing vengeance everywhere around him. Hisauthority in the council is not less than his valor in the field. Hisstrength of judgment and extent of knowledge, joined to the singularsanctity of his character, give him great weight in all the publicconsultations; and his influence is of considerable service to hisbrother the General. 

A TOUR TO CORSICA

While I stopped to refresh my mules at a little village, the inhabitantscame crowding about me as an ambassador going to their General. Whenthey were informed of my country, a strong black fellow among them said, "English! they are barbarians; they don't believe in the great God. " Itold him, "Excuse me, sir. We do believe in God, and Jesus Christ, too. "--"And in the Pope?"--"No. "--"And why?" This was a puzzlingquestion in these circumstances; for there was a great audience to thecontroversy. I thought I would try a method of my own, and very gravelyreplied, "Because we are too far off, "--a very new argument against theuniversal infallibility of the Pope. It took, however; for my opponentmused a while, and then said, "Too far off! Why, Sicily is as far off asEngland. Yet in Sicily they believe in the Pope. "--"Oh, " said I, "we areten times further off than Sicily. "--"Aha!" said he; and seemed quitesatisfied. In this manner I got off very well. I question much whetherany of the learned reasonings of our Protestant divines would have hadso good an effect. 

THE LIFE OF SAMUEL JOHNSON

It seems to me in my moments of self-complacency that this extensivebiographical Work, however inferior in its nature, may in one respect beassimilated to the 'Odyssey. ' Amidst a thousand entertaining andinstructive episodes the _Hero_ is never long out of sight; for they areall in some degree connected with him; and _He_, in the whole course ofthe History, is exhibited by the author for the best advantage of hisreaders:--

 "Quid Virtus et quid sapientia possit, Utile proposuit nobis exemplar Ulyssen. "

(What may by virtue be done, and what by wisdom accomplished, Homeraffords in Ulysses for us a helpful example. )

Should there be any cold-blooded and morose mortals who really dislikethis book, I will give them a story to apply. When the great Duke ofMarlborough, accompanied by Lord Cadogan, was one day reconnoitring thearmy in Flanders, a heavy rain came on, and they both called for theircloaks. Lord Cadogan's servant, a good-humored, alert lad, brought hisLordship's in a minute. The Duke's servant, a lazy, sulky dog, was sosluggish that his Grace, being wet to the skin, reproved him, and hadfor answer with a grunt, "I came as fast as I could;" upon which theDuke calmly said, "Cadogan, I would not for a thousand pounds have thatfellow's temper. "

Mr. Thomas Davies the actor, who then kept a bookseller's shop inRussel-street, Covent Garden, told me that Johnson was very much hisfriend, and came frequently to his house, where he more than onceinvited me to meet him; but by some unlucky accident or other he wasprevented from coming to us. 

Mr. Thomas Davies was a man of good understanding and talents, with theadvantage of a liberal education. Though somewhat pompous, he was anentertaining companion; and his literary performances have noinconsiderable share of merit. He was a friendly and very hospitableman. Both he and his wife (who has been celebrated for her beauty), though upon the stage for many years, maintained a uniform decency ofcharacter; and Johnson esteemed them, and lived in as easy an intimacywith them as with any family which he used to visit. Mr. Daviesrecollected several of Johnson's remarkable sayings, and was one of thebest of the many imitators of his voice and manner, while relating them. He increased my impatience more and more to see the extraordinary manwhose works I highly valued, and whose conversation was reported to beso peculiarly excellent. 

At last, on Monday the 16th of May, when I was sitting in Mr. Davies'back-parlor, after having drunk tea with him and Mrs. Davies, Johnsonunexpectedly came into the shop; and Mr. Davies having perceived himthrough the glass-door in the room in which we were sitting, advancingtoward us, he announced his awful approach to me, somewhat in the mannerof an actor in the part of Horatio, when he addresses Hamlet on theappearance of his father's ghost, --"Look, my lord, it comes. " I foundthat I had a very perfect idea of Johnson's figure from the portrait ofhim painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds soon after he had published hisDictionary, in the attitude of sitting in his easy-chair in deepmeditation; which was the first picture his friend did for him, whichSir Joshua very kindly presented to me, and from which an engraving hasbeen made for this work. Mr. Davies mentioned my name, and respectfullyintroduced me to him. I was much agitated, and recollecting hisprejudice against the Scotch, of which I had heard much, I said toDavies, "Don't tell where I came from. "--"From Scotland, " cried Davies, roguishly. "Mr. Johnson" (said I), "I do indeed come from Scotland, butI cannot help it. " I am willing to flatter myself that I meant this aslight pleasantry to soothe and conciliate him, and not as an humiliatingabasement at the expense of my country. But however that might be, thisspeech was somewhat unlucky; for with that quickness of wit for which hewas so remarkable, he seized the expression "come from Scotland, " whichI used in the sense of being of that country; and as if I had said thatI had come away from it, or left it, retorted, "That, sir, I find, iswhat a very great many of your countrymen cannot help. " This strokestunned me a good deal; and when he had sat down, I felt myself not alittle embarrassed, and apprehensive of what might come next. He thenaddressed himself to Davies:--"What do you think of Garrick? He hasrefused me an order for the play of Miss Williams, because he knows thehouse will be full, and that an order would be worth three shillings. "Eager to take any opening to get into conversation with him, I venturedto say, "Oh, sir, I cannot think Mr. Garrick would grudge such a trifleto you. " "Sir, " (said he, with a stern look) "I have known David Garricklonger than you have done; and I know no right you have to talk to me onthe subject. " Perhaps I deserved this check; for it was ratherpresumptuous in me, an entire stranger, to express any doubt of thejustice of his animadversion upon his old acquaintance and pupil. I nowfelt myself much mortified, and began to think that the hope which I hadlong indulged of obtaining his acquaintance was blasted. And in truth, had not my ardor been uncommonly strong, and my resolution uncommonlypersevering, so rough a reception might have deterred me for ever frommaking any further attempts. Fortunately, however, I remained upon thefield not wholly discomfited; and was soon rewarded by hearing some ofhis conversation, of which I preserved the following short minute, without marking the questions and observations by which it was produced. 

"People" (he remarked) "may be taken in once, who imagine that an authoris greater in private life than other men. Uncommon parts requireuncommon opportunities for their exertion. "

"In barbarous society, superiority of parts is of real consequence. Great strength or great wisdom is of much value to an individual. But inmore polished times there are people to do everything for money; andthen there are a number of other superiorities, such as those of birthand fortune and rank, that dissipate men's attention and leave noextraordinary share of respect for personal and intellectualsuperiority. This is wisely ordered by Providence, to preserve someequality among mankind. "

"Sir, this book" ('The Elements of Criticism, ' which he had taken up)"is a pretty essay, and deserves to be held in some estimation, thoughmuch of it is chimerical. "

Speaking of one who with more than ordinary boldness attacked publicmeasures and the royal family, he said, "I think he is safe from thelaw, but he is an abusive scoundrel; and instead of applying to my LordChief Justice to punish him, I would send half a dozen footmen and havehim well ducked. "

"The notion of liberty amuses the people of England, and helps to keepoff the _tædium vitæ_. When a butcher tells you that 'his heart bleedsfor his country, ' he has in fact no uneasy feeling. "

"Sheridan will not succeed at Bath with his oratory. Ridicule has gonedown before him, and I doubt Derrick is his enemy. "

"Derrick may do very well, as long as he can outrun his character; butthe moment his character gets up with him, it is all over. "

It is, however, but just to record that some years afterwards, when Ireminded him of this sarcasm, he said, "Well, but Derrick has now got acharacter that he need not run away from. "

I was highly pleased with the extraordinary vigor of his conversation, and regretted that I was drawn away from it by an engagement at anotherplace. I had for a part of the evening been left alone with him, and hadventured to make an observation now and then, which he received verycivilly; so that I was satisfied that though there was a roughness inhis manner, there was no ill-nature in his disposition. Davies followedme to the door, and when I complained to him a little of the hard blowswhich the great man had given me, he kindly took upon him to console meby saying, "Don't be uneasy. I can see he likes you very well. "

A few days afterwards I called on Davies, and asked him if he thought Imight take the liberty of waiting on Mr. Johnson at his chambers in theTemple. He said I certainly might, and that Mr. Johnson would take it asa compliment. So on Tuesday the 24th of May, after having been enlivenedby the witty sallies of Messieurs Thornton, Wilkes, Churchill, andLloyd, with whom I had passed the morning, I boldly repaired to Johnson. His chambers were on the first floor of No. 1, Inner-Temple-lane, and Ientered them with an impression given me by the Reverend Dr. Blair, ofEdinburgh, who had been introduced to him not long before, and describedhis having "found the giant in his den"; an expression which, when Icame to be pretty well acquainted with Johnson, I repeated to him, andhe was diverted at this picturesque account of himself. Dr. Blair hadbeen presented to him by Dr. James Fordyce. At this time the controversyconcerning the pieces published by Mr. James Macpherson as translationsof Ossian was at its height. Johnson had all along denied theirauthenticity; and what was still more provoking to their admirers, maintained that they had no merit. The subject having been introduced byDr. Fordyce, Dr. Blair, relying on the internal evidence of theirantiquity, asked Dr. Johnson whether he thought any man of a modern agecould have written such poems. Johnson replied, "Yes, sir, many men, many women, and many children. " Johnson, at this time, did not know thatDr. Blair had just published a Dissertation, not only defending theirauthenticity, but seriously ranking them with the poems of Homer andVirgil; and when he was afterwards informed of this circumstance, heexpressed some displeasure at Dr. Fordyce's having suggested the topic, and said, "I am not sorry that they got thus much for their pains. Sir, it was like leading one to talk of a book when the author is concealedbehind the door. "

He received me very courteously; but it must be confessed that hisapartment and furniture and morning dress were sufficiently uncouth. Hisbrown suit of clothes looked very rusty; he had on a little shriveledunpowdered wig, which was too small for his head; his shirt-neck and theknees of his breeches were loose; his black worsted stockings ill drawnup; and he had a pair of unbuckled shoes by way of slippers. But allthese slovenly particularities were forgotten the moment that he beganto talk. Some gentlemen, whom I do not recollect, were sitting with him;and when they went away, I also rose; but he said to me, "Nay, don'tgo. "--"Sir" (said I), "I am afraid that I intrude upon you. It isbenevolent to allow me to sit and hear you. " He seemed pleased with thiscompliment, which I sincerely paid him, and answered, "Sir, I am obligedto any man who visits me. "

 * * * * *

In February, 1767, there happened one of the most remarkable incidentsof Johnson's life, which gratified his monarchical enthusiasm, and whichhe loved to relate with all its circumstances, when requested by hisfriends. This was his being honored by a private conversation with hisMajesty, in the library at the Queen's house. He had frequently visitedthose splendid rooms and noble collection of books, which he used to saywas more numerous and curious than he supposed any person could havemade in the time which the King had employed. Mr. Barnard, thelibrarian, took care that he should have every accommodation that couldcontribute to his ease and convenience, while indulging his literarytaste in that place; so that he had here a very agreeable resource atleisure hours. 

His Majesty, having been informed of his occasional visits, was pleasedto signify a desire that he should be told when Dr. Johnson came next tothe library. Accordingly, the next time that Johnson did come, as soonas he was fairly engaged with the book, on which, while he sat by thefire, he seemed quite intent, Mr. Barnard stole round to the apartmentwhere the King was, and in obedience to his Majesty's commands mentionedthat Dr. Johnson was then in the library. His Majesty said that he wasat leisure, and would go to him; upon which Mr. Barnard took one of thecandles that stood on the King's table and lighted his Majesty through asuite of rooms, till they came to a private door into the library ofwhich his Majesty had the key. Being entered, Mr. Barnard steppedforward hastily to Dr. Johnson, who was still in a profound study, andwhispered him, "Sir, here is the King. " Johnson started up, and stoodstill. His Majesty approached him, and at once was courteously easy. 

His Majesty began by observing that he understood he came sometimes tothe library; and then mentioned his having heard that the Doctor hadbeen lately at Oxford, and asked him if he was not fond of goingthither. To which Johnson answered that he was indeed fond of going toOxford sometimes, but was likewise glad to come back again. The Kingthen asked him what they were doing at Oxford. Johnson answered, hecould not much commend their diligence, but that in some respect theywere mended, for they had put their press under better regulations, andat that time were printing Polybius. He was then asked whether therewere better libraries at Oxford or Cambridge. He answered, he believedthe Bodleian was larger than any they had at Cambridge; at the same timeadding, "I hope, whether we have more books or not than they have atCambridge, we shall make as good use of them as they do. " Being askedwhether All-Souls or Christ-Church library was the largest, he answered, "All-Souls library is the largest we have, except the Bodleian. " "Ay"(said the King), "that is the public library. "

His Majesty inquired if he was then writing anything. He answered he wasnot, for he had pretty well told the world what he knew, and must nowread to acquire more knowledge. The King, as it should seem with a viewto urge him to rely on his own stores as an original writer, and tocontinue his labors, then said, "I do not think you borrow muchfrom anybody. "

Johnson said he thought he had already done his part as a writer. "Ishould have thought so too" (said the King), "if you had not written sowell. "--Johnson observed to me, upon this, that "No man could have paida handsomer compliment; and it was fit for a King to pay. It wasdecisive. " When asked by another friend, at Sir Joshua Reynolds's, whether he made any reply to this high compliment, he answered, "No, sir. When the King had said it, it was to be so. It was not for me tobandy civilities with my Sovereign. " Perhaps no man who had spent hiswhole life in courts could have shown a more nice and dignified sense oftrue politeness than Johnson did in this instance. 

His Majesty having observed to him that he supposed he must have read agood deal, Johnson answered that he thought more than he read; that hehad read a great deal in the early part of his life, but having falleninto ill health, he had not been able to read much compared with others:for instance, he said, he had not read much compared with Dr. Warburton. Upon which the King said that he heard Dr. Warburton was a man of muchgeneral knowledge; that you could scarce talk with him on any subject onwhich he was not qualified to speak: and that his learning resembledGarrick's acting in its universality. His Majesty then talked of thecontroversy between Warburton and Lowth, which he seemed to have read, and asked Johnson what he thought of it. Johnson answered, "Warburtonhas the most general, most scholastic learning; Lowth is the morecorrect scholar. I do not know which of them calls names best. " The Kingwas pleased to say he was of the same opinion: adding, "You do not thinkthen, Dr. Johnson, that there was much argument in the case?" Johnsonsaid he did not think there was. "Why, truly" (said the King), "whenonce it comes to calling names, argument is pretty well at an end. "

His Majesty then asked him what he thought of Lord Lyttelton's history, which was just then published. Johnson said he thought his style prettygood, but that he had blamed Henry the Second rather too much. "Why"(said the King), "they seldom do these things by halves. " "No, sir"(answered Johnson), "not to kings. " But fearing to be misunderstood, heproceeded to explain himself; and immediately subjoined, "That forthose who spoke worse of kings than they deserved, he could find noexcuse; but that he could more easily conceive how some one might speakbetter of them than they deserved, without any ill intention: for askings had much in their power to give, those who were favored by themwould frequently, from gratitude, exaggerate their praises; and as thisproceeded from a good motive, it was certainly excusable as far as errorcould be excusable. "

The King then asked him what he thought of Dr. Hill. Johnson answeredthat he was an ingenious man, but had no veracity; and immediatelymentioned as an instance of it an assertion of that writer, that he hadseen objects magnified to a much greater degree by using three or fourmicroscopes at a time than by using one. "Now" (added Johnson), "everyone acquainted with microscopes knows that the more of them he looksthrough, the less the object will appear. " "Why" (replied the King), "this is not only telling an untruth, but telling it clumsily; for ifthat be the case, every one who can look through a microscope will beable to detect him. "

"I now" (said Johnson to his friends, when relating what had passed)"began to consider that I was depreciating this man in the estimation ofhis Sovereign, and thought it was time for me to say something thatmight be more favorable. " He added, therefore, that Dr. Hill wasnotwithstanding a very curious observer; and if he would have beencontented to tell the world no more than he knew, he might have been avery considerable man, and needed not to have recourse to such meanexpedients to raise his reputation. 

The King then talked of literary journals, mentioned particularly theJournal des Savants, and asked Johnson if it was well done. Johnson saidit was formerly very well done, and gave some account of the persons whobegan it, and carried it on for some years; enlarging at the same timeon the nature and use of such works. The King asked him if it was welldone now. Johnson answered he had no reason to think that it was. TheKing then asked him if there were any other literary journals publishedin this kingdom except the Monthly and Critical Reviews; and on beinganswered there was no other, his Majesty asked which of them was thebest. Johnson answered that the Monthly Review was done with most care, the Critical upon the best principles; adding that the authors of theMonthly Review were enemies to the Church. This the King said he wassorry to hear. 

The conversation next turned on the Philosophical Transactions, whenJohnson observed that they had now a better method of arranging theirmaterials than formerly. "Ay" (said the King), "they are obliged to Dr. Johnson for that;" for his Majesty had heard and remembered thecircumstance, which Johnson himself had forgot. 

His Majesty expressed a desire to have the literary biography of thiscountry ably executed, and proposed to Dr. Johnson to undertake it. Johnson signified his readiness to comply with his Majesty's wishes. 

During the whole of this interview, Johnson talked to his Majesty withprofound respect, but still in his firm, manly manner, with a sonorousvoice, and never in that subdued tone which is commonly used at thelevee and in the drawing-room. After the King withdrew, Johnson showedhimself highly pleased with his Majesty's conversation and graciousbehavior. He said to Mr. Barnard, "Sir, they may talk of the King asthey will; but he is the finest gentleman that I have ever seen. " And heafterwards observed to Mr. Langton, "Sir, his manners are those of asfine a gentleman as we may suppose Lewis the Fourteenth or Charlesthe Second. "

At Sir Joshua Reynolds's, where a circle of Johnson's friends werecollected round him to hear his account of this memorable conversation, Dr. Joseph Warton, in his frank and lively manner, was very active inpressing him to mention the particulars. "Come now, sir, this is aninteresting matter; do favor us with it. " Johnson, with great goodhumor, complied. 

He told them:--"I found his Majesty wished I should talk, and I made itmy business to talk. I find it does a man good to be talked to by hisSovereign. In the first place, a man cannot be in a passion--" Here somequestion interrupted him; which is to be regretted, as he certainlywould have pointed out and illustrated many circumstances of advantage, from being in a situation where the powers of the mind are at onceexcited to vigorous exertion and tempered by reverential awe. 

Mr. Macpherson little knew the character of Dr. Johnson if he supposedthat he could be easily intimidated; for no man was ever more remarkablefor personal courage. He had indeed an awful dread of death, or rather"of something after death"; and what rational man, who seriously thinksof quitting all that he has ever known and going into a new and unknownstate of being, can be without that dread? But his fear was fromreflection; his courage natural. His fear, in that one instance, was theresult of philosophical and religious consideration. He feared death, but he feared nothing else, not even what might occasion death. Manyinstances of his resolution may be mentioned. One day, at Mr. Beauclerk's house in the country, when two large dogs were fighting, hewent up to them and beat them till they separated; and at another time, when told of the danger there was that a gun might burst if charged withmany balls, he put in six or seven and fired it off against a wall. Mr. Langton told me that when they were swimming together near Oxford, hecautioned Dr. Johnson against a pool which was reckoned particularlydangerous; upon which Johnson directly swam into it. He told me himselfthat one night he was attacked in the street by four men, to whom hewould not yield, but kept them all at bay till the watch came up andcarried both him and them to the round-house. In the play-house atLichfield, as Mr. Garrick informed me, Johnson having for a momentquitted a chair which was placed for him between the side-scenes, agentleman took possession of it, and when Johnson on his return civillydemanded his seat, rudely refused to give it up; upon which Johnson laidhold of it and tossed him and the chair into the pit. Foote, who sosuccessfully revived the old comedy by exhibiting living characters, hadresolved to imitate Johnson on the stage, expecting great profits fromhis ridicule of so celebrated a man. Johnson being informed of hisintention, and being at dinner at Mr. Thomas Davies's the bookseller, from whom I had the story, he asked Mr. Davies "what was the commonprice of an oak stick"; and being answered sixpence, "Why then, sir"(said he), "give me leave to send your servant to purchase a shillingone. I'll have a double quantity; for I am told Foote means to _take meoff_, as he calls it, and I am determined the fellow shall not do itwith impunity. " Davies took care to acquaint Foote of this, whicheffectually checked the wantonness of the mimic. Mr. Macpherson'smenaces made Johnson provide himself with the same implement of defense;and had he been attacked, I have no doubt that, old as he was, he wouldhave made his corporal prowess be felt as much as his intellectual. 

Mr. Hector was so good as to accompany me to see the great works of Mr. Bolton [Boulton], at a place which he has called Soho, about two milesfrom Birmingham, which the very ingenious proprietor showed me himselfto the best advantage. I wished Johnson had been with us; for it was ascene which I should have been glad to contemplate by his light. Thevastness and the contrivance of some of the machinery would have"matched his mighty mind. " I shall never forget Mr. Bolton's expressionto me, "I sell here, sir, what all the world desires to have--power. " Hehad about seven hundred people at work. I contemplated him as an _ironchieftain_, and he seemed to be a father to his tribe. One of them cameto him, complaining grievously of his landlord for having distrained hisgoods. "Your landlord is in the right, Smith" (said Bolton). "But I'lltell you what: find you a friend who will lay down one-half of yourrent, and I'll lay down the other half; and you shall have yourgoods again. "

From Mr. Hector I now learned many particulars of Dr. Johnson's earlylife, which, with others that he gave me at different times since, havecontributed to the formation of this work. 

Dr. Johnson said to me in the morning, "You will see, sir, at Mr. Hector's, his sister Mrs. Careless, a clergyman's widow. She was thefirst woman with whom I was in love. It dropped out of my headimperceptibly; but she and I will always have a kindness for eachother. " He laughed at the notion that a man can never really be in lovebut once, and considered it as a mere romantic fancy. 

On our return from Mr. Bolton's, Mr. Hector took me to his house, wherewe found Johnson sitting placidly at tea with his first love; who, though now advanced in years, was a genteel woman, very agreeable andwell-bred. 

Johnson lamented to Mr. Hector the state of one of their schoolfellows, Mr. Charles Congreve, a clergyman, which he thus described:--"Heobtained, I believe, considerable preferment in Ireland, but now livesin London, quite as a valetudinarian, afraid to go into any house buthis own. He takes a short airing in his post-chaise every day. He has anelderly woman, whom he calls cousin, who lives with him, and jogs hiselbow when his glass has stood too long empty, and encourages him indrinking, in which he is very willing to be encouraged; not that hegets drunk, for he is a very pious man, but he is always muddy. Heconfesses to one bottle of port every day, and he probably drinks more. He is quite unsocial; his conversation is quite monosyllabical; and whenat my last visit I asked him what o'clock it was, that signal of mydeparture had so pleasing an effect upon him that he sprung up to lookat his watch like a greyhound bounding at a hare. " When Johnson tookleave of Mr. Hector, he said, "Don't grow like Congreve; nor let me growlike him, when you are near me. "

When he talked again of Mrs. Careless to-night, he seemed to have hadhis affection revived; for he said, "If I had married her, it might havebeen as happy for me. "

_Boswell_--Pray, sir, do you not suppose that there are fifty women inthe world, with any one of whom a man may be as happy as with any onewoman in particular?

_Johnson_--Ay, sir, fifty thousand. 

_Boswell_--Then, sir, you are not of opinion with some that imagine thatcertain men and certain women are made for each other; and that theycannot be happy if they miss their counterparts. 

_Johnson_--To be sure not, sir. I believe marriages would in general beas happy, and often more so, if they were all made by the LordChancellor, upon a due consideration of the characters andcircumstances, without the parties having any choice in the matter. 

I am now to record a very curious incident in Dr. Johnson's life whichfell under my own observation; of which _pars magna fui_, and which I ampersuaded will, with the liberal-minded, be much to his credit. 

My desire of being acquainted with celebrated men of every descriptionhad made me, much about the same time, obtain an introduction to Dr. Samuel Johnson and to John Wilkes, Esq. Two men more different couldperhaps not be selected out of all mankind. They had even attacked oneanother with some asperity in their writings; yet I lived in habits offriendship with both. I could fully relish the excellence of each; for Ihave ever delighted in that intellectual chymistry which can separategood qualities from evil in the same person. 

Sir John Pringle, "mine own friend and my father's friend, " between whomand Dr. Johnson I in vain wished to establish an acquaintance, as Irespected and lived in intimacy with both of them, observed to me oncevery ingeniously, "It is not in friendship as in mathematics, where twothings, each equal to a third, are equal between themselves. You agreewith Johnson as a middle quality, and you agree with me as a middlequality; but Johnson and I should not agree. " Sir John was notsufficiently flexible, so I desisted: knowing indeed that the repulsionwas equally strong on the part of Johnson; who, I know not from whatcause unless his being a Scotchman, had formed a very erroneous opinionof Sir John. But I conceived an irresistible wish, if possible, to bringDr. Johnson and Mr. Wilkes together. How to manage it, was a nice anddifficult matter. 

My worthy booksellers and friends, Messieurs Dilly in the Poultry, atwhose hospitable and well-covered table I have seen a greater number ofliterary men than at any other except that of Sir Joshua Reynolds, hadinvited me to meet Mr. Wilkes and some more gentlemen on Wednesday, May15th. "Pray" (said I), "let us have Dr. Johnson. "--"What, with Mr. Wilkes? not for the world" (said Mr. Edward Dilly): "Dr. Johnson wouldnever forgive me. "--"Come" (said I), "if you'll let me negotiate foryou, I will be answerable that all shall go well. "

_Dilly_--Nay, if you will take it upon you, I am sure I shall be veryhappy to see them both here. 

Notwithstanding the high veneration which I entertained for Dr. Johnson, I was sensible that he was sometimes a little actuated by the spirit ofcontradiction, and by means of that I hoped I should gain my point. Iwas persuaded that if I had come upon him with a direct proposal, "Sir, will you dine in company with Jack Wilkes?" he would have flown into apassion, and would probably have answered, "Dine with Jack Wilkes, sir!I'd as soon dine with Jack Ketch. " I therefore, while we were sittingquietly by ourselves at his house in an evening, took occasion to openmy plan thus:--

"Mr. Dilly, sir, sends his respectful compliments to you, and would behappy if you would do him the honor to dine with him on Wednesday nextalong with me, as I must soon go to Scotland. "

_Johnson_--Sir, I am obliged to Mr. Dilly. I will wait upon him--

_Boswell_--Provided, sir, I suppose, that the company which he is tohave is agreeable to you. 

_Johnson_--What do you mean, sir? What do you take me for? Do you thinkI am so ignorant of the world as to imagine that I am to prescribe to agentleman what company he is to have at his table?

_Boswell_--I beg your pardon, sir, for wishing to prevent you frommeeting people whom you might not like. Perhaps he may have some of whathe calls his patriotic friends with him. 

_Johnson_--Well, sir, and what then? What care I for his _patrioticfriends_? Poh!

_Boswell_--I should not be surprised to find Jack Wilkes there. 

_Johnson_--And if Jack Wilkes _should_ be there, what is that to _me_, sir? My dear friend, let us have no more of this. I am sorry to be angrywith you; but really it is treating me strangely to talk to me as if Icould not meet any company whatever, occasionally. 

_Boswell_--Pray forgive me, sir: I meant well. But you shall meetwhoever comes, for me. 

Thus I secured him, and told Dilly that he would find him very wellpleased to be one of his guests on the day appointed. 

Upon the much-expected Wednesday I called on him about half an hourbefore dinner, as I often did when we were to dine out together, to seethat he was ready in time, and to accompany him. I found him buffetinghis books, as upon a former occasion, covered with dust, and making nopreparation for going abroad. "How is this, sir?" (said I). "Don't yourecollect that you are to dine at Mr. Dilly's?"

_Johnson_--Sir, I did not think of going to Dilly's: it went out of myhead. I have ordered dinner at home with Mrs. Williams. 

_Boswell_--But, my dear sir, you know you were engaged to Mr. Dilly, andI told him so. He will expect you, and will be much disappointed if youdon't come. 

_Johnson_--You must talk to Mrs. Williams about this. 

Here was a sad dilemma. I feared that what I was so confident I hadsecured, would yet be frustrated. He had accustomed himself to show Mrs. Williams such a degree of humane attention as frequently imposed somerestraint upon him; and I knew that if she should be obstinate, he wouldnot stir. I hastened down-stairs to the blind lady's room, and told herI was in great uneasiness, for Dr. Johnson had engaged to me to dinethis day at Mr. Dilly's, but that he had told me he had forgotten hisengagement, and had ordered dinner at home. "Yes, sir" (said she, prettypeevishly), "Dr. Johnson is to dine at home. " "Madam" (said I), "hisrespect for you is such that I know he will not leave you, unless youabsolutely desire it. But as you have so much of his company, I hope youwill be good enough to forego it for a day; as Mr. Dilly is a veryworthy man, has frequently had agreeable parties at his house for Dr. Johnson, and will be vexed if the Doctor neglects him to-day. And then, madam, be pleased to consider my situation: I carried the message, and Iassured Mr. Dilly that Dr. Johnson was to come; and no doubt he has madea dinner, and invited a company, and boasted of the honor he expected tohave. I shall be quite disgraced if the Doctor is not there. "

She gradually softened to my solicitations, which were certainly asearnest as most entreaties to ladies upon any occasion, and wasgraciously pleased to empower me to tell Dr. Johnson "that, all thingsconsidered, she thought he should certainly go. " I flew back to him, still in dust, and careless of what should be the event, "indifferent inhis choice to go or stay;" but as soon as I had announced to him Mrs. Williams's consent, he roared, "Frank, a clean shirt, " and was very soondressed. When I had him fairly seated in a hackney-coach with me, Iexulted as much as a fortune-hunter who has got an heiress into apost-chaise with him to set out for Gretna Green. 

When we entered Mr. Dilly's drawing-room, he found himself in the midstof a company he did not know. I kept myself snug and silent, watchinghow he would conduct himself. I observed him whispering to Mr. Dilly, "Who is that gentleman, sir?" "Mr. Arthur Lee. " _Johnson_--"Too, too, too" (under his breath), which was one of his habitual mutterings. Mr. Arthur Lee could not but be very obnoxious to Johnson, for he was notonly a _patriot_ but an _American_. He was afterwards minister from theUnited States at the court of Madrid. "And who is the gentleman inlace?" "Mr. Wilkes, sir. " This information confounded him still more; hehad some difficulty to restrain himself, and taking up a book, sat downupon a window-seat and read, or at least kept his eye upon it intentlyfor some time, till he composed himself. His feelings, I dare say, wereawkward enough. But he no doubt recollected his having rated me forsupposing that he could be at all disconcerted by any company, and hetherefore resolutely set himself to behave quite as an easy man of theworld, who could adapt himself at once to the disposition and manners ofthose whom he might chance to meet. 

The cheering sound of "Dinner is upon the table" dissolved his reverie, and we all sat down without any symptom of ill-humor. There werepresent, besides Mr. Wilkes, and Mr. Arthur Lee, who was an oldcompanion of mine when he studied physics at Edinburgh, Mr. (now SirJohn) Miller, Dr. Lettson, and Mr. Slater the druggist. Mr. Wilkesplaced himself next to Dr. Johnson, and behaved to him with so muchattention and politeness that he gained upon him insensibly. No man eatmore heartily than Johnson, or loved better what was nice and delicate. Mr. Wilkes was very assiduous in helping him to some fine veal. "Praygive me leave, sir--It is better here--A little of the brown--Some fat, sir--A little of the stuffing--Some gravy--Let me have the pleasure ofgiving you some butter--Allow me to recommend a squeeze of this orange;or the lemon, perhaps, may have more zest" "Sir, sir, I am obliged toyou, sir, " cried Johnson, bowing, and turning his head to him with alook for some time of "surly virtue, " but in a short while ofcomplacency. 

Sir William Forbes writes to me thus:--"I inclose the 'Round Robin. 'This _jeu d'esprit_ took its rise one day at dinner at our friend SirJoshua Reynolds's. All the company present except myself were friendsand acquaintances of Dr. Goldsmith. The Epitaph written for him by Dr. Johnson became the subject of conversation, and various emendations weresuggested, which it was agreed should be suggested to the Doctor'sconsideration. --But the question was, who should have the courage topropose them to him? At last it was hinted that there could be no way sogood as that of a 'Round Robin, ' as the sailors call it, which they makeuse of when they enter into a conspiracy, so as not to let it be knownwho puts his name first or last to the paper. This proposition wasinstantly assented to; and Dr. Barnard, Dean of Derry, now Bishop ofKillahoe, drew up an address to Dr. Johnson on the occasion, repletewith wit and humor, but which it was feared the Doctor might thinktreated the subject with too much levity. Mr. Burke then proposed theaddress as it stands in the paper in writing, to which I had the honorto officiate as clerk. 

"Sir Joshua agreed to carry it to Dr. Johnson, who received it with muchgood humor, and desired Sir Joshua to tell the gentlemen that he wouldalter the Epitaph in any manner they pleased, as to the sense of it; but_he would never consent to disgrace the walls of Westminster Abbey withan English inscription_. 

"I consider this 'Round Robin' as a species of literary curiosity worthpreserving, as it marks in a certain degree Dr. Johnson's character. ". .. 

Sir William Forbes's observation is very just. The anecdote now relatedproves in the strongest manner the reverence and awe with which Johnsonwas regarded by some of the most eminent men of his time, in variousdepartments, and even by such of them as lived most with him; while italso confirms what I have again and again inculcated, that he was by nomeans of that ferocious and irascible character which has beenignorantly imagined. 

This hasty composition is also one to be remarked as one of the thousandinstances which evince the extraordinary promptitude of Mr. Burke; who, while he is equal to the greatest things, can adorn the least; can withequal facility embrace the vast and complicated speculations of politicsor the ingenious topics of literary investigation. 

The character of Samuel Johnson has, I trust, been so developed in thecourse of this work that they who have honored it with a perusal may beconsidered as well acquainted with him. As, however, it may be expectedthat I should collect into one view the capital and distinguishingfeatures of this extraordinary man, I shall endeavor to acquit myself ofthat part of my biographical undertaking, however difficult it may be todo that which many of my readers will do better for themselves. 

His figure was large and well formed, and his countenance of the cast ofan ancient statue; yet his appearance was rendered strange and somewhatuncouth by convulsive cramps, by the scars of that distemper which itwas once imagined the royal touch could cure, and by a slovenly mode ofdress. He had the use only of one eye; yet so much does mind govern andeven supply the deficiency of organs, that his visual perceptions, asfar as they extended, were uncommonly quick and accurate. So morbid washis temperament that he never knew the natural joy of a free andvigorous use of his limbs; when he walked, it was like the strugglinggait of one in fetters; when he rode, he had no command or direction ofhis horse, but was carried as if in a balloon. That with hisconstitution and habits of life he should have lived seventy-five years, is a proof that an inherent _vivida vis_ is a powerful preservative ofthe human frame. 

Man is in general made up of contradictory qualities: and these willever show themselves in strange succession where a consistency inappearance at least, if not in reality, has not been attained by longhabits of philosophical discipline. In proportion to the native vigor ofthe mind, the contradictory qualities will be the more prominent, andmore difficult to be adjusted; and therefore we are not to wonder thatJohnson exhibited an eminent example of this remark which I have madeupon human nature. 

At different times he seemed a different man in some respects; not, however, in any great or essential article, upon which he had fullyemployed his mind and settled certain principles of duty, but only inhis manners, and in the display of argument and fancy in his talk. Hewas prone to superstition, but not to credulity. Though his imaginationmight incline him to a belief of the marvelous and the mysterious, hisvigorous reason examined the evidence with jealousy. He was a sincereand zealous Christian, of high Church-of-England and monarchicalprinciples, which he would not tamely suffer to be questioned; and hadperhaps at an early period narrowed his mind somewhat too much, both asto religion and politics. His being impressed with the danger of extremelatitude in either, though he was of a very independent spirit, occasioned his appearing somewhat unfavorable to the prevalence of thatnoble freedom of sentiment which is the best possession of man. Nor canit be denied that he had many prejudices; which, however, frequentlysuggested many of his pointed sayings, that rather show a playfulness offancy than any settled malignity. He was steady and inflexible inmaintaining the obligations of religion and morality, both from a regardfor the order of society, and from a veneration for the Great Source ofall order: correct--nay, stern--in his taste; hard to please, and easilyoffended; impetuous and irritable in his temper, but of a most humaneand benevolent heart, which showed itself not only in a most liberalcharity, as far as his circumstances would allow, but in a thousandinstances of active benevolence. He was afflicted with a bodily diseasewhich made him often restless and fretful; and with a constitutionalmelancholy, the clouds of which darkened the brightness of his fancy, and gave a gloomy cast to his whole course of thinking. We thereforeought not to wonder at his sallies of impatience and passion at anytime, especially when provoked by obtrusive ignorance or presumingpetulance; and allowance must be made for his uttering hasty andsatirical sallies even against his best friends. And surely, when it isconsidered that "amidst sickness and sorrow" he exerted his faculties inso many works for the benefit of mankind, and particularly that heachieved the great and admirable Dictionary of our language, we must beastonished at his resolution. 

The solemn text, "Of him to whom much is given, much is expected, " seemsto have been ever present to his mind in a rigorous sense, and to havemade him dissatisfied with his labors and acts of goodness, howevercomparatively great; so that the unavoidable consciousness of hissuperiority was in that respect a cause of disquiet. He suffered so muchfrom this, and from the gloom which perpetually haunted him and madesolitude frightful, that it may be said of him, "If in this life only hehad hope, he was of all men most miserable. " He loved praise when it wasbrought to him, but was too proud to seek for it. He was somewhatsusceptible of flattery. As he was general and unconfined in hisstudies, he cannot be considered as master of any one particularscience; but he had accumulated a vast and various collection oflearning and knowledge, which was so arranged in his mind as to be everin readiness to be brought forth. But his superiority over other learnedmen consisted chiefly in what may be called the art of thinking, the artof using his mind; a certain continual power of seizing the usefulsubstance of all that he knew, and exhibiting it in a clear and forciblemanner; so that knowledge which we often see to be no better than lumberin men of dull understanding, was in him true, evident, and actualwisdom. His moral precepts are practical, for they are drawn from anintimate acquaintance with human nature. His maxims carry conviction, for they are founded on the basis of common-sense and a very attentiveand minute survey of real life. His mind was so full of imagery that hemight have been perpetually a poet; yet it is remarkable that howeverrich his prose is in this respect, his poetical pieces, in general, have not much of that splendor, but are rather distinguished by strongsentiment and an acute observation, conveyed in harmonious and energeticverse, particularly in heroic couplets. 

Though usually grave and even awful in his deportment, he possesseduncommon and peculiar powers of wit and humor; he frequently indulgedhimself in colloquial pleasantry; and the heartiest merriment was oftenenjoyed in his company, with this great advantage, that as it wasentirely free from any poisonous tincture of vice or impiety, it wassalutary to those who shared in it. He had accustomed himself to suchaccuracy in his common conversation, that he at all times expressed histhoughts with great force and an elegant choice of language, the effectof which was aided by his having a loud voice and a slow deliberateutterance. In him were united a most logical head with a most fertileimagination, which gave him a most extraordinary advantage in arguing;for he could reason close or wide, as he saw best for the moment. Exulting in his intellectual strength and dexterity, he could when hepleased be the greatest sophist that ever contended in the lists ofdeclamation; and from a spirit of contradiction, and a delight inshowing his powers, he would often maintain the wrong side with equalwarmth and ingenuity: so that when there was an audience, his realopinions could seldom be gathered from his talk; though when he was incompany with a single friend, he would discuss a subject with genuinefairness; but he was too conscientious to make error permanent andpernicious by deliberately writing it; and in all his numerous works heearnestly inculcated what appeared to him to be the truth, his pietybeing constant and the ruling principle of all his conduct. 

Such was Samuel Johnson; a man whose talents, acquirements, and virtueswere so extraordinary, that the more his character is considered, themore he will be regarded by the present age and by posterity withadmiration and reverence. 

PAUL BOURGET

(1852-)

French by birth, born at Amiens of a Russian father and an Englishmother, Paul Bourget inherited Anglo-Saxon as well as Gallic intuitions. He is very proud of the cosmopolitan spirit which exempts him from theusual French provincialism, and has sought to develop it by travel andstudy. He endeavors to know intimately the phases of life which hewishes to describe, and then to treat them in the light of a largeknowledge of many peoples. Yet he feels a somewhat bitter realizationthat so general a view as his own has necessarily an element ofweakness. He lacks convictions and prejudices to express withwhole-hearted strength, and hence is always a dilettante. 

[Illustration: Paul Bourget]

His student life was passed at the Lycée of Clermont, and later at theCollège de Sainte-Barbe at Paris, where his scholarship was rewarded byseveral prizes. But his voracious reading of French and English poetry, fiction, and philosophy has probably done more for him than scholastictraining. Like so many other novelists, he began his literary life withjournalism; and in 1872 became collaborator on the Renaissance, livingfrugally meantime, and studying Paris from her cafés and boulevards asany poor man may. 

His first book, 'La Vie Inquiète' 'Restless Life', a collection of poemssad in tone, dainty in touch, echoed the French verses which he lovedbest, but offered nothing very original. They show a tinge ofBaudelaire's fantastic love of morbid phases of life and beauty, andalso of Leconte de Lisle's exquisite phrasing. But Bourget lacks poeticardor, and in metre is always a little artificial. Although he went onwriting poetry for some years, he found few readers until he turned toprose. When the 'Essais de Psychologie Contemporaine' appeared in 1883, the public were delighted with their original charm. Taking five authorswhom he knew and loved particularly, --Baudelaire, Renan, Flaubert, Taine, and Stendhal, --he wrote a brilliant, profoundly psychologicexposition of their minds and temperaments. The scientific explanationwas fervid with his own emotion over these strong influences in hislife, and thus comes indirectly as an interpretation of himself. Thesestudies, which he calls "a few notes made to help the historian of themodern moral life in France during the latter half of the nineteenthcentury, " stand, as criticism, between Brunetière's formal structure andLemaître's appreciations. They have been very popular, and Bourget hassince written another volume of 'Nouveaux Essais de PsychologieContemporaine, ' and other books of critical sketches called 'Études etPortraits. '

Certain qualities of his talent show forcibly in 'Sensations d'Italie, 'a delightful appreciation of beauty and sensuous charm. The reader feelsthe author's joy in close analysis, and his sensitive discriminations. In 'Outre-Mer, ' especially interesting to Americans as a study of theUnited States, which he visited in 1894, he shows the same receptivityto new feelings and new ideas. The book is often ludicrously inaccurate, and fundamentally incomplete in that it ignores the great middle classof our people, yet it is full of suggestive comments on Americancharacter. 

Most people know Bourget best as a novelist. As in criticism, his methodis psychologic dissection. Taking a set of men and women who areindividually interesting, he draws their environment with careful detailand shows the reactions of their characters upon each other. Hissubtlety of analysis comes out strongly in his pictures of women, whosecontradictory moods and emotional intuitions offer him the refinedcomplexities he loves. His first novel, 'L'Irréparable, ' lacks movementand is sometimes tedious in its over-elaboration. In 'Une CruelleÉnigme' his strength is more evident. It is the story of a young andhigh-minded man who discovers that the woman he loves is unworthy, yetfinds that he loves her notwithstanding. "Why this love?" asks theauthor at the end of the book. "Why and whence does it come? Thequestion is without an answer, and like the falsity of woman, like theweakness of man, like life itself, a cruel, cruel riddle. " 'Une Crimed'Amour, ' one of his most popular novels, deals with a woman who, beingmarried to an uncongenial husband, falls in love with a brilliant, heartless society man, with the usual result. The crime is the hero'sinability to understand the meaning of genuine love. 'Mensonges' (Lies)is a striking picture of the endless falsities of a Parisian woman ofinnocent Madonna-like beauty. It was dramatized and played at theVaudeville in 1889, but without much success. 'Le Disciple' is anelaborate attempt to prove that present scientific theories tend tocorrupt manners and to encourage pessimism. In 'Cosmopolis, ' a study offoreign life in Italy, Bourget shows that the same passions dominatemen, whatever their training. 

From Dumas _fils_ Bourget has learned to be a moralist with a consciouswish to present society with object lessons. He himself says, "A writerworthy to hold a pen has, as his first and last requirement, to be amoralist. The moralist is the man who shows life as it is, with itsprofound lessons of secret expiation which are everywhere imprinted. Tohave shown the rancor of vice is to have been a moralist. "

Like most French novelists, he lacks humor. In their search forhappiness his characters suffer a great deal and know only temporaryecstasy. They are often witty, but never genial. 

His critics have said that his genius proves its own limitation, for hisanalytic curiosity is apt to desert what is primitive and broadly humanin search of stimulus from the abnormal and out-of-the-way, and there islack of synthesis in his wealth of detail. His literary brethren arefond too of deriding his ardent appreciation of luxury and wealth. Hedwells upon niceties of toilet or the decorations of a dinner-table withpositive enjoyment. All social refinements are very dear to him, and themoral struggles of fashionable men and women far more interesting thanthe heart-aches of the working classes. 

He is often called a pessimist, for his "heavy sadness of disillusion";but he is never bitter. Finding the universe incomprehensible, he standsbaffled and passive, with a tender sympathy, almost an envy, for thosewho still have faith. He is above all interesting as a sane andcharacteristic product of the latest social conditions. His is thetolerant, somewhat negative point of view of the man who has found nonew creed, yet disbelieves the old. Clarens says that Bourget suffersfrom "the atrocious modern uneasiness which is caused by regret that onecan no longer believe, and dread of the moral void. "

THE AMERICAN FAMILY

From 'Outre-Mer'

As the American marriage appears to be above all a partnership, so theAmerican family appears to be more than anything else an association, --asort of social camp, the ties of which are more or less strong accordingto individual sympathies, such as might exist between people not of thesame blood. I am certain, not from anecdotes but from experience, thatthe friendship of brother and brother, or sister and sister, is entirelyelective. So it is with the relations between father and son, mother anddaughter. A young Frenchman much in love with a New York girl said tome, in one of those moments when the coldness of the woman you lovedrives you to be cruelly frank:--

"She has so little heart that she went to the theatre five weeks afterher mother's death, and no one resented it. "

I knew that he was telling the truth. But what did it prove? What do theinequalities permitted by the laws of inheritance prove? Nothing, if notthat our natural characteristics, instincts, sensibilities, are not thesame as those of the people of this country. They have much less powerof self-giving, much more of personal reaction; and especially a muchstronger will. Their will rules their hearts as well as their minds. This seems to us less tender. But are we good judges?

We must continually keep in mind this general want of association infamily life if we would in any degree understand the sort ofsoul-celibacy, if we may use the term, which the American woman keepsall through her married life. No more in this second period of her lifethan in the first does love bear that preponderating part which seems tous Frenchmen an essential characteristic of the lot of woman. When aParisian woman of forty reviews her life, the story that memory tellsher is the story of her emotions. To an American woman of the same ageit is more often the story of her actions, --of what she calls, by a wordI have before cited, her experiences. She gained, between the ages ofeighteen and twenty-five, a conception of her own self which was imposedupon her neither by her traditions--she has none; nor by theinstructions of her parents--they never gave her any; nor even by herown nature--for it is characteristic of these easily "adaptable" mindsthat their first instincts are chaotic and undetermined. They are like ablank check, which the will undertakes to fill out. But whatever thewill writes upon it, is written in letters that will never be effaced. Action, action, always action, --this is the remorseless but unchangingdevice of such a woman. Whether she seeks for a place in society, or isambitious for artistic culture, or addicts herself to sport, ororganizes "classes, " as they say, for reading Browning, Emerson, orShakespeare, with her friends; whether she travels to Europe, India, orJapan, or gives an "at home" to have some young girl among her friends"pour" tea for her, be sure that she will be always and incessantlyactive, indefatigably active, either in the lines of "refinement" or of"excitement. "

With what impressiveness these women utter both these words! which wemust not weary of returning to; for they perhaps sum up the entireAmerican soul. They are bandied about in conversation like two formulae, in which are revealed the persistence of this creature, who, born of astern race, and feeling herself fine, wills to become finer and everfiner; who, reared amid democratic surroundings, wills to becomedistinguished and ever more distinguished; who, daughter of a land ofenterprise, loves to excite continually in herself the sensation ofover-strained nerves. 

When you see ten, fifteen, thirty, fifty like this, the character ofeccentricity, which you first found in them by comparison with the womenof Europe, disappears. A new type of feminine attractiveness is revealedto you, less affecting than irritating, enigmatic and slightly ambiguousby its indefinable blending of supple grace and virile firmness, by thealliance of culture and vigor, by the most thrilling nervoussensitiveness and the sturdiest health. The true place of such acreature in this society appears to you also, and the profound reasonwhy these men, themselves all action, leave these women free thus to actwith total independence. If it is permitted to apply an old legal termto creatures so subtle, so delicate, these women are the delegates toluxury in this utilitarian civilization. Their mission is to bring intoit that which the American has not time to create, and which he desiresto have:--the flower of elegance, something of beauty, and in a word, ofaristocracy. They are the nobility in this land of business, a nobilitydeveloped by the very development of business; since the money which ismade in the offices comes at last to them, and manipulated by theirfingers, is transfigured, blossoming into precious decorations, madeintellectual in plays of fancy, --in fact, _unutilized_. A great artist, foremost of this epoch by the ardor of his efforts, theconscientiousness of his study, and the sincerity of his vision, --JohnSargent, --has shown what I have tried to express, in a portrait I saw inan exhibition; that of a woman whose name I do not know. It is aportrait such as the fifteenth-century masters painted, who back of theindividual found the real, and back of the model a whole social order. The canvas might be called 'The American Idol, ' so representative is it. 

The woman is standing, her feet side by side, her knees close together, in an almost hieratic pose. Her body, rendered supple by exercise, issheathed--you might say molded--in a tight-fitting black dress. Rubies, like drops of blood, sparkle on her shoes. Her slender waist isencircled by a girdle of enormous pearls, and from this dress, whichmakes an intensely dark background for the stony brilliance of thejewels, the arms and shoulders shine out with another brilliance, thatof a flower-like flesh, --fine, white flesh, through which flows bloodperpetually invigorated by the air of the country and the ocean. Thehead, intellectual and daring, with a countenance as of one who hasunderstood everything, has for a sort of aureole the vaguely gildeddesign of one of those Renaissance stuffs which the Venetians call_soprarisso_. The rounded arms, in which the muscles can hardly be seen, are joined by the clasped hands, --firm hands, the thumb almost too long, which might guide four horses with the precision of an English coachman. It is the picture of an energy at once delicate and invincible, momentarily in repose; and all the Byzantine Madonna is in that facewith its wide-open eyes. 

Yes, this woman is an idol, for whose service man labors, which he hasdecked with the jewels of a queen, behind each one of whose whims liedays and days spent in the ardent battle of Wall Street. Frenzy ofspeculations in land, cities undertaken and built by sheer force ofmillions, trains launched at full speed over bridges built on aBabel-like sweep of arch, the creaking of cable cars, the quivering ofelectric cars, sliding along their wires with a crackle and a spark, thedizzy ascent of elevators, in buildings twenty stories high, immense wheat-fields of the West, its ranches, mines, colossalslaughter-houses, --all the formidable traffic of this country of effortand struggle, all its labor, --these are what have made possible thiswoman, this living orchid, unexpected masterpiece of this civilization. 

Did not the very painter consecrate to her his intense toil? To becapable of such a picture, he must have absorbed some of the ardor ofthe Spanish masters, caught the subtlety of the great Italians, understood and practiced the curiosities of impressionism, dreamedbefore the pictures in basilicas like Ravenna, and read and thought. Ah, how much of culture, of reflection, before one could fathom the secretdepths of one's own race! He has expressed one of the most essentialcharacteristics of the race, --the deification of woman, considered notas a Beatrice as in Florence, nor as a courtesan as at Milan, but as asupreme glory of the national spirit. 

This woman can do without being loved. She has no need of being loved. What she symbolizes is neither sensuality nor tenderness. She is like aliving object of art, the last fine work of human skill, attesting thatthe Yankee, but yesterday despairing, vanquished by the Old World, hasbeen able to draw from this savage world upon which fate has cast him awholly new civilization, incarnated in this woman, her luxury and herpride. Everything is illuminated by this civilization, at the gaze ofthese fathomless eyes, in the expression of which the painter hassucceeded in putting all the idealism of this country which has noideal; all that which perhaps will one day be its destruction, but up tothe present time is still its greatness, --a faith in the human Will, absolute, unique, systematic, and indomitable. 

Copyrighted by Charles Scribner's Sons, New York. 

THE ARISTOCRATIC VISION OF M. RENAN

From the 'Study of M. Renan'

The sentiments I have tried to analyze are evidently of a rare order, and presuppose an exceptional culture. Delicate flowers will not grow inthe winds and fitful sunshine of the public road. Their perfumedcorollas expand only in the mellowed air of hot-houses. Science is akind of hot-house which guards superior minds from the brutalities ofreal life. The author of 'Dialogues philosophiques' is an exceptionalperson. He is a superior man, to me a term very strong in itssimplicity; one might say almost that he is _the_ superior man. Moreover, a certain air of imperceptible irony and transcendentaldisdain shows that he is conscious of this superiority. Disregard ofvulgar opinion is very evident in his pages. The reserved elegance of astyle which never emphasizes any special intention; the subtle argumentswhich never take the imperative tone; a strength of feelings, none ofwhich are exaggerated for the sake of sympathy, --all would reveal hisaristocratic ideal, even if he had not often declared that there is onedomain for the initiated and another for the simple. His political workon 'Reforme intellectuelle et morale' contains the strongest argument ofthe last hundred years against the very principle of democracy, naturalequality. His two symbolic dramas--'Caliban' and 'Eau de Jouvence'--maybe summed up in this reflection of the prior of Chartreux, seated in hisstall while the organ plays alone, and the crowd presses around thecrowned Caliban: "A11 civilization is the work of aristocrats. " Thistruth the demagogue Caliban himself recognizes, since as soon aspossessed of the palace and power of Prospero, he assumes aristocraticways; and M. Renan, always desirous of correcting by a smile even hisdearest affirmations, carefully adds that the monster of the islandbecame a very fair prince. Prospero proclaims that material work is theslave of spiritual work. Everything must aid him who prays, --that is, who thinks. Democratic minds, which do not admit individualsubordination to a general achievement, consider this amonstrous doctrine. 

Finally, the 'Dialogues philosophiques, ' in the part entitled 'Dreams, 'contain a complete plan for the subjection of the greatest number by achosen few. .. . Is it bold to consider his feeling for his native soilthe germ of his aristocratic ideal?

Other determining circumstances unite with it, all of which may besummed up in the term "superior man, " which seems simple enough, butwhich may be decomposed into a series of complex characters. Thesuperior man differs from the man of genius, who may be unintelligentenough, and from the man of talent, who is often a mere specialist, inan ability to form general ideas about everything. If this power ofgeneralizing is not combined with equal creative power, the superior manremains a critic. But if he possesses both, he is an exceptional beingand the highest conceivable type, that of conscious genius. Caesar is anexample of this in politics; Da Vinci in painting; and the great Goethein literature. Even if he does not reach these heights, the superior manis one of the most useful instruments of society. For universalcomprehension usually includes a universal aptitude. Is not thisdemonstrated in England, where favorable conditions have developed manyexamples? What are great political characters like Disraeli andMacaulay, who could apply an ever-ready intelligence to literarycomposition and parliamentary struggles, to financial interests anddiplomatic difficulties, but superior men?

Conceive such a one thrown into the democratic current by chances ofbirth, and you will realize the contrasts of environment and characterwhich have led M. Renan to the conception of an ideal so unusual. Democracy seems at a first glance very favorable to talent, for it opensall doors to all efforts. But at the same time it strengthens the hardlaw of competition. Therefore it requires a greater specialization. Then, democracy is founded upon equality, of which the logicalconsequence is universal suffrage. It needs little analysis to know thatuniversal suffrage is hostile to the superior man. The mental attitudesresulting from advanced study are usually--multiplicity of points ofview; a taste for nice distinctions; a disdain for absolute statement;and search for intricate solutions;--all of which are refinementsantagonistic to the popular love of positive assertion. Therefore asuperior man finds the morals of a democracy unfavorable to hisdevelopment, while its laws hold him back from public affairs. So, manydistinguished minds in France to-day are excluded from government; or ifthey have triumphed over the ostracism to which their divorce fromcommon passions condemns them, it is because they disguise this divorceunder professions which are void of intellectual impartiality. Thesuperior man exiled in what Sainte-Beuve calls "the ivory tower" watchesthe drama of national life as one who sees its future possibilities. Isit necessary to recall that one of this class of élite has shown averitable gift of prophecy? To cite only one example, were not thedisasters of 1870 predicted with surprising exactness in the 'Francenouvelle' of Prévost-Paradol, victim like Renan of universal suffrage?It is evident that a strange melancholy oppresses these lofty minds, weighed down under the conviction of their ideal strength and their realweakness. The insolent triumph of the mediocre adds to this sadness. Butit is not quite without sweetness. It has something of the pleasureextolled by Lucretius in the famous verses on those temples of the calmfaith from which the sage regards the wild struggle of the passions. Butthe superior man of to-day will never know the full enjoyment which thenervous systems of the ancients permitted them. The mind can do a greatdeal, but it is powerless to remodel our native faculties. Whether wehate or venerate the democracy, we are its sons and inherit itsimperious need of combat. The obscure and revolutionary nineteenthcentury is in our blood, and prohibits the inner immobility, the mentalquiet, celebrated by the Epicureans of Greece and Rome. There isagitation in our serenities, as in our submissions. Catholics oratheists, monarchists or republicans, all the offspring of this age ofanguish have the anxious look, the quaking heart, the trembling hands ofthe great battle of the time. Even those who try to stand aloof sharethe common anxiety. They too are revolutionists like the others, butthey oppose human stupidity, and their mute rebellion is called disdain. 

It would be interesting to study among contemporary scholars thedifferent forms of this disdain. Does not the exaggeration of technicalbeauties, which is a feature of the school of poets ironically calledParnassians, proceed from this sentiment of _Odi profanum vulgus_? Didnot Gustave Flaubert compose 'Bouvard et Péchuchet' under thisinspiration? Would Taine have undertaken his 'Histoire des origines dela France contemporaine' if he had not been tormented by a longing tounderstand the democratic tide which was sweeping him away? But nowriter has felt more strongly than M. Renan the antithesis of thesuperior man and democracy. One must read and re-read those pages of the'Dialogues' where Theoctiste imagines the victory of a future oligarchy, to appreciate the intensity of passion employed in the examination ofthese problems. He conceives that the learned will secure formidabledestructive agents, requiring the most delicate calculations and muchabstract knowledge. Then, exulting in their power, the dreamerexclaims:--"Thus the forces of humanity would some day be held in a fewhands, and would be possessed by a league which could rule the existenceof the planet and terrorize the whole world. If those most endowed withreason had ability to destroy the planet, their sovereignty would beestablished. The privileged class would reign by absolute terror, sincethey would have the existence of all in their hands. They would bealmost gods, and then would be realized the theological state dreamed bythe poet for primitive humanity: 'Primus in orbe Deos fecit timor. '" Wemust not attach more reality to this tragic fancy than the authorintended, but it shows an incurably wounded heart; and proves that thescholar who drew this gloomy picture has no great tenderness for thefavorite Utopias of the age. 

An open break is possible between democracy and science, the two greatforces of modern society. Certainly while the tendency of the first isto level, that of the second is to create differences. "Knowledge ispower, " said the inductive philosopher. To know ten times as much asanother is to be ten times as capable; and as intellectual inequalityforbids a uniform degree of information, there is increasing oppositionbetween democratic tendencies and the social results of science. Thereare several solutions, as in nearly all the complicated problems as tothe future. In formulating the hypothesis of the 'Dialogues, ' M. Renanindicates one of them. Another may be simply an application of scienceto the organization of societies. An unprejudiced consideration of theprinciples upon which our nineteenth-century society is founded provestheir Cartesian character, very different already from modernphilosophy. But there is a secret movement of minds. The conceptions ofDarwin and Herbert Spencer permeate the new ones. We must have faith inthe worth of the doctrines which will eventually overthrow politics, aswell as natural science and literature. A time is coming when a societywill not seem to the philosophers of evolution as it did to the lastinheritors of the classic spirit. It will appear, not the operation of alogical contract, but the action of a confederation of organisms ofwhich the cell is the unit. This is very different from the reigningidea. It is exclusive of any difference between democrat and aristocrat, for such difference means an arbitrary classification of the differentsocial elements. If this consoling vision is not a simple chimera, itmay be remembered that the great scorners like M. Renan are activeworkmen for its accomplishment, in that they formulate it very exactly, and face the coming conflict with sorrowfully keen relief. 

These summary notes upon one of our most remarkable men only indicatethe three or four states of conscience which he represents to the youngpeople who read his books and meditate upon their eloquent, disquietingpages. No other author offers more that is fresh in thought and feeling, for no other employs greater sincerity in thought and in exposition ofsentiment. Whoever studies the springs of moral life in the risinggeneration, meets everywhere his influence. Not before a hundred yearshence can his achievement be measured. If there are any who do notworship sincerity and reverence, they should devote themselves to thebooks of M. Renan; for no one has practiced these qualities with greaterconstancy than he, who on the first page of his 'Vie de Jésus' invokesthe pure spirit of the venerated Dead, and who prayed to him in amelancholy petition to the unattainable--"O good Genius, reveal to mewhom you love, the truths which govern death, keep one from fearing andmake one almost love it!"

SIR JOHN BOWRING

(1792-1872)

"It will be the height of my ambition, " once wrote Sir John Bowring to afriend, "to do something which may connect my name with the literatureof the age. "

[Illustration: Sir John Bowring]

This desire was accomplished; for the distinguished linguist, scholar, and diplomat of England rendered genuine service to literature by histranslations of Slavonic and Oriental verses into the English tongue. These were more than translations: they were studies of the nationalsong. Bowring was one of the first scholars to appreciate the beauty, the importance, and the charm of the traditional ballad and lyric; thosefaithful records of the joys, sorrows, superstitions, and history of apeople. In the various East-European languages wherein Bowring'sresearches bore such valuable fruit, --embracing Bohemian, Polish, Russian, Hungarian, Servian, and Bulgarian, --the race-soul of thesenations is preserved: their wild mythology, their bizarre Orientalcolor, their impassioned thought, their affections and traditions, andoften the sorrows and ideals learned during centuries of vain wanderingsand heavy oppressions. In this rich and romantic field, which has beenassiduously cultivated since his time, Bowring was a pioneer. 

John Bowring, born on October 17th, 1792, came of an old Puritan family, long identified with the woolen trade. "In the early days, " he tells us, "the Exeter merchants were mostly traveled men with a practicalknowledge of other tongues, and the quay at Exeter was crowded with theships of all nations. " Thus his imagination was kindled by the visiblelinks to far-away countries, and from intercourse with the emigrants ofvarious nations he acquired the foundation of his brilliant linguisticattainments. 

In 1811 he went to London as clerk to a commercial house, which sent himto Spain in 1813, and subsequently to France, Belgium, Holland, Russia, and Sweden. Immediately on his return to London he published the firstof his translations, "Specimens of the Russian Poets" (1820). In 1822 hepublished a second volume of Russian verse and a translation ofChamisso's whimsical tale 'Peter Schlemihl'; and when in 1824 his friendJeremy Bentham founded the Westminster Review, Bowring became one of itseditors. He contributed to it numerous essays on political and literarytopics, one of which, on the literature of Finland, published in 1827, first brought the poetry of that country into notice. In 1849 he wassent on a mission to China; in 1854 was made plenipotentiary andknighted, and remained in China during the Taeping insurrection, beingmade governor of Hong Kong. In 1859 he resigned the post. 

With the exception of negotiating commercial treaties for Englandbetween the Hawaiian court and various European States, the remainder ofhis life was spent quietly in the pursuit of literary pleasures. Even inhis old age he translated fugitive poetry, wrote essays on political, literary, and social questions of the hour, and frequently deliveredlectures. He died November 23d, 1872, in Exeter, within sight of hisbirthplace under the shadows of the massive cathedral. "In my travels, "he said, "I have never been very ambitious of the society of mycountrymen, but have always sought that of the natives; and there arefew men, I believe, who can bear a stronger or a wider testimony to thegeneral kindness and hospitality of the human family when the means ofintercourse exist. My experiences of foreign lands are everywhereconnected with the most pleasing and the most grateful remembrances. " In1873 Lady Bowring published a 'Memorial Volume of Sacred Poetry, 'containing many of his popular hymns; and in 1877 his 'AutobiographicalRecollections' were published, with a memoir by his son. 

Sir John Bowring was a natural linguist of the first order. He knew andspoke over a hundred languages, and affirmed that he often dreamed inforeign tongues. His friend Tom Hood humorously referred to his gifts inthe following verse:--

 "To Bowring! man of many tongues, (All over tongues, like rumor) This tributary verse belongs To paint his learned humor. All kinds of gab he knows, I wis, From Latin down to Scottish-- As fluent as a parrot is, But far more Polly-glottish. No grammar too abstruse he meets, However dark and verby; He gossips Greek about the streets And often Russ--in urbe. Strange tongues--whate'er you do them call; In short, the man is able To tell you what o'clock in all The dialects of Babel. Take him on Change--in Portuguese, The Moorish and the Spanish, Polish, Hungarian, Tyrolese, The Swedish and the Danish: Try him with these, and fifty such, His skill will ne'er diminish; Although you should begin in Dutch, And end (like me) in Finnish. "

Bowring was a member of many learned societies, and had honors anddecorations without stint, including the Order of the White Elephant, the Swedish Order of the Northern Star, and the Order of Kamehameha I. His publications are a 'Russian Anthology, ' 'Matins and Vespers, ''Batavian Anthology, ' 'Ancient Poetry and Romances of Spain, ' 'PeterSchlemihl, ' 'Servian Popular Poetry, ' 'Specimens of the Polish Poets, ''Sketch of the Language and Literature of Holland, ' 'Poetry of theMagyars, ' 'Cheskian Anthology, ' 'Minor Morals, ' 'Observations onOriental Plague and Quarantines, ' Manuscript of the Queen's Court: aCollection of Old Bohemian Lyrico-Epic Songs, ' 'Kingdom and People ofSiam, ' 'A Visit to the Philippine Islands, ' 'Translations from Petöfi, ''The Flowery Scroll' (translation of a Chinese novel), and 'The Oak' (acollection of original tales and sketches). He also edited the works ofJeremy Bentham. Of his translations, the 'Servian Anthology' has beenthe most admired for the skill and ease with which the wild beauty ofthe poems, and their national spirit, has been preserved. At the time ofits publication, the collection of Servian popular poetry called'Narodne srpske pjesme' had just appeared, and was the first attempt toput into literary form the ballads and lyric songs sung by the wanderingminstrels and the people. 

 THE CROSS OF CHRIST

 In the Cross of Christ I glory, Tow'ring o'er the wrecks of time; All the light of sacred story Gathers round its head sublime. 

 When the woes of life o'ertake me, Hopes deceive and fears annoy, Never shall the Cross forsake me-- Lo! it glows with peace and joy. 

 When the sun of bliss is beaming Light and love upon my way, From the Cross the radiance streaming Adds more lustre to the day. 

 Bane and blessing, pain and pleasure, By the Cross are sanctified; Peace is there that knows no measure, Joys that through all time abide. 

 In the Cross of Christ I glory, Tow'ring o'er the wrecks of time; All the light of sacred story Gathers round its head sublime. 

 WATCHMAN! WHAT OF THE NIGHT?

 Watchman! tell us of the night, What its signs of promise are: Traveler! o'er yon mountain's height See that glory-beaming star! Watchman! doth its beauteous ray Aught of hope or joy foretell? Traveler! yes, it brings the day, Promised day of Israel. 

 Watchman! tell us of the night; Higher yet that star ascends: Traveler! blessedness and light, Peace and truth, its course portends. Watchman! will its beams alone Gild the spot that gave them birth? Traveler! ages are its own, And it bursts o'er all the earth. 

 Watchman! tell us of the night, For the morning seems to dawn: Traveler! darkness takes its flight, Doubt and terror are withdrawn. Watchman! let thy wanderings cease; Hie thee to thy quiet home: Traveler! lo! the Prince of Peace, Lo! the Son of God is come!

 HYMN

 From the recesses of a lowly spirit My humble prayer ascends--O Father! hear it! Upsoaring on the wings of fear and meekness, Forgive its weakness. 

 I know, I feel, how mean and how unworthy The trembling sacrifice I pour before Thee; What can I offer in Thy presence holy, But sin and folly?

 For in Thy sight who every bosom viewest, Cold are our warmest vows, and vain our truest; Thoughts of a harrying hour, our lips repeat them, Our hearts forget them. 

 We see Thy hand--it leads us, it supports us; We hear Thy voice--it counsels and it courts us; And then we turn away--and still thy kindness Pardons our blindness. 

 And still Thy rain descends, Thy sun is glowing, Fruits ripen round, flowers are beneath us blowing, And, as if man were some deserving creature, Joys cover nature. 

 Oh, how long-suffering, Lord!--but Thou delightest To win with love the wandering; Thou invitest By smiles of mercy, not by frowns or terrors, Man from his errors. 

 Who can resist Thy gentle call--appealing To every generous thought and grateful feeling? That voice paternal--whispering, watching ever: My bosom?--never. 

 Father and Savior! plant within that bosom These seeds of holiness, and bid them blossom In fragrance and in beauty bright and vernal, And spring eternal. 

 Then place them in those everlasting gardens Where angels walk, and seraphs are the wardens; Where every flower that creeps through death's dark portal Becomes immortal. 

 FROM LUIS DE GONGORA--NOT ALL NIGHTINGALES

 They are not all sweet nightingales, That fill with songs the flowery vales; But they are little silver bells, Touched by the winds in smiling dells; Magic bells of gold in the grove, Forming a chorus for her I love. 

 Think not the voices in the air Are from the winged Sirens fair, Playing among the dewy trees, Chanting their morning mysteries; Oh! if you listen, delighted there, To their music scattered o'er the dales, They are not all sweet nightingales, That fill with songs the flowery vales; But they are the little silver bells Touched by the winds in the smiling dells; Magic bells of gold in the grove, Forming a chorus for her I love. 

 Oh! 'twas a lovely song--of art To charm--of nature to touch the heart; Sure 'twas some Shepherd's pipe, which, played By passion, fills the forest shade: No! 'tis music's diviner part Which o'er the yielding spirit prevails. They are not all sweet nightingales, That fill with songs the flowery vales; But they are the little silver bells Touched by the winds in the smiling dells; Magic bells of gold in the grove, Forming a chorus for her I love. 

 In the eye of love, which all things sees, The fragrance-breathing jasmine trees-- And the golden flowers--and the sloping hill-- And the ever-melancholy rill-- Are full of holiest sympathies, And tell of love a thousand tales. They are not all sweet nightingales, That fill with songs the flowery vales, But they are the little silver bells Touched by the winds in the smiling dells; Magic bells of gold in the grove, Forming a chorus for her I love. 

 From 'Ancient Poetry and Romances of Spain. '

 FROM JOHN KOLLAR--SONNET

 There came three minstrels in the days of old To the Avaric savage--in their hands Their own Slavonian citharas they hold: "And who are ye!" the haughty Khan demands, Frowning from his barbaric throne; "and where-- Say where your warriors--where your sisters be. " "We are Slavonians, monarch! and come here From the far borders of the Baltic sea: We know no wars--no arms to us belong-- We cannot swell your ranks--'tis our employ Alone to sing the dear domestic song. " And then they touched their harps in doubtful joy. "Slaves!" said the tyrant--"these to prison lead. For they are precious hostages indeed!"

 From the 'Cheskian Anthology. '

 FROM BOGDANOVICH (OLD RUSSIAN)--SONG

 What to the maiden has happened? What to the gem of the village? Ah! to the gem of the village. 

 Seated alone in her cottage, Tremblingly turned to the window; Ah! ever turned to the window. 

 Like the sweet bird in its prison, Pining and panting for freedom; Ah! how 'tis pining for freedom!

 Crowds of her youthful companions Come to console the loved maiden; Ah! to console the loved maiden. 

 "Smile then, our sister, be joyful; Clouds of dust cover the valley; Ah! see, they cover the valley. 

 "Smile then, our sister, be joyful; List to the hoof-beat of horses; Oh! to the hoof-beat of horses. "

 Then the maid looked through the window. Saw the dust-clouds in the valley; Oh! the dust-clouds in the valley. 

 Heard the hoof-beat of the horses, Hurried away from the cottage; Oh! to the valley she hurries. 

 "Welcome, O welcome! thou loved one. " See, she has sunk on his bosom; Oh! she has sunk on his bosom. 

 Now all her grief has departed: She has forgotten the window; Oh! quite forgotten the window. 

 Now her eye looks on her loved one, Beaming with brightness and beauty; Oh! 'tis all brightness and beauty. 

 From 'Specimens of the Russian Poets. '

FROM BOBROV--THE GOLDEN PALACE

[Sung at midnight in the Greek churches the last week before Easter. ]

 The golden palace of my God Tow'ring above the clouds I see Beyond the cherubs' bright abode, Higher than angels' thoughts can be: How can I in those courts appear Without a wedding garment on? Conduct me, Thou life-giver, there; Conduct me to Thy glorious throne: And clothe me with thy robes of light, And lead me through sin's darksome night, My Savior and my God!

 From 'Specimens of the Russian Poets. '

FROM DMITRIEV--THE DOVE AND THE STRANGER

 STRANGER

 Why mourning there so sad, thou gentle dove?

 DOVE

 I mourn, unceasing mourn, my vanished love. 

 STRANGER

 What, has thy love then fled, or faithless proved?

 DOVE

 Ah no! the sportsman murdered him I loved!

 STRANGER

 Unhappy one! beware! that sportsman's nigh!

 DOVE

 Oh, let him come--or else of grief I die. 

 From 'Specimens of the Russian Poets. '

FROM SARBIEWSKI--SAPPHICS TO A ROSE

[Intended to be used in the garlands for decorating the head of theVirgin Mary. ]

 Rose of the morning, in thy glowing beauty Bright as the stars, and delicate and lovely, Lift up thy head above thy earthly dwelling, Daughter of heaven!

 Wake! for the watery clouds are all dispersing; Zephyr invites thee. --frosts and snows of winter All are departed, and Favonian breezes Welcome thee smiling. 

 Rise in thy beauty;--wilt thou form a garland Round the fair brow of some belovèd maiden? Pure though she be, unhallowed temple never, Flow'ret! shall wear thee. 

 Thou shouldst be wreathed in coronal immortal-- Thou shouldst be flung upon a shrine eternal-- Thou shouldst be twined among the golden ringlets Of the pure Virgin. 

 From 'Specimens of the Polish Poets. '

HJALMAR HJORTH BOYESEN

(1848-1895)

Boyesen had thoroughly assimilated the spirit of his native Norwaybefore he left it. In the small southern seaport of Friedricksværn hehad lived the happy adventurous boyhood depicted in those lovingreminiscences 'Boyhood in Norway. ' He knew the rugged little land andthe sparkling fiords; his imagination had delighted in Necken and Hulderand trolls, and all the charming fantastic sprites of the Northland. Sowhen he was far away, during his bread-winning struggles in America, they grew clearer and dearer in perspective; and in 'Gunnar, ' 'ANorseman's Pilgrimage, ' 'Ilka on the Hilltop, ' and other delightfulbooks, he bequeathed these memories to his adopted land. 

[Illustration: HJALMAR H. BOYESEN]

He came of well-to-do people, and received a liberal education at thegymnasium of Christiania, the University of Leipsic, and the Universityof Norway. His father, professor of mathematics at the Naval Academy, had made several trips to the United States and had been impressed bythe opportunities offered there to energetic young men. Upon his urgentadvice, Hjalmar when about twenty-one came to America, and soon obtaineda position upon a Norwegian newspaper, the Fremad of Chicago. 

From childhood he had longed to write, but had been discouraged by hisfather, who expatiated upon the limitations of their native tongue, andassured him that to succeed in literature he must be able to write inanother language as readily as in his own. Even in his school days hehad shown a remarkable aptitude for languages; not only forunderstanding and speaking them, but for a sympathetic comprehension offoreign literatures, and that sensitiveness to shades of expressionwhich so rarely comes to any but a native. He now worked with all hisenergy to acquire English, not only as a necessary tool, but as the bestmedium for conveying his own thought. 

This whole-souled devotion to an adopted tongue was soon rewarded by amore spontaneous ease of expression than he possessed even in hisnative Norwegian. No one could guess from his poems that he was foreignto the speech in which he wrote them; few even among those born and bredto its use have had such mastery of its capacities. 

He soon left the Fremad and began teaching Greek and Latin at the smallUrbana University, in Ohio. Thence he was called to Cornell Universityin 1874 as professor of German, and in 1880 to Columbia College, wherelater he became professor of German languages and literatures. He was ateacher of rare stimulus and charm. He had an attractive vigor ofpersonality; his treatment of subjects was at once keenly analytic andvery sympathetic, while his individual point of view was impressed in aneasy and vivid style. 

The same qualities won for Boyesen a distinguished place in thelecture-field, where he gave his audiences an exceptional combination ofsolid learning and graceful and lucid expression. A series on the Norsesagas, at the Lowell Institute in Boston, are still valued as'Scandinavian Studies. '

In critical work, of which these studies form a part, Professor Boyesenmade his chief mark, as was natural, on the literature and legends ofhis native land. The best commentary on Ibsen yet published in Englishis his introduction to Ibsen's works; he manages to compress within thespace of a very few pages the pith of the great anarch's social ideasand the character of his dramatic work. His 'Goethe and Schiller' isalso excellent. 

In pure letters, his earliest poems collected into 'Idyls of Norway, 'and his early stories of Norse life, of which 'Gunnar' was first andbest, were never surpassed by him in later life, if indeed they wereequaled. The best powers of his mind were gradually drawn into fieldswhich solidified and broadened his intellect, but checked the freeinspiration and romantic feeling of youth. In gauging his merit as acreative artist, we must set aside all but the work of these fewenthusiastic years. An important part of this change must be credited tothe influence of the Russian novelists and their American disciples. Whatever may be the final verdict on Turgénieff and Tolstoy, theirtremendous effect on American literature is one of the most strikingfacts in our recent literary history; its value is a more dubiousmatter, according to the point of view. Boyesen met Turgénieff in Paris, and was deeply impressed by him; he also became intimate with W. D. Howells, and through the influence of the latter became an ardentdisciple of Tolstoy. The result was to transform the romanticist of'Gunnar'--steeped in the legends of old Norway, creating a fairy-landatmosphere about him and delighting to live in the ideal, --into aso-called realist, setting himself to the task of brushing away allillusions and painting life as sterile and unpicturesque as it is inits meanest, most commonplace conditions. To do this, he claimed, wasthe stern function of the author. To help his readers to self-knowledge, although it might lessen their happiness, was the greatest service hecould render them. 

He succeeded. The best comment on the theory and the practice alike isthat 'Gunnar' lives and its realistic successors do not, and indeednever did; and that much the same may be said of the correspondingepochs of other American novelists' work, with a few exceptions wherenative genius was too strong to be spoiled even by a vicious artisticprinciple. 'The Mammon of Unrighteousness' and 'The Golden Calf' belongto the second half of Boyesen's work. 

A high place must be given, however, to his stories for boys in thechildren's magazines, principally on Norwegian themes. These are amongthe best of their kind, --spirited, wholesome, strong in plot andworkmanship, and containing some examples of his most perfect style. Even the more slender juvenile tales have passages of the finest poeticspirit, and a charm scarcely equaled in his more ambitious work. He wonsome laurels as a dramatist: 'Alpine Roses' was successfully acted inNew York in 1883, and 'Ilka on the Hilltop' (taken from his story ofthat name) in 1884. 

Although he was in complete sympathy with the American life andcharacter and wished to make them his own, Professor Boyesen was neverquite an American. His descriptions of life in the United States aretherefore always the result of a foreigner's observation. His generoushumanity appeals to all races, however, and his books have beensuccessfully translated into German, Russian, and Norwegian. For yearshe had been collecting matter for an extensive history of Scandinavianliterature, --a task for which his nationality, his scholarship, and hismastery of the English language especially fitted him. His sudden deathat forty-seven prevented its accomplishment, and perhaps deprived him ofa still wider and solider fame. 

A NORWEGIAN DANCE

From 'Gunnar'

They all hurried back to the hall. Gudrun might well wish to askquestions, but she dared not; for she felt the truth, but was afraid ofit. They could not help seeing, when they entered the hall, that manycurious glances were directed toward them. But this rather roused inboth a spirit of defiance. Therefore, when Gunnar was requested to beginthe stev he chose Ragnhild for his partner, and she accepted. True, hewas a houseman's son, but he was not afraid. There was a giggling and awhispering all round, as hand in hand they stepped out on the floor. Young and old, lads and maidens, thronged eagerly about them. Had shenot been so happy, perhaps she would not have been so fair. But as shestood there in the warm flush of the torchlight, with her rich blondhair waving down over her shoulders, and with that veiled brightness inher eyes, her beauty sprang upon you like a sudden wonder, and herpresence was inspiration. And Gunnar saw her; she loved him: what caredhe for all the world beside? Proudly he raised his head and sang:--

_Gunnar_--There standeth a birch in the lightsome lea, _Ragnhild_--In the lightsome lea;

_Gunnar_--So fair she stands in the sunlight free, _Ragnhild_--In the sunlight free;

_Both_--So fair she stands in the sunlight free. 

_Ragnhild_--High up on the mountain there standeth a pine, _Gunnar_--There standeth a pine;

_Ragnhild_--So stanchly grown and so tall and fine, _Gunnar_--So tall and fine;

_Both_--So stanchly grown and so tall and fine. 

_Gunnar_--A maiden I know as fair as the day, _Ragnhild_--As fair as the day;

_Gunnar_--She shines like the birch in the sunlight's play, _Ragnhild_--In the sunlight's play;

_Both_--She shines like the birch in the sunlight's play. 

_Ragnhild_--I know a lad in the spring's glad light, _Gunnar_--In the spring's glad light;

_Ragnhild_--Far-seen as the pine on the mountain-height, _Gunnar_-- On the mountain-height;

_Both_-- Far-seen as the pine on the mountain-height. 

_Gunnar_--So bright and blue are the starry skies, _Ragnhild_-- The starry skies;

_Gunnar_--But brighter and bluer that maiden's eyes, _Ragnhild_-- That maiden's eyes;

_Both_--But brighter and bluer that maiden's eyes. 

_Ragnhild_--And his have a depth like the fjord, I know, _Gunnar_-- The fjord, I know;

_Ragnhild_--Wherein the heavens their beauty show, _Gunnar_-- Their beauty show;

_Both_--Wherein the heavens their beauty show. 

_Gunnar_--The birds each morn seek the forest glade, _Ragnhild_-- The forest glade;

_Gunnar_--So flock my thoughts to that lily maid, _Ragnhild_-- That lily maid;

_Both_-- So flock my thoughts to that lily maid. 

_Ragnhild_--The moss it clingeth so fast to the stone, _Gunnar_-- So fast to the stone;

_Ragnhild_--So clingeth my Soul to him alone, _Gunnar_-- To him alone;

_Both_--So clingeth my soul to him alone. 

_Gunnar_--Each brook sings its song, but forever the same, _Ragnhild_-- Forever the same;

_Gunnar_--Forever my heart beats that maiden's name, _Ragnhild_-- That maiden's name;

_Both_--Forever my heart beats that maiden's name. 

_Ragnhild_--The plover hath but an only tone, _Gunnar_-- An only tone;

_Ragnhild_--My life hath its love, and its love alone, _Gunnar_-- Its love alone;

_Both_--My life hath its love, and its love alone. 

_Gunnar_--The rivers all to the fjord they go, _Ragnhild_-- To the fjord they go;

_Gunnar_-- So may our lives then together flow, _Ragnhild_-- Together flow;

_Both_--Oh, may our lives then together flow!

Here Gunnar stopped, made a leap toward Ragnhild, caught her round thewaist, and again danced off with her, while a storm of voices joined inthe last refrain, and loud shouts of admiration followed them. For thiswas a stev that was good for something; long time it was since so fine astev had been heard on this side of the mountains. Soon the dance becamegeneral, and lasted till after midnight. Then the sleigh-bells and thestamping of hoofs from without reminded the merry guests that night waswaning. There stood the well-known swan-shaped sleigh from Henjum, andthe man on the box was Atle himself. Ragnhild and Gudrun were hurriedinto it, the whip cracked, and the sleigh shot down over thestar-illumined fields of snow. 

The splendor of the night was almost dazzling as Gunnar came out fromthe crowded hall and again stood under the open sky. A host ofstruggling thoughts and sensations thronged upon him. He was happy, oh, so happy!--at least he tried to persuade himself that he was; butstrange to say, he did not fully succeed. Was it not toward this day hisyearnings had pointed, and about which his hopes had been clusteringfrom year to year, ever since he had been old enough to know whatyearning was? Was it not this day which had been beckoning him fromafar, and had shed light upon his way like a star, and had he notfollowed its guidance as faithfully and as trustingly as those wise menof old? "Folly and nonsense, " muttered he; "the night breeds nightlythoughts!" With an effort he again brought Ragnhild's image before hismind, jumped upon his skees, and darted down over the glittering snow. It bore him toward the fjord. A sharp, chill wind swept up the hillside, and rushed against him. "Houseman's son!" cried the wind. Onward hehastened. "Houseman's son!" howled the wind after him. Soon he reachedthe fjord, hurried on up toward the river-mouth, and coming to theHenjum boat-house, stopped, and walked out to the end of the pier, whichstretched from the headland some twenty to thirty feet out into thewater. The fjord lay sombre and restless before him. There was evidentlya storm raging in the ocean, for the tide was unusually high, and thesky was darkening from the west eastward. The mountain-peaks stoodthere, stern and lofty as ever, with their heads wrapped in hoods ofcloud. Gunnar sat down at the outer edge of the pier, with his feethanging listlessly over the water, which, in slow and monotonousplashing, beat against the timbers. Far out in the distance he couldhear the breakers roar among the rocky reefs; first the long, boomingroll, then the slowly waning moan, and the great hush, in which thebillows pause to listen to themselves. It is the heavy deep-drawn breathof the ocean. It was cold, but Gunnar hardly felt it. 

He again stepped into his skees and followed the narrow road, as itwound its way from the fjord up along the river. Down near the mouth, between Henjum and Rimul, the river was frozen, and could be crossed onthe ice. Up at Henjumhei it was too swift to freeze. It was neardaylight when he reached the cottage. How small and poor it looked!Never had he seen it so before;--very different from Rimul. And how darkand narrow it was all around it! At Rimul they had always sunshine. Truly, the track is steep from Henjumhei to Rimul; the river runsdeep between. 

MARY ELIZABETH BRADDON

(1837-)

Whatever objections may be made to the sensational character of many ofMiss Braddon's earlier novels, her place is certainly in the ranks ofthe "born" story-tellers. Although still in the prime of life, she hasbeen before the public for thirty-seven years. Her books have beenproduced in amazingly rapid and continuous succession. She was born inLondon in 1837, wrote little stories in her early teens, and was fond ofentertaining her companions with startling original tales. 

When a young girl she conceived a passion for the stage, and adramatic--or melodramatic--element is conspicuous in most of her novels. She was barely twenty-one when she had completed a comedietta, 'TheLover of Arcadia, ' which, after many alterations and revisions, was puton the stage of the Strand Theatre in 1860, with--naturally--butmoderate success. Her disappointment was extreme. She gave up the hopeof becoming a successful dramatist. Her next venture, like that of mostyoung authors, was a small volume of poems, of which Garibaldi was thechief theme. About this time she also wrote a number of highly colored, much strained tales in the Temple Bar and St. James' magazines. Thesetales drew attention, and awoke an echo which neither the comedietta northe poems had done, making it clear to her that in narrative fiction layher strength. She was ambitious, she wanted money even more thanreputation, and she has followed narrative fiction most diligently eversince, with widening and indisputable success. 

In 1862 appeared her first full-fledged novel, 'Lady Audley's Secret. 'It achieved instantaneous distinction and an enormous sale, six editionsbeing disposed of in as many weeks. She had finally hit the mark, thoughnot by accident. She had carefully thought out a new scheme, and hadcorrected literary mistakes by her late experience. She knew that thefirst desire of novel readers is for novelty, a characteristic usuallypreferred to originality, which is often much more slowly recognized. Mrs. Gore's fashionable novels, correct in portraiture and upholstery, clever but monotonous, had had their day; Mrs. Trollope's coarse andcaustic delineations; G. P. R. James's combats, adventures, skirmishes, disguises, trials, and escapes, and Bulwer's sentimental andgrandiloquent romances, had begun to pall upon the public taste. MissBraddon perceived that the time had come for something new, so 'LadyAudley's Secret' was a striking innovation. 

Hitherto, wickedness had been ugly. She endued it with grace and beauty. She invented a mystery of crime surrounded by everyday circumstances, yet avoiding the "detective novel" mechanism. A new story, 'AuroraFloyd, ' repeated the immense success of 'Lady Audley. ' Novel after novelfollowed, full of momentous incidents, of surprises leading to newsurprises. All the time Miss Braddon was observing much, correcting muchin her methods and ideas. She studied manners closely; drew ingeniousinferences; suggested dramatic and startling conclusions. She has, too, introduced into modern fiction the beguiling female fiend, who, like theItalian duchess of the Middle Ages, betrays with a smile, and with onearm about her lover beckons to the hired bravo to do his bloody work. Her plots, though sometimes forced, are ingenious and exciting. Themovement of her stories is swift, and the scenes and personagescontribute to the appointed end. As the author has grown in literarystature, a finer and often admirable effort is made to analyze or todevelop character, as an element subservient to the exigencies of thestirring catastrophe. 

Her style and treatment have matured with practice and with years, andher later novels display artistic form and finish. Her 'Mohawks' is inmany respects a superb study of fashionable life, with severalhistorical portraits introduced, of London in the time of Pope, St. John, Walpole, and Chesterfield--a tableau of great movement andaccuracy of composition. In thirty-five years she has written more thansixty stories, the best of them being perhaps this fine semi-historicalmelodrama. Several of her earlier fictions have been successfullydramatized. An exquisite little tale for Christmas-tide, 'The ChristmasHirelings, ' is an evidence of her lightness of touch and refinement ofconception in a trifle. In 1874 Miss Braddon married John Maxwell, awell-known London publisher. 

THE ADVENT OF THE 'HIRELINGS'

From 'The Christmas Hirelings': copyrighted by Harper and Brothers

Everything had been made ready for the little strangers. There werefires blazing in two large bedrooms overhead--rooms with a door ofcommunication. In one there were still the two little white beds inwhich Lilian and Sibyl had slept when they were children; poor Lilian, whose bed was in the English cemetery at Florence, under a white marblemonument erected by her sorrowing husband, and whose sorrowing husbandhad taken to himself a second wife five years ago. Every one knew whereLilian was lying, but no one at Penlyon Castle knew where Sibyl's headhad found rest. All that people knew about the disobedient daughter wasthat her husband had died within three or four years of her marriage, worn to death in some foreign mission. Of his luckless widow no one atPenlyon had heard anything, but it was surmised that her father made heran allowance. He could hardly let his only daughter starve, people said, however badly she might have treated him. Lady Lurgrave's early deathhad been a crushing blow to his love and to his pride. She had diedchildless. 

 * * * * *

Sir John had heard the carriage stop, and the opening of the hall door;and although he pretended to go on reading his paper by the lamp placedclose at his elbow, the pretense was a poor one, and anybody might haveseen that he was listening with all his might. 

The footman had opened the hall door as the wheels drew near; it waswide open when the carriage stopped. The red light from the hall firestreamed out upon the evening gray, and three little silvery voices wereheard exclaiming:--

"Oh, what a pretty house!"

"Oh, what a big house!"

And then the smallest voice of the three with amazing distinctness:--

"What an exceedingly red fire. "

The carriage door flew open, and two little girls all in red from top totoe, and one little boy in gray, rolled out in a heap, or seemed to rollout, like puppies out of a basket, scrambled on to their feet and ranup the steps, --Mr. Danby, slim and jaunty as usual, following them. 

"Good gracious, how tiny they are!" cried Adela, stooping down to kissthe smaller girl, a round red bundle, with a round little face, andlarge dark gray eyes shining in the firelight. 

The tiny thing accepted the kiss somewhat shrinkingly, and looked abouther, awed by the grandeur of the hall, the large fireplace and blazinglogs, the men in armor, or the suits of armor standing up and pretendingto be men. 

"I don't like them, " said the tiny girl, clinging to Danby and pointingat one of these mailed warriors with a muffled red hand: "they're notalive, are they, Uncle Tom?"

"No, no, no, Moppet, they're as dead as door-nails. "

"Are they? I don't like dead people. "

"Come, come, Moppet, suppose they're not people at all--no more than arocking-horse is a real live horse. We'll pull one of them downto-morrow and look inside him, and then you'll be satisfied. "

The larger scarlet mite, larger by about an inch, older by a year, wasstanding before the fire, gravely warming her hands, spreading them outbefore the blaze as much as hands so tiny could spread themselves. Theboy was skipping about the hall, looking at everything, the armedwarriors especially, and not at all afraid. 

"They're soldiers, aren't they?" he asked. 

"Yes, Laddie. "

"I should like to be dressed like that, and go into a battle and killlots of people. I couldn't be killed myself, could I, if I had thatstuff all over me?"

"Perhaps not, Laddie; but I don't think it would answer. You'd be ananachronism. "

"I wouldn't mind being a nackerism if it saved me from being killed, "said Laddie. 

"Come, little ones, come and be presented to your host, " said Mr. Danby, as the footman opened the library door; and they all poured in--Danby, Adela, and the children--the smallest running in first, her sister andthe boy following, considerably in advance of the grown-ups. 

Moppet ran right into the middle of the room as fast as her little redlegs could carry her; then seeing Sir John sitting where the brightlamplight shown full upon his pale elderly face, with its stronglymarked features, black eyebrows, and silvery-gray hair, she stoppedsuddenly as if she had beheld a Gorgon, and began to back slowly tillshe brought herself up against the silken skirt of Adela Hawberk's gown;and in that soft drapery she in a manner absorbed herself, till therewas nothing to be seen of the little neatly rounded figure except thetip of a bright red cap and the toes of two bright red gaiters. 

The elder mite had advanced less boldly, and had not to beat soignominious a retreat. She was near enough to Mr. Danby to clutch hishand, and holding by that she was hardly at all frightened. 

The boy, older, bolder, and less sensitive than either of the girls, went skipping around the library as he had skipped about the hall, looking at things and apparently unconscious of Sir John Penlyon'sexistence. 

"How d'ye do, Danby?" said Sir John, holding out his hand as his oldfriend advanced to the fire, the little red girl hanging on to his lefthand, while he gave his right to his host. "Upon my word, I began tothink you were never coming back. You've been an unconscionable time. One would suppose you had to fetch the children from the world's end. "

"I had to bring them to the world's end, you might say. Boscastle issomething more than a day's journey from London in the depth of winter. "

"And are these the children? Good heavens, Danby! what could you bethinking about to bring us such morsels of humanity?"

"We wanted children, " said Danby, "not hobbledehoys"

"Hobbledehoys! no, but there is reason in everything. You couldn'tsuppose I wanted infants like these--look at that little scrap hidden inAdela's frock. It's positively dreadful to contemplate! They will begetting under my feet. I shall be treading upon them, and hurting themseriously. "

"No you won't, Jack; I'll answer for that. "

"Why not, pray?"

"Because of their individuality. They are small, but they are people. When Moppet comes into a room everybody knows she is there. She is alittle scared now; but she will be as bold as brass in a quarter ofan hour. "

Sir John Penlyon put on his spectacles and looked at the littlehirelings more critically. Their youth and diminutive size had been ashock to him. He had expected bouncing children with rosy faces, longauburn hair, and a good deal of well-developed leg showing beneath ashort frock. These, measured against his expectations, were positivelymicroscopic. 

Their cheeks were pale rather than rosy. Their hair was neither auburnnor long. It was dark hair, and it was cropped close to the neat littleheads, showing every bump in the broad, clever-looking foreheads. SirJohn's disapproving eyes showed him that the children were moreintelligent than the common run of children; but for the moment he wasnot disposed to accept intelligence instead of size. 

"They are preposterously small, " he said--"not at all the kind of thingI expected. They will get lost under chairs or buried alive inwaste-paper baskets. I wash my hands of them, Take them away, Adela. Letthem be fed and put to bed. " Then turning to Mr. Danby as if to dismissthe subject, "Anything stirring in London when you were there, Tom?"

Before Danby could answer, Moppet emerged from her shelter, advanceddeliberately, and planted herself in front of Sir John Penlyon, lookinghim straight in the face. 

"I'm sorry you don't like us, Mr. Old Gentleman, " she said. Everysyllable came with clear precision from those infantine lips. Moppet'sstrong point was her power of speech. Firm, decisive, correct as tointonation came every sentence from the lips of this small personage. Ponderous polysyllables were no trouble to Moppet. There was only anoccasional consonant that baffled her. 

"Who says I don't like you?" said Sir John, taken aback, and lifting theanimated bundle of red cloth on to his knee. 

He found there was something very substantial inside the wooly cloak andgaiters: a pair of round plump arms and sturdy little legs, a compactlittle figure which perched firmly on his knee. "You said so, " retortedMoppet, with her large gray eyes very wide open, and looking full intohis. "You don't like us because we are so very small. Everybody says weare small, but everybody doesn't mind. Why do you mind?"

"I didn't say anything about not liking you, little one. I was onlyafraid you were too small to go out visiting. "

"I went out to tea when I was two, and nobody said I was too small. Ihave real tea at parties, not milk-and-water. And I have been out to teaoften and often--haven't I, Lassie?"

"Not so many times as I have, " replied the elder red thing, withdignity. 

She was standing in front of the wide old fireplace, warming her hands, and she was to Sir John's eye somewhat suggestive of a robin-redbreastthat had fluttered in and lighted there. 

"Of course not, because you're older, " said Moppet, disgusted at thissuperfluous self-assertion on her sister's part. "I am always good atparties--ain't I, Uncle Tom?" turning an appealing face to Mr. Danby. 

"So these Lilliputians are your nieces, Danby!" exclaimed Sir John. 

"Well, no, they are not exactly nieces, though they are very near anddear. I am only a jury uncle. "

"A jury uncle!" cried Moppet, throwing her head back and laughing at theunknown word. 

"A jury uncle!" echoed the other two, and the three laughedprodigiously; not because they attached any meaning to the word, butonly because they didn't know what it meant. That was where thejoke lay. 

"You know that in Cornwall and in Sicily all the elderly men are uncles, and all the old women aunts--everybody's uncles and aunts, " concludedMr. Danby. 

Moppet still occupied Sir John's knee. She felt somehow that it was apost of honor, and she had no inclination to surrender it. Her tinyfingers had possessed themselves of his watch-chain. 

"Please show me your watch, " she said. 

Sir John drew out a big hunter. 

Moppet approached her little rosy mouth to the hinge and blew violently. 

"Why don't it open as Uncle Tom's watch does when I blow?" she asked. "Is it broken?"

"Blow again, and we'll see about that, " said Sir John, understanding themanoeuvre. 

The big bright case flew open as Moppet blew. 

"Take care it doesn't bite your nose off. "

"How big and bright it is--much bigger and brighter than Uncle Tom's. "

"Uncle Tom's is a lady's watch, and Uncle Tom's a lady's man, " said SirJohn, and the triple peal of childish laughter which greeted this remarkmade him fancy himself a wit. 

Small as they were, these children were easily amused, and that was apoint in their favor, he thought. 

"Tea is ready in the breakfast-room, " said Adela. 

"Tea in the breakfast-room. Oh, how funny!" And again they all laughed. 

At any rate, they were not doleful children--no long faces, no homesickairs, no bilious headaches--so far. 

"I dare say they will all start measles or whooping-cough before we havedone with them, " thought Sir John, determined not to be hopeful. 

"Oh, we are to come to tea, are we?" he said, cheerily, and he actuallycarried Moppet all the way to the breakfast-room, almost at the otherend of the rambling old house, and planted her in a chair by his side atthe tea-table. She nestled up close beside him. 

"You like us now, don't you? she asked. 

"I like you. "

"And you'll like her, " pointing to her sister with a small distinctfinger, "and him, " pointing to her brother, "to-morrow morning. You'llknow us all to-morrow morning. "

"To-morrow will be Christmas, " said Laddie, as if giving a piece ofuseful information to the company in general. 

"Christmas!" cried Danby; "so it will. I mustn't forget to hang up mystocking. "

This provoked a burst of mirth. Uncle Tom's stocking! Uncle Tom hopingto get anything from Santa Claus!

"You needn't laugh, " said Mr. Danby, seriously. "I mean to hang up oneof my big Inverness stockings. It will hold a lot. "

"What do you expect to get?" asked Laddie, intensely amused. "Toys?"

"No: chocolates, butter-scotch, hardbake, alecompane. "

"Oh, what's alecompane?"

The name of this old-fashioned sweetmeat was received with derision. 

"Why, what an old sweet-tooth you must be!" exclaimed Moppet; "but Idon't believe you a bit. I shall come in the middle of the night to seeif your stocking is there. "

"You won't find my room. You'll go into the wrong room most likely, andfind one of the three bears. "

Moppet laughed at the notion of those familiar beasts. 

"There never were three bears that lived in a house, and had beds andchairs and knives and forks and things, " she said. "I used to believe itonce when I was very little"--she said "veway little"--"but now I knowit isn't true. "

She looked round the table with a solemn air, with her lips pursed up, challenging contradiction. Her quaint little face, in which the foreheadsomewhat overbalanced the tiny features below it, was all aglow withmind. One could not imagine more mind in any living creature than wascompressed within this quaint scrap of humanity. 

Sir John watched her curiously. He had no experience of children of thatearly age. His own daughters had been some years older before he beganto notice them. He could but wonder at this quick and eager brainanimating so infinitesimal a body. 

Moppet looked round the table; and what a table it was! She had neverseen anything like it. Cornwall, like Scotland, has a prodigiousreputation for breakfasts; but Cornwall, on occasion, can almost rivalYorkshire in the matter of tea. Laddie and Lassie had set to workalready, one on each side of Miss Hawberk, who was engaged with urn andteapot. Moppet was less intent upon food, and had more time to wonderand scrutinize. Her big mind was hungrier than her little body. 

"Oh, what a lot of candles!" she cried. "You must be very rich, Mr. OldGentleman. "

Eight tall candles in two heavy old silver candelabra lighted the largeround table, and on the dazzling white cloth was spread such a feast aslittle children love: cakes of many kinds, jams and marmalade, buns, muffins, and crisp biscuits fresh from the oven, scones both white andbrown, and the rich golden-yellow clotted cream, in the preparation ofwhich Cornwall pretends to surpass her sister Devon, as in her cider andperry and smoked pig. It is only natural that Cornwall, in her statelyseclusion at the end of Western England, should look down uponDevonshire as sophisticated and almost cockney. Cornwall is to Devon asthe real Scottish Highlands are to the Trosachs. Besides the cakes andjams and cream-bowl there were flowers: Christmas roses, and real roses, yellow and red--such flowers as only grow in rich men's greenhouses; andthere was a big silver urn in which Laddie and Lassie could see theirfaces, red and broad and shining, as they squeezed themselves eachagainst one of Adela's elbows. 

"O Uncle Tom, " suddenly exclaimed Lassie, in a rapturous voice, "weshall never die here!"

"Not for want of food, certainly, Lassie. "

The children had eaten nothing since a very early dinner in Plymouth, and on being pressed to eat by Miss Hawberk and Mr. Danby, showedthemselves frankly greedy. Sir John did nothing but look on and wonderat them. They showed him a new phase of humanity. Did life begin sosoon? Was the mind so fully awakened while the body was still so tiny?"How old are you, Mistress Moppet?" he asked, when Moppet had finishedher first slice of saffron-cake. 

"Four and a quarter. "

Not five years old. She had lived in the world less than five years. Shetalked of what she had thought and believed when she was little, and sheseemed to know as much about life as he did at sixty-five. 

"You are a wonderful little woman, not to be afraid of going outvisiting without your nurse. "

"Nurse!" echoed Moppet, staring at him with her big gray eyes. "What's anurse?"

"She doesn't know, " explained Laddie: "we never had a nurse. It's awoman like the one Julie has to take care of her, Moppet, " he explained, condescendingly, "a _bonne_ we call her. But we've never had a _bonne_"he added, with a superior air. 

"Indeed?" exclaimed Sir John, "then pray who has taken care of you, putyou to bed at night, and washed and dressed you of a morning, taken youout for walks, or wheeled you in a perambulator?"

"Mother, " cried the boy. "Mother does all that--except for me. I dressmyself--I take my own bath. Mother says I'm growing quite inde--in-de--"

"Pendent!" screamed Moppet across the table. "What a silly boy you are:you always forget the names of things. "

Moppet was getting excited. The small cheeks were flushed, and the bigeyes were getting bigger, and Moppet was inclined to gesticulate a gooddeal when she talked, and to pat the table-*cloth with two little handsto give point to her speech. 

"Moppet, " said Mr. Danby, "the hot cakes are getting into your head. Ipropose an adjournment to Bedfordshire. "

"No! _no!_ NO! Uncle Tom. We ain't to go yet, is we?" pleaded the child, snuggling close up to Sir John's waistcoat, with a settled convictionthat he was the higher authority. The lapse in grammar was themomentary result of excitement. In a general way Moppet's tenses andpersons were as correct as if she had been twenty. 

"I think you ought to be tired, after your long journey, " said thebaronet. 

"But it wasn't a long journey. We had dinner first, and in the morningwe walked on the Hoe. Isn't that a funny name for a place? And we sawthe sea, and Uncle Tom told us of the--"

"Spanish Arcadia, " interrupted Laddie, who felt it was his turn now, "and how Drake and the other captains were playing bowls on the Hoe, just where we were standing that very minute, when the news of theSpanish ships came and they went off to meet them; and there was astorm, and there was no fighting wanted, for the storm smashed all theships and they went back to King Philip without any masts, and QueenElizabeth went on horseback to Tilbury, and that was the end ofthe Arcadia. "

"For an historical synopsis I don't call that bad, " said Mr. Danby;"nevertheless, I recommend Bedfordshire if our little friends havefinished their tea. "

"I have, " said Lassie, with a contented yawn. 

Moppet did not want to go to bed. She had eaten less than the other two, but she had talked more, and had slapped the table, and had made faces, while Lassie and Laddie had been models of good manners. 

"I wish you wouldn't call it Bedfordshire, " she said, shaking her headvindictively at Mr. Danby. "It makes it worse to go to bed when peoplemake jokes about it!"

Mr. Danby came around to where she sat, and took her up in his arms asif she had been a big doll instead of a small child. 

"Say good-night to Sir John, " he said. 

Moppet stooped her face down to the baronet's, and pursed up her redlips in the prettiest little kiss, which was returned quite heartily. 

"Take her away, Danby: she is much too excited, and she is the funniestlittle thing I ever saw. Good-night, my dears, " he said to the others, as he rose and walked toward the door. "I hope you will spend a happyChristmas at Place. Adela, be sure the little things are comfortable, and that Nurse Danby's instructions are obeyed. "

The children laughed at this rude mention of Mr. Danby, and went off tobed repeating the phrase "Nurse Danby" with much chuckling and giggling. 

 * * * * *

Sir John Penlyon had just seated himself on the great oaken settle inthe chimney-corner, after somewhat languidly performing his duty ashost. Moppet walked straight to him, clambered on his knee, and nestledher head in his waistcoat, gazing up at him with very much the same dumbdevotion he had seen in the topaz eyes of a favorite Clumber spaniel. 

"Why, Moppet, are you tired of your new little friends?" he askedkindly. 

"I don't like children: they are so silly, " answered Moppet, withdecision. "I like you much better. "

"Do you really, now! I wonder how much you like me. As well as you likejunket?"

"Oh, what a silly question! As if one could care for any nice thing toeat as well as one cares for a live person. "

"Couldn't one! I believe there are little boys in Boscastle who arefonder of plum-pudding than of all their relations. "

"They must be horrid little boys. Laddie is greedy, but he is not sogreedy as that. I shouldn't like to live in the same house with himif he were. "

"For fear he should turn cannibal and eat _you_?"

"What is a camomile, and does it really eat people?"

"Never mind, Moppet; there are none in our part of the world, " said SirJohn, hastily, feeling that he had made a _faux pas, _ and might setMoppet dreaming of cannibals if he explained their nature andattributes. 

He had been warned by his friend Danby that Moppet was given to dreamingat night of anything that had moved her wonder or her fear in the day, and that she would awaken from such dreams in a cold perspiration, withwild eyes and clinched hands. Her sleep had been haunted by goblins, andmade hideous by men who had sold their shadows, and by wolves who werehungry for little girls in red cloaks. It had been found perilous totell her the old familiar fairy tales which most children have beentold, and from which many children have suffered in the dim early years, before the restrictions of space and climate are understood, and wolves, bears, and lions located in their own peculiar latitudes. 

Sir John looked down at the little dark head which was pressed solovingly against his waistcoat, and at the long dark lashes that veiledthe deep-set eyes. 

"And so you really like me?" said he. 

"I really _love_ you; not so much as mother, but veway, veway much. "

"As much as Danby--as Uncle Tom?"

"Better than Uncle Tom! but please don't tell him so. It might make himunhappy. "

"I dare say it would. Uncle Tom has a jealous disposition. He might shutyou up in a brazen tower. "

Another _faux pas_. Moppet would be dreaming of brazen towers. Imagination, assisted by plum-pudding, would run readily intotormenting visions. 

Happily, Moppet made no remark upon the tower. She wasthinking--thinking deeply; and presently she looked up at Sir John withgrave gray eyes and said:--

"I believe I love you better than Uncle Tom, because you are a grandergentleman, " she said musingly, "and because you have this beautiful bighouse. It is yours, isn't it--your veway, veway own?"

"My very, very own. And so you like my house, Moppet? And will you besorry to go away?"

"Oh no, because I shall be going to mother. "

"Then you like your own home better than this big house?"

"No I don't. I should be very silly if I did. Home is a funny littlehouse, in a funny little sloping garden on the side of a hill. Uncle Tomsays it is very healthy. There is a tiny _salon_, and a tinydining-room, and a dear little kitchen where the _bonne a tout faire_lives, and four tiny bedrooms. It was a. Fisherman's cottage once, andthen an English lady--an old lady--bought it, and made new rooms, andhad it all made pretty, and then she died; and then Uncle Tom happenedto see it, and took it for mother. "

"And was my little Moppet born there?"

"No; I was born a long, long way off--up in the hills. "

"What hills?"

"The northwest provinces. It's an awful long way off--but I can't tellyou anything about it, " added Moppet, with a solemn shake of her croppedhead, "for I was born before I can remember. Laddie says we all cameover the sea--but we mustn't talk to mother about that time, andLaddie's very stupid--he may have told me all wrong. "

"And doesn't Lassie remember coming home in the ship?"

"She remembers a gentleman who gave her goodies. "

"But not the ship?"

"No, not the ship; but she thinks there must have been a ship, for thewind blew very hard, and the gentleman went up and down as if he was ina swing. Laddie pretends to remember all the sailors' names, but I don'tthink he really can. "

"And the only house you can remember is the house on the cliff?"

"Where mother is now--yes, that's the only one, and I'm very fond of it. Are you fond of this house?"

"Yes, Moppet: one is always fond of the house in which one was born. Iwas born here. "

Moppet looked up at him wonderingly. 

"Is that very surprising?" he asked, smiling down at her. 

"It seems rather surprising you should ever have been born, " repliedMoppet, frankly: "you are so _veway_ old. "

"Yes; but one has to begin, you see, Moppet. "

"It must have been a twemendously long time ago when you and Uncle Tombegan. "

The explosion of a cracker startled Moppet from the meditative mood. Itwas the signal for the rifling of the Christmas tree. The crackers--thegold and silver and sapphire and ruby and emerald crackers--were beingdistributed, and were exploding in every direction before Moppet couldrun to the tree and hold up two tiny hands, crying excitedly, "Me, me, me!"

"HOW BRIGHT SHE WAS, HOW LOVELY DID SHE SHOW"

From 'Mohawks'

To be a fashionable beauty, with a reputation for intelligence, nay, even for that much rarer quality, wit; to have been born in the purple;to have been just enough talked about to be interesting as a woman witha history; to have a fine house in Soho Square, and a mediaeval abbey inHampshire; to ride, dance, sing, play, and speak French and Italianbetter than any other woman in society; to have the finest diamonds inLondon; to be followed, flattered, serenaded, lampooned, written aboutand talked about, and to be on the sunward side of thirty; surely to beand to have all these good things should fill the cup of contentment forany of Eve's daughters. 

Lady Judith Topsparkle had all these blessings, and flashed gayety andbrightness upon the world in which her lot was cast; and yet there werethose among her intimates, those who sipped their chocolate with her ofa morning before her hair was powdered or her patches put on, whodeclared that she was not altogether happy. 

The diamonds, the spacious house in Soho Square, with its Turkey carpetsand Boule furniture, its plenitude of massive plate and Italianpictures, its air of regal luxury and splendor; the abbey near Ringwood, with its tapestries, pictures, curios, and secret passages, wereburdened with a certain condition which for Lady Judith reduced theirvalue to a minimum. 

All these good things came to her through her husband. Of her own rightshe was only the genteelest pauper at the court end of London. Her bloodwas of the bluest. She was a younger daughter of one of the oldestearls; but Job himself, after the advent of the messengers, was notpoorer than that distinguished nobleman. Lady Judith had brought Mr. Topsparkle nothing but her beauty, her quality, and her pride. Love shenever pretended to bring him, nor liking, nor even respect. His fatherhad made his fortune in trade; and the idea of a tradesman's son wasalmost as repulsive to Lady Judith as that of a blackamoor. She marriedhim because her father made her marry him, and in her own phraseology"the matter was not worth fighting about. " She had broken just two yearsbefore with the only man she had ever loved, had renounced him in a fitof pique and passion on account of some scandal about a Frenchdancing-girl; and from that hour she had assumed an air of recklessness:she had danced, flirted, talked, and carried on in a manner thatdelighted the multitude and shocked the prudes. Bath and Tunbridge Wellshad rung with her sayings and doings; and finally she surrenderedherself, not altogether unwillingly, to the highest bidder. 

She was burdened with debt, never knew what it was to have a crown pieceof ready money. At cards she had to borrow first of one admirer and thenof another. She had been able to get plenty of credit for gowns andtrinketry from a harpy class of West End tradespeople, who speculated inLady Judith's beauty as they might have done in some hazardous buthopeful stock; counting it almost a certainty that she would make asplendid match and recoup them all. 

Mr. Topsparkle saw her in the zenith of her audacious charms. He met herat a masquerade at Bath, followed and intrigued with her all theevening, and at last, alone in an alcove with her after supper, inducedher to take off her mask. Her beauty dazzled those experienced eyes ofhis, and he fell madly in love with her at first sight of that radiantloveliness: starriest eyes of violet hue, a dainty little Greek nose, acomplexion of lilies and blush-roses, and the most perfect mouth andteeth in Christendom. No one had ever seen anything more beautiful thanthe tender curves of those classic lips, or more delicate than theirfaint carmine tinge. In an epoch when almost every woman of fashionplastered herself with bismuth and ceruse, Lord Bramber's daughter couldafford to exhibit the complexion nature had given her, and might defypaint to match it. Lady Judith laughed at her conquest when she was toldabout it by half a dozen different admirers at the Rooms next morning. 

"What, that Topsparkle man!" she exclaimed--"the traveled Cit who hasbeen exploring all sorts of savage places in Spain and Italy, andwriting would-be witty letters about his travels. They say he is richerthan any nabob in Hindostan. Yes, I plagued him vastly, I believe, before I consented to unmask; and then he pretended to be dumbfounded atmy charms, for-sooth; dazzled by this sun into which you gentlemen lookwithout flinching, like young eagles. "

"My dear Lady Judith, the man is captivated--your slave forever. You hadbetter put a ring in his nose and lead him about with you, instead ofthat little black boy for whom you sighed the other day, and that hisLordship denied you. He is quite the richest man in London, three orfour times a millionaire, and he is on the point of buying LordRingwood's place in Hampshire--a genuine mediaeval abbey, with half amile of cloisters and a fish-pond in the kitchen. "

"I care neither for cloisters nor kitchen. "

"Ay, but you have a weakness for diamonds, " urged Mr. Mordaunt, an oldadmirer, who was very much _au courant_ as to the fair Judith's historyand habits, had lent her money when she was losing at basset, and haddiplomatized with her creditors for her. "Witness that cross the Jewsold you the other day. "

Lady Judith reddened angrily. The same Jew dealer who sold her thejewel had insisted upon having it back from her when he discovered herinability to pay for it, threatening to prosecute her for obtaininggoods under false pretenses. 

"Mr. Topsparkle's diamonds--they belonged to his mother--are historical. His maternal grandfather was an Amsterdam Jew, and the greatest diamondmerchant of his time. He had mills where the gems were ground as corn isground in our country, and seem to have been as plentiful as corn. Egad, Lady Judith, how you would blaze in the Topsparkle diamonds!"

"Mr. Topsparkle must be sixty years of age!" exclaimed, the lady, withsovereign contempt. 

"Nobody supposes you would marry him for his youth or his personalattractions. Yet he is by no means a bad-looking man, and he has hadplenty of adventures in his day, I can assure your Ladyship. _Il avécu_, as our neighbors say: Topsparkle is no simpleton. When he set outupon the grand tour nearly forty years ago, he carried with him about asscandalous a reputation as a gentleman of fashion could enjoy. He hadbeen cut by all the strait-laced people; and it is only the fact of hisincalculable wealth which has opened the doors of decent houses for himsince his return. "

"I thank you for the compliment implied in your recommendation of him tome as a husband, " said Lady Judith, drawing herself up with thatJuno-like air which made her seem half a head taller, and whichaccentuated every curve of her superb torso. "He is apparently agentleman whom it would be a disgrace to know, "

"Oh, your Ladyship must be aware that a reformed rake makes the besthusband. And since Topsparkle went on the Continent he has acquired anew reputation as a wit and a man of letters. He wrote an Assyrian storyin the Italian language, about which the town raved a few years ago--asort of demon story, ever so much cleverer than Voltaire's fancifulnovels. Everybody was reading or pretending to read it. "

"Oh, was that his?" exclaimed Judith, who read everything. "It wasmighty clever. I begin to think better of your Topsparkle personage. "

Five minutes afterwards, strolling languidly amid the crowd, with aplain cousin at her elbow for foil and duenna, Lady Judith met Mr. Topsparkle walking with no less a person than her father. 

Lord Bramber enjoyed the privilege of an antique hereditary gout, andcame to Bath every season for the waters. He was a man of imposingfigure, at once tall and bulky, but he carried his vast proportions withdignity and ease. He was said to have been the handsomest man of hisday, and had been admired even by an age which could boast of "Herveythe Handsome, " John Churchill, Duke of Marlborough, and the irresistibleHenry St. John. Basking in that broad sunshine of popularity which isthe portion of a man of high birth, graceful manners, and good looks, Lord Bramber had squandered a handsome fortune right royally, and now, at five-and-fifty, was as near insolvency as a gentleman dare be. Hishouse in Pulteney Street was a kind of haven, to which he brought hisfamily when London creditors began to be implacable. He had eventhoughts of emigrating to Holland or Belgium, or to some old Roman townin the sunny South of France, where he might live upon his wife'spin-money, which happily was protected by stringent settlements andincorruptible trustees. 

He had married two out of three daughters well, but not brilliantly. Judith was the youngest of the three, and she was the flower of theflock. She had been foolish, very foolish, about Lord Lavendale, and afaint cloud of scandal had hung over her name ever since her affair withthat too notorious rake. Admirers she had by the score, but since theLavendale entanglement there had been no serious advances from anysuitor of mark. 

But now Mr. Topsparkle, one of the wealthiest commoners in GreatBritain, was obviously smitten with Lady Judith's perfections, and had akeen air which seemed to mean business, Lord Bramber thought. He hadobtained an introduction to the earl within the last half-hour, and hadnot concealed his admiration for the earl's daughter. He had entreatedthe honor of a formal introduction to the exquisite creature with whomhe had conversed on sportive terms last night at the Assembly Rooms. 

Lady Judith acknowledged the introduction with the air of a queen towhom courtiers and compliments were as the gadflies of summer. Shefanned herself listlessly, and stared about her while Mr. Topsparklewas talking. 

"I vow, there is Mrs. Margetson, " she exclaimed, recognizing anacquaintance across the crowd: "I have not seen her for a century. Heavens, how old and yellow she is looking--yellower even than you, Mattie!" this last by way of aside to her plain cousin. 

"I hope you bear me no malice for my pertinacity last night, LadyJudith, " murmured Topsparkle, insinuatingly. 

"Malice, my good sir! I protest I never bear malice. To be malicious, one's feelings must be engaged; and you would hardly expect mine to beconcerned in the mystifications of a dancing-room. "

She looked over his head as she talked to him, still on the watch forfamiliar faces among the crowd, smiling at one, bowing at another. Mr. Topsparkle was savage at not being able to engage her attention. AtVenice, whence he had come lately, all the women had courted him, hanging upon his words, adoring him as the keenest wit of his day. 

He was an attenuated and rather effeminate person, exquisitely dressedand powdered, and not without a suspicion of rouge upon his hollowcheeks or of Vandyke brown upon his delicately penciled eyebrows. He, like Lord Bramber, presented the wreck of manly beauty; but whereasBramber suggested a three-master of goodly bulk and tonnage, batteredbut still weather-proof and seaworthy, Topsparkle had the air of adelicate pinnace which time and tempest had worn to a mere phantasmalbark that the first storm would scatter into ruin. 

He had hardly the air of a gentleman, Judith thought, watching himkeenly all the while she seemed to ignore his existence. He was toofine, too highly trained for the genuine article; he lacked that easyinborn grace of the man in whom good manners are hereditary. There wasnothing of the Cit about him; but there was the exaggerated elegance, the exotic grace, of a man who has too studiously cultivated the art ofbeing a fine gentleman; who has learned his manners in dubious paths, from _petites maîtresses_ and _prime donne_, rather than from statesmenand princes. 

On this, and on many a subsequent meeting, Lady Judith was just uncivilenough to fan the flame of Vivian Topsparkle's passion. He had begun ina somewhat philandering spirit, not quite determined whether LordBramber's daughter were worthy of him; but her _hauteur_ made him herslave. Had she been civil he would have given more account to those oldstories about Lavendale, and would have been inclined to draw backbefore finally committing himself. But a woman who could afford to berude to the best match in England must needs be above all suspicion. Hadher reputation been seriously damaged she would have caught at thechance of rehabilitating herself by a rich marriage. Had she been civilto him Mr. Topsparkle would have haggled and bargained aboutsettlements; but his ever-present fear of losing her made him accede toLord Bramber's exactions with a more than princely generosity, since butfew princes could afford to be so liberal. He had set his heart uponhaving this woman for his wife--firstly, because she was the handsomestand most fashionable woman in London, and secondly, because so far asburnt-out embers can glow with new fire, Mr. Topsparkle's battered oldheart was aflame with a very serious passion for this new deity. 

So there was a grand wedding from the earl's house in Leicester Fields;not a crowded assembly, for only the very _élite_ of the modish worldwere invited. _The Duke_, meaning his Grace of York, honored the companywith his royal presence, and there were the great Sir Robert and a bevyof Cabinet ministers, and Mr. Topsparkle felt that he had canceled anyold half-forgotten scandals as to his past life, and established himselfin the highest social sphere by this alliance. As Vivian Topsparkle thehalf-foreign eccentric, he was a man to be stared at and talked about;but as the husband of Lord Bramber's daughter he had a footing--by rightof alliance--in some of the noblest houses in England. His name andreputation were hooked on to old family trees; and those great peoplewhose kinswoman he had married could not afford to have him maligned orslighted. In a word, Mr. Topsparkle felt that he had good value for hismagnificent settlements. 

Was Lady Judith Topsparkle happy, with all her blessings? She was gay;and with the polite world gayety ranks as happiness, and commands theenvy of the crowd. Nobody envies the quiet matron whose domestic lifeflows onward with the placidity of a sluggish stream. It is thebutterfly queen of the hour whom people admire and envy. Lady Judith, blazing in diamonds at a court ball, beautiful, daring, insolent, hadhalf the town for her slaves and courtiers. Even women flattered andfawned upon her, delighted to be acknowledged as her acquaintance, proudto be invited to her parties or to dance attendance upon her in publicassemblies. 

GEORG BRANDES

(1842-)

BY WILLIAM MORTON PAYNE

The man of letters who devotes himself chiefly or wholly to criticism isan essentially modern type. Although the critical art has been practicedin all literary periods, it has not until the present century enlistedanything like the exclusive attention of writers of the highest order ofattainment, but has rather played a subordinate part beside theconstructive or creative work to the performance of which such men havegiven their best energies. 

In the case of some writers, such as Voltaire and Samuel Johnson, werecognize the critical spirit that informs the bulk of their work, yetare compelled on the whole to classify them as poets, or historians, orphilosophers. Even Coleridge, who wrote no inconsiderable amount of thebest literary criticism in existence, is chiefly remembered as a poet;even Lessing, one of the fountain-heads of authoritative criticaldoctrine, owes to his plays the major part of his great reputation. Asfor such men as Ben Jonson and Dryden, Lamb and Shelley, Goethe andHeine, their critical utterances, precious and profound as theyfrequently are, figure but incidentally among their writings, and weread these men mainly for other reasons than that of learning theiropinions about other people's productions. For examples of the man ofletters considered primarily as critic, we must then look to our owncentury, and we find the type best illustrated by such men asSainte-Beuve, Taine, Brunetière, and the subject of the present sketch. 

[Illustration: Georg Brandes]

It is indeed a rather remarkable fact that the most conspicuous figurein literary Denmark at the present time should be not a poet or anovelist, but a critic pure and simple; for that is the title which mustbe given to Georg Brandes. Not only is his attitude consistentlycritical throughout the long series of his writings, but his form andmatter are also avowedly critical; so much so that hardly one of hisscore or more of published volumes calls for classification in anyother than the critical category. Even when he takes us with him uponhis travels to France or Russia with the best intentions in the world asto the avoidance of "shop, " he finds himself in the end talking aboutthe literature and the politics of those countries. One of his latestbooks, 'Udenlandske Egne og Personligheder' (Foreign Parts andPersonalities) has a preface with the following opening paragraph:--

 "One gets tired of talking about books all the time. Even the man whose business it is to express himself in black and white has eyes like other people, and with them he perceives and observes the variegated visible world: its landscapes, cities, plain and cultivated men, plastic art. For him too does Nature exist; he too is moved at sight of such simple happenings as the fall of the leaves in October; he too is stirred as he gazes upon a waterfall, a mountain region, a sunlit glacier, a Dutch lake, and an Italian olive grove. He too has been in Arcadia. "

Yet half the contents of the volume thus introduced must be described asthe work of the critic. Not only are the set papers upon such men asTaine, Renan, and Maupassant deliberate critical studies, but thesketches of travel likewise are sure to get around to the art andliterature of the countries visited. 

The life of criticism, in the larger sense, comes from wide observationand a cultivation of the cosmopolitan spirit. And it must be said ofBrandes that he is a critic in this large sense, that he has taken forhis province the modern spirit in all its varied manifestations. Thevery title of his chief work--'Main Currents in the Literature of theNineteenth Century'--shows him to be concerned with the broad movementsof thought rather than with matters of narrow technique or the literaryactivity of any one country--least of all his own. It was peculiarlyfortunate for Denmark that a critic of this type should have arisenwithin her borders a quarter-century ago. The Scandinavian countries lieso far apart from the chief centres of European thought that they arealways in danger of lapsing into a narrow self-sufficiency so far asintellectual ideals are concerned. Danish literature has been made whatit is chiefly by the mediation of a few powerful minds who have kept itin touch with modern progress: by Holberg, who may almost be said tohave brought humanism into Denmark; by Oehlenschläger, who made theromantic movement as powerful an influence in Denmark as it was inGermany; by Brandes, who, beginning his career just after the war inwhich Denmark lost her provinces and became as embittered toward Germanyas France was to become a few years later, strove to prevent thepolitical breach from extending into the intellectual sphere, and helpedhis fellow-countrymen to understand that thought and progress are oneand have a common aim, although nations may be many and antagonistic. There is much significance in the fact that the name of 'EmigrantLiterature' is given to the first section of his greatest work. He thusstyles the French literature of a century ago, --the work of such writersas Chateaubriand, Senancour, Constant, and Madame de Staël, --because itreceived a vivifying impulse from the emigration, --from the contact, forced or voluntary, of the French mind with the ideals of German andEnglish civilization. It has been the chief function of Brandes, duringthe whole of his brilliant career, to supply points of contact betweenthe intellectual life of Denmark and that of the rest of Europe, tobring his own country into the federal republic of letters. 

A glance at the course of his life, and at the subjects of his books, will serve to outline the nature of the work to which his energies havebeen devoted. A Jew by race, Georg Morris Cohen Brandes was bornFebruary 4th, 1842. He went through his academic training with brilliantsuccess, studied law for a brief period, and then drifted intojournalism and literature. A long visit to Paris (1866-7) gave himbreadth of view and the materials for his first books, 'ÆsthetiskeStudier' (Æsthetic Studies), 'Den Franske Æsthetik' (French Æsthetics), and a volume of 'Kritiker og Portraiter' (Criticisms and Portraits). 

A later visit to foreign parts (1870-1) brought him into contact withTaine, Renan, and Mill, all of whom influenced him profoundly. In 1871he began to lecture on literary subjects, chiefly in Copenhagen, and outof these lectures grew his 'Hovedströmninger i det Nittende AarhundredesLitteratur' (Main Currents in the Literature of the Nineteenth Century), a work that in the course of about ten years extended to six volumes, and must be considered not only the author's capital criticalachievement, but also one of the greatest works of literary history andcriticism that the nineteenth century has produced. The division of thesubject is as follows:--1. 'Emigrant Literature'; 2. 'The RomanticSchool in Germany'; 3. 'The Reaction in France'; 4. 'Naturalism inEngland'; 5. 'The Romantic School in France'; 6. 'Young Germany. '

In spite of the growing fame that came to him from these masterlystudies, Brandes felt the need of a larger audience than theScandinavian countries could offer him, and in 1877 changed hisresidence from Copenhagen to Berlin, a step to which he was in parturged by the violent antagonism engendered at home by the radical anduncompromising character of many of his utterances. It was not until1883 that he again took up residence in his own country, upon aguarantee of four thousand kroner (about $1000) annually for ten years, secured by some of his friends, the condition being that he should givecourses of public lectures in Copenhagen during that period. 

Among the works not yet named, mention should be made of his volumesupon Holberg, Tegnér, Kierkegaard, Ferdinand Lassalle, and the Earl ofBeaconsfield. These brilliant monographs are remarkable for theirinsight into the diverse types of character with which they deal, fortheir breadth of view, felicity of phrase, and originality of treatment. There are also several collections of miscellaneous essays, with suchtitles as 'Danske Digtere' (Danish Poets), 'Danske Personligheder'(Danish Personalities), 'Det Moderne Gjennembruds Mænd' (Men of theModern Awakening), and 'Udenlandske Egne og Personligheder' (ForeignParts and Personalities). The latest publication of Brandes is a carefulstudy of Shakespeare, a work of remarkable vigor, freshness, and sympathy. 

As a critic, Brandes belongs distinctly to the class of those who speakwith authority, and has little in common with the writers who arecontent to explore the recesses of their own subjectivity, and recordtheir personal impressions of literature. Criticism is for him a matterof science, not of opinion, and he holds it subject to a definite methodand body of principles. A few sentences from the second volume of his'Hovedströmninger' will illustrate what he conceives that methodto be:--

 "First and foremost, I endeavor everywhere to bring literature back to life. You will already have observed that while the older controversies in our literature--for example, that between Heiberg and Hauch, and even the famous controversy between Baggesen and Oehlenschläger--have been maintained in an exclusively literary domain and have become disputes about literary principles alone, the controversy aroused by my lectures, not merely by reason of the misapprehension of the opposition, but quite as much by reason of the very nature of my writing, has come to touch upon a swarm of religious, social, and moral problems. .. . It follows from my conception of the relation of literature to life that the history of literature I teach is not a history of literature for the drawing-room. I seize hold of actual life with all the strength I may, and show how the feelings that find their expression in literature spring up in the human heart. Now the human heart is no stagnant pool or idyllic woodland lake. It is an ocean with submarine vegetation and frightful inhabitants. The literary history and the poetry of the drawing-room see in the life of man a salon, a decorated ball-room, the men and the furnishings polished alike, in which no dark corners escape illumination. Let him who will, look at matters from this point of view; but it is no affair of mine. "

The boldness and even the ruthlessness which characterize much of theauthor's work were plainly foreshadowed in this outspoken introduction;and he has grown more rather than less uncompromising during thequarter-century that has elapsed since they were spoken. Matthew Arnoldwould have applauded the envisagement of literature as "criticism oflife, " but would have deplored the sacrifice of sweetness to gainincreased intensity of light. Brandes came back from contact with theEuropean world full of enthusiasm for the new men and the newideas, --for Comte and Taine, for Renan and Mill and Spencer, --and wantedhis recalcitrant fellow-countrymen to accept them all at once. They werenaturally taken aback by so imperious a demand, and their oppositioncreated the atmosphere of controversy in which Brandes has ever sincefor the most part lived--with slight effort to soften its asperities, but, it must be added, with the ever-increasing respect of those not ofhis own way of thinking. On the whole, his work has been healthful andstimulating; it has stirred the sluggish to a renewed mental activity, and has made its author himself one of the most conspicuous figures ofwhat he calls "det Moderne Gjennembrud"--the Modern Awakening. 

[Illustration: Signature]

BJÖRNSON

From 'Eminent Authors of the Nineteenth Century': Translated byProfessor Rasmus B. Anderson. 

It is only necessary to bestow a single glance upon Björnson to beconvinced how admirably he is equipped by nature for the hot strife aliterary career brings with it in most lands, and especially in thecombat-loving North. Shoulders as broad as his are not often seen, nordo we often behold so vigorous a form, one that seems as though createdto be chiseled in granite. 

There is perhaps no labor that so completely excites all the vitalforces, exhausts the nerves, refines and enervates the feelings, as thatof literary production. There has never been the slightest danger, however, that the exertions of Björnson's poetic productiveness wouldaffect his lungs as in the case of Schiller, or his spine as in the caseof Heine; there has been no cause to fear that inimical articles in thepublic journals would ever give him his death-blow, as they did Halvdan, the hero of his drama 'Redaktören' (The Editor); or that he would yield, as so many modern poets have yielded, to the temptation of resorting topernicious stimulants or to dissipation as antidotes for theoverwrought or depleted state of the nervous system occasioned bycreative activity. Nothing has injured Björnson's spine; his lungs arewithout blemish; a cough is unknown to him; and his shoulders werefashioned to bear without discomposure the rude thrusts which the worldgives, and to return them. He is perhaps the only important writer ofour day of whom this may be said. As an author he is never nervous, notwhen he displays his greatest delicacy, not even when he evinces hismost marked sensibility. 

Strong as the beast of prey whose name [Björn=Bear] occurs twice in his;muscular, without the slightest trace of corpulence, of athletic build, he looms up majestically in my mind, with his massive head, his firmlycompressed lips, and his sharp, penetrating gaze from behind hisspectacles. It would be impossible for literary hostilities to overthrowthis man, and for him there never existed that greatest danger toauthors (a danger which for a long time menaced his great rival HenrikIbsen), namely, that of having his name shrouded in silence. Even as avery young author, as a theatrical critic and political writer, he hadentered the field of literature with such an eagerness for combat that arumbling noise arose about him wherever he appeared. Like his ownThorbjörn in 'Synnöve Solbakken, ' he displayed in early youth thecombative tendency of the athlete; but like his Sigurd in 'SigurdSlembe, ' he fought not merely to practice his strength, but from genuinethough often mistaken love of truth and justice. At all events, heunderstood thoroughly who to attract attention. 

An author may possess great and rare gifts, and yet, through lack ofharmony between his own personal endowments and the nationalcharacteristics or the degree of development of his people, may long beprevented from attaining a brilliant success. Many of the world'sgreatest minds have suffered from this cause. Many, like Byron, Heine, and Henrik Ibsen, have left their native land; many more who haveremained at home have felt forsaken by their compatriots. With Björnsonthe case is quite different. He has never, it is true, been peacefullyrecognized by the entire Norwegian people; at first, because the form heused was too new and unfamiliar; later, because his ideas were of toochallenging a nature for the ruling, conservative, and highly orthodoxcircles of the land; even at the present time he is pursued by the pressof the Norwegian government and by the leading official society with afury which is as little choice in its selection of means as thebitterness which pursues the champions of thrones and altars in othercountries. In spite of all this, Björnstjerne Björnson has his peoplebehind him and about him as perhaps no other poet has, unless it beVictor Hugo. When his name is mentioned it is equivalent to hoisting theflag of Norway. In his noble qualities and in his faults, in his geniusand in his weak points, he as thoroughly bears the stamp of Norway asVoltaire bore that of France. His boldness and his naïveté, hisopen-heartedness as a man and the terseness of his style as an artist, the highly wrought and sensitive Norwegian popular sentiment, and thelively consciousness of the one-sidedness and the intellectual needs ofhis fellow-countrymen that has driven him to Scandinavianism, Pan-Teutonism, and cosmopolitanism--all this in its peculiar combinationin him is so markedly national that his personality may be said to offera _résumé_ of the entire people. 

None of his contemporaries so fully represent this people's love of homeand of freedom, its self-consciousness, rectitude, and fresh energy. Indeed, just now he also exemplifies on a large scale the people'stendency to self-criticism; not that scourging criticism which chastiseswith scorpions, and whose representative in Norway is Ibsen, in RussiaTurgénieff, but the sharp bold expression of opinion begotten of love. He never calls attention to an evil in whose improvement and cure hedoes not believe, or to a vice which he despairs of seeing out-rooted. For he has implicit faith in the good in humanity, and possesses entirethe invincible optimism of a large, genial, sanguine nature. 

As to his character, he is half chieftain, half poet. He unites in hisown person the two forms most prominent in ancient Norway--those of thewarrior and of the scald. In his intellectual constitution he is partlya tribune of the people, partly a lay preacher; in other words, hecombines in his public demeanor the political and religious pathos ofhis Norwegian contemporaries, and this became far more apparent after hebroke loose from orthodoxy than it was before. Since his so-calledapostasy he has in fact been a missionary and a reformer to a greaterdegree than ever. 

He could have been the product of no other land than Norway, and farless than other authors could he thrive in any but his native soil. Inthe year 1880, when the rumor spread through the German press thatBjörnson, weary of continual wrangling at home, was about to settle inGermany, he wrote to me:--"In Norway will I live, in Norway will I lashand be lashed, in Norway will I sing and die. "

To hold such intimate relations with one's fatherland is most fortunatefor a person who is sympathetically comprehended by that fatherland. Andthis is the case with Björnson. It is a matter dependent on conditionsdeeply rooted in his nature. He who cherishes so profound an enthusiasmfor the reserved, solitary Michelangelo, and who feels constrained, as amatter of course, to place him above Raphael, is himself a man of atotally different temperament: one who is never lonely, even when mostalone (as he has been since 1873 on his gård in remote Gausdal), but whois social to the core, or, more strictly speaking, a thoroughly nationalcharacter. He admires Michelangelo because he reveres and understandsthe elements of greatness, of profound earnestness, of mighty ruggednessin the human heart and in style; but he has nothing in common with thegreat Florentine's melancholy sense of isolation. He was born to be thefounder of a party, and was therefore early attracted to enthusiasticand popular party leaders, such as the Dane Grundtvig and the NorwegianWergeland, although wholly unlike either in his plastic, creative power. He is a man who needs to feel himself the centre, or rather the focus ofsympathy, and insensibly he forms a circle about him, because his ownnature is the _résumé_ of a social union. 

Copyrighted by T. Y. Crowell and Company, New York. 

THE HISTORICAL MOVEMENT IN MODERN LITERATURE

From the Introduction to 'Main Currents in the Literature of theNineteenth Century'

What I shall portray for you is a historical movement, having verycompletely the form and the character of a drama. The six distinctliterary groups that I intend to present to you are entirely like thesix acts of a great play. In the first group, the Frenchemigrant-literature inspired by Rousseau, the reaction has alreadybegun, but the reactionary currents are everywhere blended with therevolutionary. In the second group, the half-Catholic romantic schoolof Germany, the reaction is growing; it goes further, and holds itselfmore aloof from the contemporary movement towards freedom and progress. The third group, finally, formed of such writers as Joseph de Maistre, Lamennais in his orthodox period, Lamartine and Victor Hugo under theRestoration, when they were still firm supporters of the legitimist andclerical parties, stands for the reaction, impetuous and triumphant. 

Byron and his associates make up the fourth group. This one man reversesthe action of the great drama. The Greek war of liberation breaks out, acurrent of fresh air sweeps over Europe, Byron falls as a hero of theGreek cause, and his heroic death makes a deep impression upon all thewriters of the Continent. Just before the July Revolution all the greatFrench writers turn about, forming the fifth group, the French romanticschool, and the new liberal movement is marked by the names ofLamennais, Hugo, Lamartine, De Musset, George Sand, and many others. Andwhen the movement spreads from France into Germany, liberal ideastriumph in that land also, and the sixth and last group of authors Ishall portray became inspired by the ideas of the July Revolution andthe War of Liberation, seeing, like the French poets, in Byron's greatshade the leader of the movement towards freedom. The most important ofthese young writers are of Jewish origin, as Heine, Börne, andlater, Auerbach. 

I believe that from this great drama we may get a lesson for our owninstruction. We are now, as usual, forty years behind the rest ofEurope. In the literatures of those great countries the revolutionarystream long ago united with its tributaries, burst the dikes that wereset to impede its course, and has been distributed into thousands ofchannels. We are still endeavoring to check it and hold it dammed up inthe swamps of the reaction, but we have succeeded only in checking ourliterature itself. 

It would hardly be difficult to secure unanimous consent to theproposition that Danish literature has at no time during the presentcentury found itself languishing as in our own days. Poetical productionis almost completely checked, and no problem of a general human orsocial character awakens interest or evokes any more serious discussionthan that of the daily press or other ephemeral publication. Ourproductivity has never been strongly original, and we now utterly failto appropriate the spiritual life of other lands, and our spiritualdeafness has brought upon us the speechlessness of the deaf-mutes. 

The proof that a literature in our days is alive is to be found in thefact that it brings problems up for debate. Thus George Sand bringsmarriage up for debate, Voltaire, Byron, and Feuerbach religion, Proudhon property, Alexander Dumas _fils_ the relations of the sexes, and Emile Augier social relations in general. For a literature to bringnothing up for debate is the same thing as to lose all its significance. The people that produce such a literature may believe as firmly as theyplease that the salvation of the world will come from it, but theirexpectations will be doomed to disappointment; such a people can no moreinfluence the development of civilization in the direction of progressthan did the fly who thought he was urging the carriage onward by nowand then giving the four horses an insignificant prick. 

Many virtues--as for example warlike courage--may be preserved in such asociety, but these virtues cannot sustain literature when intellectualcourage has sunk and disappeared. All stagnant reaction is tyrannical;and when a community has by degrees so developed itself that it wearsthe features of tyranny beneath the mask of freedom, when everyoutspoken utterance that gives uncompromising expression to free thoughtis frowned upon by society, by the respectable part of the press, and bymany officials of the State, very unusual conditions will be needed tocall forth characters and talents of the sort upon which progress in anysociety depends. Should such a community develop a kind of poetry, weneed not wonder overmuch if its essential tendency be to scorn the ageand put it to shame. Such poetry will again and again describe the menof the time as wretches; and it may well happen that the books which arethe most famous and the most sought after (Ibsen's 'Brand, ' for example)will be those in which the reader is made to feel--at first with a sortof horror, and afterwards with a sort of satisfaction--what a worm heis, how miserable and how cowardly. It may happen, too, that for such apeople the word Will becomes a sort of catchword, that it may cry aloudwith dramas of the Will and philosophies of the Will. Men demand thatwhich they do not possess; they call for that of which they mostbitterly feel the lack; they call for that which there is the keenestinquiry for. Yet one would be mistaken were he pessimistically toassume that in such a people there is less courage, resolution, enthusiasm, and will than in the average of others. There is quite asmuch courage and freedom of thought, but still more is needed. For whenthe reaction in a literature forces the new ideas into the background, and when a community has daily heard itself blamed, derided, and evencursed for its hypocrisy and its conventionality, yet has remainedconvinced of its openness of mind, daily swinging censers before its ownnostrils in praise thereof, --it requires unusual ability and unusualforce of will to bring new blood into its literature. A soldier needs nouncommon courage to fire upon the enemy from the shelter of anearthwork; but if he has been led so ill that he finds no shelter athand, we need not wonder if his courage forsakes him. 

Various causes have contributed to the result that our literature hasaccomplished less than the greater ones in the service of progress. Thevery circumstances that have favored the development of our poetry havestood in our way. I may in the first place mention a certainchildishness in the character of our people. We owe to this quality thealmost unique naïveté of our poetry. Naïveté is an eminently poeticalquality, and we find it in nearly all of our poets, from Oehlenschlägerthrough Ingemann and Andersen to Hostrup. But naïveté does not imply therevolutionary propensity. I may further mention the abstract idealism sostrongly marked in our literature. It deals with our dreams, not withour life. .. . 

It sometimes happens to the Dane on his travels that a foreigner, aftersome desultory talk about Denmark, asks him this question: How may onelearn what are the aspirations of your country? Has your contemporaryliterature developed any type that is palpable and easily grasped? TheDane is embarrassed in his reply. They all know of what class were thetypes that the eighteenth century bequeathed to the nineteenth. Let usname one or two representative types in the case of a single country, Germany. There is 'Nathan the Wise, ' the ideal of the period ofenlightenment; that is, the period of tolerance, noble humanity, andthorough-going rationalism. We can hardly say that we have held fast tothis ideal or carried it on to further development, as it was carried onby Schleiermacher and many others in Germany. Mynster was ourSchleiermacher, and we know how far his orthodoxy stands removed fromSchleiermacher's liberalism. Instead of adopting rationalism andcarrying it on, we have stepped farther and farther away from it. Clausen was once its advocate, but he is so no more. Heiberg is followedby Martensen, and Martensen's 'Speculative Dogmatic' is succeeded by his'Christian Dogmatic. ' In Oehlenschläger's poetry there is still thebreath of rationalism, but the generation of Oehlenschläger and Örstedis followed by that of Kierkegaard and Paludan-Müller. 

The German literature of the eighteenth century bequeathed to us manyother poetic ideals. There is Werther, the ideal of the "storm andstress" period, of the struggle of nature and passion with the customaryorder of society; then there is Faust, the very spirit of the new agewith its new knowledge, who, still unsatisfied with what the period ofenlightenment has won, foresees a higher truth, a higher happiness, anda thousandfold higher power; and there is Wilhelm Meister, the type ofhumanized culture, who goes through the school of life and fromapprentice becomes master, who begins with the pursuit of ideals thatsoar above life and who ends by discerning the ideal in the real, forwhom these two expressions finally melt into one. There is Goethe'sPrometheus, who, chained to his rock, gives utterance to the philosophyof Spinoza in the sublime rhythms of enthusiasm. Last of all, there isthe Marquis von Posa, the true incarnation of the revolution, theapostle and prophet of liberty, the type of a generation that would, bymeans of the uprising against all condemned traditions, make progresspossible and bring happiness to mankind. 

With such types in the past our Danish literature begins. Does itdevelop them further? We may not say that it does. For what is the testof progress? It is what happens afterward. It has not been printed inthis shape, but I will tell you about it. One fine day, when Werther wasgoing about as usual, dreaming despairingly of Lotte, it occurred to himthat the bond between her and Albert was of slight consequence, and hewon her from Albert. One fine day the Marquis von Posa wearied ofpreaching freedom to deaf ears at the court of Philip the Second, anddrove a sword through the king's body--and Prometheus rose from his rockand overthrew Olympus, and Faust, who had knelt abjectly before theEarth-Spirit, took possession of his earth, and subdued it by means ofsteam, and electricity, and methodical investigation. 

Translation of W. M. Payne. 

SEBASTIAN BRANDT

(1458-1521)

In 1494, shortly after the invention of printing, there appeared inBasle a book entitled 'Das Narrenschiff' (The Ship of Fools). Itssuccess was most extraordinary; it was immediately translated intovarious languages, and remained a favorite with the reading worldthroughout the sixteenth century. The secret of its popularity lay inits mixture of satire and allegory, which was exactly in accord with thespirit of the age. 'The Ship of Fools' was not only read by thecultivated classes who could appreciate the subtle flavor of the work, but--especially in Germany--it was a book for the people, relished byburgher and artisan as well as by courtier and scholar. Contemporaryworks contain many allusions to it; it was in fact so familiar to everyone that monks preached upon texts drawn from it. This unique andpowerful book carried the spirit of the Reformation where the words ofLuther would have been unheeded, and it is supposed to have suggested toErasmus his famous 'Praise of Folly. '

[Illustration: SEBASTIAN BRANDT]

In its way, it was as important a production as Bunyan's 'Pilgrim'sProgress. ' The 'Narrenschiff' was like a glass in which every man sawthe reflection of his neighbor; for the old weather-beaten vessel wasfilled with a crew of fools, who impersonate the universal weaknesses ofhuman nature. In his prologue Brandt says:--

 "We well may call it Folly's mirror, Since every fool there sees his error: His proper worth would each man know, The glass of Fools the truth will show. Who meets his image on the page May learn to deem himself no sage, Nor shrink his nothingness to see, Since naught that lives from fault is free; And who in conscience dare be sworn That cap and bells he ne'er hath worn? He who his foolishness decries Alone deserves to rank as wise. He who doth wisdom's airs rehearse May stand godfather to my verse!

 * * * * *

 "For jest and earnest, use and sport, Here fools abound, of every sort. The sage may here find Wisdom's rules, And Folly learn the ways of fools. Dolts rich and poor my verse doth strike; The bad finds badness, like finds like; A cap on many a one I fit Who fain to wear it would omit. Were I to mention it by name, 'I know you not, ' he would exclaim. "

Sebastian Brandt represented all that was best in mediæval Germany. Hewas a man of affairs, a diplomat, a scholar, an artist, and a citizenhighly esteemed and reverenced for his judgment and knowledge. Naturallyenough, he held important civic offices in Basle as well as inStrassburg, where he was born in 1458. His father, a wealthy burgher, sent him to the University of Basle to study philosophy andjurisprudence and to become filled with the political ideals of the day. He took his degree in law in 1484 at Basle, and practiced hisprofession, gaining in reputation every day. 

In early youth he dedicated a number of works in prose and verse to theEmperor Maximilian, who made him Chancellor of the Empire, andfrequently summoned him to his camp to take part in the negotiationsregarding the Holy See. He was universally admired, and Erasmus, who sawhim in Strassburg, spoke of him as the "incomparable Brandt. " Hisportrait represents the polished Italian rather than the sturdymiddle-class German citizen. His features are delicately cut, his noselong and thin, his face smooth, and his fur-bordered cap and brocaderobes suggest aristocratic surroundings. No doubt he graced, by hisappearance and bearing as well as by his richly stored mind, the dignityof Count Palatine, to which rank the Emperor raised him. He died inStrassburg in 1521, and lies in the great cathedral. 

In addition to the pictures in the 'Ship of Fools' (some of which hedrew, while others he designed and superintended), he illustrated'Terence' (1496); the 'Quadragesimale, or Sermons on the Prodigal Son'(1495); 'Boëtius' (1501), and 'Virgil' (1502), all of which areinteresting to the artist and engraver. In the original edition of the'Ship of Fools, ' written in the Swabian dialect, every folly isaccompanied with marginal notes giving the classical or Biblicalprototype of the person satirized. 

 "Brandt's satires, " says Max Müller in his 'Chips from a German Workshop, ' "are not very powerful, nor pungent, nor original. But his style is free and easy. He writes in short chapters, and mixes his fools in such a manner that we always meet with a variety of new faces. To account for his popularity we must remember the time in which he wrote. What had the poor people of Germany to read toward the end of the fifteenth century? Printing had been invented, and books were published and sold with great rapidity. People were not only fond, but proud, of reading. This entertainment was fashionable, and the first fool who enters Brandt's ship is the man who buys books. But what were the wares that were offered for sale? We find among the early prints of the fifteenth century religious, theological, and classical works in great abundance, and we know that the respectable and wealthy burghers of Augsburg and Strassburg were proud to fill their shelves with these portly volumes. But then German aldermen had wives and daughters and sons, and what were they to read during the long winter evenings?. .. There was room therefore at that time for a work like the 'Ship of Fools. ' It was the first printed book that treated of contemporary events and living persons, instead of old German battles and French knights. 

 "People are always fond of reading the history of their own times. If the good qualities of the age are brought out, they think of themselves or their friends; if the dark features of their contemporaries are exhibited, they think of their neighbors and enemies. The 'Ship of Fools' is the sort of satire which ordinary people would read, and read with pleasure. They might feel a slight twinge now and then, but they would put down the book at the end, and thank God that they were not like other men. There is a chapter on Misers, --and who would not gladly give a penny to a beggar? There is a chapter on Gluttony, --and who was ever more than a little exhilarated after dinner? There is a chapter on Church-goers, --and who ever went to church for respectability's sake, or to show off a gaudy dress, or a fine dog, or a new hawk? There is a chapter on Dancing, --and who ever danced except for the sake of exercise?. .. We sometimes wish that Brandt's satire had been a little more searching, and that, instead of his many allusions to classical fools, . .. He had given us a little more of the scandalous gossip of his own time. But he was too good a man to do this, and his contemporaries no doubt were grateful to him for his forbearance. "

From a line in his poem saying that the Narrenschiff was to be found inthe neighborhood of Aix, it is supposed that Brandt received his ideafrom an old chronicle which describes a ship built near Aix-la-Chapellein the twelfth century, and which was borne through the country as thecentre-piece for a carnival, and followed by a suite of men and womendressed in gay costume, singing and dancing to the sound of instruments. The old monk calls it "pagan worship, " and denounces it severely; butBrandt saw great possibilities in it for pointing a moral, according tothe fashion of his time. The illustrations contributed not a little tothe popularity of the book, for he put all his humor into the picturesand all his sermons and exhortations into his text. 

Just as Brandt in his literary qualities has been compared to Rabelais, so his satirical pencil has been likened to Hogarth's. Boldness, drollery, dramatic spirit, force, and spontaneous satire characterizeboth artists. He does not mount a pulpit and speak to the erring masseswith sanctimonious self-righteousness; but he enters the Ship himself tolead the babbling folk in motley to the land of wisdom. His own folly isthat of the student, and he therefore begins caricaturing himself. 

To open the 'Ship of Fools' is to witness a masquerade of the fifteenthcentury. The frontispiece shows a large galley with high poop and prowand disordered rigging. Confusion reigns. Every one wears the livery ofFolly, --the fantastic hood with two peaks like asses' ears, anddecorated with tiny jingling bells. One man on the prow gesticulateswildly to a little boat, and cries to the passengers, "Zu schyff, zuschyff, brüder: ess gat, ess gat!" (On board, on board, brothers; itgoes, it goes!)

In these pages every type of society is seen, "from beardless youth tocrooked age, " as the author asserts. Men and women of all classes andconditions, high and low, rich and poor, learned and unlearned: ladiesin long trains and furred gowns; knights with long peaked shoes, carrying falcons upon their wrists; cooks and butlers busy in thekitchen; women gazing into mirrors; monks preaching in pulpits;merchants selling goods; gluttons at the table; drunkards in the tavern;alchemists in their laboratories; gamesters playing cards and rattlingdice; lovers in shady groves--all and each wear Folly's cap and bells. 

Another class of fools is seen engaged in ridiculous occupations, suchas pouring water into wells; bearing the world on their shoulders;measuring the globe; or weighing heaven and earth in the balance. Stillothers despoil their fellows. Wine merchants introducing salt-petre, bones, mustard, and sulphur into barrels, the horse-dealer padding thefoot of a lame horse, men selling inferior skins for good fur, and othercheats with false weights, short measure, and light money, prove thatthe vices of the modern age are not novelties. Other allegoricalpictures and verses describe the mutability of fortune, where a wheel, guided by a gigantic hand outstretched from the sky, is adorned withthree asses, wearing of course the cap and bells. 

The best German editions of this book are by Zarneke (Leipsic, 1854), and Goedecke (1872). It was translated into Latin by Locker in 1497, into English by Henry Watson as 'The Grete Shyppe of Fooles of theWorlde' (1517); and by Alexander Barclay in 1509. The best edition ofBarclay's adaptation, from which the extracts below are drawn, waspublished by T. H. Jamieson (Edinburgh, 1874). 

 THE UNIVERSAL SHYP

 Come to, Companyons: ren: tyme it is to rowe: Our Carake fletis[6]: the se is large and wyde And depe Inough: a pleasaunt wynde doth blowe. Prolonge no tyme, our Carake doth you byde, Our felawes tary for you on every syde. Hast hyther, I say, ye folys[7] naturall, Howe oft shall I you unto my Navy call?

 Ye have one confort, ye shall nat be alone: Your company almoste is infynyte; For nowe alyve ar men but fewe or none That of my shyp can red hym selfe out quyte[8]. A fole in felawes hath pleasour and delyte. Here can none want, for our proclamacion Extendyth farre: and to many a straunge nacyon. 

 Both yonge and olde, pore man, and estate: The folysshe moder: hir doughter by hir syde, Ren to our Navy, ferynge to come to[o] late. No maner of degre is in the worlde wyde, But that for all theyr statelynes and pryde As many as from the way of wysdome tryp Shall have a rowme and place within my shyp. 

 My folysshe felawes therfore I you exort Hast to our Navy, for tyme it is to rowe: Nowe must we leve eche sympyll[9] haven and porte, And sayle to that londe where folys abound and flow; For whether we aryve at London or Bristowe, Or any other Haven within this our londe, We folys ynowe[10] shall fynde alway at honde. .. . 

 Our frayle bodyes wandreth in care and payne And lyke to botes troubled with tempest sore From rocke to rocke cast in this se mundayne, Before our iyen beholde we ever more The deth of them that passed are before. Alas mysfortune us causeth oft to rue Whan to vayne thoughtis our bodyes we subdue. 

 We wander in more dout than mortall man can thynke. And oft by our foly and wylfull neglygence Our shyp is in great peryll for to synke. So sore ar we overcharged with offence We see the daunger before our owne presence Of straytis, rockis, and bankis of sonde full hye, Yet we procede to wylfull jeopardye. 

 We dyvers Monsters within the se beholde Redy to abuse or to devour mankynde, As Dolphyns, whallys, and wonders many folde, And oft the Marmaydes songe dullyth our mynde That to all goodnes we ar made dull and blynde; The wolves of these oft do us moche care, Yet we of them can never well beware. .. . 

 About we wander in tempest and Tourment; What place is sure, where Foles may remayne And fyx theyr dwellynge sure and parmanent? None certainly: The cause thereof is playne. We wander in the se for pleasour, bydynge payne, And though the haven of helth be in our syght Alas we fle from it with all our myght. 

 [Footnote 6: Floats. ]

 [Footnote 7: Fools. ]

 [Footnote 8: Quite rid himself of. ]

 [Footnote 9: Single. ]

 [Footnote 10: Enough. ]

 OF HYM THAT TOGYDER WYLL SERVE TWO MAYSTERS

 A fole he is and voyde of reason Whiche with one hounde tendyth to take Two harys in one instant and season; Rightso is he that wolde undertake Hym to two lordes a servaunt to make; For whether that he be lefe or lothe, The one he shall displease, or els bothe. 

 A fole also he is withouten doute, And in his porpose sothly blyndyd sore, Which doth entende labour or go aboute To serve god, and also his wretchyd store Of worldly ryches: for as I sayde before, He that togyder will two maysters serve Shall one displease and nat his love deserve. 

 For he that with one hounde wol take also Two harys togyther in one instant For the moste parte doth the both two forgo, And if he one have: harde it is and skant And that blynd fole mad and ignorant That draweth thre boltis atons[11] in one bowe At one marke shall shote to[o] high or to[o] lowe. .. . 

 He that his mynde settyth god truly to serve And his sayntes: this worlde settynge at nought Shall for rewarde everlastynge joy deserve, But in this worlde he that settyth his thought All men to please, and in favour to be brought Must lout and lurke, flater, laude, and lye: And cloke in knavys counseyll, though it fals be. 

 If any do hym wronge or injury He must it suffer and pacyently endure A double tunge with wordes like hony; And of his offycis if he wyll be sure He must be sober and colde of his langage, More to a knave, than to one of hye lynage. 

 Oft must he stoupe his bonet in his honde, His maysters back he must oft shrape and clawe, His brest anoyntynge, his mynde to understonde, But be it gode or bad therafter must he drawe. Without he can Jest he is nat worth a strawe, But in the mean tyme beware that he none checke; For than layth malyce a mylstone in his necke. 

 He that in court wyll love and favour have A fole must hym fayne, if he were none afore, And be as felow to every boy and knave, And to please his lorde he must styll laboure sore. His many folde charge maketh hym coveyt more That he had lever[12] serve a man in myserye Than serve his maker in tranquylyte. 

 But yet when he hath done his dylygence His lorde to serve, as I before have sayde, For one small faute or neglygent offence Suche a displeasoure agaynst hym may be layde That out is he cast bare and unpurvayde[13], Whether he be gentyll, yeman[14] grome or page; Thus worldly servyse is no sure herytage. 

 Wherfore I may prove by these examples playne That it is better more godly and plesant To leve this mondayne casualte and payne And to thy maker one god to be servaunt, Which whyle thou lyvest shall nat let the want That thou desyrest justly, for thy syrvyce, And than after gyve the, the joyes of Paradyse. 

 [Footnote 11: Three bolts at once. ]

 [Footnote 12: Rather. ]

 [Footnote 13: Unprovided. ]

 [Footnote 14: Yeoman. ]

 OF TO[O] MOCHE SPEKYNGE OR BABLYNGE

 He that his tunge can temper and refrayne And asswage the foly of hasty langage Shall kepe his mynde from trouble, sadnes and payne, And fynde therby great ease and avauntage; Where as a hasty speker falleth in great domage Peryll and losse, in lyke wyse as the pye Betrays hir byrdes by hir chatrynge and crye. .. . 

 Is it not better for one his tunge to kepe Where as he myght (perchaunce) with honestee, Than wordes to speke whiche make hym after wepe For great losse folowynge wo and adversyte? A worde ones spokyn revoked can not be, Therfore thy fynger lay before thy types, For a wyse mannys tunge without advysement trypes. 

 He that wyll answere of his owne folysshe brayne Before that any requyreth his counsayle Shewith him selfe and his hasty foly playne, Wherby men knowe his wordes of none avayle. Some have delyted in mad blaborynge and frayle Whiche after have supped bytter punysshement For their wordes spoken without advysement. .. . 

 Many have ben whiche sholde have be counted wyse Sad and discrete, and right well sene[15] in scyence; But all they have defyled with this one vyse Of moche spekynge: o cursyd synne and offence Ryte it is that so great inconvenience So great shame, contempt rebuke and vylany Sholde by one small member came to the hole body. 

 Let suche take example by the chatrynge pye, Whiche doth hyr nest and byrdes also betraye By hyr grete chatterynge, clamoure dyn and crye, Ryght so these folys theyr owne foly bewraye. But touchynge wymen of them I wyll nought say, They can not speke, but ar as coy and styll As the horle wynde or clapper of a mylle. 

 [Footnote 15: Well seen--well versed. ]

End of Volume V.