LIBRARY OF THE

WORLD'S BEST LITERATURE

ANCIENT AND MODERN

CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER

EDITOR

HAMILTON WRIGHT MABIELUCIA GILBERT RUNKLEGEORGE HENRY WARNER

ASSOCIATE EDITORS

Connoisseur Edition

VOL. III. 

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. III

 LIVEDBERTHOLD AUERBACH--_Continued:_ 1812-1882 The First False Step ('On the Heights') The New Home and the Old One (same) The Court Physician's Philosophy (same) In Countess Irma's Diary (same)

ÉMILE AUGIER 1820-1889 A Conversation with a Purpose ('Giboyer's Boy') A Severe Young Judge ('The Adventuress') A Contented Idler ('M. Poirier's Son-in-Law') Feelings of an Artist (same) A Contest of Wills ('The Fourchambaults')

ST. AUGUSTINE OF HIPPO (by Samuel Hart) 354-430 The Godly Sorrow that Worketh Repentance ('The Confessions') Consolation (same) The Foes of the City ('The City of God') The Praise of God (same) A Prayer ('The Trinity')

MARCUS AURELIUS ANTONINUS A. D. 121-180 Reflections

JANE AUSTEN 1775-1817 An Offer of Marriage ('Pride and Prejudice') Mother and Daughter (same) A Letter of Condolence (same) A Well-Matched Sister and Brother ('Northanger Abbey') Family Doctors ('Emma') Family Training ('Mansfield Park') Private Theatricals (same) Fruitless Regrets and Apples of Sodom (same)

AVERROËS 1126-1198

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

AVICEBRON 1028-?1058 On Matter and Form ('The Fountain of Life')

ROBERT AYTOUN 1570-1638 Inconstancy Upbraided Lines to an Inconstant Mistress (with Burns's Adaptation)

WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN 1813-1865 Burial March of Dundee ('Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers') Execution of Montrose (same) The Broken Pitcher ('Bon Gaultier Ballads') Sonnet to Britain. "By the Duke of Wellington" (same) A Ball in the Upper Circles ('The Modern Endymion') A Highland Tramp ('Norman Sinclair')

MASSIMO TAPARELLI D'AZEGLIO 1798-1866 A Happy Childhood ('My Recollections') The Priesthood (same) My First Venture in Romance (same)

BABER (by Edward S. Holden) 1482-1530 From Baber's 'Memoirs'

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

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

WALTER BAGEHOT (by Forrest Morgan) 1826-1877 The Virtues of Stupidity ('Letters on the French Coup d'État') Review Writing ('The First Edinburgh Reviewers') Lord Eldon (same) Taste ('Wordsworth, Tennyson, and Browning') Causes of the Sterility of Literature ('Shakespeare') The Search for Happiness ('William Cowper') On Early Reading ('Edward Gibbon') The Cavaliers ('Thomas Babington Macaulay') Morality and Fear ('Bishop Butler') The Tyranny of Convention ('Sir Robert Peel') How to Be an Influential Politician ('Bolingbroke') Conditions of Cabinet Government ('The English Constitution') Why Early Societies could not be Free ('Physics and Politics') Benefits of Free Discussion in Modern Times (same) Origin of Deposit Banking ('Lombard Street')

JENS BAGGESEN 1764-1826 A Cosmopolitan ('The Labyrinth') Philosophy on the Heath (same) There was a Time when I was Very Little

PHILIP JAMES BAILEY 1816- From "Festus": Life: The Passing-Bell; Thoughts; Dreams; Chorus of the Saved

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

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

SIR SAMUEL WHITE BAKER 1821-1893 Hunting in Abyssinia ('The Nile Tributaries of Abyssinia') The Sources of the Nile ('The Albert Nyanza')

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

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

HONORÉ DE BALZAC (by William P. Trent) 1799-1850 The Meeting in the Convent ('The Duchess of Langeais') An Episode Under the Terror A Passion in the Desert The Napoleon of the People ('The Country Doctor')

GEORGE BANCROFT (by Austin Scott) 1800-1891 The Beginnings of Virginia ('History of the United States') Men and Government in Early Massachusetts (same) King Philip's War (same) The New Netherland (same) Franklin (same)

FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS

VOLUME III. 

 * * * * *

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

VIGNETTE PORTRAITS

Émile AugierJane AustenRobert AytounWalter BagehotJens BaggesenPhilip James BaileyJoanna BaillieHenry Martyn BairdSir Samuel White BakerArthur James Balfour

(Continued from Volume II)

"Do you imagine that every one is kindly disposed towards you? Take myword for it, a palace contains people of all sorts, good and bad. Allthe vices abound in such a place. And there are many other matters ofwhich you have no idea, and of which you will, I trust, ever remainignorant. But all you meet are wondrous polite. Try to remain just asyou now are, and when you leave the palace, let it be as the sameWalpurga you were when you came here. "

Walpurga stared at her in surprise. Who could change her?

Word came that the Queen was awake and desired Walpurga to bring theCrown Prince to her. 

Accompanied by Doctor Gunther, Mademoiselle Kramer, and twowaiting-women, she proceeded to the Queen's bedchamber. The Queen laythere, calm and beautiful, and with a smile of greeting, turned her facetowards those who had entered. The curtains had been partially drawnaside, and a broad, slanting ray of light shone into the apartment, which seemed still more peaceful than during the breathless silence ofthe previous night. 

"Good morning!" said the Queen, with a voice full of feeling. "Let mehave my child!" She looked down at the babe that rested in her arms, andthen, without noticing any one in the room, lifted her glance on highand faintly murmured:--

"This is the first time I behold my child in the daylight!"

All were silent; it seemed as if there was naught in the apartmentexcept the broad slanting ray of light that streamed in at the window. 

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

"Yes, indeed! Sleep's the first, the last, and the best thing in theworld. "

"She's clever, " said the Queen, addressing Doctor Gunther in French. 

Walpurga's heart sank within her. Whenever she heard them speak French, she felt as if they were betraying her; as if they had put on aninvisible cap, like that worn by the goblins in the fairy-tale, andcould thus speak without being heard. 

"Did the Prince sleep well?" asked the Queen. 

Walpurga passed her hand over her face, as if to brush away a spiderthat had been creeping there. The Queen doesn't speak of her "child" orher "son, " but only of "the Crown Prince. "

Walpurga answered:--

"Yes, quite well, thank God! That is, I couldn't hear him, and I onlywanted to say that I'd like to act towards the--" she could not say "thePrince"--"that is, towards him, as I'd do with my own child. We began onthe very first day. My mother taught me that. Such a child has a will ofits own from the very start, and it won't do to give way to it. It won'tdo to take it from the cradle, or to feed it, whenever it pleases; thereought to be regular times for all those things. It'll soon get used tothat, and it won't harm it either, to let it cry once in a while. On thecontrary, that expands the chest. "

"Does he cry?" asked the Queen. 

The infant answered the question for itself, for it at once began to crymost lustily. 

"Take him and quiet him, " begged the Queen. 

The King entered the apartment before the child had stopped crying. 

"He will have a good voice of command, " said he, kissing the Queen'shand. 

Walpurga quieted the child, and she and Mademoiselle Kramer were sentback to their apartments. 

The King informed the Queen of the dispatches that had been received, and of the sponsors who had been decided upon. She was perfectlysatisfied with the arrangements that had been made. 

When Walpurga had returned to her room and had placed the child in thecradle, she walked up and down and seemed quite agitated. 

"There are no angels in this world!" said she. "They're all just likethe rest of us, and who knows but--" She was vexed at the Queen: "Whywon't she listen patiently when her child cries? We must take all ourchildren bring us, whether it be joy or pain. "

She stepped out into the passage-way and heard the tones of the organ inthe palace-chapel. For the first time in her life these soundsdispleased her. "It don't belong in the house, " thought she, "where allsorts of things are going on. The church ought to stand by itself. "

When she returned to the room, she found a stranger there. MademoiselleKramer informed her that this was the tailor to the Queen. 

Walpurga laughed outright at the notion of a "tailor to the Queen. " Theelegantly attired person looked at her in amazement, while MademoiselleKramer explained to her that this was the dressmaker to her Majesty theQueen, and that he had come to take her measure for three new dresses. 

"Am I to wear city clothes?"

"God forbid! You're to wear the dress of your neighborhood, and canorder a stomacher in red, blue, green, or any color that you like best. "

"I hardly know what to say; but I'd like to have a workday suit too. Sunday clothes on week-days--that won't do. "

"At court one always wears Sunday clothes, and when her Majesty drivesout again you will have to accompany her. "

"A11 right, then. I won't object. "

While he took her measure, Walpurga laughed incessantly, and he was atlast obliged to ask her to hold still, so that he might go on with hiswork. Putting his measure into his pocket, he informed MademoiselleKramer that he had ordered an exact model, and that the master ofceremonies had favored him with several drawings, so that there might beno doubt of success. 

Finally he asked permission to see the Crown Prince. Mademoiselle Kramerwas about to let him do so, but Walpurga objected. 

"Before the child is christened, " said she, "no one shall look at itjust out of curiosity, and least of all a tailor, or else the child willnever turn out the right sort of man. "

The tailor took his leave, Mademoiselle Kramer having politely hinted tohim that nothing could be done with the superstition of the lowerorders, and that it would not do to irritate the nurse. 

This occurrence induced Walpurga to administer the first seriousreprimand to Mademoiselle Kramer. She could not understand why she wasso willing to make an exhibition of the child. "Nothing does a childmore harm than to let strangers look at it in its sleep, and a tailorat that. "

All the wild fun with which, in popular songs, tailors are held up toscorn and ridicule, found vent in Walpurga, and she began singing:--

 "Just list, ye braves, who love to roam! A snail was chasing a tailor home. And if Old Shears hadn't run so fast, The snail would surely have caught him at last. "

Mademoiselle Kramer's acquaintance with the court tailor had loweredher in Walpurga's esteem; and with an evident effort to mollify thelatter, Mademoiselle Kramer asked:--

"Does the idea of your new and beautiful clothes really afford you nopleasure?"

"To be frank with you, no! I don't wear them for my own sake, but forthat of others, who dress me to please themselves. It's all the same tome, however! I've given myself up to them, and suppose I must submit. "

"May I come in?" asked a pleasant voice. Countess Irma entered the room. Extending both her hands to Walpurga, she said:--

"God greet you, my countrywoman! I am also from the Highlands, sevenhours distance from your village. I know it well, and once sailed overthe lake with your father. Does he still live?"

"Alas! no: he was drowned, and the lake hasn't given up its dead. "

"He was a fine-looking old man, and you are the very image of him. "

"I am glad to find some one else here who knew my father. The courttailor--I mean the court doctor--knew him too. Yes, search the landthrough, you couldn't have found a better man than my father, and no onecan help but admit it. "

"Yes: I've often heard as much. "

"May I ask your Ladyship's name?"

"Countess Wildenort. "

"Wildenort? I've heard the name before. Yes, I remember my mother'smentioning it. Your father was known as a very kind and benevolent man. Has he been dead a long while?"

"No, he is still living. "

"Is he here too?"

"No. "

"And as what are you here, Countess?"

"As maid of honor. "

"And what is that?"

"Being attached to the Queen's person; or what, in your part of thecountry, would be called a companion. "

"Indeed! And is your father willing to let them use you that way?"

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

"I wished to ask you something--Can you write?"

"I once could, but I've quite forgotten how. "

"Then I've just hit it! that's the very reason for my coming here. Now, whenever you wish to write home, you can dictate your letter to me, andI will write whatever you tell me to. "

"I could have done that too, " suggested Mademoiselle Kramer, timidly;"and your Ladyship would not have needed to trouble yourself. "

"No, the Countess will write for me. Shall it be now?"

"Certainly. "

But Walpurga had to go to the child. While she was in the next room, Countess Irma and Mademoiselle Kramer engaged each other inconversation. 

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

Translation of S. A. Stern. 

THE FIRST FALSE STEP

From 'On the Heights'

The ball was to be given in the palace and the adjoining winter garden. The intendant now informed Irma of his plan, and was delighted to findthat she approved of it. At the end of the garden he intended to erect alarge fountain, ornamented with antique groups. In the foreground hemeant to have trees and shrubbery and various kinds of rocks, so thatnone could approach too closely; and the background was to be a Grecianlandscape, painted in the grand style. 

Irma promised to keep his secret. Suddenly she exclaimed, "We are all ofus no better than lackeys and kitchen-maids. We are kept busy stewing, roasting, and cooking for weeks, in order to prepare a dish that mayplease their Majesties. "

The intendant made no reply. 

"Do you remember, " continued Irma, "how, when we were at the lake, wespoke of the fact that man possessed the advantage of being able tochange his dress, and thus to alter his appearance? While yet a child, masquerading was my greatest delight. The soul wings its flight incallow infancy. A _bal costumé_ is indeed one of the noblest fruits ofculture. The love of coquetry which is innate with all of us displaysitself there undisguised. "

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

"No, " said he to himself, "such a woman would be a constant strain, andwould require one to be brilliant and intellectual all day long. Shewould exhaust one, " said he, almost aloud. 

No one knew what character Irma intended to appear in, although manysupposed that it would be as "Victory, " since it was well known that shehad stood for the model of the statue that surmounted the arsenal. Theywere busy conjecturing how she could assume that character withoutviolating the social proprieties. 

Irma spent much of her time in the atelier, and worked assiduously. Shewas unable to escape a feeling of unrest, far greater than that she hadexperienced years ago when looking forward to her first ball. She couldnot reconcile herself to the idea of preparing for the _fête_ so longbeforehand, and would like to have had it take place in the very nexthour, so that something else might be taken up at once. The long delaytried her patience. She almost envied those beings to whom thepreparation for pleasure affords the greatest part of the enjoyment. Work alone calmed her unrest. She had something to do, and thisprevented the thoughts of the festival from engaging her mind during theday. It was only in the evening that she would recompense herself forthe day's work, by giving full swing to her fancy. 

The statue of Victory was still in the atelier and was almost finished. High ladders were placed beside it. The artist was still chiseling atthe figure, and would now and then hurry down to observe the generaleffect, and then hastily mount the ladder again in order to add a touchhere or there. Irma scarcely ventured to look up at this effigy ofherself in Grecian costume--transformed and yet herself. The idea ofbeing thus translated into the purest of art's forms filled her with atremor, half joy, half fear. 

It was on a winter afternoon. Irma was working assiduously at a copy ofa bust of Theseus, for it was growing dark. Near her stood herpreceptor's marble bust of Doctor Gunther. All was silent; not a soundwas heard save now and then the picking or scratching of the chisel. 

At that moment the master descended the ladder, and drawing a deepbreath, said:--

"There--that will do. One can never finish. I shall not put anotherstroke to it. I am afraid that retouching would only injure it. Itis done. "

In the master's words and manner, struggling effort and calm contentseemed mingled. He laid the chisel aside. Irma looked at him earnestlyand said:--

"You are a happy man; but I can imagine that you are still unsatisfied. I don't believe that even Raphael or Michael Angelo was ever satisfiedwith the work he had completed. The remnant of dissatisfaction which anartist feels at the completion of a work is the germ of a new creation. "

The master nodded his approval of her words. His eyes expressed histhanks. He went to the water-tap and washed his hands. Then he placedhimself near Irma and looked at her, while telling her that in everywork an artist parts with a portion of his life; that the figure willnever again inspire the same feelings that it did while in the workshop. Viewed from afar, and serving as an ornament, no regard would be had tothe care bestowed upon details. But the artist's great satisfaction inhis work is in having pleased himself; and yet no one can accuratelydetermine how, or to what extent, a conscientious working up of detailswill influence the general effect. 

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

The King entered. He was unattended, and begged Irma not to allowherself to be disturbed in her work. Without looking up, she went onwith her modeling. The King was earnest in his praise of themaster's work. 

"The grandeur that dwells in this figure will show posterity what ourdays have beheld. I am proud of such contemporaries. "

Irma felt that the words applied to her as well. Her heart throbbed. Theplaster which stood before her suddenly seemed to gaze at her with astrange expression. 

"I should like to compare the finished work with the first models, " saidthe king to the artist. 

"I regret that the experimental models are in my small atelier. Doesyour Majesty wish me to have them brought here?"

"If you will be good enough to do so. "

The master left. The King and Irma were alone. With rapid steps the Kingmounted the ladder, and exclaimed in a tremulous voice:--

"I ascend into heaven--I ascend to you. Irma, I kiss you, I kiss yourimage, and may this kiss forever rest upon those lips, enduring beyondall time. I kiss thee with the kiss of eternity. " He stood aloft andkissed the lips of the statue. Irma could not help looking up, and justat that moment a slanting sunbeam fell on the King and on the face ofthe marble figure, making it glow as if with life. 

Irma felt as if wrapped in a fiery cloud, bearing her away intoeternity. 

The King descended and placed himself beside her. His breathing wasshort and quick. She did not dare to look up; she stood as silent and asimmovable as a statue. Then the King embraced her--and living lipskissed each other. 

Translation of S. A. Stern. 

THE NEW HOME AND THE OLD ONE

From 'On the Heights'

Hansei received various offers for his cottage, and was always provokedwhen it was spoken of as a 'tumble-down old shanty. ' He always looked asif he meant to say, "Don't take it ill of me, good old house: the peopleonly abuse you so that they may get you cheap. " Hansei stood his ground. He would not sell his home for a penny less than it was worth; andbesides that, he owned the fishing-right, which was also worthsomething. Grubersepp at last took the house off his hands, with thedesign of putting a servant of his, who intended to marry in the fall, in possession of the place. 

All the villagers were kind and friendly to them, --doubly so since theywere about to leave, --and Hansei said:--

"It hurts me to think that I must leave a single enemy behind me, I'dlike to make it up with the innkeeper. "

Walpurga agreed with him, and said that she would go along; that she hadreally been the cause of the trouble, and that if the innkeeper wantedto scold any one, he might as well scold her too. 

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

It was in the last evening in August that they went up into the village. Their hearts beat violently while they drew near to the inn. There wasno light in the room. They groped about the porch, but not a soul was tobe seen. Dachsel and Wachsel, however, were making a heathenish racket. Hansei called out:

"Is there no one at home?"

"No. There's no one at home, " answered a voice from the dark room. 

"Well, then tell the host, when he returns, that Hansei and his wifewere here, and that they came to ask him to forgive them if they've donehim any wrong; and to say that they forgive him too, and wish him luck. "

"A11 right: I'll tell him, " said the voice. The door was again slammedto, and Dachsel and Wachsel began barking again. 

Hansei and Walpurga returned homeward. 

"Do you know who that was?" asked Hansei. 

"Why, yes: 'twas the innkeeper himself. "

"Well, we've done all we could. "

They found it sad to part from all the villagers. They listened to thelovely tones of the bell which they had heard every hour sincechildhood. Although their hearts were full, they did not say a wordabout the sadness of parting. Hansei at last broke silence:--"Our newhome isn't out of the world: we can often come here. "

When they reached the cottage they found that nearly all of thevillagers had assembled in order to bid them farewell, but every oneadded, "I'll see you again in the morning. "

Grubersepp also came again. He had been proud enough before; but now hewas doubly so, for he had made a man of his neighbor, or at all eventshad helped to do so. He did not give way to tender sentiment. Hecondensed all his knowledge of life into a few sentences, which hedelivered himself of most bluntly. 

"I only want to tell you, " said he, "you'll have lots of servants now. Take my word for it, the best of them are good for nothing; butsomething may be made of them for all that. He who would have hisservants mow well, must take the scythe in hand himself. And since yougot your riches so quickly, don't forget the proverb: 'Light come, lightgo. ' Keep steady, or it'll go ill with you. "

He gave him much more good advice, and Hansei accompanied him all theway back to his house. With a silent pressure of the hand they tookleave of each other. 

The house seemed empty, for quite a number of chests and boxes had beensent in advance by a boat that was already crossing the lake. On thefollowing morning two teams would be in waiting on the other side. 

"So this is the last time that we go to bed in this house, " said themother. They were all fatigued with work and excitement, and yet none ofthem cared to go to bed. At last, however, they could not help doing so, although they slept but little. 

The next morning they were up and about at an early hour. Having attiredthemselves in their best clothes, they bundled up the beds and carriedthem into the boat. The mother kindled the last fire on the hearth. Thecows were led out and put into the boat, the chickens were also takenalong in a coop, and the dog was constantly running to and fro. 

The hour of parting had come. 

The mother uttered a prayer, and then called all of them into thekitchen. She scooped up some water from the pail and poured it into thefire, with these words:--"May all that's evil be thus poured out andextinguished, and let those who light a fire after us find nothing buthealth in their home. "

Hansei, Walpurga, and Gundel were each of them obliged to pour aladleful of water into the fire, and the grandmother guided the child'shand while it did the same thing. 

After they had all silently performed this ceremony, the grandmotherprayed aloud:--

"Take from us, O Lord our God, all heartache and home-sickness and alltrouble, and grant us health and a happy home where we next kindleour fire. "

She was the first to cross the threshold. She had the child in her armsand covered its eyes with her hands while she called out tothe others:--

"Don't look back when you go out. "

"Just wait a moment, " said Hansei to Walpurga when he found himselfalone with her. "Before we cross this threshold for the last time, I'vesomething to tell you. I must tell it. I mean to be a righteous man andto keep nothing concealed from you. I must tell you this, Walpurga. While you were away and Black Esther lived up yonder, I once came verynear being wicked--and unfaithful--thank God, I wasn't. But it tormentsme to think that I ever wanted to be bad; and now, Walpurga, forgive meand God will forgive me, too. Now I've told you, and have nothing moreto tell. If I were to appear before God this moment, I'd know ofnothing more. "

Walpurga embraced him, and sobbing, said, "You're my dear good husband!"and they crossed the threshold for the last time. 

When they reached the garden, Hansei paused, looked up at thecherry-tree, and said:--

"And so you remain here. Won't you come with us? We've always been goodfriends, and spent many an hour together. But wait! I'll take you withme, after all, " cried he, joyfully, "and I'll plant you in my new home. "

He carefully dug out a shoot that was sprouting up from one of the rootsof the tree. He stuck it in his hat-band, and went to join his wifeat the boat. 

From the landing-place on the bank were heard the merry sounds offiddles, clarinets, and trumpets. 

Hansei hastened to the landing-place. The whole village had congregatedthere, and with it the full band of music. Tailor Schneck's son, he whohad been one of, the cuirassiers at the christening of the crown prince, had arranged and was now conducting the parting ceremonies. Schneck, whowas scraping his bass-viol, was the first to see Hansei, and called outin the midst of the music:--

"Long live farmer Hansei and the one he loves best! Hip, hip, hurrah!"

The early dawn resounded with their cheers. There was a flourish oftrumpets, and the salutes fired from several small mortars were echoedback from the mountains. The large boat in which their householdfurniture, the two cows, and the fowls were placed, was adorned withwreaths of fir and oak. Walpurga was standing in the middle of the boat, and with both hands held the child aloft, so that it might see the greatcrowd of friends and the lake sparkling in the rosy dawn. 

"My master's best respects, " said one of Grubersepp's servants, leadinga snow-white colt by the halter: "he sends you this to remember him by. "

Grubersepp was not present. He disliked noise and crowds. He was of asolitary and self-contained temperament. Nevertheless he sent a presentwhich was not only of intrinsic value, but was also a most flatteringsouvenir; for a colt is usually given by a rich farmer to a youngerbrother when about to depart. In the eyes of all the world--that is tosay, the whole village--Hansei appeared as the younger brother ofGrubersepp. 

Little Burgei shouted for joy when she saw them leading the snow-whitefoal into the boat. Gruberwaldl, who was but six years old, stood by thewhinnying colt, stroking it and speaking kindly to it. 

"Would you like to go to the farm with me and be my servant?" askedHansei of Gruberwaldl. 

"Yes, indeed, if you'll take me. "

"See what a boy he is, " said Hansei to his wife. "What a boy!"

Walpurga made no answer, but busied herself with the child. 

Hansei shook hands with every one at parting. His hand trembled, but hedid not forget to give a couple of crown thalers to the musicians. 

At last he got into the boat and exclaimed:--

"Kind friends! I thank you all. Don't forget us, and we shan't forgetyou. Farewell! may God protect you all. "

Walpurga and her mother were in tears. 

"And now, in God's name, let us start!" The chains were loosened; theboat put off. Music, shouting, singing, and the firing of cannonresounded while the boat quietly moved away from the shore. The sunburst forth in all his glory. 

The mother sat there, with her hands clasped. All were silent. The onlysound heard was the neighing of the foal. 

Walpurga was the first to break the silence. "O dear Lord! if peoplewould only show each other half as much love during life as they do whenone dies or moves away. "

The grandmother, who was in the middle of a prayer, shook her head. Shequickly finished her prayer and said:--

"That's more than one has the right to ask. It won't do to go about allday long with your heart in your hand. But remember, I've always toldyou that the people are good enough at heart, even if there are a fewbad ones among them. "

Hansei bestowed an admiring glance upon his wife, who had so manydifferent thoughts about almost everything. He supposed it was caused byher having been away from home. But his heart was full, too, although ina different way. 

"I can hardly realize, " said Hansei, taking a long breath and puttingthe pipe, which he had intended to light, back into his pocket, "whathas become of all the years that I spent there and all that I wentthrough during the time. Look, Walpurga! the road you see there leads tomy home. I know every hill and every hollow. My mother's buried there. Do you see the pines growing on the hill over yonder? That hill wasquite bare; every tree was cut down when the French were here; and seehow fine and hardy the trees are now. I planted most of them myself. Iwas a little boy about eleven or twelve years old when the foresterhired me. He had fresh soil brought for the whole place and covered therocky spots with moss. In the spring I worked from six in the morningtill seven in the evening, putting in the little plants. My left handwas almost frozen, for I had to keep putting it into a tub of wet loam, with which I covered the roots. I was scantily clothed into the bargain, and had nothing to eat all day long but a piece of bread. In the morningit was cold enough to freeze the marrow in one's bones, and at noon Iwas almost roasted by the hot sun beating on the rocks. It was a hardlife. Yes, I had a hard time of it when I was young. Thank God, ithasn't harmed me any. But I shan't forget it; and let's be rightindustrious and give all we can to the poor. I never would have believedthat I'd live to call a single tree or a handful of earth my own; andnow that God has given me so much, let's try and deserve it all. "

Hansei's eyes blinked, as if there was something in them, and he pulledhis hat down over his forehead. Now, while he was pulling himself up bythe roots as it were, he could not help thinking of how thoroughly hehad become engrafted into the neighborhood by the work of his hands andby habit. He had felled many a tree, but he knew full well how hard itwas to remove the stumps. 

The foal grew restive. Gruberwaldl, who had come with them in order tohold it, was not strong enough, and one of the boatmen was obliged to goto his assistance. 

"Stay with the foal, " said Hansei. "I'll take the oar. "

"And I too, " cried Walpurga. "Who knows when I'll have another chance?Ah! how often I've rowed on the lake with you and my blessed father. "

Hansei and Walpurga sat side by side plying their oars in perfect time. It did them both good to have some employment which would enable them towork off the excitement. 

"I shall miss the water, " said Walpurga; "without the lake, life'll seemso dull and dry. I felt that, while I was in the city. "

Hansei did not answer. 

"At the summer palace there's a pond with swans swimming about in it, "said she, but still received no answer. She looked around, and afeeling of anger arose within her. When she said anything at the palace, it was always listened to. 

In a sorrowful tone she added, "It would have been better if we'd movedin the spring; it would have been much easier to get used to things. "

"Maybe it would, " replied Hansei, at last, "but I've got to hew wood inthe winter. Walpurga, let's make life pleasant to each other, and notsad. I shall have enough on my shoulders, and can't have you and yourpalace thoughts besides. "

Walpurga quickly answered, "I'll throw this ring, which the Queen gaveme, into the lake, to prove that I've stopped thinking of the palace. "

"There's no need of that. The ring's worth a nice sum, and besides thatit's an honorable keepsake. You must do just as I do. "

"Yes; only remain strong and true. "

The grandmother suddenly stood up before them. Her features wereillumined with a strange expression, and she said:--

"Children! Hold fast to the good fortune that you have. You've gonethrough fire and water together; for it was fire when you weresurrounded by joy and love and every one greeted you with kindness--andyou passed through the water, when the wickedness of others stung you tothe soul. At that time the water was up to your neck, and yet youweren't drowned. Now you've got over it all. And when my last hourcomes, don't weep for me; for through you I've enjoyed all the happinessa mother's heart can have in this world. "

She knelt down, scooped up some water with her hand, and sprinkled itover Hansei's and also over Walpurga's face. 

They rowed on in silence. The grandmother laid her head on a roll ofbedding and closed her eyes. Her face wore a strange expression. After awhile she opened her eyes again, and casting a glance full of happinesson her children, she said:

"Sing and be merry. Sing the song that father and I so often sangtogether; that one verse, the good one. "

Hansei and Walpurga plied the oars while they sang:--

 "Ah, blissful is the tender tie That binds me, love, to thee; And swiftly speed the hours by, When thou art near to me. "

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

 * * * * *

As they drew near the house, they could hear the neighing of the whitefoal. 

"That's a good beginning, " cried Hansei. 

The grandmother placed the child on the ground, and got her hymn-bookout of the chest. Pressing the book against her breast with both hands, she went into the house, being the first to enter. Hansei, who wasstanding near the stable, took a piece of chalk from his pocket andwrote the letters C. M. B. , and the date, on the stable door. Then he toowent into the house, --his wife, Irma, and the child following him. 

Before going into the sitting-room the grandmother knocked thrice at thedoor. When she had entered she placed the open hymn-book upon the openwindow-sill, so that the sun might read in it. There were no tables orchairs in the room. 

Hansei shook hands with his wife and said, "God be with you, freeholder's wife. "

From that moment Walpurga was known as the "freeholder's wife, " and wasnever called by any other name. 

And now they showed Irma her room. The view extended over meadow andbrook and the neighboring forest. She examined the room. There wasnaught but a green Dutch oven and bare walls, and she had broughtnothing with her. In her paternal mansion, and at the castle, there werechairs and tables, horses and carriages; but here--None of thesefollow the dead. 

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

How was it yesterday--was it only yesterday when you saw the sun godown?

Her thoughts were confused and indistinct. She pressed her hand to herforehead; the white handkerchief was still there. A bird looked up toher from the meadow, and when her glance rested upon it it flew awayinto the woods. 

"The bird has its nest, " said she to herself, "and I--"

Suddenly she drew herself up. Hansei had walked out to the grass plot infront of Irma's window, removed the slip of the cherry-tree from hishat, and planted it in the ground. 

The grandmother stood by and said, "I trust that you'll be alive andhearty long enough to climb this tree and gather cherries from it, andthat your children and grandchildren may do the same. "

There was much to do and to set to rights in the house, and on suchoccasions it usually happens that those who are dearest to one anotherare as much in each other's way as closets and tables which have not yetbeen placed where they belong. The best proof of the amiability of thesefolks was that they assisted each other cheerfully, and indeed withjest and song. 

Walpurga moved her best furniture into Irma's room. Hansei did notinterpose a word. "Aren't you too lonely here?" asked Walpurga, aftershe had arranged everything as well as possible in so short a time. 

"Not at all. There is no place in all the world lonely enough for me. You've so much to do now; don't worry about me. I must now arrangethings within myself. I see how good you and yours are; fate hasdirected me kindly. "

"Oh, don't talk in that way. If you hadn't given me the money, how couldwe have bought the farm? This is really your own. "

"Don't speak of that, " said Irma, with a sudden start. "Never mentionthat money to me again. "

Walpurga promised, and merely added that Irma needn't be alarmed at theold man who lived in the room above hers, and who at times would talk tohimself and make a loud noise. He was old and blind. The children teasedand worried him, but he wasn't bad and would harm no one. Walpurgaoffered at all events to leave Gundel with Irma for the first night; butIrma preferred to be alone. 

"You'll stay with us, won't you?" said Walpurga hesitatingly. "You won'thave such bad thoughts again?"

"No, never. But don't talk now: my voice pains me, and so does yourstoo. Good-night! leave me alone. "

Irma sat by the window and gazed out into the dark night. Was it only aday since she had passed through such terrors? Suddenly she sprang fromher seat with a shudder. She had seen Black Esther's head rising out ofthe darkness, had again heard her dying shriek, had beheld the distortedface and the wild black tresses. --Her hair stood on end. Her thoughtscarried her to the bottom of the lake, where she now lay dead. Sheopened the window and inhaled the soft, balmy air. She sat by the opencasement for a long while, and suddenly heard some one laughing in theroom above her. 

"Ha! ha! I won't do you the favor! I won't die! I won't die! Pooh, pooh!I'll live till I'm a hundred years old, and then I'll get a new leaseof life. "

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

"I'm not so stupid; I know that it's night now, and the freeholder andhis wife are come. I'll give them lots of trouble. I'm Jochem. Jochem'smy name, and what the people don't like, I do for spite. Ha! ha! I don'tuse any light, and they must make me an allowance for that. I'll insiston it, if I have to go to the King himself about it. "

Irma started when she heard the King mentioned. 

"Yes, I'll go to the King, to the King! to the King!" cried the old manoverhead, as if he knew that the word tortured Irma. 

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

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

"Are you still awake?" asked a soft voice without. It was thegrandmother. 

"I was once a servant at this farm, " said she. "That was forty yearsago; and now I'm the mother of the freeholder's wife, and almost thehead one on the farm. But I keep thinking of you all the time. I keeptrying to think how it is in your heart. I've something to tell you. Come out again. I'll take you where it'll do you good to be. Come!"

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

The old woman led her to the fountain. She had brought a cup with herand gave it to Irma. "Come, drink; good cold water's the best. Watercomforts the body; it cools and quiets us; it's like bathing one's soul. I know what sorrow is too. One's insides burn as if they were afire. "

Irma drank some of the water of the mountain spring. It seemed like ahealing dew, whose influence was diffused through her whole frame. 

The grandmother led her back to her room and said, "You've still gotthe shirt on that you wore at the palace. You'll never stop thinking ofthat place till you've burned that shirt. "

The old woman would listen to no denial, and Irma was as docile as alittle child. The grandmother hurried to get a coarse shirt for her, andafter Irma had put it on, brought wood and a light and burnt the otherat the open fire. Irma was also obliged to cut off her long nails andthrow them into the fire. Then Beate disappeared for a few moments, andreturned with Irma's riding-habit. "You must have been shot; for thereare balls in this, " said she, spreading out the long blue habit. 

A smile passed over Irma's face, as she felt the balls that had beensewed into the lower part of the habit, so that it might hang moregracefully. Beate had also brought something very useful, --a deerskin. "Hansei sends you this, " said she. "He thinks that maybe you're used tohaving something soft for your feet to rest on. He shot thedeer himself. "

Irma appreciated the kindness of the man who could show such affectionto one who was both a stranger and a mystery to him. 

The grandmother remained at Irma's bedside until she fell asleep. Thenshe breathed thrice on the sleeper and left the room. 

It was late at night when Irma awoke. 

"To the King! to the King! to the King!" The words had been utteredthrice in a loud voice. Was it hers, or that of the man overhead? Irmapressed her hand to her forehead and felt the bandage. Was it sea-grassthat had gathered there? Was she lying alive at the bottom of the lake?Gradually all that had happened became clear to her. 

Alone, in the dark and silent night, she wept. And these were the firsttears she had shed since the terrible events through which shehad passed. 

It was evening when Irma awoke. She put her hand to her forehead. A wetcloth had been bound round it. She had been sleeping nearly twenty-fourhours. The grandmother was sitting by her bed. 

"You've a strong constitution, " said the old woman, "and that helpedyou. It's all right now. "

Irma arose. She felt strong, and guided by the grandmother, walked overto the dwelling-house. 

"God be praised that you're well again, " said Walpurga, who wasstanding there with her husband; and Hansei added, "yes, that's right. "

Irma thanked them, and looked up at the gable of the house. What wordsthere met her eye?

"Don't you think the house has a good motto written on its forehead?"asked Hansei. 

Irma started. On the gable of the house she read the followinginscription:--

EAT AND DRINK: FORGET NOT GOD: THINE HONOR GUARD: OF ALL THY STORE, THOU'LT CARRY HENCE A WINDING-SHEET AND NOTHING MORE. 

Translation of S. A. Stern. 

THE COURT PHYSICIAN'S PHILOSOPHY

From 'On the Heights'

Gunther continued, "I am only a physician, who has held many a hand hotwith fever or stiff in death in his own. The healing art might serve asan illustration. We help all who need our help, and do not stop to askwho they are, whence they come, or whether when restored to health theypersist in their evil courses. Our actions are incomplete, fragmentary;thought alone is complete and all-embracing. Our deeds and ourselves arebut fragments--the whole is God. "

"I think I grasp your meaning [replied the Queen]. But our life, as yousay, is indeed a mere fraction of life as a whole; and how is each oneto bear up under the portion of suffering that falls to his individuallot? Can one--I mean it in its best sense--always be outside ofone's self?"

"I am well aware, your Majesty, that passions and emotions cannot beregulated by ideas; for they grow in a different soil, or, to expressmyself correctly, move in entirely different spheres. It is but a fewdays since I closed the eyes of my old friend Eberhard. Even he neverfully succeeded in subordinating his temperament to his philosophy; butin his dying hour he rose beyond the terrible grief that broke hisheart--grief for his child. He summoned the thoughts of better hours tohis aid, --hours when his perception of the truth had been undimmed bysorrow or passion, --and he died a noble, peaceful death. Your Majestymust still live and labor, elevating yourself and others, at one and thesame time. Permit me to remind you of the moment when, seated under theweeping ash, your heart was filled with pity for the poor child thatfrom the time it enters into the world is doubly helpless. Do you stillremember how you refused to rob it of its mother? I appeal to the pureand genuine impulse of that moment. You were noble and forgiving then, because you had not yet suffered. You cast no stone at the fallen; youloved, and therefore you forgave. "

"O God!" cried the Queen, "and what has happened to me? The woman onwhose bosom my child rested is the most abandoned of creatures. I lovedher just as if she belonged to another world--a world of innocence. Andnow I am satisfied that she was the go-between, and that her naïveté wasa mere mask concealing an unparalleled hypocrite. I imagined that truthand purity still dwelt in the simple rustic world--but everything isperverted and corrupt. The world of simplicity is base; aye, far worsethan that of corruption!"

"I am not arguing about individuals. I think you mistaken in regard toWalpurga; but admitting that you are right, of this at least we can besure: morality does not depend upon so-called education or ignorance, belief or unbelief. The heart and mind which have regained purity andsteadfastness alone possess true knowledge. Extend your view beyonddetails and take in the whole--that alone can comfort andreconcile you. "

"I see where you are, but I cannot get up there. I can't always belooking through your telescope that shows naught but blue sky. I am tooweak. I know what you mean; you say in effect, 'Rise above these fewpeople, above this span of space known as a kingdom: compared with theuniverse, they are but as so many blades of grass or a mere clodof earth. '"

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

"Yes, but this space and these people constitute my world. Is puritymerely imaginary? If it be not about us, where can it be found?"

"Within ourselves, " replied Gunther. "If it dwell within us, it iseverywhere; if not, it is nowhere. He who asks for more has not yetpassed the threshold. His heart is not yet what it should be. True lovefor the things of this earth, and for God, the final cause of all, doesnot ask for love in return. We love the divine spark that dwells increatures themselves unconscious of it: creatures who are wretched, debased, and as the church has it, unredeemed. My Master taught me thatthe purest joys arise from this love of God or of eternally pure nature. I made this truth my own, and you can and ought to do likewise. Thispark is yours; but the birds that dwell in it, the air, the light, itsbeauty, are not yours alone, but are shared with you by all. So long asthe world is ours, in the vulgar sense of the word, we may love it; butwhen we have made it our own, in a purer and better sense, no one cantake it from us. The great thing is to be strong and to know that hatredis death, that love alone is life, and that the amount of love that wepossess is the measure of the life and the divinity that dwellswithin us. "

Gunther rose and was about to withdraw. He feared lest excessive thoughtmight over-agitate the Queen, who, however, motioned him to remain. Hesat down again. 

"You cannot imagine--" said the Queen after a long pause, "--but that isone of the cant phrases that we have learned by heart. I mean just thereverse of what I have said. You can imagine the change that your wordshave effected in me. "

"I can conceive it. "

"Let me ask a few more questions. I believe--nay, I am sure--that on theheight you occupy, and toward which you would fain lead me, there dwellseternal peace. But it seems so cold and lonely up there. I am oppressedwith a sense of fear, just as if I were in a balloon ascending into ararer atmosphere, while more and more ballast was ever being thrown out. I don't know how to make my meaning clear to you. I don't understand howto keep up affectionate relations with those about me, and yet regardthem from a distance, as it were, --looking upon their deeds as the mereaction and reaction of natural forces. It seems to me as if, at thatheight, every sound and every image must vanish into thin air. "

"Certainly, your Majesty. There is a realm of thought in which hearingand sight do not exist, where there is pure thought and nothing more. "

"But are not the thoughts that there abound projected from the realm ofdeath into that of life, and is that any better than monasticself-mortification?"

"It is just the contrary. They praise death, or at all events extol it, because after it life is to begin. I am not one of those who deny afuture life. I only say, in the words of my Master, 'Our knowledge is oflife and not of death, ' and where my knowledge ceases my thoughts mustcease. Our labors, our love, are all of this life. And because God is inthis world and in all that exist in it, and only in those things, havewe to liberate the divine essence wherever it exists. The law of loveshould rule. What the law of nature is in regard to matter, the morallaw is to man. "

"I cannot reconcile myself to your dividing the divine power intomillions of parts. When a stone is crushed, every fragment still remainsa stone; but when a flower is torn to pieces, the parts are nolonger flowers. "

"Let us take your simile as an illustration, although in truth noexample is adequate. The world, the firmament, the creatures that liveon the face of the earth, are not divided--they are one; thought regardsthem as a whole. Take for instance the flower. The idea of divinitywhich it suggests to us, and the fragrance which ascends from it, areyet part and parcel of the flower; attributes without which it isimpossible for us to conceive of its existence. The works of all poets, all thinkers, all heroes, may be likened to streams of fragrance waftedthrough time and space. It is in the flower that they live forever. Although the eternal spirit dwells in the cell of every tree or flowerand in every human heart, it is undivided and in its unity fills theworld. He whose thoughts dwell in the infinite regards the world as themighty corolla from which the thought of God exhales. "

Translation of S. A. Stern. 

IN COUNTESS IRMA'S DIARY

From 'On the Heights'

Yesterday was a year since I lay at the foot of the rock. I could notwrite a word. My brain whirled with the thoughts of that day; but nowit is over. 

 * * * * *

I don't think I shall write much more. I have now experienced all theseasons in my new world. The circle is complete. There is nothing newto come from without. I know all that exists about me, or that canhappen. I am at home in my new world. 

 * * * * *

Unto Jesus the Scribes and Pharisees brought a woman who was to bestoned to death, and He said unto them, "Let him that is without sinamong you cast the first stone. "

Thus it is written. 

But I ask: How did she continue to live--she who was saved from beingstoned to death; she who was pardoned--that is, condemned to live? Howdid she live on? Did she return to her home? How did she stand with theworld? And how with her own heart?

No answer. None. 

I must find the answer in my own experience

 * * * * *

"Let him that is without sin among you cast the first stone. " These arethe noblest, the greatest words ever uttered by human lips, or heard byhuman ear. They divide the history of the human race into two parts. They are the "Let there be light" of the second creation. They divideand heal my little life too, and create me anew. 

Has one who is not wholly without sin a right to offer precepts andreflections to others?

Look into your own heart. What are you?

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

 * * * * *

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

 * * * * *

She who renounces the world, and in her loneliness still cherishes thethought of eternity, has assumed a heavy burden. 

Convent life is not without its advantages. The different voices thatjoin in the _chorale_ sustain each other; and when the tone at lastceases, it seems to float away on the air and vanish by degrees. Buthere I am quite alone. I am priest and church, organ and congregation, confessor and penitent, all in one; and my heart is often _so_ heavy, asif I must needs have another to help me bear the load. "Take me up andcarry me, I cannot go further!" cries my soul. But then I rouse myselfagain, seize my scrip and my pilgrim's staff and wander on, solitary andalone; and while I wander, strength returns to me. 

 * * * * *

It often seems to me as if it were sinful thus to bury myself alive. Myvoice is no longer heard in song, and much more that dwells within mehas become mute. 

Is this right?

If my only object in life were to be at peace with myself, it would bewell enough; but I long to labor and to do something for others. Yetwhere and what shall it be?

 * * * * *

When I first heard that the beautifully carved furniture of the greatand wealthy is the work of prisoners, it made me shudder. And now, although I am not deprived of freedom, I am in much the same condition. Those who have disfigured life should, as an act of expiation, help tomake life more beautiful for others. The thought that I am doing thiscomforts and sustains me. 

 * * * * *

My work prospers. But last winter's wood is not yet fit for use. Mylittle pitchman has brought me some that is old, excellent, and wellseasoned, having been part of the rafters of an old house that has justbeen torn down. We work together cheerfully, and our earnings areconsiderable. 

 * * * * *

Vice is the same everywhere, except that here it is more open. Among themasses, vice is characterized by coarseness; among the upper classes, by meanness. 

The latter shake off the consequences of their evil deeds, while theformer are obliged to bear them. 

 * * * * *

The rude manners of these people are necessary, and are far preferableto polite deceit. They must needs be rough and rude. If it were not forits coarse, thick bark, the oak could not withstand the storm. 

I have found that this rough bark covers more tenderness and sinceritythan does the smoothest surface. 

 * * * * *

Jochem told me, to-day, that he is still quite a good walker, but that ablind man finds it very troublesome to go anywhere; for at every step heis obliged to grope about, so that he may feel sure of his ground beforehe firmly plants his foot on the earth. 

Is it not the same with me? Am I not obliged to be sure of the groundbefore I take a step?

Such is the way of the fallen. 

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

 * * * * *

I have now been here between two and three years. I have formed aresolve which it will be difficult to carry out. I shall go out into theworld once more. I must again behold the scenes of my past life. I havetested myself severely. 

May it not be a love of adventure, that genteel yet vulgar desire toundertake what is unusual or fraught with peril? Or is it a morbiddesire to wander through the world after having died, as it were?

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

Whence arises this sudden longing?

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

I must go. 

I shall obey the impulse, without worrying myself with speculations asto its cause. I am subject to the rules of no order. My will is my onlylaw. I harm no one by obeying it. I feel myself free; the world has nopower over me. 

I dreaded informing Walpurga of my intention. When I did so, her tone, her words, her whole manner, and the fact that she for the first timecalled me "child, " made it seem as if her mother were still speakingto me. 

"Child, " said she, "you're right! Go! It'll do you good. I believe thatyou'll come back and will stay with us; but if you don't, and anotherlife opens up to you--your expiation has been a bitter one, far heavierthan your sin. "

Uncle Peter was quite happy when he learned that we were to be gonefrom one Sunday to the Sunday following. When I asked him whether he wascurious as to where we were going, he replied:--

"It's all one to me. I'd travel over the whole world with you, whereveryou'd care to go; and if you were to drive me away, I'd follow you likea dog and find you again. "

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

 * * * * *

[By the lake. ]--I find it difficult to write a word. 

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

I am equal to it. 

How pleasant it was to descend toward the valley. Uncle Peter sang; andmelodies suggested themselves to me, but I did not sing. Suddenly heinterrupted himself and said:--

"In the inns you'll be my niece, won't you?"

"Yes. "

"But you must call me 'uncle' when we're there?"

"Of course, dear uncle. "

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

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

"Where are you going?" asked the hostess. 

"To the capital, " said he, although I had not said a word to him aboutit. Then he said to me in a whisper:--

"If you intend to go elsewhere, the people needn't know everything. "

I let him have his own way. 

I looked for the place where I had wandered at that time. There--therewas the rock--and on it a cross, bearing in golden characters theinscription:--

 HERE PERISHED

 IRMA, COUNTESS VON WILDENORT, IN THE TWENTY-FIRST YEAR OF HER LIFE. 

 _Traveler, pray for her and honor her memory_. 

I never rightly knew why I was always dissatisfied, and yearning forthe next hour, the next day, the next year, hoping that it would bringme that which I could not find in the present. It was not love, for lovedoes not satisfy. I desired to live in the passing moment, but couldnot. It always seemed as if something were waiting for me without thedoor, and calling me. What could it have been?

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

 * * * * *

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

I could say much on the subject, for I too was once vain. It was only inactual solitude that I conquered the loneliness of vanity. It is enoughfor me that I exist. 

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

 * * * * *

Now I understand my father's last act. He did not mean to punish me. Hisonly desire was to arouse me; to lead me to self-consciousness; to theknowledge which, teaching us to become different from what we are, saves us. 

 * * * * *

I understand the inscription in my father's library:--"When I am alone, then am I least alone. "

Yes; when alone, one can more perfectly lose himself in the lifeuniversal. I have lived and have come to know the truth. I can now die. 

 * * * * *

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

I believe that I know what I have done. I have no compassion for myself. This is my full confession. 

I have sinned--not against nature, but against the world's rules. Isthat sin? Look at the tall pines in yonder forest. The higher the treegrows, the more do the lower branches die away; and thus the tree in thethick forest is protected and sheltered by its fellows, but cannevertheless not perfect itself in all directions. 

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

Herein lies my sin. 

_He who desires to live a life of nature alone, must withdraw himselffrom the protection of morality. I did not fully desire either the oneor the other; hence I was crushed and shattered_. 

My father's last action was right. He avenged the moral law, which isjust as human as the law of nature. The animal world knows neitherfather nor mother, so soon as the young is able to take care of itself. The human world does know them and must hold them sacred. 

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

How noble and exalted the tender souls appear to themselves when a poorrogue is sent to jail for having committed a theft! But what are allpossessions which can be carried away, when compared with those that areintangible!

Those who are summoned to the bar of justice are not always the basestof mankind. 

I acknowledge my sin, and my repentance is sincere. 

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

To you, O Queen, to you--lovely, good, and deeply injured one--do Iconfess all this!

If I die before you, --and I hope that I may, --these pages are to begiven to you. 

 * * * * *

I can now accurately tell the season of the year, and often the hour ofthe day, by the way in which the first sunbeams fall into my room and onmy work-bench in the morning. My chisel hangs before me on the wall, andis my index. 

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

 * * * * *

A strange feeling comes over me, as if I were lifted up from the chairon which I am sitting, and were flying, I know not whither! What is it?I feel as if dwelling in eternity. 

Everything seems flying toward me: the sunlight and the sunshine, therustling of the forests and the forest breezes, beings of all ages andof all kinds--all seem beautiful and rendered transparent by thesun's glow. 

I am!

I am in God!

If I could only die now and be wafted through this joy to dissolutionand redemption!

But I will live on until my hour comes. 

Come, thou dark hour, whenever thou wilt! To me thou art light!

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

I was dead, and I live--I shall die and yet live. 

Everything has been forgiven and blotted out. --There was dust on mywings. --I soar aloft into the sun and into infinite space. I shall diesinging from the fullness of my soul. Shall I sing!

Enough. 

 * * * * *

I know that I shall again be gloomy and depressed and drag along a wearyexistence; but I have once soared into infinity and have felt a ray ofeternity within me. That I shall never lose again. I should like to goto a convent, to some quiet, cloistered cell, where I might know nothingof the world, and could live on within myself until death shall call me. But it is not to be. I am destined to live on in freedom and to labor;to live with my fellow-beings and to work for them. 

The results of my handiwork and of my powers of imagination belong toyou; but what I am within myself is mine alone. 

 * * * * *

I have taken leave of everything here; of my quiet room, of my summerbench; for I know not whether I shall ever return. And if I do, whoknows but what everything may have become strange to me?

 * * * * *

(Last page written in pencil. )--It is my wish that when I am dead, I maybe wrapped in a simple linen cloth, placed in a rough unplaned coffin, and buried under the apple-tree, on the road that leads to my paternalmansion. I desire that my brother and other relatives may be apprised ofmy death at once, and that they shall not disturb my grave bythe wayside. 

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

ÉMILE AUGIER

(1820-1889)

As an observer of society, a satirist, and a painter of types andcharacters of modern life, Émile Augier ranks among the greatest Frenchdramatists of this century. Critics consider him in the line of directdescent from Molière and Beaumarchais. His collected works ('TheatreComplet') number twenty-seven plays, of which nine are in verse. Eightof these were written with a literary partner. Three are now calledclassics: 'Le Gendre de M. Poirier' (M. Poirier's Son-in-Law), 'L'Aventurière' (The Adventuress), and 'Fils de Giboyer' (Giboyer'sBoy). 'Le Gendre de M. Poirier' was written with Jules Sandeau, but theadmirers of Augier have proved by internal evidence that his share inits composition was the greater. It is a comedy of manners based on theold antagonism between vulgar ignorant energy and ability on the oneside, and lazy empty birth and breeding on the other; embodied inPoirier, a wealthy shopkeeper, and M. De Presles, his son-in-law, animpoverished nobleman. Guillaume Victor Émile Augier was born inValence, France, September 17th, 1820, and was intended for the law; butinheriting literary tastes from his grandfather, Pigault Lebrun theromance writer, he devoted himself to letters. When his first play, 'LaCiguë' (The Hemlock), --in the preface to which he defended hisgrandfather's memory, --was presented at the Odéon in 1844, it made theauthor famous. Théophile Gautier describes it at length in Vol. Iii. Ofhis 'Art Dramatique, ' and compares it to Shakespeare's 'Timon ofAthens. ' It is a classic play, and the hero closes his career by adraught of hemlock. 

Augier's works are:--'Un Homme de Bien' (A Good Man); 'L'Aventurière'(The Adventuress); 'Gabrielle'; 'Le Joueur de Flute' (The Flute Player);'Diane' (Diana), a romantic play on the same theme as Victor Hugo's'Marion Delorme, ' written for and played by Rachel; 'La Pierre deTouche' (The Touchstone), with Jules Sandeau; 'Philberte, ' a comedy ofthe last century; 'Le Mariage d'Olympe' (Olympia's Marriage); 'Le Gendrede M. Poirier' (M. Poirier's Son-in-Law); 'Ceinture Dorée' (The GoldenBelt), with Edouard Foussier; 'La Jeunesse' (Youth); 'Les LionnesPauvres' (Ambition and Poverty), --a bold story of social life in Parisduring the Second Empire, also with Foussier; 'Les Effrontés' (Brass), an attack on the worship of money; 'Le Fils de Giboyer' (Giboyer's Boy), the story of a father's devotion, ambitions, and self-sacrifice; 'MaîtreGuérin' (Guérin the Notary), the hero being an inventor; 'La Contagion'(Contagion), the theme of which is skepticism; 'Paul Forestier, ' thestory of a young artist; 'Le Post-Scriptum' (The Postscript); 'Lions etRenards' (Lions and Foxes), whose motive is love of power; 'JeanThommeray, ' the hero of which is drawn from Sandeau's novel of the sametitle; 'Madame Caverlet, ' hinging on the divorce question; 'LesFourchambault' (The Fourchambaults), a plea for family union; 'La Chasseau Roman' (Pursuit of a Romance), and 'L'Habit Vert' (The Green Coat), with Sandeau and Alfred de Musset; and the libretto for Gounod's opera'Sappho. ' Augier wrote one volume of verse, which he modestly called'Pariétaire, ' the name of a common little vine, the English danewort. In1858 he was elected to the French Academy, and in 1868 became aCommander of the Legion of Honor. He died at Croissy, October 25th, 1889. An analysis of his dramas by Émile Montégut is published in theRevue de Deux Mondes for April, 1878. 

A CONVERSATION WITH A PURPOSE

From 'Giboyer's Boy'

_Marquis_--Well, dear Baroness, what has an old bachelor like me done todeserve so charming a visit?

_Baroness_--That's what I wonder myself, Marquis. Now I see you I don'tknow why I've come, and I've a great mind to go straight back. 

_Marquis_--Sit down, vexatious one!

_Baroness_--No. So you close your door for a week; your servants alllook tragic; your friends put on mourning in anticipation; I, disconsolate, come to inquire--and behold, I find you at table!

_Marquis_--I'm an old flirt, and wouldn't show myself for an empire whenI'm in a bad temper. You wouldn't recognize your agreeable friend whenhe has the gout;--that's why I hide. 

_Baroness_--I shall rush off to reassure your friend. 

_Marquis_--They are not so anxious as all that. Tell me something ofthem. 

_Baroness_--But somebody's waiting in my carriage. 

_Marquis_--I'll send to ask him up. 

_Baroness_--But I'm not sure that you know him. 

_Marquis_--His name?

_Baroness_--I met him by chance. 

_Marquis_--And you brought him by chance. [_He rings_. ] You are a motherto me. [_To Dubois_. ] You will find an ecclesiastic in Madame'scarriage. Tell him I'm much obliged for his kind alacrity, but I think Iwon't die this morning. 

_Baroness_--O Marquis! what would our friends say if they heard you?

_Marquis_--Bah! I'm the black sheep of the party, its spoiled child;that's taken for granted. Dubois, you may say also that Madame begs theAbbé to drive home, and to send her carriage back for her. 

_Baroness_--Allow me--

_Marquis_--Go along, Dubois. --Now you are my prisoner. 

_Baroness_--But, Marquis, this is very unconventional. 

_Marquis [kissing her hand_]--Flatterer! Now sit down, and let's talkabout serious things. _[Taking a newspaper from the table_. ] The gouthasn't kept me from reading the news. Do you know that poor Déodat'sdeath is a serious mishap?

_Baroness_--What a loss to our cause!

_Marquis_--I have wept for him. 

_Baroness_--Such talent! Such spirit! Such sarcasm!

_Marquis_--He was the hussar of orthodoxy. He will live in history asthe angelic pamphleteer. And now that we have settled his noble ghost--

_Baroness_--You speak very lightly about it, Marquis. 

_Marquis_--I tell you I've wept for him. --Now let's think of some one toreplace him. 

_Baroness_--Say to succeed him. Heaven doesn't create two such men atthe same time. 

_Marquis_--What if I tell you that I have found such another? Yes, Baroness, I've unearthed a wicked, cynical, virulent pen, that spits andsplashes; a fellow who would lard his own father with epigrams for aconsideration, and who would eat him with salt for five francs more. 

_Baroness_--Déodat had sincere convictions. 

_Marquis_--That's because he fought for them. There are no moremercenaries. The blows they get convince them. I'll give this fellow aweek to belong to us body and soul. 

_Baroness_--If you haven't any other proofs of his faithfulness--

_Marquis_--But I have. 

_Baroness_--Where from?

_Marquis_--Never mind. I have it. 

_Baroness_--And why do you wait before presenting him?

_Marquis_--For him in the first place, and then for his consent. Helives in Lyons, and I expect him to-day or to-morrow. As soon as he ispresentable, I'll introduce him. 

_Baroness_--Meanwhile, I'll tell the committee of your find. 

_Marquis_--I beg you, no. With regard to the committee, dear Baroness, Iwish you'd use your influence in a matter which touches me. 

_Baroness_--I have not much influence--

_Marquis_--Is that modesty, or the exordium of a refusal?

_Baroness_--If either, it's modesty. 

_Marquis_--Very well, my charming friend. Don't you know that thesegentlemen owe you too much to refuse you anything?

_Baroness_--Because they meet in my parlor?

_Marquis_--That, yes; but the true, great, inestimable service yourender every day is to possess such superb eyes. 

_Baroness_--It's well for you to pay attention to such things!

_Marquis_--Well for me, but better for these Solons whose complimentsdon't exceed a certain romantic intensity. 

_Baroness_--You are dreaming. 

_Marquis_--What I say is true. That's why serious societies always rallyin the parlor of a woman, sometimes clever, sometimes beautiful. You areboth, Madame: judge then of your power!

_Baroness_--You are too complimentary: your cause must be detestable. 

_Marquis_--If it was good I could win it for myself. 

_Baroness_--Come, tell me, tell me. 

_Marquis_--Well, then: we must choose an orator to the Chamber for ourCampaign against the University. I want them to choose--

_Baroness_--Monsieur Maréchal?

_Marquis_--You are right. 

_Baroness_--Do you really think so, Marquis? Monsieur Maréchal?

_Marquis_--Yes, I know. But we don't need a bolt of eloquence, sincewe'll furnish the address. Maréchal reads well enough, I assure you. 

_Baroness_--We made him deputy on your recommendation. That was a gooddeal. 

_Marquis_--Maréchal is an excellent recruit. 

_Baroness_--So you say. 

_Marquis_--How disgusted you are! An old subscriber to theConstitutionnel, a liberal, a Voltairean, who comes over to the enemybag and baggage. What would you have? Monsieur Maréchal is not a man, mydear: it's the stout _bourgeoisie_ itself coming over to us. I love thishonest _bourgeoisie_, which hates the revolution, since there is no moreto be gotten out of it; which wants to stem the tide which brought it, and make over a little feudal France to its own profit. Let it draw ourchestnuts from the fire if it wants to. This pleasant sight makes meenjoy politics. Long live Monsieur Maréchal and his likes, _bourgeois_of the right divine. Let us heap these precious allies with honor andglory until our triumph ships them off to their mills again. 

_Baroness_--Several of our deputies are birds of the same feather. Whychoose the least capable for orator?

_Marquis_--It's not a question of capacity. 

_Baroness_--You're a warm patron of Monsieur Maréchal!

_Marquis_--I regard him as a kind of family protégé. His grandfather wasfarmer to mine. I'm his daughter's guardian. These are bonds. 

_Baroness_--You don't tell everything. 

_Marquis_--All that I know. 

_Baroness_--Then let me complete your information. They say that in oldtimes you fell in love with the first Madame Maréchal. 

_Marquis_--I hope you don't believe this silly story?

_Baroness_--Faith, you do so much to please Monsieur Maréchal--

_Marquis_--That it seems as if I must have injured him? Good heavens!Who is safe from malice? Nobody. Not even you, dear Baroness. 

_Baroness_--I'd like to know what they can say of me. 

_Marquis_--Foolish things that I certainly won't repeat. 

_Baroness_--Then you believe them?

_Marquis_--God forbid! That your dead husband married his mother'scompanion? It made me so angry!

_Baroness_--Too much honor for such wretched gossip. 

_Marquis_--I answered strongly enough, I can tell you. 

_Baroness_--I don't doubt it. 

_Marquis_--But you are right in wanting to marry again. 

_Baroness_--Who says I want to?

_Marquis_--Ah! you don't treat me as a friend. I deserve your confidenceall the more for understanding you as if you had given it. The aid of asorcerer is not to be despised, Baroness. 

_Baroness_ [_sitting down by the table_]--Prove your sorcery. 

_Marquis_ [_sitting down opposite_]--Willingly! Give me your hand. 

_Baroness_ [_removing her glove_]--You'll give it back again. 

_Marquis_--And help you dispose of it, which is more. [_Examining herhand_. ] You are beautiful, rich, and a widow. 

_Baroness_--I could believe myself at Mademoiselle Lenormand's!

_Marquis_--While it is so easy, not to say tempting, for you to lead abrilliant, frivolous life, you have chosen a rôle almost austere withits irreproachable morals. 

_Baroness_--If it was a rôle, you'll admit that it was much like apenitence. 

_Marquis_--Not for you. 

_Baroness_--What do you know about it?

_Marquis_--I read it in your hand. I even see that the contrary wouldcost you more, for nature has gifted your heart with unalterablecalmness. 

_Baroness_ [_drawing away her hand_]--Say at once that I'm a monster. 

_Marquis_--Time enough! The credulous think you a saint; the skepticssay you desire power; I, Guy François Condorier, Marquis d'Auberive, think you a clever little German, trying to build a throne for yourselfin the Faubourg Saint-Germain. You have conquered the men, but the womenresist you: your reputation offends them; and for want of a betterweapon they use this miserable rumor I've just repeated. In short, yourflag's inadequate and you're looking for a larger one. Henry IV. Saidthat Paris was worth a mass. You think so too. 

_Baroness_--They say sleep-walkers shouldn't be contradicted. However, do let me say that if I really wanted a husband--with my money and mysocial position, I might already have found twenty. 

_Marquis_--Twenty, yes; but not one. You forget this little devil of arumor. 

_Baroness [rising]_--Only fools believe that. 

_Marquis [rising]_--There's the _hic_. It's only very clever men, tooclever, who court you, and you want a fool. 

_Baroness_--Why?

_Marquis_--Because you don't want a master. You want a husband whom youcan keep in your parlor, like a family portrait, nothing more. 

_Baroness_--Have you finished, dear diviner? What you have just saidlacks common-sense, but you are amusing, and I can refuse you nothing. 

_Marquis_--Maréchal shall have the oration?

_Baroness_--Or I'll lose my name. 

_Marquis_--And you _shall_ lose your name--I promise you. 

A SEVERE YOUNG JUDGE

From 'The Adventuress'

_Clorinde_ [_softly_]--Here's Célie. Look at her clear eyes. I love her, innocent child!

_Annibal_--Yes, yes, yes! [_He sits down in a corner. _]

_Clorinde_ [_approaching Célie, who has paused in the doorway_]--Mychild, you would not avoid me to-day if you knew how happy you make me!

_Célie_--My father has ordered me to come to you. 

_Clorinde_--Ordered you? Did you need an order? Are we really on suchterms? Tell me, do you think I do not love you, that you should lookupon me as your enemy? Dear, if you could read my heart you would findthere the tenderest attachment. 

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

_Clorinde_--Whom one does not love? They must have painted me blackindeed, that you are so reluctant to believe in my friendship. 

_Célie_--They have told me--what I have heard, thanks to you, Madame, was not fit for my young ears. This interview is cruel--Please let me--

_Clorinde_--No, no! Stay, Mademoiselle. For this interview, painful tous both, nevertheless concerns us both. 

_Célie_--I am not your judge, Madame. 

_Clorinde_--Nevertheless you do judge me, and severely! Yes, my life hasbeen blameworthy; I confess it. But you know nothing of its temptations. How should you know, sweet soul, to whom life is happy and goodnesseasy? Child, you have your family to guard you. You have happiness tokeep watch and ward for you. How should you know what poverty whispersto young ears on cold evenings! You, who have never been hungry, howshould you understand the price that is asked for a mouthful of bread?

_Célie_--I don't know the pleadings of poverty, but one need not listento them. There are many poor girls who go hungry and cold and keepfrom harm. 

_Clorinde_--Child, their courage is sublime. Honor them if you will, butpity the cowards. 

_Célie_--Yes, for choosing infamy rather than work, hunger, or death!Yes, for losing the respect of all honest souls! Yes, I can pity themfor not being worthier of pity. 

_Clorinde_--So that's your Christian charity! So nothing in theworld--bitter repentance or agonies of suffering, or vows of sanctityfor all time to come--may obliterate the past?

_Célie_--You force me to speak without knowledge. But--since I must givejudgment--who really hates a fault will hate the fruit of it. If youkeep this place, Madame, you will not expect me to believe in thegenuineness of your renunciations. 

_Clorinde_--I do not dishonor it. There is no reason why I should leaveit. I have already proved my sincerity by high-minded and generous acts. I bear myself as my place demands. My conscience is at rest. 

_Célie_--Your good action--for I believe you--is only the beginning ofexpiation. Virtue seems to me like a holy temple. You may leave it by adoor with a single step, but to enter again you must climb up a hundredon your knees, beating your breast. 

_Clorinde_--How rigid you all are, and how your parents train theirfirst-born never to open the ranks! Oh, fortunate race! impenetrablephalanx of respectability, who make it impossible for the sinner toreform! You keep the way of repentance so rough that the foot of poorhumanity cannot tread it. God will demand from you the lost souls whomyour hardness has driven back to sin. 

_Célie_--God, do you say? When good people forgive they betray hisjustice. For punishment is not retribution only, but the acknowledgmentand recompense of those fighting ones that brave hunger and cold in agarret, Madame, yet do not surrender. 

_Clorinde_--Go, child! I cannot bear more--

_Célie_--I have said more than I meant to say. Good-by. This is thefirst and last time that I shall ever speak of this. 

[_She goes_. ]

A CONTENTED IDLER

From 'M. Poirier's Son-in-Law'

[_The party are leaving the dining-room. _]

_Gaston_--Well, Hector! What do you think of it? The house is just asyou see it now, every day in the year. Do you believe there is a happierman in the world than I?

_Duke_--Faith! I envy you; you reconcile me to marriage. 

_Antoinette_ [_in a low voice to Verdelet_]--Monsieur de Montmeyran is acharming young man!

_Verdelet_ [_in a low voice_]--He pleases me. 

_Gaston_ [_to Poirier, who comes in last_]--Monsieur Poirier, I musttell you once for all how much I esteem you. Don't think I'm ungrateful. 

_Poirier_--Oh! Monsieur!

_Gaston_--Why the devil don't you call me Gaston? And you, too, dearMonsieur Verdelet, I'm very glad to see you. 

_Antoinette_--He is one of the family, Gaston. 

_Gaston_--Shake hands then, Uncle. 

_Verdelet_ [_aside, giving him his hand_]--He's not a bad fellow. 

_Gaston_--Agree, Hector, that I've been lucky. Monsieur Poirier, I feelguilty. You make my life one long fête and never give me a chance inreturn. Try to think of something I can do for you. 

_Poirier_--Very well, if that's the way you feel, give me a quarter ofan hour. I should like to have a serious talk with you. 

_Duke_--I'll withdraw. 

_Poirier_--No, stay, Monsieur. We are going to hold a kind of familycouncil. Neither you nor Verdelet will be in the way. 

_Gaston_--The deuce, my dear father-in-law. A family council! Youembarrass me!

_Poirier_--Not at all, dear Gaston. Let us sit down. 

[_They seat themselves around the fireplace_. ]

_Gaston_--Begin, Monsieur Poirier. 

_Poirier_--You say you are happy, dear Gaston, and that is my greatestrecompense. 

_Gaston_--I'm willing to double your gratification. 

_Poirier_--But now that three months have been given to the joys of thehoneymoon, I think that there has been romance enough, and that it'stime to think about history. 

_Gaston_--You talk like a book. Certainly, we'll think about history ifyou wish. I'm willing. 

_Poirier_--What do you intend to do?

_Gaston_--To-day?

_Poirier_--And to-morrow, and in the future. You must have some idea. 

_Gaston_--True, my plans are made. I expect to do to-day what I didyesterday, and to-morrow what I shall do to-day. I'm not versatile, inspite of my light air; and if the future is only like the present I'llbe satisfied. 

_Poirier_--But you are too sensible to think that the honeymoon can lastforever. 

_Gaston_--Too sensible, and too good an astronomer. But you've probablyread Heine?

_Poirier_--You must have read that, Verdelet?

_Verdelet_--Yes; I've read him. 

_Poirier_--Perhaps he spent his life at playing truant. 

_Gaston_--Well, Heine, when he was asked what became of the old fullmoons, said that they were broken up to make the stars. 

_Poirier_--I don't understand. 

_Gaston_--When our honeymoon is old, we'll break it up and there'll beenough to make a whole Milky Way. 

_Poirier_--That is a clever idea, of course. 

_Gaston_--Its only merit is simplicity. 

_Poirier_--But seriously, don't you think that the idle life you leadmay jeopardize the happiness of a young household?

_Gaston_--Not at all. 

_Verdelet_--A man of your capacity can't mean to idle all his life. 

_Gaston_--With resignation. 

_Antoinette_--Don't you think you'll find it dull after a time, Gaston?

_Gaston_--You calumniate yourself, my dear. 

_Antoinette_--I'm not vain enough to suppose that I can fill your wholeexistence, and I admit that I'd like to see you follow the example ofMonsieur de Montmeyran. 

_Gaston_ [_rising and leaning against the mantelpiece_]--Perhaps youwant me to fight?

_Antoinette_--No, of course not. 

_Gaston_--What then?

_Poirier_--We want you to take a position worthy of your name. 

_Gaston_--There are only three positions which my name permits me:soldier, bishop, or husbandman. Choose. 

_Poirier_--We owe everything to France. France is our mother. 

_Verdelet_--I understand the vexation of a son whose mother remarries; Iunderstand why he doesn't go to the wedding: but if he has the rightkind of heart he won't turn sulky. If the second husband makes herhappy, he'll soon offer him a friendly hand. 

_Poirier_--The nobility cannot always hold itself aloof, as it begins toperceive. More than one illustrious name has set the example: Monsieurde Valcherrière, Monsieur de Chazerolles, Monsieur de Mont Louis--

_Gaston_--These men have done as they thought best. I don't judge them, but I cannot imitate them. 

_Antoinette_--Why not, Gaston?

_Gaston_--Ask Montmeyran. 

_Verdelet_--The Duke's uniform answers for him. 

_Duke_--Excuse me, a soldier has but one opinion--his duty; but oneadversary--the enemy. 

_Poirier_--However, Monsieur--

_Gaston_--Enough, it isn't a matter of politics, Monsieur Poirier. Onemay discuss opinions, but not sentiments. I am bound by gratitude. Myfidelity is that of a servant and of a friend. Not another word. [_Tothe Duke_. ] I beg your pardon, my dear fellow. This is the first timewe've talked politics here, and I promise you it shall be the last. 

_The Duke_ [_in a low voice to Antoinette_]--You've been forced intomaking a mistake, Madame. 

_Antoinette_--I know it, now that it's too late. 

_Verdelet_ [_softly, to Poirier_]--Now you're in a fine fix. 

_Poirier_ [_in same tone_]--He's repulsed the first assault, but I don'traise the siege. 

_Gaston_--I'm not resentful, Monsieur Poirier. Perhaps I spoke a littletoo strongly, but this is a tender point with me, and unintentionallyyou wounded me. Shake hands. 

_Poirier_--You are very kind. 

_A Servant_--There are some people in the little parlor who say theyhave an appointment with Monsieur Poirier. 

_Poirier_--Very well, ask them to wait a moment. [_The servant goesout_. ] Your creditors, son-in-law. 

_Gaston_--Yours, my dear father-in-law. I've turned them over to you. 

_Duke_--As a wedding present. 

THE FEELINGS OF AN ARTIST

From 'M. Poirier's Son-in-Law'

_Poirier_ [_alone_]--How vexatious he is, that son-in-law of mine! andthere's no way to get rid of him. He'll die a nobleman, for he will donothing and he is good for nothing. --There's no end to the money hecosts me. --He is master of my house. --I'll put a stop to it. [_He rings. Enter a servant_. ] Send up the porter and the cook. We shall see myson-in-law! I have set up my back. I've unsheathed my velvet paws. Youwill make no concessions, eh, my fine gentleman? Take your comfort! Iwill not yield either: you may remain marquis, and I will again become a_bourgeois_. At least I'll have the pleasure of living to my fancy. 

_The Porter_--Monsieur has sent for me?

_Poirier_--Yes, François, Monsieur has sent for you. You can put thesign on the door at once. 

_The Porter_--The sign?

_Poirier_--"To let immediately, a magnificent apartment on the firstfloor, with stables and carriage houses. "

_The Porter_--The apartment of Monsieur le Marquis?

_Poirier_--You have said it, François. 

_The Porter_--But Monsieur le Marquis has not given the order. 

_Poirier_--Who is the master here, donkey? Who owns this mansion?

_The Porter_--You, Monsieur. 

_Poirier_--Then do what I tell you without arguing. 

_The Porter_--Yes, Monsieur. [_Enter Vatel_. ]

_Poirier_--Go, François. [_Exit Porter_. ] Come in, Monsieur Vatel: youare getting up a big dinner for to-morrow?

_Vatel_--Yes, Monsieur, and I venture to say that the menu would not bedisowned by my illustrious ancestor himself. It is really a work of art, and Monsieur Poirier will be astonished. 

_Poirier_--Have you the menu with you?

_Vatel_--No, Monsieur, it is being copied; but I know it by heart. 

_Poirier_--Then recite it to me. 

_Vatel_--Le potage aux ravioles à l'Italienne et le potage à l'orge à laMarie Stuart. 

_Poirier_--You will replace these unknown concoctions by a good meatsoup, with some vegetables on a plate. 

_Vatel_--What, Monsieur?

_Poirier_--I mean it. Go on. 

_Vatel_--Relevé. La carpe du Rhin à la Lithuanienne, les poulardes à laGodard--le filet de boeuf braisé aux raisins à la Napolitaine, le jambonde Westphalie, rotie madère. 

_Poirier_--Here is a simpler and far more sensible fish course: brillwith caper sauce--then Bayonne ham with spinach, and a savory stew ofbird, with well-browned rabbit. 

_Vatel_--But, Monsieur Poirier--I will never consent. 

_Poirier_--I am master--do you hear? Go on. 

_Vatel_--Entrées. Les filets de volaille à la concordat--les croustadesde truffe garniés de foies à la royale, le faison étoffe à laMontpensier, les perdreaux rouges farcis à la bohemienne. 

_Poirier_--In place of these side dishes we will have nothing at all, and we will go at once to the roast, --that is the only essential. 

_Vatel_--That is against the precepts of art. 

_Poirier_--I'll take the blame of that: let us have your roasts. 

_Vatel_--It is not worth while, Monsieur: my ancestor would have run hissword through his body for a less affront. I offer my resignation. 

_Poirier_--And I was about to ask for it, my good friend; but as one haseight days to replace a servant--

_Vatel_--A servant, Monsieur? I am an artist!

_Poirier_--I will fill your place by a woman. But in the mean time, asyou still have eight days in my service, I wish you to prepare my menu. 

_Vatel_--I will blow my brains out before I dishonor my name. 

_Poirier_ [_aside_]--Another fellow who adores his name! [_Aloud_. ] Youmay burn your brains, Monsieur Vatel, but don't burn your sauces. --Well, _bon jour_! [_Exit Vatel_. ] And now to write invitations to my oldcronies of the Rue des Bourdonnais. Monsieur le Marquis de Presles, I'llsoon take the starch out of you. 

[_He goes out whistling the first couplet of 'Monsieur and MadameDenis. '_]

A CONTEST OF WILLS

From 'The Fourchambaults'

_Madame Fourchambault_--Why do you follow me?

_Fourchambault_--I'm not following you: I'm accompanying you. 

_Madame Fourchambault_--I despise you; let me alone. Oh! my poor motherlittle thought what a life of privation would be mine when she gave meto you with a dowry of eight hundred thousand francs!

_Fourchambault_--A life of privation--because I refuse you a yacht!

_Madame Fourchambault_--I thought my dowry permitted me to indulge afew whims, but it seems I was wrong. 

_Fourchambault_--A whim costing eight thousand francs!

_Madame Fourchambault_--Would you have to pay for it?

_Fourchambault_--That's the kind of reasoning that's ruining me. 

_Madame Fourchambault_--Now he says I'm ruining him! His whole fortunecomes from me. 

_Fourchambault_--Now don't get angry, my dear. I want you to haveeverything in reason, but you must understand the situation. 

_Madame Fourchambault_--The situation?

_Fourchambault_--I ought to be a rich man; but thanks to the continualexpenses you incur in the name of your dowry, I can barely rub alongfrom day to day. If there should be a sudden fall in stocks, I have noreserve with which to meet it. 

_Madame Fourchambault_--That can't be true! Tell me at once that itisn't true, for if it were so you would be without excuse. 

_Fourchambault_--I or you?

_Madame Fourchambault_--This is too much! Is it my fault that you don'tunderstand business? If you haven't had the wit to make the best use ofyour way of living and your family connections--any one else--

_Fourchambault_--Quite likely! But I am petty enough to be a scrupulousman, and to wish to remain one. 

_Madame Fourchambault_--Pooh! That's the excuse of all the dolts whocan't succeed. They set up to be the only honest fellows in business. Inmy opinion, Monsieur, a timid and mediocre man should not insist uponremaining at the head of a bank, but should turn the position overto his son. 

_Fourchambault_--You are still harping on that? But, my dear, you mightas well bury me alive! Already I'm a mere cipher in my family. 

_Madame Fourchambault_--You do not choose your time well to pose as avictim, when like a tyrant you are refusing me a mere trifle. 

_Fourchambault_--I refuse you nothing. I merely explain my position. Nowdo as you like. It is useless to expostulate. 

_Madame Fourchambault_--At last! But you have wounded me to the heart, Adrien, and just when I had a surprise for you--

_Fourchambault_--What is your surprise? [_Aside_: It makes me tremble. ]

_Madame Fourchambault_--Thanks to me, the Fourchambaults are going totriumph over the Duhamels. 

_Fourchambault_--How?

_Madame Fourchambault_--Madame Duhamel has been determined this longtime to marry her daughter to the son of the prefect. 

_Fourchambault_--I knew it. What about it?

_Madame Fourchambault_--While she was making a goose of herself sopublicly, I was quietly negotiating, and Baron Rastiboulois is coming toask our daughter's hand. 

_Fourchambault_--That will never do! I'm planning quite a differentmatch for her. 

_Madame Fourchambault_--You? I should like to know--

_Fourchambault_--He's a fine fellow of our own set, who loves Blanche, and whom she loves if I'm not mistaken. 

_Madame Fourchambault_--You are entirely mistaken. You mean VictorChauvet, Monsieur Bernard's clerk?

_Fourchambault_--His right arm, rather. His _alter ego_. 

_Madame Fourchambault_--Blanche did think of him at one time. But herfancy was just a morning mist, which I easily dispelled. She hasforgotten all about him, and I advise you to follow her example. 

_Fourchambault_--What fault can you find with this young man?

_Madame Fourchambault_--Nothing and everything. Even his name is absurd. I never would have consented to be called Madame Chauvet, and Blanche isas proud as I was. But that is only a detail; the truth is, I won't haveher marry a clerk. 

_Fourchambault_--You won't have! You won't have! But there are two ofus. 

_Madame Fourchambault_--Are you going to portion Blanche?

_Fourchambault_--I? No. 

_Madame Fourchambault_--Then you see there are not two of us. As I amgoing to portion her, it is my privilege to choose my son-in-law. 

_Fourchambault_--And mine to refuse him. I tell you I won't have yourlittle baron at any price. 

_Madame Fourchambault_--Now it is your turn. What fault can you findwith him, except his title?

_Fourchambault_--He's fast, a gambler, worn out by dissipation. 

_Madame Fourchambault_--Blanche likes him just as he is. 

_Fourchambault_--Heavens! He's not even handsome. 

_Madame Fourchambault_--What does that matter? Haven't I been thehappiest of wives?

_Fourchambault_--What? One word is as good as a hundred. I won't havehim. Blanche need not take Chauvet, but she shan't marry Rastibouloiseither. That's all I have to say. 

_Madame Fourchambault_--But, Monsieur--

_Fourchambault_--That's all I have to say. 

[_He goes out. _]

ST. AUGUSTINE OF HIPPO

(354-430)

BY SAMUEL HART

St. Augustine of Hippo (Aurelius Augustinus) was born at Tagaste inNumidia, November 13th, 354. The story of his life has been told byhimself in that wonderful book addressed to God which he called the'Confessions'. He gained but little from his father Patricius; he owedalmost everything to his loving and saintly mother Monica. Though shewas a Christian, she did not venture to bring her son to baptism; and hewent away from home with only the echo of the name of Jesus Christ inhis soul, as it had been spoken by his mother's lips. He fell deeplyinto the sins of youth, but found no satisfaction in them, nor was hesatisfied by the studies of literature to which for a while he devotedhimself. The reading of Cicero's 'Hortensius' partly called him back tohimself; but before he was twenty years old he was carried away intoManichæism, a strange system of belief which united traces of Christianteaching with Persian doctrines of two antagonistic principles, practically two gods, a good god of the spiritual world and an evil godof the material world. From this he passed after a while into less grossforms of philosophical speculation, and presently began to lecture onrhetoric at Tagaste and at Carthage. When nearly thirty years of age hewent to Rome, only to be disappointed in his hopes for glory as arhetorician; and after two years his mother joined him at Milan. 

[Illustration: _ST. AUGUSTINE AND HIS MOTHER_. Photogravure from aPainting by Ary Scheffer. ]

[Illustration]

The great Ambrose had been called from the magistrate's chair to bebishop of this important city; and his character and ability made agreat impression on Augustine. But Augustine was kept from acknowledgingand submitting to the truth, not by the intellectual difficulties whichhe propounded as an excuse, but by his unwillingness to submit to themoral demands which Christianity made upon him. At last there came onegreat struggle, described in a passage from the 'Confessions' which isgiven below; and Monica's hopes and prayers were answered in theconversion of her son to the faith and obedience of Jesus Christ. OnEaster Day, 387, in the thirty-third year of his life, he was baptized, an unsubstantiated tradition assigning to this occasion the compositionand first use of the _Te Deum_. His mother died at Ostia as they weresetting out for Africa; and he returned to his native land, with thehope that he might there live a life of retirement and of simpleChristian obedience. But this might not be: on the occasion ofAugustine's visit to Hippo in 391, the bishop of that city persuaded himto receive ordination to the priesthood and to remain with him as anadviser; and four years later he was consecrated as colleague orcoadjutor in the episcopate. Thus he entered on a busy public life ofthirty-five years, which called for the exercise of all his powers as aChristian, a metaphysician, a man of letters, a theologian, anecclesiastic, and an administrator. 

Into the details of that life it is impossible to enter here; it mustsuffice to indicate some of the ways in which as a writer he gained andstill holds a high place in Western Christendom, having had an influencewhich can be paralleled, from among uninspired men, only by that ofAristotle. He maintained the unity of the Church, and its true breadth, against the Donatists; he argued, as he so well could argue, against theirreligion of the Manichaeans; when the great Pelagian heresy arose, hedefended the truth of the doctrine of divine grace as no one could havedone who had not learned by experience its power in the regeneration andconversion of his own soul; he brought out from the treasures of HolyScripture ample lessons of truth and duty, in simple exposition andexhortation; and in full treatises he stated and enforced the greatdoctrines of Christianity. 

Augustine was not alone or chiefly the stern theologian whom men pictureto themselves when they are told that he was the Calvin of those earlydays, or when they read from his voluminous and often illogical writingsquotations which have a hard sound. If he taught a stern doctrine ofpredestinarianism, he taught also the great power of sacramental grace;if he dwelt at times on the awfulness of the divine justice, he spokealso from the depths of his experience of the power of the divine love;and his influence on the ages has been rather that of the'Confessions'--taking their key-note from the words of the firstchapter, "Thou, O Lord, hast made us for Thyself, and our heart isunquiet until it find rest in Thee"--than that of the writings whichhave earned for their author the foremost place among the Doctors of theWestern Church. But his greatest work, without any doubt, is thetreatise on the 'City of God. ' The Roman empire, as Augustine's lifepassed on, was hastening to its end. Moral and political declension haddoubtless been arrested by the good influence which had been brought tobear upon it; but it was impossible to avert its fall. "Men's hearts, "as well among the heathen as among the Christians, were "failing themfor fear and for looking after those things that were coming on theearth. " And Christianity was called to meet the argument drawn from thefact that the visible declension seemed to date from the time when thenew religion was introduced into the Roman world, and that the mostrapid decline had been from the time when it had been accepted as thereligion of the State. It fell to the Bishop of Hippo to write in replyone of the greatest works ever written by a Christian. Eloquence andlearning, argument and irony, appeals to history and earnest entreaties, are united to move enemies to acknowledge the truth and to strengthenthe faithful in maintaining it. The writer sets over against each otherthe city of the world and the city of God, and in varied ways draws thecontrast between them; and while mourning over the ruin that is comingupon the great city that had become a world-empire, he tells of the holybeauty and enduring strength of "the city that hath the foundations. "

Apart from the interest attaching to the great subjects handled by St. Augustine in his many works, and from the literary attractions ofwritings which unite high moral earnestness and the use of a cultivatedrhetorical style, his works formed a model for Latin theologians as longas that language continued to be habitually used by Western scholars;and to-day both the spirit and the style of the great man have a wideinfluence on the devotional and the controversial style of writers onsacred subjects. 

He died at Hippo, August 28th, 430. 

[Illustration: signature]

The selections are from the 'Library of Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, 'by permission of the Christian Literature Company. 

THE GODLY SORROW THAT WORKETH REPENTANCE

From the 'Confessions'

Such was the story of Pontitianus: but thou, O Lord, while he wasspeaking, didst turn me round towards myself, taking me from behind myback, when I had placed myself, unwilling to observe myself; and settingme before my face, that I might see how foul I was, how crooked anddefiled, bespotted and ulcerous. And I beheld and stood aghast; andwhither to flee from myself I found not. And if I sought to turn mineeye from off myself, he went on with his relation, and thou didst againset me over against myself, and thrusted me before my eyes, that I mightfind out mine iniquity and hate it. I had known it, but made as though Isaw it not, winked at it, and forgot it. 

But now, the more ardently I loved those whose healthful affections Iheard of, that they had resigned themselves wholly to thee to be cured, the more did I abhor myself when compared with them. For many of myyears (some twelve) had now run out with me since my nineteenth, when, upon the reading of Cicero's 'Hortensius, ' I was stirred to an earnestlove of wisdom; and still I was deferring to reject mere earthlyfelicity and to give myself to search out that, whereof not the findingonly, but the very search, was to be preferred to the treasures andkingdoms of the world, though already found, and to the pleasures of thebody, though spread around me at my will. But I, wretched, mostwretched, in the very beginning of my early youth, had begged chastityof thee, and said, "Give me chastity and continency, only not yet. " ForI feared lest thou shouldest hear me soon, and soon cure me of thedisease of concupiscence, which I wished to have satisfied, rather thanextinguished. And I had wandered through crooked ways in a sacrilegioussuperstition, not indeed assured thereof, but as preferring it to theothers which I did not seek religiously, but opposed maliciously. 

But when a deep consideration had, from the secret bottom of my soul, drawn together and heaped up all my misery in the sight of my heart, there arose a mighty storm, bringing a mighty shower of tears. And thatI might pour it forth wholly in its natural expressions, I rose fromAlypius: solitude was suggested to me as fitter for the business ofweeping; and I retired so far that even his presence could not be aburden to me. Thus was it then with me, and he perceived something ofit; for something I suppose he had spoken, wherein the tones of my voiceappeared choked with weeping, and so had risen up. He then remainedwhere we were sitting, most extremely astonished. I cast myself down Iknow not how, under a fig-tree, giving full vent to my tears; and thefloods of mine eyes gushed out, an acceptable sacrifice to thee. And, not indeed in these words, yet to this purpose, spake I much untothee:--"And thou, O Lord, how long? how long, Lord, wilt thou beangry--forever? Remember not our former iniquities, " for I felt that Iwas held by them. I sent up these sorrowful words: "How long? how long?To-morrow and to-morrow? Why not now? why is there not this hour an endto my uncleanness?"

CONSOLATION

From the 'Confessions'

So was I speaking, and weeping, in the most bitter contrition of myheart, when lo! I heard from a neighboring house a voice, as of boy orgirl (I could not tell which), chanting and oft repeating, "Take up andread; take up and read. " Instantly my countenance altered, and I beganto think most intently whether any were wont in any kind of play to singsuch words, nor could I remember ever to have heard the like. So, checking the torrent of my tears, I arose; interpreting it to be noother than a command from God, to open the book and read the firstchapter I should find. Eagerly then I returned to the place whereAlypius was sitting; for there had I laid the volume of the Epistleswhen I arose thence. I seized, opened, and in silence read that sectionon which my eyes first fell:--"Not in rioting and drunkenness, not inchambering and wantonness, not in strife and envying; but put ye on theLord Jesus Christ, and make not provision for the flesh, to fulfill thelusts thereof. " No further would I read; nor heeded I, for instantly atthe end of this sentence, by a light, as it were, of serenity infusedinto my heart, all the darkness of doubt vanished away. 

_PAPYRUS_. 

Reduced facsimile of a Latin manuscript containing the

SERMONS OF ST. AUGUSTINE. 

Sixth Century. In the National Library at Paris. 

A fine specimen of sixth-century writing upon sheets formed of two thinlayers of longitudinal strips of the stem or pith of the papyrus plantpressed together at right angles to each other. 

[Illustration]

Then putting my finger between (or some other mark), I shut the volume, and with a calmed countenance, made it known to Alypius. And what waswrought in him, which I know not, he thus shewed me. He asked to seewhat I had read; I shewed him, and he looked even farther than I hadread, and I knew not what followed. This followed: "Him that is weak inthe faith, receive ye"; which he applied to himself and disclosed to me. And by this admonition was he strengthened; and by a good resolution andpurpose, and most corresponding to his character, wherein he did alwaysfar differ from me for the better, without any turbulent delay he joinedme. Thence we go to my mother: we tell her; she rejoiceth: we relate inorder how it took place; she leapeth for joy, and triumpheth andblesseth thee, "who art able to do above all that we ask or think": forshe perceived that thou hadst given her more for me than she was wont tobeg by her pitiful and most sorrowful groanings. 

THE FOES OF THE CITY

From 'The City of God'

Let these and similar answers (if any fuller and fitter answers can befound) be given to their enemies by the redeemed family of the LordChrist, and by the pilgrim city of the King Christ. But let this citybear in mind that among her enemies lie hid those who are destined to befellow-citizens, that she may not think it a fruitless labor to bearwhat they inflict as enemies, till they become confessors of the faith. So also, as long as she is a stranger in the world, the city of God hasin her communion, and bound to her by the sacraments, some who shall noteternally dwell in the lot of the saints. Of these, some are not nowrecognized; others declare themselves, and do not hesitate to makecommon cause with our enemies in murmuring against God, whosesacramental badge they wear. These men you may see to-day thronging thechurches with us, to-morrow crowding the theatres with the godless. Butwe have the less reason to despair of the reclamation of even suchpersons, if among our most declared enemies there are now some, unknownto themselves, who are destined to become our friends. In truth, thesetwo cities are entangled together in this world, and intermingled untilthe last judgment shall effect their separation. I now proceed to speak, as God shall help me, of the rise and progress and end of these twocities; and what I write, I write for the glory of the city of God, thatbeing placed in comparison with the other, it may shine with abrighter lustre. 

THE PRAISE OF GOD

From 'The City of God'

Wherefore it may very well be, and it is perfectly credible, that weshall in the future world see the material forms of the new heavens andthe new earth, in such a way that we shall most distinctly recognize Godeverywhere present, and governing all things, material as well asspiritual; and shall see Him, not as we now understand the invisiblethings of God, by the things that are made, and see Him darkly as in amirror and in part, and rather by faith than by bodily vision ofmaterial appearances, but by means of the bodies which we shall wear andwhich we shall see wherever we turn our eyes. As we do not believe, butsee, that the living men around us who are exercising the functions oflife are alive, although we cannot see their life without their bodies, but see it most distinctly by means of their bodies, so, wherever weshall look with the spiritual eyes of our future bodies, we shall also, by means of bodily substances, behold God, though a spirit, ruling allthings. Either, therefore, the eyes shall possess some quality similarto that of the mind, by which they shall be able to discern spiritualthings, and among them God, --a supposition for which it is difficult oreven impossible to find any support in Scripture, --or what is more easyto comprehend, God will be so known by us, and so much before us, thatwe shall see Him by the spirit in ourselves, in one another, in Himself, in the new heavens and the new earth, in every created thing that shallthen exist; and that also by the body we shall see Him in every bodilything which the keen vision of the eye of the spiritual body shallreach. Our thoughts also shall be visible to all, for then shall befulfilled the words of the Apostle, "Judge nothing before the time, until the Lord come, who both will bring to light the hidden things ofdarkness, and will make manifest the counsels of the hearts; and thenshall every man have praise of God. " How great shall be that felicity, which shall be tainted with no evil, which shall lack no good, and whichshall afford leisure for the praises of God, who shall be all in all!For I know not what other employment there can be where no wearinessshall slacken activity, nor any want stimulate to labor. I am admonishedalso by the sacred song, in which I read or hear the words, "Blessed arethey that dwell in Thy house; they will be alway praising Thee. "

A PRAYER

From 'The Trinity'

O Lord our God, directing my purpose by the rule of faith, so far as Ihave been able, so far as Thou hast made me able, I have sought Thee, and have desired to see with my understanding what I have believed; andI have argued and labored much. O Lord my God, my only hope, hearken tome, lest through weariness I be unwilling to seek Thee, but that I mayalways ardently seek Thy face. Do Thou give me strength to seek, whohast led me to find Thee, and hast given the hope of finding Thee moreand more. My strength and my weakness are in Thy sight; preserve mystrength and heal my weakness. My knowledge and my ignorance are in Thysight; when Thou hast opened to me, receive me as I enter; when Thouhast closed, open to me as I knock. May I remember Thee, understandThee, love Thee. Increase these things in me, until Thou renew mewholly. But oh, that I might speak only in preaching Thy word and inpraising Thee. But many are my thoughts, such as Thou knowest, "thoughtsof man, that are vain. " Let them not so prevail in me, that anything inmy acts should proceed from them; but at least that my judgment and myconscience be safe from them under Thy protection. When the wise manspake of Thee in his book, which is now called by the special name ofEcclesiasticus, "We speak, " he says, "much, and yet come short; and insum of words, He is all. " When therefore we shall have come to Thee, these very many things that we speak, and yet come short, shall cease;and Thou, as One, shalt remain "all in all. " And we shall say one thingwithout end, in praising Thee as One, ourselves also made one in Thee. OLord, the one God, God the Trinity, whatever I have said in these booksthat is of Thine, may they acknowledge who are Thine; if I have saidanything of my own, may it be pardoned both by Thee and by those who areThine. Amen. 

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

MARCUS AURELIUS ANTONINUS

(121-180 A. D. )

BY JAMES FRASER GLUCK

Marcus Aurelius, one of the most illustrious emperors of Rome, and, according to Canon Farrar, "the noblest of pagan emperors", was born atRome April 20th, A. D. 121, and died at Vindobona--the modernVienna--March 17th, A. D. 180, in the twentieth year of his reign and thefifty-ninth year of his age. 

His right to an honored place in literature depends upon a small volumewritten in Greek, and usually called 'The Meditations of MarcusAurelius. ' The work consists of mere memoranda, notes, disconnectedreflections and confessions, and also of excerpts from the Emperor'sfavorite authors. It was evidently a mere private diary or note-bookwritten in great haste, which readily accounts for its repetitions, itsoccasional obscurity, and its frequently elliptical style of expression. In its pages the Emperor gives his aspirations, and his sorrow for hisinability to realize them in his daily life; he expresses his tentativeopinions concerning the problems of creation, life, and death; hisreflections upon the deceitfulness of riches, pomp, and power, and hisconviction of the vanity of all things except the performance of duty. The work contains what has been called by a distinguished scholar "thecommon creed of wise men, from which all other views may well seem meredeflections on the side of an unwarranted credulity or of an exaggerateddespair. " From the pomp and circumstance of state surrounding him, fromthe manifold cares of his exalted rank, from the tumult of protractedwars, the Emperor retired into the pages of this book as into thesanctuary of his soul, and there found in sane and rational reflectionthe peace that the world could not give and could never take away. Thetone and temper of the work is unique among books of its class. It issweet yet dignified, courageous yet resigned, philosophical andspeculative, yet above all, intensely practical. 

Through all the ages from the time when the Emperor Diocletianprescribed a distinct ritual for Aurelius as one of the gods; from thetime when the monks of the Middle Ages treasured the 'Meditations' ascarefully as they kept their manuscripts of the Gospels, the work hasbeen recognized as the precious life-blood of a master spirit. Anadequate English translation would constitute to-day a most valuable_vade mecum_ of devotional feeling and of religious inspiration. Itwould prove a strong moral tonic to hundreds of minds now sinking intoagnosticism or materialism. 

[Illustration: MARCUS AURELIUS]

The distinguished French writer M. Martha observes that in the'Meditations of Marcus Aurelius' "we find a pure serenity, sweetness, and docility to the commands of God, which before him were unknown, andwhich Christian grace has alone surpassed. One cannot read the bookwithout thinking of the sadness of Pascal and the gentleness of Fénelon. We must pause before this soul, so lofty and so pure, to contemplateancient virtue in its softest brilliancy, to see the moral delicacy towhich profane doctrines have attained. "

Those in the past who have found solace in its pages have not beenlimited to any one country, creed, or condition in life. Thedistinguished Cardinal Francis Barberini the elder occupied his lastyears in translating the 'Meditations' into Italian; so that, as hesaid, "the thoughts of the pious pagan might quicken the faith of thefaithful. " He dedicated the work to his own soul, so that it "mightblush deeper than the scarlet of the cardinal robe as it looked upon thenobility of the pagan. " The venerable and learned English scholar ThomasGataker, of the religious faith of Cromwell and Milton, spent the lastyears of his life in translating the work into Latin as the noblestpreparation for death. The book was the constant companion of CaptainJohn Smith, the discoverer of Virginia, who found in it "sweetrefreshment in his seasons of despondency. " Jean Paul Richter speaks ofit as a vital help in "the deepest floods of adversity. " The Frenchtranslator Pierron says that it exalted his soul into a serene region, above all petty cares and rivalries. Montesquieu declares, in speakingof Marcus Aurelius, "He produces such an effect upon our minds that wethink better of ourselves, because he inspires us with a better opinionof mankind. " The great German historian Niebuhr says of the Emperor, asrevealed in this work, "I know of no other man who combined suchunaffected kindness, mildness, and humility with such conscientiousnessand severity toward himself. " Renan declares the book to be "a veritablegospel. It will never grow old, for it asserts no dogma. Though sciencewere to destroy God and the soul, the 'Meditations of Marcus Aurelius'would remain forever young and immortally true. " The eminent Englishcritic Matthew Arnold was found on the morning after the death of hiseldest son engaged in the perusal of his favorite Marcus Aurelius, wherein alone he found comfort and consolation. 

The 'Meditations of Marcus Aurelius' embrace not only moral reflections;they include, as before remarked, speculations upon the origin andevolution of the universe and of man. They rest upon a philosophy. Thisphilosophy is that of the Stoic school as broadly distinguished from theEpicurean. Stoicism, at all times, inculcated the supreme virtues ofmoderation and resignation; the subjugation of corporeal desires; thefaithful performance of duty; indifference to one's own pain andsuffering, and the disregard of material luxuries. With these principlesthere was, originally, in the Stoic philosophy conjoined a considerablebody of logic, cosmogony, and paradox. But in Marcus Aurelius thesedoctrines no longer stain the pure current of eternal truth which everflowed through the history of Stoicism. It still speculated about theimmortality of the soul and the government of the universe by asupernatural Intelligence, but on these subjects proposed no dogma andoffered no final authoritative solution. It did not forbid man to hopefor a future life, but it emphasized the duties of the present life. Onpurely rational grounds it sought to show men that they should alwayslive nobly and heroicly, and how best to do so. It recognized thesignificance of death, and attempted to teach how men could meet itunder any and all circumstances with perfect equanimity. 

 * * * * *

Marcus Aurelius was descended from an illustrious line which traditiondeclared extended to the good Numa, the second King of Rome. In thedescendant Marcus were certainly to be found, with a great increment ofmany centuries of noble life, all the virtues of his illustriousancestor. Doubtless the cruel persecutions of the infamous Emperors whopreceded Hadrian account for the fact that the ancestors of Aureliusleft the imperial city and found safety in Hispania Baetica, where in atown called Succubo--not far from the present city of Cordova--theEmperor's great-grandfather, Annius Verus, was born. From Spain alsocame the family of the Emperor Hadrian, who was an intimate friend ofAnnius Verus. The death of the father of Marcus Aurelius when the ladwas of tender years led to his adoption by his grandfather andsubsequently by Antoninus Pius. By Antoninus he was subsequently namedas joint heir to the Imperial dignity with Commodus, the son of AeliusCaesar, who had previously been adopted by Hadrian. 

From his earliest youth Marcus was distinguished for his sincerity andtruthfulness. His was a docile and a serious nature. "Hadrian's bad andsinful habits left him, " says Niebuhr, "when he gazed on the sweetnessof that innocent child. Punning on the boy's paternal name of _Verus_, he called him _Verissimus_, 'the _most_ true. '" Among the many statuesof Marcus extant is one representing him at the tender age of eightyears offering sacrifice. He was even then a priest of Mars. It was thehand of Marcus alone that threw the crown so carefully and skillfullythat it invariably alighted upon the head of the statue of the god. Theentire ritual he knew by heart. The great Emperor Antoninus Pius livedin the most simple and unostentatious manner; yet even this did notsatisfy the exacting, lofty spirit of Marcus. At twelve years of age hebegan to practice all the austerities of Stoicism. He became a veritableascetic. He ate most sparingly; slept little, and when he did so it wasupon a bed of boards. Only the repeated entreaties of his mother inducedhim to spread a few skins upon his couch. His health was seriouslyaffected for a time; and it was, perhaps, to this extreme privation thathis subsequent feebleness was largely due. His education was of thehighest order of excellence. His tutors, like Nero's, were the mostdistinguished teachers of the age; but unlike Nero, the lad was in everyway worthy of his instructors. His letters to his dearly beloved teacherFronto are still extant, and in a very striking and charming way theyillustrate the extreme simplicity of life in the imperial household inthe villa of Antoninus Pius at Lorium by the sea. They also indicate thelad's deep devotion to his studies and the sincerity of his love for hisrelatives and friends. 

When his predecessor and adoptive father Antoninus felt the approach ofdeath, he gave to the tribune who asked him for the watchword for thenight the reply "Equanimity, " directed that the golden statue of Fortunethat always stood in the Emperor's chamber be transferred to that ofMarcus Aurelius, and then turned his face and passed away as peacefullyas if he had fallen asleep. The watchword of the father became thelife-word of the son, who pronounced upon that father in the'Meditations' one of the noblest eulogies ever written. "We should, "says Renan, "have known nothing of Antoninus if Marcus Aurelius had nothanded down to us that exquisite portrait of his adopted father, inwhich he seems, by reason of humility, to have applied himself to paintan image superior to what he himself was. Antoninus resembled a Christwho would not have had an evangel; Marcus Aurelius a Christ who wouldhave written his own. "

 * * * * *

It would be impossible here to detail even briefly all the manifoldpublic services rendered by Marcus Aurelius to the Empire during hisreign of twenty years. Among his good works were these: theestablishment, upon eternal foundation, of the noble fabric of the CivilLaw--the prototype and basis of Justinian's task; the founding ofschools for the education of poor children; the endowment of hospitalsand homes for orphans of both sexes; the creation of trust companies toreceive and distribute legacies and endowments; the just government ofthe provinces; the complete reform of the system of collecting taxes;the abolition of the cruelty of the criminal laws and the mitigation ofsentences unnecessarily severe; the regulation of gladiatorialexhibitions; the diminution of the absolute power possessed by fathersover their children and of masters over their slaves; the admission ofwomen to equal rights to succession to property from their children; therigid suppression of spies and informers; and the adoption of theprinciple that merit, as distinguished from rank or politicalfriendship, alone justified promotion in the public service. 

But the greatest reform was the reform in the Imperial Dignity itself, as exemplified in the life and character of the Emperor. It is this factwhich gives to the 'Meditations' their distinctive value. The infinitecharm, the tenderness and sweetness of their moral teachings, and theirbroad humanity, are chiefly noteworthy because the Emperor himselfpracticed in his daily life the principles of which he speaks, andbecause tenderness and sweetness, patience and pity, suffused his dailyconduct and permeated his actions. The horrible cruelties of the reignsof Nero and Domitian seemed only awful dreams under the benignant ruleof Marcus Aurelius. 

It is not surprising that the deification of a deceased emperor, usuallyregarded by Senate and people as a hollow mockery, became a veritablefact upon the death of Marcus Aurelius. He was not regarded in any senseas mortal. All men said he had but returned to his heavenly place amongthe immortal gods. As his body passed, in the pomp of an imperialfuneral, to its last resting-place, the tomb of Hadrian, --the modernCastle of St. Angelo at Rome, --thousands invoked the divine blessing ofAntoninus. His memory was sacredly cherished. His portrait was preservedas an inspiration in innumerable homes. His statue was almostuniversally given an honored place among the household gods. And allthis continued during successive generations of men. 

 * * * * *

Marcus Aurelius has been censured for two acts: the first, the massacreof the Christians which took place during his reign; the second, theselection of his son Commodus as his successor. Of the massacre of theChristians it may be said, that when the conditions surrounding theEmperor are once properly understood, no just cause for condemnation ofhis course remains. A prejudice against the sect was doubtless acquiredby him through the teachings of his dearly beloved instructor and friendFronto. In the writings of the revered Epictetus he found severecondemnation of the Christians as fanatics. Stoicism enjoined upon menobedience to the law, endurance of evil conditions, and patience undermisfortunes. The Christians openly defied the laws; they struck theimages of the gods, they scoffed at the established religion and itsministers. They welcomed death; they invited it. To Marcus Aurelius, ashe says in his 'Meditations, ' death had no terrors. The wise man stood, like the trained soldier, ready to be called into action, ready todepart from life when the Supreme Ruler called him; but it was also, according to the Stoic, no less the duty of a man to remain until he wascalled, and it certainly was not his duty to invite destruction by abuseof all other religions and by contempt for the distinctive deities ofthe Roman faith. The Roman State was tolerant of all religions so longas they were tolerant of others. Christianity was intolerant of allother religions; it condemned them all. In persecuting what he regardedas a "pernicious sect" the Emperor regarded himself only as theconservator of the peace and the welfare of the realm. The truth is, that Marcus Aurelius enacted no new laws on the subject of theChristians. He even lessened the dangers to which they were exposed. Onthis subject one of the Fathers of the Church, Tertullian, bearswitness. He says in his address to the Roman officials:--"Consult yourannals, and you will find that the princes who have been cruel to us arethose whom it was held an honor to have as persecutors. On the contrary, of all princes who have known human and Divine law, name one of them whohas persecuted the Christians. We might even cite one of them whodeclared himself their protector, --the wise Marcus Aurelius. If he didnot openly revoke the edicts against our brethren, he destroyed theeffect of them by the severe penalties he instituted against theiraccusers. " This statement would seem to dispose effectually of thecharge of cruel persecution brought so often against the kindly andtender-hearted Emperor. 

Of the appointment of Commodus as his successor, it may be said that thepaternal heart hoped against hope for filial excellence. Marcus Aureliusbelieved, as clearly appears from many passages in the 'Meditations, 'that men did not do evil willingly but through ignorance; and that whenthe exceeding beauty of goodness had been fully disclosed to them, thedepravity of evil conduct would appear no less clearly. The Emperor who, when the head of his rebellious general was brought to him, grievedbecause that general had not lived to be forgiven; the ruler who burnedunread all treasonable correspondence, would not, nay, could not believein the existence of such an inhuman monster as Commodus proved himselfto be. The appointment of Commodus was a calamity of the most terrificcharacter; but it testifies in trumpet tones to the nobility of theEmperor's heart, the sincerity of his own belief in the triumph of rightand justice. 

The volume of the 'Meditations' is the best mirror of the Emperor'ssoul. Therein will be found expressed delicately but unmistakably muchof the sorrow that darkened his life. As the book proceeds the shadowsdeepen, and in the latter portion his loneliness is painfully apparent. Yet he never lost hope or faith, or failed for one moment in his duty asa man, a philosopher, and an Emperor. In the deadly marshes and in thegreat forests which stretched beside the Danube, in his mortal sickness, in the long nights when weakness and pain rendered sleep impossible, itis not difficult to imagine him in his tent, writing, by the light ofhis solitary lamp, the immortal thoughts which alone soothed his soul;thoughts which have out-lived the centuries--not perhaps wholly bychance--to reveal to men in nations then unborn, on continents whosevery existence was then unknown, the Godlike qualities of one of thenoblest of the sons of men. 

 * * * * *

The best literal translation of the work into English thus far made isthat of George Long. It is published by Little, Brown & Co. Of Boston. Amost admirable work, 'The Life of Marcus Aurelius, ' by Paul BarronWatson, published by Harper & Brothers, New York, will repay carefulreading. Other general works to be consulted are as follows:--'SeekersAfter God, ' by Rev. F. W. Farrar, Macmillan & Co. (1890); and 'ClassicalEssays, ' by F. W. H. Myers, Macmillan & Co. (1888). Both of these containexcellent articles upon the Emperor. Consult also Renan's 'History ofthe Origins of Christianity, ' Book vii. , Marcus Aurelius, translationpublished by Mathieson & Co. (London, 1896); 'Essay on Marcus Aurelius'by Matthew Arnold, in his 'Essays in Criticism, ' Macmillan & Co. Furtherinformation may also be had in Montesquieu's 'Decadence of the Romans, 'Sismondi's 'Fall of the Roman Empire, ' and Gibbon's 'Decline and Fall ofthe Roman Empire. '

[Illustration: Signature: James F. Gluck]

EXCERPTS FROM THE 'MEDITATIONS'

THE BROTHERHOOD OF MAN

Begin thy morning with these thoughts: I shall meet the meddler, theingrate, the scorner, the hypocrite, the envious man, the cynic. Thesemen are such because they know not to discern the difference betweengood and evil. But I know that Goodness is Beauty and that Evil isLoathsomeness: I know that the real nature of the evil-doer is akin tomine, not only physically but in a unity of intelligence and inparticipation in the Divine Nature. Therefore I know that I cannot beharmed by such persons, nor can they thrust upon me what is base. Iknow, too, that I should not be angry with my kinsmen nor hate them, because we are all made to work together fitly like the feet, the hands, the eyelids, the rows of the upper and the lower teeth. To be at strifeone with another is therefore contrary to our real nature; and to beangry with one another, to despise one another, _is_ to be at strife onewith another. (Book ii, § I. )

Fashion thyself to the circumstances of thy lot. The men whom Fate hathmade thy comrades here, love; and love them in sincerity and in truth. (Book vi. , § 39. )

This is distinctive of men, --to love those who do wrong. And this thoushalt do if thou forget not that they are thy kinsmen, and that they dowrong through ignorance and not through design; that ere long thou andthey will be dead; and more than all, that the evil-doer hath reallydone thee no evil, since he hath left thy conscience unharmed. (Bookviii. , §22. )

THE SUPREME NOBILITY OF DUTY

As A Roman and as a man, strive steadfastly every moment to do thy duty, with dignity, sincerity, and loving-kindness, freely and justly, andfreed from all disquieting thought concerning any other thing. And fromsuch thought thou wilt be free if every act be done as though it werethy last, putting away from thee slothfulness, all loathing to do whatReason bids thee, all dissimulation, selfishness, and discontent withthine appointed lot. Behold, then, how few are the things needful for alife which will flow onward like a quiet stream, blessed even as thelife of the gods. For he who so lives, fulfills their will. (Bookii. , §5. )

So long as thou art doing thy duty, heed not warmth nor cold, drowsinessnor wakefulness, life, nor impending death; nay, even in the very act ofdeath, which is indeed only one of the acts of life, it suffices to dowell what then remains to be done. (Book vi. , § 2. )

I strive to do my duty; to all other considerations I am indifferent, whether they be material things or unreasoning and ignorant people. (Book vi. , §22. )

THE FUTURE LIFE. IMMORTALITY

This very moment thou mayest die. Think, act, as if this were now tobefall thee. Yet fear not death. If there are gods they will do thee noevil. If there are not gods, or if they care not for the welfare of men, why should I care to live in a Universe that is devoid of Divine beingsor of any providential care? But, verily, there are Divine beings, andthey do concern themselves with the welfare of men; and they have givenunto him all power not to fall into any real evil. If, indeed, what mencall misfortunes were really evils, then from these things also, manwould have been given the power to free himself. But--thou sayest--arenot death, dishonor, pain, really evils? Reflect that if they were, itis incredible that the Ruler of the Universe has, through ignorance, overlooked these things, or has not had the power or the skill toprevent them; and that thereby what is real evil befalls good and badalike. For true it is that life and death, honor and dishonor, pain andpleasure, come impartially to the good and to the bad. But none of thesethings can affect our lives if they do not affect our true selves. Nowour real selves they do not affect either for better or for worse; andtherefore such things are not really good or evil. (Book ii. , §11. )

 * * * * *

If our spirits live, how does Space suffice for all during all the ages?Well, how does the earth contain the bodies of those who have beenburied therein during all the ages? In the latter case, thedecomposition and--after a certain period--the dispersion of the bodiesalready buried, affords room for other bodies; so, in the former case, the souls which pass into Space, after a certain period are purged oftheir grosser elements and become ethereal, and glow with the glory offlame as they meet and mingle with the Creative Energy of the world. Andthereby there is room for other souls which in their turn pass intoSpace. This, then, is the explanation that may be given, if soulscontinue to exist at all. 

Moreover, in thinking of all the bodies which the earth contains, wemust have in mind not only the bodies which are buried therein, but alsothe vast number of animals which are the daily food of ourselves andalso of the entire animal creation itself. Yet these, too, Spacecontains; for on the one hand they are changed into blood which becomespart of the bodies that are buried in the earth, and on the other handthese are changed into the ultimate elements of fire or air. (Bookiv. , §21. )

I am spirit and body: neither will pass into nothingness, since neithercame therefrom; and therefore every part of me, though changed in form, will continue to be a part of the Universe, and that part will changeinto another part, and so on through all the ages. And therefore, through such changes I myself exist; and, in like manner, those whopreceded me and those who will follow me will exist forever, --aconclusion equally true though the Universe itself be dissipated atprescribed cycles of time. (Book v. , § 13. )

 * * * * *

How can it be that the gods, who have clothed the Universe with suchbeauty and ordered all things with such loving-kindness for the welfareof man, have neglected this alone, that the best men--the men who walkedas it were with the Divine Being, and who, by their acts ofrighteousness and by their reverent service, dwelt ever in hispresence--should never live again when once they have died? If this bereally true, then be satisfied that it is best that it should be so, else it would have been otherwise ordained. For whatever is right andjust is possible; and therefore, if it were in accord with the will ofthe Divine Being that we should live after death--so it would have been. But because it is otherwise, --if indeed it be otherwise, --rest thousatisfied that this also is just and right. 

Moreover, is it not manifest to thee that in inquiring so curiouslyconcerning these things, thou art questioning God himself as to what isright, and that this thou wouldst not do didst thou not believe in hissupreme goodness and wisdom? Therefore, since in these we believe, wemay also believe that in the government of the Universe nothing that isright and just has been overlooked or forgotten. (Book xii. , § 5. )

THE UNIVERSAL BEAUTY OF THE WORLD

To him who hath a true insight into the real nature of the Universe, every change in everything therein that is a part thereof seemsappropriate and delightful. The bread that is over-baked so that itcracks and bursts asunder hath not the form desired by the baker; yetnone the less it hath a beauty of its own, and is most tempting to thepalate. Figs bursting in their ripeness, olives near even unto decay, have yet in their broken ripeness a distinctive beauty. Shocks of cornbending down in their fullness, the lion's mane, the wild boar's mouthall flecked with foam, and many other things of the same kind, thoughperhaps not pleasing in and of themselves, yet as necessary parts of theUniverse created by the Divine Being they add to the beauty of theUniverse, and inspire a feeling of pleasure. So that if a man hathappreciation of and an insight into the purpose of the Universe, thereis scarcely a portion thereof that will not to him in a sense seemadapted to give delight. In this sense the open jaws of wild beasts willappear no less pleasing than their prototypes in the realm of art. Evenin old men and women he will be able to perceive a distinctive maturityand seemliness, while the winsome bloom of youth he can contemplate witheyes free from lascivious desire. And in like manner it will be withvery many things which to every one may not seem pleasing, but whichwill certainly rejoice the man who is a true student of Nature and herworks. (Book iii. , § 2. )

THE GOOD MAN

In the mind of him who is pure and good will be found neither corruptionnor defilement nor any malignant taint. Unlike the actor who leaves thestage before his part is played, the life of such a man is completewhenever death may come. He is neither cowardly nor presuming; notenslaved to life nor indifferent to its duties; and in him is foundnothing worthy of condemnation nor that which putteth to shame. (Bookiii. , § 8. )

Test by a trial how excellent is the life of the good man;--the man whorejoices at the portion given him in the universal lot and abidestherein, content; just in all his ways and kindly minded toward all men. (Book iv. , § 25. )

This is moral perfection: to live each day as though it were the last;to be tranquil, sincere, yet not indifferent to one's fate. (Bookvii. , § 69. )

THE BREVITY OF LIFE

Cast from thee all other things and hold fast to a few precepts such asthese: forget not that every man's real life is but the presentmoment, --an indivisible point of time, --and that all the rest of hislife hath either passed away or is uncertain. Short, then, the time thatany man may live; and small the earthly niche wherein he hath his home;and short is longest fame, --a whisper passed from race to race of dyingmen, ignorant concerning themselves, and much less really knowing thee, who died so long ago. (Book iii. , § 10. )

VANITY OF LIFE

Many are the doctors who have knit their brows over their patients andnow are dead themselves; many are the astrologers who in their dayesteemed themselves renowned in foretelling the death of others, yet nowthey too are dead. Many are the philosophers who have held countlessdiscussions upon death and immortality, and yet themselves have sharedthe common lot; many the valiant warriors who have slain their thousandsand yet have themselves been slain by Death; many are the rulers and thekings of the earth, who, in their arrogance, have exercised over othersthe power of life or death as though they were themselves beyond thehazard of Fate, and yet themselves have, in their turn, felt Death'sremorseless power. Nay, even great cities--Helice, Pompeii, Herculaneum--have, so to speak, died utterly. Recall, one by one, thenames of thy friends who have died; how many of these, having closed theeyes of their kinsmen, have in a brief time been buried also. Toconclude: keep ever before thee the brevity and vanity of human life andall that is therein; for man is conceived to-day, and to-morrow will bea mummy or ashes. Pass, therefore, this moment of life in accord withthe will of Nature, and depart in peace: even as does the olive, whichin its season, fully ripe, drops to the ground, blessing its mother, the earth, which bore it, and giving thanks to the tree which put itforth. (Book iv. , § 48. )

A simple yet potent help to enable one to despise Death is to recallthose who, in their greed for life, tarried the longest here. Whereinhad they really more than those who were cut off untimely in theirbloom? Together, at last, somewhere, they all repose in death. Cadicianus, Fabius, Julianus, Lepidus, or any like them, who bore forthso many to the tomb, were, in their turn, borne thither also. Theirlonger span was but trivial! Think too, of the cares thereof, of thepeople with whom it was passed, of the infirmities of the flesh! Allvanity! Think of the infinite deeps of Time in the past, of the infinitedepths to be! And in that vast profound of Time, what difference isthere between a life of three centuries and the three days' life of alittle child! (Book iv. , § 50. )

 * * * * *

Think of the Universe of matter!--an atom thou! Think of the eternity ofTime--thy predestined time but a moment! Reflect upon the great plan ofFate--how trivial this destiny of thine! (Book v. , § 24. )

 * * * * *

All things are enveloped in such darkness that they have seemed utterlyincomprehensible to those who have led the philosophic life--and thosetoo not a few in number, nor of ill-repute. Nay, even to the Stoics thecourse of affairs seems an enigma. Indeed, every conclusion reachedseems tentative; for where is the man to be found who does not changehis conclusions? Think too of the things men most desire, --riches, reputation, and the like, --and consider how ephemeral they are, howvain! A vile wretch, a common strumpet, or a thief, may possess them. Then think of the habits and manners of those about thee--how difficultit is to endure the least offensive of such people--nay how difficult, most of all, it is to endure one's self!

Amidst such darkness, then, and such unworthiness, amidst this eternalchange, with all temporal things and even Time itself passing away, withall things moving in eternal motion, I cannot imagine what, in all this, is worthy of a man's esteem or serious effort. (Book v. , § 10. )

DEATH

To cease from bodily activity, to end all efforts of will and ofthought, to stop all these forever, is no evil. For do but contemplatethine own life as a child, a growing lad, a youth, an old man: thechange to each of these periods was the death of the period whichpreceded it. Why then fear the death of all these--the death of thyself?Think too of thy life under the care of thy grandfather, then of thylife under the care of thy mother, then under the care of thy father, and so on with every change that hath occurred in thy life, and then askthyself concerning any change that hath yet to be, Is there anything tofear? And then shall all fear, even of the great change, --the change ofdeath itself, --vanish and flee away. (Book ix. , §21. )

FAME

Contemplate men as from some lofty height. How innumerable seem theswarms of men! How infinite their pomps and ceremonies! How they wanderto and fro upon the deep in fair weather and in storm! How varied theirfate in their births, in their lives, in their deaths! Think of thelives of those who lived long ago, of those who shall follow thee, ofthose who now live in uncivilized lands who have not even heard of thyname, and, of those who have heard it, how many will soon forget it; ofhow many there are who now praise thee who will soon malign thee, --andthence conclude the vanity of fame, glory, reputation. (Book ix. , §30. )

PRAYER

The gods are all-powerful or they are not. If they are not, why pray tothem at all? If they are, why dost thou not pray to them to remove fromthee all desire and all fear, rather than to ask from them the thingsthou longest for, or the removal of those things of which thou art infear? For if the gods can aid men at all, surely they will grant thisrequest. Wilt thou say that the removal of all fear and of all desire iswithin thine own power? If so, is it not better, then, to use thestrength the gods have given, rather than in a servile and fawning wayto long for those things which our will cannot obtain? And who hathsaid to thee that the gods will not _strengthen_ thy will? I say untothee, begin to pray that this may come to pass, and thou shalt see whatshall befall thee. One man prays that he may enjoy a certain woman: letthy prayer be to not have even the desire so to do. Another man praysthat he may not be forced to do his duty: let thy prayer be that thoumayest not even desire to be relieved of its performance. Another manprays that he may not lose his beloved son: let thy prayer be that eventhe fear of losing him may be taken away. Let these be thy prayers, andthou shalt see what good will befall thee. (Book ix. , §41. )

FAITH

The Universe is either a chaos or a fortuitous aggregation anddispersion of atoms; or else it is builded in order and harmony andruled by Wisdom. If then it is the former, why should one wish to tarryin a hap-hazard disordered mass? Why should I be concerned except toknow how soon I may cease to be? Why should I be disquieted concerningwhat I do, since whatever I may do, the elements of which I am composedwill at last, at last be scattered? But if the latter thought be true, then I reverence the Divine One; I trust; I possess my soul in peace. (Book vi. , § 10. )

PAIN

If pain cannot be borne, we die. If it continue a long time it becomesendurable; and the mind, retiring into itself, can keep its owntranquillity and the true self be still unharmed. If the body feel thepain, let the body make its moan. (Book vii. , §30. )

LOVE AND FORGIVENESS FOR THE EVIL-DOER

If it be in thy power, teach men to do better. If not, remember it isalways in thy power to forgive. The gods are so merciful to those whoerr, that for some purposes they grant their aid to such men byconferring upon them health, riches, and honor. What prevents thee fromdoing likewise? (Book ix. , §11. )

ETERNAL CHANGE THE LAW OF THE UNIVERSE

Think, often, of how swiftly all things pass away and are no more--theworks of Nature and the works of man. The substance of theUniverse--matter--is like unto a river that flows on forever. All thingsare not only in a constant state of change, but they are the cause ofconstant and infinite change in other things. Upon a narrow ledge thoustandest! Behind thee, the bottomless abyss of the Past! In front ofthee, the Future that will swallow up all things that now are! Over whatthings, then, in this present life, wilt thou, O foolish man, bedisquieted or exalted--making thyself wretched; seeing that they can vexthee only for a time--a brief, brief time! (Book v. , §23. )

THE PERFECT LIBERTY OF THE GOOD MAN

Peradventure men may curse thee, torture thee, kill thee; yet can allthese things not prevent thee from keeping at all times thy thoughtspure, considerate, sober, and just. If one should stand beside a limpidstream and cease not to revile it, would the spring stop pouring forthits refreshing waters? Nay, if such an one should even cast into thestream mud and mire, would not the stream quickly scatter it, and sobear it away that not even a trace would remain? How then wilt thou beable to have within thee not a mere well that may fail thee, but afountain that shall never cease to flow? By wonting thyself every momentto independence in judgment, joined together with serenity of thoughtand simplicity in act and bearing. (Book viii. , §51. )

THE HARMONY AND UNITY OF THE UNIVERSE

O divine Spirit of the Universe, Thy will, Thy wish is mine! Calmly Iwait Thy appointed times, which cannot come too early or too late! Thyprovidences are all fruitful to me! Thou art the source, Thou art thestay, Thou art the end of all things. The poet says of his native city, "Dear city of Cecrops"; and shall I not say of the Universe, "BelovedCity of God"? (Book iv. , §23. )

Either there is a predestined order in the Universe, or else it is mereaggregation, fortuitous yet not without a certain kind of order. For howwithin thyself can a certain system exist and yet the entire Universe bechaos? And especially when in the Universe all things, though separateand divided, yet work together in unity? (Book iv. , §27. )

Think always of the Universe as one living organism, composed of onematerial substance and one soul. Observe how all things are the productof a single conception--the conception of a living organism. Observe howone force is the cause of the motion of all things: that all existingthings are the concurrent causes of all that is to be--the eternal warpand woof of the ever-weaving web of existence. (Book iv. , §40. )

THE CONDUCT OF LIFE

Country houses, retreats in the mountains or by the sea--these thingsmen seek out for themselves; and often thou, too, dost most eagerlydesire such things. But this does but betoken the greatest ignorance;for thou art able, when thou desirest, to retreat into thyself. Nootherwhere can a man find a retreat more quiet and free from care thanin his own soul; and most of all, when he hath such rules of conductthat if faithfully remembered, they will give to him perfectequanimity, --for equanimity is naught else than a mind harmoniouslydisciplined. Cease not then to betake thyself to this retreat, there torefresh thyself. Let thy rules of conduct be few and well settled; sothat when thou hast thought thereon, straightway they will suffice tothoroughly purify the soul that possesses them, and to send thee back, restless no more, to the things to the which thou must return. With whatindeed art thou disquieted? With the wickedness of men? Meditate on thethought that men do not do evil of set purpose. Remember also how manyin the past, who, after living in enmity, suspicion, hatred, and strifeone with another, now lie prone in death and are but ashes. Fret then nomore. But perhaps thou art troubled concerning the portion decreed tothee in the Universe? Remember this alternative: either there is aProvidence or simply matter! Recall all the proofs that the world is, asit were, a city or a commonwealth! But perhaps the desires of the bodystill torment thee? Forget not, then, that the mind, when conscious ofits real self, when self-reliant, shares not the agitations of the body, be they great or small. Recall too all thou hast learned (and nowholdest as true) concerning pleasure and pain. But perhaps what men callFame allures thee? Behold how quickly all things are forgotten! Beforeus, after us, the formless Void of endless ages! How vain is humanpraise! How fickle and undiscriminating those who seem to praise! Howlimited the sphere of the greatest fame! For the whole earth is but apoint in space, thy dwelling-place a tiny nook therein. How few arethose who dwell therein, and what manner of men are those who willpraise thee!

Therefore, forget not to retire into thine own little countryplace, --thyself. Above all, be not diverted from thy course. Be serene, be free, contemplate all things as a man, as a lover of his kind, and ofhis country--yet withal as a being born to die. Have readiest to thyhand, above all others, these two thoughts: one, that _things_ cannottouch the soul; the other, that things are perpetually changing andceasing to be. Remember how many of these changes thou thyself hastseen! The Universe is change. But as thy thoughts are, so thy life shallbe. (Book iv. , §3. )

 * * * * *

All things that befall thee should seem to thee as natural as roses inspring or fruits in autumn: such things, I mean, as disease, death, slander, dissimulation, and all other things which give pleasure or painto foolish men. (Book iv. , §44. )

 * * * * *

Be thou like a lofty headland. Endlessly against it dash the waves; yetit stands unshaken, and lulls to rest the fury of the sea. (Bookiv. , §49. )

 * * * * *

"Unhappy me upon whom this misfortune hath fallen!"--nay, rather thoushouldst say, "Fortunate I, that having met with such a misfortune, I amable to endure it without complaining; in the present not dismayed, inthe future dreading no evil. Such a misadventure might have befallen aman who could not, perchance, have endured it without grievoussuffering. " Why then shouldst thou call _anything_ that befalls thee amisfortune, and not the rather a blessing? Is that a "misfortune, " inall cases, which does not defeat the purpose of man's nature? and doesthat defeat man's nature which his _Will_ can accept? And what that_Will_ can accept, thou knowest. Can this misadventure, then, preventthy Will from being just, magnanimous, temperate, circumspect, free fromrashness or error, considerate, independent? Can it prevent thy Willfrom being, in short, all that becomes a man? Remember, then, shouldanything befall thee which might cause thee to complain, to fortifythyself with this truth: this is not a misfortune, while to endure itnobly is a blessing. (Book iv. , §49. )

 * * * * *

Be not annoyed or dismayed or despondent if thou art not able to do allthings in accord with the rules of right conduct. When thou hast notsucceeded, renew thy efforts, and be serene if, in most things, thyconduct is such as becomes a man. Love and pursue the philosophic life. Seek Philosophy, not as thy taskmaster but to find a medicine for allthy ills, as thou wouldst seek balm for thine eyes, a bandage for asprain, a lotion for a fever. So it shall come to pass that the voice ofReason shall guide thee and bring to thee rest and peace. Remember, too, that Philosophy enjoins only such things as are in accord with thybetter nature. The trouble is, that in thy heart thou prefer-rest thosethings which are not in accord with thy better nature. For thou sayest, "What can be more delightful than these things?" But is not the word"delightful" in this sense misleading? Are not magnanimity, broad-mindedness, sincerity, equanimity, and a reverent spirit more"delightful"? Indeed, what is more "delightful" than Wisdom, if so bethou wilt but reflect upon the strength and contentment of mind and thehappiness of life that spring from the exercise of the powers of thyreason and thine intelligence? (Book v. , §9. )

 * * * * *

As are thy wonted thoughts, so is thy mind; and the soul is tinged bythe coloring of the mind. Let then thy mind be constantly suffused withsuch thoughts as these: Where it is possible for a man to live, there hecan live nobly. But suppose he must live in a palace? Be it so; eventhere he can live nobly. (Book v. , §16. )

 * * * * *

Live with the gods! And he so lives who at all times makes it manifestthat he is content with his predestined lot, fulfilling the entire willof the indwelling spirit given to man by the Divine Ruler, and which isin truth nothing else than the Understanding--the Reason of man. (Book v. , §27. )

Seek the solitude of thy spirit. This is the law of the indwellingReason--to be self-content and to abide in peace when what is right andjust hath been done. (Book vii. , § 28. )

 * * * * *

Let thine eyes follow the stars in their courses as though theirmovements were thine own. Meditate on the eternal transformation ofMatter. Such thoughts purge the mind of earthly passion and desire. (Book vii. , § 45. )

 * * * * *

Search thou thy heart! Therein is the fountain of good! Do thou but dig, and abundantly the stream shall gush forth. (Book vii. , § 59. )

 * * * * *

Be not unmindful of the graces of life. Let thy body be stalwart, yetnot ungainly either in motion or in repose. Let not thy face alone, butthy whole body, make manifest the alertness of thy mind. Yet let allthis be without affectation. (Book vii. , § 60. )

 * * * * *

Thy breath is part of the all-encircling air, and is one with it. Letthy mind be part, no less, of that Supreme Mind comprehending allthings. For verily, to him who is willing to be inspired thereby, theSupreme Mind flows through all things and permeates all things as trulyas the air exists for him who will but breathe. (Book viii. , § 54. )

 * * * * *

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

 * * * * *

Write no more, Antoninus, about what a good man is or what he ought todo. _Be_ a good man. (Book x. , § 16. )

 * * * * *

Look steadfastly at any created thing. See! it is changing, melting intocorruption, and ready to be dissolved. In its essential nature, it wasborn but to die. (Book x. , § 18. )

Co-workers are we all, toward one result. Some, consciously and of setpurpose; others, unwittingly even as men who sleep, --of whom Heraclitus(I think it is he) says they also are co-workers in the events of theUniverse. In diverse fashion also men work; and abundantly, too, workthe fault-finders and the hinderers, --for even of such as these theUniverse hath need. It rests then with thee to determine with whatworkers thou wilt place thyself; for He who governs all things willwithout failure place thee at thy proper task, and will welcome thee tosome station among those who work and act together. (Book vi. , §42. )

 * * * * *

Unconstrained and in supreme joyousness of soul thou mayest live thoughall men revile thee as they list, and though wild beasts rend in piecesthe unworthy garment--thy body. For what prevents thee, in the midst ofall this, from keeping thyself in profound calm, with a true judgment ofthy surroundings and a helpful knowledge of the things that are seen? Sothat the Judgment may say to whatever presents itself, "In truth this iswhat thou really art, howsoever thou appearest to men;" and thyKnowledge may say to whatsoever may come beneath its vision, "Thee Isought; for whatever presents itself to me is fit material for nobilityin personal thought and public conduct; in short, for skill in work forman or for God. " For all things which befall us are related to God or toman, and are not new to us or hard to work upon, but familiar andserviceable. (Book vii. , §68. )

 * * * * *

When thou art annoyed at some one's impudence, straightway ask thyself, "Is it possible that there should be no impudent men in the world?" Itis impossible. Ask not then the impossible. For such an one is but oneof these impudent persons who needs must be in the world. Keep beforethee like conclusions also concerning the rascal, the untrustworthy one, and all evil-doers. Then, when it is quite clear to thy mind that suchmen must needs exist, thou shalt be the more forgiving toward each oneof their number. This also will aid thee to observe, whensoever occasioncomes, what power for good, Nature hath given to man to frustrate suchviciousness. She hath bestowed upon man Patience as an antidote to thestupid man, and against another man some other power for good. Besides, it is wholly in thine own power to teach new things to the one who hatherred, for every one who errs hath but missed the appointed path andwandered away. Reflect, and thou wilt discover that no one of these withwhom thou art annoyed hath done aught to debase thy _mind_, and that isthe only real evil that can befall thee. 

Moreover, wherein is it wicked or surprising that the ignorant manshould act ignorantly? Is not the error really thine own in notforeseeing that such an one would do as he did? If thou hadst but takenthought thou wouldst have known he would be prone to err, and it is onlybecause thou hast forgotten to use thy Reason that thou art surprised athis deed. Above all, when thou condemnest another as untruthful, examinethyself closely; for upon thee rests the blame, in that thou dost trustto such an one to keep his promise. If thou didst bestow upon him thybounty, thine is the blame not to have given it freely, and withoutexpectation of good to thee, save the doing of the act itself. What moredost thou wish than to do good to man? Doth not this suffice, --that thouhast done what conforms to thy true nature? Must thou then have areward, as though the eyes demanded pay for seeing or the feet forwalking? For even as these are formed for such work, and by co-operatingin their distinctive duty come into their own, even so man (by his realnature disposed to do good), when he hath done some good deed, or in anyother way furthered the Commonweal, acts according to his own nature, and in so doing hath all that is truly his own. (Book ix. , §42. )

O Man, thou hast been a citizen of this great State, the Universe! Whatmatters what thy prescribed time hath been, five years or three? Whatthe law prescribes is just to every one. 

Why complain, then, if thou art sent away from the State, not by atyrant or an unjust judge, but by Nature who led thee thither, --even asthe manager excuses from the stage an actor whom he hath employed?

"But I have played three acts only?"

True. But in the drama of thy life three acts conclude the play. Forwhat its conclusion shall be, He determines who created it and now endsit; and with either of these thou hast naught to do. Depart thou, then, well pleased; for He who dismisses thee is well pleased also. (Bookxii. , §36. )

Be not disquieted lest, in the days to come, some misadventure befallthee. The Reason which now sufficeth thee will then be with thee, shouldthere be the need. (Book vii. , §8. )

 * * * * *

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

 * * * * *

My true self--the philosophic mind--hath but one dread: the dread lest Ido something unworthy of a man, or that I may act in an unseemly way orat an improper time. (Book vii. , §20. )

 * * * * *

Accept with joy the Fate that befalls thee. Thine it is and notanother's. What then could be better for thee? (Book vii. , §57)

 * * * * *

See to it that thou art humane to those who are not humane. (Book vii. , §65. )

 * * * * *

He who does _not_ act, often commits as great a wrong as he who acts. (Book ix. , §5. )

 * * * * *

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

 * * * * *

How powerful is man! He is able to do all that God wishes him to do. Heis able to accept all that God sends upon him. (Book xii. , §11. )

 * * * * *

A lamp sends forth its light until it is completely extinguished. ShallTruth and Justice and Equanimity suffer abatement in thee until all areextinguished in death? (Book xii. , §15. )

JANE AUSTEN

(1775-1817)

The biography of one of the greatest English novelists might be writtenin a dozen lines, so simple, so tranquil, so fortunate was her life. Jane Austen, the second daughter of an English clergyman, was born atSteventon, in Hampshire, in 1775. Her father had been known at Oxford as"the handsome proctor, " and all his children inherited good looks. Hewas accomplished enough to fit his boys for the University, and theatmosphere of the household was that of culture, good breeding, andhealthy fun. Mrs. Austen was a clever woman, full of epigram and humorin conversation, and rather famous in her own coterie for improvisedverses and satirical hits at her friends. The elder daughter, Cassandra, adored by Jane, who was three years her junior, seems to have had a rarebalance and common-sense which exercised great influence over the morebrilliant younger sister. Their mother declared that of the two girls, Cassandra had the merit of having her temper always under her control;and Jane the happiness of a temper that never required to be commanded. 

[Illustration: JANE AUSTEN]

From her cradle, Jane Austen was used to hearing agreeable householdtalk, and the freest personal criticism on the men and women who made upher small, secluded world. The family circumstances were easy, and thefamily friendliness unlimited, --conditions determining, perhaps, thecheerful tone, the unexciting course, the sly fun and good-fellowship ofher stories. 

It was in this Steventon rectory, in the family room where the boysmight be building their toy boats, or the parish poor folk complainingto "passon's madam, " or the county ladies paying visits of ceremony, inmonstrous muffs, heelless slippers laced over open-worked silkstockings, short flounced skirts, and lutestring pelisses trimmed with"Irish, " or where tradesmen might be explaining their delinquencies, orfarmers' wives growing voluble over foxes and young chickens--it was inthe midst of this busy and noisy publicity, where nobody respected heremployment, and where she was interrupted twenty times in an hour, thatthe shrewd and smiling social critic managed, before she wastwenty-one, to write her famous 'Pride and Prejudice. ' Here too 'Senseand Sensibility' was finished in 1797, and 'Northanger Abbey' in 1798. The first of these, submitted to a London publisher, was declined asunavailable, by return of post. The second, the gay and mocking'Northanger Abbey, ' was sold to a Bath bookseller for £10, and severalyears later bought back again, still unpublished, by one of MissAusten's brothers. For the third story she seems not even to have soughta publisher. These three books, all written before she was twenty-five, were evidently the employment and delight of her leisure. The seriousbusiness of life was that which occupied other pretty girls of her timeand her social position, --dressing, dancing, flirting, learning a newstitch at the embroidery frame, or a new air on "the instrument"; whileall the time she was observing, with those soft hazel eyes of hers, whathonest Nym calls the "humors" of the world about her. In 1801, thefamily removed to Bath, then the most fashionable watering-place inEngland. The gay life of the brilliant little city, the etiquette of thePump Room and the Assemblies, regulated by the autocratic Beau Nash, thedrives, the routs, the card parties, the toilets, the shops, the Parade, the general frivolity, pretension, and display of the eighteenth centuryVanity Fair, had already been studied by the good-natured satirist onoccasional visits, and already immortalized in the swiftly changingcomedy scenes of 'Northanger Abbey. ' But they tickled her fancy none theless, now that she lived among them, and she made use of them again inher later novel, 'Persuasion. '

For a period of eight years, spent in Bath and in Southampton, MissAusten wrote nothing save some fragments of 'Lady Susan' and 'TheWatsons, ' neither of them of great importance. In 1809 the lessenedhousehold, composed of the mother and her two daughters only, removed tothe village of Chawton, on the estate of Mrs. Austen's third son; andhere, in a rustic cottage, now become a place of pilgrimage, Jane Austenagain took up her pen. She rewrote 'Pride and Prejudice. ' She revised'Sense and Sensibility, ' and between February 1811 and August 1816 shecompleted 'Mansfield Park, ' 'Emma, ' and 'Persuasion. ' At Chawton, as atSteventon, she had no study, and her stories were written on a littlemahogany desk near a window in the family sitting-room, where she mustoften have been interrupted by the prototypes of her Mrs. Allen, Mrs. Bennet, Miss Bates, Mr. Collins, or Mrs. Norris. When at last she beganto publish, her stories appeared in rapid succession: 'Sense andSensibility' in 1811; 'Pride and Prejudice' early in 1813; 'MansfieldPark' in 1814; 'Emma' in 1816; 'Northanger Abbey' and 'Persuasion' in1818, the year following her death. In January 1813 she wrote to herbeloved Cassandra:--"I want to tell you that I have got my own darlingchild 'Pride and Prejudice' from London. We fairly set at it and readhalf the first volume to Miss B. She was amused, poor soul! . .. But shereally does seem to admire Elizabeth. I must confess that _I_ think heras delightful a creature as ever appeared in print, and how I shall beable to tolerate those who do not like _her_ at least, I do not know. " Amonth later she wrote:--"Upon the whole, however, I am quite vainenough, and well satisfied enough. The work is rather too light, andbright, and sparkling: it wants shade; it wants to be stretched out hereand there with a long chapter of sense, if it could be had; if not, ofsolemn, specious nonsense, about something unconnected with the story;an essay on writing, a critique on Walter Scott, or the history ofBonaparte, or something that would form a contrast, and bring the readerwith increased delight to the playfulness and epigrammatism of thegeneral style!"

Thus she who laughed at everybody else laughed at herself, and set hercritical instinct to estimate her own capacity. To Mr. Clarke, thelibrarian of Carlton House, who had requested her to "delineate aclergyman" of earnestness, enthusiasm, and learning, she replied:--"I amquite honored by your thinking me capable of drawing such a clergyman asyou gave the sketch of in your note. But I assure you I am not. Thecomic part of the character I might be equal to, but not the good, theenthusiastic, the literary. .. . I think I may boast myself to be, withall possible vanity, the most unlearned and uninformed female who everdared to be an authoress. " And when the same remarkable bibliophilesuggested to her, on the approach of the marriage of the PrincessCharlotte with Prince Leopold, that "an historical romance, illustrativeof the august House of Coburg, would just now be very interesting, " sheanswered:--"I am fully sensible that an historical romance, founded onthe House of Saxe-Coburg, might be much more to the purpose of profit orpopularity than such pictures of domestic life in country villages as Ideal in. But I could no more write a romance than an epic poem. I couldnot sit seriously down to write a serious romance under any other motivethan to save my life; and if it were indispensable to keep it up, andnever relax into laughing at myself or at other people, I am sure that Ishould be hung before I had finished the first chapter. No! I must keepto my own style, and go on in my own way: and though I may never succeedagain in that, I am convinced that I shall totally fail in any other. "And again she writes: "What shall _I_ do with your 'strong, manly, vigorous sketches, full of variety and glow'? How could I possibly jointhem on to the little bit (two inches wide) of ivory on which I workwith so fine a brush as produces little effect, after much labor?"

Miss Austen read very little. She "detested quartos. " Richardson, Johnson, Crabbe, and Cowper seem to have been the only authors for whomshe had an appreciation. She would sometimes say, in jest, that "if evershe married at all, she could fancy being Mrs. Crabbe!" But her bent oforiginal composition, her amazing power of observation, herinexhaustible sense of humor, her absorbing interest in what she sawabout her, were so strong that she needed no reinforcement of culture. It was no more in her power than it was in Wordsworth's to "gather aposy of other men's thoughts. "

During her lifetime she had not a single literary friend. Other womennovelists possessed their sponsors and devotees. Miss Ferrier was thedelight of a brilliant Edinboro' coterie. Miss Edgeworth was feasted andflattered, not only in England, but on the Continent; Miss Burneycounted Johnson, Burke, Garrick, Windham, Sheridan, among the admiringfriends who assured her that no flight in fiction or the drama wasbeyond her powers. But the creator of Elizabeth Bennet, of Emma, and ofMr. Collins, never met an author of eminence, received no encouragementto write except that of her own family, heard no literary talk, andobtained in her lifetime but the slightest literary recognition. It waslong after her death that Walter Scott wrote in his journal:--"Readagain, and for the third time at least, Miss Austen's finely writtennovel of _Pride and Prejudice_. That young lady had a talent fordescribing the involvements and feelings and characters of ordinary lifewhich is to me the most wonderful I ever met with. The Big Bow-wowstrain I can do myself, like any now going; but the exquisite touchwhich renders commonplace things and characters interesting from thetruth of the description and the sentiment is denied to me. " It wasstill later that Macaulay made his famous estimate of hergenius:--"Shakespeare has neither equal nor second; but among those who, in the point we have noticed (the delineation of character), approachednearest the great master, we have no hesitation in placing Jane Austenas a woman of whom England may justly be proud. She has given us amultitude of characters, all, in a certain sense, commonplace, all suchas we meet every day. Yet they are all as perfectly discriminated fromeach other as if they were the most eccentric of human beings. .. . Andall this is done by touches so delicate that they elude analysis, thatthey defy the powers of description, and that we know them to exist onlyby the general effect to which they have contributed. " And a newgeneration had almost forgotten her name before the exacting Leweswrote:--"To make our meaning precise, we would say that Fielding andJane Austen are the greatest novelists in the English language. .. . Wewould rather have written 'Pride and Prejudice' or 'Tom Jones, ' thanany of the Waverley novels. .. . The greatness of Miss Austen (hermarvelous dramatic power) seems more than anything in Scott akin toShakespeare. "

The six novels which have made so great a reputation for their authorrelate the least sensational of histories in the least sensational way. 'Sense and Sensibility' might be called a novel with a purpose, thatpurpose being to portray the dangerous haste with which sentimentdegenerates into sentimentality; and because of its purpose, the storydiscloses a less excellent art than its fellows. 'Pride and Prejudice'finds its motive in the crass pride of birth and place that characterizethe really generous and high-minded hero, Darcy, and the fierceresentment of his claims to love and respect on the part of the clever, high-tempered, and chivalrous heroine, Elizabeth Bennet. 'NorthangerAbbey' is a laughing skit at the school of Mrs. Radcliffe; 'Persuasion, 'a simple story of upper middle-class society, of which the most charmingof her charming girls, Anne Elliot, is the heroine; 'Mansfield Park' anew and fun-loving version of 'Cinderella'; and finally 'Emma, '--thefavorite with most readers, concerning which Miss Austen said, "I amgoing to take a heroine whom no one but myself will much like, "--thehistory of the blunders of a bright, kind-hearted, and really clevergirl, who contrives as much discomfort for her friends as stupidity orill-nature could devise. 

Numberless as are the novelist's characters, no two clergymen, no twoBritish matrons, no two fussy spinsters, no two men of fashion, no twoheavy fathers, no two smart young ladies, no two heroines, are alike. And this variety results from the absolute fidelity of each character tothe law of its own development, each one growing from within and notbeing simply described from without. Nor are the circumstances which shepermits herself to use less genuine than her people. What surrounds themis what one must expect; what happens to them is seen to be inevitable. 

The low and quiet key in which her "situations" are pitched produces oneartistic gain which countervails its own loss of immediate intensity:the least touch of color shows strongly against that subdued background. A very slight catastrophe among those orderly scenes of peaceful lifehas more effect than the noisier incidents and contrived convulsions ofmore melodramatic novels. Thus, in 'Mansfield Park' the result ofprivate theatricals, including many rehearsals of stage love-making, among a group of young people who show no very strong principles orfirmness of character, appears in a couple of elopements which break upa family, occasion a pitiable scandal, and spoil the career of an able, generous, and highly promising young man. To most novelists an incidentof this sort would seem too ineffective: in her hands it strikes us aswhat in fact it is--a tragic misfortune and the ruin of two lives. 

In a word, it is life which Miss Austen sees with unerring vision anddraws with unerring touch; so that above all other writers of Englishfiction she seems entitled to the tribute which an Athenian critic gaveto an earlier and more famous realist, --

 "O life! O Menander! Which of you two is the plagiarist?"

AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE

From 'Pride and Prejudice'

The next day opened a new scene at Longbourn. Mr. Collins made hisdeclaration in form. Having resolved to do it without loss of time, ashis leave of absence extended only to the following Saturday, and havingno feelings of diffidence to make it distressing to himself even at themoment, he set about it in a very orderly manner, with all theobservances which he supposed a regular part of the business. On findingMrs. Bennet, Elizabeth, and one of the younger girls together, soonafter breakfast, he addressed the mother in these words:--

"May I hope, madam, for your interest with your fair daughter Elizabeth, when I solicit for the honor of a private audience with her in thecourse of this morning?"

Before Elizabeth had time for anything but a blush of surprise, Mrs. Bennet instantly answered: "Oh, dear. Yes; certainly. I am sure Lizzywill be very happy--I am sure she can have no objection. Come, Kitty, Iwant you upstairs. " And, gathering her work together, she was hasteningaway, when Elizabeth called out:--

"Dear ma'am, do not go. I beg you will not go. Mr. Collins must excuseme. He can have nothing to say to me that anybody need not hear. I amgoing away myself. "

"No, no; nonsense, Lizzy. I desire you will stay where you are. " Andupon Elizabeth's seeming really, with vexed and embarrassed looks, aboutto escape, she added, "Lizzy, I _insist_ upon your staying and hearingMr. Collins. "

Elizabeth would not oppose such an injunction; and a moment'sconsideration making her also sensible that it would be wisest to getit over as soon and as quietly as possible, she sat down again, andtried to conceal by incessant employment the feelings which were dividedbetween distress and diversion. Mrs. Bennet and Kitty walked off; and assoon as they were gone, Mr. Collins began:--

"Believe me, my dear Miss Elizabeth, that your modesty, so far fromdoing you any disservice, rather adds to your other perfections. Youwould have been less amiable in my eyes had there _not_ been this littleunwillingness; but allow me to assure you that I have your respectedmother's permission for this address. You can hardly doubt the purportof my discourse, however your natural delicacy may lead you todissemble: my attentions have been too marked to be mistaken. Almost assoon as I entered the house I singled you out as the companion of myfuture life. But before I am run away with by my feelings on thissubject, perhaps it will be advisable for me to state my reasons formarrying--and moreover, for coming into Hertfordshire with the design ofselecting a wife, as I certainly did. "

The idea of Mr. Collins, with all his solemn composure, being run awaywith by his feelings, made Elizabeth so near laughing that she could notuse the short pause he allowed in any attempt to stop him further, andhe continued:--

"My reasons for marrying are, first, that I think it a right thing forevery clergyman in easy circumstances (like myself) to set the exampleof matrimony in his parish; secondly, that I am convinced it will addvery greatly to my happiness; and thirdly, --which perhaps I ought tohave mentioned earlier, --that it is the particular advice andrecommendation of the very noble lady whom I have the honor of callingpatroness. Twice has she condescended to give me her opinion (unasked, too!) on this subject; and it was but the very Saturday night before Ileft Hunsford--between our pools at quadrille, while Mrs. Jenkinson wasarranging Miss de Bourgh's footstool--that she said, 'Mr. Collins, youmust marry. A clergyman like you must marry. Choose properly, choose agentlewoman, for _my_ sake; and for your _own_, let her be an active, useful sort of person, not brought up high, but able to make a smallincome go a good way. This is my advice. Find such a woman as soon asyou can, bring her to Hunsford, and I will visit her!' Allow me, by theway, to observe, my fair cousin, that I do not reckon the notice andkindness of Lady Catherine de Bourgh as among the least of theadvantages in my power to offer. You will find her manners beyondanything I can describe; and your wit and vivacity, I think, must beacceptable to her, especially when tempered with the silence and respectwhich her rank will inevitably excite. Thus much for my generalintention in favor of matrimony; it remains to be told why my views aredirected to Longbourn instead of my own neighborhood, where, I assureyou, there are many amiable young women. But the fact is, that being, asI am, to inherit this estate after the death of your honored father(who, however, may live many years longer), I could not satisfy myselfwithout resolving to choose a wife from among his daughters, that theloss to them might be as little as possible, when the melancholy eventtakes place, --which, however, as I have already said, may not be forseveral years. This has been my motive, my fair cousin, and I flattermyself it will not sink me in your esteem. And now, nothing remains forme but to assure you, in the most animated language, of the violence ofmy affection. To fortune I am perfectly indifferent, and shall make nodemand of that nature on your father, since I am well aware that itcould not be complied with; and that one thousand pounds in the four percents. , which will not be yours till after your mother's decease, is allthat you may ever be entitled to. On that head, therefore, I shall beuniformly silent; and you may assure yourself that no ungenerousreproach shall ever pass my lips when we are married. "

It was absolutely necessary to interrupt him now. 

"You are too hasty, sir, " she cried. "You forget that I have made noanswer. Let me do it without further loss of time. Accept my thanks forthe compliment you are paying me. I am very sensible of the honor ofyour proposals, but it is impossible for me to do otherwise thandecline them. "

"I am not now to learn, " replied Mr. Collins, with a formal wave of thehand, "that it is usual with young ladies to reject the addresses of theman whom they secretly mean to accept, when he first applies for theirfavor; and that sometimes the refusal is repeated a second, or even athird time. I am therefore by no means discouraged by what you have justsaid, and shall hope to lead you to the altar ere long. "

"Upon my word, sir, " cried Elizabeth, "your hope is rather anextraordinary one, after my declaration. I do assure you that I am notone of those young ladies (if such young ladies there are) who are sodaring as to risk their happiness on the chance of being asked a secondtime. I am perfectly serious in my refusal. You could not make _me_happy, and I am convinced that I am the last woman in the world whowould make _you_ so. Nay, were your friend Lady Catherine to know me, Iam persuaded she would find me in every respect ill qualified for thesituation. "

"Were it certain that Lady Catherine would think so, " said Mr. Collins, very gravely--"but I cannot imagine that her ladyship would at alldisapprove of you. And you may be certain that when I have the honor ofseeing her again, I shall speak in the highest terms of your modesty, economy, and other amiable qualifications. "

"Indeed, Mr. Collins, all praise of me will be unnecessary. You mustgive me leave to judge for myself, and pay me the compliment ofbelieving what I say. I wish you very happy and very rich, and byrefusing your hand do all in my power to prevent your being otherwise. In making me the offer, you must have satisfied the delicacy of yourfeelings with regard to my family, and may take possession of Longbournestate whenever it falls, without any self-reproach. This matter may beconsidered, therefore, as finally settled. " And rising as she thusspoke, she would have quitted the room had not Mr. Collins thusaddressed her:--

"When I do myself the honor of speaking to you next on the subject, Ishall hope to receive a more favorable answer than you have now givenme: though I am far from accusing you of cruelty at present, because Iknow it to be the established custom of your sex to reject a man on thefirst application; and perhaps you have even now said as much toencourage my suit as would be consistent with the true delicacy of thefemale character. "

"Really, Mr. Collins, " cried Elizabeth, with some warmth, "you puzzle meexceedingly. If what I have hitherto said can appear to you in the formof encouragement, I know not how to express my refusal in such a way asmay convince you of its being one. "

"You must give me leave to flatter myself, my dear cousin, that yourrefusal of my addresses is merely a thing of course. My reasons forbelieving it are briefly these:--It does not appear to me that my handis unworthy your acceptance, or that the establishment I can offer wouldbe any other than highly desirable. My situation in life, myconnections with the family of De Bourgh, and my relationship to yourown, are circumstances highly in my favor; and you should take it intofurther consideration that, in spite of your manifold attractions, it isby no means certain that another offer of marriage may ever be made you. Your portion is unhappily so small that it will in all likelihood undothe effects of your loveliness and amiable qualifications. As I musttherefore conclude that you are not serious in your rejection of me, Ishall choose to attribute it to your wish of increasing my love bysuspense, according to the usual practice of elegant females. "

"I do assure you, sir, that I have no pretensions whatever to that kindof elegance which consists in tormenting a respectable man. I wouldrather be paid the compliment of being believed sincere. I thank youagain and again for the honor you have done me in your proposals, but toaccept them is absolutely impossible. My feelings in every respectforbid it. Can I speak plainer? Do not consider me now as an elegantfemale intending to plague you, but as a rational creature speaking thetruth from her heart. "

"You are uniformly charming!" cried he, with an air of awkwardgallantry; "and I am persuaded that when sanctioned by the expressauthority of both your excellent parents, my proposals will not fail ofbeing acceptable. "

To such perseverance in willful self-deception Elizabeth would make noreply, and immediately and in silence withdrew; determined, if hepersisted in considering her repeated refusals as flatteringencouragement, to apply to her father, whose negative might be utteredin such a manner as must be decisive, and whose behavior at least couldnot be mistaken for the affectation and coquetry of an elegant female. 

MOTHER AND DAUGHTER

From 'Pride and Prejudice'

[Lydia Bennet has eloped with the worthless rake Wickham, who has nointention of marrying her. ]

Mrs. Bennet, to whose apartment they all repaired, after a few minutes'conversation together, received them exactly as might be expected: withtears and lamentations of regret, invectives against the villainousconduct of Wickham, and complaints of her own suffering andill-usage;--blaming everybody but the person to whose ill-judgingindulgence the errors of her daughter must be principally owing. 

"If I had been able, " said she, "to carry my point in going to Brightonwith all my family, _this_ would not have happened; but poor, dear Lydiahad nobody to take care of her. Why did the Forsters ever let her go outof their sight? I am sure there was some great neglect or other on theirside, for she is not the kind of girl to do such a thing, if she hadbeen well looked after. I always thought they were very unfit to havethe charge of her; but I was overruled, as I always am. Poor, dearchild! And now here's Mr. Bennet gone away, and I know he will fightWickham, wherever he meets him, and then he will be killed, and what isto become of us all? The Collinses will turn us out, before he is coldin his grave; and if you are not kind to us, brother, I do not know whatwe shall do. "

They all exclaimed against such terrific ideas; and Mr. Gardiner, aftergeneral assurances of his affection for her and all her family, told herthat he meant to be in London the very next day, and would assist Mr. Bennet in every endeavor for recovering Lydia. 

"Do not give way to useless alarm, " added he: "though it is right to beprepared for the worst, there is no occasion to look on it as certain. It is not quite a week since they left Brighton. In a few days more, wemay gain some news of them; and till we know that they are not married, and have no design of marrying, do not let us give the matter over aslost. As soon as I get to town, I shall go to my brother, and make himcome home with me, to Grace-church-street, and then we may consulttogether as to what is to be done. "

"Oh! my dear brother, " replied Mrs. Bennet, "that is exactly what Icould most wish for. And now do, when you get to town, find them out, wherever they may be; and if they are not married already, _make_ themmarry. And as for wedding clothes, do not let them wait for that, buttell Lydia she shall have as much money as she chooses to buy them, after they are married. And above all things, keep Mr. Bennet fromfighting. Tell him what a dreadful state I am in--that I am frightenedout of my wits; and have such tremblings, such flutterings, all over me, such spasms in my side, and pains in my head, and such beatings atheart, that I can get no rest by night nor by day. And tell my dearLydia not to give any directions about her clothes till she has seen me, for she does not know which are the best warehouses. Oh! brother, howkind you are! I know you will contrive it all. "

But Mr. Gardiner, though he assured her again of his earnest endeavorsin the cause, could not avoid recommending moderation to her, as well inher hopes as her fears; and after talking with her in this manner tilldinner was on the table, they left her to vent all her feelings on thehousekeeper, who attended, in the absence of her daughters. 

Though her brother and sister were persuaded that there was no realoccasion for such a seclusion from the family, they did not attempt tooppose it, for they knew that she had not prudence enough to hold hertongue before the servants, while they waited at table, and judged itbetter that one only of the household, and the one whom they could mosttrust, should comprehend all her fears and solicitude on the subject. 

In the dining-room they were soon joined by Mary and Kitty, who had beentoo busily engaged in their separate apartments to make their appearancebefore. One came from her books, and the other from her toilette. Thefaces of both, however, were tolerably calm; and no change was visiblein either, except that the loss of her favorite sister, or the angerwhich she had herself incurred in the business, had given something moreof fretfulness than usual to the accents of Kitty. As for Mary, she wasmistress enough of herself to whisper to Elizabeth, with a countenanceof grave reflection, soon after they were seated at table:--

"This is a most unfortunate affair; and will probably be much talked of. But we must stem the tide of malice, and pour into the wounded bosoms ofeach other the balm of sisterly consolation. "

Then, perceiving in Elizabeth no inclination of replying, she added, "Unhappy as the event must be for Lydia, we may draw from it this usefullesson: that loss of virtue in a female is irretrievable--that one falsestep involves her in endless ruin--that her reputation is no lessbrittle than it is beautiful--and that she cannot be too much guarded inher behavior towards the undeserving of the other sex. "

Elizabeth lifted up her eyes in amazement, but was too much oppressed tomake any reply. 

A LETTER OF CONDOLENCE

From 'Pride and Prejudice'

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

_My Dear Sir_:

I feel myself called upon, by our relationship and my situation in life, to condole with you on the grievous affliction you are now sufferingunder, of which we were yesterday informed by letter from Hertfordshire. Be assured, my dear sir, that Mrs. Collins and myself sincerelysympathize with you, and all your respectable family, in your presentdistress, which must be of the bitterest kind, because proceeding from acause which no time can remove. No arguments shall be wanting, on mypart, that can alleviate so severe a misfortune; or that may comfort youunder a circumstance that must be of all others most afflicting to aparent's mind. The death of your daughter would have been a blessing incomparison of this. And it is the more to be lamented because there isreason to suppose, as my dear Charlotte informs me, that thislicentiousness of behavior in your daughter has proceeded from a faultydegree of indulgence; though at the same time, for the consolation ofyourself and Mrs. Bennet, I am inclined to think that her owndisposition must be naturally bad, or she could not be guilty of such anenormity at so early an age. Howsoever that may be, you are grievouslyto be pitied, in which opinion I am not only joined by Mrs. Collins, butlikewise by Lady Catherine and her daughter, to whom I have related theaffair. They agree with me in apprehending that this false step in onedaughter will be injurious to the fortunes of all the others; for who, as Lady Catherine herself condescendingly says, will connect themselveswith such a family? And this consideration leads me, moreover, toreflect with augmented satisfaction on a certain event of last November;for had it been otherwise, I must have been involved in all your sorrowsand disgrace. Let me advise you, then, my dear sir, to console yourselfas much as possible, to throw off your unworthy child from youraffection forever, and leave her to reap the fruits of her ownheinous offense. 

I am, dear sir, etc. , etc. 

A WELL-MATCHED SISTER AND BROTHER

From 'Northanger Abbey'

"My dearest Catherine, have you settled what to wear on your headto-night? I am determined, at all events, to be dressed exactly likeyou. The men take notice of _that_ sometimes, you know. "

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

"Signify! oh, heavens! I make it a rule never to mind what they say. They are very often amazingly impertinent, if you do not treat them withspirit, and make them keep their distance. "

"Are they? Well I never observed _that_. They always behave very well tome. "

"Oh! they give themselves such airs. They are the most conceitedcreatures in the world, and think themselves of so much importance! Bythe by, though I have thought of it a hundred times, I have alwaysforgot to ask you what is your favorite complexion in a man. Do you likethem best dark or fair?"

"I hardly know. I never much thought about it. Something between both, Ithink--brown: not fair, and not very dark. "

"Very well, Catherine. That is exactly he. I have not forgot yourdescription of Mr. Tilney: 'a brown skin, with dark eyes, and ratherdark hair. ' Well, my taste is different. I prefer light eyes; and as tocomplexion, do you know, I like a sallow better than any other. You mustnot betray me, if you should ever meet with one of your acquaintanceanswering that description. "

"Betray you! What do you mean?"

"Nay, do not distress me. I believe I have said too much. Let us dropthe subject. "

Catherine, in some amazement, complied; and after remaining a fewmoments silent, was on the point of reverting to what interested her atthat time rather more than anything else in the world, Laurentina'sskeleton, when her friend prevented her by saying, "For Heaven's sake!let us move away from this end of the room. Do you know, there are twoodious young men who have been staring at me this half-hour. They reallyput me quite out of countenance. Let us go and look at the arrivals. They will hardly follow us there. "

Away they walked to the book; and while Isabella examined the names, itwas Catherine's employment to watch the proceedings of these alarmingyoung men. 

"They are not coming this way, are they? I hope they are not soimpertinent as to follow us. Pray let me know if they are coming. I amdetermined I will not look up. "

In a few moments Catherine, with unaffected pleasure, assured her thatshe need not be longer uneasy, as the gentlemen had just left thePump-room. 

"And which way are they gone?" said Isabella, turning hastily round. "One was a very good-looking young man. "

"They went towards the churchyard. "

"Well, I am amazingly glad I have got rid of them! And now what say youto going to Edgar's Buildings with me, and looking at my new hat? Yousaid you should like to see it. "

Catherine readily agreed. "Only, " she added, "perhaps we may overtakethe two young men. "

"Oh! never mind that. If we make haste, we shall pass by them presently, and I am dying to show you my hat. "

"But if we only wait a few minutes, there will be no danger of ourseeing them at all. "

"I shall not pay them any such compliment, I assure you. I have nonotion of treating men with such respect. _That_ is the way tospoil them. "

Catherine had nothing to oppose against such reasoning; and therefore, to show the independence of Miss Thorpe, and her resolution of humblingthe sex, they set off immediately, as fast as they could walk, inpursuit of the two young men. 

Half a minute conducted them through the Pump-yard to the archway, opposite Union Passage; but here they were stopped. Everybody acquaintedwith Bath may remember the difficulties of crossing Cheap Street at thispoint; it is indeed a street of so impertinent a nature, sounfortunately connected with the great London and Oxford roads, and theprincipal inn of the city, that a day never passes in which parties ofladies, however important their business, whether in quest of pastry, millinery, or even (as in the present case) of young men, are notdetained on one side or other by carriages, horsemen, or carts. Thisevil had been felt and lamented, at least three times a day, by Isabellasince her residence in Bath: and she was now fated to feel and lament itonce more; for at the very moment of coming opposite to Union Passage, and within view of the two gentlemen who were proceeding through thecrowds and treading the gutters of that interesting alley, they wereprevented crossing by the approach of a gig, driven along on badpavements by a most knowing-looking coachman, with all the vehemencethat could most fitly endanger the lives of himself, his companion, andhis horse. 

"Oh, these odious gigs!" said Isabella, looking up, "how I detest them!"But this detestation, though so just, was of short duration, for shelooked again, and exclaimed, "Delightful! Mr. Morland and my brother!"

"Good Heaven! 'tis James!" was uttered at the same moment by Catherine;and on catching the young men's eyes, the horse was immediately checkedwith a violence which almost threw him on his haunches; and the servanthaving now scampered up, the gentlemen jumped out, and the equipage wasdelivered to his care. 

Catherine, by whom this meeting was wholly unexpected, received herbrother with the liveliest pleasure; and he, being of a very amiabledisposition, and sincerely attached to her, gave every proof on his sideof equal satisfaction, which he could have leisure to do, while thebright eyes of Miss Thorpe were incessantly challenging his notice; andto her his devoirs were speedily paid, with a mixture of joy andembarrassment which might have informed Catherine, had she been moreexpert in the development of other people's feelings, and less simplyengrossed by her own, that her brother thought her friend quite aspretty as she could do herself. 

John Thorpe, who in the mean time had been giving orders about thehorse, soon joined them, and from him she directly received the amendswhich were her due; for while he slightly and carelessly touched thehand of Isabella, on her he bestowed a whole scrape and half a shortbow. He was a stout young man, of middling height, who, with a plainface and ungraceful form, seemed fearful of being too handsome unless hewore the dress of a groom, and too much like a gentleman unless he wereeasy where he ought to be civil, and impudent where he might be allowedto be easy. He took out his watch:--"How long do you think we have beenrunning in from Tetbury, Miss Morland?"

"I do not know the distance. " Her brother told her that it wastwenty-three miles. 

"_Three_-and-twenty!" cried Thorpe; "five-and-twenty if it is an inch. "Morland remonstrated, pleaded the authority of road-books, innkeepers, and milestones: but his friend disregarded them all; he had a surer testof distance. "I know it must be five-and-twenty, " said he, "by the timewe have been doing it. " "It is now half after one; we drove out of theinn-yard at Tetbury as the town-clock struck eleven; and I defy any manin England to make my horse go less than ten miles an hour in harness;that makes it exactly twenty-five. "

"You have lost an hour, " said Morland: "it was only ten o'clock when wecame from Tetbury. "

"Ten o'clock! it was eleven, upon my soul! I counted every stroke. Thisbrother of yours would persuade me out of my senses, Miss Morland. Dobut look at my horse: did you ever see an animal so made for speed inyour life?" (The servant had just mounted the carriage and was drivingoff. ) "Such true blood! Three hours and a half, indeed, coming onlythree-and-twenty miles! Look at that creature, and suppose it possible, if you can!"

"He _does_ look very hot, to be sure. "

"Hot! he had not turned a hair till we came to Walcot Church: but lookat his forehand; look at his loins; only see how he moves: that horse_cannot_ go less than ten miles an hour; tie his legs, and he will geton. What do you think of my gig, Miss Morland? A neat one, is it not?Well hung; town built: I have not had it a month. It was built for aChrist Church man, a friend of mine, a very good sort of fellow; he ranit a few weeks, till, I believe, it was convenient to have done with it. I happened just then to be looking out for some light thing of the kind, though I had pretty well determined on a curricle too; but I chanced tomeet him on Magdalen Bridge, as he was driving into Oxford, last term:'Ah, Thorpe, ' said he, 'do you happen to want such a little thing asthis? It is a capital one of the kind, but I am cursed tired of it. ''Oh! d----, ' said I, 'I am your man; what do you ask?' And how much doyou think he did, Miss Morland?"

"I am sure I cannot guess at all. "

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

"And I am sure, " said Catherine, "I know so little of such things, thatI cannot judge whether it was cheap or dear. "

"Neither one nor t'other; I might have got it for less, I dare say; butI hate haggling, and poor Freeman wanted cash. "

"That was very good-natured of you, " said Catherine, quite pleased. 

"Oh! d---- it, when one has the means of doing a kind thing by a friend, I hate to be pitiful. "

An inquiry now took place into the intended movements of the youngladies; and on finding whither they were going, it was decided that thegentlemen should accompany them to Edgar's Buildings, and pay theirrespects to Mrs. Thorpe. James and Isabella led the way; and so wellsatisfied was the latter with her lot, so contentedly was sheendeavoring to insure a pleasant walk to him who brought the doublerecommendation of being her brother's friend and her friend's brother, so pure and uncoquettish were her feelings, that though they overtookand passed the two offending young men in Milsom Street, she was so farfrom seeking to attract their notice that she looked back at them onlythree times. 

John Thorpe kept of course with Catherine, and after a few minutes'silence renewed the conversation about his gig:--"You will find, however, Miss Morland, it would be reckoned a cheap thing by somepeople, for I might have sold it for ten guineas more the next day;Jackson of Oriel bid me sixty at once; Morland was with me at the time. "

"Yes, " said Morland, who overheard this; "bet you forgot that your horsewas included. "

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

"Yes, very: I have hardly ever an opportunity of being in one; but I amparticularly fond of it. "

"I am glad of it: I will drive you out in mine every day. "

"Thank you, " said Catherine, in some distress, from a doubt of thepropriety of accepting such an offer. 

"I will drive you up Lansdown Hill to-morrow. "

"Thank you; but will not your horse want rest?"

"Rest! he has only come three-and-twenty miles to-day; all nonsense:nothing ruins horses so much as rest; nothing knocks them up so soon. No, no: I shall exercise mine at the average of four hours every daywhile I am here. "

"Shall you, indeed!" said Catherine, very seriously: "that will beforty miles a day. "

"Forty! ay, fifty, for what I care. Well, I will drive you up Lansdownto-morrow; mind, I am engaged. "

"How delightful that will be!" cried Isabella, turning round; "mydearest Catherine, I quite envy you; but I am afraid, brother, you willnot have room for a third. "

"A third, indeed! no, no; I did not come to Bath to drive my sistersabout: that would be a good joke, faith! Morland must take care of you. "

This brought on a dialogue of civilities between the other two; butCatherine heard neither the particulars nor the result. Her companion'sdiscourse now sunk from its hitherto animated pitch to nothing more thana short, decisive sentence of praise or condemnation on the face ofevery women they met; and Catherine, after listening and agreeing aslong as she could, with all the civility and deference of the youthfulfemale mind, fearful of hazarding an opinion of its own in opposition tothat of a self-assured man, especially where the beauty of her own sexis concerned, ventured at length to vary the subject by a question whichhad been long uppermost in her thoughts. It was, "Have you ever read'Udolpho, ' Mr. Thorpe?"

"'Udolpho'! O Lord! not I: I never read novels; I have something else todo. "

Catherine, humbled and ashamed, was going to apologize for her question;but he prevented her by saying, "Novels are all so full of nonsense andstuff! there has not been a tolerable decent one come out since 'TomJones, ' except the 'Monk'; I read that t'other day: but as for all theothers, they are the stupidest things in creation. "

"I think you must like 'Udolpho, ' if you were to read it: it is so veryinteresting. "

"Not I, faith! No, if I read any, it shall be Mrs. Radcliffe's; hernovels are amusing enough: they are worth reading; some fun and naturein _them_. 

"'Udolpho' was written by Mrs. Radcliffe, " said Catherine, with somehesitation, from the fear of mortifying him. 

"No, sure; was it? Ay, I remember, so it was; I was thinking of thatother stupid book, written by that woman they made such a fuss about;she who married the French emigrant. "

"I suppose you mean 'Camilla'?"

"Yes, that's the book: such unnatural stuff! An old man playing atsee-saw: I took up the first volume once, and looked it over, but I soonfound it would not do; indeed, I guessed what sort of stuff it must bebefore I saw it; as soon as I heard she had married an emigrant, I wassure I should never be able to get through it. "

"I have never read it. "

"You have no loss, I assure you; it is the horridest nonsense you canimagine: there is nothing in the world in it but an old man's playing atsee-saw and learning Latin; upon my soul, there is not. "

This critique, the justness of which was unfortunately lost on poorCatherine, brought them to the door of Mrs. Thorpe's lodgings, and thefeelings of the discerning and unprejudiced reader of 'Camilla' gave wayto the feelings of the dutiful and affectionate son, as they met Mrs. Thorpe, who had descried them from above, in the passage. "Ah, mother, how do you do?" said he, giving her a hearty shake of the hand; "wheredid you get that quiz of a hat? it makes you look like an old witch. Here is Morland and I come to stay a few days with you; so you must lookout for a couple of good beds somewhere near. " And this address seemedto satisfy all the fondest wishes of the mother's heart, for shereceived him with the most delighted and exulting affection. On his twoyounger sisters he then bestowed an equal portion of his fraternaltenderness, for he asked each of them how they did, and observed thatthey both looked very ugly. 

FAMILY DOCTORS

From 'Emma'

While they were thus comfortably occupied, Mr. Woodhouse was enjoying afull flow of happy regrets and tearful affection with his daughter. 

"My poor, dear Isabella, " said he, fondly taking her hand, andinterrupting for a few moments her busy labors for some one of her fivechildren, "how long it is, how terribly long since you were here! Andhow tired you must be after your journey! You must go to bed early, mydear, --and I recommend a little gruel to you before you go. You and Iwill have a nice basin of gruel together. My dear Emma, suppose we allhave a little gruel. "

Emma could not suppose any such thing, knowing as she did that both theMr. Knightleys were as unpersuadable on that article as herself, and twobasins only were ordered. After a little more discourse in praise ofgruel, with some wondering at its not being taken every evening byeverybody, he proceeded to say, with an air of grave reflection:--

"It was an awkward business, my dear, your spending the autumn at SouthEnd instead of coming here. I never had much opinion of the sea air. "

"Mr. Wingfield most strenuously recommended it, sir, or we should nothave gone. He recommended it for all the children, but particularly forthe weakness in little Bella's throat, --both sea air and bathing. "

"Ah, my dear, but Perry had many doubts about the sea doing her anygood; and as to myself, I have been long perfectly convinced, thoughperhaps I never told you so before, that the sea is very rarely of useto anybody. I am sure it almost killed me once. "

"Come, come, " cried Emma, feeling this to be an unsafe subject, "I mustbeg you not to talk of the sea. It makes me envious and miserable; I whohave never seen it! South End is prohibited, if you please. My dearIsabella, I have not heard you make one inquiry after Mr. Perry yet; andhe never forgets you. "

"Oh, good Mr. Perry, how is he, sir?"

"Why, pretty well; but not quite well. Poor Perry is bilious, and he hasnot time to take care of himself; he tells me he has not time to takecare of himself--which is very sad--but he is always wanted all roundthe country. I suppose there is not a man in such practice anywhere. Butthen, there is not so clever a man anywhere. "

"And Mrs. Perry and the children, how are they? Do the children grow? Ihave a great regard for Mr. Perry. I hope he will be calling soon. Hewill be so pleased to see my little ones. "

"I hope he will be here to-morrow, for I have a question or two to askhim about myself of some consequence. And, my dear, whenever he comes, you had better let him look at little Bella's throat. "

"Oh, my dear sir, her throat is so much better that I have hardly anyuneasiness about it. Either bathing has been of the greatest service toher, or else it is to be attributed to an excellent embrocation of Mr. Wingfield's, which we have been applying at times ever since August. "

"It is not very likely, my dear, that bathing should have been of use toher; and if I had known you were wanting an embrocation, I would havespoken to--"

"You seem to me to have forgotten Mrs. And Miss Bates, " said Emma: "Ihave not heard one inquiry after them. "

"Oh, the good Bateses--I am quite ashamed of myself; but you mentionthem in most of your letters. I hope they are quite well. Good old Mrs. Bates. I will call upon her to-morrow, and take my children. They arealways so pleased to see my children. And that excellent MissBates!--such thorough worthy people! How are they, sir?"

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

"How sorry I am! but colds were never so prevalent as they have beenthis autumn. Mr. Wingfield told me that he had never known them moregeneral or heavy, except when it has been quite an influenza. "

"That has been a good deal the case, my dear, but not to the degree youmention. Perry says that colds have been very general, but not so heavyas he has very often known them in November. Perry does not call italtogether a sickly season. "

"No, I do not know that Mr. Wingfield considers it _very_ sickly, except--"

"Ah, my poor, dear child, the truth is, that in London it is always asickly season. Nobody is healthy in London, nobody can be. It is adreadful thing to have you forced to live there;--so far off!--and theair so bad!"

"No, indeed, _we_ are not at all in a bad air. Our part of London is sovery superior to most others. You must not confound us with London ingeneral, my dear sir. The neighborhood of Brunswick Square is verydifferent from almost all the rest. We are so very airy! I should beunwilling, I own, to live in any other part of the town; there is hardlyany other that I could be satisfied to have my children in: but _we_ areso remarkably airy! Mr. Wingfield thinks the vicinity of BrunswickSquare decidedly the most favorable as to air. "

"Ah, my dear, it is not like Hartfield. You make the best of it--butafter you have been a week at Hartfield, you are all of you differentcreatures; you do not look like the same. Now, I cannot say that I thinkyou are any of you looking well at present. "

"I am sorry to hear you say so, sir; but I assure you, excepting thoselittle nervous headaches and palpitations which I am never entirely freefrom anywhere, I am quite well myself; and if the children were ratherpale before they went to bed, it was only because they were a littlemore tired than usual from their journey and the happiness of coming. Ihope you will think better of their looks to-morrow; for I assure youMr. Wingfield told me that he did not believe he had ever sent us off, altogether, in such good case. I trust at least that you do not thinkMr. Knightley looking ill, " turning her eyes with affectionate anxietytoward her husband. 

"Middling, my dear; I cannot compliment you. I think Mr. John Knightleyvery far from looking well. "

"What is the matter, sir? Did you speak to me?" cried Mr. JohnKnightley, hearing his own name. 

"I am sorry to find, my love, that my father does not think you lookingwell; but I hope it is only from being a little fatigued. I could havewished, however, as you know, that you had seen Mr. Wingfield before youleft home. "

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

"I did not thoroughly understand what you were telling your brother, "cried Emma, "about your friend Mr. Graham's intending to have a bailifffrom Scotland to look after his new estate. But will it answer? Will notthe old prejudice be too strong?"

And she talked in this way so long and successfully that, when forced togive her attention again to her father and sister, she had nothing worseto hear than Isabella's kind inquiry after Jane Fairfax; and JaneFairfax, though no great favorite with her in general, she was at thatmoment very happy to assist in praising. 

"That sweet, amiable Jane Fairfax!" said Mrs. John Knightley. "It is solong since I have seen her, except now and then for a momentaccidentally in town. What happiness it must be to her good oldgrandmother and excellent aunt when she comes to visit them! I alwaysregret excessively, on dear Emma's account, that she cannot be more atHighbury; but now their daughter is married I suppose Colonel and Mrs. Campbell will not be able to part with her at all. She would be such adelightful companion for Emma. "

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

"Our little friend Harriet Smith, however, is just such another prettykind of young person. You will like Harriet. Emma could not have abetter companion than Harriet. "

"I am most happy to hear it; but only Jane Fairfax one knows to be sovery accomplished and superior, and exactly Emma's age. "

This topic was discussed very happily, and others succeeded of similarmoment, and passed away with similar harmony; but the evening did notclose without a little return of agitation. The gruel came and supplieda great deal to be said--much praise and many comments--undoubtingdecision of its wholesomeness for every constitution, and pretty severephilippies upon the many houses where it was never met with tolerably;but unfortunately, among the failures which the daughter had toinstance, the most recent and therefore most prominent was in her owncook at South End, a young woman hired for the time, who never had beenable to understand what she meant by a basin of nice smooth gruel, thin, but not too thin. Often as she had wished for and ordered it, she hadnever been able to get anything tolerable. Here was a dangerous opening. 

"Ah, " said Mr. Woodhouse, shaking his head, and fixing his eyes on herwith tender concern. The ejaculation in Emma's ear expressed, "Ah, thereis no end of the sad consequences of your going to South End. It doesnot bear talking of. " And for a little while she hoped he would not talkof it, and that a silent rumination might suffice to restore him to therelish of his own smooth gruel. After an interval of some minutes, however, he began with--

"I shall always be very sorry that you went to the sea this autumn, instead of coming here. "

"But why should you be sorry, sir? I assure you it did the children agreat deal of good. "

"And moreover, if you must go to the sea, it had better not have been toSouth End. South End is an unhealthy place. Perry was surprised to hearyou had fixed upon South End. "

"I know there is such an idea with many people, but indeed it is quitea mistake, sir. We all had our health perfectly well there, never foundthe least inconvenience from the mud, and Mr. Wingfield says it isentirely a mistake to suppose the place unhealthy; and I am sure he maybe depended on, for he thoroughly understands the nature of the air, andhis own brother and family have been there repeatedly. "

"You should have gone to Cromer, my dear, if you went anywhere. Perrywas a week at Cromer once, and he holds it to be the best of all thesea-bathing places. A fine open sea, he says, and very pure air. And bywhat I understand, you might have had lodgings there quite away from thesea--a quarter of a mile off--very comfortable. You should haveconsulted Perry. "

"But my dear sir, the difference of the journey: only consider how greatit would have been. A hundred miles, perhaps, instead of forty. "

"Ah, my dear, as Perry says, where health is at stake, nothing elseshould be considered; and if one is to travel, there is not much tochoose between forty miles and a hundred. Better not move at all, betterstay in London altogether than travel forty miles to get into a worseair. This is just what Perry said. It seemed to him a veryill-judged measure. "

Emma's attempts to stop her father had been vain; and when he hadreached such a point as this, she could not wonder at herbrother-in-law's breaking out. 

"Mr. Perry, " said he, in a voice of very strong displeasure, "would doas well to keep his opinion till it is asked for. Why does he make itany business of his to wonder at what I do at my taking my family to onepart of the coast or another? I may be allowed, I hope, the use of myjudgment as well as Mr. Perry. I want his directions no more than hisdrugs. " He paused, and growing cooler in a moment, added, with onlysarcastic dryness, "If Mr. Perry can tell me how to convey a wife andfive children a distance of a hundred and thirty miles with no greaterexpense or inconvenience than a distance of forty, I should be aswilling to prefer Cromer to South End as he could himself. "

"True, true, " cried Mr. Knightley, with most ready interposition, "verytrue. That's a consideration, indeed. But, John, as to what I wastelling you of my idea of moving the path to Langham, of turning it moreto the right that it may not cut through the home meadows, I cannotconceive any difficulty. I should not attempt it, if it were to be themeans of inconvenience to the Highbury people, but if you call to mindexactly the present light of the path--The only way of proving it, however, will be to turn to our maps. I shall see you at the Abbeyto-morrow morning, I hope, and then we will look them over, and youshall give me your opinion. "

Mr. Woodhouse was rather agitated by such harsh reflections on hisfriend Perry, to whom he had in fact, though unconsciously, beenattributing many of his own feelings and expressions; but the soothingattentions of his daughters gradually removed the present evil, and theimmediate alertness of one brother, and better recollections of theother, prevented any renewal of it. 

FAMILY TRAINING

From 'Mansfield Park'

As her [Fanny Price's] appearance and spirits improved, Sir Thomas andMrs. Norris thought with greater satisfaction of their benevolent plan;and it was pretty soon decided between them, that though far fromclever, she showed a tractable disposition, and seemed likely to givethem little trouble. A mean opinion of her abilities was not confined to_them_. Fanny could read, work, and write, but she had been taughtnothing more; and as her cousins found her ignorant of many things withwhich they had been long familiar, they thought her prodigiously stupid, and for the first two or three weeks were continually bringing somefresh report of it into the drawing-room. 

"Dear mamma, only think, my cousin cannot put the map of Europetogether"--or "my cousin cannot tell the principal rivers in Russia"--or"she never heard of Asia Minor"--or "she does not know the differencebetween water-colors and crayons! How strange! Did you ever hearanything so stupid?"

"My dear, " their aunt would reply, "it is very bad, but you must notexpect everybody to be as quick at learning as yourself. "

"But, aunt, she is really so very ignorant! Do you know, we asked herlast night which way she would go to get to Ireland; and she said sheshould cross to the Isle of Wight. She thinks of nothing but the Isle ofWight, and she calls it _the Island_, as if there were no other islandin the world. I am sure I should have been ashamed of myself, if I hadnot known better long before I was so old as she is. I cannot rememberthe time when I did not know a great deal that she has not the leastnotion of yet. How long ago it is, aunt, since we used to repeat thechronological order of the kings of England, with the dates of theiraccession, and most of the principal events of their reigns!"

"Yes, " added the other; "and of the Roman emperors as low as Severus;besides a great deal of the heathen mythology, and all the metals, semi-metals, planets, and distinguished philosophers. "

"Very true, indeed, my dears, but you are blessed with wonderfulmemories, and your poor cousin has probably none at all. There is a vastdeal of difference in memories, as well as in everything else; andtherefore you must make allowance for your cousin, and pity herdeficiency. And remember that if you are ever so forward and cleveryourselves, you should always be modest, for, much as you know already, there is a great deal more for you to learn. "

"Yes, I know there is, till I am seventeen. But I must tell you anotherthing of Fanny, so odd and so stupid. Do you know, she says she does notwant to learn either music or drawing?"

"To be sure, my dear, that is very stupid indeed, and shows a great wantof genius and emulation. But, all things considered, I do not knowwhether it is not as well that it should be so: for though you know(owing to me) your papa and mamma are so good as to bring her up withyou, it is not at all necessary that she should be as accomplished asyou are; on the contrary, it is much more desirable that there should bea difference. "

Such were the counsels by which Mrs. Norris assisted to form her nieces'minds; and it is not very wonderful that, with all their promisingtalents and early information, they should be entirely deficient in theless common acquirements of self-knowledge, generosity, and humility. Ineverything but disposition, they were admirably taught. Sir Thomas didnot know what was wanting, because, though a truly anxious father, hewas not outwardly affectionate, and the reserve of his manner repressedall the flow of their spirits before him. 

PRIVATE THEATRICALS

From 'Mansfield Park'

Fanny looked on and listened, not unamused to observe the selfishnesswhich, more or less disguised, seemed to govern them all, and wonderinghow it would end. 

Three of the characters were now cast, besides Mr. Rushworth, who wasalways answered for by Maria as willing to do anything; when Julia, meaning, like her sister, to be Agatha, began to be scrupulous on MissCrawford's account. 

"This is not behaving well by the absent, " said she. "Here are not womenenough. Amelia and Agatha may do for Maria and me, but here is nothingfor your sister, Mr. Crawford. "

Mr. Crawford desired _that_ might not be thought of; he was very surehis sister had no wish of acting but as she might be useful, and thatshe would not allow herself to be considered in the present case. Butthis was immediately opposed by Tom Bertram, who asserted the part ofAmelia to be in every respect the property of Miss Crawford, if shewould accept it. "It falls as naturally as necessarily to her, " said he, "as Agatha does to one or other of my sisters. It can be no sacrifice ontheir side, for it is highly comic. "

A short silence followed. Each sister looked anxious; for each felt thebest claim to Agatha, and was hoping to have it pressed on her by therest. Henry Crawford, who meanwhile had taken up the play, and withseeming carelessness was turning over the first act, soon settledthe business. 

"I must entreat Miss _Julia_ Bertram, " said he, "not to engage in thepart of Agatha, or it will be the ruin of all my solemnity. You mustnot, indeed you must not [turning to her]. I could not stand yourcountenance dressed up in woe and paleness. The many laughs we have hadtogether would infallibly come across me, and Frederick and his knapsackwould be obliged to run away. "

Pleasantly, courteously, it was spoken; but the manner was lost in thematter to Julia's feelings. She saw a glance at Maria, which confirmedthe injury to herself: it was a scheme, a trick; she was slighted, Mariawas preferred; the smile of triumph which Maria was trying to suppressshowed how well it was understood: and before Julia could commandherself enough to speak, her brother gave his weight against her too, by saying, "Oh yes! Maria must be Agatha. Maria will be the best Agatha. Though Julia fancies she prefers tragedy, I would not trust her in it. There is nothing of tragedy about her. She has not the look of it. Herfeatures are not tragic features, and she walks too quick, and speakstoo quick, and would not keep her countenance. She had better do the oldcountrywoman--the Cottager's wife; you had, indeed, Julia. Cottager'swife is a very pretty part, I assure you. The old lady relieves thehigh-flown benevolence of her husband with a good deal of spirit. Youshall be the Cottager's wife. "

"Cottager's wife!" cried Mr. Yates. "What are you talking of? The mosttrivial, paltry, insignificant part; the merest commonplace; not atolerable speech in the whole. Your sister do that! It is an insult topropose it. At Ecclesford the governess was to have done it. We allagreed that it could not be offered to anybody else. A little morejustice, Mr. Manager, if you please. You do not deserve the office ifyou cannot appreciate the talents of your company a little better. "

"Why, as to _that_, my good friends, till I and my company have reallyacted, there must be some guesswork; but I mean no disparagement toJulia. We cannot have two Agathas, and we must have one Cottager's wife;and I am sure I set her the example of moderation myself in beingsatisfied with the old Butler. If the part is trifling she will havemore credit in making something of it: and if she is so desperately bentagainst everything humorous, let her take Cottager's speeches instead ofCottager's wife's, and so change the parts all through; _he_ is solemnand pathetic enough, I am sure. It could make no difference in the play;and as for Cottager himself, when he has got his wife's speeches, _I_would undertake him with all my heart. "

"With all your partiality for Cottager's wife, " said Henry Crawford, "itwill be impossible to make anything of it fit for your sister, and wemust not suffer her good nature to be imposed on. We must not _allow_her to accept the part. She must not be left to her own complaisance. Her talents will be wanted in Amelia. Amelia is a character moredifficult to be well represented than even Agatha. I consider Amelia asthe most difficult character in the whole piece. It requires greatpowers, great nicety, to give her playfulness and simplicity withoutextravagance. I have seen good actresses fail in the part. Simplicity, indeed, is beyond the reach of almost every actress by profession. Itrequires a delicacy of feeling which they have not. It requires agentlewoman--a Julia Bertram. You _will_ undertake it, I hope?" turningto her with a look of anxious entreaty, which softened her a little; butwhile she hesitated what to say, her brother again interposed with MissCrawford's better claim. 

"No, no, Julia must not be Amelia. It is not at all the part for her. She would not like it. She would not do well. She is too tall androbust. Amelia should be a small, light, girlish, skipping figure. It isfit for Miss Crawford, and Miss Crawford only. She looks the part, and Iam persuaded will do it admirably. "

Without attending to this, Henry Crawford continued his supplication. "You must oblige us, " said he, "indeed you must. When you have studiedthe character I am sure you will feel it suits you. Tragedy may be yourchoice, but it will certainly appear that comedy chooses _you_. You willhave to visit me in prison with a basket of provisions; you will notrefuse to visit me in prison? I think I see you coming in withyour basket. "

The influence of his voice was felt. Julia wavered; but was he onlytrying to soothe and pacify her, and make her overlook the previousaffront? She distrusted him. The slight had been most determined. Hewas, perhaps, but at treacherous play with her. She looked suspiciouslyat her sister; Maria's countenance was to decide it; if she were vexedand alarmed--but Maria looked all serenity and satisfaction, and Juliawell knew that on this ground Maria could not be happy but at herexpense. With hasty indignation, therefore, and a tremulous voice, shesaid to him, "You do not seem afraid of not keeping your countenancewhen I come in with a basket of provisions--though one might havesupposed--but it is only as Agatha that I was to be so overpowering!"She stopped, Henry Crawford looked rather foolish, and as if he did notknow what to say. Tom Bertram began again:--

"Miss Crawford must be Amelia. She will be an excellent Amelia. "

"Do not be afraid of _my_ wanting the character, " cried Julia, withangry quickness: "I am _not_ to be Agatha, and I am sure I will donothing else; and as to Amelia, it is of all parts in the world themost disgusting to me. I quite detest her. An odious little, pert, unnatural, impudent girl. I have always protested against comedy, andthis is comedy in its worst form. " And so saying, she walked hastily outof the room, leaving awkward feelings to more than one, but excitingsmall compassion in any except Fanny, who had been a quiet auditor ofthe whole, and who could not think of her as under the agitations of_jealousy_ without great pity. .. . 

The inattention of the two brothers and the aunt to Julia'sdiscomposure, and their blindness to its true cause, must be imputed tothe fullness of their own minds. They were totally preoccupied. Tom wasengrossed by the concerns of his theatre, and saw nothing that did notimmediately relate to it. Edmund, between his theatrical and his realpart--between Miss Crawford's claims and his own conduct--between loveand consistency, was equally unobservant: and Mrs. Norris was too busyin contriving and directing the general little matters of the company, superintending their various dresses with economical expedients, forwhich nobody thanked her, and saving, with delighted integrity, half-a-crown here and there to the absent Sir Thomas, to have leisurefor watching the behavior, or guarding the happiness, of his daughters. 

FRUITLESS REGRETS AND APPLES OF SODOM

From 'Mansfield Park'

These were the circumstances and the hopes which gradually brought theiralleviation to Sir Thomas, deadening his sense of what was lost, and inpart reconciling him to himself; though the anguish arising from theconviction of his own errors in the education of his daughters was neverto be entirely done away. 

Too late he became aware how unfavorable to the character of any youngpeople must be the totally opposite treatment which Maria and Julia hadbeen always experiencing at home, where the excessive indulgence andflattery of their aunt had been continually contrasted with his ownseverity. He saw how ill he had judged, in expecting to counteract whatwas wrong in Mrs. Norris by its reverse in himself, clearly saw that hehad but increased the evil, by teaching them to repress their spiritsin his presence so as to make their real disposition unknown to him, and sending them for all their indulgences to a person who had been ableto attach them only by the blindness of her affection and the excess ofher praise. 

Here had been grievous mismanagement; but, bad as it was, he graduallygrew to feel that it had not been the most direful mistake in his planof education. Something must have been wanting _within_, or time wouldhave worn away much of its ill effect. He feared that principle, activeprinciple, had been wanting; that they had never been properly taught togovern their inclinations and tempers, by that sense of duty which canalone suffice. They had been instructed theoretically in their religion, but never required to bring it into daily practice. To be distinguishedfor elegance and accomplishments--the authorized object of theiryouth--could have had no useful influence that way, no moral effect onthe mind. He had meant them to be good, but his cares had been directedto the understanding and manners, not the disposition; and of thenecessity of self-denial and humility, he feared they had never heardfrom any lips that could profit them. 

Bitterly did he deplore a deficiency which now he could scarcelycomprehend to have been possible. Wretchedly did he feel, that with allthe cost and care of an anxious and expensive education, he had broughtup his daughters without their understanding their first duties, or hisbeing acquainted with their character and temper. 

The high spirit and strong passions of Mrs. Rushworth especially weremade known to him only in their sad result. She was not to be prevailedon to leave Mr. Crawford. She hoped to marry him, and they continuedtogether till she was obliged to be convinced that such hope was vain, and till the disappointment and wretchedness arising from the convictionrendered her temper so bad, and her feelings for him so like hatred, asto make them for a while each other's punishment, and then induce avoluntary separation. 

She had lived with him to be reproached as the ruin of all his happinessin Fanny, and carried away no better consolation in leaving him, thanthat she _had_ divided them. What can exceed the misery of such a mindin such a situation!

Mr. Rushworth had no difficulty in procuring a divorce; and so ended amarriage contracted under such circumstances as to make any better endthe effect of good luck, not to be reckoned on. She had despised him, and loved another--and he had been very much aware that it was so. Theindignities of stupidity, and the disappointments of selfish passion, can excite little pity. His punishment followed his conduct, as did adeeper punishment the deeper guilt of his wife. _He_ was released fromthe engagement, to be mortified and unhappy till some other pretty girlcould attract him into matrimony again, and he might set forward on asecond, and it is to be hoped more prosperous trial of the state--ifduped, to be duped at least with good humor and good luck; while _she_must withdraw with infinitely stronger feelings, to a retirement andreproach which could allow no second spring of hope or character. 

Where she could be placed, became a subject of most melancholy andmomentous consultation. Mrs. Norris, whose attachment seemed to augmentwith the demerits of her niece, would have had her received at home andcountenanced by them all. Sir Thomas would not hear of it; and Mrs. Norris's anger against Fanny was so much the greater, from considering_her_ residence there as the motive. She persisted in placing hisscruples to _her_ account, though Sir Thomas very solemnly assured herthat had there been no young woman in question, had there been no youngperson of either sex belonging to him, to be endangered by the societyor hurt by the character of Mrs. Rushworth, he would never have offeredso great an insult to the neighborhood as to expect it to notice her. Asa daughter--he hoped a penitent one--she should be protected by him, andsecured in every comfort and supported by every encouragement to doright which their relative situations admitted; but farther than _that_he would not go. Maria had destroyed her own character; and he wouldnot, by a vain attempt to restore what never could be restored, beaffording his sanction to vice, or, in seeking to lessen its disgrace, be anywise accessory to introducing such misery in another man's familyas he had known himself. .. . 

Henry Crawford, ruined by early independence and bad domestic example, indulged in the freaks of a cold-blooded vanity a little too long. Onceit had, by an opening undesigned and unmerited, led him into the way ofhappiness. Could he have been satisfied with the conquest of one amiablewoman's affections, could he have found sufficient exultation inovercoming the reluctance, in working himself into the esteem andtenderness of Fanny Price, there would have been every probability ofsuccess and felicity for him. His affection had already done something. Her influence over him had already given him some influence over her. Would he have deserved more, there can be no doubt that more would havebeen obtained; especially when that marriage had taken place, whichwould have given him the assistance of her conscience in subduing herfirst inclination, and brought them very often together. Would he havepersevered, and uprightly, Fanny must have been his reward--and a rewardvery voluntarily bestowed--within a reasonable period from Edmund'smarrying Mary. Had he done as he intended, and as he knew he ought, bygoing down to Everingham after his return from Portsmouth, he might havebeen deciding his own happy destiny. But he was pressed to stay for Mrs. Fraser's party: his staying was made of flattering consequence, and hewas to meet Mrs. Rushworth there. Curiosity and vanity were bothengaged, and the temptation of immediate pleasure was too strong for amind unused to make any sacrifice to right; he resolved to defer hisNorfolk journey, resolved that writing should answer the purpose of it, or that its purpose was unimportant--and staid. He saw Mrs. Rushworth, was received by her with a coldness which ought to have been repulsive, and have established apparent indifference between them for ever: but hewas mortified, he could not bear to be thrown off by the woman whosesmiles had been so wholly at his command; he must exert himself tosubdue so proud a display of resentment: it was anger on Fanny'saccount; he must get the better of it, and make Mrs. Rushworth MariaBertram again in her treatment of himself. 

In this spirit he began the attack; and by animated perseverance hadsoon re-established the sort of familiar intercourse--of gallantry--offlirtation--which bounded his views: but in triumphing over thediscretion, which, though beginning in anger, might have saved themboth, he had put himself in the power of feelings on her side morestrong than he had supposed. She loved him; there was no withdrawingattentions avowedly dear to her. He was entangled by his own vanity, with as little excuse of love as possible, and without the smallestinconstancy of mind towards her cousin. To keep Fanny and the Bertramsfrom a knowledge of what was passing became his first object. Secrecycould not have been more desirable for Mrs. Rushworth's credit than hefelt it for his own. When he returned from Richmond, he would have beenglad to see Mrs. Rushworth no more. All that followed was the result ofher imprudence; and he went off with her at last because he could nothelp it, regretting Fanny even at the moment, but regretting herinfinitely more when all the bustle of the intrigue was over, and a veryfew months had taught him, by the force of contrast, to place a yethigher value on the sweetness of her temper, the purity of her mind, andthe excellence of her principles. 

That punishment, the public punishment of disgrace, should in a justmeasure attend _his_ share of the offense, is, we know, not one of thebarriers which society gives to virtue. In this world, the penalty isless equal than could be wished; but without presuming to look forwardto a juster appointment hereafter, we may fairly consider a man ofsense, like Henry Crawford, to be providing for himself no small portionof vexation and regret--vexation that must rise sometimes toself-reproach, and regret to wretchedness--in having so requitedhospitality, so injured family peace, so forfeited his best, mostestimable, and endeared acquaintance, and so lost the woman whom he hadrationally as well as passionately loved. 

AVERROËS

(1126-1198)

Averroës (Abu 'l Walid Muhammad, ibn Achmad, ibn Muhammad, IBN RUSHD; ormore in English, Abu 'l Walid Muhammed, the son of Achmet, the son ofMuhammed, the son of Rushd) was born in 1126 at Cordova, Spain. Hisfather and grandfather, the latter a celebrated jurist and canonist, hadbeen judges in that city. He first studied theology and canon law, andlater medicine and philosophy; thus, like Faust, covering the wholefield of mediæal science. His life was cast in the most brilliant periodof Western Muslim culture, in the splendor of that rationalism whichpreceded the great darkness of religious fanaticism. As a young man, hewas introduced by Ibn Tufail (Abubacer), author of the famous 'Hayyal-Yukdhan, ' a philosophical 'Robinson Crusoe, ' to the enlightenedKhalif Abu Ya'kub Yusuf (1163-84), as a fit expounder of the thenpopular philosophy of Aristotle. This position he filled with so muchsuccess as to become a favorite with the Prince, and finally his privatephysician. He likewise filled the important office of judge, first atSeville, later at Cordova. 

He enjoyed even greater consideration under the next Khalif, Ya'kubal-Mansur, until the year 1195, when the jealousy of his rivals and thefanaticism of the Berbers led to his being accused of championingphilosophy to the detriment of religion. Though Averroës alwaysprofessed great respect for religion, and especially for Islam, as avaluable popular substitute for science and philosophy, the charge couldhardly be rebutted (as will be shown later), and the Amir of theFaithful could scarcely afford openly to favor a heretic. Averroës wasaccordingly deprived of his honors, and banished to Lacena, a Jewishsettlement near Cordova--a fact which gives coloring to the belief thathe was of Jewish descent. To satisfy his fanatical subjects for themoment, the Khalif published severe edicts not only against Averroës, but against all learned men and all learning as hostile to religion. Fora time the poor philosopher could not appear in public without beingmobbed; but after two years, a less fanatical party having come intopower, the Prince revoked his edicts, and Averroës was restored tofavor. This event he did not long survive. He died on 10th December1198, in Marocco. Here too he was buried; but his body was afterwardtransported to Cordova, and laid in the tomb of his fathers. He leftseveral sons, more than one of whom came to occupy important positions. 

Averroës was the last great Muslim thinker, summing up and carrying toits conclusions the thought of four hundred years. The philosophy ofIslam, which flourished first in the East, in Basra and Bagdad(800-1100), and then in the West, Cordova, Toledo, etc. (1100-1200), wasa mixture of Aristotelianism and Neo-Platonism, borrowed, under theearlier Persianizing Khalifs, from the Christian (mainly Nestorian)monks of Syria and Mesopotamia, being consequently a naturalisticsystem. In it God was acknowledged only as the supreme abstraction;while eternal matter, law, and impersonal intelligence played theprincipal part. It was necessarily irreconcilable with Muslim orthodoxy, in which a crudely conceived, intensely personal God is all in all. While Persian influence was potent, philosophy flourished, produced somereally great scholars and thinkers, made considerable headway againstMuslim fatalism and predestination, and seemed in a fair way to bringabout a free and rational civilization, eminent in science and art. Butno sooner did the fanatical or scholastic element get the upper handthan philosophy vanished, and with it all hope of a great Muslimcivilization in the East. This change was marked by Al-Ghazzali, and hisbook 'The Destruction of the Philosophers. ' He died in A. D. 1111, andthen the works of Al-Farabi, Ibn-Sina, and the "Brothers of Purity, "wandered out to the far West, to seek for appreciation among the Muslim, Jews, and Christians of Spain. And for a brief time they found it there, and in the twelfth century found also eloquent expounders at themosque-schools of Cordova, Toledo, Seville, and Saragossa. Of these themost famous were Ibn Baja, Ibn Tufail, and Ibn Rushd (Averroës). 

During its progress, Muslim philosophy had gradually been eliminatingthe Neo-Platonic, mystic element, and returning to pure Aristotelianism. In Averroës, who professed to be merely a commentator on Aristotle, thistendency reached its climax; and though he still regarded thepseudo-Aristotelian works as genuine, and did not entirely escape theirinfluence, he is by far the least mystic of Muslim thinkers. The twofundamental doctrines upon which he always insisted, and which long madehis name famous, not to say notorious, the eternity of matter and of theworld (involving a denial of the doctrine of creation), and the onenessof the active intellect in all men (involving the mortality of theindividual soul and the impossibility of resurrection and judgment), areboth of Aristotelian origin. It was no wonder that he came into conflictwith the orthodox Muslim; for in the warfare between Arab prophetism, with its shallow apologetic scholasticism, and Greek philosophy, withits earnest endeavor to find truth, and its belief in reason as the solerevealer thereof, he unhesitatingly took the side of the latter. He heldthat man is made to discover truth, and that the serious study of Godand his works is the noblest form of worship. 

However little one may agree with his chief tenets, there can be nodoubt that he was the most enlightened man of the entire Middle Age, inEurope at least; and if his spirit and work had been continued, WesternIslâm might have become a great permanent civilizing power. But hereagain, after a brief period of extraordinary philosophic brilliancy, fanaticism got the upper hand. With the death of Averroës the last hopeof a beneficent Muslim civilization came to an end. Since then, Islamhas been a synonym for blind fanaticism and cruel bigotry. In many partsof the Muslim world, "philosopher" is a term of reproach, like"miscreant. "

But though Islam rejected its philosopher, Averroës's work was by nomeans without its effect. It was through his commentaries on Aristotlethat the thought of that greatest of ancient thinkers became known tothe western world, both Jewish and Christian. Among the Jews, hiswritings soon acquired almost canonical authority. His system foundexpression in the works of the best known of Hebrew thinkers, Maimonides (1135-1204), "the second Moses" works which, despite allorthodox opposition, dominated Jewish thought for nearly three hundredyears, and made the Jews during that time the chief promoters ofrationalism. When Muslim persecution forced a large number of Jews toleave Spain and settle in Southern France, the works of Averroës andMaimonides were translated into Hebrew, which thenceforth became thevehicle of Jewish thought; and thus Muslim Aristotelianism came intodirect contact with Christianity. 

Among the Christians, the works of Averroës, translated by MichaelScott, "wizard of dreaded fame, " Hermann the German, and others, actedat once like a mighty solvent. Heresy followed in their track, and shookthe Church to her very foundations. Recognizing that her existence wasat stake, she put forth all her power to crush the intruder. The Orderof Preachers, initiated by St. Dominic of Calahorra (1170-1221), wasfounded; the Inquisition was legalized (about 1220). The writings ofAristotle and his Arab commentators were condemned to the flames (1209, 1215, 1231). Later, when all this proved unavailing, the best intellectsin Christendom, such as Albertus Magnus (1193-1280), and Thomas Aquinas(1227-74), undertook to repel the new doctrine with its own weapons;that is, by submitting the thought of Aristotle and his Arabcommentators to rational discussion. Thus was introduced the second orpalmy period of Christian Scholasticism, whose chief industry, we mayfairly say, was directed to the refutation of the two leading doctrinesof Averroës. Aiming at this, Thomas Aquinas threw the whole dogmaticsystem of the Church into the forms of Aristotle, and thus produced thatcolossal system of theology which still prevails in the Roman Catholicworld; witness the Encyclical _Æterni Patris_ of Leo XIII. , issuedin 1879. 

By the great thinkers of the thirteenth century, Averroës, thoughregarded as heretical and dangerous in religion, was looked up to as anable thinker, and the commentator _par excellence_; so much so that St. Thomas borrowed from him the very form of his own Commentaries, andDante assigned him a distinguished place, beside Plato and Aristotle, inthe limbo of ancient sages ('Inferno, ' iv. 143). But in the followingcentury--mainly, no doubt, because he was chosen as the patron ofcertain strongly heretical movements, such as those instigated by thearch-rationalist Frederic II--he came to be regarded as the precursor ofAntichrist, if not that personage himself: being credited with the awfulblasphemy of having spoken of the founders of the three currentreligions--Moses, Jesus, and Muhammad--as "the three impostors. "Whatever truth there may be in this, so much is certain, thatinfidelity, in the sense of an utter disbelief in Christianity as arevealed religion, or in any sense specially true, dates from thethirteenth century, and is due in large measure to the influence ofAverroës. Yet he was a great favorite with the Franciscans, and for atime exercised a profound influence on the universities of Paris andOxford, finding a strong admirer even in Roger Bacon. His thought wasalso a powerful element in the mysticism of Meister Eckhart and hisfollowers; a mysticism which incurred the censure of the Church. 

Thus both the leading forms of heresy which characterized the thirteenthcentury--naturalism with its tendency to magic, astrology, alchemy, etc. , etc. , and mysticism with its dreams of beatific visions, itsself-torture and its lawlessness (see Görres, 'Die ChristlicheMystik')--were due largely to Averroës. In spite of this, hiscommentaries on Aristotle maintained their credit, their influence beinggreatest in the fourteenth century, when his doctrines were openlyprofessed. After the invention of printing, they appeared in numberlesseditions, --several times in connection with the text of Aristotle. Asthe age of the Renaissance and of Protestantism approached, theygradually lost their prestige. The chief humanists, like Petrarch, aswell as the chief reformers, were bitterly hostile to them. Nevertheless, they contributed important elements to both movements. 

Averroism survived longest in Northern Italy, especially in theUniversity of Padua, where it was professed until the seventeenthcentury, and where, as a doctrine hostile to supernaturalism, it pavedthe way for the study of nature and the rise of modern science. ThusAverroës may fairly be said to have had a share in every movement towardfreedom, wise and unwise, for the last seven hundred years. In truth, free thought in Europe owes more to him than to any other man exceptAbélard. His last declared follower was the impetuous Lucilio Vanini, who was burned for atheism at Toulouse in 1619. 

The best work on Averroës is Renan's 'Averroës et l'Averroïsme' (fourthedition, Paris, 1893). This contains, on pages 58-79, a complete listboth of his commentaries and his original writings. 

THE AVESTA

(From about B. C. Sixth Century)

BY A. V. WILLIAMS JACKSON

Avesta, or Zend-Avesta, an interesting monument of antiquity, is theBible of Zoroaster, the sacred book of ancient Iran, and holy scriptureof the modern Parsis. The exact meaning of the name "Avesta" is notcertain; it may perhaps signify "law, " "text, " or, more doubtfully, "wisdom, " "revelation. " The modern familiar designation of the book asZend-Avesta is not strictly accurate; if used at all, it should ratherbe Avesta-Zend, like "Bible and Commentary, " as _zand_ signifies"explanation, " "commentary, " and _Avesta u Zand_ is employed in somePersian allusions to the Zoroastrian scriptures as a designationdenoting the text of the Avesta accompanied by the Pahlavi version orinterpretation. 

The story of the recovery of the Avesta, or rather the discovery of theAvesta, by the enthusiastic young French scholar Anquetil du Perron, whowas the first to open to the western world the ancient records ofZoroastrianism, reads almost like a romance. Du Perron's own account ofhis departure for India in 1754, of his experiences with the _dasturs_(or priests) during a seven years' residence among them, of his variousdifficulties and annoyances, setbacks and successes, is entertaininglypresented in the introductory volume of his work 'Zend-Avesta, Ouvragede Zoroastre' (3 Vols. , Paris, 1771). This was the first translation ofthe ancient Persian books published in a European language. Itsappearance formed one of those epochs which are marked by an addition tothe literary, religious, or philosophical wealth of our time; a newcontribution was added to the riches of the West from the treasures ofthe East. The field thus thrown open, although worked imperfectly atfirst, has yielded abundant harvests to the hands of later gleaners. 

_THE ZEND-AVESTA. _

Facsimile of a Page of the AVESTA; from the oldest preserved manuscriptcontaining the YAÇNA. A. D. 1325. In the Royal Library at Copenhagen. 

The Zend-Avesta--more properly the Avesta-Zend, i. E. , "Text andCommentary" is the "Bible" of the Persians. The four parts into which itis divided are called Yaçna, Vispered, Vendidad, and Khordah-Avesta. 

[Illustration]

With the growth of our knowledge of the language of the sacred texts, wehave now a clear idea also of the history of Zoroastrian literature andof the changes and chances through which with varying fortunes thescriptures have passed. The original Zoroastrian Avesta, according totradition, was in itself a literature of vast dimensions. Pliny, in his'Natural History, ' speaks of two million verses of Zoroaster; to whichmay be added the Persian assertion that the original copy of thescriptures was written upon twelve thousand parchments, with goldilluminated letters, and was deposited in the library at Persepolis. Butwhat was the fate of this archetype? Parsi tradition has an answer. Alexander the Great--"the accursed Iskander, " as he is called--isresponsible for its destruction. At the request of the beautiful Thais, as the story goes, he allowed the palace of Persepolis to be burned, andthe precious treasure perished in the flames. Whatever view we may takeof the different sides of this story, one thing cannot be denied: theinvasion of Alexander and the subjugation of Iran was indirectly ordirectly the cause of a certain religious decadence which followed uponthe disruption of the Persian Empire, and was answerable for the factthat a great part of the scriptures was forgotten or fell into disuse. Persian tradition lays at the doors of the Greeks the loss of anothercopy of the original ancient texts, but does not explain in what mannerthis happened; nor has it any account to give of copies of the prophet'sworks which Semitic writers say were translated into nearly a dozendifferent languages. One of these versions was perhaps Greek, for it isgenerally acknowledged that in the fourth century B. C. The philosopherTheopompus spent much time in giving in his own tongue the contents ofthe sacred Magian books. 

Tradition is unanimous on one point at least: it is that the originalAvesta comprised twenty-one _Nasks_, or books, a statement which thereis no good reason to doubt. The same tradition which was acquainted withthe general character of these Nasks professes also to tell exactly howmany of them survived the inroad of Alexander; for although the sacredtext itself was destroyed, its contents were lost only in part, thepriests preserving large portions of the precious scriptures. These metwith many vicissitudes in the five centuries that intervened between theconquest of Alexander and the great restoration of Zoroastrianism in thethird century of our era, under the Sassanian dynasty. At this periodall obtainable Zoroastrian scriptures were collected, the compilationwas codified, and a detailed notice made of the contents of each of theoriginal Nasks compared with the portions then surviving. The originalAvesta was, it would appear, a sort of encyclopaedic work; not ofreligion alone, but of useful knowledge relating to law, to the arts, science, the professions, and to every-day life. If we may judge fromthe existing table of contents of these Nasks, the zealous Sassanians, even in the time of the collecting (A. D. 226-380), were able to restorebut a fragment of the archetype, perhaps a fourth part of the originalAvesta. Nor was this remnant destined to escape misfortune. TheMohammedan invasion, in the seventh century of our era added a final andcrushing blow. Much of the religion that might otherwise have beenhanded down to us, despite "the accursed Iskander's" conquest, nowperished through the sword and the Koran. Its loss, we must remember, isin part compensated by the Pahlavi religious literature ofSassanian days. 

Fragmentary and disjointed as are the remnants of the Avesta, we arefortunate in possessing even this moiety of the Bible of Zoroaster, whose compass is about one tenth that of our own sacred book. A groupingof the existing texts is here presented:--1. Yasna (including Gathas). 2. Visperad. 3. Yashts. 4. Minor Texts. 5. Vendidad. 6. Fragments. 

Even these texts no single manuscript in our time contains complete. Thepresent collection is made by combining various Avestan codexes. Inspite of the great antiquity of the literature, all the existingmanuscripts are comparatively young. None is older than the thirteenthcentury of our own era, while the direct history of only one or two canbe followed back to about the tenth century. This mere externalcircumstance has of course no bearing on the actual early age of theZoroastrian scriptures. It must be kept in mind that Zoroaster lived atleast six centuries before the birth of Christ. 

Among the six divisions of our present Avesta, the Yasna, Visperad, andVendidad are closely connected. They are employed in the daily ritual, and they are also accompanied by a version or interpretation in thePahlavi language, which serves at the same time as a sort of commentary. The three divisions are often found combined into a sort of prayer-book, called Vendidad-Sadah (Vendidad Pure); i. E. , Avesta text without thePahlavi rendering. The chapters in this case are arranged with specialreference to liturgical usage. 

Some idea of the character of the Avesta as it now exists may be derivedfrom the following sketch of its contents and from the illustrativeselections presented:--

1. _Yasna_ (sacrifice, worship), the chief liturgical work of the sacredcanon. It consists mainly of ascriptions of praise and of prayer, andcorresponds nearly to our idea of a prayer-book. The Yasna comprisesseventy-two chapters; these fall into three nearly equal parts. Themiddle, or oldest part, is the section of Gathas below described. 

The meaning of the word _yasna_ as above gives at once some conceptionof the nature of the texts. The Yasna chapters were recited at thesacrifice: a sacrifice that consisted not in blood-offerings, but in anoffering of praise and thanksgiving, accompanied by ritual observances. The white-robed priest, girt with the sacred cord and wearing a veil, the _paitidana_, before his lips in the presence of the holy fire, begins the service by an invocation of Ahura Mazda (Ormazd) and theheavenly hierarchy; he then consecrates the _zaothra_ water, the_myazda_ or oblation, and the _baresma_ or bundle of sacred twigs. Heand his assistant now prepare the _haoma_ (the _soma_ of the Hindus), orjuice of a sacred plant, the drinking of which formed part of thereligious rite. At the ninth chapter of the book, the rhythmicalchanting of the praises of Haoma is begun. This deified being, apersonification of the consecrated drink, is supposed to have appearedbefore the prophet himself, and to have described to him the blessingswhich the _haoma_ bestows upon its pious worshiper. The lines aremetrical, as in fact they commonly are in the older parts of the Avesta, and the rhythm somewhat recalls the Kalevala verse of Longfellow's'Hiawatha. ' A specimen is here presented in translation:--

 At the time of morning-worship Haoma came to Zoroaster, Who was serving at the Fire And the holy Psalms intoning. 

 "What man art thou (asked the Prophet), Who of all the world material Art the fairest I have e'er seen In my life, bright and immortal?"

The image of the sacred plant responds, and bids the priest prepare theholy extract. 

 Haoma then to me gave answer, Haoma righteous, death-destroying:-- "Zoroaster, I am Haoma, Righteous Haoma, death-destroying. Do thou gather me, Spitama, And prepare me as a potion; Praise me, aye as shall hereafter In their praise the Saviors praise me. "

Zoroaster again inquires, wishing to know of the pious men of old whoworshiped Haoma and obtained blessings for their religious zeal. Amongthese, as is learned from Haoma, one was King Yima, whose reign was thetime of the Golden Age; those were the happy days when a father lookedas young as his children. 

 In the reign of princely Yima, Heat there was not, cold there was not, Neither age nor death existed, Nor disease the work of Demons;

 Son and father walked together Fifteen years old, each in figure, Long as Vivanghvat's son Yima, The good Shepherd, ruled as sovereign. 

For two chapters more, Haoma is extolled. Then follows the Avestan Creed(Yasna 12), a prose chapter that was repeated by those who joined inthe early Zoroastrian faith, forsook the old marauding and nomadichabits that still characterize the modern Kurds, and adopted anagricultural habit of life, devoting themselves peaceably tocattle-raising, irrigation, and cultivation of the fields. The greaterpart of the Yasna book is of a liturgic or ritualistic nature, and neednot here be further described. Special mention, however, must be made ofthe middle section of the Yasna, which is constituted by "the FiveGathas" (hymns, psalms), a division containing the seventeen sacredpsalms, sayings, sermons, or teachings of Zoroaster himself. TheseGathas form the oldest part of the entire canon of the Avesta. In themwe see before our eyes the prophet of the new faith speaking with thefervor of the Psalmist of the Bible. In them we feel the thrill of ardorthat characterizes a new and struggling religious band; we are warmed bythe burning zeal of the preacher of a church militant. Now, however, comes a cry of despondency, a moment of faint-heartedness at the presenttriumph of evil, at the success of the wicked and the misery of therighteous; but this gives way to a clarion burst of hopefulness, thetrumpet note of a prophet filled with the promise of ultimate victory, the triumph of good over evil. The end of the world cannot be far away;the final overthrow of Ahriman (Anra Mainyu) by Ormazd (Ahura Mazda) isassured; the establishment of a new order of things is certain; at thefounding of this "kingdom" the resurrection of the dead will take placeand the life eternal will be entered upon. 

The third Gatha, Yasna 30, may be chosen by way of illustration. This isa sort of Mazdian Sermon on the Mount. Zoroaster preaches the doctrineof dualism, the warfare of good and evil in the world, and exhorts thefaithful to choose aright and to combat Satan. The archangels GoodThought (Vohu Manah), Righteousness (Asha), Kingdom (Khshathra), appearas the helpers of Man (Maretan); for whose soul, as in the old Englishmorality play, the Demons (Dævas) are contending. Allusions to theresurrection and final judgment, and to the new dispensation, are easilyrecognized in the spirited words of the prophet. A prose rendering ofthis metrical psalm is here attempted; the verse order, however, ispreserved, though without rhythm. 

A PSALM OF ZOROASTER: YASNA 30

 Now shall I speak of things which ye who seek them shall bear in mind, Namely, the praises of Ahura Mazda and the worship of Good Thought, And the joy of [_lit_. Through] Righteousness which is manifested through Light. 

 2

 Hearken with your ears to what is best; with clear understanding perceive it. 

 Awakening to our advising every man, personally, of the distinction Between the two creeds, before the Great Event [i. E. , the Resurrection]. 

 3

 Now, Two Spirits primeval there were twins which became known through their activity, To wit, the Good and the Evil, in thought, word, and deed. The wise have rightly distinguished between these two; not so the unwise. 

 4

 And, now, when these Two Spirits first came together, they established Life and destruction, and ordained how the world hereafter shall be, To wit, the Worst World [Hell] for the wicked, but the Best Thought [Heaven] for the righteous. 

 5

 The Wicked One [Ahriman] of these Two Spirits chose to do evil, The Holiest Spirit [Ormazd]--who wears the solid heavens as a robe--chose Righteousness [Asha], And [so also those] who zealously gratified Ormazd by virtuous deeds. 

 6

 Not rightly did the Demons distinguish these Two Spirits; for Delusion came Upon them, as they were deliberating, so that they chose the Worst Thought [Hell]. And away they rushed to Wrath [the Fiend] in order to corrupt the life of Man [Maretan]. 

 7

 And to him [i. E. , to Gaya Maretan] came Khshathra [Kingdom], Vohu Manah [Good Thought] and Asha [Righteousness], And Armaiti [Archangel of Earth] gave [to him] bodily endurance unceasingly; Of these, Thy [creatures], when Thou earnest with Thy creations, he [i. E. , Gaya Maretan] was the first. 

 8

 But when the retribution of the sinful shall come to pass, Then shall Good Thought distribute Thy Kingdom, Shall fulfill it for those who shall deliver Satan [Druj] into the hand of Righteousness [Asha]. 

 9

 And so may we be such as make the world renewed, And may Ahura Mazda and Righteousness lend their aid, That our thoughts may there be [set] where Faith is abiding. 

 10

 For at the [final] Dispensation, the blow of annihilation to Satan shall come to pass; But those who participate in a good report [in the Life Record] shall meet together In the happy home of Good Thought, and of Mazda, and of Righteousness. 

 11

 If, O ye men, ye mark these doctrines which Mazda gave, And [mark] the weal and the woe--namely, the long torment of the wicked, And the welfare of the righteous--then in accordance with these [doctrines] there will be happiness hereafter. 

The _Visperad_ (all the masters) is a short collection of prosaicinvocations and laudations of sacred things. Its twenty-four sectionsform a supplement to the Yasna. Whatever interest this division of theAvesta possesses lies entirely on the side of the ritual, and not in thefield of literature. In this respect it differs widely from the book ofthe Yashts, which is next to be mentioned. 

The _Yashts_ (praises of worship) form a poetical book of twenty-onehymns in which the angels of the religion, "the worshipful ones"(_Yazatas, Izads_), are glorified, and the heroes of former days. Muchof the material of the Yashts is evidently drawn from pre-Zoroastriansagas which have been remodeled and adopted, worked over and modified, and incorporated into the canon of the new-founded religion. There is amythological and legendary atmosphere about the Yashts, and Firdausi's'Shah Nameh' serves to throw light on many of the events portrayed inthem, or allusions that would otherwise be obscure. All the longerYashts are in verse, and some of them have poetic merit. Chiefly to bementioned among the longer ones are: first, the one in praise of ArdviSura Anahita, or the stream celestial (Yt. 5); second, the Yasht whichexalts the star Tishtrya and his victory over the demon of drought (Yt. 8); then the one devoted to the Fravashis or glorified souls of therighteous (Yt. 13) as well as the Yasht in honor of Verethraghna, theincarnation of Victory (Yt. 14). Selections from the others, Yt. 10 andYt. 19, which are among the noblest, are here given. 

The first of the two chosen (Yt. 10) is dedicated to the great divinityMithra, the genius who presides over light, truth, and the sun (Yt. 10, 13). 

 Foremost he, the celestial angel, Mounts above Mount Hara (Alborz) In advance of the sun immortal Which is drawn by fleeting horses; He it is, in gold adornment First ascends the beauteous summits Thence beneficent he glances Over all the abode of Aryans. 

As the god of light and of truth and as one of the judges of the dead, he rides out in lordly array to the battle and takes an active part inthe conflict, wreaking vengeance upon those who at any time in theirlife have spoken falsely, belied their oath, or broken their pledge. Hiswar-chariot and panoply are described in mingled lines of verse andprose, which may thus be rendered (Yt. 10, 128-132):--

 By the side of Mithra's chariot, Mithra, lord of the wide pastures, Stand a thousand bows well-fashioned (The bow has a string of cowgut). 

By his chariot also are standing a thousand vulture-feathered, gold-notched, lead-poised, well-fashioned arrows (the barb is of iron);likewise a thousand spears well-fashioned and sharp-piercing, and athousand steel battle-axes, two-edged and well-fashioned; also athousand bronze clubs well-fashioned. 

 And by Mithra's chariot also Stands a mace, fair and well-striking, With a hundred knobs and edges, Dashing forward, felling heroes; Out of golden bronze 'tis molded. 

The second illustrative extract will be taken from Yasht 19, whichmagnifies in glowing strains the praises of the Kingly Glory. This"kingly glory" (_kavaem hvareno_) is a sort of halo, radiance, or markof divine right, which was believed to be possessed by the kings andheroes of Iran in the long line of its early history. One hero who borethe glory was the mighty warrior Thraetaona (Feridun), the vanquisher ofthe serpent-monster Azhi Dahaka (Zohak), who was depopulating the worldby his fearful daily banquet of the brains of two children. The victorywas a glorious triumph for Thraetaona (Yt. 19, 37):--

 He who slew Azhi Dahaka, Three-jawed monster, triple-headed, With six eyes and myriad senses, Fiend demoniac, full of power, Evil to the world, and wicked. This fiend full of power, the Devil Anra Mainyu had created, Fatal to the world material, Deadly to the world of Righteousness. 

Of equal puissance was another noble champion, the valiant Keresaspa, who dispatched a raging demon who, though not yet grown to man's estate, was threatening the world. The monster's thrasonical boasting is thusgiven (Yt. 19, 43):--

 I am yet only a stripling, But if ever I come to manhood I shall make the earth my chariot And shall make a wheel of heaven. I shall drive the Holy Spirit Down from out the shining heaven, I shall rout the Evil Spirit Up from out the dark abysm; They as steeds shall draw my chariot, God and Devil yoked together. 

Passing over a collection of shorter petitions, praises, and blessingswhich may conveniently be grouped together as 'Minor Prayers, ' for theyanswer somewhat to our idea of a daily manual of morning devotion, wemay turn to the Vendidad (law against the demons), the IranianPentateuch. Tradition asserts that in the Vendidad we have preserved aspecimen of one of the original Nasks. This may be true, but even thesuperficial student will see that it is in any case a fragmentaryremnant. Interesting as the Vendidad is to the student of early rites, observances, manners, and customs, it is nevertheless a barren field forthe student of literature, who will find in it little more thanwearisome prescriptions like certain chapters of Leviticus, Numbers, andDeuteronomy. It need only be added that at the close of the colloquybetween Zoroaster and Ormazd given in Vend. 6, he will find the originof the modern Parsi "Towers of Silence. "

Among the Avestan Fragments, attention might finally be called to onewhich we must be glad has not been lost. It is an old metrical bit(Frag. 4, 1-3) in praise of the Airyama Ishya Prayer (Yt. 54, 1). Thisis the prayer that shall be intoned by the Savior and his companions atthe end of the world, when the resurrection will take place; and it willserve as a sort of last trump, at the sound of which the dead rise fromtheir graves and evil is banished from the world. Ormazd himself says toZoroaster (Frag. 4, 1-3):--

 The Airyama Ishya prayer, I tell thee, Upright, holy Zoroaster, Is the greatest of all prayers. Verily among all prayers It is this one which I gifted With revivifying powers. 

 This prayer shall the Saoshyants, Saviors, Chant, and at the chanting of it I shall rule over my creatures, I who am Ahura Mazda. Not shall Ahriman have power, Anra Mainyu, o'er my creatures, He (the fiend) of foul religion. In the earth shall Ahriman hide, In the earth the demons hide. Up the dead again shall rise, And within their lifeless bodies Incorporate life shall be restored. 

Inadequate as brief extracts must be to represent the sacred books of apeople, the citations here given will serve to show that the Avestawhich is still recited in solemn tones by the white-robed priests ofBombay, the modern representatives of Zoroaster, the Prophet of ancientdays, is a survival not without value to those who appreciate whateverhas been preserved for us of the world's earlier literature. For readerswho are interested in the subject there are several translations of theAvesta. The best (except for the Gathas, where the translation is weak)is the French version by Darmesteter, 'Le Zend Avesta, ' published in the'Annales du Musée Guimet' (Paris, 1892-93). An English rendering byDarmesteter and Mills is contained in the 'Sacred Books of the East, 'Vols. Iv. , xxiii. , xxxi. 

[Illustration: Signature: A. V. Williams Jackson]

A PRAYER FOR KNOWLEDGE

This I ask Thee, O Ahura! tell me aright: when praise is to be offered, how shall I complete the praise of the One like You, O Mazda? Let theOne like Thee declare it earnestly to the friend who is such as I, thusthrough Thy Righteousness within us to offer friendly help to us, sothat the One like Thee may draw near us through Thy Good Mind withinthe Soul. 

2. This I ask Thee, O Ahura! tell me aright how, in pleasing Him, maywe serve the Supreme One of the better world; yea, how to serve thatchief who may grant us those blessings of his grace and who will seekfor grateful requitals at our hands; for He, bountiful as He is throughthe Righteous Order, will hold off ruin from us all, guardian as He isfor both the worlds, O Spirit Mazda! and a friend. 

3. This I ask Thee, O Ahura! tell me aright: Who by generation is thefirst father of the Righteous Order within the world? Who gave therecurring sun and stars their undeviating way? Who established thatwhereby the moon waxes, and whereby she wanes, save Thee? These things, O Great Creator! would I know, and others likewise still. 

4. This I ask Thee, O Ahura! tell me aright: Who from beneath hathsustained the earth and the clouds above that they do not fall? Who madethe waters and the plants? Who to the wind has yoked on the storm-cloudsthe swift and fleetest two? Who, O Great Creator! is the inspirer of thegood thoughts within our souls?

5. This I ask Thee, O Ahura! tell me aright: Who, as a skillful artisan, hath made the lights and the darkness? Who, as thus skillful, hath madesleep and the zest of waking hours? Who spread the Auroras, thenoontides and midnight, monitors to discerning man, duty's true guides?

6. This I ask Thee, O Ahura! tell me aright these things which I shallspeak forth, if they are truly thus. Doth the Piety which we cherish inreality increase the sacred orderliness within our actions? To these Thytrue saints hath she given the Realm through the Good Mind? For whomhast thou made the Mother-kine, the produce of joy?

7. This I ask Thee, O Ahura! tell me aright: Who fashioned Aramaiti (ourpiety) the beloved, together with Thy Sovereign Power? Who, through hisguiding wisdom, hath made the son revering the father? Who made himbeloved? With questions such as these, so abundant, O Mazda! I pressThee, O bountiful Spirit, Thou maker of all!

Yasna xliv. : Translation of L. H. Mills. 

THE ANGEL OF DIVINE OBEDIENCE

We worship Sraosha [Obedience] the blessed, whom four racers draw inharness, white and shining, beautiful and (27) powerful, quick to learnand fleet, obeying before speech, heeding orders from the mind, withtheir hoofs of horn gold-covered, (28) fleeter than [our] horses, swifter than the winds, more rapid than the rain [drops as they fall];yea, fleeter than the clouds, or well-winged birds, or the well-shotarrow as it flies, (29) which overtake these swift ones all, as they flyafter them pursuing, but which are never overtaken when they flee, whichplunge away from both the weapons [hurled on this side and on that] anddraw Sraosha with them, the good Sraosha and the blessed; which fromboth the weapons [those on this side and on that] bear the goodObedience the blessed, plunging forward in their zeal, when he takes hiscourse from India on the East and when he lights down in the West. 

Yasna lvii. 27-29: Translation of L. H. Mills. 

TO THE FIRE

I offer my sacrifice and homage to thee, the Fire, as a good offering, and an offering with our hail of salvation, even as an offering ofpraise with benedictions, to thee, the Fire, O Ahura, Mazda's son! Meetfor sacrifice art thou, and worthy of [our] homage. And as meet forsacrifice, and thus worthy of our homage, may'st thou be in the housesof men [who worship Mazda]. Salvation be to this man who worships theein verity and truth, with wood in hand and baresma [sacred twigs] ready, with flesh in hand and holding too the mortar. 2. And mayst thou be[ever] fed with wood as the prescription orders. Yea, mayst thou havethy perfume justly, and thy sacred butter without fail, and thineandirons regularly placed. Be of full age as to thy nourishment, of thecanon's age as to the measure of thy food. O Fire, Ahura, Mazda's son!3. Be now aflame within this house; be ever without fail in flame; beall ashine within this house: for long time be thou thus to thefurtherance of the heroic [renovation], to the completion of [all]progress, yea, even till the good heroic [millennial] time when thatrenovation shall have become complete. 4. Give me, O Fire, Ahura, Mazda's son! a speedy glory, speedy nourishment and speedy booty andabundant glory, abundant nourishment, abundant booty, an expanded mind, and nimbleness of tongue and soul and understanding, even anunderstanding continually growing in its largeness, and that neverwanders. Yasna lxii. 1-4: Translation of L. H. Mills. 

THE GODDESS OF THE WATERS

Offer up a sacrifice unto this spring of mine, Ardvi Sura Anahita (theexalted, mighty, and undefiled, image of the (128) stream celestial), who stands carried forth in the shape of a maid, fair of body, moststrong, tall-formed, high-girded, pure, nobly born of a glorious race, wearing a mantle fully embroidered with gold. 129. Ever holding thebaresma in her hand, according to the rules; she wears square goldenear-rings on her ears bored, and a golden necklace around her beautifulneck, she, the nobly born Ardvi Sura Anahita; and she girded her waisttightly, so that her breasts may be well shaped, that they may betightly pressed. 128. Upon her head Ardvi Sura Anahita bound a goldencrown, with a hundred stars, with eight rays, a fine well-made crown, with fillets streaming down. 129. She is clothed with garments ofbeaver, Ardvi Sura Anahita; with the skin of thirty beavers, of thosethat bear four young ones, that are the finest kind of beavers; for theskin of the beaver that lives in water is the finest colored of allskins, and when worked at the right time it shines to the eye with fullsheen of silver and gold. Yasht v. 126-129: Translation of J. Darmesteter. 

GUARDIAN SPIRITS

We worship the good, strong, beneficent Fravashis [guardian spirits] ofthe faithful; with helms of brass, with weapons (45) of brass, witharmor of brass; who struggle in the fights for victory in garments oflight, arraying the battles and bringing them forwards, to killthousands of Dævas [demons]. 46. When the wind blows from behind themand brings their breath unto men, then men know where blows the breathof victory: and they pay pious homage unto the good, strong, beneficentFravashis of the faithful, with their hearts prepared and their armsuplifted. 47. Whichever side they have been first worshiped in thefulness of faith of a devoted heart, to that side turn the awfulFravashis of the faithful along with Mithra [angel of truth and light]and Rashnu [Justice] and the awful cursing thought of the wise and thevictorious wind. 

Yasht xiii. 45-47: Translation of J. Darmesteter. 

AN ANCIENT SINDBAD

The manly-hearted Keresaspa was the sturdiest of the men of strength, for Manly Courage clave unto him. We worship [this] Manly Courage, firmof foot, unsleeping, quick to rise, and fully awake, that clave untoKeresaspa [the hero], who killed the snake Srvara, the horse-devouring, man-devouring, yellow poisonous snake, over which yellow poison flowed athumb's breadth thick. Upon him Kerasaspa was cooking his food in abrass vessel, at the time of noon. The fiend felt the heat and dartedaway; he rushed from under the brass vessel and upset the boiling water:the manly-hearted Keresaspa fell back affrighted. 

Yasht xix. 38-40: Translation of J. Darmesteter. 

THE WISE MAN

Verily I say it unto thee, O Spitama Zoroaster! the man who has a wifeis far above him who lives in continence; he who keeps a house is farabove him who has none; he who has children is far above the childlessman; he who has riches is far above him who has none. 

And of two men, he who fills himself with meat receives in him goodspirit [Vohu Mano] much more than he who does not do so; the latter isall but dead; the former is above him by the worth of a sheep, by theworth of an ox, by the worth of a man. 

It is this man that can strive against the onsets of death; that canstrive against the well-darted arrow; that can strive against the winterfiend with thinnest garment on; that can strive against the wickedtyrant and smite him on the head; it is this man that can strive againstthe ungodly fasting Ashemaogha [the fiends and heretics who do not eat]. 

Vendidad iv. 47-49: Translation of J. Darmesteter. 

INVOCATION TO RAIN

"Come on, O clouds, along the sky, through the air, down on the earth, by thousands of drops, by myriads of drops, " thus say, O holy Zoroaster!"to destroy sickness altogether, to destroy death altogether, to destroyaltogether the sickness made by the Gaini, to destroy altogether thedeath made by Gaini, to destroy altogether Gadha and Apagadha. 

"If death come at eve, may healing come at daybreak!

"If death come at daybreak, may healing come at night!

"If death come at night, may healing come at dawn!

"Let showers shower down new waters, new earth, new trees, new health, and new healing powers. "

Vendidad xxi. 2: Translation of J. Darmesteter. 

A PRAYER FOR HEALING

Ahura Mazda spake unto Spitama Zoroaster, saying, "I, Ahura Mazda, theMaker of all good things, when I made this mansion, the beautiful, theshining, seen afar (there may I go up, there may I arrive)!"

Then the ruffian looked at me; the ruffian Anra Mainyu, the deadly, wrought against me nine diseases and ninety, and nine hundred, and ninethousand, and nine times ten thousand diseases. So mayest thou heal me, O Holy Word, thou most glorious one!

Unto thee will I give in return a thousand fleet, swift-running steeds;I offer thee up a sacrifice, O good Saoka, made by Mazda and holy. 

Unto thee will I give in return a thousand fleet, high-humped camels; Ioffer thee up a sacrifice, O good Saoka, made by Mazda and holy. 

Unto thee will I give in return a thousand brown faultless oxen; I offerthee up a sacrifice, O good Saoka, made by Mazda and holy. 

Unto thee will I give in return a thousand young of all species of smallcattle; I offer thee up a sacrifice, O good Saoka, made by Mazdaand holy. 

And I will bless thee with the fair blessing-spell of the righteous, thefriendly blessing-spell of the righteous, that makes the empty swell tofullness and the full to overflowing, that comes to help him who wassickening, and makes the sick man sound again. Vendidad xxii. 1-5:Translation of J. Darmesteter. 

FRAGMENT

All good thoughts, and all good words, and all good deeds are thoughtand spoken and done with intelligence; and all evil thoughts and wordsand deeds are thought and spoken and done with folly. 

2. And let [the men who think and speak and do] all good thoughts andwords and deeds inhabit Heaven [as their home]. And let those who thinkand speak and do evil thoughts and words and deeds abide in Hell. For toall who think good thoughts, speak good words, and do good deeds, Heaven, the best world, belongs. And this is evident and as of course. Avesta, Fragment iii. : Translation of L. H. Mills. 

AVICEBRON

(1028-? 1058)

Avicebron, or Avicebrol (properly Solomon ben Judah ibn Gabirol), one ofthe most famous of Jewish poets, and the most original of Jewishthinkers, was born at Cordova, in Spain, about A. D. 1028. Of the eventsof his life we know little; and it was only in 1845 that Munk, in the'Literaturblatt des Orient, ' proved the Jewish poet Ibn Gabirol to beone and the same person with Avicebron, so often quoted by the Schoolmenas an Arab philosopher. He was educated at Saragossa, spent some yearsat Malaga, and died, hardly thirty years old, about 1058. Hisdisposition seems to have been rather melancholy. 

Of his philosophic works, which were written in Arabic, by far the mostimportant, and that which lent lustre to his name, was the 'Fountain ofLife'; a long treatise in the form of a dialogue between teacher andpupil, on what was then regarded as the fundamental question inphilosophy, the nature and relations of Matter and Form. The original, which seems never to have been popular with either Jews or Arabs, is notknown to exist; but there exists a complete Latin translation (the workhaving found appreciation among Christians), which has recently beenedited with great care by Professor Bäumker of Breslau, under the title'Avencebrolis Fons Vitae, ex Arabico in Latinum translatus ab JohanneHispano et Dominico Gundissalino' (Münster, 1895). There is also aseries of extracts from it in Hebrew. Besides this, he wrote ahalf-popular work, 'On the Improvement of Character, ' in which he bringsthe different virtues into relation with the five senses. He is, further, the reputed author of a work 'On the Soul, ' and the reputedcompiler of a famous anthology, 'A Choice of Pearls, ' which appeared, with an English translation by B. H. Ascher, in London, in 1859. In hispoetry, which, like that of other mediæval Hebrew poets, Moses ben Ezra, Judah Halévy, etc. , is partly liturgical, partly worldly, he abandonsnative forms, such as we find in the Psalms, and follows artificialArabic models, with complicated rhythms and rhyme, unsuited to Hebrew, which, unlike Arabic, is poor in inflections. Nevertheless, many of hisliturgical pieces are still used in the services of the synagogue, whilehis worldly ditties find admirers elsewhere. (See A. Geiger, 'IbnGabirol und seine Dichtungen, ' Leipzig, 1867. )

The philosophy of Ibn Gabirol is a compound of Hebrew monotheism andthat Neo-Platonic Aristotelianism which for two hundred years had beencurrent in the Muslim schools at Bagdad, Basra, etc. , and which thelearned Jews were largely instrumental in carrying to the Muslims ofSpain. For it must never be forgotten that the great translators andintellectual purveyors of the Middle Ages were the Jews. (SeeSteinschneider, 'Die Hebräischen Uebersetzungen des Mittelalters, unddie Juden als Dolmetscher, ' 2 vols. , Berlin, 1893. )

The aim of Ibn Gabirol, like that of the other three noted Hebrewthinkers, Philo, Maimonides, and Spinoza, was--given God, to account forcreation; and this he tried to do by means of Neo-PlatonicAristotelianism, such as he found in the Pseudo-Pythagoras, Pseudo-Empedocles, Pseudo-Aristotelian 'Theology' (an abstract fromPlotinus), and 'Book on Causes' (an abstract from Proclus's 'InstitutioTheologica'). It is well known that Aristotle, who made God a "thinkingof thinking, " and placed matter, as something eternal, over against him, never succeeded in bringing God into effective connection with the world(see K. Elser, 'Die Lehredes Aristotles über das Wirken Gottes, 'Münster, 1893); and this defect the Greeks never afterward remedieduntil the time of Plotinus, who, without propounding a doctrine ofemanation, arranged the universe as a hierarchy of existence, beginningwith the Good, and descending through correlated Being and Intelligence, to Soul or Life, which produces Nature with all its multiplicity, and sostands on "the horizon" between undivided and divided being. In thefamous encyclopaedia of the "Brothers of Purity, " written in the Eastabout A. D. 1000, and representing Muslim thought at its best, thehierarchy takes this form: God, Intelligence, Soul, Primal Matter, Secondary Matter, World, Nature, the Elements, Material Things. (SeeDieterici, 'Die Philosophic der Araber im X. Jahrhundert n. Chr. , ' 2vols. , Leipzig, 1876-79. ) In the hands of Ibn Gabirol, this istransformed thus: God, Will, Primal Matter, Form, Intelligence, Soul--vegetable, animal, rational, Nature, the source of the visibleworld. If we compare these hierarchies, we shall see that Ibn Gabirolmakes two very important changes: _first_, he introduces an altogethernew element, viz. , the Will; _second_, instead of placing Intelligencesecond in rank, next to God, he puts Will, Matter, and Form before it. Thus, whereas the earliest thinkers, drawing on Aristotle, had soughtfor an explanation of the world in Intelligence, he seeks for it inWill, thus approaching the standpoint of Schopenhauer. Moreover, whereasthey had made Matter and Form originate in Intelligence, he includes thelatter, together with the material world, among things compounded ofMatter and Form. Hence, everything, save God and His Will, which is butthe expression of Him, is compounded of Matter and Form (cf. Dante, 'Paradiso, ' i. 104 _seq_. ). Had he concluded from this that God, inorder to occupy this exceptional position, must be pure matter (orsubstance), he would have reached the standpoint of Spinoza. As it is, he stands entirely alone in the Middle Age, in making the world theproduct of Will, and not of Intelligence, as the Schoolmen and theclassical philosophers of Germany held. 

The 'Fountain of Life' is divided into five books, whose subjects are asfollows:--I. Matter and Form, and their various kinds. II. Matter as thebearer of body, and the subject of the categories. III. SeparateSubstances, in the created intellect, standing between God and theWorld. IV. Matter and Form in simple substances. V. Universal Matter andUniversal Form, with a discussion of the Divine Will, which, byproducing and uniting Matter and Form, brings being out of non-being, and so is the 'Fountain of Life. ' Though the author is influenced byJewish cosmogony, his system, as such, is almost purely Neo-Platonic. Itremains one of the most considerable attempts that have ever been madeto find in spirit the explanation of the world; not only making allmatter at bottom one, but also maintaining that while form is due to thedivine will, matter is due to the divine essence, so that both areequally spiritual. It is especially interesting as showing us, bycontrast, how far Christian thinking, which rested on much the samefoundation with it, was influenced and confined by Christian dogmas, especially by those of the Trinity and the Incarnation. 

Ibn Gabirol's thought exerted a profound influence, not only onsubsequent Hebrew thinkers, like Joseph ben Saddig, Maimonides, Spinoza, but also on the Christian Schoolmen, by whom he is often quoted, and onGiordano Bruno. Through Spinoza and Bruno this influence has passed intothe modern world, where it still lives. Dante, though naming many Arabphilosophers, never alludes to Ibn Gabirol; yet he borrowed more of hissublimest thoughts from the 'Fountain of Life' than from any other book. (Cf. Ibn Gabirol's 'Bedeutung für die Geschichte der Philosophie, 'appendix to Vol. I. Of M. Joël's 'Beiträge zur Gesch. Der Philos. , 'Breslau, 1876. ) If we set aside the hypostatic form in which Ibn Gabirolputs forward his ideas, we shall find a remarkable similarity betweenhis system and that of Kant, not to speak of that of Schopenhauer. Forthe whole subject, see J. Guttman's 'Die Philosophic des Salomon IbnGabirol' (Göttingen, 1889). 

ON MATTER AND FORM

From the 'Fountain of Life, ' Fifth Treatise

Intelligence is finite in both directions: on the upper side, by reasonof will, which is above it; on the lower, by reason of matter, which isoutside of its essence. Hence, spiritual substances are finite withrespect to matter, because they differ through it, and distinction isthe cause of finitude; in respect to forms they are infinite on thelower side, because one form flows from another. And we must bear inmind that that part of matter which is above heaven, the more it ascendsfrom it to the principle of creation, becomes the more spiritual inform, whereas that part which descends lower than the heaven towardquiet will be more corporeal in form. Matter, intelligence, and soulcomprehend heaven, and heaven comprehends the elements. And just as, ifyou imagine your soul standing at the extreme height of heaven, andlooking back upon the earth, the earth will seem but a point, incomparison with the heaven, so are corporeal and spiritual substance incomparison with the will. And first matter is stable in the knowledge ofGod, as the earth in the midst of heaven. And the form diffused throughit is as the light diffused through the air. .. . 

We must bear in mind that the unity induced by the will (we might say, the will itself) binds matter to form. Hence that union is stable, firm, and perpetual from the beginning of its creation; and thus unitysustains all things. 

Matter is movable, in order that it may receive form, in conformitywith its appetite for receiving goodness and delight through thereception of form. In like manner, everything that is, desires to move, in order that it may attain something of the goodness of the primalbeing; and the nearer anything is to the primal being, the more easilyit reaches this, and the further off it is, the more slowly and with thelonger motion and time it does so. And the motion of matter and othersubstances is nothing but appetite and love for the mover toward whichit moves, as, for example, matter moves toward form, through desire forthe primal being; for matter requires light from that which is in theessence of will, which compels matter to move toward will and to desireit: and herein will and matter are alike. And because matter isreceptive of the form that has flowed down into it by the flux ofviolence and necessity, matter must necessarily move to receive form;and therefore things are constrained by will and obedience in turn. Hence by the light which it has from will, matter moves toward will anddesires it; but when it receives form, it lacks nothing necessary forknowing and desiring it, and nothing remains for it to seek for. Forexample, in the morning the air has an imperfect splendor from the sun;but at noon it has a perfect splendor, and there remains nothing for itto demand of the sun. Hence the desire for the first motion is alikeness between all substances and the first Maker, because it isimpressed upon all things to move toward the first; because particularmatter desires particular form, and the matter of plants and animals, which, in generating, move toward the forms of plants and animals, arealso influenced by the particular form acting in them. In like mannerthe sensible soul moves toward sensible forms, and the rational soul tointelligible forms, because the particular soul, which is called thefirst intellect, while it is in its principle, is susceptible of form;but when it shall have received the form of universal intelligence, which is the second intellect, and shall become intelligence, then itwill be strong to act, and will be called the second intellect; andsince particular souls have such a desire, it follows that universalsouls must have a desire for universal forms. The same thing must besaid of natural matter, --that is, the substance which sustains the ninecategories; because this matter moves to take on the first qualities, then to the mineral form, then to the vegetable, then to the sensible, then to the rational, then to the intelligible, until at last it isunited to the form of universal intelligence. And this primal matterdesires primal form; and all things that are, desire union andcommixture, that so they may be assimilated to their principle; andtherefore, genera, species, differentiae, and contraries are unitedthrough something in singulars. 

Thus, matter is like an empty schedule and a wax tablet; whereas form islike a painted shape and words set down, from which the reader reachesthe end of science. And when the soul knows these, it desires to knowthe wonderful painter of them, to whose essence it is impossible toascend. Thus matter and form are the two closed gates of intelligence, which it is hard for intelligence to open and pass through, because thesubstance of intelligence is below them, and made up of them. And whenthe soul has subtilized itself, until it can penetrate them, it arrivesat the word, that is, at perfect will; and then its motion ceases, andits joy remains. 

An analogy to the fact that the universal will actualizes universal formin the matter of intelligence is the fact that the particular willactualizes the particular form in the soul without time, and life andessential motion in the matter of the soul, and local motion and othermotions in the matter of nature. But all these motions are derived fromthe will; and so all things are moved by the will, just as the soulcauses rest or motion in the body according to its will. And this motionis different according to the greater or less proximity of things to thewill. And if we remove action from the will, the will will be identicalwith the primal essence; whereas, with action, it is different from it. Hence, will is as the painter of all forms; the matter of each thing asa tablet; and the form of each thing as the picture on the tablet. Itbinds form to matter, and is diffused through the whole of matter, fromhighest to lowest, as the soul through the body; and as the virtue ofthe sun, diffusing its light, unites with the light, and with itdescends into the air, so the virtue of the will unites with the formwhich it imparts to all things, and descends with it. On this ground itis said that the first cause is in all things, and that there is nothingwithout it. 

The will holds all things together by means of form; whence we likewisesay that form holds all things together. Thus, form is intermediatebetween will and matter, receiving from will, and giving to matter. Andwill acts without time or motion, through its own might. If the actionof soul and intelligence, and the infusion of light are instantaneous, much more so is that of will. 

Creation comes from the high creator, and is an emanation, like theissue of water flowing from its source; but whereas water follows waterwithout intermission or rest, creation is without motion or time. Thesealing of form upon matter, as it flows in from the will, is like thesealing or reflection of a form in a mirror, when it is seen. And assense receives the form of the felt without the matter, so everythingthat acts upon another acts solely through its own form, which it simplyimpresses upon that other. Hence genus, species, differentia, property, accident, and all forms in matter are merely an impression madeby wisdom. 

The created soul is gifted with the knowledge which is proper to it; butafter it is united to the body, it is withdrawn from receiving thoseimpressions which are proper to it, by reason of the very darkness ofthe body, covering and extinguishing its light, and blurring it, just asin the case of a clear mirror: when dense substance is put over it itslight is obscured. And therefore God, by the subtlety of his substance, formed this world, and arranged it according to this most beautifulorder, in which it is, and equipped the soul with senses, wherein, whenit uses them, that which is hidden in it is manifested in act; and thesoul, in apprehending sensible things, is like a man who sees manythings, and when he departs from them, finds that nothing remains withhim but the vision of imagination and memory. 

We must also bear in mind that, while matter is made by essence, form ismade by will. And it is said that matter is the seat of God, and thatwill, the giver of form, sits on it and rests upon it. And through theknowledge of these things we ascend to those things which are behindthem, that is, to the cause why there is anything; and this is aknowledge of the world of deity, which is the greatest whole: whateveris below it is very small in comparison with it. 

ROBERT AYTOUN

(1570-1638)

This Scottish poet was born in his father's castle of Kinaldie, near St. Andrews, Fifeshire, in 1570. He was descended from the Norman family ofDe Vescy, a younger son of which settled in Scotland and received fromRobert Bruce the lands of Aytoun in Berwickshire. Kincardie came intothe family about 1539. Robert Aytoun was educated at St. Andrews, takinghis degree in 1588, traveled on the Continent like other wealthyScottish gentlemen, and studied law at the University of Paris. Returning in 1603, he delighted James I. By a Latin poem congratulatinghim on his accession to the English throne. Thereupon the poet receivedan invitation to court as Groom of the Privy Chamber. He rose rapidly, was knighted in 1612, and made Gentleman of the Bedchamber to King Jamesand private secretary to Queen Anne. When Charles I. Ascended thethrone, Aytoun was retained, and held many important posts. According toAubrey, "he was acquainted with all the witts of his time in England. "Sir Robert was essentially a court poet, and belonged to the cultivatedcircle of Scottish favorites that James gathered around him; yet thereis no mention of him in the gossipy diaries of the period, and almostnone in the State papers. He seems, however, to have been popular: BenJonson boasts that Aytoun "loved me dearly. " It is not surprising thathis mild verses should have faded in the glorious light of thecontemporary poets. 

[Illustration: ROBERT AYTOUN]

He wrote in Greek and French, and many of his Latin poems were publishedunder the title 'Delitiae Poetarum Scotorum' (Amsterdam, 1637). HisEnglish poems on such themes as a 'Love Dirge, ' 'The Poet Forsaken, ''The Lover's Remonstrance, ' 'Address to an Inconstant Mistress, ' etc. , do not show depth of emotion. He says of himself:--

 "Yet have I been a lover by report, Yea, I have died for love as others do; But praised be God, it was in such a sort That I revived within an hour or two. "

The lines beginning "I do confess thou'rt smooth and fair, " quotedbelow with their adaptation by Burns, do not appear in his MSS. , collected by his heir Sir John Aytoun, nor in the edition of his workswith a memoir prepared by Dr. Charles Rogers, published in Edinburgh in1844 and reprinted privately in 1871. Dean Stanley, in his 'Memorials ofWestminster Abbey, ' accords to him the original of 'Auld Lang Syne, 'which Rogers includes in his edition. Burns's song follows the versionattributed to Francis Temple. 

Aytoun passed his entire life in luxury, died in Whitehall Palace in1638, and was the first Scottish poet buried in Westminster Abbey. Hismemorial bust was taken from a portrait by Vandyke. 

 INCONSTANCY UPBRAIDED

 I loved thee once, I'll love no more; Thine be the grief as is the blame: Thou art not what thou wast before, What reason I should be the same? He that can love unloved again, Hath better store of love than brain; God send me love my debts to pay, While unthrifts fool their love away. 

 Nothing could have my love o'erthrown, If thou hadst still continued mine; Yea, if thou hadst remained thy own, I might perchance have yet been thine. But thou thy freedom didst recall, That it thou might elsewhere inthrall; And then how could I but disdain A captive's captive to remain?

 When new desires had conquered thee, And changed the object of thy will, It had been lethargy in me, Not constancy, to love thee still. Yea, it had been a sin to go And prostitute affection so; Since we are taught no prayers to say To such as must to others pray. 

 Yet do thou glory in thy choice, Thy choice of his good fortune boast; I'll neither grieve nor yet rejoice To see him gain what I have lost. The height of my disdain shall be To laugh at him, to blush for thee; To love thee still, but go no more A-begging to a beggar's door. 

 LINES TO AN INCONSTANT MISTRESS

 I do confess thou'rt smooth and fair, And I might have gone near to love thee, Had I not found the slightest prayer That lips could speak had power to move thee. But I can let thee now alone, As worthy to be loved by none. 

 I do confess thou'rt sweet, yet find Thee such an unthrift of thy sweets, Thy favors are but like the wind Which kisseth everything it meets! And since thou canst love more than one, Thou'rt worthy to be loved by none. 

 The morning rose that untouched stands, Armed with her briers, how sweet she smells! But plucked and strained through ruder hands, Her scent no longer with her dwells. But scent and beauty both are gone, And leaves fall from her one by one. 

 Such fate ere long will thee betide, When thou hast handled been awhile, Like fair flowers to be thrown aside; And thou shalt sigh while I shall smile, To see thy love to every one Hath brought thee to be loved by none. 

 BURNS'S ADAPTATION

 I do confess thou art sae fair, I wad been ower the lugs in love Had I na found the slightest prayer That lips could speak, thy heart could move. I do confess thee sweet--but find Thou art sae thriftless o' thy sweets, Thy favors are the silly wind, That kisses ilka thing it meets. See yonder rosebud rich in dew, Among its native briers sae coy, How sune it tines its scent and hue When pu'd and worn a common toy. Sic fate, ere lang, shall thee betide, Tho' thou may gaily bloom awhile; Yet sune thou shalt be thrown aside Like any common weed and vile. 

WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN

(1813-1865)

Aytoun the second, balladist, humorist, and Tory, in proportions ofabout equal importance, --one of the group of wits and devotees of the_status quo_ who made Blackwood's Magazine so famous in its earlydays, --was born in Edinburgh, June 21st, 1813. He was the son of RogerAytoun, "writer to the Signet"; and a descendant of Sir Robert Aytoun(1570-1638), the poet and friend of Ben Jonson, who followed James VI. From Scotland and who is buried in Westminster Abbey. Both Aytoun'sparents were literary. His mother, who knew Sir Walter Scott, and whogave Lockhart many details for his biography, helped the lad in hispoems. She seemed to him to know all the ballads ever sung. His earliestverses were praised by Professor John Wilson ("Christopher North"), thefirst editor of Blackwood's, whose daughter he married in 1849. At theage of nineteen he published his 'Poland, Homer, and Other Poems'(Edinburgh, 1832). After leaving the University of Edinburgh, he studiedlaw in London, visited Germany, and returning to Scotland, was called tothe bar in 1840. He disliked the profession, and used to say that thoughhe followed the law he never could overtake it. 

While in Germany he translated the first part of 'Faust' in blank verse, which was never published. Many of his translations from Uhland andHomer appeared in Blackwood's from 1836 to 1840, and many of his earlywritings were signed "Augustus Dunshunner. " In 1844 he joined theeditorial staff of Blackwood's, to which for many years he contributedpolitical articles, verse, translations of Goethe, and humoroussketches. In 1845 he became Professor of Rhetoric and Literature in theUniversity of Edinburgh, a place which he held until 1864. About 1841 hebecame acquainted with Theodore Martin, and in association with himwrote a series of light papers interspersed with burlesque verses, which, reprinted from Blackwood's, became popular as the 'Bon GaultierBallads. ' Published in London in 1855, they reached their thirteenthedition in 1877. 

 "Some papers of a humorous kind, which I had published under the _nom de plume_ of Bon Gaultier, " says Theodore Martin in his 'Memoir of Aytoun, ' "had hit Aytoun's fancy; and when I proposed to go on with others in a similar vein, he fell readily into the plan, and agreed to assist in it. In this way a kind of a Beaumont-and-Fletcher partnership commenced in a series of humorous papers, which appeared in Tait's and Fraser's magazines from 1842 to 1844. In these papers, in which we ran a-tilt, with all the recklessness of youthful spirits, against such of the tastes or follies of the day as presented an opening for ridicule or mirth, --at the same time that we did not altogether lose sight of a purpose higher than mere amusement, --appeared the verses, with a few exceptions, which subsequently became popular, and to a degree we then little contemplated, as the 'Bon Gaultier Ballads. ' Some of the best of these were exclusively Aytoun's, such as 'The Massacre of the McPherson, ' 'The Rhyme of Sir Launcelot Bogle, ' 'The Broken Pitcher, ' 'The Red Friar and Little John, ' 'The Lay of Mr. Colt, ' and that best of all imitations of the Scottish ballad, 'The Queen in France. ' Some were wholly mine, and the rest were produced by us jointly. Fortunately for our purpose, there were then living not a few poets whose style and manner of thought were sufficiently marked to make imitation easy, and sufficiently popular for a parody of their characteristics to be readily recognized. Macaulay's 'Lays of Rome' and his two other fine ballads were still in the freshness of their fame. Lockhart's 'Spanish Ballads' were as familiar in the drawing-room as in the study. Tennyson and Mrs. Browning were opening up new veins of poetry. These, with Wordsworth, Moore, Uhland, and others of minor note, lay ready to our hands, --as Scott, Byron, Crabbe, Coleridge, Wordsworth, and Southey had done to James and Horace Smith in 1812, when writing the 'Rejected Addresses. ' Never, probably, were verses thrown off with a keener sense of enjoyment. "

With Theodore Martin he published also 'Poems and Ballads of Goethe'(London, 1858). Mr. Aytoun's fame as a poet rests on his 'Lays of theCavaliers, ' the themes of which are selected from stirring incidents ofScottish history, ranging from Flodden Field to the Battle of Culloden. The favorites in popular memory are 'The Execution of Montrose' and 'TheBurial March of Dundee. ' This book, published in London and Edinburgh in1849, has gone through twenty-nine editions. 

His dramatic poem, 'Firmilian: a Spasmodic Tragedy, ' written to ridiculethe style of Bailey, Dobell, and Alexander Smith, and published in 1854, had so many excellent qualities that it was received as a seriousproduction instead of a caricature. Aytoun introduced this inBlackwood's Magazine as a pretended review of an unpublished tragedy (aswith the 'Rolliad, ' and as Lockhart had done in the case of "Peter'sLetters, " so successfully that he had to write the book itself as a"second edition" to answer the demand for it). This review was socleverly done that "most of the newspaper critics took the part of thepoet against the reviewer, never suspecting the identity of both, andmaintained the poetry to be fine poetry and the critic a dunce. " Thesarcasm of 'Firmilian' is so delicate that only those familiar with theschool it is intended to satirize can fairly appreciate its qualities. The drama opens showing Firmilian in his study, planning the compositionof 'Cain: a Tragedy'; and being infused with the spirit of the hero, hestarts on a career of crime. Among his deeds is the destruction of thecathedral of Badajoz, which first appears in his mental vision thus:--

 "Methought I saw the solid vaults give way, And the entire cathedral rise in air, As if it leaped from Pandemonium's jaws. "

To effect this he employs--

 "Some twenty barrels of the dusky grain The secret of whose framing in an hour Of diabolic jollity and mirth Old Roger Bacon wormed from Beelzebub. "

When the horror is accomplished, at a moment when the inhabitants ofBadajoz are at prayer, Firmilian rather enjoys the scene:--

 "Pillars and altar, organ loft and screen, With a singed swarm of mortals intermixed, Whirling in anguish to the shuddering stars. "

"'Firmilian, '" to quote from Aytoun's biographer again, "deserves tokeep its place in literature, if only as showing how easy it is for aman of real poetic power to throw off, in sport, pages of sonorous andsparkling verse, simply by ignoring the fetters of nature andcommon-sense and dashing headlong on Pegasus through the wilderness offancy. " Its extravagances of rhetoric can be imagined from the followingbrief extract, somewhat reminiscent of Marlowe:--

 "And shall I then take Celsus for my guide, Confound my brain with dull Justinian tomes, Or stir the dust that lies o'er Augustine? Not I, in faith! I've leaped into the air, And clove my way through ether like a bird That flits beneath the glimpses of the moon, Right eastward, till I lighted at the foot Of holy Helicon, and drank my fill At the clear spout of Aganippe's stream; I've rolled my limbs in ecstasy along The selfsame turf on which old Homer lay That night he dreamed of Helen and of Troy: And I have heard, at midnight, the sweet strains Come quiring from the hilltop, where, enshrined In the rich foldings of a silver cloud, The Muses sang Apollo into sleep. "

In 1856 was printed 'Bothwell, ' a poetic monologue on Mary Stuart'slover. Of Aytoun's humorous sketches, the most humorous are 'My FirstSpec in the Biggleswades, ' and 'How We Got Up the Glen MutchkinRailway'; tales written during the railway mania of 1845, which treat ofthe folly and dishonesty of its promoters, and show many typicalScottish characters. His 'Ballads of Scotland' was issued in 1858; it isan edition of the best ancient minstrelsy, with preface and notes. In1861 appeared 'Norman Sinclair, ' a novel published first in Blackwood's, and giving interesting pictures of society in Scotland and personalexperiences. 

After Professor Wilson's death, Aytoun was considered the leading man ofletters in Scotland; a rank which he modestly accepted by writing in1838 to a friend:--"I am getting a kind of fame as the literary man ofScotland. Thirty years ago, in the North countries, a fellow achieved animmense reputation as 'The Tollman, ' being the solitary individualentitled by law to levy blackmail at a ferry. " In 1860 he was madeHonorary President of the Associated Societies of the University ofEdinburgh, his competitor being Thackeray. This was the place heldafterward by Lord Lytton, Sir David Brewster, Carlyle, and Gladstone. Aytoun wrote the 'The Life and Times of Richard the First' (London, 1840), and in 1863 a 'Nuptial Ode on the Marriage of the Princeof Wales. '

Aytoun was a man of great charm and geniality in society; even toAmericans, though he detested America with the energy of fear--the fearof all who see its prosperity sapping the foundations of their classsociety. He died in 1865; and in 1867 his biography was published by SirTheodore Martin, his collaborator. Martin's definition of Aytoun's placein literature is felicitous:--

 * * * * *

"Fashions in poetry may alter, but so long as the themes with which theydeal have an interest for his countrymen, his 'Lays' will find, as theydo now, a wide circle of admirers. His powers as a humorist were perhapsgreater than as a poet. They have certainly been more widelyappreciated. His immediate contemporaries owe him much, for he hascontributed largely to that kindly mirth without which the strain andstruggle of modern life would be intolerable. Much that is excellent inhis humorous writings may very possibly cease to retain a place inliterature from the circumstance that he deals with characters andpeculiarities which are in some measure local, and phases of life andfeeling and literature which are more or less ephemeral. But much willcertainly continue to be read and enjoyed by the sons and grandsons ofthose for whom it was originally written; and his name will be coupledwith those of Wilson, Lockhart, Sydney Smith, Peacock, Jerrold, Mahony, and Hood, as that of a man gifted with humor as genuine and original astheirs, however opinions may vary as to the order of theirrelative merits. "

'The Modern Endymion, ' from which an extract is given, is a parody onDisraeli's earlier manner. 

 THE BURIAL MARCH OF DUNDEE

 From the 'Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers'

 I

 Sound the fife and cry the slogan; Let the pibroch shake the air With its wild, triumphant music, Worthy of the freight we bear. Let the ancient hills of Scotland Hear once more the battle-song Swell within their glens and valleys As the clansmen march along! Never from the field of combat, Never from the deadly fray, Was a nobler trophy carried Than we bring with us to-day; Never since the valiant Douglas On his dauntless bosom bore Good King Robert's heart--the priceless-- To our dear Redeemer's shore! Lo! we bring with us the hero-- Lo! we bring the conquering Graeme, Crowned as best beseems a victor From the altar of his fame; Fresh and bleeding from the battle Whence his spirit took its flight, 'Midst the crashing charge of squadrons, And the thunder of the fight! Strike, I say, the notes of triumph, As we march o'er moor and lea! Is there any here will venture To bewail our dead Dundee? Let the widows of the traitors Weep until their eyes are dim! Wail ye may full well for Scotland-- Let none dare to mourn for him! See! above his glorious body Lies the royal banner's fold-- See! his valiant blood is mingled With its crimson and its gold. See how calm he looks and stately, Like a warrior on his shield, Waiting till the flush of morning Breaks along the battle-field! See--oh, never more, my comrades, Shall we see that falcon eye Redden with its inward lightning, As the hour of fight drew nigh! Never shall we hear the voice that, Clearer than the trumpet's call, Bade us strike for king and country, Bade us win the field, or fall!

 II

 On the heights of Killiecrankie Yester-morn our army lay: Slowly rose the mist in columns From the river's broken way; Hoarsely roared the swollen torrent, And the Pass was wrapped in gloom, When the clansmen rose together From their lair amidst the broom. Then we belted on our tartans, And our bonnets down we drew, As we felt our broadswords' edges, And we proved them to be true; And we prayed the prayer of soldiers, And we cried the gathering-cry, And we clasped the hands of kinsmen, And we swore to do or die! Then our leader rode before us, On his war-horse black as night-- Well the Cameronian rebels Knew that charger in the fight!-- And a cry of exultation From the bearded warrior rose; For we loved the house of Claver'se, And we thought of good Montrose. But he raised his hand for silence-- "Soldiers! I have sworn a vow; Ere the evening star shall glisten On Schehallion's lofty brow, Either we shall rest in triumph, Or another of the Graemes Shall have died in battle-harness For his country and King James! Think upon the royal martyr-- Think of what his race endure-- Think on him whom butchers murdered On the field of Magus Muir[1]: By his sacred blood I charge ye, By the ruined hearth and shrine-- By the blighted hopes of Scotland, By your injuries and mine-- Strike this day as if the anvil Lay beneath your blows the while, Be they Covenanting traitors, Or the blood of false Argyle! Strike! and drive the trembling rebels Backwards o'er the stormy Forth; Let them tell their pale Convention How they fared within the North. Let them tell that Highland honor Is not to be bought nor sold; That we scorn their prince's anger, As we loathe his foreign gold. Strike! and when the fight is over, If you look in vain for me, Where the dead are lying thickest Search for him that was Dundee!"

 [Footnote 1: Archbishop Sharp, Lord Primate of Scotland. ]

 III

 Loudly then the hills re-echoed With our answer to his call, But a deeper echo sounded In the bosoms of us all. For the lands of wide Breadalbane, Not a man who heard him speak Would that day have left the battle. Burning eye and flushing cheek Told the clansmen's fierce emotion, And they harder drew their breath; For their souls were strong within them, Stronger than the grasp of Death. Soon we heard a challenge trumpet Sounding in the Pass below, And the distant tramp of horses, And the voices of the foe; Down we crouched amid the bracken, Till the Lowland ranks drew near, Panting like the hounds in summer, When they scent the stately deer. From the dark defile emerging, Next we saw the squadrons come, Leslie's foot and Leven's troopers Marching to the tuck of drum; Through the scattered wood of birches, O'er the broken ground and heath, Wound the long battalion slowly, Till they gained the field beneath; Then we bounded from our covert, -- Judge how looked the Saxons then, When they saw the rugged mountain Start to life with armèd men! Like a tempest down the ridges Swept the hurricane of steel, Rose the slogan of Macdonald-- Flashed the broadsword of Lochiel! Vainly sped the withering volley 'Mongst the foremost of our band-- On we poured until we met them Foot to foot and hand to hand. Horse and man went down like drift-wood When the floods are black at Yule, And their carcasses are whirling In the Garry's deepest pool. Horse and man went down before us-- Living foe there tarried none On the field of Killiecrankie, When that stubborn fight was done!

 IV

 And the evening star was shining On Schehallion's distant head, When we wiped our bloody broadswords, And returned to count the dead. There we found him gashed and gory, Stretched upon the cumbered plain, As he told us where to seek him, In the thickest of the slain. And a smile was on his visage, For within his dying ear Pealed the joyful note of triumph And the clansmen's clamorous cheer: So, amidst the battle's thunder, Shot, and steel, and scorching flame, In the glory of his manhood Passed the spirit of the Graeme!

 V

 Open wide the vaults of Athol, Where the bones of heroes rest-- Open wide the hallowed portals To receive another guest! Last of Scots, and last of freemen-- Last of all that dauntless race Who would rather die unsullied, Than outlive the land's disgrace! O thou lion-hearted warrior! Reck not of the after-time: Honor may be deemed dishonor, Loyalty be called a crime. Sleep in peace with kindred ashes Of the noble and the true, Hands that never failed their country, Hearts that never baseness knew. Sleep!--and till the latest trumpet Wakes the dead from earth and sea, Scotland shall not boast a braver Chieftain than our own Dundee!

 THE EXECUTION OF MONTROSE

 From 'Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers'

 Come hither, Evan Cameron! Come, stand beside my knee-- I hear the river roaring down Toward the wintry sea. There's shouting on the mountain-side, There's war within the blast-- Old faces look upon me, Old forms go trooping past. I hear the pibroch wailing Amidst the din of fight, And my dim spirit wakes again Upon the verge of night. 

 'Twas I that led the Highland host Through wild Lochaber's snows, What time the plaided clans came down To battle with Montrose. I've told thee how the Southrons fell Beneath the broad claymore, And how we smote the Campbell clan By Inverlochy's shore; I've told thee how we swept Dundee, And tamed the Lindsays' pride: But never have I told thee yet How the great Marquis died. 

 A traitor sold him to his foes;-- A deed of deathless shame! I charge thee, boy, if e'er thou meet With one of Assynt's name, -- Be it upon the mountain's side Or yet within the glen, Stand he in martial gear alone, Or backed by arméd men, -- Face him, as thou wouldst face the man Who wronged thy sire's renown; Remember of what blood thou art, And strike the caitiff down!

 They brought him to the Watergate, Hard bound with hempen span, As though they held a lion there, And not a fenceless man. They set him high upon a cart, -- The hangman rode below, -- They drew his hands behind his back And bared his noble brow. Then, as a hound is slipped from leash, They cheered, the common throng, And blew the note with yell and shout, And bade him pass along. 

 It would have made a brave man's heart Grow sad and sick that day, To watch the keen malignant eyes Bent down on that array. There stood the Whig West-country lords In balcony and bow; There sat their gaunt and withered dames, And their daughters all arow. And every open window Was full as full might be With black-robed Covenanting carles, That goodly sport to see!

 But when he came, though pale and wan, He looked so great and high, So noble was his manly front, So calm his steadfast eye, -- The rabble rout forbore to shout, And each man held his breath, For well they knew the hero's soul Was face to face with death. And then a mournful shudder Through all the people crept, And some that came to scoff at him Now turned aside and wept. 

 But onwards--always onwards, In silence and in gloom, The dreary pageant labored, Till it reached the house of doom. Then first a woman's voice was heard In jeer and laughter loud, And an angry cry and hiss arose From the heart of the tossing crowd; Then, as the Graeme looked upwards, He saw the ugly smile Of him who sold his king for gold-- The master-fiend Argyle!

 The Marquis gazed a moment, And nothing did he say, But the cheek of Argyle grew ghastly pale, And he turned his eyes away. The painted harlot by his side, She shook through every limb, For a roar like thunder swept the street, And hands were clenched at him; And a Saxon soldier cried aloud, "Back, coward, from thy place! For seven long years thou hast not dared To look him in the face. "

 Had I been there with sword in hand, And fifty Camerons by, That day through high Dunedin's streets Had pealed the slogan-cry. Not all their troops of trampling horse, Nor might of mailèd men-- Not all the rebels in the South Had borne us backward then! Once more his foot on Highland heath Had trod as free as air, Or I, and all who bore my name, Been laid around him there!

 It might not be. They placed him next Within the solemn hall, Where once the Scottish kings were throned Amidst their nobles all. But there was dust of vulgar feet On that polluted floor, And perjured traitors filled the place Where good men sate before. With savage glee came Warriston To read the murderous doom; And then uprose the great Montrose In the middle of the room. 

 "Now, by my faith as belted knight, And by the name I bear, And by the bright Saint Andrew's cross That waves above us there, -- Yea, by a greater, mightier oath-- And oh, that such should be!--By that dark stream of royal blood That lies 'twixt you and me, -- have not sought in battle-field A wreath of such renown, Nor dared I hope on my dying day To win the martyr's crown. 

 "There is a chamber far away Where sleep the good and brave, But a better place ye have named for me Than by my father's grave. For truth and right, 'gainst treason's might, This hand hath always striven, And ye raise it up for a witness still In the eye of earth and heaven. Then nail my head on yonder tower-- Give every town a limb--And God who made shall gather them: I go from you to Him!"

 The morning dawned full darkly, The rain came flashing down, And the jagged streak of the levin-bolt Lit up the gloomy town. The thunder crashed across the heaven, The fatal hour was come; Yet aye broke in, with muffled beat, The larum of the drum. There was madness on the earth below And anger in the sky, And young and old, and rich and poor, Come forth to see him die. 

 Ah, God! that ghastly gibbet! How dismal 'tis to see The great tall spectral skeleton, The ladder and the tree! Hark! hark! it is the clash of arms-- The bells begin to toll-- "He is coming! he is coming! God's mercy on his soul!" One long last peal of thunder-- The clouds are cleared away, And the glorious sun once more looks down Amidst the dazzling day. 

 "He is coming! he is coming!" Like a bridegroom from his room, Came the hero from his prison, To the scaffold and the doom. There was glory on his forehead, There was lustre in his eye, And he never walked to battle More proudly than to die; There was color in his visage, Though the cheeks of all were wan, And they marveled as they saw him pass, That great and goodly man!

 He mounted up the scaffold, And he turned him to the crowd; But they dared not trust the people, So he might not speak aloud. But looked upon the heavens And they were clear and blue, And in the liquid ether The eye of God shone through: Yet a black and murky battlement Lay resting on the hill, As though the thunder slept within-- All else was calm and still. 

 The grim Geneva ministers With anxious scowl drew near, As you have seen the ravens flock Around the dying deer. He would not deign them word nor sign, But alone he bent the knee, And veiled his face for Christ's dear grace Beneath the gallows-tree. Then radiant and serene he rose, And cast his cloak away; For he had ta'en his latest look Of earth and sun and day. 

 A beam of light fell o'er him, Like a glory round the shriven, And he climbed the lofty ladder As it were the path to heaven. Then came a flash from out the cloud, And a stunning thunder-roll; And no man dared to look aloft, For fear was on every soul. There was another heavy sound, A hush and then a groan; And darkness swept across the sky-- The work of death was done!

 THE BROKEN PITCHER

 From the 'Bon Gaultier Ballads'

 It was a Moorish maiden was sitting by a well, And what that maiden thought of, I cannot, cannot tell, When by there rode a valiant knight, from the town of Oviedo-- Alphonso Guzman was he hight, the Count of Desparedo. 

 "O maiden, Moorish maiden! why sitt'st thou by the spring? Say, dost thou seek a lover, or any other thing? Why gazest thou upon me, with eyes so large and wide, And wherefore doth the pitcher lie broken by thy side?"

 "I do not seek a lover, thou Christian knight so gay, Because an article like that hath never come my way; But why I gaze upon you, I cannot, cannot tell, Except that in your iron hose you look uncommon swell. 

 "My pitcher it is broken, and this the reason is-- A shepherd came behind me, and tried to snatch a kiss; I would not stand his nonsense, so ne'er a word I spoke, But scored him on the costard, and so the jug was broke. 

 "My uncle, the Alcaydè, he waits for me at home, And will not take his tumbler until Zorayda come. I cannot bring him water, --the pitcher is in pieces; And so I'm sure to catch it, 'cos he wallops all his nieces. 

 "O maiden, Moorish maiden! wilt thou be ruled by me? So wipe thine eyes and rosy lips, and give me kisses three; And I'll give thee my helmet, thou kind and courteous lady, To carry home the water to thy uncle, the Alcaydè. "

 He lighted down from off his steed--he tied him to a tree-- He bowed him to the maiden, and took his kisses three: "To wrong thee, sweet Zorayda, I swear would be a sin!" He knelt him at the fountain, and dipped his helmet in. 

 Up rose the Moorish maiden--behind the knight she steals, And caught Alphonso Guzman up tightly by the heels; She tipped him in, and held him down beneath the bubbling water, -- "Now, take thou that for venturing to kiss Al Hamet's daughter!"

 A Christian maid is weeping in the town of Oviedo; She waits the coming of her love, the Count of Desparedo. I pray you all in charity, that you will never tell How he met the Moorish maiden beside the lonely well. 

 SONNET TO BRITAIN

 "BY THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON"

 Halt! Shoulder arms! Recover! As you were! Right wheel! Eyes left! Attention! Stand at ease! O Britain! O my country! Words like these Have made thy name a terror and a fear To all the nations. Witness Ebro's banks, Assaye, Toulouse, Nivelle, and Waterloo, Where the grim despot muttered, _Sauve qui pent!_ And Ney fled darkling. --Silence in the ranks! Inspired by these, amidst the iron crash Of armies, in the centre of his troop The soldier stands--unmovable, not rash-- Until the forces of the foemen droop; Then knocks the Frenchmen to eternal smash, Pounding them into mummy. Shoulder, hoop!

A BALL IN THE UPPER CIRCLES

From "The Modern Endymion"

'Twas a hot season in the skies. Sirius held the ascendant, and underhis influence even the radiant band of the Celestials began to droop, while the great ball-room of Olympus grew gradually more and moredeserted. For nearly a week had Orpheus, the leader of the heavenlyorchestra, played to a deserted floor. The _élite_ would no longerfigure in the waltz. 

Juno obstinately kept her room, complaining of headache and ill-temper. Ceres, who had lately joined a dissenting congregation, objectedgenerally to all frivolous amusements; and Minerva had established, inopposition, a series of literary soirees, at which Pluto nightlylectured on the fine arts and phrenology, to a brilliant and fashionableaudience. The Muses, with Hebe and some of the younger deities, alonefrequented the assemblies; but with all their attractions there wasstill a sad lack of partners. The younger gods had of late becomeremarkably dissipated, messed three times a week at least with Mars inthe barracks, and seldom separated sober. Bacchus had been sent toCoventry by the ladies, for appearing one night in the ball-room, aftera hard sederunt, so drunk that he measured his length upon the floorafter a vain attempt at a mazurka; and they likewise eschewed thecompany of Pan, who had become an abandoned smoker, and always smeltinfamously of cheroots. But the most serious defection, as also the mostunaccountable, was that of the beautiful Diana, _par excellence_ thebelle of the season, and assuredly the most graceful nymph that evertripped along the halls of heaven. She had gone off suddenly to thecountry, without alleging any intelligible excuse, and with her the lastattraction of the ball-room seemed to have disappeared. Even Venus, theperpetual lady patroness, saw that the affair was desperate. 

"Ganymede, _mon beau garcon_, " said she, one evening at an unusuallythin assembly, "we must really give it up at last. Matters are growingworse and worse, and in another week we shall positively not have enoughto get up a tolerable gallopade. Look at these seven poor Muses sittingtogether on the sofa. Not a soul has spoken to them to-night, exceptthat horrid Silenus, who dances nothing but Scotch reels. "

"_Pardieu!_" replied the young Trojan, fixing his glass in his eye. "There may be a reason for that. The girls are decidedly _passées_, andmost inveterate blues. But there's dear little Hebe, who never wantspartners, though that clumsy Hercules insists upon his conjugal rights, and keeps moving after her like an enormous shadow. 'Pon my soul, I've agreat mind--Do you think, _ma belle tante_, that anything might be donein that quarter?"

"Oh fie, Ganymede--fie for shame!" said Flora, who was sitting close tothe Queen of Love, and overheard the conversation. "You horrid, naughtyman, how can you talk so?"

"_Pardon, ma chère_!" replied the exquisite with a languid smile. "Youmust excuse my _badinage_; and indeed, a glance of your fair eyes wereenough at any time to recall me to my senses. By the way, what abeautiful _bouquet_ you have there. _Parole d'honneur_, I am quitejealous. May I ask who sent it?"

"What a goose you are!" said Flora, in evident confusion: "how should Iknow? Some general admirer like yourself, I suppose. "

"Apollo is remarkably fond of hyacinths, I believe, " said Ganymede, looking significantly at Venus. "Ah, well! I see how it is. We poordetrimentals must break our hearts in silence. It is clear we have nochance with the _preux chevalier_ of heaven. "

"Really, Ganymede, you are very severe this evening, " said Venus with asmile; "but tell me, have you heard anything of Diana?"

"Ah! _la belle Diane_? They say she is living in the country somewhereabout Caria, at a place they call Latmos Cottage, cultivating her fadedroses--what a color Hebe has!--and studying the sentimental. "

"_Tant pis_! She is a great loss to us, " said Venus. "Apropos, you willbe at Neptune's _fête champétre_ to-morrow, _n'est ce pas?_ We shallthen finally determine about abandoning the assemblies. But I must gohome now. The carriage has been waiting this hour, and my doves maycatch cold. I suppose that boy Cupid will not be home till all hours ofthe morning. "

"Why, I believe the Rainbow Club _does_ meet to-night, after thedancing, " said Ganymede significantly. "This is the last oyster-night ofthe season. "

"Gracious goodness! The boy will be quite tipsy, " said Venus. "Do, dearGanymede! try to keep him sober. But now, give me your arm to thecloak-room. "

"_Volontiers_!" said the exquisite. 

As Venus rose to go, there was a rush of persons to the further end ofthe room, and the music ceased. Presently, two or three voices wereheard calling for Aesculapius. 

"What's the row?" asked that learned individual, advancing leisurelyfrom the refreshment table, where he had been cramming himself with teaand cakes. 

"Leda's fainted!" shrieked Calliope, who rushed past with hervinaigrette in hand. 

"_Gammon_!" growled the Abernethy of heaven, as he followed her. 

"Poor Leda!" said Venus, as her cavalier adjusted her shawl. "Thesefainting fits are decidedly alarming. I hope it is nothing more seriousthan the weather. "

"I hope so, too, " said Ganymede. "Let me put on the scarf. But peoplewill talk. Pray heaven it be not a second edition of that old scandalabout the eggs!"

"_Fi done_! You odious creature! How can you? But after all, strangerthings have happened. There now, have done. Good-night!" and she steppedinto her chariot. 

"_Bon soir_" said the exquisite, kissing his hand as it rolled away. "'Pon my soul, that's a splendid woman. I've a great mind--but there'sno hurry about that. _Revenons à nos oeufs. _ I must learn something moreabout this fainting fit. " So saying, Ganymede re-ascended the stairs. 

A HIGHLAND TRAMP

From "Norman Sinclair"

When summer came--for in Scotland, alas! there is no spring, winterrolling itself remorselessly, like a huge polar bear, over what shouldbe the beds of the early flowers, and crushing them ere theydevelop--when summer came, and the trees put on their pale-greenliveries, and the brakes were blue with the wood-hyacinth, and the fernsunfolded their curl, what ecstasy it was to steal an occasional holiday, and wander, rod in hand, by some quiet stream up in the moorlands, inhaling health from every breeze, nor seeking shelter from the gentleshower as it dropped its manna from the heavens! And then the longholidays, when the town was utterly deserted--how I enjoyed these, asthey can only be enjoyed by the possess-ors of the double talisman ofstrength and youth! No more care--no more trouble--no more task-work--nothought even of the graver themes suggested by my later studies!Look--standing on the Calton Hill, behold yon blue range of mountains tothe west--cannot you name each pinnacle from its form? Benledi, Benvoirlich, Benlomond! Oh, the beautiful land, the elysium that liesround the base of those distant giants! The forest of Glenfinlas, LochAchray with its weeping birches, the grand defiles of the Trosachs, andEllen's Isle, the pearl of the one lake that genius has foreverhallowed! Up, sluggard! Place your knapsack on your back; but stow itnot with unnecessary gear, for you have still further to go, and yourrod also must be your companion, if you mean to penetrate the regionbeyond. Money? Little money suffices him who travels on foot, who canbring his own fare to the shepherd's bothy where he is to sleep, and whosleeps there better and sounder than the tourist who rolls from stationto station in his barouche, grumbling because the hotels areovercrowded, and miserable about the airing of his sheets. Money? Youwould laugh if you heard me mention the sum which has sufficed for myexpenditure during a long summer month; for the pedestrian, humblethough he be, has his own especial privileges, and not the least ofthese is that he is exempted from all extortion. Donald--God blesshim!--has a knack of putting on the prices; and when an English familycomes posting up to the door of his inn, clamorously demanding everysort of accommodation which a metropolitan hotel could afford, grumblingat the lack of attendance, sneering at the quality of the food, andturning the whole establishment upside down for their own selfishgratification, he not unreasonably determines that the extra troubleshall be paid for in that gold which rarely crosses his fingers exceptduring the short season when tourists and sportsmen abound. But Donald, who is descended from the M'Gregor, does not make spoil of the poor. Thesketcher or the angler who come to his door, with the sweat upon theirbrow and the dust of the highway or the pollen of the heather on theirfeet, meet with a hearty welcome; and though the room in which theirmeals are served is but low in the roof, and the floor strewn with sand, and the attic wherein they lie is garnished with two beds and ashake-down, yet are the viands wholesome, the sheets clean, and thetariff so undeniably moderate that even parsimony cannot complain. So upin the morning early, so soon as the first beams of the sun slant intothe chamber--down to the loch or river, and with a headlong plungescrape acquaintance with the pebbles at the bottom; then rising with ahearty gasp, strike out for the islet or the further bank, to theastonishment of the otter, who, thief that he is, is skulking back tohis hole below the old saugh-tree, from a midnight foray up the burns. Huzza! The mallard, dozing among the reeds, has taken fright, andtucking up his legs under his round fat rump, flies quacking to aremoter marsh. 

 "By the pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked this way comes, "

and lo! Dugald the keeper, on his way to the hill, is arrested by theaquatic phenomenon, and half believes that he is witnessing the frolicsof an Urisk! Then make your toilet on the green-sward, swing yourknapsack over your shoulders, and cover ten good miles of road beforeyou halt before breakfast with more than the appetite of an ogre. 

In this way I made the circuit of well-nigh the whole of the ScottishHighlands, penetrating as far as Cape Wrath and the wild district ofEdderachylis, nor leaving unvisited the grand scenery of Loch Corruisk, and the stormy peaks of Skye; and more than one delightful week did Ispend each summer, exploring Gameshope, or the Linns of Talla, where theCovenanters of old held their gathering; or clambering up the steepascent by the Grey Mare's Tail to lonely and lovely Loch Skene, orcasting for trout in the silver waters of St. Mary's. 

MASSIMO TAPARELLI D'AZEGLIO

(1798-1866)

Massimo Taparelli, Marquis d'Azeglio, like his greater colleague andsometime rival in the Sardinian Ministry, Cavour, wielded a graceful andforcible pen, and might have won no slight distinction in the peacefulpaths of literature and art as well, had he not been before everythingelse a patriot. Of ancient and noble Piedmontese stock, he was born atTurin in October, 1798. In his fifteenth year the youth accompanied hisfather to Rome, where the latter had been appointed ambassador, and thusearly he was inspired with the passion for painting and music whichnever left him. In accordance with the paternal wish he entered on amilitary career, but soon abandoned the service to devote himself toart. But after a residence of eight years (1821-29) in the papalcapital, having acquired both skill and fame as a landscape painter, D'Azeglio began to direct his thoughts to letters and politics. 

After the death of his father in 1830 he settled in Milan, where heformed the acquaintance of the poet and novelist Alessandro Manzoni, whose daughter he married, and under whose influence he became deeplyinterested in literature, especially in its relation to the politicalevents of those stirring times. The agitation against Austriandomination was especially marked in the north of Italy, where Manzonihad made himself prominent; and so it came to pass that Massimod'Azeglio plunged into literature with the ardent hope of stimulatingthe national sense of independence and unity. 

In 1833 he published, not without misgivings, 'Ettore Fieramosca, ' hisfirst romance, in which he aimed to teach Italians how to fight fornational honor. The work achieved an immediate and splendid success, andunquestionably served as a powerful aid to the awakening of Italy'sancient patriotism. It was followed in 1841 by 'Nicolo de' Lapi, ' astory conceived in similar vein, with somewhat greater pretensions toliterary finish. D'Azeglio now became known as one of the foremostrepresentatives of the moderate party, and exerted the potent influenceof his voice as well as of his pen in diffusing liberal propaganda. In1846 he published the bold pamphlet 'Gli Ultimi Casi di Romagna' (On theRecent Events in Romagna), in which he showed the danger and utterfutility of ill-advised republican outbreaks, and the paramountnecessity of adopting thereafter a wiser and more practical policy togain the great end desired. Numerous trenchant political articles issuedfrom his pen during the next two years. The year 1849 found him a memberof the first Sardinian parliament, and in March of that year VictorEmmanuel called him to the presidency of the Council with the portfolioof Foreign Affairs. Obliged to give way three years later before therising genius of Cavour, he served his country with distinction onseveral important diplomatic missions after the peace of Villafranca, and died in his native city on the 15th of January, 1866. 

In 1867 appeared D'Azeglio's autobiography, 'I Miei Ricordi, ' translatedinto English by Count Maffei under title of 'My Recollections' which isundeniably the most interesting and thoroughly delightful product of hispen. "He was a 'character, '" said an English critic at the time: "a manof whims and oddities, of hobbies and crotchets. .. . This character ofindividuality, which impressed its stamp on his whole life, ischarmingly revealed in every sentence of the memoirs which he has leftbehind him; so that, more than any of his previous writings, theirmingled homeliness and wit and wisdom justify the epithet which I oncebefore ventured to give him when I described him as 'the Giusti ofItalian prose. '" As a polemic writer D'Azeglio was recognized as one ofthe chief forces in molding public opinion. If he had not been bothpatriot and statesman, this versatile genius, as before intimated, wouldnot improbably have gained an enviable reputation in the realm of art;and although his few novels are--perhaps with justice--no longerremembered, they deeply stirred the hearts of his countrymen in theirday, and to say the least are characterized by good sense, facility ofexecution, and a refined imaginative power. 

A HAPPY CHILDHOOD

From 'My Recollections'

The distribution of our daily occupations was strictly laid down forMatilde and me in black and white, and these rules were not to be brokenwith impunity. We were thus accustomed to habits of order, and never tomake anybody wait for our convenience; a fault which is one of the mosttroublesome that can be committed either by great people or small. 

I remember one day that Matilde, having gone out with Teresa, came homewhen we had been at dinner some time. It was winter, and snow wasfalling. The two culprits sat down a little confused, and their soup wasbrought them in two plates, which had been kept hot; but can you guesswhere? On the balcony; so that the contents were not only belowfreezing-point, but actually had a thick covering of snow!

At dinner, of course my sister and I sat perfectly silent, waiting ourturn, without right of petition or remonstrance. As to the otherproprieties of behavior, such as neatness, and not being noisy orboisterous, we knew well that the slightest infraction would haveentailed banishment for the rest of the day at least. Our great anxietywas to eclipse ourselves as much as possible; and I assure you thatunder this system we never fancied ourselves the central points ofimportance round which all the rest of the world was to revolve, --anidea which, thanks to absurd indulgence and flattery, is often forciblythrust, I may say, into poor little brains, which if left to themselveswould never have lost their natural simplicity. 

The lessons of 'Galateo' were not enforced at dinner only. Even at othertimes we were forbidden to raise our voices or interrupt theconversation of our elders, still more to quarrel with each other. Ifsometimes as we went to dinner I rushed forward before Matilde, myfather would take me by the arm and make me come last, saying, "There isno need to be uncivil because she is your sister. " The old generation inmany parts of Italy have the habit of shouting and raising their voicesas if their interlocutor were deaf, interrupting him as if he had noright to speak, and poking him in the ribs and otherwise, as if he couldonly be convinced by sensations of bodily pain. The regulations observedin my family were therefore by no means superfluous; and would toHeaven they were universally adopted as the law of the land!

On another occasion my excellent mother gave me a lesson of humility, which I shall never forget any more than the place where I received it. 

In the open part of the Cascine, which was once used as a race-course, to the right of the space where the carriages stand, there is a walkalongside the wood. I was walking there one day with my mother, followedby an old servant, a countryman of Pylades; less heroic than the latter, but a very good fellow too. I forget why, but I raised a little cane Ihad in my hand, and I am afraid I struck him. My mother, before all thepassers-by, obliged me to kneel down and beg his pardon. I can still seepoor Giacolin taking off his hat with a face of utter bewilderment, quite unable to comprehend how it was that the Chevalier MassimoTaparelli d'Azeglio came to be at his feet. 

An indifference to bodily pain was another of the precepts mostcarefully instilled by our father; and as usual, the lesson was mademore impressive by example whenever an opportunity presented itself. If, for instance, we complained of any slight pain or accident, our fatherused to say, half in fun, half in earnest, "When a Piedmontese has bothhis arms and legs broken, and has received two sword-thrusts in thebody, he may be allowed to say, but not till then, 'Really, I almostthink I am not quite well. '"

The moral authority he had acquired over me was so great that in no casewould I have disobeyed him, even had he ordered me to jump outof window. 

I recollect that when my first tooth was drawn, I was in an agony offright as we went to the dentist; but outwardly I was brave enough, andtried to seem as indifferent as possible. On another occasion mychildish courage and also my father's firmness were put to a moreserious test. He had hired a house called the Villa Billi, which standsabout half a mile from San Domenico di Fiesole, on the right winding uptoward the hill. Only two years ago I visited the place, and found thesame family of peasants still there, and my two old playmates, Nando andSandro, --who had both become even greater fogies than myself, --and wehad a hearty chat together about bygone times. 

Whilst living at this villa, our father was accustomed to take us outfor long walks, which were the subject of special regulations. We werestrictly forbidden to ask, "Have we far to go?"--"What time is it?" orto say, "I am thirsty; I am hungry; I am tired:" but in everything elsewe had full liberty of speech and action. Returning from one of theseexcursions, we one day found ourselves below Castel di Poggio, a ruggedstony path leading towards Vincigliata. In one hand I had a nosegay ofwild flowers, gathered by the way, and in the other a stick, when Ihappened to stumble, and fell awkwardly. My father sprang forward topick me up, and seeing that one arm pained me, he examined it and foundthat in fact the bone was broken below the elbow. All this time my eyeswere fixed upon him, and I could see his countenance change, and assumesuch an expression of tenderness and anxiety that he no longer appearedto be the same man. He bound up my arm as well as he could, and we thencontinued our way homewards. After a few moments, during which my fatherhad resumed his usual calmness, he said to me:--

"Listen, Mammolino: your mother is not well. If she knows you are hurtit will make her worse. You must be brave, my boy: to-morrow morning wewill go to Florence, where all that is needful can be done for you; butthis evening you must not show you are in pain. Do you understand?"

All this was said with his usual firmness and authority, but also withthe greatest affection. I was only too glad to have so important anddifficult a task intrusted to me. The whole evening I sat quietly in acorner, supporting my poor little broken arm as best I could, and mymother only thought me tired by the long walk, and had no suspicion ofthe truth. 

The next day I was taken to Florence, and my arm was set; but tocomplete the cure I had to be sent to the Baths of Vinadio a few yearsafterward. Some people may, in this instance, think my father was cruel. I remember the fact as if it were but yesterday, and I am sure such anidea never for one minute entered my mind. The expression of ineffabletenderness which I had read in his eyes had so delighted me, it seemedso reasonable to avoid alarming my mother, that I looked on the hardtask allotted me as a fine opportunity of displaying my courage. I didso because I had not been spoilt, and good principles had been earlyimplanted within me: and now that I am an old man and have known theworld, I bless the severity of my father; and I could wish every Italianchild might have one like him, and derive more profit than I did, --inthirty years' time Italy would then be the first of nations. 

Moreover, it is a fact that children are much more observant than iscommonly supposed, and never regard as hostile a just but affectionateseverity. I have always seen them disposed to prefer persons who keepthem in order to those who constantly yield to their caprices; andsoldiers are just the same in this respect. 

The following is another example to prove that my father did not deserveto be called cruel:--

He thought it a bad practice to awaken children suddenly, or to lettheir sleep be abruptly disturbed. If we had to rise early for ajourney, he would come to my bedside and softly hum a popular song, twolines of which still ring in my ears:--

 "Chi vuol veder l'aurora Lasci le molli plume. "

 (He who the early dawn would view Downy pillows must eschew. )

And by gradually raising his voice, he awoke me without the slighteststart. In truth, with all his severity, Heaven knows how I loved him. 

THE PRIESTHOOD

From "My Recollections"

My occupations in Rome were not entirely confined to the domains ofpoetry and imagination. It must not be forgotten that I was also adiplomatist; and in that capacity I had social as well as officialduties to perform. 

The Holy Alliance had accepted the confession and repentance of Murat, and had granted him absolution; but as the new convert inspired littleconfidence, he was closely watched, in the expectation--and perhaps thehope--of an opportunity of crowning the work by the inflictionof penance. 

The penance intended was to deprive him of his crown and sceptre, and toturn him out of the pale. Like all the other diplomatists resident inRome, we kept our court well informed of all that could be known orsurmised regarding the intentions of the Neapolitan government; and Ihad the lively occupation of copying page after page of incomprehensiblecipher for the newborn archives of our legation. Such was my life atthat time; and in spite of the cipher, I soon found it pleasant enough. Dinner-parties, balls, routs, and fashionable society did not theninspire me with the holy horror which now keeps me away from them. Having never before experienced or enjoyed anything of the kind, I wassatisfied. But in the midst of my pleasure, our successor--Marquis SanSaturnino--made his appearance, and we had to prepare for our departure. One consolation, however, remained. I had just then been appointed tothe high rank of cornet in the crack dragoon regiment "Royal Piedmont. "I had never seen its uniform, but I cherished a vague hope of beingdestined by Fortune to wear a helmet; and the prospect of realizing thissplendid dream of my infancy prevented me from regretting my Romanacquaintances overmuch. 

The Society of Jesus had meanwhile been restored, and my brother was onthe eve of taking the vows. He availed himself of the last days left himbefore that ceremony to sit for his portrait to the painter Landi. Thisis one of that artist's best works, who, poor man, cannot boast of many;and it now belongs to my nephew Emanuel. 

The day of the ceremony at length arrived, and I accompanied my brotherto the Convent of Monte Cavallo, where it was to take place. 

The Jesuits at that time were all greatly rejoicing at the revival oftheir order; and as may be inferred, they were mostly old men, with onlya few young novices among them. 

We entered an oratory fragrant with the flowers adorning the altar, fullof silver ornaments, holy images, and burning wax-lights, withhalf-closed windows and carefully drawn blinds; for it is a certain, although unexplained, fact that men are more devout in the dark than inthe light, at night than in the day-time, and with their eyes closedrather than open. We were received by the General of the order, FatherPanizzoni, a little old man bent double with age, his eyes encircledwith red, half blind, and I believe almost in his dotage. He wasshedding tears of joy, and we all maintained the pious and seriousaspect suited to the occasion, until the time arrived for the novice tostep forward, when, lo! Father Panizzoni advanced with open arms towardthe place where I stood, mistaking me for my brother; a blunder whichfor a moment imperiled the solemnity of the assembly. 

Had I yielded to the embrace of Father Panizzoni, it would have been awonderful bargain both for him and me. But this was not the onlyinvitation I then received to enter upon a sacerdotal career. MonsignorMorozzo, my great-uncle and god-father, then secretary to the bishopsand regular monks, one day proposed that I should enter theEcclesiastical Academy, and follow the career of the prelacy under hispatronage. The idea seemed so absurd that I could not help laughingheartily, and the subject was never revived. 

Had I accepted these overtures, I might in the lapse of time have longsince been a cardinal, and perhaps even Pope. And if so, I should havedrawn the world after me, as the shepherd entices a lamb with a lump ofsalt. It was very wrong in me to refuse. Doubtless the habit ofexpressing my opinion to every one, and on all occasions, would have ledme into many difficulties. I must either have greatly changed, or a veryfew years would have seen an end of me. 

We left Rome at last, in the middle of winter, in an open carriage, andtraveling chiefly by night, as was my father's habit. While the horsesare trotting on, I will sum up the impressions of Rome and the Romanworld which I was carrying away. The clearest idea present to my mindwas that the priests of Rome and their religion had very little incommon with my father and Don Andreis, or with the religion professed bythem and by the priests and the devout laity of Turin. I had not beenable to detect the slightest trace of that which in the language ofasceticism is called unction. I know not why, but that grave anddowncast aspect, enlivened only by a few occasional flashes of ponderousclerical wit, the atmosphere depressing as the _plumbeus auster_ ofHorace, in which I had been brought up under the rule of my priest, --allseemed unknown at Rome. There I never met with a monsignore or a priestwho did not step out with a pert and jaunty air, his head erect, showingoff a well-made leg, and daintily attired in the garb of a clericaldandy. Their conversation turned upon every possible subject, andsometimes upon _quibusdam aliis_, to such a degree that it was evidentmy father was perpetually on thorns. I remember a certain prelate, whomI will not name, and whose conduct was, I believe, sufficiently free andeasy, who at a dinner-party at a villa near Porta Pia related laughinglysome matrimonial anecdotes, which I at that time did not fullyunderstand. And I remember also my poor father's manifest distress, andhis strenuous endeavors to change the conversation and direct it into adifferent channel. 

The prelates and priests whom I used to meet in less orthodox companiesthan those frequented by my father seemed to me still more free andeasy. Either in the present or in the past, in theory or in practice, with more or less or even no concealment, they all alike were sailing orhad sailed on the sweet _fleuve du tendre_. For instance, I met one oldcanon bound to a venerable dame by a tie of many years' standing. I alsomet a young prelate with a pink-and-white complexion and eyes expressiveof anything but holiness; he was a desperate votary of the fair sex, andswaggered about paying his homage right and left. Will it be believed, this gay apostle actually told me, without circumlocution, that in themonastery of Tor di Specchi there dwelt a young lady who was in lovewith me? I, who of course desired no better, took the hint instantly, and had her pointed out to me. Then began an interchange of sillymessages, of languishing looks, and a hundred absurdities of the samekind; all cut short by the pair of post-horses which carried us out ofthe Porta del Popolo. .. . 

The opinions of my father respecting the clergy and the Court of Romewere certainly narrow and prejudiced; but with his good sense it wasimpossible for him not to perceive what was manifest even to a blindman. During our journey he kept insinuating (without appearing, however, to attach much importance to it) that it was always advisable to speakwith proper respect of a country where we had been well received, evenif we had noticed a great many abuses and disorders. To a certainextent, this counsel was well worthy of attention. He was doubtless muchgrieved at the want of decency apparent in one section of that society, or, to use a modern expression, at its absence of respectability; but heconsoled himself by thinking, like Abraham the Jew in the 'Decameron, 'that no better proof can be given of the truth of the religion professedby Rome than the fact of its enduring in such hands. 

This reasoning, however, is not quite conclusive; for if Boccaccio hadhad patience to wait another forty years, he would have learnt, firstfrom John Huss, and then from Luther and his followers, that although incertain hands things may last a while, it is only till they are wornout. What Boccaccio and the Jew would say now if they came back, I donot venture to surmise, MY FIRST VENTURE IN ROMANCE

From 'My Recollections'

While striving to acquire a good artistic position in my new residence, I had still continued to work at my 'Fieramosca, ' which was now almostcompleted. Letters were at that time represented at Milan by Manzoni, Grossi, Torti, Pompeo Litta, etc. The memories of the period of Monti, Parini, Foscolo, Porta, Pellico, Verri, Beccaria, were still fresh; andhowever much the living literary and scientific men might be inclined tolead a secluded life, intrenched in their own houses, with the shynessof people who disliked much intercourse with the world, yet by a littletact those who wished for their company could overcome their reserve. AsManzoni's son-in-law, I found myself naturally brought into contact withthem. I knew them all; but Grossi and I became particularly intimate, and our close and uninterrupted friendship lasted until the day of hisbut too premature death. I longed to show my work to him, and especiallyto Manzoni, and ask their advice; but fear this time, not artistic butliterary, had again caught hold of me. Still, a resolve was necessary, and was taken at last. I disclosed my secret, imploring forbearance andadvice, but no _indulgence_. I wanted the truth, the whole truth, andnothing but the truth. I preferred the blame of a couple of trustedfriends to that of the public. Both seemed to have expected something agreat deal worse than what they heard, to judge by their startled butalso approving countenances, when my novel was read to them. Manzoniremarked with a smile, "We literary men have a strange professionindeed--any one can take it up in a day. Here is Massimo: the whim ofwriting a novel seizes him, and upon my word he does not do badly, after all!"

This high approbation inspired me with leonine courage, and I set towork again in earnest, so that in 1833 the work was ready forpublication. On thinking it over now, it strikes me that I was guilty ofgreat impertinence in thus bringing out and publishing with undauntedassurance my little novel among all those literary big-wigs; I who hadnever done or written anything before. But it was successful; and thisis an answer to every objection. 

The day I carried my bundle of manuscript to San Pietro all' Orto, and, as Berni expresses it, --

 "--ritrovato Un che di stampar opere lavora, Dissi, Stampami questa alla malora!"

 (--having Discovered one, a publisher by trade, 'Print me this book, bad luck to it!' I said. )

I was in a still greater funk than on the two previous occasions. But Ihad yet to experience the worst I ever felt in the whole course of mylife, and that was on the day of publication; when I went out in themorning, and read my illustrious name placarded in large letters on thestreet walls! I felt blinded by a thousand sparks. Now indeed _aleajacta erat_, and my fleet was burnt to ashes. 

This great fear of the public may, with good-will, be taken for modesty;but I hold that at bottom it is downright vanity. Of course I amspeaking of people endowed with a sufficient dose of talent andcommon-sense; with fools, on the contrary, vanity takes the shape ofimpudent self-confidence. Hence all the daily published amount ofnonsense; which would convey a strange idea of us to Europe, if it werenot our good fortune that Italian is not much understood abroad. Asregards our internal affairs, the two excesses are almost equallynoxious. In Parliament, for instance, the first, those of the timidlyvain genus, might give their opinion a little oftener with generaladvantage; while if the others, the impudently vain, were not alwaysbrawling, discussions would be more brief and rational, and publicbusiness better and more quickly dispatched. The same reflection appliesto other branches--to journalism, literature, society, etc. ; for vanityis the bad weed which chokes up our political field; and as it is aplant of hardy growth, blooming among us all the year round, it is justas well to be on our guard. 

Timid vanity was terribly at work within me the day 'Fieramosca' waspublished. For the first twenty-four hours it was impossible to learnanything; for even the most zealous require at least a day to form someidea of a book. Next morning, on first going out, I encountered a friendof mine, a young fellow then and now a man of mature age, who has neverhad a suspicion of the cruel blow he unconsciously dealt me. I met himin Piazza San Fedele, where I lived; and after a few words, he said, "Bythe by, I hear you have published a novel. Well done!" and then talkedaway about something quite different with the utmost heedlessness. Not adrop of blood was left in my veins, and I said to myself, "Mercy on me!I am done for: not even a word is said about my poor 'Fieramosca!'" Itseemed incredible that he, who belonged to a very numerous family, connected with the best society of the town, should have heard nothing, if the slightest notice had been taken of it. As he was besides anexcellent fellow and a friend, it seemed equally incredible that if aword had been said and heard, he should not have repeated it to me. Therefore, it was a failure; the worst of failures, that of silence. With a bitter feeling at heart, I hardly knew where I went; but thisfeeling soon changed, and the bitterness was superseded by quite anopposite sensation. 

'Fieramosca' succeeded, and succeeded so well that I felt _abasourdi_, as the French express it; indeed, I could say "Je n'aurais jamais cruêtre si fort savant. " My success went on in an increasing ratio: itpassed from the papers and from the masculine half to the feminine halfof society; it found its way to the studios and the stage. I became thevade-mecum of every prima-donna and tenor, the hidden treat ofschool-girls; I penetrated between the pillow and the mattress ofcollege, boys, of the military academy cadet; and my apotheosis reachedsuch a height that some newspapers asserted it to be Manzoni's work. Itis superfluous to add that only the ignorant could entertain such anidea; those who were better informed would never have made sucha blunder. 

My aim, as I said, was to take the initiative in the slow work of theregeneration of national character. I had no wish but to awaken high andnoble sentiments in Italian hearts; and if all the literary men in theworld had assembled to condemn me in virtue of strict rules, I shouldnot have cared a jot, if, in defiance of all existing rules, I succeededin inflaming the heart of one single individual. And I will also add, who can say that what causes durable emotion is unorthodox? It may be atvariance with some rules and in harmony with others; and those whichmove hearts and captivate intellects do not appear to me to bethe worst. 

BABER

(1482-1530)

BY EDWARD S. HOLDEN

The emperor Baber was sixth in descent from Tamerlane, who died in 1405. Tamerlane's conquests were world-wide, but they never formed ahomogeneous empire. Even in his lifetime he parceled them out to sonsand grandsons. Half a century later Trans-oxiana was divided into manyindependent kingdoms each governed by a descendant of the greatconqueror. 

When Baber was born (1482), an uncle was King of Samarkand and Bokhara;another uncle ruled Badakhshan; another was King of Kabul. A relativewas the powerful King of Khorasan. These princes were of the family ofTamerlane, as was Baber's father, --Sultan Omer Sheikh Mirza, who was theKing of Ferghana. Two of Baber's maternal uncles, descendants of ChengizKhan, ruled the Moghul tribes to the west and north of Ferghana; and twoof their sisters had married the Kings of Samarkand and Badakhshan. Thethird sister was Baber's mother, wife of the King of Ferghana. 

The capitals of their countries were cities like Samarkand, Bokhara, andHerat. Tamerlane's grandson--Ulugh Beg--built at Samarkand the chiefastronomical observatory of the world, a century and a half before TychoBrahe (1576) erected Uranibourg in Denmark. The town was filled withnoble buildings, --mosques, tombs, and colleges. Its walls were fivemiles in circumference[2]. 

[Footnote 2: Paris was walled in 1358; so Froissart tells us. ]

Its streets were paved (the streets of Paris were not paved till thetime of Henri IV. ), and running water was distributed in pipes. Itsmarkets overflowed with fruits. Its cooks and bakers were noted fortheir skill. Its colleges were full of learned men, poets[3], anddoctors of the law. The observatory counted more than a hundredobservers and calculators in its corps of astronomers. The products ofChina, of India, and of Persia flowed to the bazaars. 

[Footnote 3: "In Samarkand, the Odes of Baiesanghar Mirza are sopopular, that there is not a house in which a copy of them may not befound. "--Baber's. 'Memoirs. ']

Bokhara has always been the home of learning. Herat was at that time themost magnificent and refined city of the world[4]. The court wassplendid, polite, intelligent, and liberal. Poetry, history, philosophy, science, and the arts of painting and music were cultivatedby noblemen and scholars alike. Baber himself was a poet of no meanrank. The religion was that of Islam, and the sect the orthodox Sunni;but the practice was less precise than in Arabia. Wine was drunk; poetrywas prized; artists were encouraged. The mother-language of Baber wasTurki (of which the Turkish of Constantinople is a dialect). Arabic wasthe language of science and of theology. Persian was the acceptedliterary language, though Baber's verses are in Turki as well. 

[Footnote 4: Baber spent twenty days in visiting its various palaces, towers, mosques, gardens, colleges--and gives a list of more than fiftysuch sights. ]

We possess Baber's 'Memoirs' in the original Turki and in Persiantranslations also. In what follows, the extracts will be taken fromErskine's translation[5], which preserves their direct and manly charm. 

[Footnote 5: 'Memoirs of Baber, Emperor of Hindustan, written byhimself, and translated by Leyden and Erskine, ' etc. London, 1826, quarto. ]

To understand them, the foregoing slight introduction is necessary. Aconnected sketch of Baber's life and a brief history of his conquestscan be found in 'The Mogul Emperors of Hindustan[6]. ' We are here moreespecially concerned with his literary work. To comprehend it, somethingof his history and surroundings must be known. 

[Footnote 6: By Edward S. Holden, New York, 1895, 8vo, illustrated. ]

FROM BABER'S 'MEMOIRS'

In the month, of Ramzan, in the year 899 [A. D. 1494], and in thetwelfth year of my age, I became King of Ferghana. 

The country of Ferghana is situated in the fifth climate, on the extremeboundary of the habitable world. On the east it has Kashgar; on thewest, Samarkand; on the south, the hill country; on the north, in formertimes there were cities, yet at the present time, in consequence of theincursions of the Usbeks, no population remains. Ferghana is a countryof small extent, abounding in grain and fruits. The revenues maysuffice, without oppressing the country, to maintain three or fourthousand troops. 

My father, Omer Sheikh Mirza, was of low stature, had a short, bushybeard, brownish hair, and was very corpulent. As for his opinions andhabits, he was of the sect of Hanifah, and strict in his belief. Henever neglected the five regular and stated prayers. He read elegantly, and he was particularly fond of reading the 'Shahnameh[7]. ' Though hehad a turn for poetry, he did not cultivate it. He was so strictly just, that when the caravan from [China] had once reached the hill country tothe east of Ardejan, and the snow fell so deep as to bury it, so thatof the whole only two persons escaped; he no sooner received informationof the occurrence than he dispatched overseers to take charge of all theproperty, and he placed it under guard and preserved it untouched, tillin the course of one or two years, the heirs coming from Khorasan, hedelivered back the goods safe into their hands. His generosity waslarge, and so was his whole soul; he was of an excellent temper, affable, eloquent, and sweet in his conversation, yet brave withaland manly. 

[Footnote 7: The 'Book of Kings, ' by the Persian poet Firdausi. ]

The early portion of Baber's 'Memoirs' is given to portraits of theofficers of his court and country. A few of these may be quoted. 

Khosrou Shah, though a Turk, applied his attention to the mode ofraising his revenues, and he spent them liberally. At the death ofSultan Mahmud Mirza, he reached the highest pitch of greatness, and hisretainers rose to the number of twenty thousand. Though he prayedregularly and abstained from forbidden foods, yet he was black-heartedand vicious, of mean understanding and slender talents, faithless and atraitor. For the sake of the short and fleeting pomp of this vain world, he put out the eyes of one and murdered another of the sons of thebenefactor in whose service he had been, and by whom he had beenprotected; rendering himself accursed of God, abhorred of men, andworthy of execration and shame till the day of final retribution. Thesecrimes he perpetrated merely to secure the enjoyment of some poorworldly vanities; yet with all the power of his many and populousterritories, in spite of his magazines of warlike stores, he had not thespirit to face a barnyard chicken. He will often be mentioned inthese memoirs. 

Ali Shir Beg was celebrated for the elegance of his manners; and thiselegance and polish were ascribed to the conscious pride of highfortune: but this was not the case; they were natural to him. Indeed, Ali Shir Beg was an incomparable person. From the time that poetry wasfirst written in the Turki language, no man has written so much and sowell. He has also left excellent pieces of music; they are excellentboth as to the airs themselves and as to the preludes. There is not uponrecord in history any man who was a greater patron and protector of menof talent than he. He had no son nor daughter, nor wife nor family; hepassed through the world single and unincumbered. 

Another poet was Sheikhem Beg. He composed a sort of verses, in whichboth the words and the sense are terrifying and correspond with eachother. The following is one of his couplets:--

 _During my sorrows of the night, the whirlpool of my sighs bears the firmament from its place; The dragons of the inundations of my tears bear down the four quarters of the habitable world_!

It is well known that on one occasion, having repeated these verses toMoulana Abdal Rahman Jami, the Mulla said, "Are you repeating poetry, orare you terrifying folks?"

A good many men who wrote verses happened to be present. During theparty the following verse of Muhammed Salikh was repeated:--

 _What can one do to regulate his thoughts, with a mistress possessed of every blandishment_? _Where you are, how is it possible for our thoughts to wander to another_?

It was agreed that every one should make an extempore couplet to thesame rhyme and measure. Every one accordingly repeated his verse. As wehad been very merry, I repeated the following extemporesatirical verses:--

 _What can one do with a drunken sot like you? What can be done with one foolish as a she-ass?_

Before this, whatever had come into my head, good or bad, I had alwayscommitted it to writing. On the present occasion, when I had composedthese lines, my mind led me to reflections, and my heart was struck withregret that a tongue which could repeat the sublimest productions shouldbestow any trouble on such unworthy verses; that it was melancholy thata heart elevated to nobler conceptions should submit to occupy itselfwith these meaner and despicable fancies. From that time forward Ireligiously abstained from satirical poetry. I had not then formed myresolution, nor considered how objectionable the practice was. 

TRANSACTIONS OF THE YEAR 904 [A. D. 1498-99]

Having failed in repeated expeditions against Samarkand and Ardejan, Ionce more returned to Khojend. Khojend is but a small place; and it isdifficult for one to support two hundred retainers in it. How then coulda [young] man, ambitious of empire, set himself down contentedly in soinsignificant a place? As soon as I received advice that the garrison ofArdejan had declared for me, I made no delay. And thus, by the grace ofthe Most High, I recovered my paternal kingdom, of which I had beendeprived nearly two years. An order was issued that such as hadaccompanied me in my campaigns might resume possession of whatever partof their property they recognized. Although the order seemed reasonableand just in itself, yet it was issued with too much precipitation. Itwas a senseless thing to exasperate so many men with arms in theirhands. In war and in affairs of state, though things may appear just andreasonable at first sight, no matter ought to be finally decided withoutbeing well weighed and considered in a hundred different lights. From myissuing this single order without sufficient foresight, what commotionsand mutinies arose! This inconsiderate order of mine was in reality theultimate cause of my being a second time expelled from Ardejan. 

 * * * * *

Baber's next campaign was most arduous, but in passing by a spring hehad the leisure to have these verses of Saadi inscribed on its brink:--

 _I have heard that the exalted Jemshid Inscribed on a stone beside a fountain:-- "Many a man like us has rested by this fountain, And disappeared in the twinkling of an eye. Should we conquer the whole world by our manhood and strength, Yet could we not carry it with us to the grave. "_

Of another fountain he says:--"I directed this fountain to be builtround with stone, and formed a cistern. At the time when the _Arghwan_flowers begin to blow, I do not know that any place in the world is tobe compared to it. " On its sides he engraved these verses:--

 _Sweet is the return of the new year; Sweet is the smiling spring; Sweet is the juice of the mellow grape; Sweeter far the voice of love. Strive, O Baber! to secure the joys of life, Which, alas! once departed, never more return. _

From these flowers Baber and his army marched into the passes of thehigh mountains. 

His narrative goes on:--

It was at this time that I composed the following verses:--

 _There is no violence or injury of fortune that I have not experienced; This broken heart has endured them all. Alas! is there one left that I have not encountered_?

For about a week we continued pressing down the snow without being ableto advance more than two or three miles. I myself assisted in tramplingdown the snow. Every step we sank up to the middle or the breast, but westill went on, trampling it down. As the strength of the person who wentfirst was generally exhausted after he had advanced a few paces, hestood still, while another took his place. The ten, fifteen, or twentypeople who worked in trampling down the snow, next succeeded in draggingon a horse without a rider. Drawing this horse aside, we brought onanother, and in this way ten, fifteen, or twenty of us contrived tobring forward the horses of all our number. The rest of the troops, evenour best men, advanced along the road that had been beaten for them, hanging their heads. This was no time for plaguing them or employingauthority. Every man who possesses spirit or emulation hastens to suchworks of himself. Continuing to advance by a track which we beat in thesnow in this manner, we reached a cave at the foot of the Zirrin pass. That day the storm of wind was dreadful. The snow fell in suchquantities that we all expected to meet death together. The cave seemedto be small. I took a hoe and made for myself at the mouth of the cave aresting-place about the size of a prayer-carpet. I dug down in the snowas deep as my breast, and yet did not reach the ground. This holeafforded me some shelter from the wind, and I sat down in it. Somedesired me to go into the cavern, but I would not go. I felt that for meto be in a warm dwelling, while my men were in the, midst of snow anddrift, --for me to be within, enjoying sleep and ease, while my followerswere in trouble and distress, --would be inconsistent with what I owedthem, and a deviation from that society in suffering which was theirdue. I continued, therefore, to sit in the drift. 

 _Ambition admits not of inaction; The world is his who exerts himself; In wisdom's eye, every condition May find repose save royalty alone. _

By leadership like this, the descendant of Tamerlane became the ruler ofKabul. He celebrates its charms in verse:--

 _Its verdure and flowers render Kabul, in spring, a heaven. _--

but this kingdom was too small for a man of Baber's stamp. He used it asa stepping-stone to the conquest of India (1526). 

 _Return a hundred thanks, O Baber! for the bounty of the merciful God Has given you Sind, Hind, and numerous kingdoms; If, unable to stand the heat, you long for cold, You have only to recollect the frost and cold of Ghazni. _

In spite of these verses, Baber did not love India, and his monarchy wasan exile to him. Let the last extract from his memoirs be a part of aletter written in 1529 to an old and trusted friend in Kabul. It is anoutpouring of the griefs of his inmost heart to his friend. He says:--

 My solicitude to visit my western dominions (Kabul) is boundless and great beyond expression. I trust in Almighty Allah that the time is near at hand when everything will be completely settled in this country. As soon as matters are brought to that state, I shall, with the permission of Allah, set out for your quarters without a moment's delay. How is it possible that the delights of those lands should ever be erased from the heart? How is it possible to forget the delicious melons and grapes of that pleasant region? They very recently brought me a single muskmelon from Kabul. While cutting it up, I felt myself affected with a strong feeling of loneliness and a sense of my exile from my native country, and I could not help shedding tears. [He gives long instructions on the military and political matters to be attended to, and continues without a break:--] At the southwest of Besteh I formed a plantation of trees; and as the prospect from it was very fine, I called it Nazergah [the view]. You must there plant some beautiful trees, and all around sow beautiful and sweet-smelling flowers and shrubs. [And he goes straight on:--] Syed Kasim will accompany the artillery. [After more details of the government he quotes fondly a little trivial incident of former days and friends, and says:--] Do not think amiss of me for deviating into

 The 'Memoirs' of Baber deserve a place beside the writings of the greatest of generals and conquerors. He is not unworthy to be classed with Caesar as a general and as a man of letters. His character was more human, more frank, more lovable, more ardent. His fellow in our western world is not Caesar, but Henri IV. Of France and Navarre. 

[Illustration: Signature: Edward S. Holden]

BABRIUS

(First Century A. D. )

 Babrius, also referred to as Babrias and Gabrias, was the writer of that metrical version of the folk-fables, commonly referred to Aesop, which delights our childhood. Until the time of Richard Bentley he was commonly thought of merely as a fabulist whose remains had been preserved by a few grammarians. Bentley, in the first draft (1697) of the part of his famous 'Dissertation' treating of the fables of Aesop, speaks thus of Babrius, and goes not far out of his way to give a rap at Planudes, a late Greek, who turned works of Ovid, Cato, and Caesar into Greek:--

 ". .. Came one Babrius, that gave a new turn of the fables into choliambics. Nobody that I know of mentions him but Suidas, Avienus, and Tzetzes. There's one Gabrias, indeed, yet extant, that has comprised each fable in four sorry iambics. But our Babrius is a writer of another size and quality; and were his book now extant, it might justly be opposed, if not preferred, to the Latin of Phaedrus. There's a whole fable of his yet preserved at the end of Gabrias, of 'The Swallow and the Nightingale. ' Suidas brings many citations out of him, all which show him an excellent poet. .. . There are two parcels of the present fables; the one, which are the more ancient, one hundred and thirty-six in number, were first published out of the Heidelberg Library by Neveletus, 1610. The editor himself well observed that they were falsely ascribed to Aesop, because they mention holy monks. To which I will add another remark, --that there is a sentence out of Job. .. . Thus I have proved one-half of the fables now extant that carry the name of Aesop to be above a thousand years more recent than he. And the other half, that were public before Neveletus, will be found yet more modern, and the latest of all. .. . This collection, therefore, is more recent than that other; and, coming first abroad with Aesop's 'Life, ' written by Planudes, 'tis justly believed to be owing to the same writer. That idiot of a monk has given us a book which he calls 'The Life of Aesop, ' that perhaps cannot be matched in any language for ignorance and nonsense. He had picked up two or three true stories, --that Aesop was a slave to a Xanthus, carried a burthen of bread, conversed with Croesus, and was put to death at Delphi; but the circumstances of these and all his other tales are pure invention. .. . But of all his injuries to Aesop, that which can least be forgiven him is the making such a monster of him for ugliness, --an abuse that has found credit so universally that all the modern painters since the time of Planudes have drawn him in the worst shapes and features that fancy could invent. 'Twas an old tradition among the Greeks that Aesop revived again and lived a second life. Should he revive once more and see the picture before the book that carries his name, could he think it drawn for himself?--or for the monkey, or some strange beast introduced in the 'Fables'? But what revelation had this monk about Aesop's deformity? For he must have it by dream or vision, and not by ordinary methods of knowledge. He lived about two thousand years after him, and in all that tract of time there's not a single author that has given the least hint that Aesop was ugly. "

Thus Bentley; but to return to Babrius. Tyrwhitt, in 1776, followed thiscalculation of Bentley by collecting the remains of Babrius. Apublication in 1809 of fables from a Florentine manuscript foreran thecollection (1832) of all the fables which could be entirely restored. In1835 a German scholar, Knoch, published whatever had up to that timebeen written on Babrius, or as far as then known by him. So much hadbeen accomplished by modern scholarship. The calculation was not unlikethe mathematical computation that a star should, from an apparentdisturbance, be in a certain quarter of the heavens at a certain time. The manuscript of Babrius, it became clear, must have existed. In 1842M. Mynas, a Greek, who had already discovered the 'Philosophoumena' ofHippolytus, came upon the parchment in the convent of St. Lama on MountAthos. He was employed by the French government, and the duty of givingthe new ancient to the world fell to French scholars. The date of themanuscript they referred to the tenth century. There were contained init one hundred and twenty-three of the supposed one hundred and sixtyfables, the arrangement being alphabetical and ending with the letter O. Again, in 1857 M. Mynas announced another discovery. Ninety-four fablesand a prooemium were still in a convent at Mount Athos; but the monks, who made difficulty about parting with the first parchment, refused tolet the second go abroad. M. Mynas forwarded a transcript which he soldto the British Museum. It was after examination pronounced to be thework of a forger, and not even what it purported to be--the tinkering ofa writer who had turned the original of Babrius into barbarous Greekand halting metre. Suggestions were made that the forger was Mynashimself. And there were scholars who accounted the manuscriptas genuine. 

The discovery of the first part added substantially to the remains whichwe have of the poetry of ancient Greece. The terseness, simplicity, andhumor of the poems belong to the popular classic all the world over, inwhatever tongue it appears; and the purity of the Greek shows thatBabrius lived at a time when the influence of the classical age wasstill vital. He is placed at various times. Bergk fixes him so far backas B. C. 250, while others place him at the same number of years in ourown era. Both French and German criticism has claimed that he was aRoman. There is no trace of his fables earlier than the Emperor Julian, and no metrical version of the Aesopean fables existed before thewriting of Babrius. Socrates tried his hand at a version or two. Butwhen such Greek writers as Xenophon and Aristotle refer to oldfolk-tales and legends, it is always in their own words. His fables arewritten in choliambic verse; that is, imperfect iambic which has aspondee in the last foot and is fitted for the satire for which it wasoriginally used. 

The fables of Babrius have been edited, with an interesting and valuableintroduction, by W. G. Rutherford (1883), and by F. G. Schneidewin (1880). They have been turned into English metre by James Davies, M. A. (1860). The reader is also referred to the article 'Aesop' in the present work. 

 THE NORTH WIND AND THE SUN

 Betwixt the North wind and the Sun arose A contest, which would soonest of his clothes Strip a wayfaring clown, so runs the tale. First, Boreas blows an almost Thracian gale, Thinking, perforce, to steal the man's capote: He loosed it not; but as the cold wind smote More sharply, tighter round him drew the folds, And sheltered by a crag his station holds. But now the Sun at first peered gently forth, And thawed the chills of the uncanny North; Then in their turn his beams more amply plied, Till sudden heat the clown's endurance tried; Stripping himself, away his cloak he flung: The Sun from Boreas thus a triumph wrung. 

 The fable means, "My son, at mildness aim: Persuasion more results than force may claim. "

 JUPITER AND THE MONKEY

 A baby-show with prizes Jove decreed For all the beasts, and gave the choice due heed. A monkey-mother came among the rest; A naked, snub-nosed pug upon her breast She bore, in mother's fashion. At the sight Assembled gods were moved to laugh outright. Said she, "Jove knoweth where his prize will fall! I know my child's the beauty of them all. "

 This fable will a general law attest, That each one deems that what's his own, is best. 

 THE MOUSE THAT FELL INTO THE POT

 A mouse into a lidless broth-pot fell; Choked with the grease, and bidding life farewell, He said, "My fill of meat and drink have I And all good things: 'Tis time that I should die. "

 Thou art that dainty mouse among mankind, If hurtful sweets are not by thee declined. 

 THE FOX AND THE GRAPES

 There hung some bunches of the purple grape On a hillside. A cunning fox, agape For these full clusters, many times essayed To cull their dark bloom, many vain leaps made. They were quite ripe, and for the vintage fit; But when his leaps did not avail a whit, He journeyed on, and thus his grief composed:-- "The bunch was sour, not ripe, as I supposed. "

 THE CARTER AND HERCULES

 A carter from the village drove his wain: And when it fell into a rugged lane, Inactive stood, nor lent a helping hand; But to that god, whom of the heavenly band He really honored most, Alcides, prayed: "Push at your wheels, " the god appearing said, "And goad your team; but when you pray again, Help yourself likewise, or you'll pray in vain. "

 THE YOUNG COCKS

 Two Tanagraean cocks a fight began; Their spirit is, 'tis said, as that of man: Of these the beaten bird, a mass of blows, For shame into a corner creeping goes; The other to the housetop quickly flew, And there in triumph flapped his wings and crew. But him an eagle lifted from the roof, And bore away. His fellow gained a proof That oft the wages of defeat are best, -- None else remained the hens to interest. 

 WHEREFORE, O man, beware of boastfulness: Should fortune lift thee, others to depress, Many are saved by lack of her caress. 

 THE ARAB AND THE CAMEL

 An Arab, having heaped his camel's back, Asked if he chose to take the upward track Or downward; and the beast had sense to say "Am I cut off then from the level way?"

 THE NIGHTINGALE AND THE SWALLOW

 Far from men's fields the swallow forth had flown, When she espied amid the woodlands lone The nightingale, sweet songstress. Her lament Was Itys to his doom untimely sent. Each knew the other through the mournful strain, Flew to embrace, and in sweet talk remain. Then said the swallow, "Dearest, liv'st thou still? Ne'er have I seen thee, since thy Thracian ill. Some cruel fate hath ever come between; Our virgin lives till now apart have been. Come to the fields; revisit homes of men; Come dwell with me, a comrade dear, again, Where thou shalt charm the swains, no savage brood: Dwell near men's haunts, and quit the open wood: One roof, one chamber, sure, can house the two, Or dost prefer the nightly frozen dew, And day-god's heat? a wild-wood life and drear? Come, clever songstress, to the light more near. " To whom the sweet-voiced nightingale replied:-- "Still on these lonesome ridges let me bide; Nor seek to part me from the mountain glen:-- I shun, since Athens, man, and haunts of men; To mix with them, their dwelling-place to view, Stirs up old grief, and opens woes anew. "

 Some consolation for an evil lot Lies in wise words, in song, in crowds forgot. But sore the pang, when, where you once were great, Again men see you, housed in mean estate. 

 THE HUSBANDMAN AND THE STORK

 Thin nets a farmer o'er his furrows spread, And caught the cranes that on his tillage fed; And him a limping stork began to pray, Who fell with them into the farmer's way:-- "I am no crane: I don't consume the grain: That I'm a stork is from my color plain; A stork, than which no better bird doth live; I to my father aid and succor give. " The man replied:--"Good stork, I cannot tell Your way of life: but this I know full well, I caught you with the spoilers of my seed; With them, with whom I found you, you must bleed. "

 Walk with the bad, and hate will be as strong 'Gainst you as them, e'en though you no man wrong. 

 THE PINE

 Some woodmen, bent a forest pine to split, Into each fissure sundry wedges fit, To keep the void and render work more light. Out groaned the pine, "Why should I vent my spite Against the axe which never touched my root, So much as these cursed wedges, mine own fruit; Which rend me through, inserted here and there!"

 A fable this, intended to declare That not so dreadful is a stranger's blow As wrongs which men receive from those they know. 

 THE WOMAN AND HER MAID-SERVANTS

 A very careful dame, of busy way, Kept maids at home, and these, ere break of day, She used to raise as early as cock-crow. They thought 'twas hard to be awakened so, And o'er wool-spinning be at work so long; Hence grew within them all a purpose strong To kill the house-cock, whom they thought to blame For all their wrongs. But no advantage came; Worse treatment than the former them befell: For when the hour their mistress could not tell At which by night the cock was wont to crow, She roused them earlier, to their work to go. A harder lot the wretched maids endured. 

 Bad judgment oft hath such results procured. 

 THE LAMP

 A lamp that swam with oil, began to boast At eve, that it outshone the starry host, And gave more light to all. Her boast was heard: Soon the wind whistled; soon the breezes stirred, And quenched its light. A man rekindled it, And said, "Brief is the faint lamp's boasting fit, But the starlight ne'er needs to be re-lit. "

 THE TORTOISE AND THE HARE

 To the shy hare the tortoise smiling spoke, When he about her feet began to joke: "I'll pass thee by, though fleeter than the gale. " "Pooh!" said the hare, "I don't believe thy tale. Try but one course, and thou my speed shalt know. " "Who'll fix the prize, and whither we shall go?" Of the fleet-footed hare the tortoise asked. To whom he answered, "Reynard shall be tasked With this; that subtle fox, whom thou dost see. " The tortoise then (no hesitater she!) Kept jogging on, but earliest reached the post; The hare, relying on his fleetness, lost Space, during sleep, he thought he could recover When he awoke. But then the race was over; The tortoise gained her aim, and slept _her_ sleep. 

 From negligence doth care the vantage reap. 

FRANCIS BACON

(1561-1626)

BY CHARLTON T. LEWIS

The startling contrasts of splendor and humiliation which marked thelife of Bacon, and the seemingly incredible inconsistencies which hastyobservers find in his character, have been the themes of much rhetoricaldeclamation, and even of serious and learned debate. From Ben Jonson inhis own day, to James Spedding the friend of Tennyson, he has not lackedeminent eulogists, who look up to him as not only the greatest andwisest, but as among the noblest and most worthy of mankind: while thefamous epigram of Pope, expanded by Macaulay into a stately and eloquentessay, has impressed on the popular mind the lowest estimate of hismoral nature; and even such careful scholars as Charles de Rémusat andDean Church, who have devoted careful and instructive volumes to thesurvey of Bacon's career and works, insist that with all hisintellectual supremacy, he was a servile courtier, a false friend, and acorrupt judge. Yet there are few important names in human history of menwho have left us so complete materials for a just judgment of theirconduct; and it is only a lover of paradox who can read these and stillregard Bacon's character as an unsolved problem. 

Mr. Spedding has given a long life of intelligent labor to thecollection of every fact and document throwing light upon the motives, aims, and thoughts of the great "Chancellor of Nature, " from the cradleto the grave. The results are before us in the seven volumes of 'TheLetters and the Life of Francis Bacon, ' which form perhaps the mostcomplete biography ever written. It is a book of absolute candor as wellas infinite research, giving with equal distinctness all the evidencewhich makes for its hero's dishonor and that which tends to justify thewriter's reverence for him. Another work by Mr. Spedding, 'Evenings witha Reviewer, ' in two volumes, is an elaborate refutation, from theoriginal and authentic records, of the most damning charges brought byLord Macaulay against Bacon's good fame. It is a complete andoverwhelming exposure of false coloring, of rhetorical artifices, and ofthe abuse of evidence, in the famous essay. As one of the mostentertaining and instructive pieces of controversy in our literature, itdeserves to be widely read. The unbiased reader cannot accept thespecial pleading by which, in his comments, Spedding makes every failingof Bacon "lean to virtue's side"; but will form upon the unquestionedfacts presented a clear conception of him, will come to know him as noother man of an age so remote is known, and will find in his many-sidedand magnificent nature a full explanation of the impressions whichpartial views of it have made upon his worshipers and his detractors. 

It is only in his maturity, indeed, that we are privileged to enter intohis mind and read his heart. But enough is known of the formative periodof his life to show us the sources of his weaknesses and of hisstrength. The child whom high authorities have regarded as endowed withthe mightiest intellect of the human race was born at York House, on theStrand, in the third year of Elizabeth's reign, January 22d, 1561. Hewas the son of the Queen's Lord Keeper of the Seals, Sir Nicholas Bacon, and his second wife Anne, daughter of Sir Anthony Cook, formerly tutorof King Edward VI. Mildred, an elder daughter of the same scholar, wasthe wife of William Cecil, Lord Burghley, who for the first forty yearsof her reign was Elizabeth's chief minister. As a child Bacon was afavorite at court, and tradition represents him as something of a pet ofthe Queen, who called him "my young Lord Keeper. " His mother was amongthe most learned women of an age when, among women of rank, greatlearning was as common and as highly prized as great beauty; and herinfluence was a potent intellectual stimulus to the boy, although herevolted in early youth from the narrow creed which her fierce Puritanzeal strove to impose on her household. Outside of the nursery, theatmosphere of his world was that of craft, all directed to one end; forthe Queen was the source of honor, power, and wealth, and advancement inlife meant only a share in the grace distributed through her ministersand favorites. Apart from the harsh and forbidding religious teachingsof his mother, young Francis had before him neither precept nor exampleof an ambition more worthy than that of courting the smiles of power. 

[Illustration: SIR FRANCIS BACON. ]

At the age of twelve he entered Trinity College, Cambridge (April, 1573), and left it before he was fifteen (Christmas, 1575); theinstitution meanwhile having been broken up for more than half a year(August, 1574, to March, 1575) by the plague, so that his intermittentuniversity career summed up less than fourteen months. There is norecord of his studies, and the names of his teachers are unknown; forthough Bacon in later years called himself a pupil of Whitgift, and hisbiographers assumed that the relation was direct and personal, yet thatgreat master of Trinity had certainly ended his teaching days beforeBacon went to Cambridge, and had entered as Dean of Lincoln on hissplendid ecclesiastical career. University life was very different fromthat of our times. The statutes of Cambridge forbade a student, underpenalties, to use in conversation with another any language butLatin, Greek, or Hebrew, unless in his private apartments and in hoursof leisure. It was a regular custom at Trinity to bring before theassembled undergraduates every Thursday evening at seven o'clock suchjunior students as had been detected in breaches of the rules during theweek, and to flog them. It would be interesting to know in whatlanguages young Bacon conversed, and what experiences of disciplinebefell him; but his subsequent achievements at least suggest thatCambridge in the sixteenth century may have afforded more efficienteducational influences than our knowledge of its resources and methodscan explain. For it is certain that, at an age when our most promisingyouths are beginning serious study, Bacon's mind was already formed, hishabits and modes of research were fixed, the universe of knowledge wasan open field before him. Thenceforth he was no man's pupil, but inintellectual independence and solitude he rapidly matured into thesupreme scholar of his age. 

After registering as a student of law at Gray's Inn, apparently for thepurpose of a nominal connection with a profession which might aid hispatrons in promoting him at court, Bacon was sent in June, 1576, toFrance in the train of the British Ambassador, Sir Amyas Paulet; and fornearly three years followed the roving embassy around the great citiesof that kingdom. The massacre of St. Bartholomew had taken place fouryears before, and the boy's recorded observations on the troubledsociety of France and of Europe show remarkable insight into thecharacter of princes and the sources of political movements. SirNicholas had hitherto directed his son's education and associations withthe purpose of making him an ornament of the court, and had set aside afund to provide Francis at the proper time with a handsome estate. Buthe died suddenly, February 20th, 1579, without giving legal effect tothis provision, and the sum designed for the young student was dividedequally among the five children, while Francis was excluded from a sharein the rest of the family fortune; and was thus called home to Englandto find himself a poor man. 

He made himself a bachelor's home at Gray's Inn, and devoted hisenergies to the law, with such success that he was soon recognized asone of the most promising members of the profession. In 1584 he enteredParliament for Melcombe Regis in Somersetshire, and two years later satfor Liverpool. During these years the schism between his inner and hisouter life continued to widen. Drawing his first breath in theatmosphere of the court, bred in the faith that honor and greatness comefrom princes' favor, with a native taste for luxury and magnificencewhich was fostered by delicate health, he steadily looked foradvancement through the influence of Burghley and the smiles of theQueen. But Burghley had no sympathy with speculative thought, anddistrusted him for his confidences concerning his higher studies, whilehe probably feared in Bacon a dangerous rival of his own son; so thatwith expressions of kind interest, he refrained from giving his nephewpractical aid. Elizabeth, too, suspected that a young man who knew somany things could not be trusted to know his own business well, andpreferred for important professional work others who were lawyers andnothing besides. Thus Bacon appeared to the world as a disappointed anduneasy courtier, struggling to keep up a certain splendor of appearanceand associations under a growing load of debt, and servile to a Queen onwhose caprice his prospects of a career must depend. His unquestionedpower at the bar was exercised only in minor causes; his eloquence andpolitical dexterity found slow recognition in Parliament, where theyrepresented only themselves; and the question whether he would ever be aman of note in the kingdom seemed for twenty-five years to turn uponwhat the Crown might do for its humble suitor. 

Meanwhile this laborious advocate and indefatigable courtier, whoselabors at the bar and in attendance upon his great friends were enoughto fill the days of two ordinary men, led his real life in secret, unknown to the world, and uncomprehended even by the few in whom he haddivined a capacity for great thought, and whom he had selected for hisconfidants. From his childhood at the university, where he felt theemptiness of the Aristotelian logic, the instrument for attaining truthwhich traditional learning had consecrated, he had gradually formed theconception of a more fruitful process. He had become convinced that thelearning of all past ages was but a poor result of the intellectualcapacities and labors which had been employed upon it; that the humanmind had never yet been properly used; that the methods hitherto adoptedin research were but treadmill work, returning upon itself, or at bestcould produce but fragmentary and accidental additions to the sum ofknowledge. All nature is crammed with truth, he believed, which itconcerns man to discover; the intellect of man is constructed for itsdiscovery, and needs but to be purged of errors of every kind, anddirected in the most efficient employment of its faculties, to make surethat all the secrets of nature will be revealed, and its powers madetributary to the health, comfort, enjoyment, and progressive improvementof mankind. 

This stupendous conception, of a revolution which should transform theworld, seems to have taken definite form in Bacon's mind as early as histwenty-fifth year, when he embodied the outline of it in a Latintreatise; which he destroyed in later life, unpublished, as immature, and partly no doubt because he came to recognize in it an unbecomingarrogance of tone, for its title was 'Temporis Partus Maximus' (TheGreatest Birth of Time. ) But six years later he defines these "vastcontemplative ends" in his famous letter to Burghley, asking forpreferment which will enable him to prosecute his grand scheme and toemploy other minds in aid of it. "For I have taken all knowledge to bemy province, " he says, "and if I could purge it of two sorts of rovers, whereof the one with frivolous disputations, confutations, andverbosities, the other with blind experiments and auricular traditionsand impostures, hath committed so many spoils, I hope I should bring inindustrious observations, grounded conclusions, and profitableinventions and discoveries: the best state of that province. This, whether it be curiosity or vain glory, or nature, or (if one take itfavorably) _philanthropia_ is so fixed in my mind as it cannotbe removed. "

This letter reveals the secret of Bacon's life, and all that we know ofhim, read in the light of it, forms a consistent and harmonious whole. He was possessed by his vast scheme, for a reformation of theintellectual world, and through it, of the world of human experience, asfully as was ever apostle by his faith. Implicitly believing in his ownability to accomplish it, at least in its grand outlines, and to leaveat his death the community of mind at work, by the method and for thepurposes which he had defined, with the perfection of all science infull view, he subordinated every other ambition to this; and in seekingand enjoying place, power, and wealth, still regarded them mainly asaids in prosecuting his master purpose, and in introducing it to theworld. With this clearly in mind, it is easy to understand hissubsequent career. Its external details may be read in any of the scoreof biographies which writers of all grades of merit and demerit havedevoted to him, and there is no space for them here. For our purpose itis necessary to refer only to the principal crises in his public life. 

Until the death of Elizabeth, Bacon had no place in the royal serviceworthy of his abilities as a lawyer. Many who, even in the narrowestprofessional sense, were far inferior to him, were preferred before him. Yet he obtained a position recognized by all, and second only in legallearning to his lifelong rival and constant adversary, Sir Edward Coke. To-day, it is probable that if the two greatest names in the history ofthe common law were to be selected by the suffrages of the profession, the great majority would be cast for Coke and Bacon. As a master of theintricacies of precedent and an authority upon the detailed formulas of"the perfection of reason, " the former is unrivaled still; but in thecomprehensive grasp of the law as a system for the maintenance of socialorder and the protection of individual rights, Bacon rose far above him. The cherished aim of his professional career was to survey the wholebody of the laws of England, to produce a digest of them which shouldresult in a harmonious code, to do away with all that was found obsoleteor inconsistent with the principles of the system, and thus to adapt theliving, progressive body of the law to the wants of the growing nation. This magnificent plan was beyond the power of any one man, had his lifeno other task, but he suggested the method and the aim; and while forsix generations after these legal giants passed away, the minute, accurate, and profound learning of Coke remained the acknowledged chiefstorehouse of British traditional jurisprudence, the seventh generationtook up the work of revision and reform, and from the time of Benthamand Austin the progress of legal science has been toward codification. The contest between the aggregation of empirical rules and formulatedcustoms which Coke taught as the common law, and the broad, harmoniousapplication of scientific reason to the definition and enforcement ofrights, still goes on; but with constant gains on the side of thereformers, all of whom with one consent confess that no general andcomplete reconstruction of legal doctrine as a science is possible, except upon the lines laid down by Bacon. 

The most memorable case in which Bacon was employed to represent theCrown during Elizabeth's life was the prosecution of the Earl of Essexfor treason. Essex had been Bacon's friend, patron, and benefactor; andas long as the earl remained faithful to the Queen and retained herfavor, Bacon served him with ready zeal and splendid efficiency, andshowed himself the wisest and most sincere of counselors. When Essexrejected his advice, forfeited the Queen's confidence by the folliesfrom which Bacon had earnestly striven to deter him, and finally plungedinto wanton and reckless rebellion, Bacon, with whom loyalty to hissovereign had always been the supreme duty, accepted a retainer from theCrown, and assisted Coke in the prosecution. The crime of Essex was thegreatest of which a subject was capable; it lacked no circumstance ofaggravation; if the most astounding instance of ingratitude anddisloyalty to friendship ever known is to be sought in that age, it willbe found in the conduct of Essex to Bacon's royal mistress. Yet writersof eloquence have exhausted their rhetorical powers in denouncingBacon's faithlessness to his friend. But no impartial reader of the fullstory in the documents of the time can doubt that throughout theseevents Bacon did his duty and no more, and that in doing it he notmerely made a voluntary sacrifice of his popularity, but a far morepainful sacrifice of his personal feelings. 

In 1603 James I. Came to the throne, and in spite of the efforts of hismost trusted ministers to keep Bacon in obscurity, soon discovered inhim a man whom he needed. In 1607 he was made Solicitor-General; in1613 Attorney-General; in March 1617, on the death of Lord Ellesmere, hereceived the seals as Lord Keeper; and in January following was madeLord Chancellor of England. In July 1618 he was raised to the permanentpeerage as Baron Verulam, and in January 1621 received the title ofViscount St. Albans. During these three years he was the first subjectin the kingdom in dignity, and ought to have been the first ininfluence. His advice to the King, and to the Duke of Buckingham who wasthe King's king, was always judicious. In certain cardinal points ofpolicy, it was of the highest statesmanship; and had it been followed, the history of the Stuart dynasty would have been different, and theCrown and the Parliament would have wrought together for the good andthe honor of the nation, at least through a generation to come. But theupstart Buckingham was supreme. He had studied Bacon's strength andweakness, had laid him under great obligations, had at the same timeattached him by the strongest tie of friendship to his person, andimpressed upon his consciousness the fact that the fate of Bacon was atall times in his hands. The new Chancellor had entered on his greatoffice with a fixed purpose to reform its abuses, to speed and cheapenjustice, to free its administration from every influence of wealth andpower. In the first three months of service he brought up the largearrears of business, tried every cause, heard every petition, andacquired a splendid reputation as an upright and diligent judge. ButBuckingham was his evil angel. He was without sense of the sanctity ofthe judicial character; and regarded the bench, like every other publicoffice, as an instrument of his own interests and will. On the otherhand, to Bacon the voice of Buckingham was the voice of the King, and hehad been taught from infancy as the beginning of his political creedthat the king can do no wrong. Buckingham began at once to solicit fromBacon favors for his friends and dependants, and the Chancellor was weakenough to listen and to answer him. There is no evidence that in any oneinstance the favorite asked for the violation of law or the perversionof justice; much less that Bacon would or did accede to such a request. But the Duke demanded for one suitor a speedy hearing, for another aconsideration of facts which might not be in evidence, for a third allthe favor consistent with law; and Bacon reported to him the result, andhow far he had been able to oblige him. This persistent tampering withthe source of justice was a disturbing influence in the Chancellor'scourt, and unquestionably lowered the dignity of his attitude andweakened his judicial conscience. 

Notwithstanding this, when the Lord Chancellor opened the Parliament inJanuary, 1621, with a speech in praise of his King and in honor of thenation, he seemed to be at the summit of earthly prosperity. No voicehad been lifted to question his purity and worth. He was the friend ofthe King, one of the chief supports of the throne, a champion indeed ofhigh prerogative, but an orator of power, a writer of fame, whoseadvancement to the highest dignities had been welcomed by publicopinion. Four months later he was a convicted criminal, sentenced forjudicial corruption to imprisonment at the King's pleasure, to a fine of£40, 000, and to perpetual incapacity for any public employment. Vicissitudes of fortune are commonplaces of history. Many a man onceseemingly pinnacled on the top of greatness has "shot from the zenithlike a falling star, " and become a proverb of the fickleness of fate. Some are torn down by the very traits of mind, passion, or temper, whichhave raised them: ambition which overleaps itself, rashness whichhazards all on chances it cannot control, vast abilities not greatenough to achieve the impossible. The plunge of Icarus into the sea, themurder of Caesar, the imprisonment of Coeur de Lion, the abdication ofNapoleon, the apprehension as a criminal of Jefferson Davis, each was astartling and impressive contrast to the glory which it followed, yeteach was the natural result of causes which lay in the character andlife of the sufferer, and made his story a consistent whole. But thepathos of Bacon's fall is the sudden moral ruin of a life which had beenbuilt up in honor for sixty years. An intellect of the first rank, whichfrom boyhood to old age had been steadfast in the pursuit of truth andin the noblest services to mankind, which in a feeble body had beensustained in vigor by all the virtues of prudence and self-reverence; agenial nature, winning the affection and admiration of associates, hardly paralleled in the industry with which its energies were devotedto useful work, a soul exceptional among its contemporaries for pietyand philanthropy--this man is represented to us by popular writers ashaving habitually sold justice for money, and as having become in office"the meanest of mankind. "

But this picture, as so often drawn, and as seemingly fixed in thepopular mind, is not only impossible, but is demonstrably false. Toreview all the facts which correct it in detail would lead us far beyondour limits. It must suffice to refer to the great work of Spedding, inwhich the entire records of the case are found, and which would long agohave made the world just to Bacon's fame, but that the author's commenton his own complete and fair record is itself partial and extravagant. But the materials for a final judgment are accessible to all inSpedding's volumes, and a candid reading of them solves the enigma. Bacon was condemned without a trial, on his own confession, and thisconfession was consistent with the tenor of his life. Its substance wasthat he had failed to put a stop effectually to the immemorial customin his court of receiving presents from suitors, but that he had neverdeviated from justice in his decrees. There was no instance in which hewas accused of yielding to the influence of gifts, or passing judgmentfor a bribe. No act of his as Chancellor was impeached as illegal, orreversed as corrupt. Suitors complained that they had sent sums of moneyor valuable presents to his court, and had been disappointed in theresult; but no one complained of injustice in a decision. Bacon was aconspicuous member of the royal party; and when the storm of popularfury broke in Parliament upon the court, the King and the ministryabandoned him. He had stood all his life upon the royal favor as thebasis of his strength and hope; and when it was gone from under him, hesank helplessly, and refused to attempt a defense. But he still in hishumiliation found comfort in the reflection that his ruin would put anend to "anything that is in the likeness of corruption" among thejudges. And he wrote, in the hour of his deepest distress, that he hadbeen "the justest Chancellor that hath been in the five changes thathave been since Sir Nicholas Bacon's time. " Nor did any man of his timeventure to contradict him, when in later years he summed up his case inthe words, "I was the justest judge that was in England these fiftyyears. But it was the justest censure in Parliament that was these twohundred years. "

No revolution of modern times has been more complete than that which thelast two centuries have silently wrought in the customary morality ofBritish public life, and in the standards by which it is judged. UnderJames I. Every office of state was held as the private property of itsoccupant. The highest places in the government were conferred only oncondition of large payments to the King. He openly sold the honors anddignities of which he was the source. "The making of a baron, " that is, the right to sell to some rich plebeian a patent of nobility, was acommon grant to favorites, and was actually bestowed on Bacon, to aidhim in maintaining the state of his office. We have the testimony ofJames himself that all the lawyers, of whom the judges of the realm weremade, were "so bred and nursed in corruption that they cannot leave it. "But the line between what the King called corruption and that which heand all his ministers practiced openly and habitually, as part of theregular work of government, is dim and hard to define. The mind of thecommunity had not yet firmly grasped the conception of public office asa trust for the public good, and the general opinion which stimulatesand sustains the official conscience in holding this trust sacred wasstill unformed. The courts of justice were the first branch of thegovernment to feel the pressure of public opinion, and to respond tothe demand for impersonal and impartial right. But this process had onlybegun when Bacon, who had never before served as judge, was called topreside in Chancery. The Chancellor's office was a gradual development:originally political and administrative rather than judicial, and withno salary or reward for hearing causes, save the voluntary presents ofsuitors who asked its interference with the ordinary courts, it step bystep became the highest tribunal of the equity which limits and correctsthe routine of law, and still the custom of gifts was unchecked. Acareful study of Bacon's career shows that in this, as every otherbranch of thought, his theoretic convictions were in advance of his age;and in his advice to the King and in his inaugural promises asChancellor, he foreshadows all the principles on which the wisestreformers of the public service now insist. But he failed to apply themwith that heroic self-sacrifice which alone would have availed him, andthe forces of custom and example continually encroached upon his viewsof duty. Having through a long life sought advancement and wealth forthe purpose of using leisure and independence to carry out hisbeneficent plans on the largest scale, he eagerly accepted thetraditional emoluments of his new position, in the conviction that theywould become in his hands the means of vast good to mankind. It was onlythe public exposure which fully awakened him to a sense of theinconsistency and wrong of his conduct; and then he was himself hisseverest judge, and made every reparation in his power, by the mostunreserved confession, by pointing out the danger to society of suchweakness as his own in language to whose effectiveness nothing could beadded, and by devoting the remainder of his life to the noblest workfor humanity. 

During the years of Bacon's splendor as a member of the government andas spokesman for the throne, his real life as a thinker, inspired by theloftiest ambition which ever entered the mind of man, that of creating anew and better civilization, was not interrupted. It was probably in1603 that he wrote his fragmentary 'Prooemium de InterpretationeNaturae, ' or 'Preface to a Treatise on Interpreting Nature, ' which isthe only piece of autobiography he has left us. It was found among hispapers after his death; and its candor, dignity, and enthusiasm of toneare in harmony with the imaginative grasp and magnificent suggestivenessof its thought. Commending the original Latin to all who can appreciateits eloquence, we cite the first sentences of it in English:--

 "Believing that I was born for the service of mankind, and regarding the care of the Commonwealth as a kind of common property which, like the air and water, belongs to everybody, I set myself to consider in what way mankind might be best served, and what service I was myself best fitted by nature to perform. 

 "Now, among all the benefits that could be conferred upon mankind, I found none so great as the discovery of new arts for the bettering of human life. For I saw that among the rude people of early times, inventors and discoverers were reckoned as gods. It was seen that the works of founders of States, law-givers, tyrant-destroyers, and heroes cover but narrow spaces and endure but for a time; while the work of the inventor, though of less pomp, is felt everywhere and lasts forever. But above all, if a man could, I do not say devise some invention, however useful, but kindle a light in nature--a light which, even in rising, should touch and illuminate the borders of existing knowledge, and spreading further on should bring to light all that is most secret--that man, in my view, would be indeed the benefactor of mankind, the extender of man's empire over nature, the champion of freedom, the conqueror of fate. 

 "For myself, I found that I was fitted for nothing so well as for the study of Truth: as having a mind nimble and versatile enough to discern resemblances in things (the main point), and yet steady enough to distinguish the subtle differences in them; as being endowed with zeal to seek, patience to doubt, love of meditation, slowness of assertion, readiness to reconsider, carefulness to arrange and set in order; and as being a man that affects not the new nor admires the old, but hates all imposture. So I thought my nature had a certain familiarity and kindred with Truth. "

During the next two years he applied himself to the composition of thetreatise on the 'Advancement of Learning, ' the greatest of his Englishwritings, and one which contains the seed-thoughts and outlineprinciples of all his philosophy. From the time of its publication in1605 to his fall in 1621, he continued to frame the plan of his 'GreatInstauration' of human knowledge, and to write out chapters, books, passages, sketches, designed to take their places in it as essentialparts. It was to include six great divisions: first, a general survey ofexisting knowledge; second, a guide to the use of the intellect inresearch, purging it of sources of error, and furnishing it with the newinstrument of inductive logic by which all the laws of nature might beascertained; third, a structure of the phenomena of nature, included inone hundred and thirty particular branches of natural history, as thematerials for the new logic; fourth, a series of types and models of theentire mental process of discovering truth, "selecting various andremarkable instances"; fifth, specimens of the new philosophy, oranticipations of its results, in fragmentary contributions to the sixthand crowning division, which was to set forth the new philosophy in itscompleteness, comprehending the truths to be discovered by a perfectedinstrument of reasoning, in interpreting all the phenomena of the world. Well aware that the scheme, especially in its concluding part, was farbeyond the power and time of any one man, he yet hoped to be thearchitect of the final edifice of science, by drawing its plans andmaking them intelligible, leaving their perfect execution to anintellectual world which could not fail to be moved to its supremeeffort by a comprehension of the work before it. The 'Novum Organum, 'itself but a fragment of the second division of the 'Instauration, ' thekey to the use of the intellect in the discovery of truth, was publishedin Latin at the height of his splendor as Lord Chancellor, in 1620, andis his most memorable achievement in philosophy. It contains a multitudeof suggestive thoughts on the whole field of science, but is mainly theexposition of the fallacies by which the intellect is deceived andmisled, and from which it must be purged in order to attain final truth, and of the new doctrine of "prerogative instances, " or crucialobservations and experiments in the work of discovery. 

In short, Bacon's entire achievement in science is a plan for animpossible universe of knowledge. As far as he attempted to advanceparticular sciences by applying his method to their detailed phenomena, he wrought with imperfect knowledge of what had been done, and withcumbrous and usually misdirected efforts to fill the gaps he recognized. In a few instances, by what seems an almost superhuman instinct fortruth, rather than the laborious process of investigation which hetaught, he anticipated brilliant discoveries of later centuries. Forexample, he clearly pointed out the necessity of regarding heat as aform of motion in the molecules of matter, and thus foreshadowed, without any conception of the means of proving it, that which, forinvestigators of the nineteenth century, has proved the most direct wayto the secrets of nature. But the testimony of the great teachers ofscience is unanimous, that Bacon was not a skilled observer ofphenomena, nor a discoverer of scientific inductions; that hecontributed no important new truth, in the sense of an established law, to any department of knowledge; and that his method of research andreasoning is not, in its essential features, that which is fruitfullypursued by them in extending the boundaries of science, nor was his mindwholly purged of those "idols of the cave, " or forms of personal bias, whose varying forms as hindrances to the "dry light" of sound reason hewas the first to expose. He never appreciated the mathematics as thebasis of physics, but valued their elements mainly as a mentaldiscipline. Astronomy meant little to him, since he failed to connect itdirectly with human well-being and improvement; to the system ofCopernicus, the beginning of our insight into the heavens, he washostile, or at least indifferent; and the splendid discoveriessuccessively made by Tycho Brahe, Galileo, and Kepler, and brought tohis ears while the 'Great Instauration' filled his mind and heart, metwith but a feeble welcome with him, or none. Why is it, then, thatBacon's is the foremost name in the history of English, and perhaps, asmany insist, of all modern thought? Why is it that "the Baconianphilosophy" is another phrase, in all the languages of Europe, for thatsplendid development of the study and knowledge of the visible universewhich since his time has changed the life of mankind?

A candid answer to these questions will expose an error as wide in thepopular estimate of Bacon's intellectual greatness as that which hasprevailed so generally regarding his character. He is called theinventor of inductive reasoning, the reformer of logic, the lawgiver ofthe world of thought; but he was no one of these. His grasp of theinductive method was defective; his logic was clumsy and impractical;his plan for registering all phenomena and selecting and generalizingfrom them, making the discovery of truth almost a mechanical process, was worthless. In short, it is not as a philosopher nor as a man ofscience that Bacon has carved his name in the high places of enduringfame, but rather as a man of letters; as on the whole the greatestwriter of the modern world, outside of the province of imaginative art;as the Shakespeare of English prose. Does this seem a paradox to thereader who remembers that Bacon distrusted all modern languages, andthought to make his 'Advancement of Learning' "live, and be a citizen ofthe world, " by giving it a Latin form? That his lifelong ambition was toreconstruct methods of thought, and guide intellect in the way of workserviceable to comfort and happiness? That the books in which hisEnglish style appears in its perfection, the 'History of Henry VII. , 'the 'Essays, ' and the papers on public affairs, were but incidents andavocations of a life absorbed by a master purpose?

But what is literature? It is creative mind, addressing itself in worthyexpression to the common receptive mind of mankind. Its note isuniversality, as distinguished from all that is technical, limited, andnarrow. Thought whose interest is as broad as humanity, suitably clothedin the language of real life, and thus fitted for access to the generalintelligence, constitutes true literature, to the exclusion of thatwhich, by its nature or by its expression, appeals only to a specialclass or school. The 'Opus Anglicanum' of Duns Scotus, Newton's'Principia, ' Lavoisier's treatise 'Sur la Combustion, ' Kant's 'Kritikder Reinen Vernunft' (Critique of Pure Reason), each made an epoch insome vast domain of knowledge or belief; but none of them is literature. Yet the thoughts they, through a limited and specially trained class ofstudents, introduced to the world, were gradually taken up into thecommon stock of mankind, and found their broad, effective, completeexpression in the literature of after generations. If we apply thistest to Bacon's life work, we shall find sufficient justification forhonoring him above all special workers in narrower fields, as next toShakespeare the greatest name in the greatest period of Englishliterature. 

It was not as an experimenter, investigator, or technical teacher, butas a thinker and a writer, that he rendered his great service to theworld. This consisted essentially in the contribution of two magnificentideas to the common stock of thought: the idea of the utility ofscience, as able to subjugate the forces of nature to the use of man;and the idea of continued and boundless progress in the comfort andhappiness of the individual life, and in the order and dignity of humansociety. It has been shown how, from early manhood, he was inspired bythe conception of infinite resources in the material world, for thediscovery and employment of which the human mind is adapted. He neverwearied of pointing out the imperfection and fruitlessness of themethods of inquiry and of invention hitherto in use, and the splendidresults which could be rapidly attained if a combined and systematiceffort were made to enlarge the boundaries of knowledge. This led himdirectly to the conception of an improved and advancing civilization; tothe utterance, in a thousand varied, impressive, and fascinating forms, of that idea of human progress which is the inspiration, thecharacteristic, and the hope of the modern world. Bacon was the first ofmen to grasp these ideas in all their comprehensiveness as feasiblepurposes, as practical aims; to teach the development of them as thesupreme duty and ambition of his contemporaries, and to look forwardinstead of behind him for the Golden Age. Enforcing and applying thesethoughts with a wealth of learning, a keenness of wit, a soundness ofjudgment, and a suggestiveness of illustration unequaled by any writerbefore him, he became the greatest literary power of modern times tostimulate minds in every department of life to their noblest efforts andtheir worthiest achievements. 

Literature has a twofold aspect: its ideal is pure truth, which is thenoblest thought embodied in perfect beauty of form. It is the union ofscience and art, the final wedding in which are merged the knowledgeworthy to be known and the highest imagination presenting it. There is aschool calling itself that of pure art, to which substance is nothingand form is everything. Its measure of merit is applied to the manneronly; and the meanest of subjects, the most trivial and even the mostdegraded of ideas or facts, is welcomed to its high places if clothed ina satisfying garb. But this school, though arrogant in the other arts ofexpression, has not yet been welcomed to the judgment-seat inliterature, where indeed it is passing even now to contempt andoblivion. Bacon's instinct was for substance. His strongest passion wasfor utility. The artistic side of his nature was receptive rather thancreative. Splendid passages in the 'Advancement' and 'De Augmentis' showhis profound appreciation of all the arts of expression, but showlikewise his inability to glorify them above that which they express. Inhis mind, language is subordinate to thought, and the painting to thepicture, just as the frame is to the painting or the binding to thebook. He writes always in the grand style. He reminds us of "the largeutterance of the early gods. " His sentences are weighted with thought, as suggestive as Plato, as condensed as Thucydides. Full of wit, keen indiscerning analogies, rich in intellectual ornament, he is yet tooconcentrated in his attention to the idea to care for the melody oflanguage. He decorates with fruits, not with flowers. For metricalmovement, for rhythmic harmony, he has no ear nor sense. Inconceivableas it is that Shakespeare could have written one aphorism of the 'NovumOrganum, ' it would be far more absurd to imagine Bacon writing a line ofthe Sonnets. With the loftiest imagination, the liveliest fancy, thekeenest sense of precision and appropriateness in words, he lacks thespecial gift of poetic form, the faculty divine which finds newinspiration in the very limitations of measured language, and whosenatural expression is music alike to the ear and to the mind. His powerswere cramped by the fetters of metre, and his attempts to versify evenrich thought and deep feeling were puerile. But his prose is by far theweightiest, the most lucid, effective, and pleasing of his day. The poetSprat justly says:--

 "He was a man of strong, clear, and powerful imaginations; his genius was searching and inimitable; and of this I need give no other proof than his style itself, which as for the most part it describes men's minds as well as pictures do their bodies, so it did his above all men living. "

And Ben Jonson, who knew him well, describes his eloquence in termswhich are confirmed by all we know of his Parliamentary career:--

 "One, though he be excellent and the chief, is not to be imitated alone; for no imitator ever grew up to his author: likeness is always on this side truth. Yet there happened in my time one noble speaker, who was full of gravity in his speaking. His language (when he could spare or pass by a jest) was nobly censorious. No man ever spake more neatly, more rightly, more weightily, or suffered less emptiness, less idleness in what he uttered. No member of his speech but consisted of his own graces. His hearers could not cough or look aside from him without loss. He commanded when he spoke, and had his judges angry and pleased at his devotion. No man had their affections more in his power. The fear of every man that heard him was lest he should make an end. "

The speeches of Bacon are almost wholly lost, his philosophy is anundeciphered heap of fragments, the ambitions of his life lay in ruinsabout his dishonored old age; yet his intellect is one of the greatmoving and still vital forces of the modern world, and he remains, forall ages to come, in the literature which is the final storehouse of thechief treasures of mankind, one of

 "The dead yet sceptered sovereigns who still rule Our spirits from their urns. "

OF TRUTH

From the 'Essays'

What is Truth? said jesting Pilate; and would not stay for an answer. Certainly there be that delight in giddiness; and count it a bondage tofix a belief; affecting free-will in thinking, as well as in acting. Andthough the sects of philosophers of that kind be gone, yet there remaincertain discoursing wits, which are of the same veins, though there benot so much blood in them as was in those of the ancients. But it is notonly the difficulty and labor which men take in finding out of truth, nor again, that when it is found it imposeth upon men's thoughts, thatdoth bring lies in favor: but a natural though corrupt love of the lieitself. One of the later school of the Grecians examineth the matter, and is at a stand to think what should be in it, that men should lovelies, where neither they make for pleasure as with poets, nor foradvantage as with the merchant; but for the lie's sake. But I cannottell: this same truth is a naked and open daylight, that doth not showthe masks and mummeries and triumphs of the world half so stately anddaintily as candle-lights. Truth may perhaps come to the price of apearl, that showeth best by day; but it will not rise to the price of adiamond or carbuncle, that showeth best in varied lights. A mixture of alie doth ever add pleasure. Doth any man doubt, that if there were takenout of men's minds vain opinions, flattering hopes, false valuations, imaginations as one would, and the like, but it would leave the mindsof a number of men poor shrunken things, full of melancholy andindisposition, and unpleasing to themselves? One of the fathers, ingreat severity, called poesy _vinum doemonum, _ because it filleth theimagination, and yet it is but with the shadow of a lie. But it is notthe lie that passeth through the mind, but the lie that sinketh in andsettleth in it, that doth the hurt; such as we spake of before. Buthowsoever these things are thus in men's depraved judgments andaffections, yet truth, which only doth judge itself, teacheth that theinquiry of truth, which is the love-making or wooing of it, theknowledge of truth, which is the presence of it, and the belief oftruth, which is the enjoying of it, is the sovereign good of humannature. The first creature of God, in the works of the days, was thelight of the sense; the last was the light of reason; and his Sabbathwork ever since is the illumination of his Spirit. .. . The poet thatbeautified the sect that was otherwise inferior to the rest, saith yetexcellently well:--"It is a pleasure to stand upon the shore, and to seeships tossed upon the sea; a pleasure to stand in the window of acastle, and to see a battle and the adventures thereof below; but nopleasure is comparable to the standing upon the vantage ground of Truth"(a hill not to be commanded, and where the air is always clear andserene). "and to see the errors, and wanderings, and mists, andtempests, in the vale below:" so always that this prospect be with pity, and not with swelling or pride. Certainly, it is heaven upon earth, tohave a man's mind move in charity, rest in providence, and turn upon thepoles of truth. 

To pass from theological and philosophical truth to the truth of civilbusiness: it will be acknowledged even by those that practice it not, that clear and round dealing is the honor of man's nature, and thatmixture of falsehood is like alloy in coin of gold and silver, which maymake the metal work the better, but it embaseth it. For these windingand crooked courses are the goings of the serpent; which goeth baselyupon the belly, and not upon the feet. There is no vice that doth socover a man with shame as to be found false and perfidious; andtherefore Montaigne saith prettily, when he inquired the reason why theword of the lie should be such a disgrace and such an odious charge. Saith he, "If it be well weighed, to say that a man lieth, is as much asto say that he is brave toward God and a coward toward men. " For a liefaces God, and shrinks from man. Surely the wickedness of falsehood andbreach of faith cannot possibly be so highly expressed, as in that itshall be the last peal to call the judgments of God upon the generationsof men; it being foretold, that when Christ cometh, "he shall not findfaith upon the earth. "

OF REVENGE

From the 'Essays'

Revenge is a kind of wild justice; which the more man's nature runs to, the more ought law to weed it out. For as for the first wrong, it dothbut offend the law; but the revenge of that wrong putteth the law out ofoffice. Certainly, in taking revenge, a man is but even with his enemy;but in passing it over, he is superior: for it is a prince's part topardon, and Solomon, I am sure, saith, "It is the glory of a man to passby an offense. " That which is past is gone and irrevocable, and wise menhave enough to do with things present and to come; therefore, they dobut trifle with themselves that labor in past matters. There is no mandoth a wrong for the wrong's sake; but thereby to purchase himselfprofit, or pleasure, or honor, or the like. Therefore, why should I beangry with a man for loving himself better than me? And if any manshould do wrong merely out of ill-nature, why yet it is but like thethorn or brier, which prick and scratch because they can do no other. The most tolerable sort of revenge is for those wrongs which there is nolaw to remedy; but then, let a man take heed the revenge be such asthere is no law to punish, else a man's enemy is still beforehand, andit is two for one. Some, when they take revenge, are desirous the partyshould know whence it cometh. This is the more generous; for the delightseemeth to be not so much in doing the hurt as in making the partyrepent. But base and crafty cowards are like the arrow that flieth inthe dark. Cosmus, Duke of Florence, had a desperate saying againstperfidious or neglecting friends, as if those wrongs were unpardonable. "You shall read, " saith he, "that we are commanded to forgive ourenemies; but you never read that we are commanded to forgive ourfriends. " But yet the spirit of Job was in a better tune: "Shall we, "saith he, "take good at God's hands, and not be content to take evilalso?" And so of friends in a proportion. This is certain, that a manthat studieth revenge keeps his own wounds green, which otherwise wouldheal and do well. Public revenges are for the most part fortunate: asthat for the death of Caesar; for the death of Pertinax; for the deathof Henry the Third of France; and many more. But in private revenges itis not so. Nay, rather vindictive persons live the life of witches; who, as they are mischievous, so end they infortunate. 

OF SIMULATION AND DISSIMULATION

From the 'Essays'

Dissimulation is but a faint kind of policy or wisdom; for it asketh astrong wit and a strong heart to know when to tell truth, and to do it. Therefore it is the weaker sort of politicians that are the greatdissemblers. 

Tacitus saith, "Livia sorted well with the arts of her husband anddissimulation of her son;" attributing arts of policy to Augustus, anddissimulation to Tiberius. And again, when Mucianus encouragethVespasian to take arms against Vitellius, he saith, "We rise not againstthe piercing judgment of Augustus, nor the extreme caution or closenessof Tiberius. " These properties of arts or policy, and dissimulation orcloseness, are indeed habits and faculties several, and to bedistinguished. For if a man have that penetration of judgment as he candiscern what things are to be laid open, and what to be secreted, andwhat to be showed at half-lights, and to whom and when, (which indeedare arts of state and arts of life, as Tacitus well calleth them, ) tohim a habit of dissimulation is a hindrance and a poorness. But if a mancannot obtain to that judgment, then it is left to him generally to beclose, and a dissembler. For where a man cannot choose or vary inparticulars, there it is good to take the safest and wariest way ingeneral; like the going softly, by one that cannot well see. Certainlythe ablest men that ever were, have had all an openness and frankness ofdealing, and a name of certainty and veracity: but then they were likehorses well managed, for they could tell passing well when to stop orturn; and at such times when they thought the case indeed requireddissimulation, if then they used it, it came to pass that the formeropinion spread abroad of their good faith and clearness of dealing madethem almost invisible. 

There be three degrees of this hiding and veiling of a man's self. Thefirst, Closeness, Reservation, and Secrecy; when a man leaveth himselfwithout observation, or without hold to be taken, what he is. Thesecond, Dissimulation, in the negative; when a man lets fall signs andarguments, that he is not that he is. And the third, Simulation, in theaffirmative; when a man industriously and expressly feigns and pretendsto be that he is not. 

For the first of these, Secrecy: it is indeed the virtue of a confessor. And assuredly the secret man heareth many confessions; for who will openhimself to a blab or a babbler? But if a man be thought secret, itinviteth discovery, as the more close air sucketh in the more open; andas in confession the revealing is not for worldly use, but for the easeof a man's heart, so secret men come to the knowledge of many things inthat kind: while men rather discharge their minds than impart theirminds. In few words, mysteries are due to secrecy. Besides (to saytruth), nakedness is uncomely, as well in mind as body; and it addeth nosmall reverence to men's manners and actions, if they be not altogetheropen. As for talkers and futile persons, they are commonly vain andcredulous withal; for he that talketh what he knoweth, will also talkwhat he knoweth not. Therefore set it down, that a habit of secrecy isboth politic and moral. And in this part it is good that a man's facegive his tongue leave to speak; for the discovery of a man's self by thetracts of his countenance is a great weakness and betraying, by how muchit is many times more marked and believed than a man's words. 

For the second, which is Dissimulation: it followeth many times uponsecrecy by a necessity; so that he that will be secret must be adissembler in some degree. For men are too cunning to suffer a man tokeep an indifferent carriage between both, and to be secret, withoutswaying the balance on either side. They will so beset a man withquestions, and draw him on, and pick it out of him, that without anabsurd silence, he must show an inclination one way; or if he do not, they will gather as much by his silence as by his speech. As forequivocations, or oraculous speeches, they cannot hold out long. So thatno man can be secret, except he give himself a little scope ofdissimulation; which is, as it were, but the skirts or train of secrecy. 

But for the third degree, which is Simulation and false profession:that I hold more culpable and less politic, except it be in great andrare matters. And therefore a general custom of simulation (which isthis last degree) is a vice rising either of a natural falseness orfearfulness, or of a mind that hath some main faults; which because aman must needs disguise, it maketh him practice simulation in otherthings, lest his hand should be out of use. 

The great advantages of simulation and dissimulation are three. First, to lay asleep opposition, and to surprise; for where a man's intentionsare published, it is an alarum to call up all that are against them. Thesecond is, to reserve to a man's self a fair retreat; for if a manengage himself by a manifest declaration, he must go through or take afall. The third is, the better to discover the mind of another; for tohim that opens himself men will hardly show themselves adverse, but willfair let him go on, and turn their freedom of speech to freedom ofthought. And therefore it is a good shrewd proverb of the Spaniard, "Tell a lie and find a troth;" as if there were no way of discovery butby simulation. There be also three disadvantages to set it even. Thefirst, that simulation and dissimulation commonly carry with them a showof fearfulness; which in any business doth spoil the feathers of roundflying up to the mark. The second, that it puzzleth and perplexeth theconceits of many that perhaps would otherwise co-operate with him, andmakes a man walk almost alone to his own ends. The third and greatestis, that it depriveth a man of one of the most principal instruments foraction; which is trust and belief. The best composition and temperatureis, to have openness in fame and opinion; secrecy in habit;dissimulation in seasonable use; and a power to feign if there beno remedy. 

OF TRAVEL

From the 'Essays'

Travel, in the younger sort, is a part of education; in the elder, apart of experience. He that traveleth into a country before he hath someentrance into the language, goeth to school, and not to travel. Thatyoung men travel under some tutor or grave servant, I allow well: sothat he be such a one that hath the language, and hath been in thecountry before; whereby he may be able to tell them what things areworthy to be seen in the country where they go, what acquaintances theyare to seek, what exercises or discipline the place yielded. For elseyoung men shall go hooded, and look abroad little. It is a strangething, that in sea voyages, where there is nothing to be seen but skyand sea, men should make diaries; but in land travel, wherein so much isto be observed, for the most part they omit it; as if chance were fitterto be registered than observation. Let diaries therefore be brought inuse. The things to be seen and observed are, the courts of princes, specially when they give audience to ambassadors; the courts of justice, while they sit and hear causes; and so of consistories ecclesiastic; thechurches and monasteries, with the monuments which are therein extant;the walls and fortifications of cities and towns, and so the havens andharbors; antiquities and ruins; libraries; colleges, disputations, andlectures, where any are; shipping and navies; houses and gardens ofstate and pleasure, near great cities; armories; arsenals; magazines;exchanges; burses; warehouses; exercises of horsemanship, fencing, training of soldiers, and the like; comedies, such whereunto the bettersort of persons do resort; treasuries of jewels and robes; cabinets andrarities: and, to conclude, whatsoever is memorable in the places wherethey go. After all which the tutors or servants ought to make diligentinquiry. As for triumphs, masks, feasts, weddings, funerals, capitalexecutions, and such shows, men need not to be put in mind of them: yetare they not to be neglected. If you will have a young man to put histravel into a little room, and in short time to gather much, this youmust do. First, as was said, he must have some entrance into thelanguage before he goeth. Then he must have such a servant or tutor asknoweth the country, as was likewise said. Let him carry with him alsosome card or book, describing the country where he traveleth, which willbe a good key to his inquiry. Let him keep also a diary. Let him notstay long in one city or town; more or less as the place deserveth, butnot long: nay, when he stayeth in one city or town, let him change hislodging from one end and part of the town to another; which is a greatadamant of acquaintance. Let him sequester himself from the company ofhis countrymen, and diet in such places where there is good company ofthe nation where he traveleth. Let him upon his removes from one placeto another, procure recommendation to some person of quality residingin the place whither he removeth; that he may use his favor in thosethings he desireth to see or know. Thus he may abridge his travel withmuch profit. 

As for the acquaintance which is to be sought in travel: that which ismost of all profitable, is acquaintance with the secretaries andemployed men of ambassadors; for so in traveling in one country he shallsuck the experience of many. Let him also see and visit eminent personsin all kinds, which are of great name abroad; that he may be able totell how the life agreeth with the fame. For quarrels, they are withcare and discretion to be avoided. They are commonly for mistresses, healths, place, and words. And let a man beware how he keepeth companywith choleric and quarrelsome persons; for they will engage him intotheir own quarrels. When a traveler returneth home, let him not leavethe countries where he hath traveled altogether behind him, but maintaina correspondence by letters with those of his acquaintance which are ofmost worth. And let his travel appear rather in his discourse than inhis apparel or gesture; and in his discourse let him be rather advisedin his answers, than forward to tell stories; and let it appear that hedoth not change his country manners for those of foreign parts; but onlyprick in some flowers of that he hath learned abroad into the customs ofhis own country. 

OF FRIENDSHIP

From the 'Essays'

It had been hard for him that spake it to have put more truth anduntruth together in few words than in that speech, "Whosoever isdelighted in solitude is either a wild beast or a god. " For it is mosttrue that a natural and secret hatred and aversion toward society in anyman hath somewhat of the savage beast; but it is most untrue that itshould have any character at all of the divine nature, except itproceed, not out of a pleasure in solitude, but out of a love and desireto sequester a man's self for a higher conversation: such as is found tohave been falsely and feignedly in some of the heathen, as Epimenidesthe Candian, Numa the Roman, Empedocles the Sicilian, and Apollonius ofTyana; and truly and really in divers of the ancient hermits and holyfathers of the Church. But little do men perceive what solitude is, andhow far it extendeth. For a crowd is not company; and faces are but agallery of pictures; and talk but a tinkling cymbal, where there is nolove. The Latin adage meeteth with it a little: "Magna civitas, magnasolitudo;" because in a great town friends are scattered, so that thereis not that fellowship, for the most part, which is in lessneighborhoods. But we may go further, and affirm most truly that it is amere and miserable solitude to want true friends, without which theworld is but a wilderness; and even in this sense also of solitude, whosoever in the frame of his nature and affections is unfit forfriendship, he taketh it of the beast, and not from humanity. 

A principal fruit of friendship is the ease and discharge of thefullness and swellings of the heart, which passions of all kinds docause and induce. We know diseases of stoppings and suffocations are themost dangerous in the body; and it is not much otherwise in the mind. You may take sarza to open the liver, steel to open the spleen, flowerof sulphur for the lungs, castoreum for the brain: but no receiptopeneth the heart but a true friend; to whom you may impart griefs, joys, fears, hopes, suspicions, counsels, and whatsoever lieth upon theheart to oppress it, in a kind of civil shrift or confession. 

It is a strange thing to observe how high a rate great kings andmonarchs do set upon this fruit of friendship whereof we speak; sogreat, as they purchase it many times at the hazard of their own safetyand greatness. For princes, in regard of the distance of their fortunefrom that of their subjects and servants, cannot gather this fruit, except (to make themselves capable thereof) they raise some persons tobe as it were companions and almost equals to themselves; which manytimes sorteth to inconvenience. The modern languages give unto suchpersons the name of favorites, or privadoes; as if it were matter ofgrace or conversation. But the Roman name attaineth the true use andcause thereof, naming them "participes curarum"; for it is that whichtieth the knot. And we see plainly that this hath been done, not by weakand passionate princes only, but by the wisest and most politic thatever reigned; who have oftentimes joined to themselves some of theirservants, whom both themselves have called friends, and allowed otherslikewise to call them in the same manner, using the word which isreceived between private men. 

L. Sylla, when he commanded Rome, raised Pompey (after surnamed theGreat) to that height that Pompey vaunted himself for Sylla's overmatch. For when he had carried the consulship for a friend of his against thepursuit of Sylla, and that Sylla did a little resent thereat, and beganto speak great, Pompey turned upon him again, and in effect bade him bequiet; "for that more men adored the sun rising than the sun setting. "With Julius Caesar, Decimus Brutus had obtained that interest, as he sethim down in his testament for heir in remainder after his nephew; andthis was the man that had power with him to draw him forth to his death. For when Caesar would have discharged the Senate in regard of some illpresages, and specially a dream of Calpurnia, this man lifted him gentlyby the arm out of his chair, telling him he hoped he would not dismissthe Senate till his wife had dreamt a better dream. And it seemeth hisfavor was so great as Antonius, in a letter which is recited verbatim inone of Cicero's Philippics, calleth him "venefica"--"witch"; as if hehad enchanted Caesar. Augustus raised Agrippa (though of mean birth) tothat height as, when he consulted with Maecenas about the marriage ofhis daughter Julia, Maecenas took the liberty to tell him, "that he musteither marry his daughter to Agrippa or take away his life: there was nothird way, he had made him so great. " With Tiberius Caesar, Sejanus hadascended to that height as they two were termed and reckoned as a pairof friends. Tiberius in a letter to him saith, "Haec pro amicitia nostranon occultavi" [these things, from our friendship, I have not concealedfrom you]; and the whole Senate dedicated an altar to Friendship, as toa goddess, in respect of the great dearness of friendship between themtwo. The like, or more, was between Septimius Severus and Plautianus. For he forced his eldest son to marry the daughter of Plautianus; andwould often maintain Plautianus in doing affronts to his son; and didwrite also, in a letter to the Senate, by these words: "I love the manso well, as I wish he may over-live me. " Now, if these princes had beenas a Trajan or a Marcus Aurelius, a man might have thought that this hadproceeded of an abundant goodness of nature; but being men so wise, ofsuch strength and severity of mind, and so extreme lovers of themselves, as all these were, it proveth most plainly that they found their ownfelicity (though as great as ever happened to mortal men) but as anhalf-piece, except they might have a friend to make it entire: and yet, which is more, they were princes that had wives, sons, nephews; and yetall these could not supply the comfort of friendship. 

It is not to be forgotten what Comineus observeth of his first master, Duke Charles the Hardy; namely, that he would communicate his secretswith none, and least of all those secrets which troubled him most. Whereupon he goeth on and saith, that toward his latter time "thatcloseness did impair and a little perish his understanding. " SurelyComineus mought have made the same judgment also, if it had pleased him, of his second master Louis the Eleventh, whose closeness was indeed histormentor. The parable of Pythagoras is dark, but true: "Cor needito, "--"Eat not the heart. " Certainly, if a man would give it a hardphrase, those that want friends to open themselves unto are cannibals oftheir own hearts. But one thing is most admirable (wherewith I willconclude this first fruit of friendship), which is, that thiscommunicating of a man's self to his friend works two contrary effects;for it redoubleth joys, and cutteth griefs in halves. For there is noman that imparteth his joys to his friend, but he joyeth the more; andno man that imparteth his griefs to his friend, but he grieveth theless. So that it is, in truth, of operation upon a man's mind of likevirtue as the alchymists use to attribute to their stone for man's body;that it worketh all contrary effects, but still to the good and benefitof nature. But yet without praying in aid of alchymists, there is amanifest image of this in the ordinary course of nature: for in bodies, union strengtheneth and cherisheth any natural action, and on the otherside, weakeneth and dulleth any violent impression; and even so it isof minds. 

The second fruit of friendship is healthful and sovereign for theunderstanding, as the first is for the affections. For friendship makethindeed a fair day in the affections, from storm and tempests, but itmaketh daylight in the understanding, out of darkness and confusion ofthoughts. Neither is this to be understood only of faithful counsel, which a man receiveth from his friend; but before you come to that, certain it is that whosoever hath his mind fraught with many thoughts, his wits and understanding do clarify and break up in the communicatingand discoursing with another; he tosseth his thoughts more easily; hemarshaleth them more orderly; he seeth how they look when they areturned into words; finally, he waxeth wiser than himself; and that moreby an hour's discourse than by a day's meditation. It was well said byThemistocles to the King of Persia, "That speech was like cloth ofArras, opened and put abroad; whereby the imagery doth appear in figure:whereas in thoughts they lie but as in packs. " Neither is this secondfruit of friendship, in opening the understanding, restrained only tosuch friends as are able to give a man counsel (they indeed are best);but even without that, a man learneth of himself, and bringeth his ownthoughts to light, and whetteth his wits as against a stone, whichitself cuts not. In a word, a man were better relate himself to a statueor picture, than to suffer his thoughts to pass in smother. 

Add now, to make this second fruit of friendship complete, that otherpoint which lieth more open, and falleth within vulgar observation;which is faithful counsel from a friend. Heraclitus saith well in one ofhis enigmas, "Dry light is ever the best;" and certain it is, that thelight that a man receiveth by counsel from another, is drier and purerthan that which cometh from his own understanding and judgment; which isever infused and drenched in his affections and customs. So as there isas much difference between the counsel that a friend giveth, and that aman giveth himself, as there is between the counsel of a friend and of aflatterer; for there is no such flatterer as is a man's self, and thereis no such remedy against flattery of a man's self as the liberty of afriend. Counsel is of two sorts: the one concerning manners, the otherconcerning business. For the first, the best preservative to keep themind in health is the faithful admonition of a friend. The calling of aman's self to a strict account is a medicine sometimes too piercing andcorrosive; reading good books of morality is a little flat and dead;observing our faults in others is sometimes improper for our case: butthe best receipt (best I say to work and best to take) is the admonitionof a friend. It is a strange thing to behold what gross errors andextreme absurdities many (especially of the greater sort) do commit forwant of a friend to tell them of them, to the great damage both of theirfame and fortune: for, as St. James saith, they are as men "that looksometimes into a glass, and presently forget their own shape and favor. "As for business, a man may think, if he will, that two eyes see no morethan one; or, that a gamester seeth always more than a looker-on; or, that a man in anger is as wise as he that hath said over thefour-and-twenty letters; or, that a musket may be shot off as well uponthe arm as upon a rest; and such other fond and high imaginations, tothink himself all in all: but when all is done, the help of good counselis that which setteth business straight: and if any man think that hewill take counsel, but it shall be by pieces; asking counsel in onebusiness of one man, and in another business of another man, it is well(that is to say, better, perhaps, than if he asked none at all); but herunneth two dangers: one, that he shall not be faithfully counseled; forit is a rare thing, except it be from a perfect and entire friend, tohave counsel given, but such as shall be bowed and crooked to some endswhich he hath that giveth it: the other, that he shall have counselgiven, hurtful and unsafe (though with good meaning), and mixed partlyof mischief, and partly of remedy; even as if you would call aphysician, that is thought good for the cure of the disease you complainof, but is unacquainted with your body; and therefore may put you in away for a present cure, but overthroweth your health in some other kind, and so cure the disease and kill the patient: but a friend that iswholly acquainted with a man's estate will beware, by furthering anypresent business, how he dasheth upon the other inconvenience. Andtherefore, rest not upon scattered counsels: they will rather distractand mislead, than settle and direct. 

After these two noble fruits of friendship (peace in the affections, andsupport of the judgment), followeth the last fruit, which is like thepomegranate, full of many kernels; I mean aid, and bearing a part in allactions and occasions. Here the best way to represent to life themanifold use of friendship, is to cast and see how many things there arewhich a man cannot do himself: and then it will appear that it was asparing speech of the ancients to say, "that a friend is anotherhimself;" for that a friend is far more than himself. Men have theirtime, and die many times in desire of some things which they principallytake to heart; the bestowing of a child, the finishing of a work, or thelike. If a man have a true friend, he may rest almost secure that thecare of those things will continue after him; so that a man hath, as itwere, two lives in his desires. A man hath a body, and that body isconfined to a place; but where friendship is, all offices of life are, as it were, granted to him and his deputy; for he may exercise them byhis friend. How many things are there, which a man cannot, with any faceor comeliness, say or do himself; A man can scarce allege his ownmerits with modesty, much less extol them; a man cannot sometimes brookto supplicate, or beg, and a number of the like: but all these thingsare graceful in a friend's mouth, which are blushing in a man's own. Soagain, a man's person hath many proper relations which he cannot putoff. A man cannot speak to his son but as a father; to his wife but as ahusband; to his enemy but upon terms: whereas a friend may speak as thecase requires, and not as it sorteth with the person: but to enumeratethese things were endless; I have given the rule, where a man cannotfitly play his own part, if he have not a friend he may quit the stage. 

DEFECTS OF THE UNIVERSITIES

From 'The Advancement of Learning' (Book ii. )

Amongst so many great foundations of colleges in Europe, I find itstrange that they are all dedicated to professions, and none left freeto arts and sciences at large. For if men judge that learning should bereferred to action, they judge well: but in this they fall into theerror described in the ancient fable, in which the other parts of thebody did suppose the stomach had been idle, because it neither performedthe office of motion, as the limbs do, nor of sense, as the head doth;but yet notwithstanding it is the stomach that digesteth anddistributeth to all the rest. So if any man think philosophy anduniversality to be idle studies, he doth not consider that allprofessions are from thence served and supplied. And this I take to be agreat cause that hath hindered the progression of learning, becausethese fundamental knowledges have been studied but in passage. For ifyou will have a tree bear more fruit than it hath used to do, it is notanything you can do to the boughs, but it is the stirring of the earthand putting new mold about the roots that must work it. Neither is it tobe forgotten, that this dedicating of foundations and dotations toprofessory learning hath not only had a malign aspect and influence uponthe growth of sciences, but hath also been prejudicial to States andgovernments. For hence it proceedeth that princes find a solitude inregard of able men to serve them in causes of estate, because there isno education collegiate which is free; where such as were so disposedmought give themselves to histories, modern languages, books of policyand civil discourse, and other the like enablements unto serviceof estate. 

And because founders of colleges do plant, and founders of lectures dowater, it followeth well in order to speak of the defect which is inpublic lectures; namely, in the smallness and meanness of the salary orreward which in most places is assigned unto them; whether they belectures of arts, or of professions For it is necessary to theprogression of sciences that readers be of the most able and sufficientmen; as those which are ordained for generating and propagating ofsciences, and not for transitory use. This cannot be, except theircondition and endowment be such as may content the ablest man toappropriate his whole labor and continue his whole age in that functionand attendance; and therefore must have a proportion answerable to thatmediocrity or competency of advancement, which may be expected from aprofession or the practice of a profession. So as, if you will havesciences flourish, you must observe David's military law, which was, "That those which staid with the carriage should have equal part withthose which were in the action"; else will the carriages be illattended. So readers in sciences are indeed the guardians of the storesand provisions of sciences whence men in active courses are furnished, and therefore ought to have equal entertainment with them; otherwise ifthe fathers in sciences be of the weakest sort or be ill maintained, "Et patrum invalidi referent jejunia nati:"

[Weakness of parents will show in feebleness of offspring. ]

Another defect I note, wherein I shall need some alchemist to help me, who call upon men to sell their books and to build furnaces; quittingand forsaking Minerva and the Muses as barren virgins, and relying uponVulcan. But certain it is, that unto the deep, fruitful, and operativestudy of many sciences, specially natural philosophy and physic, booksbe not only the instrumentals; wherein also the beneficence of men hathnot been altogether wanting. For we see spheres, globes, astrolabes, maps, and the like, have been provided as appurtenances to astronomy andcosmography, as well as books. We see likewise that some placesinstituted for physic have annexed the commodity of gardens for simplesof all sorts, and do likewise command the use of dead bodies foranatomies. But these do respect but a few things. In general, therewill hardly be any main proficience in the disclosing of nature, exceptthere be some allowance for expenses about experiments; whether they beexperiments appertaining to Vulcanus or Daedalus, furnace or engine, orany other kind. And therefore, as secretaries and spials of princes andstates bring in bills for intelligence, so you must allow the spials andintelligencers of nature to bring in their bills; or else you shall beill advertised. 

And if Alexander made such a liberal assignation to Aristotle oftreasure for the allowance of hunters, fowlers, fishers, and the like, that he mought compile an history of nature, much better do they deserveit that travail in arts of nature. 

Another defect which I note, is an intermission or neglect in thosewhich are governors in universities of consultation, and in princes orsuperior persons of visitation; to enter into account and consideration, whether the readings, exercises, and other customs appertaining untolearning, anciently begun and since continued, be well instituted or no;and thereupon to ground an amendment or reformation in that which shallbe found inconvenient. For it is one of your Majesty's own most wise andprincely maxims, "that in all usages and precedents, the times beconsidered wherein they first began; which if they were weak orignorant, it derogateth from the authority of the usage, and leaveth itfor suspect. " And therefore inasmuch as most of the usages and orders ofthe universities were derived from more obscure times, it is the morerequisite they be re-examined. In this kind I will give an instance ortwo, for example's sake, of things that are the most obvious andfamiliar. The one is a matter, which, though it be ancient and general, yet I hold to be an error; which is, that scholars in universities cometoo soon and too unripe to logic and rhetoric, arts fitter for graduatesthan children and novices. For these two, rightly taken, are the gravestof sciences, being the arts of arts; the one for judgment, the other forornament. And they be the rules and directions how to set forth anddispose matter: and therefore for minds empty and unfraught with matter, and which have not gathered that which Cicero calleth _sylva_ and_supellex_, stuff and variety, to begin with those arts (as if oneshould learn to weigh or to measure or to paint the wind) doth work butthis effect, that the wisdom of those arts, which is great anduniversal, is almost made contemptible, and is degenerate into childishsophistry and ridiculous affectation. And further, the untimely learningof them hath drawn on by consequence the superficial and unprofitableteaching and writing of them, as fitteth indeed to the capacity ofchildren. Another is a lack I find in the exercises used in theuniversities, which do make too great a divorce between invention andmemory. For their speeches are either premeditate, in _verbisconceptis_, where nothing is left to invention, or merely extemporal, where little is left to memory; whereas in life and action there isleast use of either of these, but rather of intermixtures ofpremeditation and invention, notes and memory. So as the exercisefitteth not the practice, nor the image the life; and it is ever a truerule in exercises, that they be framed as near as may be to the life ofpractice; for otherwise they do pervert the motions and faculties of themind, and not prepare them. The truth whereof is not obscure, whenscholars come to the practices of professions, or other actions of civillife; which when they set into, this want is soon found by themselves, and sooner by others. But this part, touching the amendment of theinstitutions and orders of universities, I will conclude with the clauseof Caesar's letter to Oppius and Balbus, "Hoc quem admodum fieri possit, nonnulla mihi in mentem veniunt, et multa reperiri possunt: de iis rebusrogo vos ut cogitationem suscipiatis. " [How this may be done, some wayscome to my mind and many may be devised; I ask you to take these thingsinto consideration. ]

Another defect which I note ascendeth a little higher than theprecedent. For as the proficience of learning consisteth much in theorders and institutions of universities in the same States and kingdoms, so it would be yet more advanced, if there were more intelligence mutualbetween the universities of Europe than now there is. We see there bemany orders and foundations, which though they be divided under severalsovereignties and territories, yet they take themselves to have a kindof contract, fraternity, and correspondence one with the other, insomuchas they have Provincials and Generals. And surely as nature createthbrotherhood in families, and arts mechanical contract brotherhoods incommunalties, and the anointment of God superinduceth a brotherhood inkings and bishops; so in like manner there cannot but be a fraternity inlearning and illumination, relating to that paternity which isattributed to God, who is called the Father of illuminations or lights. 

The last defect which I will note is, that there hath not been, or veryrarely been, any public designation of writers or inquirers concerningsuch parts of knowledge as may appear not to have been alreadysufficiently labored or undertaken; unto which point it is an inducementto enter into a view and examination what parts of learning have beenprosecuted, and what omitted. For the opinion of plenty is amongst thecauses of want, and the great quantity of books maketh a show rather ofsuperfluity than lack; which surcharge nevertheless is not to beremedied by making no more books, but by making more good books, which, as the serpent of Moses, mought devour the serpents of the enchanters. 

The removing of all the defects formerly enumerated, except the last, and of the active part also of the last (which is the designation ofwriters), are _opera basilica_ [kings' works]; towards which theendeavors of a private man may be but as an image in a cross-way, thatmay point at the way, but cannot go it. But the inducing part of thelatter (which is the survey of learning) may be set forward by privatetravail. Wherefore I will now attempt to make a general and faithfulperambulation of learning, with an inquiry what parts thereof lie freshand waste, and not improved and converted by the industry of man; to theend that such a plot made and recorded to memory, may both ministerlight to any public designation, and also serve to excite voluntaryendeavors. Wherein nevertheless my purpose is at this time to note onlyomissions and deficiencies, and not to make any redargution of errors orincomplete prosecutions. For it is one thing to set forth what groundlieth unmanured, and another thing to correct ill husbandry in thatwhich is manured. 

In the handling and undertaking of which work I am not ignorant what itis that I do now move and attempt, nor insensible of mine own weaknessto sustain my purpose. But my hope is, that if my extreme love tolearning carry me too far, I may obtain the excuse of affection; forthat "it is not granted to man to love and to be wise. " But I know wellI can use no other liberty of judgment than I must leave to others; andI, for my part, shall be indifferently glad either to perform myself, oraccept from another, that duty of humanity, "Nam qui erranti comitermonstrat viam, " etc. [To kindly show the wanderer the path. ] I doforesee likewise that of those things which I shall enter and registeras deficiencies and omissions, many will conceive and censure that someof them are already done and extant; others to be but curiosities, andthings of no great use; and others to be of too great difficulty andalmost impossibility to be compassed and effected. But for the twofirst, I refer myself to the particulars For the last, touchingimpossibility, I take it those things are to be held possible which maybe done by some person, though not by every one; and which may be doneby many, though not by any one; and which may be done in the successionof ages, though not within the hour-glass of one man's life; and whichmay be done by public designation, though not by private endeavor. Butnotwithstanding, if any man will take to himself rather that of Solomon, "Dicit piger, Leo est in via" [the sluggard says there is a lion in thepath], than that of Virgil, "Possunt quia posse videntur" [they can, because they think they can], I shall be content that my labors beesteemed but as the better sort of wishes, for as it asketh someknowledge to demand a question not impertinent, so it requireth somesense to make a wish not absurd. 

TO MY LORD TREASURER BURGHLEY

From 'Letters and Life, ' by James Spedding

_My Lord:_

With as much confidence as mine own honest and faithful devotion untoyour service and your honorable correspondence unto me and my poorestate can breed in a man, do I commend myself unto your Lordship. I waxnow somewhat ancient; one and thirty years is a great deal of sand inthe hour-glass. My health, I thank God, I find confirmed; and I do notfear that action shall impair it, because I account my ordinary courseof study and meditation to be more painful than most parts of actionare. I ever bare a mind (in some middle place that I could discharge) toserve her Majesty; not as a man born under Sol, that loveth honor; norunder Jupiter, that loveth business (for the contemplative planetcarrieth me away wholly); but as a man born under an excellentSovereign, that deserveth the dedication of all men's abilities. Besides, I do not find in myself so much self-love, but that the greaterparts of my thoughts are to deserve well (if I were able) of my friends, and namely of your Lordship; who being the Atlas of this commonwealth, the honor of my house, and the second founder of my poor estate, I amtied by all duties, both of a good patriot and of an unworthy kinsman, and of an obliged servant, to employ whatsoever I am to do you service. Again, the meanness of my estate does somewhat move me; for though Icannot excuse myself that I am either prodigal or slothful, yet myhealth is not to spend, nor my course to get. Lastly, I confess that Ihave as vast contemplative ends as I have moderate civil ends: for Ihave taken all knowledge to be my province; and if I could purge it oftwo sorts of rovers, whereof the one with frivolous disputations, confutations, and verbosities, the other with blind experiments andauricular traditions and impostures, hath committed so many spoils, Ihope I should bring in industrious observations, grounded conclusions, and profitable inventions and discoveries; the best state of thatprovince. This, whether it be curiosity, or vain glory, or nature, or(if one take it favorably) _philanthropia_, is so fixed in my mind as itcannot be removed. And I do easily see, that place of any reasonablecountenance doth bring commandment of more wits than of a man's own;which is the thing I greatly affect. And for your Lordship, perhaps youshall not find more strength and less encounter in any other. And ifyour Lordship shall find now, or at any time, that I do seek or affectany place whereunto any that is nearer unto your Lordship shall beconcurrent, say then that I am a most dishonest man. And if yourLordship will not carry me on, I will not do as Anaxagoras did, whoreduced himself with contemplation unto voluntary poverty: but this Iwill do; I will sell the inheritance that I have, and purchase somelease of quick revenue, or some office of gain that shall be executed bydeputy, and so give over all care of service, and become some sorrybook-maker, or a true pioneer in that mine of truth, which (he said) layso deep. This which I have writ unto your Lordship is rather thoughtsthan words, being set down without all art, disguising, or reservation. Wherein I have done honor both to your Lordship's wisdom, in judgingthat that will be best believed of your Lordship which is truest, and toyour Lordship's good nature, in retaining nothing from you. And even soI wish your Lordship all happiness, and to myself means and occasion tobe added to my faithful desire to do you service. From my lodging atGray's Inn. 

IN PRAISE OF KNOWLEDGE

From 'Letters and Life, ' by James Spedding

Silence were the best celebration of that which I mean to commend; forwho would not use silence, where silence is not made, and what crier canmake silence in such a noise and tumult of vain and popular opinions?

My praise shall be dedicated to the mind itself. The mind is the man andthe knowledge of the mind. A man is but what he knoweth. The mind itselfis but an accident to knowledge; for knowledge is a double of that whichis; the truth of being and the truth of knowing is all one. 

Are not the pleasures of the affections greater than the pleasures ofthe senses? And are not the pleasures of the intellect greater than thepleasures of the affections? Is not knowledge a true and only naturalpleasure, whereof there is no satiety? Is it not knowledge that dothalone clear the mind of all perturbation? How many things are therewhich we imagine not? How many things do we esteem and value otherwisethan they are! This ill-proportioned estimation, these vainimaginations, these be the clouds of error that turn into the storms ofperturbation. Is there any such happiness as for a man's mind to beraised above the confusion of things, where he may have the prospect ofthe order of nature and the error of men?

But is this a vein only of delight, and not of discovery? ofcontentment, and not of benefit? Shall he not as well discern the richesof nature's warehouse, as the benefit of her shop? Is truth ever barren?Shall he not be able thereby to produce worthy effects, and to endow thelife of man with infinite commodities?

But shall I make this garland to be put upon a wrong head? Would anybodybelieve me, if I should verify this upon the knowledge that is now inuse? Are we the richer by one poor invention, by reason of all thelearning that hath been these many hundred years? The industry ofartificers maketh some small improvement of things invented; and chancesometimes in experimenting maketh us to stumble upon somewhat which isnew; but all the disputation of the learned never brought to light oneeffect of nature before unknown. When things are known and found out, then they can descant upon them, they can knit them into certaincauses, they can reduce them to their principles. If any instance ofexperience stand against them, they can range it in order by somedistinctions. But all this is but a web of the wit, it can work nothing. I do not doubt but that common notions, which we call reason, and theknitting of them together, which we call logic, are the art of reasonand studies. But they rather cast obscurity than gain light to thecontemplation of nature. All the philosophy of nature which is nowreceived, is either the philosophy of the Grecians, or that other of theAlchemists. That of the Grecians hath the foundations in words, inostentation, in confutation, in sects, in schools, in disputations. TheGrecians were (as one of themselves saith), "you Grecians, everchildren. " They knew little antiquity; they knew (except fables) notmuch above five hundred years before themselves; they knew but a smallportion of the world. That of the Alchemists hath the foundation inimposture, in auricular traditions and obscurity; it was catching holdof religion, but the principle of it is, "Populus vult decipi. " So thatI know no great difference between these great philosophies, but thatthe one is a loud-crying folly, and the other is a whispering folly. Theone is gathered out of a few vulgar observations, and the other out of afew experiments of a furnace. The one never faileth to multiply words, and the other ever faileth to multiply gold. Who would not smile atAristotle, when he admireth the eternity and invariableness of theheavens, as there were not the like in the bowels of the earth? Those bethe confines and borders of these two kingdoms, where the continualalteration and incursion are. The superficies and upper parts of theearth are full of varieties. The superficies and lower part of theheavens (which we call the middle region of the air) is full of variety. There is much spirit in the one part that cannot be brought into mass. There is much massy body in the other place that cannot be refined tospirit. The common air is as the waste ground between the borders. Whowould not smile at the astronomers? I mean not these new carmen whichdrive the earth about, but the ancient astronomers, which feign the moonto be the swiftest of all planets in motion, and the rest in order, thehigher the slower; and so are compelled to imagine a double motion;whereas how evident is it, that that which they call a contrary motionis but an abatement of motion. The fixed stars overgo Saturn, and so inthem and the rest all is but one motion, and the nearer the earth theslower; a motion also whereof air and water do participate, though muchinterrupted. 

But why do I in a conference of pleasure enter into these great matters, in sort that pretending to know much, I should forget what isseasonable? Pardon me, it was because all [other] things may be endowedand adorned with speeches, but knowledge itself is more beautiful thanany apparel of words that can be put upon it. 

And let not me seem arrogant, without respect to these great reputedauthors. Let me so give every man his due, as I give Time his due, whichis to discover truth. Many of these men had greater wits, far above mineown, and so are many in the universities of Europe at this day. Butalas, they learn nothing there but to believe: first to believe thatothers know that which they know not; and after [that] themselves knowthat which they know not. But indeed facility to believe, impatience todoubt, temerity to answer, glory to know, doubt to contradict, end togain, sloth to search, seeking things in words, resting in part ofnature; these, and the like, have been the things which have forbiddenthe happy match between the mind of man and the nature of things, and inplace thereof have married it to vain notions and blind experiments. Andwhat the posterity and issue of so honorable a match may be, it is nothard to consider. Printing, a gross invention; artillery, a thing thatlay not far out of the way; the needle, a thing partly known before;what a change have these three made in the world in these times; the onein state of learning, the other in state of the war, the third in thestate of treasure, commodities, and navigation. And those, I say, werebut stumbled upon and lighted upon by chance. Therefore, no doubt thesovereignty of man lieth hid in knowledge; wherein many things arereserved, which kings with their treasure cannot buy, nor with theirforce command; their spials and intelligencers can give no news of them, their seamen and discoverers cannot sail where they grow. Now we governnature in opinions, but we are thrall unto her in necessity; but if wewould be led by her in invention, we should command her in action. 

TO THE LORD CHANCELLOR, TOUCHING THE HISTORY OF BRITAIN

From 'Letters and Life, ' by James Spedding

_It may please your good Lordship:_

Some late act of his Majesty, referred to some former speech which Ihave heard from your Lordship, bred in me a great desire, and bystrength of desire a boldness to make an humble proposition to yourLordship, such as in me can be no better than a wish: but if yourLordship should apprehend it, may take some good and worthy effect. Theact I speak of, is the order given by his Majesty, as I understand, forthe erection of a tomb or monument for our late sovereign Lady QueenElizabeth: wherein I may note much, but this at this time; that as herMajesty did always right to his Highness's hopes, so his Majesty doth inall things right to her memory; a very just and princely retribution. But from this occasion, by a very easy ascent, I passed furder, beingput in mind, by this Representative of her person, of the more true andmore firm Representative, which is of her life and government. For asStatuaes and Pictures are dumb histories, so histories are speakingPictures. Wherein if my affection be not too great, or my reading toosmall, I am of this opinion, that if Plutarch were alive to write livesby parallels, it would trouble him for virtue and fortune both to findfor her a parallel amongst women. And though she was of the passive sex, yet her government was so active, as, in my simple opinion, it made moreimpression upon the several states of Europe, than it received fromthence. But I confess unto your Lordship I could not stay here, but wenta little furder into the consideration of the times which have passedsince King Henry the 8th; wherein I find the strangest variety that inlike number of successions of any hereditary monarchy hath ever beenknown. The reign of a child; the offer of an usurpation (though it werebut as a Diary Ague); the reign of a lady married to a foreign Prince;and the reign of a lady solitary and unmarried. So that as it cometh topass in massive bodies, that they have certain trepidations andwaverings before they fix and settle; so it seemeth that by theprovidence of God this monarchy, before it was to settle in his Majestyand his generations (in which I hope it is now established for ever), ithad these prelusive changes in these barren princes. Neither could Icontain myself here (as it is easier to produce than to stay a wish), but calling to remembrance the unworthiness of the history of England(in the main continuance thereof), and the partiality and obliquity ofthat of Scotland, in the latest and largest author that I have seen: Iconceived it would be honor for his Majesty, and a work very memorable, if this island of Great Britain, as it is now joined in Monarchy for theages to come, so were joined in History for the times past; and that onejust and complete History were compiled of both nations. And if any manthink it may refresh the memory of former discords, he may satisfyhimself with the verse, "olim haec meminisse juvabit:" for the casebeing now altered, it is matter of comfort and gratulation to rememberformer troubles. 

Thus much, if it may please your Lordship, was in the optative mood. Itis true that I did look a little in the potential; wherein the hopewhich I conceived was grounded upon three observations. The first, ofthe times, which do flourish in learning, both of art and language;which giveth hope not only that it may be done, but that it may be welldone. For when good things are undertaken in ill times, it turneth butto loss; as in this very particular we have a fresh example of PolydoreVergile, who being designed to write the English History by K. Henry the8th (a strange choice to chuse a stranger), and for his betterinstruction having obtained into his hands many registers and memorialsout of the monasteries, did indeed deface and suppress better thingsthan those he did collect and reduce. Secondly, I do see that which allthe world seeth in his Majesty, both a wonderful judgment in learningand a singular affection towards learning, and the works of true honorwhich are of the mind and not of the hand. For there cannot be the likehonor sought in the building of galleries, or the planting of elms alonghighways, and the like manufactures, things rather of magnificence thanof magnanimity, as there is in the uniting of states, pacifying ofcontroversies, nourishing and augmenting of learning and arts, and theparticular actions appertaining unto these; of which kind Cicero judgedtruly, when he said to Caesar, "Quantum operibus tuis detrahet vetustas, tantum addet laudibus. " And lastly, I called to mind, that your Lordshipat sometimes hath been pleased to express unto me a great desire, thatsomething of this nature should be performed; answerably indeed to yourother noble and worthy courses and actions, wherein your Lordshipsheweth yourself not only an excellent Chancellor and Counselor, butalso an exceeding favorer and fosterer of all good learning and virtue, both in men and matters, persons and actions: joining and adding untothe great services towards his Majesty, which have, in small compass oftime, been accumulated upon your Lordship, many other deservings both ofthe Church and Commonwealth and particulars; so as the opinion of sogreat and wise a man doth seem unto me a good warrant both of thepossibility and worth of this matter. But all this while I assuremyself, I cannot be mistaken by your Lordship, as if I sought an officeor employment for myself. For no man knoweth better than your Lordship, that (if there were in me any faculty thereunto, as I am most unable), yet neither my fortune nor profession would permit it. But because therebe so many good painters both for hand and colors, it needeth butencouragement and instructions to give life and light unto it. 

So in all humbleness I conclude my presenting to your good Lordship thiswish: that if it perish it is but a loss of that which is not. And thuscraving pardon that I have taken so much time from your Lordship, Ialways remain

 Your Lps. Very humbly and much bounden

FR. BACON. 

GRAY'S INN, this 2d of April, 1605. 

TO VILLIERS ON HIS PATENT AS VISCOUNT

From 'Letters and Life, ' by James Spedding

_Sir_:

I have sent you now your patent of creation of Lord Blechly of Blechly, and of Viscount Villiers. Blechly is your own, and I like the sound ofthe name better than Whaddon; but the name will be hid, for you will becalled Viscount Villiers. I have put them both in a patent, after themanner of the patents of Earls where baronies are joined; but the chiefreason was, because I would avoid double prefaces which had not beenfit; nevertheless the ceremony of robing and otherwise must be double. 

And now, because I am in the country, I will send you some of my countryfruits; which with me are good meditations; which when I am in the cityare choked with business. 

After that the King shall have watered your new dignities with hisbounty of the lands which he intends you, and that some other thingsconcerning your means which are now likewise in intention shall besettled upon you; I do not see but you may think your private fortunesestablished; and, therefore, it is now time that you should refer youractions chiefly to the good of your sovereign and your country. It isthe life of an ox or beast always to eat, and never to exercise; but menare born (and especially Christian men), not to cram in their fortunes, but to exercise their virtues; and yet the other hath been the unworthy, and (thanks be to God) sometimes the unlucky humor of great persons inour times. Neither will your further fortune be the further off: forassure yourself that fortune is of a woman's nature, that will soonerfollow you by slighting than by too much wooing. And in this dedicationof yourself to the public, I recommend unto you principally that which Ithink was never done since I was born; and which not done hath bredalmost a wilderness and solitude in the King's service; which is, thatyou countenance, and encourage, and advance able men and virtuous men, and meriting men in all kinds, degrees, and professions. For in the timeof the Cecils, the father and the son, able men were by design and ofpurpose suppressed; and though of late choice goeth better both inchurch and commonwealth, yet money, and turn-serving, and cunningcanvasses, and importunity prevail too much. And in places of momentrather make able and honest men yours, than advance those that areotherwise because they are yours. As for cunning and corrupt men, youmust (I know) sometimes use them; but keep them at a distance; and letit appear that you make use of them, rather than that they lead you. Above all, depend wholly (next to God) upon the King; and be ruled (ashitherto you have been) by his instructions; for that is best foryourself. For the King's care and thoughts concerning you are accordingto the thoughts of a great King; whereas your thoughts concerningyourself are and ought to be according to the thoughts of a modest man. But let me not weary you. The sum is that you think goodness the bestpart of greatness; and that you remember whence your rising comes, andmake return accordingly. 

God ever keep you. 

GORHAMBURY, August 12th, 1616

CHARGE TO JUSTICE HUTTON

From 'Letters and Life, ' by James Spedding

_Mr. Serjeant Hutton_:

The King's most excellent Majesty, being duly informed of your learning, integrity, discretion, experience, means, and reputation in yourcountry, hath thought fit not to leave you these talents to be employedupon yourself only, but to call you to serve himself and his people, inthe place of one of his Justices of the court of common pleas. 

The court where you are to serve, is the local centre and heart of thelaws of this realm. Here the subject hath his assurance by fines andrecoveries. Here he hath his fixed and invariable remedies by_praecipes_ and writs of right. Here Justice opens not by a by-gate ofprivilege, but by the great gate of the King's original writs out of theChancery. Here issues process of outlawry; if men will not answer law inthis centre of law, they shall be cast out of the circle of law. Andtherefore it is proper for you by all means with your wisdom andfortitude to maintain the laws of the realm. Wherein, nevertheless, Iwould not have you head-strong, but heart-strong; and to weigh andremember with yourself, that the twelve Judges of the realm are as thetwelve lions under Solomon's throne; they must be lions, but yet lions, under the throne; they must shew their stoutness in elevating andbearing up the throne. 

 To represent unto you the lines and portraitures of a good judge:--The first is, That you should draw your learning out of your books, not out of your brain. 

 2. That you should mix well the freedom of your own opinion with the reverence of the opinion of your fellows. 

 3. That you should continue the studying of your books, and not to spend on upon the old stock. 

 4. That you should fear no man's face, and yet not turn stoutness into bravery. 

 5. That you should be truly impartial, and not so as men may see affection through fine carriage. 

 6. That you be a light to jurors to open their eyes, but not a guide to lead them by the noses. 

 7. That you affect not the opinion of pregnancy and expedition by an impatient and catching hearing of the counselors at the bar. 

 8. That your speech be with gravity, as one of the sages of the law; and not talkative, nor with impertinent flying out to show learning. 

 9. That your hands, and the hands of your hands (I mean those about you), be clean, and uncorrupt from gifts, from meddling in titles, and from serving of turns, be they of great ones or small ones. 

 10. That you contain the jurisdiction of the court within the ancient merestones, without removing the mark. 

 11. Lastly, That you carry such a hand over your ministers and clerks, as that they may rather be in awe of you, than presume upon you. 

These and the like points of the duty of a Judge, I forbear to enlarge;for the longer I have lived with you, the shorter shall my speech be toyou; knowing that you come so furnished and prepared with these goodvirtues, as whatsoever I shall say cannot be new unto you. And thereforeI will say no more unto you at this time, but deliver you your patent. 

A PRAYER, OR PSALM

From 'Letters and Life, ' by James Spedding

Most gracious Lord God, my merciful Father, from my youth up, myCreator, my Redeemer, my Comforter. Thou (O Lord) soundest and searchestthe depths and secrets of all hearts; thou knowledgest the upright ofheart, thou judgest the hypocrite, thou ponderest men's thoughts anddoings as in a balance, thou measurest their intentions as with a line, vanity and crooked ways cannot be hid from thee. 

Remember (O Lord) how thy servant hath walked before thee: remember whatI have first sought, and what hath been principal in mine intentions. Ihave loved thy assemblies, I have mourned for the divisions of thyChurch, I have delighted in the brightness of thy sanctuary. This vinewhich thy right hand hath planted in this nation, I have ever prayedunto thee that it might have the first and the latter rain; and that itmight stretch her branches to the seas and to the floods. The state andbread of the poor and oppressed have been precious in mine eyes: I havehated all cruelty and hardness of heart: I have (though in a despisedweed) procured the good of all men. If any have been mine enemies, Ithought not of them; neither hath the sun almost set upon mydispleasure; but I have been as a dove, free from superfluity ofmaliciousness. Thy creatures have been my books, but thy Scriptures muchmore. I have sought thee in the courts, fields, and gardens, but I havefound thee in thy temples. 

Thousands have been my sins, and ten thousand my transgressions; but thysanctifications have remained with me, and my heart, through thy grace, hath been an unquenched coal upon thy altar. O Lord, my strength, I havesince my youth met with thee in all my ways, by thy fatherlycompassions, by thy comfortable chastisements, and by thy most visibleprovidence. As thy favors have increased upon me, so have thycorrections; so as thou hast been alway near me, O Lord; and ever as myworldly blessings were exalted, so secret darts from thee have piercedme; and when I have ascended before men, I have descended in humiliationbefore thee. 

And now when I thought most of peace and honor, thy hand is heavy uponme, and hath humbled me, according to thy former loving-kindness, keeping me still in thy fatherly school, not as a bastard, but as achild. Just are thy judgments upon me for my sins, which are more innumber than the sands of the sea, but have no proportion to thy mercies;for what are the sands of the sea, to the sea, earth, heavens? and allthese are nothing to thy mercies. 

Besides my innumerable sins, I confess before thee, that I am debtor tothee for the gracious talent of thy gifts and graces which I haveneither put into a napkin, nor put it (as I ought) to exchangers, whereit might have made best profit; but mis-spent it in things for which Iwas least fit; so as I may truly say, my soul hath been a stranger inthe course of my pilgrimage. Be merciful into me (O Lord) for mySaviour's sake, and receive me unto thy bosom, or guide me in thy ways. 

FROM THE 'APOPHTHEGMS'

My Lo. Of Essex, at the succor of Rhoan, made twenty-four knights, whichat that time was a great matter. Divers (7. ) of those gentlemen were ofweak and small means; which when Queen Elizabeth heard, she said, "MyLo. Mought have done well to have built his alms-house before he madehis knights. "

21. Many men, especially such as affect gravity, have a manner afterother men's speech to shake their heads. Sir Lionel Cranfield would say, "That it was as men shake a bottle, to see if there was any wit in theirhead or no. "

33. Bias was sailing, and there fell out a great tempest, and themariners, that were wicked and dissolute fellows, called upon the gods;but Bias said to them, "Peace, let them not know ye are here. "

42. There was a Bishop that was somewhat a delicate person, and bathedtwice a day. A friend of his said to him, "My lord, why do you bathetwice a day?" The Bishop answered, "Because I cannot convenientlybathe thrice. "

55. Queen Elizabeth was wont to say of her instructions to greatofficers, "That they were like to garments, strait at the first puttingon, but did by and by wear loose enough. "

64. Sir Henry Wotton used to say, "That critics are like brushers ofnoblemen's clothes. "

66. Mr. Savill was asked by my lord of Essex his opinion touching poets;who answered my lord, "He thought them the best writers, next to thosethat write prose. "

85. One was saying, "That his great-grandfather and grandfather andfather died at sea. " Said another that heard him, "And I were as you, Iwould never come at sea. " "Why, (saith he) where did yourgreat-grandfather and grandfather and father die?" He answered, "Wherebut in their beds. " Saith the other, "And I were as you, I would nevercome in bed. "

97. Alonso of Arragon was wont to say, in commendation of age, That ageappeared to be best in four things: "Old wood best to burn; old wine todrink; old friends to trust; and old authors to read. "

119. One of the fathers saith, "That there is but this differencebetween the death of old men and young men: that old men go to death, and death comes to young men. "

 TRANSLATION OF THE 137TH PSALM

 From 'Works, ' Vol. Xiv. 

 Whenas we sat all sad and desolate, By Babylon upon the river's side, Eased from the tasks which in our captive state We were enforcèd daily to abide, Our harps we had brought with us to the field, Some solace to our heavy souls to yield. 

 But soon we found we failed of our account, For when our minds some freedom did obtain, Straightways the memory of Sion Mount Did cause afresh our wounds to bleed again; So that with present gifts, and future fears, Our eyes burst forth into a stream of tears. 

 As for our harps, since sorrow struck them dumb, We hanged them on the willow-trees were near; Yet did our cruel masters to us come, Asking of us some Hebrew songs to hear: Taunting us rather in our misery, Than much delighting in our melody. 

 Alas (said we) who can once force or frame His grievèd and oppressèd heart to sing The praises of Jehovah's glorious name, In banishment, under a foreign king? In Sion is his seat and dwelling-place, Thence doth he shew the brightness of his face. 

 Hierusalem, where God his throne hath set, Shall any hour absent thee from my mind? Then let my right hand quite her skill forget, Then let my voice and words no passage find; Nay, if I do not thee prefer in all That in the compass of my thoughts can fall. 

 Remember thou, O Lord, the cruel cry Of Edom's children, which did ring and sound, Inciting the Chaldean's cruelty, "Down with it, down with it, even unto the ground. " In that good day repay it unto them, When thou shalt visit thy Hierusalem. 

 And thou, O Babylon, shalt have thy turn By just revenge, and happy shall he be, That thy proud walls and towers shall waste and burn, And as thou didst by us, so do by thee. Yea, happy he that takes thy children's bones, And dasheth them against the pavement stones. 

 THE WORLD'S A BUBBLE

 From 'Works, ' Vol. Xiv. 

 The world's a bubble, and the life of man less than a span; In his conception wretched, from the womb so to the tomb: Curst from the cradle, and brought up to years with cares and fears. Who then to frail mortality shall trust, But limns the water, or but writes in dust. 

 Yet since with sorrow here we live opprest, what life is best? Courts are but only superficial schools to dandle fools. The rural parts are turned into a den of savage men. And where's the city from all vice so free, But may be termed the worst of all the three?

 Domestic cares afflict the husband's bed, or pains his head. Those that live single take it for a curse, or do things worse. Some would have children; those that have them moan, or wish them gone. What is it then to have or have no wife, But single thraldom, or a double strife?

 Our own affections still at home to please is a disease: To cross the seas to any foreign soil perils and toil. Wars with their noise affright us: when they cease, we are worse in peace. What then remains, but that we still should cry Not to be born, or being born to die. 

WALTER BAGEHOT

(1826-1877)

BY FORREST MORGAN

Walter Bagehot was born February 3d, 1826, at Langport, Somersetshire, England; and died there March 24th, 1877. He sprang on both sides from, and was reared in, a nest of wealthy bankers and ardent Liberals, steeped in political history and with London country houses whereleaders of thought and politics resorted; and his mother'sbrother-in-law was Dr. Prichard the ethnologist. This heredity, progressive by disposition and conservative by trade, and thisentourage, produced naturally enough a mind at once rapid of insight andcautious of judgment, devoted almost equally to business action andintellectual speculation, and on its speculative side turned toward thefields of political history and sociology. 

[Illustration: WALTER BAGEHOT]

But there were equally important elements not traceable. His freshnessof mental vision, the strikingly novel points of view from which helooked at every subject, was marvelous even in a century so fertile ofvaried independences: he complained that "the most galling of yokes isthe tyranny of your next-door neighbor, " the obligation of thinking ashe thinks. He had a keen, almost reckless wit and delicious buoyanthumor, whose utterances never pall by repetition; few authors so aboundin tenaciously quotable phrases and passages of humorousintellectuality. What is rarely found in connection with much humor, hehad a sensitive dreaminess of nature, strongly poetic in feeling, whenceresulted a large appreciation of the subtler classes of poetry; of whichhe was an acute and sympathizing critic. As part of this temperament, hehad a strong bent toward mysticism, --in one essay he says flatly that"mysticism is true, "--which gave him a rare insight into the religiousnature and some obscure problems of religious history; though he was toocool, scientific, and humorous to be a great theologian. 

Above all, he had that instinct of selective art, in felicity of wordsand salience of ideas, which elevates writing into literature; whichlong after a thought has merged its being and use in those of widerscope, keeps it in separate remembrance and retains for its creator hisdue of credit through the artistic charm of the shape he gave it. 

The result of a mixture of traits popularly thought incompatible, andusually so in reality, --a great relish for the driest business facts anda creative literary gift, --was absolutely unique. Bagehot explains thegeneral sterility of literature as a guide to life by the fact that "sofew people who can write know anything;" and began a reform in his ownperson, by applying all his highest faculties--the best not only of histhought but of his imagination and his literary skill--to the theme ofhis daily work, banking and business affairs and political economy. There have been many men of letters who were excellent business men andhard bargainers, sometimes indeed merchants or bankers, but they haveheld their literature as far as possible off the plane of theirbread-winning; they have not used it to explain and decorate the latterand made that the motive of art. Bagehot loved business not alone as theborn trader loves it, for its profit and its gratification of innatelikings, --"business is really pleasanter than pleasure, though it doesnot look so, " he says in substance, --but as an artist loves apicturesque situation or a journalist a murder; it pleased his literarysense as material for analysis and composition. He had in a high degreethat union of the practical and the musing faculties which in its (asyet) highest degree made Shakespeare; but even Shakespeare did not writedramas on how to make theatres pay, or sonnets on real-estatespeculation. 

Bagehot's career was determined, as usual, partly by character andpartly by circumstances. He graduated at London University in 1848, andstudied for and was called to the bar; but his father owned an interestin a rich old provincial bank and a good shipping-business, and insteadof the law he joined in their conduct. He had just before, however, passed a few months in France, including the time of Louis Napoleon's_coup d'état_ in December, 1851; and from Paris he wrote to the LondonInquirer (a Unitarian weekly) a remarkable series of letters on thatevent and its immediate sequents, defending the usurpation vigorouslyand outlining his political creed, from whose main lines he swerved butlittle in after life. Waiving the question whether the defense wasvalid, --and like all first-rate minds, Bagehot is even more instructivewhen he is wrong than when he is right, because the wrong is sure to bealmost right and the truth on its side neglected, --the letters are fullof fresh, acute, and even profound ideas, sharp exposition of thoseprimary objects of government which demagogues and buncombe legislatorsignore, racy wit, sarcasm, and description (in one passage he rises fora moment into really blood-stirring rhetoric), and proofs of hiscapacity thus early for reducing the confused cross-currents of dailylife to the operation of great embracing laws. No other writing of ayouth of twenty-five on such subjects--or almost none--is worthremembering at all for its matter; while this is perennially wholesomeand educative, as well as capital reading. 

From this on he devoted most of his spare time to literature: that hefound so much spare time, and produced so much of a high grade whilewinning respect as a business manager, proves the excellent quality ofhis business brain. He was one of the editors of the National Review, avery able and readable English quarterly, from its foundation in 1854 toits death in 1863, and wrote for it twenty literary, biographical, andtheological papers, which are among his best titles to enduringremembrance, and are full of his choicest flavors, his wealth ofthought, fun, poetic sensitiveness, and deep religious feeling of theneeds of human nature. Previous to this, he had written some goodarticles for the Prospective Review, and he wrote some afterwards forthe Fortnightly Review (including the series afterwards gathered into'Physics and Politics'), and other periodicals. 

But his chief industry and most peculiar work was determined by hismarriage in 1858 to the daughter of James Wilson, an ex-merchant who hadfounded the Economist as a journal of trade, banking, and investment, and made it prosperous and rather influential. Mr. Wilson was engagingin politics, where he rose to high office and would probably have endedin the Cabinet; but being sent to India to regulate its finances, diedthere in 1860. Bagehot thereupon took control of the paper, and _was_the paper until his death in 1877; and the position he gave it was asunique as his own. On banking, finance, taxation, and political economyin general his utterances had such weight that Chancellors of theExchequer consulted him as to the revenues, and the London businessworld eagerly studied the paper for guidance. But he went far beyondthis, and made it an unexampled force in politics and governmentalscience, personal to himself. For the first time a great politicalthinker applied his mind week by week to discussing the problemspresented by passing politics, and expounding the drift and meaning ofcurrent events in his nation and the others which bore closest on it, asFrance and America. That he gained such a hearing was due not alone tohis immense ability, and to a style carefully modeled on theconversation of business men with each other, but to his cool moderationand evident aloofness from party as party. He dissected each like a manof science: party was to him a tool and not a religion. He gibed at theTories; but the Tories forgave him because he was half a Tory atheart, --he utterly distrusted popular instincts and was afraid ofpopular ignorance. He was rarely warm for the actual measures of theLiberals; but the Liberals knew that he intensely despised thepig-headed obstructiveness of the typical Tory, and had no kinship withthe blind worshipers of the _status quo_. To natives and foreignersalike for many years the paper was single and invaluable: in it onecould find set forth acutely and dispassionately the broad facts and thereal purport of all great legislative proposals, free from the rant andmendacity, the fury and distortion, the prejudice and counter-prejudiceof the party press. 

An outgrowth of his treble position as banker, economic writer, andgeneral littérateur, was his charming book 'Lombard Street. ' Mostwriters know nothing about business, he sets forth, most business mencannot write, therefore most writing about business is either unreadableor untrue: he put all his literary gifts at its service, and produced abook as instructive as a trade manual and more delightful than mostnovels. Its luminous, easy, half-playful "business talk" is irresistiblycaptivating. It is a description and analysis of the London money marketand its component parts, --the Bank of England, the joint-stock banks, the private banks, and the bill-brokers. It will live, however, asliterature and as a picture, not as a banker's guide; as the vividestoutline of business London, of the "great commerce" and the fabric ofcredit which is the basis of modern civilization and of which London isthe centre, that the world has ever known. 

Previous to this, the most widely known of his works--'The EnglishConstitution, ' much used as a text-book--had made a new epoch inpolitical analysis, and placed him among the foremost thinkers andwriters of his time. Not only did it revolutionize the accepted mode ofviewing that governmental structure, but as a treatise on government ingeneral its novel types of classification are now admitted commonplaces. Besides its main themes, the book is a great store of thought andsuggestion on government, society, and human nature, --for as in all hisworks, he pours on his nominal subject a flood of illumination andanalogy from the unlikeliest sources; and a piece of eminentlypleasurable reading from end to end. Its basic novelty lay in what seemsthe most natural of inquiries, but which in fact was left for Bagehot'soriginal mind even to think of, --the actual working of the governmentalsystem in practice, as distinguished from legal theory. The result ofthis novel analysis was startling: old powers and checks went to therubbish heap, and a wholly new set of machinery and even new springs offorce and life were substituted. He argued that the actual use of theEnglish monarchy is not to do the work of government, but through itsroots in the past to gain popular loyalty and support for the realgovernment, which the masses would not obey if they realized itsgenuine nature; that "it raises the army though it does not win thebattle. " He showed that the function of the House of Peers is not as aco-ordinate power with the Commons (which is the real government), butas a revising body and an index of the strength of popular feeling. Constitutional governments he divides into Cabinet, where the people canchange the government at any time, and therefore follow its acts anddebates eagerly and instructedly; and Presidential, where they can onlychange it at fixed terms, and are therefore apathetic and ill-informedand care little for speeches which can effect nothing. 

Just before 'Lombard Street' came his scientific masterpiece, 'Physicsand Politics'; a work which does for human society what the 'Origin ofSpecies' does for organic life, expounding its method of progress fromvery low if not the lowest forms to higher ones. Indeed, one of its mainlines is only a special application of Darwin's "natural selection" tosocieties, noting the survival of the strongest (which implies in thelong run the best developed in all virtues that make for socialcohesion) through conflict; but the book is so much more than that, inspite of its heavy debt to all scientific and institutional research, that it remains a first-rate feat of original constructive thought. Itis the more striking from its almost ludicrous brevity compared with thenovelty, variety, and pregnancy of its ideas. It is scarcely more than apamphlet; one can read it through in an evening: yet there is hardly anybook which is a master-key to so many historical locks, so useful astandard for referring scattered sociological facts to, so clarifying tothe mind in the study of early history. The work is strewn with fertileand suggestive observations from many branches of knowledge. Its leadingidea of the needs and difficulties of early societies is given in one ofthe citations. 

The unfinished 'Economic Studies' are partially a re-survey of the sameground on a more limited scale, and contain in addition a mass of thenicest and shrewdest observations on modern trade and society, full oftruth and suggestiveness. All the other books printed under his name arecollections either from the Economist or from outside publications. 

As a thinker, Bagehot's leading positions may be roughly summarizedthus: in history, that reasoning from the present to the past isgenerally wrong and frequently nonsense; in politics, that abstractsystems are foolish, that a government which does not benefit itssubjects has no rights against one that will, that the masses had muchbetter let the upper ranks do the governing than meddle with itthemselves, that all classes are too eager to act without thinking andought not to attempt so much; in society, that democracy is an evilbecause it leaves no specially trained upper class to furnish modelsfor refinement. But there is vastly more besides this, and his valuelies much more in the mental clarification afforded by his details thanin the new principles of action afforded by his generalizations. Heleaves men saner, soberer, juster, with a clearer sense of perspective, of real issues, that more than makes up for a slight diminution of zeal. 

As pure literature, the most individual trait in his writings sprangfrom his scorn of mere word-mongering divorced from actual life. "A manought to have the right of being a Philistine if he chooses, " he tellsus: "there is a sickly incompleteness in men too fine for the world andtoo nice to work their way through it. " A great man of letters, no onehas ever mocked his craft so persistently. A great thinker, he nevertired of humorously magnifying the active and belittling theintellectual temperament. Of course it was only half-serious: he admitsthe force and utility of colossal visionaries like Shelley, constructivescholars like Gibbon, ascetic artists like Milton, even light dreamerslike Hartley Coleridge; indeed, intellectually he appreciates allintellectual force, and scorns feeble thought which has the effronteryto show itself, and those who are "cross with the agony of a new idea. "But his heart goes out to the unscholarly Cavalier with his dash and hisloyalty, to the county member who "hardly reads two books perexistence, " and even to the rustic who sticks to his old ideas and whom"it takes seven weeks to comprehend an atom of a new one. " A pettysurface consistency must not be exacted from the miscellaneousutterances of a humorist: all sorts of complementary half-truths arepart of his service. His own quite just conception of humor, as meaningmerely full vision and balanced judgment, is his best defense: "when aman has attained the deep conception that there is such a thing asnonsense, " he says, "you may be sure of him for ever after. " At bottomhe is thoroughly consistent: holding that the masses should work incontented deference to their intellectual guides, but those guidesshould qualify themselves by practical experience of life, that poetryis not an amusement for lazy sybarites but the most elevating ofspiritual influences, that religions cut the roots of their power bytrying to avoid supernaturalism and cultivate intelligibility, and thatthe animal basis of human life is a screen expressly devised to shut offdirect knowledge of God and make character possible. 

To make his acquaintance first is to enter upon a store of high and fineenjoyment, and of strong and vivifying thought, which one must be eithervery rich of attainment or very feeble of grasp to find unprofitable orpleasureless. 

THE VIRTUES OF STUPIDITY

From 'Letters on the French Coup d'État'

I fear you will laugh when I tell you what I conceive to be about themost essential mental quality for a free people whose liberty is to beprogressive, permanent, and on a large scale: it is much stupidity. Notto begin by wounding any present susceptibilities, let me take the Romancharacter; for with one great exception, --I need not say to whom Iallude, --they are the great political people of history. Now, is not acertain dullness their most visible characteristic? What is the historyof their speculative mind? a blank; what their literature? a copy. Theyhave left not a single discovery in any abstract science, not a singleperfect or well-formed work of high imagination. The Greeks, theperfection of human and accomplished genius, bequeathed to mankind theideal forms of self-idolizing art, the Romans imitated and admired; theGreeks explained the laws of nature, the Romans wondered and despised;the Greeks invented a system of numerals second only to that now in use, the Romans counted to the end of their days with the clumsy apparatuswhich we still call by their name; the Greeks made a capital andscientific calendar, the Romans began their month when the PontifexMaximus happened to spy out the new moon. Throughout Latin literature, this is the perpetual puzzle:--Why are we free and they slaves, wepraetors and they barbers? why do the stupid people always win and theclever people always lose? I need not say that in real sound stupiditythe English are unrivaled: you'll hear more wit and better wit in anIrish street row than would keep Westminster Hall in humor forfive weeks. 

 * * * * *

In fact, what we opprobriously call "stupidity, " though not anenlivening quality in common society, is nature's favorite resource forpreserving steadiness of conduct and consistency of opinion; it enforcesconcentration: people who learn slowly, learn only what they must. Thebest security for people's doing their duty is, that they should notknow anything else to do; the best security for fixedness of opinion is, that people should be incapable of comprehending what is to be said onthe other side. These valuable truths are no discoveries of mine: theyare familiar enough to people whose business it is to know them. Hearwhat a douce and aged attorney says of your peculiarly promisingbarrister:--"Sharp? Oh, yes! he's too sharp by half. He is not _safe_, not a minute, isn't that young man. " I extend this, and advisedlymaintain that nations, just as individuals, may be too clever to bepractical and not dull enough to be free. .. . 

And what I call a proper stupidity keeps a man from all the defects ofthis character: it chains the gifted possessor mainly to his old ideas, it takes him seven weeks to comprehend an atom of a new one; it keepshim from being led away by new theories, for there is nothing whichbores him so much; it restrains him within his old pursuits, hiswell-known habits, his tried expedients, his verified conclusions, histraditional beliefs. He is not tempted to levity or impatience, for hedoes not see the joke and is thick-skinned to present evils. Inconsistency puts him out: "What I says is this here, as I was a-sayingyesterday, " is his notion of historical eloquence and habitualdiscretion. He is very slow indeed to be excited, --his passions, hisfeelings, and his affections are dull and tardy strong things, fallingin a certain known direction, fixed on certain known objects, and forthe most part acting in a moderate degree and at a sluggish pace. Youalways know where to find his mind. Now, this is exactly what (inpolitics at least) you do not know about a Frenchman. 

REVIEW WRITING

From 'The First Edinburgh Reviewers'

Review writing exemplifies the casual character of modern literature:everything about it is temporary and fragmentary. Look at a railwaystall: you see books of every color, --blue, yellow, crimson, "ring-streaked, speckled, and spotted, "--on every subject, in everystyle, of every opinion, with every conceivable difference, celestial orsublunary, maleficent, beneficent--but all small. People take theirliterature in morsels, as they take sandwiches on a journey. .. . 

And the change in appearance of books has been accompanied--has beencaused--by a similar change in readers. What a transition from thestudent of former ages! from a grave man with grave cheeks and aconsiderate eye, who spends his life in study, has no interest in theoutward world, hears nothing of its din and cares nothing for itshonors, who would gladly learn and gladly teach, whose whole soul istaken up with a few books of 'Aristotle and his Philosophy, '--to themerchant in the railway, with a head full of sums, an idea that tallowis "up, " a conviction that teas are "lively, " and a mind revertingperpetually from the little volume which he reads to these mundanetopics, to the railway, to the shares, to the buying and bargaininguniverse. We must not wonder that the outside of books is so different, when the inner nature of those for whom they are written is so changed. 

In this transition from ancient writing to modern, the review-like essayand the essay-like review fill a large space. Their small bulk, theirslight pretension to systematic completeness, --their avowal, it might besaid, of necessary incompleteness, --the facility of changing thesubject, of selecting points to attack, of exposing only the best cornerfor defense, are great temptations. Still greater is the advantage of"our limits. " A real reviewer always spends his first and best pages onthe parts of a subject on which he wishes to write, the easy comfortableparts which he knows. The formidable difficulties which he acknowledges, you foresee by a strange fatality that he will only reach two pagesbefore the end; to his great grief, there is no opportunity fordiscussing them. As a young gentleman at the India House examinationwrote "Time up" on nine unfinished papers in succession, so you mayoccasionally read a whole review, in every article of which theprincipal difficulty of each successive question is about to be reachedat the conclusion. Nor can any one deny that this is the suitable skill, the judicious custom of the craft. 

LORD ELDON

From 'The First Edinburgh Reviewers'

As for Lord Eldon, it is the most difficult thing in the world tobelieve that there ever was such a man; it only shows how intensehistorical evidence is, that no one really doubts it. He believed ineverything which it is impossible to believe in, --in the danger ofParliamentary Reform, the danger of Catholic Emancipation, the danger ofaltering the Court of Chancery, the danger of altering the courts oflaw, the danger of abolishing capital punishment for trivial thefts, the danger of making land-owners pay their debts, the danger of makinganything more, the danger of making anything less. It seems as if hematurely thought, "Now, I know the present state of things to beconsistent with the existence of John Lord Eldon; but if we beginaltering that state, I am sure I do not know that it will beconsistent. " As Sir Robert Walpole was against all committees of inquiryon the simple ground, "If they once begin that sort of thing, who knowswho will be safe?" so that great Chancellor (still remembered in his ownscene) looked pleasantly down from the woolsack, and seemed to observe, "Well, it _is_ a queer thing that I should be here, and here I meanto stay. "

TASTE

From 'Wordsworth, Tennyson, and Browning'

There is a most formidable and estimable _insane_ taste. The will hasgreat though indirect power over the taste, just as it has over thebelief. There are some horrid beliefs from which human nature revolts, from which at first it shrinks, to which at first no effort can forceit. But if we fix the mind upon them, they have a power over us, justbecause of their natural offensiveness. They are like the sight of humanblood. Experienced soldiers tell us that at first, men are sickened bythe smell and newness of blood, almost to death and fainting; but thatas soon as they harden their hearts and stiffen their minds, as soon asthey _will_ bear it, then comes an appetite for slaughter, a tendency togloat on carnage, to love blood (at least for the moment) with a deep, eager love. It is a principle that if we put down a healthy instinctiveaversion, nature avenges herself by creating an unhealthy insaneattraction. For this reason, the most earnest truth-seeking men fallinto the worst delusions. They will not let their mind alone; they forceit toward some ugly thing, which a crotchet of argument, a conceit ofintellect recommends: and nature punishes their disregard of her warningby subjection to the ugly one, by belief in it. Just so, the mostindustrious critics get the most admiration. They think it unjust torest in their instinctive natural horror; they overcome it, and angrynature gives them over to ugly poems and marries them todetestable stanzas. 

CAUSES OF THE STERILITY OF LITERATURE

From 'Shakespeare, the Man, ' etc. 

The reason why so few good books are written is, that so few people thatcan write know anything. In general, an author has always lived in aroom, has read books, has cultivated science, is acquainted with thestyle and sentiments of the best authors, but he is out of the way ofemploying his own eyes and ears. He has nothing to hear and nothing tosee. His life is a vacuum. The mental habits of Robert Southey, whichabout a year ago were so extensively praised in the public journals, arethe type of literary existence, just as the praise bestowed on themshows the admiration excited by them among literary people. He wrotepoetry (as if anybody could) before breakfast; he read during breakfast. He wrote history until dinner; he corrected proof-sheets between dinnerand tea; he wrote an essay for the Quarterly afterwards; and aftersupper, by way of relaxation, composed 'The Doctor'--a lengthy andelaborate jest. Now, what can any one think of such a life?--except howclearly it shows that the habits best fitted for communicatinginformation, formed with the best care, and daily regulated by the bestmotives, are exactly the habits which are likely to afford a man theleast information to communicate. Southey had no events, no experiences. His wife kept house and allowed him pocket-money, just as if he had beena German professor devoted to accents, tobacco, and the dates ofHorace's amours. .. . 

The critic in the 'Vicar of Wakefield' lays down that you should_always_ say that the picture would have been better if the painter hadtaken more pains; but in the case of the practiced literary man, youshould often enough say that the writings would have been much better ifthe writer had taken less pains. He says he has devoted his life to thesubject; the reply is, "Then you have taken the best way to prevent yourmaking anything of it. Instead of reading studiously what Burgersdiciusand Aenesidemus said men were, you should have gone out yourself andseen (if you can see) what they are. " But there is a whole class ofminds which prefer the literary delineation of objects to the actualeyesight of them. Such a man would naturally think literature moreinstructive than life. Hazlitt said of Mackintosh, "He might like toread an _account_ of India; but India itself, with its burning, shiningface, would be a mere blank, an endless waste to him. Persons of thisclass have no more to say to a matter of fact staring them in the face, without a label in its mouth, than they would to a hippopotamus. ". .. 

After all, the original way of writing books may turn out to be thebest. The first author, it is plain, could not have taken anything frombooks, since there were no books for him to copy from; he looked atthings for himself. Anyhow the modern system fails, for where are theamusing books from voracious students and habitual writers?

Moreover, in general, it will perhaps be found that persons devoted tomere literature commonly become devoted to mere idleness. They wish toproduce a great work, but they find they cannot. Having relinquishedeverything to devote themselves to this, they conclude on trial thatthis is impossible; they wish to write, but nothing occurs to them:therefore they write nothing and they do nothing. As has been said, theyhave nothing to do; their life has no events, unless they are very poor;with any decent means of subsistence, they have nothing to rouse themfrom an indolent and musing dream. A merchant must meet his bills, or heis civilly dead and uncivilly remembered; but a student may know nothingof time, and be too lazy to wind lip his watch. 

THE SEARCH FOR HAPPINESS

From 'William Cowper'

If there be any truly painful fact about the world now tolerably wellestablished by ample experience and ample records, it is that anintellectual and indolent happiness is wholly denied to the children ofmen. That most valuable author, Lucretius, who has supplied us andothers with an almost inexhaustible supply of metaphors on this topic, ever dwells on the life of his gods with a sad and melancholy feelingthat no such life was possible on a crude and cumbersome earth. Ingeneral, the two opposing agencies are marriage and lack of money;either of these breaks the lot of literary and refined inaction at onceand forever. The first of these, as we have seen, Cowper had escaped;his reserved and negligent reveries were still free, at least from theinvasion of affection. To this invasion, indeed, there is commonlyrequisite the acquiescence or connivance of mortality; but all men areborn--not free and equal, as the Americans maintain, but, in the OldWorld at least--basely subjected to the yoke of coin. It is in vain thatin this hemisphere we endeavor after impecuniary fancies. In bold andeager youth we go out on our travels: we visit Baalbec and Paphos andTadmor and Cythera, --ancient shrines and ancient empires, seats of eagerlove or gentle inspiration; we wander far and long; we have nothing todo with our fellow-men, --what are we, indeed, to diggers and counters?we wander far, we dream to wander forever--but we dream in vain. A surerforce than the subtlest fascination of fancy is in operation; thepurse-strings tie us to our kind. Our travel coin runs low, and we mustreturn, away from Tadmor and Baalbec, back to our steady, tediousindustry and dull work, to "la vieille Europe" (as Napoleon said), "quim'ennuie. " It is the same in thought: in vain we seclude ourselves inelegant chambers, in fascinating fancies, in refined reflections. 

ON EARLY READING

From 'Edward Gibbon'

In school work Gibbon had uncommon difficulties and unusualdeficiencies; but these were much more than counterbalanced by a habitwhich often accompanies a sickly childhood, and is the commencement of astudious life, --the habit of desultory reading. The instructiveness ofthis is sometimes not comprehended. S. T. Coleridge used to say that hefelt a great superiority over those who had not read--and fondlyread--fairy tales in their childhood: he thought they wanted a sensewhich he possessed, the perception, or apperception--we do not knowwhich he used to say it was--of the unity and wholeness of the universe. As to fairy tales, this is a hard saying; but as to desultory reading, it is certainly true. Some people have known a time in life when therewas no book they could not read. The fact of its being a book wentimmensely in its favor. In early life there is an opinion that theobvious thing to do with a horse is to ride it; with a cake, to eat it;with sixpence, to spend it. A few boys carry this further, and thinkthe natural thing to do with a book is to read it. There is an argumentfrom design in the subject: if the book was not meant for that purpose, for what purpose was it meant? Of course, of any understanding of theworks so perused there is no question or idea. There is a legend ofBentham, in his earliest childhood, climbing to the height of a hugestool, and sitting there evening after evening, with two candles, engaged in the perusal of Rapin's history; it might as well have beenany other book. The doctrine of utility had not then dawned on itsimmortal teacher; _cui bono_ was an idea unknown to him. He would havebeen ready to read about Egypt, about Spain, about coals in Borneo, theteak-wood in India, the current in the River Mississippi, on naturalhistory or human history, on theology or morals, on the state of theDark Ages or the state of the Light Ages, on Augustulus or Lord Chatham, on the first century or the seventeenth, on the moon, the millennium, orthe whole duty of man. Just then, reading is an end in itself. At thattime of life you no more think of a future consequence--of the remote, the very remote possibility of deriving knowledge from the perusal of abook, than you expect so great a result from spinning a peg-top. Youspin the top, and you read the book; and these scenes of life areexhausted. In such studies, of all prose, perhaps the best is history:one page is so like another, battle No. 1 is so much on a par withbattle No. 2. Truth may be, as they say, stranger than fiction, abstractedly; but in actual books, novels are certainly odder and moreastounding than correct history. 

It will be said, What is the use of this? why not leave the reading ofgreat books till a great age? why plague and perplex childhood withcomplex facts remote from its experience and inapprehensible by itsimagination? The reply is, that though in all great and combined factsthere is much which childhood cannot thoroughly imagine, there is alsoin very many a great deal which can only be truly apprehended for thefirst time at that age. Youth has a principle of consolidation; we beginwith the whole. Small sciences are the labors of our manhood; but theround universe is the plaything of the boy. His fresh mind shoots outvaguely and crudely into the infinite and eternal. Nothing is hid fromthe depth of it; there are no boundaries to its vague and wanderingvision. Early science, it has been said, begins in utter nonsense; itwould be truer to say that it starts with boyish fancies. How absurdseem the notions of the first Greeks! Who could believe now that air orwater was the principle, the pervading substance, the eternal materialof all things? Such affairs will never explain a thick rock. And what awhite original for a green and sky-blue world! Yet people disputed inthese ages not whether it was either of those substances, but which ofthem it was. And doubtless there was a great deal, at least in quantity, to be said on both sides. Boys are improved; but some in our own dayhave asked, "Mamma, I say, what did God make the world of?" and several, who did not venture on speech, have had an idea of some one grayprimitive thing, felt a difficulty as to how the red came, and wonderedthat marble could _ever_ have been the same as moonshine. This is intruth the picture of life. We begin with the infinite and eternal, whichwe shall never apprehend; and these form a framework, a schedule, a setof co-ordinates to which we refer all which we learn later. At first, like the old Greek, "We look up to the whole sky, and are lost in theone and the all;" in the end we classify and enumerate, learn each star, calculate distances, draw cramped diagrams on the unbounded sky, write apaper on a Cygni and a treatise on e Draconis, map special facts uponthe indefinite void, and engrave precise details on the infinite andeverlasting. So in history: somehow the whole comes in boyhood, thedetails later and in manhood. The wonderful series, going far back tothe times of old patriarchs with their flocks and herds, the keen-eyedGreek, the stately Roman, the watching Jew, the uncouth Goth, the horridHun, the settled picture of the unchanging East, the restless shiftingof the rapid West, the rise of the cold and classical civilization, itsfall, the rough impetuous Middle Ages, the vague warm picture ofourselves and home, --when did we learn these? Not yesterday nor to-day:but long ago, in the first dawn of reason, in the original flow offancy. What we learn afterwards are but the accurate littlenesses of thegreat topic, the dates and tedious facts. Those who begin late learnonly these; but the happy first feel the mystic associations and theprogress of the whole. 

However exalted may seem the praises which we have given to loose andunplanned reading, we are not saying that it is the sole ingredient of agood education. Besides this sort of education, which some boys willvoluntarily and naturally give themselves, there needs, of course, another and more rigorous kind, which must be impressed upon them fromwithout. The terrible difficulty of early life--the _use_ of pastors andmasters really is, that they compel boys to a distinct mastery of thatwhich they do not wish to learn. There is nothing to be said for apreceptor who is not dry. Mr. Carlyle describes, with bitter satire, thefate of one of his heroes who was obliged to acquire whole systems ofinformation in which he, the hero, saw no use, and which he kept, as faras might be, in a vacant corner of his mind. And this is the very point:dry language, tedious mathematics, a thumbed grammar, a detested slateform gradually an interior separate intellect, exact in its information, rigid in its requirements, disciplined in its exercises. The two growtogether; the early natural fancy touching the far extremities of theuniverse, lightly playing with the scheme of all things; the precise, compacted memory slowly accumulating special facts, exact habits, clearand painful conceptions. At last, as it were in a moment, the cloudbreaks up, the division sweeps away; we find that in fact theseexercises which puzzled us, these languages which we hated, thesedetails which we despised, are the instruments of true thought; are thevery keys and openings, the exclusive access to the knowledge whichwe loved. 

_THE CAVALIERS_. Photogravure from a Painting by F. Vinea. 

[Illustration]

THE CAVALIERS

From 'Thomas Babington Macaulay'

What historian has ever estimated the Cavalier character? There isClarendon, the grave, rhetorical, decorous lawyer, piling words, congealing arguments; very stately, a little grim. There is Hume, theScotch metaphysician, who has made out the best case for such people asnever were, for a Charles who never died, for a Strafford who wouldnever have been attainted; a saving, calculating North-country man, fat, impassive, who lived on eightpence a day. What have these people to dowith an enjoying English gentleman? It is easy for a doctrinaire to beara post-mortem examination, --it is much the same whether he be alive ordead; but not so with those who live during their life, whose essence isexistence, whose being is in animation. There seem to be some characterswho are not made for history, as there are some who are not made for oldage. A Cavalier is always young. The buoyant life arises before us, rich in hope, strong in vigor, irregular in action; men young andardent, "framed in the prodigality of nature"; open to every enjoyment, alive to every passion, eager, impulsive; brave without discipline, noble without principle; prizing luxury, despising danger; capable ofhigh sentiment, but in each of whom the

 "Addiction was to courses vain, His companies unlettered, rude, and shallow, His hours filled up with riots, banquets, sports, And never noted in him any study, Any retirement, any sequestration From open haunts and popularity. "

We see these men setting forth or assembling to defend their king orchurch, and we see it without surprise; a rich daring loves danger, adeep excitability likes excitement. If we look around us, we may seewhat is analogous: some say that the battle of the Alma was won by the"uneducated gentry"; the "uneducated gentry" would be Cavaliers now. Thepolitical sentiment is part of the character; the essence of Toryism isenjoyment. Talk of the ways of spreading a wholesome conservatismthroughout this country! Give painful lectures, distribute weary tracts(and perhaps this is as well, --you may be able to give an argumentativeanswer to a few objections, you may diffuse a distinct notion of thedignified dullness of politics); but as far as communicating andestablishing your creed are concerned, try a little pleasure. The way tokeep up old customs is to enjoy old customs; the way to be satisfiedwith the present state of things is to enjoy that state of things. Overthe "Cavalier" mind this world passes with a thrill of delight; there isan exaltation in a daily event, zest in the "regular thing, " joy at anold feast. 

MORALITY AND FEAR

From 'Bishop Butler'

The moral principle (whatever may be said to the contrary by complacentthinkers) is really and to most men a principle of fear. The delights ofa good conscience may be reserved for better things, but few men whoknow themselves will say that they have often felt them by vivid andactual experience; a sensation of shame, of reproach, of remorse, of sin(to use the word we instinctively shrink from because it expresses themeaning), is what the moral principle really and practically thrusts onmost men. Conscience is the condemnation of ourselves; we expect apenalty. As the Greek proverb teaches, "where there is shame there isfear"; where there is the deep and intimate anxiety of guilt, --thefeeling which has driven murderers and other than murderers forth towastes and rocks and stones and tempests, --we see, as it were, in asingle complex and indivisible sensation, the pain and sense of guiltand the painful anticipation of its punishment. How to be free fromthis, is the question; how to get loose from this; how to be rid of thesecret tie which binds the strong man and cramps his pride, and makeshim angry at the beauty of the universe, --which will not let him goforth like a great animal, like the king of the forest, in the glory ofhis might, but restrains him with an inner fear and a secret forebodingthat if he do but exalt himself he shall be abased, if he do but setforth his own dignity he will offend ONE who will deprive him of it. This, as has often been pointed out, is the source of the bloody ritesof heathendom. You are going to battle, you are going out in the brightsun with dancing plumes and glittering spear; your shield shines, andyour feathers wave, and your limbs are glad with the consciousness ofstrength, and your mind is warm with glory and renown; with coming gloryand unobtained renown: for who are you to hope for these; who are _you_to go forth proudly against the pride of the sun, with your secret sinand your haunting shame and your real fear? First lie down and abaseyourself; strike your back with hard stripes; cut deep with a sharpknife, as if you would eradicate the consciousness; cry aloud; put asheson your head; bruise yourself with stones, --then perhaps God may pardonyou. Or, better still (so runs the incoherent feeling), give himsomething--your ox, your ass, whole hecatombs if you are rich enough;anything, it is but a chance, --you do not know what will please him; atany rate, what you love best yourself, --that is, most likely, yourfirst-born son. Then, after such gifts and such humiliation, he may beappeased, he may let you off; he may without anger let you go forth, Achilles-like, in the glory of your shield; he may _not_ send you homeas he would else, the victim of rout and treachery, with broken arms andfoul limbs, in weariness and humiliation. Of course, it is not this kindof fanaticism that we impute to a prelate of the English Church; humansacrifices are not respectable, and Achilles was not rector of Stanhope. But though the costume and circumstances of life change, the human heartdoes not; its feelings remain. The same anxiety, the same consciousnessof personal sin which led in barbarous times to what has been described, show themselves in civilized life as well. In this quieter period, theirgreat manifestation is scrupulosity: a care about the ritual of life; anattention to meats and drinks, and "cups and washings. " Being sounworthy as we are, feeling what we feel, abased as we are abased, whoshall say that those are beneath us? In ardent, imaginative youth theymay seem so; but let a few years come, let them dull the will orcontract the heart or stain the mind; then the consequent feeling willbe, as all experience shows, not that a ritual is too mean, too low, toodegrading for human nature, but that it is a mercy we have to do nomore, --that we have only to wash in Jordan, that we have not even to goout into the unknown distance to seek for Abana and Pharpar, rivers ofDamascus. We have no right to judge; we cannot decide; we must do whatis laid down for us, --we fail daily even in this; we must never ceasefor a moment in our scrupulous anxiety to omit by no tittle and toexceed by no iota. 

THE TYRANNY OF CONVENTION

From 'Sir Robert Peel'

It might be said that this [necessity for newspapers and statesmen offollowing the crowd] is only one of the results of that tyranny ofcommonplace which seems to accompany civilization. You may talk of thetyranny of Nero and Tiberius; but the real tyranny is the tyranny ofyour next-door neighbor. What law is so cruel as the law of doing whathe does? What yoke is so galling as the necessity of being like him?What espionage of despotism comes to your door so effectually as the eyeof the man who lives at your door? Public opinion is a permeatinginfluence, and it exacts obedience to itself; it requires us to thinkother men's thoughts, to speak other men's words, to follow other men'shabits. Of course, if we do not, no formal ban issues; no corporealpain, no coarse penalty of a barbarous society is inflicted on theoffender; but we are called "eccentric"; there is a gentle murmur of"most unfortunate ideas, " "singular young man, " "well-intentioned, Idare say; but unsafe, sir, quite unsafe. "

Whatever truth there may be in these splenetic observations might beexpected to show itself more particularly in the world of politics:people dread to be thought unsafe in proportion as they get their livingby being thought to be safe. Those who desire a public career must lookto the views of the living public; an immediate exterior influence isessential to the exertion of their faculties. The confidence of othersis your _fulcrum:_ you cannot--many people wish you could--go intoParliament to represent yourself; you must conform to the opinions ofthe electors, and they, depend on it, will not be original. In a word, as has been most wisely observed, "under free institutions it isnecessary occasionally to defer to the opinions of other people; and asother people are obviously in the wrong, this is a great hindrance tothe improvement of our political system and the progress ofour species. "

HOW TO BE AN INFLUENTIAL POLITICIAN

From 'Bolingbroke'

It is very natural that brilliant and vehement men should depreciateHarley; for he had nothing which they possess, but had everything whichthey commonly do not possess. He was by nature a moderate man. In thatage they called such a man a "trimmer, " but they called him ill: such aman does not consciously shift or purposely trim his course, --he firmlybelieves that he is substantially consistent. "I do not wish in thisHouse, " he would say in our age, "to be a party to any extreme course. Mr. Gladstone brings forward a great many things which I cannotunderstand; I assure you he does. There is more in that bill of hisabout tobacco than he thinks; I am confident there is. Money is aserious thing, a _very_ serious thing. And I am sorry to say Mr. Disraeli commits the party very much: he avows sentiments which areinjudicious; I cannot go along with him, nor can Sir John. He was nottaught the catechism; I know he was not. There is a want in him of soundand sober religion, --and Sir John agrees with me, --which would keep himfrom distressing the clergy, who are very important. Great orators arevery well; but as I said, how is the revenue? And the point is, not beled away, and to be moderate, and not to go to an extreme. As soon as itseems _very_ clear, then I begin to doubt. I have been many years inParliament, and that is my experience. " We may laugh at such speeches, but there have been plenty of them in every English Parliament. A greatEnglish divine has been described as always leaving out the principleupon which his arguments rested; even if it was stated to him, heregarded it as far-fetched and extravagant. Any politician who has thistemper of mind will always have many followers; and he may be nearlysure that all great measures will be passed more nearly as he wishesthem to be passed than as great orators wish. Nine-tenths of mankind aremore afraid of violence than of anything else; and inconsistentmoderation is always popular, because of all qualities it is mostopposite to violence, --most likely to preserve the present safeexistence. 

CONDITIONS OF CABINET GOVERNMENT

From 'The English Constitution'

The conditions of fitness are two: first, you must get a goodlegislature; and next, you must keep it good. And these are by no meansso nearly connected as might be thought at first sight. To keep alegislature efficient, it must have a sufficient supply of substantialbusiness: if you employ the best set of men to do nearly nothing, theywill quarrel with each other about that nothing; where great questionsend, little parties begin. And a very happy community, with few new lawsto make, few old bad laws to repeal, and but simple foreign relations toadjust, has great difficulty in employing a legislature, --there isnothing for it to enact and nothing for it to settle. Accordingly, thereis great danger that the legislature, being debarred from all otherkinds of business, may take to quarreling about its elective business;that controversies as to ministries may occupy all its time, and yetthat time be perniciously employed; that a constant succession of feebleadministrations, unable to govern and unfit to govern, may besubstituted for the proper result of cabinet government, a sufficientbody of men long enough in power to evince their sufficiency. The exactamount of non-elective business necessary for a parliament which is toelect the executive cannot, of course, be formally stated, --there are nonumbers and no statistics in the theory of constitutions; all we can sayis, that a parliament with little business, which is to be as efficientas a parliament with much business, must be in all other respects muchbetter. An indifferent parliament may be much improved by the steadyingeffect of grave affairs; but a parliament which has no such affairs mustbe intrinsically excellent, or it will fail utterly. 

But the difficulty of keeping a good legislature is evidently secondaryto the difficulty of first getting it. There are two kinds of nationswhich can elect a good parliament. The first is a nation in which themass of the people are intelligent, and in which they are comfortable. Where there is no honest poverty, where education is diffused andpolitical intelligence is common, it is easy for the mass of the peopleto elect a fair legislature. The ideal is roughly realized in the NorthAmerican colonies of England, and in the whole free States of the Union:in these countries there is no such thing as honest poverty, --physicalcomfort, such as the poor cannot imagine here, is there easilyattainable by healthy industry; education is diffused much, and is fastspreading, --ignorant emigrants from the Old World often prize theintellectual advantages of which they are themselves destitute, and areannoyed at their inferiority in a place where rudimentary culture is socommon. The greatest difficulty of such new communities is commonlygeographical: the population is mostly scattered; and where populationis sparse, discussion is difficult. But in a country very large as wereckon in Europe, a people really intelligent, really educated, reallycomfortable, would soon form a good opinion. No one can doubt that theNew England States, if they were a separate community, would have aneducation, a political capacity, and an intelligence such as thenumerical majority of no people equally numerous has ever possessed: ina State of this sort, where all the community is fit to choose asufficient legislature, it is possible, it is almost easy, to createthat legislature. If the New England States possessed a cabinetgovernment as a separate nation, they would be as renowned in the worldfor political sagacity as they now are for diffused happiness. 

WHY EARLY SOCIETIES COULD NOT BE FREE

From 'Physics and Politics'

I believe the general description in which Sir John Lubbock sums up hisestimate of the savage mind suits the patriarchal mind: "Savages, " hesays, "have the character of children with the passions and strengthof men. ". .. 

And this is precisely what we should expect. "An inherited drill, "science says, "makes modern nations what they are; their born structurebears the trace of the laws of their fathers:" but the ancient nationscame into no such inheritance, --they were the descendants of people whodid what was right in their own eyes; they were born to no tutoredhabits, no preservative bonds, and therefore they were at the mercy ofevery impulse and blown by every passion. .. . 

Again, I at least cannot call up to myself the loose conceptions (asthey must have been) of morals which then existed. If we set aside allthe element derived from law and polity which runs through our currentmoral notions, I hardly know what we shall have left. The residuum wassomehow and in some vague way intelligible to the ante-political man;but it must have been uncertain, wavering, and unfit to be dependedupon. In the best cases it existed much as the vague feeling of beautynow exists in minds sensitive but untaught, --a still small voice ofuncertain meaning, an unknown something modifying everything else andhigher than anything else, yet in form so indistinct that when youlooked for it, it was gone; or if this be thought the delicate fictionof a later fancy, then morality was at least to be found in the wildspasms of "wild justice, " half punishment, half outrage: but anyhow, being unfixed by steady law, it was intermittent, vague, and hard for usto imagine. .. . 

To sum up:--_Law_--rigid, definite, concise law--is the primary want ofearly mankind; that which they need above anything else, that which isrequisite before they can gain anything else. But it is their greatestdifficulty as well as their first requisite; the thing most out of theirreach as well as that most beneficial to them if they reach it. In laterages, many races have gained much of this discipline quickly thoughpainfully, --a loose set of scattered clans has been often and oftenforced to substantial settlement by a rigid conqueror; the Romans didhalf the work for above half Europe. But where could the first ages findRomans or a conqueror? men conquer by the power of government, and itwas exactly government which then was not. The first ascent ofcivilization was at a steep gradient, though when now we look down uponit, it seems almost nothing. 

How the step from no polity to polity was made, distinct history doesnot record. .. . But when once polities were begun, there is no difficultyin explaining why they lasted. Whatever may be said against theprinciple of "natural selection" in other departments, there is no doubtof its predominance in early human history: the strongest killed out theweakest as they could. And I need not pause to prove that any form ofpolity is more efficient than none; that an aggregate of families owningeven a slippery allegiance to a single head would be sure to have thebetter of a set of families acknowledging no obedience to any one, butscattering loose about the world and fighting where they stood. Homer'sCyclops would be powerless against the feeblest band; so far from itsbeing singular that we find no other record of that state of man, sounstable and sure to perish was it that we should rather wonder at evena single vestige lasting down to the age when for picturesqueness itbecame valuable in poetry. 

But though the origin of polity is dubious, we are upon the _terrafirma_ of actual records when we speak of the preservation of polities. Perhaps every young Englishman who comes nowadays to Aristotle or Platois struck with their conservatism: fresh from the liberal doctrines ofthe present age, he wonders at finding in those recognized teachers somuch contrary teaching. They both, unlike as they are, hold withXenophon so unlike both, that man is "the hardest of all animals togovern. " Of Plato it might indeed be plausibly said that the adherentsof an intuitive philosophy, being "the Tories of speculation, " havecommonly been prone to conservatism in government; but Aristotle, thefounder of the experience philosophy, ought according to that doctrineto have been a Liberal if any one ever was a Liberal. In fact, both ofthese men lived when men "had not had time to forget" the difficultiesof government: we have forgotten them altogether. We reckon as the basisof our culture upon an amount of order, of tacit obedience, ofprescriptive governability, which these philosophers hoped to get as aprincipal result of their culture; we take without thought as a _datum_what they hunted as a _quaesitum_. 

In early times the quantity of government is much more important thanits quality. What you want is a comprehensive rule binding men together, making them do much the same things, telling them what to expect of eachother, --fashioning them alike and keeping them so: what this rule is, does not matter so much. A good rule is better than a bad one, but anyrule is better than none; while, for reasons which a jurist willappreciate, none can be very good. But to gain that rule, what may becalled the "impressive" elements of a polity are incomparably moreimportant than its useful elements. How to get the obedience of men, isthe hard problem; what you do with that obedience is less critical. 

To gain that obedience, the primary condition is the identity--not theunion, but the sameness--of what we now call "church" and "state. ". .. Nodivision of power is then endurable without danger, probably withoutdestruction: the priest must not teach one thing and the king another;king must be priest and prophet king, --the two must say the same becausethey are the same. The idea of difference between spiritual penaltiesand legal penalties must never be awakened, --indeed, early Greek thoughtor early Roman thought would never have comprehended it; there was akind of rough public opinion, and there were rough--very rough--handswhich acted on it. We now talk of "political penalties" and"ecclesiastical prohibition" and "the social censure"; but they were allone then. Nothing is very like those old communities now, but perhaps atrades-union is as near as most things: to work cheap is thought to be a"wicked" thing, and so some Broadhead puts it down. 

The object of such organizations is to create what may be called a_cake_ of custom. All the actions of life are to be submitted to asingle rule for a single object, --that gradually created "hereditarydrill" which science teaches to be essential, and which the earlyinstinct of men saw to be essential too. That this _régime_ forbids freethought is not an evil, --or rather, though an evil, it is the necessarybasis for the greatest good; it is necessary for making the mold ofcivilization and hardening the soft fibre of early man. 

BENEFITS OF FREE DISCUSSION IN MODERN TIMES

From 'Physics and Politics'

In this manner polities of discussion broke up the old bonds of customwhich were now strangling mankind, though they had once aided and helpedit; but this is only one of the many gifts which those polities haveconferred, are conferring, and will confer on mankind. I am not going towrite a eulogium on liberty, but I wish to set down three points whichhave not been sufficiently noticed. 

Civilized ages inherit the human nature which was victorious inbarbarous ages, and that nature is in many respects not at all suited tocivilized circumstances. A main and principal excellence in the earlytimes of the human races is the impulse to action. The problems beforemen are then plain and simple: the man who works hardest, the man whokills the most deer, the man who catches the most fish--even later on, the man who tends the largest herds or the man who tills the largestfield--is the man who succeeds; the nation which is quickest to kill itsenemies or which kills most of its enemies is the nation which succeeds. All the inducements of early society tend to foster immediate action, all its penalties fall on the man who pauses; the traditional wisdom ofthose times was never weary of inculcating that "delays are dangerous, "and that the sluggish man--the man "who roasteth not that which he tookin hunting"--will not prosper on the earth, and indeed will very soonperish out of it: and in consequence an inability to stay quiet, anirritable desire to act directly, is one of the most conspicuousfailings of mankind. 

Pascal said that most of the evils of life arose from "man's beingunable to sit still in a room"; and though I do not go that length, itis certain that we should have been a far wiser race than we are if wehad been readier to sit quiet, --we should have known much better the wayin which it was best to act when we came to act. The rise of physicalscience, the first great body of practical truth provable to all men, exemplifies this in the plainest way: if it had not been for quietpeople who sat still and studied the sections of the cone, if otherquiet people had not sat still and studied the theory of infinitesimals, or other quiet people had not sat still and worked out the doctrine ofchances (the most "dreamy moonshine, " as the purely practical mindwould consider, of all human pursuits), if "idle star-gazers" had notwatched long and carefully the motions of the heavenly bodies, --ourmodern astronomy would have been impossible, and without our astronomy"our ships, our colonies, our seamen, " all which makes modern lifemodern life, could not have existed. Ages of sedentary, quiet, thinkingpeople were required before that noisy existence began, and withoutthose pale preliminary students it never could have been brought intobeing. And nine-tenths of modern science is in this respect the same: itis the produce of men whom their contemporaries thought dreamers, whowere laughed at for caring for what did not concern them, who as theproverb went "walked into a well from looking at the stars, " who werebelieved to be useless if any one could be such. And the conclusion isplain that if there had been more such people, if the world had notlaughed at those there were, if rather it had encouraged them, therewould have been a great accumulation of proved science ages before therewas. It was the irritable activity, the "wish to be doing something, "that prevented it, --most men inherited a nature too eager and toorestless to be quiet and find out things: and even worse, with theiridle clamor they "disturbed the brooding hen"; they would not let thosebe quiet who wished to be so, and out of whose calm thought much goodmight have come forth. 

If we consider how much science has done and how much it is doing formankind, and if the over-activity of men is proved to be the cause whyscience came so late into the world and is so small and scanty still, that will convince most people that our over-activity is a very greatevil; but this is only part and perhaps not the greatest part, of theharm that over-activity does. As I have said, it is inherited from timeswhen life was simple, objects were plain, and quick action generally ledto desirable ends: if A kills B before B kills A, then A survives, andthe human race is a race of A's. But the issues of life are plain nolonger: to act rightly in modern society requires a great deal ofprevious study, a great deal of assimilated information, a great deal ofsharpened imagination; and these prerequisites of sound action requiremuch time, and I was going to say much "lying in the sun, " a long periodof "mere passiveness. "

[Argument to show that the same vice of impatience damages war, philanthropy, commerce, and even speculation. ]

But it will be said, What has government by discussion to do with thesethings? will it prevent them, or even mitigate them? It can and does doboth, in the very plainest way. If you want to stop instant andimmediate action, always make it a condition that the action shall notbegin till a considerable number of persons have talked over it and haveagreed on it. If those persons be people of different temperaments, different ideas, and different educations, you have an almost infalliblesecurity that nothing or almost nothing will be done with excessiverapidity. Each kind of persons will have their spokesman; each spokesmanwill have his characteristic objection and each his characteristiccounter-proposition: and so in the end nothing will probably be done, orat least only the minimum which is plainly urgent. In many cases thisdelay may be dangerous, in many cases quick action will be preferable; acampaign, as Macaulay well says, cannot be directed by a "debatingsociety, " and many other kinds of action also require a single andabsolute general: but for the purpose now in hand--that of preventinghasty action and insuring elaborate consideration--there is no devicelike a polity of discussion. 

The enemies of this object--the people who want to act quickly--see thisvery distinctly: they are forever explaining that the present is "an ageof committees, " that the committees do nothing, that all evaporates intalk. Their great enemy is parliamentary government: they call it, afterMr. Carlyle, the "national palaver"; they add up the hours that areconsumed in it and the speeches which are made in it, and they sigh fora time when England might again be ruled, as it once was, by aCromwell, --that is, when an eager absolute man might do exactly whatother eager men wished, and do it immediately. All these invectives areperpetual and many-sided; they come from philosophers each of whom wantssome new scheme tried, from philanthropists who want some evil abated, from revolutionists who want some old institution destroyed, fromnew-eraists who want their new era started forthwith: and they all aredistinct admissions that a polity of discussion is the greatesthindrance to the inherited mistake of human nature, --to the desire toact promptly, which in a simple age is so excellent, but which in alater and complex time leads to so much evil. 

The same accusation against our age sometimes takes a more general form:it is alleged that our energies are diminishing, that ordinary andaverage men have not the quick determination nowadays which they used tohave when the world was younger, that not only do not committees andparliaments act with rapid decisiveness, but that no one now so acts;and I hope that in fact this is true, for according to me it proves thatthe hereditary barbaric impulse is decaying and dying out. So far fromthinking the quality attributed to us a defect, I wish that those whocomplain of it were far more right than I much fear they are. Still, certainly, eager and violent action _is_ somewhat diminished, thoughonly by a small fraction of what it ought to be; and I believe that thisis in great part due, in England at least, to our government bydiscussion, which has fostered a general intellectual tone, a diffuseddisposition to weigh evidence, a conviction that much may be said onevery side of everything which the elder and more fanatic ages of theworld wanted. This is the real reason why our energies seem so much lessthan those of our fathers. When we have a definite end in view, which weknow we want and which we think we know how to obtain, we can act wellenough: the campaigns of our soldiers are as energetic as any campaignsever were; the speculations of our merchants have greater promptitude, greater audacity, greater vigor than any such speculations ever hadbefore. In old times a few ideas got possession of men and communities, but this is happily now possible no longer: we see how incomplete theseold ideas were; how almost by chance one seized on one nation andanother on another; how often one set of men have persecuted another setfor opinions on subjects of which neither, we now perceive, knewanything. It might be well if a greater number of effectualdemonstrations existed among mankind: but while no such demonstrationsexist, and while the evidence which completely convinces one man seemsto another trifling and insufficient, let us recognize the plainposition of inevitable doubt; let us not be bigots with a doubt andpersecutors without a creed. We are beginning to see this, and we arerailed at for so beginning: but it is a great benefit, and it is to theincessant prevalence of detective discussion that our doubts are due;and much of that discussion is due to the long existence of a governmentrequiring constant debates, written and oral. 

ORIGIN OF DEPOSIT BANKING

From 'Lombard Street'

In the last century, a favorite subject of literary ingenuity was"conjectural history, " as it was then called: upon grounds ofprobability, a fictitious sketch was made of the possible origin ofthings existing. If this kind of speculation were now applied tobanking, the natural and first idea would be that large systems ofdeposit banking grew up in the early world just as they grow up now inany large English colony. As soon as any such community becomes richenough to have much money, and compact enough to be able to lodge itsmoney in single banks, it at once begins so to do. English colonists donot like the risk of keeping their money, and they wish to make aninterest on it; they carry from home the idea and the habit of banking, and they take to it as soon as they can in their new world. Conjecturalhistory would be inclined to say that all banking began thus; but suchhistory is rarely of any value, --the basis of it is false. It assumesthat what works most easily when established is that which it would bethe most easy to establish, and that what seems simplest when familiarwould be most easily appreciated by the mind though unfamiliar; butexactly the contrary is true, --many things which seem simple, and whichwork well when firmly established, are very hard to establish among newpeople and not very easy to explain to them. Deposit banking is of thissort. Its essence is, that a very large number of persons agree to trusta very few persons, or some one person: banking would not be aprofitable trade if bankers were not a small number, and depositors incomparison an immense number. But to get a great number of persons to doexactly the same thing is always very difficult, and nothing but a verypalpable necessity will make them on a sudden begin to do it; and thereis no such palpable necessity in banking. 

If you take a country town in France, even now, you will not find anysuch system of banking as ours: check-books are unknown, and money kepton running account by bankers is rare: people store their money in a_caisse_ at their houses. Steady savings, which are waiting forinvestment and which are sure not to be soon wanted, may be lodged withbankers; but the common floating cash of the community is kept by thecommunity themselves at home, --they prefer to keep it so, and it wouldnot answer a banker's purpose to make expensive arrangements for keepingit otherwise. If a "branch, " such as the National Provincial Bank opensin an English country town, were opened in a corresponding French one, it would not pay its expenses: you could not get any sufficient numberof Frenchmen to agree to put their money there. 

And so it is in all countries not of British descent, though in variousdegrees. Deposit banking is a very difficult thing to begin, becausepeople do not like to let their money out of their sight; especially, donot like to let it out of sight without security; still more, cannot allat once agree on any single person to whom they are content to trust itunseen and unsecured. Hypothetical history, which explains the past bywhat is simplest and commonest in the present, is in banking, as in mostthings, quite untrue. 

The real history is very different. New wants are mostly supplied byadaptation, not by creation or foundation; something having been createdto satisfy an extreme want, it is used to satisfy less pressing wants orto supply additional conveniences. On this account, politicalgovernment, the oldest institution in the world, has been the hardestworked: at the beginning of history, we find it doing everything whichsociety wants done and forbidding everything which society does _not_wish done. In trade, at present, the first commerce in a new place is ageneral shop, which, beginning with articles of real necessity, comesshortly to supply the oddest accumulation of petty comforts. And thehistory of banking has been the same: the first banks were not foundedfor our system of deposit banking, or for anything like it; they werefounded for much more pressing reasons, and having been founded, they orcopies from them were applied to our modern uses. 

[Gives a sketch of banks started as finance companies to make or floatgovernment loans, and to give good coin; and sketches their function ofremitting money. ]

These are all uses other than those of deposit banking, which bankssupplied that afterwards became in our English sense deposit banks: bysupplying these uses, they gained the credit that afterwards enabledthem to gain a living as deposit banks; being trusted for one purpose, they came to be trusted for a purpose quite different, --ultimately farmore important, though at first less keenly pressing. But these wantsonly affect a few persons, and therefore bring the bank under the noticeof a few only. The real introductory function which deposit banks atfirst perform is much more popular; and it is only when they can performthis most popular kind of business that deposit banking ever spreadsquickly and extensively. 

This function is the supply of the paper circulation to the country; andit will be observed that I am not about to overstep my limits anddiscuss this as a question of currency. In what form the best papercurrency can be supplied to a country is a question of economical theorywith which I do not meddle here: I am only narrating unquestionablehistory, not dealing with an argument where every step is disputed; andpart of this certain history is, that the best way to diffuse banking ina community is to allow the banker to issue bank notes of small amountthat can supersede the metal currency. This amounts to a subsidy to eachbanker to enable him to keep open a bank till depositors choose tocome to it. .. . 

The reason why the use of bank paper commonly precedes the habit ofmaking deposits in banks is very plain: it is a far easier habit toestablish. In the issue of notes the banker, the person to be mostbenefited, can do something, --he can pay away his own "promises" inloans, in wages, or in payment of debts, --but in the getting of depositshe is passive; his issues depend on himself, his deposits on the favorof others. And to the public the change is far easier too: to collect agreat mass of deposits with the same banker, a great number of personsmust agree to do something; but to establish a note circulation, a largenumber of persons need only _do nothing_, --they receive the banker'snotes in the common course of their business, and they have only _not_to take those notes to the banker for payment. If the public refrainfrom taking trouble, a paper circulation is immediately in existence. Apaper circulation is begun by the banker, and requires no effort on thepart of the public, --on the contrary, it needs an effort of the publicto be rid of notes once issued; but deposit banking cannot be begun bythe banker, and requires a spontaneous and consistent effort in thecommunity: and therefore paper issue is the natural prelude todeposit banking. 

JENS BAGGESEN

(1764-1826)

Jens Baggesen was born in the little Danish town Korsör in 1764, anddied in exile in the year 1826. Thus he belonged to two centuries and totwo literary periods. He had reached manhood when the French Revolutionbroke out; he witnessed Napoleon's rise, his victories, and his fall. Hewas a full contemporary of Goethe, who survived him only six years; hesaw English literature glory in men like Byron and Moore, and lived tohear of Byron's death in Greece. In his first works he stood a truerepresentative of the culture and literature of the eighteenth century, and was hailed as its exponent by the Danish poet Herman Wessel; towardsthe end of the century he was acknowledged to be the greatest of livingDanish poets. Then with the new age came the Norwegian, Henrik Steffens, with his enthusiastic lectures on German romanticism, calling out thegenius of Oehlenschläger, and the eighteenth century was doomed;Baggesen nevertheless greeted Oehlenschläger with sincere admiration, and when the 'Aladdin' of that poet appeared, Baggesen sent him hisrhymed letter 'From Nureddin-Baggesen to Aladdin-Oehlenschläger. '

[Illustration: Jens Baggesen. ]

Baggesen was the son of poor people, and strangers helped him to hisscientific education. When his first works were recognized he became thefriend and protégé of the Duke of Augustenborg, who provided him withthe means for an extended journey through the Continent, during which hemet the greatest men of his time. The Duke of Augustenborg meanwhilesecured him several positions, which could not hold him for any lengthof time, nor keep him at home in Denmark. He went abroad a second timeto study pedagogics, literature, and philosophy, came home again, wandered forth once more, returned a widower, was for some time directorof the National Theatre in Copenhagen; but found no rest, married again, and in 1800 went to France to live. Eleven years later he was professorin Kiel, returning thence to Copenhagen, where meanwhile his fame hadbeen eclipsed by the genius of Oehlenschläger. Secure in the knowledgeof his powers, Oehlenschläger had carelessly published two or threedramatic poems not worthy of his pen, and Baggesen entered on a violentcontroversy with him in which he stood practically by himself againstthe entire reading public, whose sympathies were with Oehlenschläger. Alone and misunderstood, restless and unhappy, he left Denmark in 1820, never to return. Six years later he died, longing to see his countryagain, but unable to reach it. 

His first poetry was published in 1785, a volume of 'Comic Tales, ' whichmade its mark at once. The following year appeared in quick successionsatires, rhymed epistles, and elegies, which, adding to his fame, addedalso to the purposeless ferment and unrest which had taken possession ofhim. He considered tragedy his proper field, yet had allowed himself toappear as humorist and satirist. 

When the great historic events of the time took place, and over-threwall existing conditions, this inner restlessness drove him to and frowithout purpose or will. One day he was enthusiastic over Voss's idyls, the next he was carried away by Robespierre's wildest speeches. One yearhe adopted Kant's Christian name Immanuel in transport over his works, the next he called the great philosopher "an empty nut, and moreoverhard to crack. " The romanticism in Denmark as well as in Germany reducedhim to a state of utter confusion; but in spite of this he continued achild of the old order, which was already doomed. And with all hisunrest and discord he remained nevertheless the champion of "form, " "thepoet of the graces, " as he has been called. 

This gift of form has given him his literary importance. He built abridge from the eighteenth to the nineteenth century; and when the newromantic school overstepped its privileges, it was he who called it toorder. The most conspicuous act of his literary life was the controversywith Oehlenschläger, and the wittiest product of his pen is the recklesscriticism of Oehlenschläger's opera 'Ludlam's Cave. ' Johann LudvigHeiberg, the greatest analytical critic of whom Denmark can boast, remained Baggesen's ardent admirer; and Heiberg's influential althoughnot always just criticism of Oehlenschläger as a poet was no doubtcalled forth by Baggesen's attack. Some years later Henrik Hertz madeBaggesen his subject. In 1830 appeared 'Letters from Ghosts, ' poeticepistles from Paradise. Nobody knew that Hertz was the author. It wasBaggesen's voice from beyond the grave, Baggesen's criticism upon theliterature of 1830. It was one of the wittiest, and in versification oneof the best, books in Danish literature. 

Baggesen's most important prose work is 'The Labyrinth, ' afterwardscalled 'The Wanderings of a Poet. ' It is a poetic description of hisjourneys, unique in its way, rich in impressions and full of strikingremarks, written in a piquant, graceful, and easy style. 

As long as Danish literature remains, Baggesen's name will be known;though his writings are not now widely read, and are important chieflybecause of their influence on the literary spirit of his own time. Hisfamiliar poem 'There was a time when I was very little, ' during thecontroversy with Oehlenschläger, was seized upon by Paul Möller, parodied, and changed into 'There was a time when Jens was much bigger. 'Equally well known is his 'Ode to My Country, ' with thefamiliar lines:--

 "Alas, in no place is the thorn as tiny, Alas, in no place blooms as red a rose, Alas, in no place is there couch as downy As where we little children found repose. "

A COSMOPOLITAN

From 'The Labyrinth'

Forster, a little nervous, alert, and piquant man, with gravity writtenon his forehead, perspicacity in his eye, and love around his lips, conquered me completely. I spoke to him of everything except hisjourneys; but the traveler showed himself full of unmistakable humanity. He seemed to me the cosmopolitan spirit personified. It was as if theworld were present when I was alone with him. 

We talked about his friend Jacobi, about the late King of Prussia, aboutthe literature of Germany, and about the present Pole-high standard oftaste. I was much pleased to find in him the art critic I sought. Hesaid that we must admire everything which is good and beautiful, whetherit originates West, East, South, or North. The taste of the bee is thetrue one. Difference in language and climate, difference of nationality, must not affect my interest in fair and noble things. The unknown repelsthe animal, but should not repel the human creature. Suppose you saythat Voltaire is animal in comparison with Shakespeare or Klopstock, orthat they are animal in comparison with him: it is a blunder to demandpears of an apple-tree, as it is ridiculous to throw away the applebecause it is not a pear. The entire world of nature teaches us thisaesthetic tolerance, and yet we have as little acquired it as we havefreedom of conscience. We plant white and red roses in the same bed, butwho puts the 'Messiah' and the 'Henriade' on the same shelf? He onlywho reads neither the one nor the other. True religion worships God;true taste worships the beautiful without regard of person or nation. German? French? Italian? or English? All the same! But nothing mediocre. 

I was flushed with pleasure; I gave him my hand. "That may be said ofother things than poetry!" I said. --"Of all art!" he answered. --"Of allthat is human!" we both concluded. 

Deplorable indolence which clothes our mind in the first heavy cloakready to hand, so that all the sunbeams of the world cannot persuade usto throw it off, much less to assume another! The man who is exclusivelya nationalist is a snail forever chained to his house. Psyche had wingsgiven her for a never-ending, eternal flight. We may not imprison her, be the cage ever so large. 

He considered that Lessing had wronged the great representative of theFrench language; and the remark of Claudius, "Voltaire says he weeps, and Shakespeare does weep, " appeared to him like the saying, "Much thatis new and beautiful has M. Arouet said; but it is a pity that thebeautiful is not new and the new not beautiful, "--more witty than true. The English think that Shakespeare, as the Germans think that Lessing, really weeps; the French think the same of Voltaire. But the first weepsfor the whole world, it is said, the last only for his own people. Whatthe French call "Le Nord" is, to be sure, rather a large territory, butnot the entire world! France calls "whimpering" in one case and"blubbering" in another what we call weeping. The general mistake isthat we do not understand the nature of the people and the language, inwhich and for whom the weeping is done. 

We must be English when we read Shakespeare, German when we readKlopstock, French when we read Voltaire. The man whose soul cannot shedits national costume and don that of other nations ought not to read, much less to judge, their masterpieces. He will be looking at the moonby day and at the sun by night, and see the first without lustre and thelast not at all. 

PHILOSOPHY ON THE HEATH

From 'The Labyrinth'

Caillard was a man of experience, taste, and knowledge. He told me thestory of his life from beginning to end, he confided to me hisprinciples and his affairs, and I took him to be the happiest man in theworld. "I have everything, " he said, "all that I have wished for or canwish for: health, riches, domestic peace (being unmarried), a tolerablygood conscience, books--and as much sense as I need to enjoy them. Iexperience only one single want, lack only one single pleasure in thisworld; but that one is enough to embitter my life and class me withother unfortunates. "

I could not guess what might yet be wanting to such a man under suchconditions, "It cannot be liberty, " I said, "for how can a rich merchantin a free town lack this?"

"No! Heaven save me--I neither would nor could live one single daywithout liberty. "

"You do not happen to be in love with some cruel or unhappy princess?"

"That is still less the case. "

"Ah!--now I have it, no doubt--your soul is consumed with a thirst fortruth, for a satisfactory answer to the many questions which are butphilosophic riddles. You are seeking what so many brave men fromAnaxagoras to Spinoza have sought in vain--the corner-stone ofphilosophy, the foundation of the structure of our ideas. "

He assured me that in this respect he was quite at ease. "Then, in spiteof your good health, you must be subject to that miserable thing, a coldin the head?" I said. 

 "Uno minor--Jove, dives Liber, honoratus, pulcher rex denique regum, Praecipue sanus--nisi cum pituita molesta est. "

--HORACE. 

When he denied this too, I gave up trying to solve the meaning of hisdark words. 

O happiness! of all earthly chimeras thou art the most chimerical! Iwould rather seek dry figs on the bottom of the sea and fresh ones onthis heath, --I would rather seek liberty, or truth itself, or thephilosopher's stone, than to run after thee, most deceitful of lights, will-o'-the-wisp of our human life!

I thought that at last I had found a perfectly happy, an enviable man;and now--behold! though I have not the ten-thousandth part of hiswealth, though I have not the tenth part of his health, though I may nothave a third of his intellect, although I have all the wants which hehas not and the one want under which he suffers, yet I would not changeplaces with him!

From this moment he was the object of my sincerest pity. But what didthis awful curse prove to be? Listen and tremble!

"Of what use is it all to me?" he said: "coffee, which I love more thanall the wines of this earth and more than all the women of this earth, coffee which I love madly--coffee is forbidden me!"

Laugh who lists! Inasmuch as everything in this world, viewed in acertain light, is tragic, it would be excusable to weep: but inasmuch aseverything viewed in another light is comic, a little laughter could notbe taken amiss; only beware of laughing at the sigh with which my happyman pronounced these words, for it might be that in laughing athim you laugh at yourself, your father, your grandfather, yourgreat-grandfather, your great-great-grandfather, and so on, includingyour entire family as far back as Adam. 

If, in laughing at such discontent, you laugh in advance at your son, your son's son's son, and so forth to the last descendant of your entirefamily, this is a matter which I do not decide. It will depend upon theroad humanity chooses to take. If it continues as it is going, somecoffee-want or other will forever strew it with thorns. 

Had he said, "Chocolate is forbidden me, " or tea, or English ale, ormadeira, or strawberries, you would have found his miseryequally absurd. 

The great Alexander is said to have wept because he found no more worldsto conquer. The man who bemoans the loss of a world and the man whobemoans the loss of coffee are to my mind equally unbalanced and equallyin need of forgiveness. The desire for a cup of coffee and the desirefor a crown, the hankering after the flavor or even the fragrance of thedrink and the hankering after fame, are equally mad and equally--human. 

If history is to be believed, Adam possessed all the advantages andcomforts, all the necessities and luxuries a first man could reasonablydemand. .. . Lord of all living things, and sharing his dominion with hisbeloved, what did he lack?

Among ten thousand pleasures, the fruit of one single tree was forbiddenhim. Good-by content and peace! Good-by forever all his bliss!

I acknowledge that I should have yielded to the same temptation; and hewho does not see that this fate would have overtaken his entire family, past and to come, may have studied all things from the Milky Way in thesky to the milky way in his kitchen, may have studied all stones, plants, and animals, and all folios and quartos dealing therewith, butnever himself or man. 

As we do not know the nature of the fruit which Adam could not dowithout, it may as well have been coffee as any other. That it waspleasant to the eyes means no more than that it was forbidden. Everyforbidden thing is pleasant to the eyes. 

"Of what use is it all to me?" said Adam, looking around him in Eden, atthe rising sun, the blushing hills, the light-green forest, the gloriouswaterfall, the laden fruit-trees, and, most beautiful of all, thesmiling woman--"of what use is it all to me, when I dare not tastethis--coffee bean?"

"And of what use is it all to me?" said Mr. Caillard, and looked aroundhim on the Lüneburg heath: "coffee is forbidden me; one single cup ofcoffee would kill me. "

"If it will be any comfort to you, " I said, "I may tell you that I am inthe same case. " "And you do not despair at times?"--"No, " I replied, "for it is not my only want. If like you I had everything else in life, I also might despair. "

 THERE WAS A TIME WHEN I WAS VERY LITTLE

 There was a time, when I, an urchin slender, Could hardly boast of having any height. Oft I recall those days with feelings tender; With smiles, and yet the tear-drops dim my sight. 

 Within my tender mother's arms I sported, I played at horse upon my grandsire's knee; Sorrow and care and anger, ill-reported, As little known as gold or Greek, to me. 

 The world was little to my childish thinking, And innocent of sin and sinful things; I saw the stars above me flashing, winking-- To fly and catch them, how I longed for wings!

 I saw the moon behind the hills declining, And thought, O were I on yon lofty ground, I'd learn the truth; for here there's no divining How large it is, how beautiful, how round!

 In wonder, too, I saw God's sun pursuing His westward course, to ocean's lap of gold; And yet at morn the East he was renewing With wide-spread, rosy tints, this artist old. 

 Then turned my thoughts to God the Father gracious, Who fashioned me and that great orb on high, And the night's jewels, decking heaven spacious; From pole to pole its arch to glorify. 

 With childish piety my lips repeated The prayer learned at my pious mother's knee: Help me remember, Jesus, I entreated, That I must grow up good and true to Thee!

 Then for the household did I make petition, For kindred, friends, and for the town's folk, last; The unknown King, the outcast, whose condition Darkened my childish joy, as he slunk past. 

 All lost, all vanished, childhood's days so eager! My peace, my joy with them have fled away; I've only memory left: possession meagre; Oh, never may that leave me, Lord, I pray. 

PHILIP JAMES BAILEY

(1816-)

In Bailey we have a striking instance of the man whose reputation ismade suddenly by a single work, which obtains an amazing popularity, andwhich is presently almost forgotten except as a name. When in 1839 thelong poem 'Festus' appeared, its author was an unknown youth, who hadhardly reached his majority. Within a few months he was a celebrity. That so dignified and suggestive a performance should have come from soyoung a poet was considered a marvel of precocity by the literary world, both English and American. 

The author of 'Festus' was born at Basford, Nottinghamshire, England, April 22nd, 1816. Educated at the public schools of Nottingham, and atGlasgow University, he studied law, and at nineteen entered Lincoln'sInn. In 1840 he was admitted to the bar. But his vocation in lifeappears to have been metaphysical and spiritual rather than legal. 

His 'Festus: a Poem, ' containing fifty-five episodes or successivescenes, --some thirty-five thousand lines, --was begun in his twentiethyear. Three years later it was in the hands of the English readingpublic. Like Goethe's 'Faust' in pursuing the course of a human soulthrough influences emanating from the Supreme Good and the Supreme Evil;in having Heaven and the World as its scene; in its inclusion of God andthe Devil, the Archangels and Angels, the Powers of Perdition, andwithal many earthly types in its action, --it is by no means a mereimitation of the great German. Its plan is wider. It incorporates evenmore impressive spiritual material than 'Faust' offers. Not only is itsmortal hero, Festus, conducted through an amazing pilgrimage, spiritualand redeemed by divine Love, but we have in the poem a conception ofclose association with Christianity, profound ethical suggestions, aflood of theology and philosophy, metaphysics and science, picturingGood and Evil, love and hate, peace and war, the past, the present, andthe future, earth, heaven, and hell, heights and depths, dominions, principalities, and powers, God and man, the whole of being and ofnot-being, --all in an effort to unmask the last and greatest secrets ofInfinity. And more than all this, 'Festus' strives to portray thesufficiency of Divine Love and of the Divine Atonement to dissipate, even to annihilate, Evil. For even Lucifer and the hosts of darkness arerestored to purity and to peace among the Sons of God, the Children ofLight! The Love of God is set forth as limitless. We have before us thebirth of matter at the Almighty's fiat; and we close the work with thesalvation and ecstasy--described as decreed from the Beginning--ofwhatever creature hath been given a spiritual existence, and made aspiritual subject and agency. There is in the doctrine of 'Festus' nosuch thing as the "Son of Perdition" who shall be an ultimate castaway. 

Few English poems have attracted more general notice from allintelligent classes of readers than did 'Festus' on its advent. Orthodoxy was not a little aghast at its theologic suggestions. Criticism of it as a literary production was hampered not a little byreligious sensitiveness. The London Literary Gazette said of it:--"It isan extraordinary production, out-Heroding Kant in some of itsphilosophy, and out-Goetheing Goethe in the introduction of the ThreePersons of the Trinity as interlocutors in its wild plot. Mostobjectionable as it is on this account, it yet contains so manyexquisite passages of genuine poetry, that our admiration of theauthor's genius overpowers the feeling of mortification at its beingmisapplied, and meddling with such dangerous topics. " The advance ofliberal ideas within the churches has diminished such criticism, but thework is still a stumbling-block to the less speculative of sectaries. 

The poem is far too long, and its scope too vast for even a genius ofmuch higher and riper gifts than Bailey's. It is turgid, untechnical inverse, wordy, and involved. Had Bailey written at fifty instead of attwenty, it might have shown a necessary balance and felicity of style. But, with all these shortcomings, it is not to be relegated to thelibrary of things not worth the time to know, to the list of bulkypoetic failures. Its author blossomed and fruited marvelously early; soearly and with such unlooked-for fruit that the unthinking world, whichfirst received him with exaggerated honor, presently assailed him withundue dispraise. 'Festus' is not mere solemn and verbose commonplace. Here and there it has passages of great force and even of high beauty. The author's whole heart and brain were poured into it, and neither wasa common one. With all its ill-based daring and manifest crudities, itwas such a _tour de force_ for a lad of twenty as the world seldom sees. Its sluggish current bears along remarkable knowledge, great reflection, and the imagination of a fertile as well as a precocious brain. It is astream which carries with it things new and old, and serves to stir themind of the onlooker with unwonted thoughts. Were it but one fourth aslong, it would still remain a favorite poem. Even now it has passedthrough numerous editions, and been but lately republished in sumptuousform after fifty years of life; and in the catalogue of highermetaphysico-religious poetry it will long maintain an honorable place. It is cited here among the books whose fame rather than whose importance_demand_ recognition. 

 FROM 'FESTUS'

 LIFE

 _Festus_-- Men's callings all Are mean and vain; their wishes more so: oft The man is bettered by his part or place. How slight a chance may raise or sink a soul!

 _Lucifer_--What men call accident is God's own part. He lets ye work your will--it is his own: But that ye mean not, know not, do not, he doth. 

 _Festus_--What is life worth without a heart to feel The great and lovely harmonies which time And nature change responsive, all writ out By preconcertive hand which swells the strain To divine fulness; feel the poetry, The soothing rhythm of life's fore-ordered lay; The sacredness of things?--for all things are Sacred so far, --the worst of them, as seen By the eye of God, they in the aspect bide Of holiness: nor shall outlaw sin be slain, Though rebel banned, within the sceptre's length; But privileged even for service. Oh! to stand Soul-raptured, on some lofty mountain-thought, And feel the spirit expand into a view Millennial, life-exalting, of a day When earth shall have all leisure for high ends Of social culture; ends a liberal law And common peace of nations, blent with charge Divine, shall win for man, were joy indeed: Nor greatly less, to know what might be now, Worked will for good with power, for one brief hour. But look at these, these individual souls: How sadly men show out of joint with man! There are millions never think a noble thought; But with brute hate of brightness bay a mind Which drives the darkness out of them, like hounds. Throw but a false glare round them, and in shoals They rush upon perdition: that's the race. What charm is in this world-scene to such minds? Blinded by dust? What can they do in heaven, A state of spiritual means and ends? Thus must I doubt--perpetually doubt. 

 _Lucifer_--Who never doubted never half believed. Where doubt, there truth is--'tis her shadow. I Declare unto thee that the past is not. I have looked over all life, yet never seen The age that had been. Why then fear or dream About the future? Nothing but what is, is; Else God were not the Maker that he seems, As constant in creating as in being. Embrace the present. Let the future pass. Plague not thyself about a future. That Only which comes direct from God, his spirit, Is deathless. Nature gravitates without Effort; and so all mortal natures fall Deathwards. All aspiration is a toil; But inspiration cometh from above, And is no labor. The earth's inborn strength Could never lift her up to yon stars, whence She fell; nor human soul, by native worth, Claim heaven as birthright, more than man may call Cloudland his home. The soul's inheritance, Its birth-place, and its death-place, is of earth; Until God maketh earth and soul anew; The one like heaven, the other like himself. So shall the new creation come at once; Sin, the dead branch upon the tree of life Shall be cut off forever; and all souls Concluded in God's boundless amnesty. 

 _Festus_--Thou windest and unwindest faith at will. What am I to believe?

 _Lucifer_-- Thou mayest believe But that thou art forced to. 

 _Festus_-- Then I feel, perforce, That instinct of immortal life in me, Which prompts me to provide for it. 

 _Lucifer_-- Perhaps. _Festus_--Man hath a knowledge of a time to come-- His most important knowledge: the weight lies Nearest the short end; and the world depends Upon what is to be. I would deny The present, if the future. Oh! there is A life to come, or all's a dream. 

 _Lucifer_--And all May be a dream. Thou seest in thine, men, deeds, Clear, moving, full of speech and order; then Why may not all this world be but a dream Of God's? Fear not! Some morning God may waken. 

 _Festus_--I would it were. This life's a mystery. The value of a thought cannot be told; But it is clearly worth a thousand lives Like many men's. And yet men love to live As if mere life were worth their living for. What but perdition will it be to most? Life's more than breath and the quick round of blood; It is a great spirit and a busy heart. The coward and the small in soul scarce do live. One generous feeling--one great thought--one deed Of good, ere night, would make life longer seem Than if each year might number a thousand days, Spent as is this by nations of mankind. We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths; In feelings, not in figures on a dial. We should count time by heart-throbs. He most lives Who thinks most--feels the noblest--acts the best. Life's but a means unto an end--that end Beginning, mean, and end to all things--God. The dead have all the glory of the world. Why will we live and not be glorious? We never can be deathless till we die. It is the dead win battles. And the breath Of those who through the world drive like a wedge, Tearing earth's empires up, nears Death so close It dims his well-worn scythe. But no! the brave Die never. Being deathless, they but change Their country's arms for more--their country's heart. Give then the dead their due: it is they who saved us. The rapid and the deep--the fall, the gulph, Have likenesses in feeling and in life. And life, so varied, hath more loveliness In one day than a creeping century Of sameness. But youth loves and lives on change, Till the soul sighs for sameness; which at last Becomes variety, and takes its place. Yet some will last to die out, thought by thought, And power by power, and limb of mind by limb, Like lamps upon a gay device of glass, Till all of soul that's left be dry and dark; Till even the burden of some ninety years Hath crashed into them like a rock; shattered Their system as if ninety suns had rushed To ruin earth--or heaven had rained its stars; Till they become like scrolls, unreadable, Through dust and mold. Can they be cleaned and read? Do human spirits wax and wane like moons?

 _Lucifer_--The eye dims, and the heart gets old and slow; The lithe limbs stiffen, and the sun-hued locks Thin themselves off, or whitely wither; still, Ages not spirit, even in one point, Immeasurably small; from orb to orb, Rising in radiance ever like the sun Shining upon the thousand lands of earth. 

 THE PASSING-BELL

 Clara--True prophet mayst thou be. But list: that sound The passing-bell the spirit should solemnize; For, while on its emancipate path, the soul Still waves its upward wings, and we still hear The warning sound, it is known, we well may pray. 

 _Festus_--But pray for whom?

 _Clara_--It means not. Pray for all. Pray for the good man's soul:

 He is leaving earth for heaven, And it soothes us to feel that the best May be forgiven. 

 _Festus_--Pray for the sinful soul: It fleëth, we know not where; But wherever it be let us hope; For God is there. 

 _Clara_--Pray for the rich man's soul: Not all be unjust, nor vain; The wise he consoled; and he saved The poor from pain. 

 _Festus_--Pray for the poor man's soul: The death of this life of ours He hath shook from his feet; he is one Of the heavenly powers. 

 Pray for the old man's soul: He hath labored long; through life It was battle or march. He hath ceased, Serene, from strife. 

 _Clara_--Pray for the infant's soul: With its spirit crown unsoiled, He hath won, without war, a realm; Gained all, nor toiled. 

 _Festus_--Pray for the struggling soul: The mists of the straits of death Clear off; in some bright star-isle It anchoreth. 

 Pray for the soul assured: Though it wrought in a gloomy mine, Yet the gems it earned were its own, That soul's divine. 

 _Clara_--Pray for the simple soul: For it loved, and therein was wise; Though itself knew not, but with heaven Confused the skies. 

 _Festus_--Pray for the sage's soul: 'Neath his welkin wide of mind Lay the central thought of God, Thought undefined. 

 Pray for the souls of all To our God, that all may be With forgiveness crowned, and joy Eternally. 

 _Clara_--Hush! for the bell hath ceased; And the spirit's fate is sealed; To the angels known; to man Best unrevealed. 

 THOUGHTS

 FESTUS--Well, farewell, Mr. Student. May you never Regret those hours which make the mind, if they Unmake the body; for the sooner we Are fit to be all mind, the better. Blessed Is he whose heart is the home of the great dead, And their great thoughts. Who can mistake great thoughts They seize upon the mind; arrest and search, And shake it; bow the tall soul as by wind; Rush over it like a river over reeds, Which quaver in the current; turn us cold, And pale, and voiceless; leaving in the brain A rocking and a ringing; glorious, But momentary, madness might it last, And close the soul with heaven as with a seal! In lieu of all these things whose loss thou mournest, If earnestly or not I know not, use The great and good and true which ever live; And are all common to pure eyes and true. Upon the summit of each mountain-thought Worship thou God, with heaven-uplifted head And arms horizon-stretched; for deity is seen From every elevation of the soul. Study the light; attempt the high; seek out The soul's bright path; and since the soul is fire, Of heat intelligential, turn it aye To the all-Fatherly source of light and life; Piety purifies the soul to see Visions, perpetually, of grace and power, Which, to their sight who in ignorant sin abide, Are now as e'er incognizable. Obey Thy genius, for a minister it is Unto the throne of Fate. Draw towards thy soul, And centralize, the rays which are around Of the divinity. Keep thy spirit pure From worldly taint, by the repellent strength Of virtue. Think on noble thoughts and deeds, Ever. Count o'er the rosary of truth; And practice precepts which are proven wise, It matters not then what thou fearest. Walk Boldly and wisely in that light thou hast;-- There is a hand above will help thee on. I am an omnist, and believe in all Religions; fragments of one golden world To be relit yet, and take its place in heaven, Where is the whole, sole truth, in deity. Meanwhile, his word, his law, writ soulwise here, Study; its truths love; practice its behests-- They will be with thee when all else have gone. Mind, body, passion all wear out; not faith Nor truth. Keep thy heart cool, or rule its heat To fixed ends; waste it not upon itself. Not all the agony maybe of the damned Fused in one pang, vies with that earthquake throb Which wakens soul from life-waste, to let see The world rolled by for aye, and we must wait For our next chance the nigh eternity; Whether it be in heaven, or elsewhere. 

 DREAMS

 FESTUS--The dead of night: earth seems but seeming; The soul seems but a something dreaming. The bird is dreaming in its nest, Of song, and sky, and loved one's breast; The lap-dog dreams, as round he lies, In moonshine, of his mistress's eyes; The steed is dreaming, in his stall, Of one long breathless leap and fall; The hawk hath dreamed him thrice of wings Wide as the skies he may not cleave; But waking, feels them clipped, and clings Mad to the perch 'twere mad to leave: The child is dreaming of its toys; The murderer, of calm home joys; The weak are dreaming endless fears; The proud of how their pride appears; The poor enthusiast who dies, Of his life-dreams the sacrifice, Sees, as enthusiast only can, The truth that made him more than man; And hears once more, in visioned trance, That voice commanding to advance, Where wealth is gained--love, wisdom won, Or deeds of danger dared and done. The mother dreameth of her child; The maid of him who hath beguiled; The youth of her he loves too well; The good of God; the ill of hell; Who live of death; of life who die; The dead of immortality. The earth is dreaming back her youth; Hell never dreams, for woe is truth; And heaven is dreaming o'er her prime, Long ere the morning stars of time; And dream of heaven alone can I, My lovely one, when thou art nigh. 

 CHORUS OF THE SAVED

 From the Conclusion

 Father of goodness, Son of love, Spirit of comfort, Be with us! God who hast made us, God who hast saved, God who hast judged us, Thee we praise. Heaven our spirits, Hallow our hearts; Let us have God-light Endlessly. Ours is the wide world, Heaven on heaven; What have we done, Lord, Worthy this? Oh! we have loved thee; That alone Maketh our glory, Duty, meed. Oh! we have loved thee! Love we will Ever, and every Soul of us. God of the saved, God of the tried, God of the lost ones, Be with all! Let us be near thee Ever and aye; Oh! let us love thee Infinite!

JOANNA BAILLIE

(1762-1851)

Joanna Baillie's early childhood was passed at Bothwell, Scotland, whereshe was born in 1762. Of this time she drew a picture in her well-knownbirthday lines to her sister:--

 "Dear Agnes, gleamed with joy, and dashed with tears, O'er us have glided almost sixty years Since we on Bothwell's bonny braes were seen, By those whose eyes long closed in death have been: Two tiny imps, who scarcely stooped to gather The slender harebell, or the purple heather; No taller than the foxglove's spiky stem, That dew of morning studs with silvery gem. Then every butterfly that crossed our view With joyful shout was greeted as it flew, And moth and lady-bird and beetle bright In sheeny gold were each a wondrous sight. Then as we paddled barefoot, side by side, Among the sunny shallows of the Clyde, Minnows or spotted par with twinkling fin, Swimming in mazy rings the pool within, A thrill of gladness through our bosoms sent Seen in the power of early wonderment. "

[Illustration: JOANNA BAILLIE]

When Joanna was six her father was appointed to the charge of the kirkat Hamilton. Her early growth went on, not in books, but in thefearlessness with which she ran upon the top of walls and parapets ofbridges and in all daring. "Look at Miss Jack, " said a farmer, as shedashed by: "she sits her horse as if it were a bit of herself. " Ateleven she could not read well. "'Twas thou, " she said in lines toher sister--

 "'Twas thou who woo'dst me first to look Upon the page of printed book, That thing by me abhorred, and with address Didst win me from my thoughtless idleness, When all too old become with bootless haste In fitful sports the precious time to waste. Thy love of tale and story was the stroke At which my dormant fancy first awoke, And ghosts and witches in my busy brain Arose in sombre show, a motley train. "

In 1776 Dr. James Baillie was made Professor of Divinity at GlasgowUniversity. During the two years the family lived in the collegeatmosphere, Joanna first read 'Comus, ' and, led by the delight itawakened, the great epic of Milton. It was here that her vigor anddisputatious turn of mind "cast an awe" over her companions. After herfather's death she settled, in 1784, with her mother and brother andsister in London. 

She had made herself familiar with English literature, and above all shehad studied Shakespeare with enthusiasm. Circumscribed now by the brickand mortar of London streets, in exchange for the fair views andliberties of her native fruitlands, Joanna found her first expression ina volume of 'Fugitive Verses, ' published in 1790. The book caused solittle comment that the words of but one friendly hand are preserved:that the poems were "truly unsophisticated representations of nature. "

Joanna's walk was along calm and unhurried ways. She could have had aconsiderable place in society and the world of "lions" if she had cared. The wife of her uncle and name-father, the anatomist Dr. John Hunter, was no other than the famous Mrs. Anne Hunter, a songwright of genius;her poem 'The Son of Alknomook Shall Never Complain' is one of theclassics of English song, and the best rendering of the Indian spiritever condensed into so small a space. She was also a woman of grace anddignity, a power in London drawing-rooms, and Haydn set songs of hers tomusic. But the reserved Joanna was tempted to no light triumphs. Eightyears later was published her first volume of 'Plays on the Passions. 'It contained 'Basil, ' a tragedy on love; 'The Trial, ' a comedy on thesame subject; and 'De Montfort, ' a tragedy on hatred. 

The thought of essaying dramatic composition had burst upon the authorone summer afternoon as she sat sewing with her mother. She had a highmoral purpose in her plan of composition, she said in her preface, --thatpurpose being the ultimate utterance of the drama. Plot and incident sheset little value upon, and she rejected the presentation of the mostsplendid event if it did not appertain to the development of thepassion. In other words, what is and was commonly of secondaryconsideration in the swift passage of dramatic action became in herhands the stated and paramount object. Feeling and passion are _not_precipitated by incident in her drama as in real life. The play 'DeMontfort' was presented at Drury Lane Theatre in 1800; but in spite ofevery effort and the acting of John Kemble and Mrs. Siddons, it had arun of but eleven nights. 

In 1802 Miss Baillie published her second volume of 'Plays on thePassions. ' It contained a comedy on hatred; 'Ethwald, ' a tragedy onambition; and a comedy on ambition. Her adherence to her old planbrought upon her an attack from Jeffrey in the Edinburgh Review. Heclaimed that the complexity of the moral nature of man made Joanna'stheory false and absurd, that a play was too narrow to show the completegrowth of a passion, and that the end of the drama is the entertainmentof the audience. He asserted that she imitated and plagiarizedShakespeare; while he admitted her insight into human nature, her graspof character, and her devotion to her work. 

About the time of the appearance of this volume, Joanna fixed herresidence with her mother and sister, among the lanes and fields ofHampstead, where they continued throughout their lives. The first volumeof 'Miscellaneous Plays' came out in 1804. In the preface she statedthat her opinions set forth in her first preface were unchanged. But theplays had a freer construction. "Miss Baillie, " wrote Jeffrey in hisreview, "cannot possibly write a tragedy, or an act of a tragedy, without showing genius and exemplifying a more dramatic conception andexpression than any of her modern competitor" 'Constantine Palaeologus, 'which the volume contained, had the liveliest commendation andpopularity, and was several times put upon the stage withspectacular effect. 

In the year of the publication of Joanna's 'Miscellaneous Plays, ' SirWalter Scott came to London, and seeking an introduction through acommon friend, made the way for a lifelong friendship between the two, He had just brought out 'The Lay of the Last Minstrel. ' Miss Baillie wasalready a famous writer, with fast friends in Lucy Aikin, Mary Berry, Mrs. Siddons, and other workers in art and literature; but the heartycommendation of her countryman, which she is said to have come uponunexpectedly when reading 'Marmion' to a group of friends, she valuedbeyond other praise. The legend is that she read through the passagefirmly to the close, and only lost self-control in her sympathy with theemotion of a friend:--

 "--The wild harp that silent hung By silver Avon's holy shore Till twice one hundred years rolled o'er, When she the bold enchantress came, From the pale willow snatched the treasure, With fearless hand and heart in flame, And swept it with a kindred measure; Till Avon's swans, while rung the grove With Montfort's hate and Basil's love, Awakening at the inspired strain, Deemed their own Shakespeare lived again. "

The year 1810 saw 'The Family Legend, ' a play founded on a tragichistory of the Campbell clan. Scott wrote a prologue and brought out theplay in the Edinburgh Theatre. "You have only to imagine, " he told theauthor, "all that you could wish to give success to a play, and yourconceptions will still fall short of the complete and decided triumph of'The Family Legend. '"

The attacks which Jeffrey had made upon her verse were continued whenshe published, in 1812, her third volume of 'Plays on the Passions. ' Hisvoice, however, did not diminish the admiration for thecharacter-drawing with which the book was greeted, or for the lyricoutbursts occurring now and then in the dramas. 

Joanna's quiet Hampstead life was broken in 1813 by a genial meeting inLondon with the ambitious Madame de Staël, and again with the vivaciouslittle Irishwoman, Maria Edgeworth. She was keeping her promise of notwriting more; but during a visit to Sir Walter in 1820 her imaginationwas touched by Scotch tales, and she published 'Metrical Legends' thefollowing year. In this vast Abbotsford she finally consented to meetJeffrey. The plucky little writer and the unshrinking critic at oncebecame friends, and thenceforward Jeffrey never went to London withoutvisiting her in Hampstead. 

Her moral courage throughout life recalls the physical courage whichcharacterized her youth. She never concealed her religious convictions, and in 1831 she published her ideas in 'A View of the General Tenor ofthe New Testament Regarding the Nature and Dignity of Jesus Christ. ' In1836, having finally given up the long hope of seeing her plays becomepopular upon the stage, she prepared a complete edition of her dramaswith the addition of three plays never before made public, --'Romiero, ' atragedy, 'The Alienated Manor, ' a comedy on jealousy, and 'Henriquez, ' atragedy on remorse. The Edinburgh Review immediately put forth aeulogistic notice of the collected edition, and at last admitted thatthe reviewer had changed his judgment, and esteemed the author as adramatist above Byron and Scott. 

"May God support both you and me, and give us comfort and consolationwhen it is most wanted, " wrote Miss Baillie to Mary Berry in 1837. "Asfor myself, I do not wish to be one year younger than I am; and have nodesire, were it possible, to begin life again, even under the mosthonorable circumstances. I have great cause for humble thankfulness, andI am thankful. "

In 1840 Jeffrey wrote:--"I have been twice out to Hampstead, and foundJoanna Baillie as fresh, natural, and amiable as ever, and as littlelike a tragic muse. " And again in 1842:--"She is marvelous in health andspirit; not a bit deaf, blind, or torpid. " About this time she publishedher last book, a volume of 'Fugitive Verses. '

"A sweeter picture of old age was never seen, " wrote Harriet Martineau. "Her figure was small, light, and active; her countenance, in itsexpression of serenity, harmonized wonderfully with her gay conversationand her cheerful voice. Her eyes were beautiful, dark, bright, andpenetrating, with the full innocent gaze of childhood. Her face wasaltogether comely, and her dress did justice to it. She wore her ownsilvery hair and a mob cap, with its delicate lace border fitting closearound her face. She was well dressed, in handsome dark silks, and herlace caps and collars looked always new. No Quaker was ever neater, while she kept up with the times in her dress as in her habit of mind, as far as became her years. In her whole appearance there was alwayssomething for even the passing stranger to admire, and never anythingfor the most familiar friend to wish otherwise. " She died, "withoutsuffering, in the full possession of her faculties, " in her ninetiethyear, 1851. 

Her dramatic and poetical works are collected in one volume (1843). HerLife, with selections from her songs, may be found in 'The Songstress ofScotland, ' by Sarah Tytler and J. L. Watson (1871). 

 WOO'D AND MARRIED AND A'

 The bride she is winsome and bonny, Her hair it is snooded sae sleek, And faithfu' and kind is her Johnny, Yet fast fa' the tears on her cheek. New pearlins are cause of her sorrow, New pearlins and plenishing too: The bride that has a' to borrow. Has e'en right mickle ado. Woo'd and married and a'! Woo'd and married and a'! Isna she very weel aff To be woo'd and married at a'?

 Her mither then hastily spak:-- "The lassie is glaikit wi' pride; In my pouch I had never a plack On the day when I was a bride. E'en tak' to your wheel and be clever, And draw out your thread in the sun; The gear that is gifted, it never Will last like the gear that is won. Woo'd and married and a'! Wi' havins and tocher sae sma'! I think ye are very weel aff To be woo'd and married at a'!"

 "Toot, toot!" quo' her gray-headed faither, "She's less o' a bride than a bairn; She's ta'en like a cout frae the heather, Wi' sense and discretion to learn. Half husband, I trow, and half daddy, As humor inconstantly leans, The chiel maun be patient and steady That yokes wi' a mate in her teens. A kerchief sae douce and sae neat, O'er her locks that the wind used to blaw! I'm baith like to laugh and to greet When I think o' her married at a'. "

 Then out spak' the wily bridegroom, Weel waled were his wordies I ween:-- "I'm rich, though my coffer be toom, Wi' the blinks o' your bonny blue e'en. I'm prouder o' thee by my side, Though thy ruffles or ribbons be few, Than if Kate o' the Croft were my bride, Wi' purfles and pearlins enow. Dear and dearest of ony! Ye're woo'd and buiket and a'! And do ye think scorn o' your Johnny, And grieve to be married at a'?"

 She turn'd, and she blush'd, and she smil'd, And she looket sae bashfully down; The pride o' her heart was beguil'd, And she played wi' the sleeves o' her gown; She twirlet the tag o' her lace, And she nippet her bodice sae blue, Syne blinket sae sweet in his face, And aff like a maukin she flew. Woo'd and married and a'! Wi' Johnny to roose her and a'! She thinks hersel' very weel aff To be woo'd and married at a'!

 IT WAS ON A MORN WHEN WE WERE THRANG

 It was on a morn when we were thrang, The kirn it croon'd, the cheese was making, And bannocks on the girdle baking, When ane at the door chapp't loud and lang. Yet the auld gudewife, and her mays sae tight, Of a' this bauld din took sma' notice I ween; For a chap at the door in braid daylight Is no like a chap that's heard at e'en. 

 But the docksy auld laird of the Warlock glen, Wha waited without, half blate, half cheery, And langed for a sight o' his winsome deary, Raised up the latch and cam' crousely ben. His coat it was new, and his o'erlay was white, His mittens and hose were cozie and bien; But a wooer that comes in braid daylight Is no like a wooer that comes at e'en. 

 He greeted the carline and lasses sae braw, And his bare lyart pow sae smoothly he straikit, And he looket about, like a body half glaikit, On bonny sweet Nanny, the youngest of a'. "Ha, laird!" quo' the carline, "and look ye that way? Fye, let na' sie fancies bewilder you clean: An elderlin man, in the noon o' the day, Should be wiser than youngsters that come at e'en. 

 "Na, na, " quo' the pawky auld wife, "I trow You'll no fash your head wi' a youthfu' gilly, As wild and as skeig as a muirland filly: Black Madge is far better and fitter for you. " He hem'd and he haw'd, and he drew in his mouth, And he squeezed the blue bannet his twa hands between; For a wooer that comes when the sun's i' the south Is mair landward than wooers that come at e'en. 

 "Black Madge is sae carefu'"--"What's that to me?" "She's sober and cydent, has sense in her noodle; She's douce and respeckit"--"I carena a bodle: Love winna be guided, and fancy's free. " Madge toss'd back her head wi' a saucy slight, And Nanny, loud laughing, ran out to the green; For a wooer that comes when the sun shines bright Is no like a wooer that comes at e'en. 

 Then away flung the laird, and loud mutter'd he, "A' the daughters of Eve, between Orkney and Tweed O! Black or fair, young or auld, dame or damsel or widow, May gang in their pride to the de'il for me!" But the auld gudewife, and her mays sae tight, Cared little for a' his stour banning, I ween; For a wooer that comes in braid daylight Is no like a wooer that comes at e'en. 

 FY, LET US A' TO THE WEDDING

 (An Auld Sang, New Buskit)

 Fy, let us a' to the wedding, For they will be lilting there; For Jock's to be married to Maggy, The lass wi' the gowden hair. 

 And there will be jibing and jeering, And glancing of bonny dark een, Loud laughing and smooth-gabbit speering O' questions baith pawky and keen. 

 And there will be Bessy the beauty, Wha raises her cockup sae hie, And giggles at preachings and duty, -- Guid grant that she gang na' ajee!

 And there will be auld Geordie Taunner, Wha coft a young wife wi' his gowd; She'll flaunt wi' a silk gown upon her, But wow! he looks dowie and cow'd. 

 And brown Tibbey Fouler the Heiress Will perk at the tap o' the ha', Encircled wi' suitors, wha's care is To catch up her gloves when they fa', --

 Repeat a' her jokes as they're cleckit, And haver and glower in her face, When tocherless mays are negleckit, -- A crying and scandalous case. 

 And Mysie, wha's clavering aunty Wud match her wi' Laurie the Laird, And learns the young fule to be vaunty, But neither to spin nor to caird. 

 And Andrew, wha's granny is yearning To see him a clerical blade, Was sent to the college for learning, And cam' back a coof as he gaed. 

 And there will be auld Widow Martin, That ca's hersel thritty and twa! And thraw-gabbit Madge, wha for certain Was jilted by Hab o' the Shaw. 

 And Elspy the sewster sae genty, A pattern of havens and sense. Will straik on her mittens sae dainty, And crack wi' Mess John i' the spence. 

 And Angus, the seer o' ferlies, That sits on the stane at his door, And tells about bogles, and mair lies Than tongue ever utter'd before. 

 And there will be Bauldy the boaster Sae ready wi' hands and wi' tongue; Proud Paty and silly Sam Foster, Wha quarrel wi' auld and wi' young:

 And Hugh the town-writer, I'm thinking, That trades in his lawerly skill, Will egg on the fighting and drinking To bring after-grist to his mill;

 And Maggy--na, na! we'll be civil, And let the wee bridie a-be; A vilipend tongue is the devil, And ne'er was encouraged by me. 

 Then fy, let us a' to the wedding, For they will be lilting there Frae mony a far-distant ha'ding, The fun and the feasting to share. 

 For they will get sheep's head, and haggis, And browst o' the barley-mow; E'en he that comes latest, and lag is, May feast upon dainties enow. 

 Veal florentines in the o'en baken, Weel plenish'd wi' raisins and fat; Beef, mutton, and chuckies, a' taken Het reeking frae spit and frae pat:

 And glasses (I trow 'tis na' said ill), To drink the young couple good luck, Weel fill'd wi' a braw beechen ladle Frae punch-bowl as big as Dumbuck. 

 And then will come dancing and daffing, And reelin' and crossin' o' hans, Till even auld Lucky is laughing, As back by the aumry she stans. 

 Sic bobbing and flinging and whirling, While fiddlers are making their din; And pipers are droning and skirling As loud as the roar o' the lin. 

 Then fy, let us a' to the wedding, For they will be lilting there, For Jock's to be married to Maggy, The lass wi' the gowden hair. 

 THE WEARY PUND O' TOW

 A young gudewife is in my house And thrifty means to be, But aye she's runnin' to the town Some ferlie there to see. The weary pund, the weary pund, the weary pund o' tow, I soothly think, ere it be spun, I'll wear a lyart pow. 

 And when she sets her to her wheel To draw her threads wi' care, In comes the chapman wi' his gear, And she can spin nae mair. The weary pund, etc. 

 And she, like ony merry may, At fairs maun still be seen, At kirkyard preachings near the tent, At dances on the green. The weary pund, etc. 

 Her dainty ear a fiddle charms, A bagpipe's her delight, But for the crooning o' her wheel She disna care a mite. The weary pund, etc. 

 You spake, my Kate, of snaw-white webs, Made o' your linkum twine, But, ah! I fear our bonny burn Will ne'er lave web o' thine. The weary pund, etc. 

 Nay, smile again, my winsome mate; Sic jeering means nae ill; Should I gae sarkless to my grave, I'll lo'e and bless thee still. The weary pund, etc. 

 FROM 'DE MONTFORT': A TRAGEDY

 ACT V--SCENE III

_Moonlight. A wild path in a wood, shaded with trees. Enter _De Montfort_, with a strong expression of disquiet, mixed with fear, upon hisface, looking behind him, and bending his ear to the ground, as ifhe listened to something. _

 De Montfort--How hollow groans the earth beneath my tread: Is there an echo here? Methinks it sounds As though some heavy footsteps followed me. I will advance no farther. Deep settled shadows rest across the path, And thickly-tangled boughs o'erhang this spot. O that a tenfold gloom did cover it, That 'mid the murky darkness I might strike! As in the wild confusion of a dream, Things horrid, bloody, terrible do pass, As though they passed not; nor impress the mind With the fixed clearness of reality. 

 [_An owl is heard screaming near him. _]

 [_Starting. _] What sound is that?

 [_Listens, and the owl cries again. _]

 It is the screech-owl's cry. Foul bird of night! What spirit guides thee here? Art thou instinctive drawn to scenes of horror? I've heard of this. [_Pauses and listens. _] How those fallen leaves so rustle on the path, With whispering noise, as though the earth around me Did utter secret things. The distant river, too, bears to mine ear A dismal wailing. O mysterious night! Thou art not silent; many tongues hast thou. A distant gathering blast sounds through the wood, And dark clouds fleetly hasten o'er the sky; Oh that a storm would rise, a raging storm; Amidst the roar of warring elements I'd lift my hand and strike! but this pale light, The calm distinctness of each stilly thing, Is terrible. --[_Starting. _] Footsteps, and near me, too! He comes! he comes! I'll watch him farther on-- I cannot do it here. [_Exit. _]

_Enter_ Rezenvelt, _and continues his way slowly from the bottom of thestage; as he advances to the front, the owl screams, he stops andlistens, and the owl screams again. _

 _Rezenvelt_--Ha! does the night-bird greet me on my way? How much his hooting is in harmony With such a scene as this! I like it well. Oft when a boy, at the still twilight hour, I've leant my back against some knotted oak, And loudly mimicked him, till to my call He answer would return, and through the gloom We friendly converse held. Between me and the star-bespangled sky, Those aged oaks their crossing branches wave, And through them looks the pale and placid moon. How like a crocodile, or winged snake, Yon sailing cloud bears on its dusky length! And now transformed by the passing wind, Methinks it seems a flying Pegasus. Ay, but a shapeless band of blacker hue Comes swiftly after. -- A hollow murm'ring wind sounds through the trees; I hear it from afar; this bodes a storm. I must not linger here--

 [_A bell heard at some distance. _] The convent bell. 'Tis distant still: it tells their hour of prayer. It sends a solemn sound upon the breeze, That, to a fearful, superstitious mind, In such a scene, would like a death-knell come. [_Exit. _]

 TO MRS. SIDDONS

 Gifted of heaven! who hast, in days gone by, Moved every heart, delighted every eye; While age and youth, of high and low degree, In sympathy were joined, beholding thee, As in the Drama's ever-changing scene Thou heldst thy splendid state, our tragic queen! No barriers there thy fair domains confined, Thy sovereign sway was o'er the human mind; And in the triumph of that witching hour, Thy lofty bearing well became thy power. 

 The impassioned changes of thy beauteous face, Thy stately form, and high imperial grace; Thine arms impetuous tossed, thy robe's wide flow, And the dark tempest gathered on thy brow; What time thy flashing eye and lip of scorn Down to the dust thy mimic foes have borne; Remorseful musings, sunk to deep dejection, The fixed and yearning looks of strong affection; The active turmoil a wrought bosom rending, When pity, love, and honor, are contending;-- They who beheld all this, right well, I ween, A lovely, grand, and wondrous sight have seen. 

 Thy varied accents, rapid, fitful, slow, Loud rage, and fear's snatched whisper, quick and low; The burst of stifled love, the wail of grief, And tones of high command, full, solemn, brief; The change of voice, and emphasis that threw Light on obscurity, and brought to view Distinctions nice, when grave or comic mood, Or mingled humors, terse and new, elude Common perception, as earth's smallest things To size and form the vesting hoar-frost brings, That seemed as if some secret voice, to clear The raveled meaning, whispered in thine ear, And thou hadst e'en with him communion kept, Who hath so long in Stratford's chancel slept; Whose lines, where nature's brightest traces shine, Alone were worthy deemed of powers like thine;-- They who have heard all this, have proved full well Of soul-exciting sound the mightiest spell. But though time's lengthened shadows o'er thee glide, And pomp of regal state is cast aside, Think not the glory of thy course is spent, There's moonlight radiance to thy evening lent, That to the mental world can never fade, Till all who saw thee, in the grave are laid. Thy graceful form still moves in nightly dreams, And what thou wast, to the lulled sleeper seems; While feverish fancy oft doth fondly trace Within her curtained couch thy wondrous face. Yea; and to many a wight, bereft and lone, In musing hours, though all to thee unknown, Soothing his earthly course of good and ill, With all thy potent charm, thou actest still. And now in crowded room or rich saloon, Thy stately presence recognized, how soon On thee the glance of many an eye is cast, In grateful memory of pleasures past! Pleased to behold thee, with becoming grace, Take, as befits thee well, an honored place; Where blest by many a heart, long mayst thou stand, Among the virtuous matrons of our land!

 A SCOTCH SONG

 The gowan glitters on the sward, The lavrock's in the sky, And collie on my plaid keeps ward, And time is passing by. Oh no! sad and slow And lengthened on the ground, The shadow of our trysting bush It wears so slowly round!

 My sheep-bell tinkles frae the west, My lambs are bleating near, But still the sound that I lo'e best, Alack! I canna' hear. Oh no! sad and slow, The shadow lingers still, And like a lanely ghaist I stand And croon upon the hill. 

 I hear below the water roar, The mill wi' clacking din, And Lucky scolding frae her door, To ca' the bairnies in. Oh no! sad and slow, These are na' sounds for me, The shadow of our trysting bush, It creeps so drearily!

 I coft yestreen, frae Chapman Tarn, A snood of bonny blue, And promised when our trysting cam', To tie it round her brow. Oh no! sad and slow, The mark it winna' pass; The shadow of that weary thorn Is tethered on the grass. 

 Oh, now I see her on the way, She's past the witch's knowe, She's climbing up the Browny's brae, My heart is in a lowe! Oh no! 'tis no' so, 'Tis glam'rie I have seen; The shadow of that hawthorn bush Will move na' mair till e'en. 

 My book o' grace I'll try to read, Though conn'd wi' little skill, When collie barks I'll raise my head, And find her on the hill. Oh no! sad and slow, The time will ne'er be gane, The shadow of the trysting bush Is fixed like ony stane. 

 SONG, 'POVERTY PARTS GOOD COMPANY'

 For an old Scotch Air

 When my o'erlay was white as the foam o' the lin, And siller was chinkin my pouches within, When my lambkins were bleatin on meadow and brae, As I went to my love in new cleeding sae gay, Kind was she, and my friends were free, But poverty parts good company. 

 How swift passed the minutes and hours of delight, When piper played cheerly, and crusie burned bright, And linked in my hand was the maiden sae dear, As she footed the floor in her holyday gear! Woe is me; and can it then be, That poverty parts sic company?

 We met at the fair, and we met at the kirk, We met i' the sunshine, we met i' the mirk; And the sound o' her voice, and the blinks o' her een, The cheerin and life of my bosom hae been. Leaves frae the tree at Martinmass flee, And poverty parts sweet company. 

 At bridal and infare I braced me wi' pride, The broose I hae won, and a kiss o' the bride; And loud was the laughter good fellows among, As I uttered my banter or chorused my song; Dowie and dree are jestin and glee, When poverty spoils good company. 

 Wherever I gaed, kindly lasses looked sweet, And mithers and aunties were unco discreet; While kebbuck and bicker were set on the board: But now they pass by me, and never a word! Sae let it be, for the worldly and slee Wi' poverty keep nae company. 

 But the hope of my love is a cure for its smart, And the spae-wife has tauld me to keep up my heart; For, wi' my last saxpence, her loof I hae crost, And the bliss that is fated can never be lost, Though cruelly we may ilka day see How poverty parts dear company. 

 THE KITTEN

 Wanton droll, whose harmless play Beguiles the rustic's closing day, When, drawn the evening fire about, Sit aged crone and thoughtless lout, And child upon his three-foot stool, Waiting until his supper cool, And maid whose cheek outblooms the rose, As bright the blazing fagot glows, Who, bending to the friendly light, Plies her task with busy sleight, Come, show thy tricks and sportive graces, Thus circled round with merry faces: Backward coiled and crouching low, With glaring eyeballs watch thy foe, The housewife's spindle whirling round, Or thread or straw that on the ground Its shadow throws, by urchin sly Held out to lure thy roving eye; Then stealing onward, fiercely spring Upon the tempting, faithless thing. Now, wheeling round with bootless skill, Thy bo-peep tail provokes thee still, As still beyond thy curving side Its jetty tip is seen to glide; Till from thy centre starting far, Thou sidelong veer'st with rump in air Erected stiff, and gait awry, Like madam in her tantrums high; Though ne'er a madam of them all, Whose silken kirtle sweeps the hall, More varied trick and whim displays To catch the admiring stranger's gaze. Doth power in measured verses dwell, All thy vagaries wild to tell? Ah, no! the start, the jet, the bound, The giddy scamper round and round, With leap and toss and high curvet, And many a whirling somerset, (Permitted by the modern muse Expression technical to use)--These mock the deftest rhymester's skill, But poor in art, though rich in will. 

 The featest tumbler, stage bedight, To thee is but a clumsy wight, Who every limb and sinew strains To do what costs thee little pains; For which, I trow, the gaping crowd Requite him oft with plaudits loud. 

 But, stopped the while thy wanton play, Applauses too thy pains repay: For then, beneath some urchin's hand With modest pride thou takest thy stand, While many a stroke of kindness glides Along thy back and tabby sides. Dilated swells thy glossy fur, And loudly croons thy busy purr, As, timing well the equal sound, Thy clutching feet bepat the ground, And all their harmless claws disclose Like prickles of an early rose, While softly from thy whiskered cheek Thy half-closed eyes peer, mild and meek. 

 But not alone by cottage fire Do rustics rude thy feats admire. The learned sage, whose thoughts explore The widest range of human lore, Or with unfettered fancy fly Through airy heights of poesy, Pausing smiles with altered air To see thee climb his elbow-chair, Or, struggling on the mat below, Hold warfare with his slippered toe. The widowed dame or lonely maid, Who, in the still but cheerless shade Of home unsocial, spends her age, And rarely turns a lettered page, Upon her hearth for thee lets fall The rounded cork or paper ball, Nor chides thee on thy wicked watch, The ends of raveled skein to catch, But lets thee have thy wayward will, Perplexing oft her better skill. 

 E'en he whose mind, of gloomy bent, In lonely tower or prison pent, Reviews the coil of former days, And loathes the world and all its ways, What time the lamp's unsteady gleam Hath roused him from his moody dream, Feels, as thou gambol'st round his seat, His heart of pride less fiercely beat, And smiles, a link in thee to find That joins it still to living kind. 

 Whence hast thou then, thou witless puss! The magic power to charm us thus? Is it that in thy glaring eye And rapid movements we descry-- Whilst we at ease, secure from ill, The chimney corner snugly fill-- A lion darting on his prey, A tiger at his ruthless play? Or is it that in thee we trace, With all thy varied wanton grace, An emblem, viewed with kindred eye Of tricky, restless infancy? Ah! many a lightly sportive child, Who hath like thee our wits beguiled, To dull and sober manhood grown, With strange recoil our hearts disown. 

 And so, poor kit! must thou endure, When thou becom'st a cat demure, Full many a cuff and angry word, Chased roughly from the tempting board. But yet, for that thou hast, I ween, So oft our favored playmate been, Soft be the change which thou shalt prove! When time hath spoiled thee of our love, Still be thou deemed by housewife fat A comely, careful, mousing cat, Whose dish is, for the public good, Replenished oft with savory food, Nor, when thy span of life is past, Be thou to pond or dung-hill cast, But, gently borne on goodman's spade, Beneath the decent sod be laid; And children show with glistening eyes The place where poor old pussy lies. 

HENRY MARTYN BAIRD

(1832-)

That stirring period of the history of France which in certain of itsfeatures has been made so familiar by Dumas through the 'ThreeMusketeers' series and others of his fascinating novels, is that whichhas been the theme of Dr. Baird in the substantial work to which so manyyears of his life have been devoted. It is to the elucidation of oneportion only of the history of this period that he has given himself;but although in this, the story of the Huguenots, nominally only amatter of religious belief was involved, it in fact embraced almost theentire internal politics of the nation, and the struggles for supremacyof its ambitious families, as well as the effort to achievereligious freedom. 

[Illustration: HENRY M. BAIRD]

In these separate but related works the incidents of the wholeProtestant movement have been treated. The first of these, 'The Historyof the Rise of the Huguenots in France' (1879), carries the story to thetime of Henry of Valois (1574), covering the massacre of St. Bartholomew; the second, 'The Huguenots and Henry of Navarre' (1886), covers the Protestant ascendancy and the Edict of Nantes, and ends withthe assassination of Henry in 1610; and the third, 'The Huguenots andthe Revocation of the Edict of Nantes' (1895), completes the main story, and indeed brings the narrative down to a date much later than the titleseems to imply. 

It may be said, perhaps, that Dr. Baird holds a brief for the plaintiffin the case; but his work does not produce the impression of being thatof a violently prejudiced, although an interested, writer. He is cooland careful, writing with precision, and avoiding even the effects whichthe historian may reasonably feel himself entitled to produce, and ofwhich the period naturally offers so many. 

Henry Martyn Baird was born in Philadelphia, January 17th, 1832, and waseducated at the University of the City of New York and the University ofAthens, and at Union and Princeton Theological Seminaries. In 1855 hebecame a tutor at Princeton; and in the following year he published aninteresting volume on 'Modern Greece, a Narrative of Residence andTravel. ' In 1859 he was appointed to the chair of Greek Language andLiterature in the University of the City of New York. 

In addition to the works heretofore named, he is the author of abiography of his father, Robert Baird, D. D. 

THE BATTLE OF IVRY

From 'The Huguenots and Henry of Navarre': Charles Scribner's Sons. 

The battle began with a furious cannonade from the King's artillery, soprompt that nine rounds of shot had been fired before the enemy wereready to reply, so well directed that great havoc was made in theopposing lines. Next, the light horse of M. De Rosne, upon the extremeright of the Leaguers, made a dash upon Marshal d'Aumont, but werevaliantly received. Their example was followed by the German reiters, who threw themselves upon the defenders of the King's artillery and uponthe light horse of Aumont, who came to their relief; then, after theircustomary fashion, wheeled around, expecting to pass easily through thegaps between the friendly corps of Mayenne and Egmont, and to reloadtheir firearms at their leisure in the rear, by way of preparation for asecond charge. 

Owing to the blunder of Tavannes, however, they met a serried line ofhorse where they looked for an open field; and the Walloon cavalry foundthemselves compelled to set their lances in threatening position to wardoff the dangerous onset of their retreating allies. Another charge, madeby a squadron of the Walloon lancers themselves, was bravely met byBaron Biron. His example was imitated by the Duke of Montpensier fartherdown the field. Although the one leader was twice wounded, and the otherhad his horse killed under him, both ultimately succeeded in repulsingthe enemy. 

It was about this time that the main body of Henry's horse becameengaged with the gallant array of cavalry in their front. Mayenne hadplaced upon the left of his squadron a body of four hundred mountedcarabineers. These, advancing first, rode rapidly toward the King'sline, took aim, and discharged their weapons with deadly effect withintwenty-five paces. Immediately afterward the main force of eighteenhundred lancers presented themselves. The King had fastened a greatwhite plume to his helmet, and had adorned his horse's head withanother, equally conspicuous. "Comrades!" he now exclaimed to thoseabout him, "Comrades! God is for us! There are his enemies and ours! Ifyou lose sight of your standards, rally to my white plume; you will findit on the road to victory and to honor. " The Huguenots had knelt aftertheir fashion; again Gabriel d'Amours had offered for them a prayer tothe God of battles: but no Joyeuse dreamed of suspecting that they weremeditating surrender or flight. The King, with the brave Huguenotminister's prediction of victory still ringing in his ears, plunged intothe thickest of the fight, two horses' length ahead of his companions. That moment he forgot that he was King of France and general-in-chief, both in one, and fought as if he were a private soldier. It was indeed abold venture. True, the enemy, partly because of the confusion inducedby the reiters, partly from the rapidity of the King's movements, hadlost in some measure the advantage they should have derived from theirlances, and were compelled to rely mainly upon their swords, as againstthe firearms of their opponents. Still, they outnumbered the knights ofthe King's squadron more than as two to one. No wonder that some of thelatter flinched and actually turned back; especially when thestandard-bearer of the King, receiving a deadly wound in the face, lostcontrol of his horse, and went riding aimlessly about the field, stillgrasping the banner in grim desperation. But the greater number emulatedthe courage of their leader. The white plume kept them in the road tovictory and to honor. Yet even this beacon seemed at one moment to failthem. Another cavalier, who had ostentatiously decorated his helmet muchafter the same fashion as the King, was slain in the hand-to-handconflict, and some, both of the Huguenots and of their enemies, for atime supposed the great Protestant champion himself to have fallen. 

But although fiercely contested, the conflict was not long. The troopersof Mayenne wavered, and finally fled. Henry of Navarre emerged from theconfusion, to the great relief of his anxious followers, safe and sound, covered with dust and blood not his own. More than once he had been ingreat personal peril. On his return from the melée, he halted, with ahandful of companions, under the pear-trees indicated beforehand as arallying-point, when he was descried and attacked by three bands ofWalloon horse that had not yet engaged in the fight. Only his own valorand the timely arrival of some of his troops saved the imprudent monarchfrom death or captivity. 

The rout of Mayenne's principal corps was quickly followed by thedisintegration of his entire army. The Swiss auxiliaries of the League, though compelled to surrender their flags, were, as ancient allies ofthe crown, admitted to honorable terms of capitulation. To the French, who fell into the King's hands, he was equally clement. Indeed, hespared no efforts to save their lives. But it was otherwise with theGerman lansquenets. Their treachery at Arques, where they had pretendedto come over to the royal side only to turn upon those who had believedtheir protestations and welcomed them to their ranks, was yet fresh inthe memory of all. They received no mercy at the King's hands. 

Gathering his available forces together, and strengthened by theaccession of old Marshal Biron, who had been compelled, much against hiswill, to remain a passive spectator while others fought, Henry pursuedthe remnants of the army of the League many a mile to Mantes and thebanks of the Seine. If their defeat by a greatly inferior force had beenlittle to the credit of either the generals or the troops of the League, their precipitate flight was still less decorous. The much-vauntedFlemish lancers distinguished themselves, it was said, by not pausinguntil they found safety beyond the borders of France; and Mayenne, neverrenowned for courage, emulated or surpassed them in the eagerness hedisplayed, on reaching the little town from which the battle took itsname, to put as many leagues as possible between himself and hispursuers. "The enemy thus ran away, " says the Englishman William Lyly, who was an eye-witness of the battle; "Mayenne to Ivry, where theWalloons and reiters followed so fast that there standing, hasting todraw breath, and not able to speak, he was constrained to draw his swordto strike the flyers to make place for his own flight. "

The battle had been a short one. Between ten and eleven o'clock thefirst attack was made; in less than an hour the army of the League wasrouted. It had been a glorious action for the King and his oldHuguenots, and not less for the loyal Roman Catholics who clung to him. None seemed discontented but old Marshal Biron, who, when he met theKing coming out of the fray with battered armor and blunted sword, couldnot help contrasting the opportunity his Majesty had enjoyed todistinguish himself with his own enforced inactivity, and exclaimed, "Sire, this is not right! You have to-day done what Biron ought to havedone, and he has done what the King should have done. " But even Bironwas unable to deny that the success of the royal arms surpassed allexpectation, and deserved to rank among the wonders of history. Thepreponderance of the enemy in numbers had been great. There was noquestion that the impetuous attacks of their cavalry upon the left wingof the King were for a time almost successful. The official accountsmight conveniently be silent upon the point, but the truth could not bedisguised that at the moment Henry plunged into battle a part of hisline was grievously shaken, a part was in full retreat, and the prospectwas dark enough. Some of his immediate followers, indeed, at this timeturned countenance and were disposed to flee, whereupon he recalled themto their duty with the words, "Look this way, in order that if you willnot fight, at least you may see me die. " But the steady and determinedcourage of the King, well seconded by soldiers not less brave, turnedthe tide of battle. "The enemy took flight, " says the devout DuplessisMornay, "terrified rather by God than by men; for it is certain that theone side was not less shaken than the other. " And with the flight of thecavalry, Mayenne's infantry, constituting, as has been seen, three-fourths of his entire army, gave up the day as lost, withoutstriking a blow for the cause they had come to support. How many men thearmy of the League lost in killed and wounded it is difficult to say. The Prince of Parma reported to his master the loss of two hundred andseventy of the Flemish lancers, together with their commander, the Countof Egmont. The historian De Thou estimates the entire number of deathson the side of the League, including the combatants that fell in thebattle and the fugitives drowned at the crossing of the river Eure, byIvry, at eight hundred. The official account, on the other hand, agreeswith Marshal Biron, in stating that of the cavalry alone more thanfifteen hundred died, and adds that four hundred were taken prisoners;while Davila swells the total of the slain to the incredible sum ofupward of six thousand men. 

SIR SAMUEL WHITE BAKER

(1821-1893)

The Northwest Passage, the Pole itself, and the sources of the Nile--howmany have struggled through ice and snow, or burned themselves withtropic heat, in the effort to penetrate these secrets of the earth! Andhow many have left their bones to whiten on the desert or lie hiddenbeneath icebergs at the end of the search!

Of the fortunate ones who escaped after many perils, Baker was one ofthe most fortunate. He explored the Blue and the White Nile, discoveredat least one of the reservoirs from which flows the great river ofEgypt, and lived to tell the tale and to receive due honor, beingknighted by the Queen therefor, fêted by learned societies, and sentsubsequently by the Khedive at the head of a large force with commissionto destroy the slave trade. In this he appears to have been successfulfor a time, but for a time only. 

[Illustration: SIR SAMUEL BAKER]

Baker was born in London, June 8th, 1821, and died December 30th, 1893. With his brother he established, in 1847, a settlement in the mountainsof Ceylon, where he spent several years. His experiences in the far Eastappear in books entitled 'The Rifle and Hound in Ceylon' and 'EightYears Wandering in Ceylon. ' In 1861, accompanied by his young wife andan escort, he started up the Nile, and three years later, on the 14th ofMarch, 1864, at length reached the cliffs overlooking the Albert Nyanza, being the first European to behold its waters. Like most Englishmen, hewas an enthusiastic sportsman, and his manner of life afforded him agreat variety of unusual experiences. He visited Cyprus in 1879, afterthe execution of the convention between England and Turkey, andsubsequently he traveled to Syria, India, Japan, and America. He keptvoluminous notes of his various journeys, which he utilized in thepreparation of numerous volumes:--'The Albert Nyanza'; 'The NileTributaries of Abyssinia'; 'Ismäilia, ' a narrative of the expeditionunder the auspices of the Khedive; 'Cyprus as I Saw It in 1879';together with 'Wild Beasts and Their Ways, ' 'True Tales for MyGrandsons, ' and a story entitled 'Cast Up by the Sea, ' which was formany years a great favorite with the boys of England and America. Theyare all full of life and incident. One of the most delightful memoriesof them which readers retain is the figure of his lovely wife, so fullof courage, loyalty, buoyancy, and charm. He had that rarest ofpossibilities, spirit-stirring adventure and home companionship at once. 

HUNTING IN ABYSSINIA

From 'The Nile Tributaries of Abyssinia'

On arrival at the camp, I resolved to fire the entire country on thefollowing day, and to push still farther up the course of the Settite tothe foot of the mountains, and to return to this camp in about afortnight, by which time the animals that had been scared away by thefire would have returned. Accordingly, on the following morning, accompanied by a few of the aggageers, I started upon the south bank ofthe river, and rode for some distance into the interior, to the groundthat was entirely covered with high withered grass. We were passingthrough a mass of kittar thorn bush, almost hidden by the immensely highgrass, when, as I was ahead of the party, I came suddenly upon thetracks of rhinoceros; these were so unmistakably recent that I felt surewe were not far from the animals themselves. As I had wished to fire thegrass, I was accompanied by my Tokrooris, and my horse-keeper, MahometNo. 2. It was difficult ground for the men, and still more unfavorablefor the horses, as large disjointed masses of stone were concealed inthe high grass. 

We were just speculating as to the position of the rhinoceros, andthinking how uncommonly unpleasant it would be should he obtain ourwind, when whiff! whiff! whiff! We heard the sharp whistling snort, witha tremendous rush through the high grass and thorns close to us; and atthe same moment two of these determined brutes were upon us in fullcharge. I never saw such a scrimmage; _sauve qui peut_! There was notime for more than one look behind. I dug the spurs into Aggahr'sflanks, and clasping him round the neck, I ducked my head down to hisshoulder, well protected with my strong hunting cap, and I kept thespurs going as hard as I could ply them, blindly trusting to Providenceand my good horse, over big rocks, fallen trees, thick kittar thorns, and grass ten feet high, with the two infernal animals in full chaseonly a few feet behind me. I heard their abominable whiffing close tome, but so did my horse also, and the good old hunter flew overobstacles that I should have thought impossible, and he dashed straightunder the hooked thorn bushes and doubled like a hare. The aggageerswere all scattered; Mahomet No. 2 was knocked over by a rhinoceros; allthe men were sprawling upon the rocks with their guns, and the party wasentirely discomfited. Having passed the kittar thorn, I turned, andseeing that the beasts had gone straight on, I brought Aggahr's headround, and tried to give chase, but it was perfectly impossible; it wasonly a wonder that the horse had escaped in ground so difficult forriding. Although my clothes were of the strongest and coarsest Arabcotton cloth, which seldom tore, but simply lost a thread when caught ina thorn, I was nearly naked. My blouse was reduced to shreds; as I woresleeves only half way from the shoulder to the elbow, my naked arms werestreaming with blood; fortunately my hunting cap was secured with a chinstrap, and still more fortunately I had grasped the horse's neck, otherwise I must have been dragged out of the saddle by the hookedthorns. All the men were cut and bruised, some having fallen upon theirheads among the rocks, and others had hurt their legs in falling intheir endeavors to escape. Mahomet. No. 2, the horse-keeper, was morefrightened than hurt, as he had been knocked down by the shoulder, andnot by the horn of the rhinoceros, as the animal had not noticed him:its attention was absorbed by the horse. 

I determined to set fire to the whole country immediately, anddescending the hill toward the river to obtain a favorable wind, I putmy men in a line, extending over about a mile along the river's bed, andthey fired the grass in different places. With a loud roar, the flameleaped high in air and rushed forward with astonishing velocity; thegrass was as inflammable as tinder, and the strong north wind drove thelong line of fire spreading in every direction through the country. 

We now crossed to the other side of the river to avoid the flames, andwe returned toward the camp. On the way I made a long shot and badlywounded a tétel, but lost it in thick thorns; shortly after, I stalked anellut _(A. Strepsiceros_), and bagged it with the Fletcher rifle. 

We arrived early in camp, and on the following day we moved sixteenmiles farther up stream, and camped under a tamarind-tree by the side ofthe river. No European had ever been farther than our last camp, Delladilla, and that spot had only been visited by Johann Schmidt andFlorian. In the previous year, my aggageers had sabred some of the Baséat this very camping-place; they accordingly requested me to keep avigilant watch during the night, as they would be very likely to attackus in revenge, unless they had been scared by the rifles and by the sizeof our party. They advised me not to remain long in this spot, as itwould be very dangerous for my wife to be left almost alone during theday, when we were hunting, and that the Basé would be certain to espy usfrom the mountains, and would most probably attack and carry her offwhen they were assured of our departure. She was not very nervous aboutthis, but she immediately called the dragoman, Mahomet, who knew the useof a gun, and she asked him if he would stand by her in case they wereattacked in my absence; the faithful servant replied, "Mahomet fight theBasé? No, Missus; Mahomet not fight; if the Basé come, Missus fight;Mahomet run away; Mahomet not come all the way from Cairo to get himkilled by black fellers; Mahomet will run--Inshallah!" (Please God. )

This frank avowal of his military tactics was very reassuring. There wasa high hill of basalt, something resembling a pyramid, within a quarterof a mile of us; I accordingly ordered some of my men every day toascend this look-out station, and I resolved to burn the high grass atonce, so as to destroy all cover for the concealment of an enemy. Thatevening I very nearly burned our camp; I had several times ordered themen to clear away the dry grass for about thirty yards from ourresting-place; this they had neglected to obey. We had been joined a fewdays before by a party of about a dozen Hamran Arabs, who werehippopotami hunters; thus we mustered very strong, and it would havebeen the work of about half an hour to have cleared away the grass as Ihad desired. 

The wind was brisk, and blew directly toward our camp, which was backedby the river. I accordingly took a fire-stick, and I told my people tolook sharp, as they would not clear away the grass. I walked to the footof the basalt hill, and fired the grass in several places. In an instantthe wind swept the flame and smoke toward the camp. All was confusion;the Arabs had piled the camel-saddles and all their corn and effects inthe high grass about twenty yards from the tent; there was no time toremove all these things; therefore, unless they could clear away thegrass so as to stop the fire before it should reach the spot, they wouldbe punished for their laziness by losing their property. The firetraveled quicker than I had expected, and, by the time I had hastened tothe tent, I found the entire party working frantically; the Arabs wereslashing down the grass with their swords, and sweeping it away withtheir shields, while my Tokrooris were beating it down with long sticksand tearing it from its withered and fortunately tinder-rotten roots, indesperate haste. The flames rushed on, and we already felt the heat, asvolumes of smoke enveloped us; I thought it advisable to carry thegunpowder (about 20 lbs. ) down to the river, together with the rifles;while my wife and Mahomet dragged the various articles of luggage to thesame place of safety. The fire now approached within about sixty yards, and dragging out the iron pins, I let the tent fall to the ground. TheArabs had swept a line like a high-road perfectly clean, and they werestill tearing away the grass, when they were suddenly obliged to rushback as the flames arrived. 

Almost instantaneously the smoke blew over us, but the fire had expiredupon meeting the cleared ground. I now gave them a little lecture uponobedience to orders; and from that day, their first act upon halting forthe night was to clear away the grass, lest I should repeat theentertainment. In countries that are covered with dry grass, it shouldbe an invariable rule to clear the ground around the camp before night;hostile natives will frequently fire the grass to windward of a party, or careless servants may leave their pipes upon the ground, which fannedby the wind would quickly create a blaze. That night the mountainafforded a beautiful appearance as the flames ascended the steep sides, and ran flickering up the deep gullies with a brilliant light. 

We were standing outside the tent admiring the scene, which perfectlyilluminated the neighborhood, when suddenly an apparition of a lion andlioness stood for an instant before us at about fifteen yards distance, and then disappeared over the blackened ground before I had time tosnatch a rifle from the tent. No doubt they had been disturbed from themountain by the fire, and had mistaken their way in the country sorecently changed from high grass to black ashes. In this locality Iconsidered it advisable to keep a vigilant watch during the night, andthe Arabs were told off for that purpose. 

A little before sunrise I accompanied the howartis, or hippopotamushunters, for a day's sport. There were numbers of hippos in this part ofthe river, and we were not long before we found a herd. The huntersfailed in several attempts to harpoon them, but they succeeded instalking a crocodile after a most peculiar fashion. This large beast waslying upon a sandbank on the opposite margin of the river, close to abed of rushes. 

The howartis, having studied the wind, ascended for about a quarter of amile, and then swam across the river, harpoon in hand. The two menreached the opposite bank, beneath which they alternately waded or swamdown the stream toward the spot upon which the crocodile was lying. Thusadvancing under cover of the steep bank, or floating with the stream indeep places, and crawling like crocodiles across the shallows, the twohunters at length arrived at the bank or rushes, on the other side ofwhich the monster was basking asleep upon the sand. They were now aboutwaist-deep, and they kept close to the rushes with their harpoonsraised, ready to cast the moment they should pass the rush bed and comein view of the crocodile. Thus steadily advancing, they had just arrivedat the corner within about eight yards of the crocodile, when thecreature either saw them, or obtained their wind; in an instant itrushed to the water; at the same moment, the two harpoons were launchedwith great rapidity by the hunters. One glanced obliquely from thescales; the other stuck fairly in the tough hide, and the iron, detachedfrom the bamboo, held fast, while the ambatch float, running on thesurface of the water, marked the course of the reptile beneath. 

The hunters chose a convenient place, and recrossed the stream to ourside, apparently not heeding the crocodiles more than we should pikewhen bathing in England. They would not waste their time by securing thecrocodile at present, as they wished to kill a hippopotamus; the floatwould mark the position, and they would be certain to find it later. Weaccordingly continued our search for hippopotami; these animals appearedto be on the _qui vive_, and, as the hunters once more failed in anattempt, I made a clean shot behind the ear of one, and killed it dead. At length we arrived at a large pool, in which were several sandbankscovered with rushes, and many rocky islands. Among these rocks were aherd of hippopotami, consisting of an old bull and several cows; a younghippo was standing, like an ugly little statue, on a protruding rock, while another infant stood upon its mother's back that listlesslyfloated on the water. 

This was an admirable place for the hunters. They desired me to liedown, and they crept into the jungle out of view of the river; Ipresently observed them stealthily descending the dry bed about twohundred paces above the spot where the hippos were basking behind therocks. They entered the river, and swam down the centre of the streamtoward the rock. This was highly exciting:--the hippos were quiteunconscious of the approaching danger, as, steadily and rapidly, thehunters floated down the strong current; they neared the rock, and bothheads disappeared as they purposely sank out of view; in a few secondslater they reappeared at the edge of the rock upon which the young hippostood. It would be difficult to say which started first, the astonishedyoung hippo into the water, or the harpoons from the hands of thehowartis! It was the affair of a moment; the hunters dived directly theyhad hurled their harpoons, and, swimming for some distance under water, they came to the surface, and hastened to the shore lest an infuriatedhippopotamus should follow them. One harpoon had missed; the other hadfixed the bull of the herd, at which it had been surely aimed. This wasgrand sport! The bull was in the greatest fury, and rose to the surface, snorting and blowing in his impotent rage; but as the ambatch float wasexceedingly large, and this naturally accompanied his movements, hetried to escape from his imaginary persecutor, and dived constantly, only to find his pertinacious attendant close to him upon regaining thesurface. This was not to last long; the howartis were in earnest, andthey at once called their party, who, with two of the aggageers, Abou Doand Suleiman, were near at hand; these men arrived with the long ropesthat form a portion of the outfit for hippo hunting. 

The whole party now halted on the edge of the river, while two men swamacross with one end of the long rope. Upon gaining the opposite bank, Iobserved that a second rope was made fast to the middle of the mainline; thus upon our side we held the ends of two ropes, while on theopposite side they had only one; accordingly, the point of junction ofthe two ropes in the centre formed an acute angle. The object of thiswas soon practically explained. Two men upon our side now each held arope, and one of these walked about ten yards before the other. Uponboth sides of the river the people now advanced, dragging the rope onthe surface of the water until they reached the ambatch float that wasswimming to and fro, according to the movements of the hippopotamusbelow. By a dexterous jerk of the main line, the float was now placedbetween the two ropes, and it was immediately secured in the acute angleby bringing together the ends of these ropes on our side. 

The men on the opposite bank now dropped their line, and our men hauledin upon the ambatch float that was held fast between the ropes. Thuscleverly made sure, we quickly brought a strain upon the hippo, and, although I have had some experience in handling big fish, I never knewone pull so lustily as the amphibious animal that we now alternatelycoaxed and bullied. He sprang out of the water, gnashed his huge jaws, snorted with tremendous rage, and lashed the river into foam; he thendived, and foolishly approached us beneath the water. We quicklygathered in the slack line, and took a round turn upon a large rock, within a few feet of the river. The hippo now rose to the surface, aboutten yards from the hunters, and, jumping half out of the water, hesnapped his great jaws together, endeavoring to catch the rope, but atthe same instant two harpoons were launched into his side. Disdainingretreat and maddened with rage, the furious animal charged from thedepths of the river, and, gaining a footing, he reared his bulky formfrom the surface, came boldly upon the sandbank, and attacked thehunters open-mouthed. He little knew his enemy; they were not the men tofear a pair of gaping jaws, armed with a deadly array of tusks, but halfa dozen lances were hurled at him, some entering his mouth from adistance of five or six paces, at the same time several men threwhandfuls of sand into his enormous eyes. This baffled him more than thelances; he crunched the shafts between his powerful jaws like straws, but he was beaten by the sand, and, shaking his huge head, he retreatedto the river. During his sally upon the shore, two of the hunters hadsecured the ropes of the harpoons that had been fastened in his bodyjust before his charge; he was now fixed by three of these deadlyinstruments, but suddenly one rope gave way, having been bitten throughby the enraged beast, who was still beneath the water. Immediately afterthis he appeared on the surface, and, without a moment's hesitation, heonce more charged furiously from the water straight at the hunters, withhis huge mouth open to such an extent that he could have accommodatedtwo inside passengers. Suleiman was wild with delight, and springingforward lance in hand, he drove it against the head of the formidableanimal, but without effect. At the same time, Abou Do met the hipposword in hand, reminding me of Perseus slaying the sea-monster thatwould devour Andromeda, but the sword made a harmless gash, and thelance, already blunted against the rocks, refused to penetrate the toughhide; once more handfuls of sand were pelted upon his face, and againrepulsed by this blinding attack, he was forced to retire to his deephole and wash it from his eyes. Six times during the fight the valiantbull hippo quitted his watery fortress, and charged resolutely at hispursuers; he had broken several of their lances in his jaws, otherlances had been hurled, and, falling upon the rocks, they were blunted, and would not penetrate. The fight had continued for three hours, andthe sun was about to set, accordingly the hunters begged me to give himthe _coup de grace_, as they had hauled him close to the shore, and theyfeared he would sever the rope with his teeth. I waited for a goodopportunity, when he boldly raised his head from water about three yardsfrom the rifle, and a bullet from the little Fletcher between the eyesclosed the last act. 

THE SOURCES OF THE NILE

From 'The Albert Nyanza'

The name of this village was Parkani. For several days past our guideshad told us that we were very near to the lake, and we were now assuredthat we should reach it on the morrow. I had noticed a lofty range ofmountains at an immense distance west, and I had imagined that the lakelay on the other side of this chain; but I was now informed that thosemountains formed the western frontier of the M'wootan N'zigé, and thatthe lake was actually within a march of Parkani. I could not believe itpossible that we were so near the object of our search. The guideRabonga now appeared, and declared that if we started early on thefollowing morning we should be able to wash in the lake by noon!

That night I hardly slept. For years I had striven to reach the "sourcesof the Nile. " In my nightly dreams during that arduous voyage I hadalways failed, but after so much hard work and perseverance the cup wasat my very lips, and I was to drink at the mysterious fountain beforeanother sun should set--at that great reservoir of Nature that eversince creation had baffled all discovery. 

I had hoped, and prayed, and striven through all kinds of difficulties, in sickness, starvation, and fatigue, to reach that hidden source; andwhen it had appeared impossible, we had both determined to die upon theroad rather than return defeated. Was it possible that it was so near, and that to-morrow we could say, "the work is accomplished"?

The 14th March. The sun had not risen when I was spurring my ox afterthe guide, who, having been promised a double handful of beads onarrival at the lake, had caught the enthusiasm of the moment. The daybroke beautifully clear, and having crossed a deep valley between thehills, we toiled up the opposite slope. I hurried to the summit. Theglory of our prize burst suddenly upon me! There, like a sea ofquicksilver, lay far beneath the grand expanse of water, --a boundlesssea horizon on the south and southwest, glittering in the noonday sun;and on the west at fifty or sixty miles distance blue mountains rosefrom the bosom of the lake to a height of about 7, 000 feet aboveits level. 

It is impossible to describe the triumph of that moment;--here was thereward for all our labor--for the years of tenacity with which we hadtoiled through Africa. England had won the sources of the Nile! Longbefore I reached this spot I had arranged to give three cheers with allour men in English style in honor of the discovery, but now that Ilooked down upon the great inland sea lying nestled in the very heart ofAfrica, and thought how vainly mankind had sought these sourcesthroughout so many ages, and reflected that I had been the humbleinstrument permitted to unravel this portion of the great mystery whenso many greater than I had failed, I felt too serious to vent myfeelings in vain cheers for victory, and I sincerely thanked God forhaving guided and supported us through all dangers to the good end. Iwas about 1, 500 feet above the lake, and I looked down from the steepgranite cliff upon those welcome waters--upon that vast reservoir whichnourished Egypt and brought fertility where all was wilderness--uponthat great source so long hidden from mankind; that source of bounty andof blessings to millions of human beings; and as one of the greatestobjects in nature, I determined to honor it with a great name. As animperishable memorial of one loved and mourned by our gracious Queen anddeplored by every Englishman, I called this great lake "the AlbertNyanza. " The Victoria and the Albert lakes are the two sources ofthe Nile. 

ARTHUR JAMES BALFOUR

(1848-)

Although the prominence of Arthur James Balfour in English contemporarylife is in the main that of a statesman, he has a high place as a criticof philosophy, especially in its relation to religion. During the earlypart of his life his interests were entirely those of a student. He wasborn in 1848, a member of the Cecil family, and a nephew of the PrimeMinister, Lord Salisbury. His tastes were those of a retired thinker. Hecared for literature, music, and philosophy, but very little for thepolitical world; so little that he never read the newspapers. Thistendency was increased by his delicate health. When, therefore, as ayoung man in the neighborhood of thirty, he was made Secretary forScotland, people laughed. His uncle's choice proved to be a wise one, however; and he later, in 1886, gave his nephew the very importantposition of Irish Secretary, at a time when some of the ablest and mostexperienced statesmen had failed. Mr. Balfour won an unexpected successand a wide reputation, and from that time on he developed rapidly intoone of the most skillful statesmen of the Conservative party. Bytradition and by temperament he is an extreme Tory; and it is in theopposition, as a skillful fencer in debate and a sharp critic ofpretentious schemes, that he has been most admired and most feared. However, he is kept from being narrowly confined to the traditionalpoint of view by the philosophic interests and training of his mind, which he has turned into practical fairness. Some of his speeches aremost original in suggestion, and all show a literary quality of a highorder. His writings on other subjects are also broad, scholarly, andpractical. 'A Defense of Philosophic Doubt' is thought by somephilosophers to be the ablest work of destructive criticism since Hume. 'The Foundations of Belief' covers somewhat the same ground and in morepopular fashion. 'Essays and Addresses' is a collection of papers onliterature and sociology. 

[Illustration: ARTHUR J. BALFOUR]

THE PLEASURES OF READING

From his Rectorial Address before the University of Glasgow

I confess to have been much perplexed in my search for a topic on whichI could say something to which you would have patience to listen, or onwhich I might find it profitable to speak. One theme however there is, not inappropriate to the place in which I stand, nor I hope unwelcome tothe audience which I address. The youngest of you have left behind thatperiod of youth during which it seems inconceivable that any book shouldafford recreation except a story-book. Many of you are just reaching theperiod when, at the end of your prescribed curriculum, the whole fieldand compass of literature lies outspread before you; when, withfaculties trained and disciplined, and the edge of curiosity not dulledor worn with use, you may enter at your leisure into the intellectualheritage of the centuries. 

Now the question of how to read and what to read has of late filled muchspace in the daily papers, if it cannot strictly speaking be said tohave profoundly occupied the public mind. But you need be under noalarm. I am not going to supply you with a new list of the hundred booksmost worth reading, nor am I about to take the world into my confidencein respect of my "favorite passages from the best authors. " Nor again doI address myself to the professed student, to the fortunate individualwith whom literature or science is the business as well as the pleasureof life. I have not the qualifications which would enable me toundertake such a task with the smallest hope of success. My theme ishumble, though the audience to whom I desire to speak is large: for Ispeak to the ordinary reader with ordinary capacities and ordinaryleisure, to whom reading is, or ought to be, not a business but apleasure; and my theme is the enjoyment--not, mark you, the improvement, nor the glory, nor the profit, but the _enjoyment_--which may be derivedby such an one from books. 

It is perhaps due to the controversial habits engendered by myunfortunate profession, that I find no easier method of making my ownview clear than that of contrasting with it what I regard as anerroneous view held by somebody else; and in the present case thedoctrine which I shall choose as a foil to my own, is one which has beenstated with the utmost force and directness by that brilliant anddistinguished writer, Mr. Frederic Harrison. He has, as many of youknow, recently given us, in a series of excellent essays, his opinion onthe principles which should guide us in the choice of books. Againstthat part of his treatise which is occupied with specificrecommendations of certain authors I have not a word to say. He hasresisted all the temptations to eccentricity which so easily beset themodern critic. Every book which he praises deserves his praise, and haslong been praised by the world at large. I do not, indeed, hold that theverdict of the world is necessarily binding on the individualconscience. I admit to the full that there is an enormous quantity ofhollow devotion, of withered orthodoxy divorced from living faith, inthe eternal chorus of praise which goes up from every literary altar tothe memory of the immortal dead. Nevertheless every critic is bound torecognize, as Mr. Harrison recognizes, that he must put down toindividual peculiarity any difference he may have with the generalverdict of the ages; he must feel that mankind are not likely to be in aconspiracy of error as to the kind of literary work which conveys tothem the highest literary enjoyment, and that in such cases at least_securus judicat orbis terrarum_. 

But it is quite possible to hold that any work recommended by Mr. Harrison is worth repeated reading, and yet to reject utterly the theoryof study by which these recommendations are prefaced. For Mr. Harrisonis a ruthless censor. His _index expurgatorius_ includes, so far as Ican discover, the whole catalogue of the British Museum, with theexception of a small remnant which might easily be contained in aboutthirty or forty volumes. The vast remainder he contemplates withfeelings apparently not merely of indifference, but of active aversion. He surveys the boundless and ever-increasing waste of books withemotions compounded of disgust and dismay. He is almost tempted to sayin his haste that the invention of printing has been an evil one forhumanity. In the habits of miscellaneous reading, born of a too easyaccess to libraries, circulating and other, he sees many soul-destroyingtendencies; and his ideal reader would appear to be a gentleman whorejects with a lofty scorn all in history that does not pass for beingfirst-rate in importance, and all in literature that is not admitted tobe first-rate in quality. 

Now, I am far from denying that this theory is plausible. Of all thathas been written, it is certain that the professed student can masterbut an infinitesimal fraction. Of that fraction the ordinary reader canmaster but a very small part. What advice, then, can be better than toselect for study the few masterpieces that have come down to us, and totreat as non-existent the huge but undistinguished remainder? We arelike travelers passing hastily through some ancient city; filled withmemorials of many generations and more than one great civilization. Ourtime is short. Of what may be seen we can only see at best but atrifling fragment. Let us then take care that we waste none of ourprecious moments upon that which is less than the most excellent. Sopreaches Mr. Frederic Harrison; and when a doctrine which put thus mayseem not only wise but obvious, is further supported by such assertionsthat habits of miscellaneous reading "close the mind to what isspiritually sustaining" by "stuffing it with what is simply curious, " orthat such methods of study are worse than no habits of study at allbecause they "gorge and enfeeble" the mind by "excess in that whichcannot nourish, " I almost feel that in venturing to dissent from it, Imay be attacking not merely the teaching of common sense but theinspirations of a high morality. 

Yet I am convinced that for most persons the views thus laid down by Mr. Harrison are wrong; and that what he describes, with characteristicvigor, as "an impotent voracity for desultory information, " is inreality a most desirable and a not too common form of mental appetite. Ihave no sympathy whatever with the horror he expresses at the "incessantaccumulation of fresh books. " I am never tempted to regret thatGutenberg was born into the world. I care not at all though the"cataract of printed stuff, " as Mr. Harrison calls it, should flow andstill flow on until the catalogues of our libraries should makelibraries themselves. I am prepared, indeed, to express sympathy almostamounting to approbation for any one who would check all writing whichwas _not_ intended for the printer. I pay no tribute of gratefuladmiration to those who have oppressed mankind with the dubious blessingof the penny post. But the ground of the distinction is plain. We arealways obliged to read our letters, and are sometimes obliged to answerthem. But who obliges us to wade through the piled-up lumber of anancient library, or to skim more than we like off the frothy foolishnesspoured forth in ceaseless streams by our circulating libraries? Deaddunces do not importune us; Grub Street does not ask for a reply byreturn of post. Even their living successors need hurt no one whopossesses the very moderate degree of social courage required to makethe admission that he has not read the last new novel or the currentnumber of a fashionable magazine. 

But this is not the view of Mr. Harrison. To him the position of any onehaving free access to a large library is fraught with issues sotremendous that, in order adequately to describe it, he has to seek forparallels in two of the most highly-wrought episodes in fiction: theAncient Mariner, becalmed and thirsting on the tropic ocean; Bunyan'sChristian in the crisis of spiritual conflict. But there is here, surely, some error and some exaggeration. Has miscellaneous reading allthe dreadful consequences which Mr. Harrison depicts? Has it any ofthem? His declaration about the intellect being "gorged and enfeebled"by the absorption of too much information, expresses no doubt with greatvigor an analogy, for which there is high authority, between the humanmind and the human stomach; but surely it is an analogy which may bepressed too far. I have often heard of the individual whose excellentnatural gifts have been so overloaded with huge masses of undigested andindigestible learning that they have had no chance of healthydevelopment. But though I have often heard of this personage, I havenever met him, and I believe him to be mythical. It is true, no doubt, that many learned people are dull; but there is no indication whateverthat they are dull because they are learned. True dullness is seldomacquired; it is a natural grace, the manifestations of which, howevermodified by education, remain in substance the same. Fill a dull man tothe brim with knowledge, and he will not become less dull, as theenthusiasts for education vainly imagine; but neither will he becomeduller, as Mr. Harrison appears to suppose. He will remain in essencewhat he always has been and always must have been. But whereas hisdullness would, if left to itself, have been merely vacuous, it may havebecome, under cureful cultivation, pretentious and pedantic. 

I would further point out to you that while there is no ground inexperience for supposing that a keen interest in those facts which Mr. Harrison describes as "merely curious" has any stupefying effect uponthe mind, or has any tendency to render it insensible to the higherthings of literature and art, there is positive evidence that many ofthose who have most deeply felt the charm of these higher things havebeen consumed by that omnivorous appetite for knowledge which excitesMr. Harrison's especial indignation. Dr. Johnson, for instance, thoughdeaf to some of the most delicate harmonies of verse, was withoutquestion a very great critic. Yet in Dr. Johnson's opinion, literaryhistory, which is for the most part composed of facts which Mr. Harrisonwould regard as insignificant, about authors whom he would regard aspernicious, was the most delightful of studies. Again, consider the caseof Lord Macaulay. Lord Macaulay did everything Mr. Harrison says heought not to have done. From youth to age he was continuously occupiedin "gorging and enfeebling" his intellect, by the unlimited consumptionof every species of literature, from the masterpieces of the age ofPericles to the latest rubbish from the circulating library. It is nottold of him that his intellect suffered by the process; and though itwill hardly be claimed for him that he was a great critic, none willdeny that he possessed the keenest susceptibilities for literaryexcellence in many languages and in every form. If Englishmen andScotchmen do not satisfy you, I will take a Frenchman. The mostaccomplished critic whom France has produced is, by general admission, Ste. -Beuve. His capacity for appreciating supreme perfection inliterature will be disputed by none; yet the great bulk of his vastliterary industry was expended upon the lives and writings of authorswhose lives Mr. Harrison would desire us to forget, and whose writingsalmost wring from him the wish that the art of printing had never beendiscovered. 

I am even bold enough to hazard the conjecture (I trust he will forgiveme) that Mr. Harrison's life may be quoted against Mr. Harrison'stheory. I entirely decline to believe, without further evidence, thatthe writings whose vigor of style and of thought have been the delightof us all are the product of his own system. I hope I do him no wrong, but I cannot help thinking that if we knew the truth, we should findthat he followed the practice of those worthy physicians who, afterprescribing the most abstemious diet to their patients, may be seenpartaking freely, and to all appearances safely, of the most succulentand the most unwholesome of the forbidden dishes. 

It has to be noted that Mr. Harrison's list of the books which deserveperusal would seem to indicate that in his opinion, the pleasures to bederived from literature are chiefly pleasures of the imagination. Poets, dramatists, and novelists form the chief portion of the somewhat meagrefare which is specifically permitted to his disciples. Now, though Ihave already stated that the list is not one of which any person islikely to assert that it contains books which ought to be excluded, yet, even from the point of view of what may be termed aesthetic enjoyment, the field in which we are allowed to take our pleasures seems to meunduly restricted. 

Contemporary poetry, for instance, on which Mr. Harrison bestows a gooddeal of hard language, has and must have, for the generation whichproduces it, certain qualities not likely to be possessed by any other. Charles Lamb has somewhere declared that a pun loses all its virtues assoon as the momentary quality of the intellectual and social atmospherein which it was born has changed its character. What is true of this, the humblest effort of verbal art, is true in a different measure anddegree of all, even of the highest, forms of literature. To some extentevery work requires interpretation to generations who are separated bydifferences of thought or education from the age in which it wasoriginally produced. That this is so with every book which depends forits interest upon feelings and fashions which have utterly vanished, noone will be disposed, I imagine, to deny. Butler's 'Hudibras, ' forinstance, which was the delight of a gay and witty society, is to me atleast not unfrequently dull. Of some works, no doubt, which made a noisein their day it seems impossible to detect the slightest race of charm. But this is not the case with 'Hudibras. ' Its merits are obvious. Thatthey should have appealed to a generation sick of the reign of the"Saints" is precisely what we should have expected. But to us, who arenot sick of the reign of the Saints, they appeal but imperfectly. Theattempt to reproduce artificially the frame of mind of those who firstread the poem is not only an effort, but is to most people, at allevents, an unsuccessful effort. What is true of 'Hudibras' is true also, though in an inconceivably smaller degree, of those great works ofimagination which deal with the elemental facts of human character andhuman passion. Yet even on these, time does, though lightly, lay hishand. Wherever what may be called "historic sympathy" is required, therewill be some diminution of the enjoyment which those must have felt whowere the poet's contemporaries. We look, so to speak, at the samesplendid landscape as they, but distance has made it necessary for us toaid our natural vision with glasses, and some loss of light will thusinevitably be produced, and some inconvenience from the difficulty oftruly adjusting the focus. Of all authors, Homer would, I suppose, bethought to suffer least from such drawbacks. But yet in order to listento Homer's accents with the ears of an ancient Greek, we must be able, among other things, to enter into a view about the gods which is as farremoved from what we should describe as religious sentiment, as it isfrom the frigid ingenuity of those later poets who regarded the deitiesof Greek mythology as so many wheels in the supernatural machinery withwhich it pleased them to carry on the action of their pieces. If we areto accept Mr. Herbert Spencer's views as to the progress of our species, changes of sentiment are likely to occur which will even more seriouslyinterfere with the world's delight in the Homeric poems. When humanbeings become so nicely "adjusted to their environment" that courage anddexterity in battle will have become as useless among civic virtues asan old helmet is among the weapons of war; when fighting gets to belooked upon with the sort of disgust excited in us by cannibalism; andwhen public opinion shall regard a warrior much in the same light thatwe regard a hangman, --I do not see how any fragment of that vast andsplendid literature which depends for its interest upon deeds of heroismand the joy of battle is to retain its ancient charm. 

About these remote contingencies, however, I am glad to think thatneither you nor I need trouble our heads; and if I parentheticallyallude to them now, it is merely as an illustration of a truth notalways sufficiently remembered, and as an excuse for those who find inthe genuine, though possibly second-rate, productions of their own age, a charm for which they search in vain among the mighty monuments ofthe past. 

But I leave this train of thought, which has perhaps already taken metoo far, in order to point out a more fundamental error, as I think it, which arises from regarding literature solely from this high aestheticstandpoint. The pleasures of imagination, derived from the best literarymodels, form without doubt the most exquisite portion of the enjoymentwhich we may extract from books; but they do not, in my opinion, formthe largest portion if we take into account mass as well as quality inour calculation. There is the literature which appeals to theimagination or the fancy, some stray specimens of which Mr. Harrisonwill permit us to peruse; but is there not also the literature whichsatisfies the curiosity? Is this vast storehouse of pleasure to bethrown hastily aside because many of the facts which it contains arealleged to be insignificant, because the appetite to which they ministeris said to be morbid? Consider a little. We are here dealing with one ofthe strongest intellectual impulses of rational beings. Animals, as arule, trouble themselves but little about anything unless they wanteither to eat it or to run away from it. Interest in and wonder at theworks of nature and the doings of man are products of civilization, andexcite emotions which do not diminish but increase with increasingknowledge and cultivation. Feed them and they grow; minister to them andthey will greatly multiply. We hear much indeed of what is called "idlecuriosity"; but I am loth to brand any form of curiosity as necessarilyidle. Take, for example, one of the most singular, but in this age oneof the most universal, forms in which it is accustomed to manifestitself: I mean that of an exhaustive study of the contents of themorning and evening papers. It is certainly remarkable that any personwho has nothing to get by it should destroy his eyesight and confuse hisbrain by a conscientious attempt to master the dull and doubtful detailsof the European diary daily transmitted to us by "Our SpecialCorrespondent. " But it must be remembered that this is only a somewhatunprofitable exercise of that disinterested love of knowledge whichmoves men to penetrate the Polar snows, to build up systems ofphilosophy, or to explore the secrets of the remotest heavens. It has init the rudiments of infinite and varied delights. It _can_ be turned, and it _should_ be turned into a curiosity for which nothing that hasbeen done, or thought, or suffered, or believed, no law which governsthe world of matter or the world of mind, can be wholly alien oruninteresting. 

Truly it is a subject for astonishment that, instead of expanding to theutmost the employment of this pleasure-giving faculty, so many personsshould set themselves to work to limit its exercise by all kinds ofarbitrary regulations. Some there are, for example, who tell us that theacquisition of knowledge is all very well, but that it must be _useful_knowledge; meaning usually thereby that it must enable a man to get onin a profession, pass an examination, shine in conversation, or obtain areputation for learning. But even if they mean something higher thanthis, even if they mean that knowledge to be worth anything mustsubserve ultimately if not immediately the material or spiritualinterests of mankind, the doctrine is one which should be energeticallyrepudiated. I admit, of course, at once, that discoveries the mostapparently remote from human concerns have often proved themselves ofthe utmost commercial or manufacturing value. But they require no suchjustification for their existence, nor were they striven for with anysuch object. Navigation is not the final cause of astronomy, nortelegraphy of electro-dynamics, nor dye-works of chemistry. And if it betrue that the desire of knowledge for the sake of knowledge was theanimating motive of the great men who first wrested her secrets fromnature, why should it not also be enough for us, to whom it is not givento discover, but only to learn as best we may what has been discoveredby others?

Another maxim, more plausible but equally pernicious, is thatsuperficial knowledge is worse than no knowledge at all. That "a littleknowledge is a dangerous thing" is a saying which has now got currencyas a proverb stamped in the mint of Pope's versification; of Pope, whowith the most imperfect knowledge of Greek translated Homer, with themost imperfect knowledge of the Elizabethan drama edited Shakespeare, and with the most imperfect knowledge of philosophy wrote the 'Essay onMan. ' But what is this "little knowledge" which is supposed to be sodangerous? What is it "little" in relation to? If in relation to whatthere is to know, then all human knowledge is little. If in relation towhat actually is known by somebody, then we must condemn as "dangerous"the knowledge which Archimedes possessed of mechanics, or Copernicus ofastronomy; for a shilling primer and a few weeks' study will enable anystudent to outstrip in mere information some of the greatest teachersof the past. No doubt, that little knowledge which thinks itself to begreat may possibly be a dangerous, as it certainly is a most ridiculousthing. We have all suffered under that eminently absurd individual whoon the strength of one or two volumes, imperfectly apprehended byhimself, and long discredited in the estimation of everyone else, isprepared to supply you on the shortest notice with a dogmatic solutionof every problem suggested by this "unintelligible world" or thepolitical variety of the same pernicious genus, whose statecraftconsists in the ready application to the most complex question ofnational interest of some high-sounding commonplace which has done wearyduty on a thousand platforms, and which even in its palmiest days wasnever fit for anything better than a peroration. But in our dislike ofthe individual, do not let us mistake the diagnosis of his disease. Hesuffers not from ignorance but from stupidity. Give him learning and youmake him not wise, but only more pretentious in his folly. 

I say then that so far from a little knowledge being undesirable, alittle knowledge is all that on most subjects any of us can hope toattain; and that, as a source not of worldly profit but of personalpleasure, it may be of incalculable value to its possessor. But it willnaturally be asked, "How are we to select from among the infinite numberof things which may be known, those which it is best worth while for usto know?" We are constantly being told to concern ourselves withlearning what is important, and not to waste our energies upon what isinsignificant. But what are the marks by which we shall recognize theimportant, and how is it to be distinguished from the insignificant. Aprecise and complete answer to this question which shall be true for allmen cannot be given. I am considering knowledge, recollect, as itministers to enjoyment; and from this point of view each unit ofinformation is obviously of importance in proportion as it increases thegeneral sum of enjoyment which we obtain, or expect to obtain, fromknowledge. This, of course, makes it impossible to lay down preciserules which shall be an equally sure guide to all sorts and conditionsof men; for in this, as in other matters, tastes must differ, andagainst real difference of taste there is no appeal. 

There is, however, one caution which it may be worth your while to keepin view:--Do not be persuaded into applying any general proposition onthis subject with a foolish impartiality to every kind of knowledge. There are those who tell you that it is the broad generalities and thefar-reaching principles which govern the world, which are alone worthyof your attention. A fact which is not an illustration of a law, in theopinion of these persons appears to lose all its value. Incidents whichdo not fit into some great generalization, events which are merelypicturesque, details which are merely curious, they dismiss as unworthythe interest of a reasoning being. Now, even in science this doctrine inits extreme form does not hold good. The most scientific of men havetaken profound interest in the investigation of facts from thedetermination of which they do not anticipate any material addition toour knowledge of the laws which regulate the Universe. In these matters, I need hardly say that I speak wholly without authority. But I havealways been under the impression that an investigation which has costhundreds of thousands of pounds; which has stirred on three occasionsthe whole scientific community throughout the civilized world; on whichhas been expended the utmost skill in the construction of instrumentsand their application to purposes of research (I refer to the attemptsmade to determine the distance of the sun by observation of the transitof Venus), --would, even if they had been brought to a successful issue, have furnished mankind with the knowledge of no new astronomicalprinciple. The laws which govern the motions of the solar system, theproportions which the various elements in that system bear to oneanother, have long been known. The distance of the sun itself is knownwithin limits of error relatively speaking not very considerable. Werethe measuring rod we apply to the heavens based on an estimate of thesun's distance from the earth which was wrong by (say) three per cent. , it would not to the lay mind seem to affect very materially our vieweither of the distribution of the heavenly bodies or of their motions. And yet this information, this piece of celestial gossip, would seem tohave been the chief astronomical result expected from the successfulprosecution of an investigation in which whole nations have interestedthemselves. 

But though no one can, I think, pretend that science does not concernitself, and properly concern itself, with facts which are not to allappearance illustrations of law, it is undoubtedly true that for thosewho desire to extract the greatest pleasure from science, a knowledge, however elementary, of the leading principles of investigation and thelarger laws of nature, is the acquisition most to be desired. To him whois not a specialist, a comprehension of the broad outlines of theuniverse as it presents itself to his scientific imagination is thething most worth striving to attain. But when we turn from science towhat is rather vaguely called history, the same principles of study donot, I think, altogether apply, and mainly for this reason: that whilethe recognition of the reign of law is the chief amongst the pleasuresimparted by science, our inevitable ignorance makes it the least amongthe pleasures imparted by history. 

It is no doubt true that we are surrounded by advisers who tell us thatall study of the past is barren, except in so far as it enables us todetermine the principles by which the evolution of human societies isgoverned. How far such an investigation has been up to the present timefruitful in results, it would be unkind to inquire. That it will everenable us to trace with accuracy the course which States and nations aredestined to pursue in the future, or to account in detail for theirhistory in the past, I do not in the least believe. We are borne alonglike travelers on some unexplored stream. We may know enough of thegeneral configuration of the globe to be sure that we are making our waytowards the ocean. We may know enough, by experience or theory, of thelaws regulating the flow of liquids, to conjecture how the river willbehave under the varying influences to which it may be subject. Morethan this we cannot know. It will depend largely upon causes which, inrelation to any laws which we are even likely to discover may properlybe called accidental, whether we are destined sluggishly to drift amongfever-stricken swamps, to hurry down perilous rapids, or to glide gentlythrough fair scenes of peaceful cultivation. 

But leaving on one side ambitious sociological speculations, and eventhose more modest but hitherto more successful investigations into thecauses which have in particular cases been principally operative inproducing great political changes, there are still two modes in which wecan derive what I may call "spectacular" enjoyment from the study ofhistory. There is first the pleasure which arises from the contemplationof some great historic drama, or some broad and well-marked phase ofsocial development. The story of the rise, greatness, and decay of anation is like some vast epic which contains as subsidiary episodes thevaried stories of the rise, greatness, and decay of creeds, of parties, and of statesmen. The imagination is moved by the slow unrolling of thisgreat picture of human mutability, as it is moved by the contrastedpermanence of the abiding stars. The ceaseless conflict, the strangeechoes of long-forgotten controversies, the confusion of purpose, thesuccesses in which lay deep the seeds of future evils, the failures thatultimately divert the otherwise inevitable danger, the heroism whichstruggles to the last for a cause foredoomed to defeat, the wickednesswhich sides with right, and the wisdom which huzzas at the triumph offolly, --fate, meanwhile, amidst this turmoil and perplexity, workingsilently towards the predestined end, --all these form together a subjectthe contemplation of which need surely never weary. 

But yet there is another and very different species of enjoyment to bederived from the records of the past, which requires a somewhatdifferent method of study in order that it may be fully tasted. Insteadof contemplating as it were from a distance the larger aspects of thehuman drama, we may elect to move in familiar fellowship amid the scenesand actors of special periods. We may add to the interest we derive fromthe contemplation of contemporary politics, a similar interest derivedfrom a not less minute, and probably more accurate, knowledge of somecomparatively brief passage in the political history of the past. We mayextend the social circle in which we move, a circle perhaps narrowed andrestricted through circumstances beyond our control, by making intimateacquaintances, perhaps even close friends, among a society longdeparted, but which, when we have once learnt the trick of it, we may, if it so pleases us, revive. 

It is this kind of historical reading which is usually branded asfrivolous and useless; and persons who indulge in it often deludethemselves into thinking that the real motive of their investigationinto bygone scenes and ancient scandals is philosophic interest in animportant historical episode, whereas in truth it is not the philosophywhich glorifies the details, but the details which make tolerable thephilosophy. Consider, for example, the case of the French Revolution. The period from the taking of the Bastile to the fall of Robespierre isabout the same as that which very commonly intervenes between two of ourgeneral elections. On these comparatively few months, libraries havebeen written. The incidents of every week are matters of familiarknowledge. The character and the biography of every actor in the dramahas been made the subject of minute study; and by common admission thereis no more fascinating page in the history of the world. But theinterest is not what is commonly called philosophic, it is personal. Because the Revolution is the dominant fact in modern history, thereforepeople suppose that the doings of this or that provincial lawyer, tossedinto temporary eminence and eternal infamy by some freak of therevolutionary wave, or the atrocities committed by this or that mob, half drunk with blood, rhetoric, and alcohol, are of transcendentimportance. In truth their interest is great, but their importance issmall. What we are concerned to know as students of the philosophy ofhistory is, not the character of each turn and eddy in the great socialcataract, but the manner in which the currents of the upper stream drewsurely in towards the final plunge, and slowly collected themselvesafter the catastrophe again, to pursue at a different level theirrenewed and comparatively tranquil course. 

Now, if so much of the interest of the French Revolution depends uponour minute knowledge of each passing incident, how much more necessaryis such knowledge when we are dealing with the quiet nooks and cornersof history; when we are seeking an introduction, let us say, into theliterary society of Johnson, or the fashionable society of Walpole. Society, dead or alive, can have no charm without intimacy, and nointimacy without interest in trifles which I fear Mr. Harrison woulddescribe as "merely curious. " If we would feel at our ease in anycompany, if we wish to find humor in its jokes, and point in itsrepartees, we must know something of the beliefs and the prejudices ofits various members, their loves and their hates, their hopes and theirfears, their maladies, their marriages, and their flirtations. If thesethings are beneath our notice, we shall not be the less qualified toserve our Queen and country, but need make no attempt to extractpleasure from one of the most delightful departments of literature. 

That there is such a thing as trifling information I do not of coursequestion; but the frame of mind in which the reader is constantlyweighing the exact importance to the universe at large of eachcircumstance which the author presents to his notice, is not oneconducive to the true enjoyment of a picture whose effect depends upon amultitude of slight and seemingly insignificant touches, which impressthe mind often without remaining in the memory. The best method ofguarding against the danger of reading what is useless is to read onlywhat is interesting; a truth which will seem a paradox to a whole classof readers, fitting objects of our commiseration, who may be oftenrecognized by their habit of asking some adviser for a list of books, and then marking out a scheme of study in the course of which all are tobe conscientiously perused. These unfortunate persons apparently read abook principally with the object of getting to the end of it. They reachthe word _Finis_ with the same sensation of triumph as an Indian feelswho strings a fresh scalp to his girdle. They are not happy unless theymark by some definite performance each step in the weary path ofself-improvement. To begin a volume and not to finish it would be todeprive themselves of this satisfaction; it would be to lose all thereward of their earlier self-denial by a lapse from virtue at the end. To skip, according to their literary code, is a species of cheating; itis a mode of obtaining credit for erudition on false pretenses; a planby which the advantages of learning are surreptitiously obtained bythose who have not won them by honest toil. But all this is quite wrong. In matters literary, works have no saving efficacy. He has only halflearnt the art of reading who has not added to it the even more refinedaccomplishments of skipping and of skimming; and the first step hashardly been taken in the direction of making literature a pleasure untilinterest in the subject, and not a desire to spare (so to speak) theauthor's feelings, or to accomplish an appointed task, is the prevailingmotive of the reader. 

I have now reached, not indeed the end of my subject, which I havescarcely begun, but the limits inexorably set by the circumstances underwhich it is treated. Yet I am unwilling to conclude without meeting anobjection to my method of dealing with it, which has I am sure beenpresent to the minds of not a few who have been good enough to listen tome with patience. It will be said that I have ignored the higherfunctions of literature; that I have degraded it from its rightfulplace, by discussing only certain ways in which it may minister to theentertainment of an idle hour, leaving wholly out of sight itscontributions to what Mr. Harrison calls our "spiritual sustenance. "Now, this is partly because the first of these topics and not the secondwas the avowed subject of my address; but it is partly because I amdeliberately of opinion that it is the pleasures and not the profits, spiritual or temporal, of literature which most require to be preachedin the ear of the ordinary reader. I hold indeed the faith that all suchpleasures minister to the development of much that is best inman--mental and moral; but the charm is broken and the object lost ifthe remote consequence is consciously pursued to the exclusion of theimmediate end. It will not, I suppose, be denied that the beauties ofnature are at least as well qualified to minister to our higher needs asare the beauties of literature. Yet we do not say we are going to walkto the top of such and such a hill in order to drink in "spiritualsustenance. " We say we are going to look at the view. And I am convincedthat this, which is the natural and simple way of considering literatureas well as nature, is also the true way. The habit of always requiringsome reward for knowledge beyond the knowledge itself, be that rewardsome material prize or be it what is vaguely called self-improvement, isone with which I confess I have little sympathy, fostered though it isby the whole scheme of our modern education. Do not suppose that Idesire the impossible. I would not if I could destroy the examinationsystem. But there are times, I confess, when I feel tempted somewhat tovary the prayer of the poet, and to ask whether Heaven has not reserved, in pity to this much-educating generation, some peaceful desert ofliterature as yet unclaimed by the crammer or the coach; where it mightbe possible for the student to wander, even perhaps to stray, at his ownpleasure without finding every beauty labeled, every difficultyengineered, every nook surveyed, and a professional cicerone standing atevery corner to guide each succeeding traveler along the same well-wornround. If such a wish were granted, I would further ask that the domainof knowledge thus "neutralized" should be the literature of our owncountry. I grant to the full that the systematic study of _some_literature must be a principal element in the education of youth. Butwhy should that literature be our own? Why should we brush off the bloomand freshness from the works to which Englishmen and Scotchmen mostnaturally turn for refreshment, --namely, those written in their ownlanguage? Why should we associate them with the memory of hours spent inweary study; in the effort to remember for purposes of examination whatno human being would wish to remember for any other; in the struggle tolearn something, not because the learner desires to know it, because hedesires some one else to know that he knows it? This is the dark side ofthe examination system; a system necessary and therefore excellent, butone which does, through the very efficiency and thoroughness of thedrill by which it imparts knowledge, to some extent impair the mostdelicate pleasures by which the acquisition of knowledge shouldbe attended. 

How great those pleasures may be, I trust there are many here who cantestify. When I compare the position of the reader of to-day with thatof his predecessor of the sixteenth century. I am amazed at theingratitude of those who are tempted even for a moment to regret theinvention of printing and the multiplication of books. There is now nomood of mind to which a man may not administer the appropriate nutrimentor medicine at the cost of reaching down a volume from his bookshelf. Inevery department of knowledge infinitely more is known, and what isknown is incomparably more accessible, than it was to our ancestors. Thelighter forms of literature, good, bad, and indifferent, which haveadded so vastly to the happiness of mankind, have increased beyondpowers of computation; nor do I believe that there is any reason tothink that they have elbowed out their more serious and importantbrethren. It is perfectly possible for a man, not a professed student, and who only gives to reading the leisure hours of a business life, toacquire such a general knowledge of the laws of nature and the facts ofhistory that every great advance made in either department shall be tohim both intelligible and interesting; and he may besides have among hisfamiliar friends many a departed worthy whose memory is embalmed in thepages of memoir or biography. All this is ours for the asking. All thiswe shall ask for, if only it be our happy fortune to love for its ownsake the beauty and the knowledge to be gathered from books. And if thisbe our fortune, the world may be kind or unkind, it may seem to us to behastening on the wings of enlightenment and progress to an imminentmillennium, or it may weigh us down with the sense of insolubledifficulty and irremediable wrong; but whatever else it be, so long aswe have good health and a good library, it can hardly be dull. 

THE BALLAD

(Popular or Communal)

BY F. B. GUMMERE

The popular ballad, as it is understood for the purpose of theseselections, is a narrative in lyric form, with no traces of individualauthorship, and is preserved mainly by oral tradition. In its earlieststages it was meant to be sung by a crowd, and got its name from thedance to which it furnished the sole musical accompaniment. In theseprimitive communities the ballad was doubtless chanted by the entirefolk, in festivals mainly of a religious character. Explorers still meetsomething of the sort in savage tribes: and children's games preserveamong us some relics of this protoplasmic form of verse-making, in whichthe single poet or artist was practically unknown, and spontaneous, improvised verses arose out of the occasion itself; in which the wholecommunity took part; and in which the beat of foot--along with thegesture which expressed narrative elements of the song--was inseparablefrom the words and the melody. This native growth of song, in which thechorus or refrain, the dance of a festal multitude, and the spontaneousnature of the words, were vital conditions, gradually faded away beforethe advance of cultivated verse and the vigor of production in what onemay call poetry of the schools. Very early in the history of the ballad, a demand for more art must have called out or at least emphasized theartist, the poet, who chanted new verses while the throng kept up therefrain or burden. Moreover, as interest was concentrated upon the wordsor story, people began to feel that both dance and melody were separableif not alien features; and thus they demanded the composed and recitedballad, to the harm and ultimate ruin of that spontaneous song for thefestal, dancing crowd. Still, even when artistry had found a footing inballad verse, it long remained mere agent and mouthpiece for the folk;the communal character of the ballad was maintained in form and matter. Events of interest were sung in almost contemporary and entirelyimprovised verse; and the resulting ballads, carried over the borders oftheir community and passed down from generation to generation, served asnewspaper to their own times and as chronicle to posterity. It is thekind of song to which Tacitus bears witness as the sole form of historyamong the early Germans; and it is evident that such a stock of balladsmust have furnished considerable raw material to the epic. Ballads, inwhatever original shape, went to the making of the English 'Béowulf, 'of the German 'Nibelungenlied. ' Moreover, a study of dramatic poetryleads one back to similar communal origins. What is loosely called a"chorus, "--originally, as the name implies, a dance--out of which olderforms of the drama were developed, could be traced back to identity withprimitive forms of the ballad. The purely lyrical ballad, even, the_chanson_ of the people, so rare in English but so abundant among otherraces, is evidently a growth from the same root. 

If, now, we assume for this root the name of communal poem, and if webear in mind the dominant importance of the individual, the artist, inadvancing stages of poetry, it is easy to understand why for civilizedand lettered communities the ballad has ceased to have any vitalitywhatever. Under modern conditions the making of ballads is a closedaccount. For our times poetry means something written by a poet, and notsomething sung more or less spontaneously by a dancing throng. Indeed, paper and ink, the agents of preservation in the case of ordinary verse, are for ballads the agents of destruction. The broadside press of threecenturies ago, while it rescued here and there a genuine ballad, pouredout a mass of vulgar imitations which not only displaced and destroyedthe ballad of oral tradition, but brought contempt upon good and badalike. Poetry of the people, to which our ballad belongs, is a thing ofthe past. Even rude and distant communities, like those of Afghanistan, cannot give us the primitive conditions. The communal ballad is rescued, when rescued at all, by the fragile chances of a written copy or of oraltradition; and we are obliged to study it under terms of artisticpoetry, --that is, we are forced to take through the eye and the judgmentwhat was meant for the ear and immediate sensation. Poetry _for_ thepeople, however, "popular poetry" in the modern phrase, is a verydifferent affair. Street songs, vulgar rhymes, or even improvisations ofthe concert-halls, tawdry and sentimental stuff, --these things aresundered by the world's width from poetry _of_ the people, from the folkin verse, whether it echo in a great epos which chants the clash ofempires or linger in a ballad of the countryside sung under the villagelinden. For this ballad is a part of the poetry which comes from thepeople as a whole, from a homogeneous folk, large or small; while thesong of street or concert-hall is deliberately composed for a class, asection, of the community. It would therefore be better to use someother term than "popular" when we wish to specify the ballad oftradition, and so avoid all taint of vulgarity and the trivial. Nor mustwe go to the other extreme. Those high-born people who figure intraditional ballads--Childe Waters, Lady Maisry, and the rest--do notrequire us to assume composition in aristocratic circles; for the lowerclasses of the people in ballad days had no separate literature, and aballad of the folk belonged to the community as a whole. The same habitof thought, the same standard of action, ruled alike the noble and hismeanest retainer. Oral transmission, the test of the ballad, is ofcourse nowhere possible save in such an unlettered community. Since allcritics are at one in regard to this homogeneous character of the folkwith whom and out of whom these songs had their birth, one is justifiedin removing all doubt from the phrase by speaking not of the popularballad but of the communal ballad, the ballad of a community. 

With regard to the making of a ballad, one must repeat a caution, hintedalready, and made doubly important by a vicious tendency in the study ofall phases of culture. It is a vital mistake to explain primitiveconditions by exact analogy with conditions of modern savagery andbarbarism. Certain conclusions, always guarded and cautious to a degree, may indeed be drawn; but it is folly to insist that what now goes onamong shunted races, belated detachments in the great march of culture, must have gone on among the dominant and mounting peoples who hadreached the same external conditions of life. The homogeneous andunlettered state of the ballad-makers is not to be put on a level withthe ignorance of barbarism, nor explained by the analogy of songs amongmodern savage tribes. Fortunately we have better material. The making ofa ballad by a community can be illustrated from a case recorded byPastor Lyngbye in his invaluable account of life on the Faroe Islands acentury ago. Not only had the islanders used from most ancient timestheir traditional and narrative songs as music for the dance, but theyhad also maintained the old fashion of making a ballad. In the winter, says Lyngbye, dancing is their chief amusement and is an affair of theentire community. At such a dance, one or more persons begin to sing;then all who are present join in the ballad, or at least in the refrain. As they dance, they show by their gestures and expression that theyfollow with eagerness the course of the story which they are singing. More than this, the ballad is often a spontaneous product of theoccasion. A fisherman, who has had some recent mishap with his boat, ispushed by stalwart comrades into the middle of the throng, while thedancers sing verses about him and his lack of skill, --verses improvisedon the spot and with a catching and clamorous refrain. If these verseswin favor, says Lyngbye, they are repeated from year to year, withslight additions or corrections, and become a permanent ballad. Bearingin mind the extraordinary readiness to improvise shown even in thesedays by peasants in every part of Europe, we thus gain some definitenotion about the spontaneous and communal elements which went to themaking of the best type of primitive verse; for these Faroe islanderswere no savages, but simply a homeogeneous and isolated folk whichstill held to the old ways of communal song. 

Critics of the ballad, moreover, agree that it has little or nosubjective traits, --an easy inference from the conditions justdescribed. There is no individuality lurking behind the words of theballad, and above all, no evidence of that individuality in the form ofsentiment. Sentiment and individuality are the very essence of modernpoetry, and the direct result of individualism in verse. Given a poet, sentiment--and it may be noble and precious enough--is sure to follow. But the ballad, an epic in little, forces one's attention to the object, the scene, the story, and away from the maker. 

 "The king sits in Dumferling town. "

begins one of the noblest of all ballads; while one of the greatest ofmodern poems opens with something personal and pathetic, key-note to allthat follows:--

 "My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense . .. "

Even when a great poet essays the ballad, either he puts sentiment intoit, or else he keeps sentiment out of it by a _tour de force_. Admirableand noble as one must call the conclusion of an artistic ballad such asTennyson's 'Revenge, ' it is altogether different from the conclusion ofsuch a communal ballad as 'Sir Patrick Spens. ' That subtle quality ofthe ballad which lies in solution with the story and which--as in 'ChildMaurice' or 'Babylon' or 'Edward'--compels in us sensations akin tothose called out by the sentiment of the poet, is a wholly impersonal ifstrangely effective quality, far removed from the corresponding elementsof the poem of art. At first sight, one might say that Browning'sdramatic lyrics had this impersonal quality. But compare the close of'Give a Rouse, ' chorus and all, with the close of 'Child Maurice, ' thatswift and relentless stroke of pure tragedy which called out theenthusiasm of so great a critic as Gray. 

The narrative of the communal ballad is full of leaps and omissions; thestyle is simple to a fault; the diction is spontaneous and free. Assonance frequently takes the place of rhyme, and a word often rhymeswith itself. There is a lack of poetic adornment in the style quite asconspicuous as the lack of reflection and moralizing in the matter. Metaphor and simile are rare and when found are for the most partstanding phrases common to all the ballads; there is never poetry forpoetry's sake. Iteration is the chief mark of ballad style; and thefavorite form of this effective figure is what one may call incrementalrepetition. The question is repeated with the answer; each increment ina series of related facts has a stanza for itself, identical, save forthe new fact, with the other stanzas. 'Babylon' furnishes good instancesof this progressive iteration. Moreover, the ballad differs from earlierEnglish epics in that it invariably has stanzas and rhyme; of the twoforms of stanza, the two-line stanza with a refrain is probably olderthan the stanza with four or six lines. 

This necessary quality of the stanza points to the origin of the balladin song; but longer ballads, such as those that make up the 'Gest ofRobin Hood, ' an epic in little, were not sung as lyrics or to aid thedance, but were either chanted in a monotonous fashion or else recitedoutright. Chappell, in his admirable work on old English music ('Musicof the Olden Time, ' ii. 790), names a third class of "characteristicairs of England, "--the "historical and very long ballads, . .. Invariablyof simple construction, usually plaintive. .. . They were rarely if everused for dancing. " Most of the longer ballads, however, were doubtlessgiven by one person in a sort of recitative; this is the case withmodern ballads of Russia and Servia, where the bystanders now and thenjoin in a chorus. Precisely in the same way ballads were divorced fromthe dance, originally their vital condition; but in the refrain, whichis attached to so many ballads, one finds an element which has survivedfrom those earliest days of communal song. 

Of oldest communal poetry no actual ballad has come down to us. Hintsand even fragments, however, are pointed out in ancient records, mainlyas the material of chronicle or legend. In the Bible (Numbers xxi. 17), where "Israel sang this song, " we are not going too far when we regardthe fragment as part of a communal ballad. "Spring up, O well: sing yeunto it: the princes digged the well, the nobles of the people diggedit, by the direction of the lawgiver, with their staves. " Deborah's songhas something of the communal note; and when Miriam dances and singswith her maidens, one is reminded of the many ballads made by dancingand singing bands of women in mediæval Europe, --for instance, the songmade in the seventh century to the honor of St. Faro, and "sung by thewomen as they danced and clapped their hands. " The question of ancientGreek ballads, and their relation to the epic, is not to be discussedhere; nor can we make more than an allusion to the theory of Niebuhrthat the early part of Livy is founded on, old Roman ballads. A populardiscussion of this matter may be found in Macaulay's preface to his own'Lays of Ancient Rome. ' The ballads of modern Europe are a survival ofolder communal poetry, more or less influenced by artistic andindividual conditions of authorship, but wholly impersonal, and with anappeal to our interest which seems to come from a throng and not fromthe solitary poet. Attention was early called to the ballads of Spain;printed at first as broadsides, they were gathered into a volume asearly as 1550. On the other hand, ballads were neglected in France untilvery recent times; for specimens of the French ballad, and for anaccount of it, the reader should consult Professor Crane's 'ChansonsPopulaires de France, ' New York, 1891. It is with ballads of theGermanic race, however, that we are now concerned. Denmark, Norway, Sweden, Iceland, the Faroe Islands; Scotland and England; theNetherlands and Germany: all of these countries offer us admirablespecimens of the ballad. Particularly, the great collections ofGrundtvig ('Danmarks Gamle Folkeviser') for Denmark, and of Child ('TheEnglish and Scottish Popular Ballads') for our own tongue, show howcommon descent or borrowing connects the individual ballads of thesegroups. "Almost every Norwegian, Swedish, or Icelandic ballad, " saysGrundtvig, "is found in a Danish version of Scandinavian ballads;moreover, a larger number can be found in English and Scottish versionsthan in German or Dutch versions. " Again, we find certain nationalpreferences in the character of the ballads which have come down to us. Scandinavia kept the old heroic lays (Kaempeviser); Germany wove theminto her epic, as witness the Nibelungen Lay; but England and Scotlandhave none of them in any shape. So, too, the mythic ballad, scantilyrepresented in English, and practically unknown in Germany, abounds inScandinavian collections. The Faroe Islands and Norway, as Grundtvigtells us, show the best record for ballads preserved by oral tradition;while noble ladies of Denmark, three or four centuries ago, did highservice to ballad literature by making collections in manuscript of thesongs current then in the castle as in the cottage. 

For England, one is compelled to begin the list of known ballads withthe thirteenth century. 'The Battle of Maldon, ' composed in the lastdecade of the tenth century, though spirited enough and full of communalvigor, has no stanzaic structure, follows in metre and style the rulesof the Old English epic, and is only a ballad by courtesy; about theballads used a century or two later by historians of England, we can donothing but guess; and there is no firm ground under the critic's footuntil he comes to the Robin Hood ballads, which Professor Child assignsto the thirteenth century. 'The Battle of Otterburn' (1388) opens aseries of ballads based on actual events and stretching into theeighteenth century. Barring the Robin Hood cycle, --an epic constructedfrom this attractive material lies before us in the famous 'Gest ofRobin Hood, ' printed as early as 1489, --the chief sources of thecollector are the Percy Manuscript, "written just before 1650, "--onwhich, not without omissions and additions, the bishop based his'Reliques, ' first published in 1765, --and the oral traditions ofScotland, which Professor Child refers to "the last one hundred andthirty years. " Information about the individual ballads, their sources, history, literary connections, and above all, their varying texts, mustbe sought in the noble work of Professor F. J. Child. For presentpurposes, a word or two of general information must suffice. As toorigins, there is a wide range. The church furnished its legend, as in'St. Stephen'; romance contributed the story of 'Thomas Rymer'; and thelight, even cynical _fabliau_ is responsible for 'The Boy and theMantle. ' Ballads which occur in many tongues either may have a commonorigin or else may owe their manifold versions, as in the case ofpopular tales, to a love of borrowing; and here, of course, we get thehint of wider issues. For the most part, however, a ballad tells somemoving story, preferably of fighting and of love. Tragedy is thedominant note; and English ballads of the best type deal with thoseelements of domestic disaster so familiar in the great dramas ofliterature, in the story of Orestes, or of Hamlet, or of the Cid. Suchare 'Edward, ' 'Lord Randal, ' 'The Two Brothers, ' 'The Two Sisters, ''Child Maurice, ' 'Bewick and Graham, ' 'Clerk Colven, ' 'Little Musgraveand Lady Barnard, ' 'Glasgerion, ' and many others. Another group ofballads, represented by the 'Baron of Brackley' and 'Captain Car, ' givea faithful picture of the feuds and ceaseless warfare in Scotland and onthe border. A few fine ballads--'Sweet William's Ghost, ' 'The Wife ofUsher's Well'--touch upon the supernatural. Of the romantic ballads, 'Childe Waters' shows us the higher, and 'Young Beichan' the lower, butstill sound and communal type. Incipient dramatic tendencies mark'Edward' and 'Lord Randal'; while, on the other hand, a lyric notealmost carries 'Bonnie George Campbell' out of balladry. Finally, it isto be noted that in the 'Nut-Brown Maid, ' which many wouldunhesitatingly refer to this class of poetry, we have no ballad at all, but a dramatic lyric, probably written by a woman, and with a specialplea in the background. 

[Illustration: Signature: F. B. Gummere]

 ROBIN HOOD AND GUY OF GISBORNE[8]

 1. When shawes[9] beene sheene[10], and shradds[11] full fayre, And leeves both large and longe, It is merry, walking in the fayre forrest, To heare the small birds' songe. 

 2. The woodweele[12] sang, and wold not cease, Amongst the leaves a lyne[13]; And it is by two wight[14] yeomen, By deare God, that I meane. 

 * * * * *

 3. "Me thought they[15] did me beate and binde, And tooke my bow me fro; If I bee Robin alive in this lande, I'll be wrocken[16] on both them two. "

 4. "Sweavens[17] are swift, master, " quoth John, "As the wind that blowes ore a hill; For if it be never soe lowde this night, To-morrow it may be still. "

 5. "Buske ye, bowne ye[18], my merry men all, For John shall go with me; For I'll goe seeke yond wight yeomen In greenwood where they bee. "

 6. They cast on their gowne of greene, A shooting gone are they, Until they came to the merry greenwood, Where they had gladdest bee; There were they ware of a wight yeoman, His body leaned to a tree. 

 7. A sword and a dagger he wore by his side, Had beene many a man's bane[19], And he was cladd in his capull-hyde[20], Topp, and tayle, and mayne. 

 8. "Stand you still, master, " quoth Litle John, "Under this trusty tree, And I will goe to yond wight yeoman, To know his meaning trulye. "

 9. "A, John, by me thou setts noe store, And that's a farley[21] thinge; How offt send I my men before, And tarry myselfe behinde?"

 10. "It is noe cunning a knave to ken, And a man but heare him speake; And it were not for bursting of my bowe, John, I wold thy head breake. "

 11. But often words they breeden bale, That parted Robin and John; John is gone to Barnesdale, The gates[22] he knowes eche one. 

 12. And when hee came to Barnesdale, Great heavinesse there hee hadd; He found two of his fellowes Were slaine both in a slade[23], 13. And Scarlett a foote flyinge was, Over stockes and stone, For the sheriffe with seven score men Fast after him is gone. 

 14. "Yet one shoote I'll shoote, " sayes Litle John, "With Crist his might and mayne; I'll make yond fellow that flyes soe fast To be both glad and faine. "

 15. John bent up a good veiwe bow[24], And fetteled[25] him to shoote; The bow was made of a tender boughe, And fell downe to his foote. 

 16. "Woe worth[26] thee, wicked wood, " sayd Litle John, "That ere thou grew on a tree! For this day thou art my bale, My boote[27] when thou shold bee!"

 17. This shoote it was but looselye shott, The arrowe flew in vaine, And it mett one of the sheriffe's men; Good William a Trent was slaine. 

 18. It had beene better for William a Trent To hange upon a gallowe Then for to lye in the greenwoode, There slaine with an arrowe. 

 19. And it is sayed, when men be mett, Six can doe more than three: And they have tane Litle John, And bound him fast to a tree. 

 20. "Thou shalt be drawen by dale and downe, " quoth the sheriffe[28], "And hanged hye on a hill:" "But thou may fayle, " quoth Litle John "If it be Christ's owne will. "

 21. Let us leave talking of Litle John, For hee is bound fast to a tree, And talke of Guy and Robin Hood In the green woode where they bee. 

 22. How these two yeomen together they mett, Under the leaves of lyne, To see what marchandise they made Even at that same time. 

 23. "Good morrow, good fellow, " quoth Sir Guy; "Good morrow, good fellow, " quoth hee; "Methinkes by this bow thou beares in thy hand, A good archer thou seems to bee. "

 24. "I am wilfull of my way[29], " quoth Sir Guy, "And of my morning tyde:" "I'll lead thee through the wood, " quoth Robin, "Good fellow, I'll be thy guide. "

 25. "I seeke an outlaw, " quoth Sir Guy, "Men call him Robin Hood; I had rather meet with him upon a day Then forty pound of golde. "

 26. "If you tow mett, it wold be seene whether were better Afore yee did part awaye; Let us some other pastime find, Good fellow, I thee pray. "

 27. "Let us some other masteryes make, And we will walke in the woods even; Wee may chance meet with Robin Hood At some unsett steven[30]. "

 28. They cutt them downe the summer shroggs[31] Which grew both under a bryar, And sett them three score rood in twinn[32], To shoote the prickes[33] full neare. 

 29. "Leade on, good fellow, " sayd Sir Guye, "Leade on, I doe bidd thee:" "Nay, by my faith, " quoth Robin Hood, "The leader thou shalt bee. "

 30. The first good shoot that Robin ledd, Did not shoote an inch the pricke froe, Guy was an archer good enoughe, But he could neere shoote soe. 

 31. The second shoote Sir Guy shott, He shott within the garlande[34], But Robin Hoode shott it better than hee, For he clove the good pricke-wande. 

 32. "God's blessing on thy heart!" sayes Guye, "Goode fellow, thy shooting is goode; For an thy hart be as good as thy hands, Thou were better than Robin Hood. "

 33. "Tell me thy name, good fellow, " quoth Guye, "Under the leaves of lyne:" "Nay, by my faith, " quoth good Robin, "Till thou have told me thine. "

 34. "I dwell by dale and downe, " quoth Guye, "And I have done many a curst turne; And he that calles me by my right name, Calles me Guye of good Gysborne. "

 35. "My dwelling is in the wood, " sayes Robin; "By thee I set right nought; My name is Robin Hood of Barnesdale, A fellow thou hast long sought. "

 36. He that had neither beene a kithe nor kin Might have seene a full fayre sight. To see how together these yeomen went, With blades both browne and bright. 

 37. To have seene how these yeomen together fought Two howers of a summer's day; It was neither Guy nor Robin Hood That fettled them to flye away. 

 38. Robin was reacheles[35] on a roote, And stumbled at that tyde, And Guy was quicke and nimble with-all, And hitt him ore the left side. 

 39. "Ah, deere Lady!" sayd Robin Hoode, "Thou art both mother and may[36]! I thinke it was never man's destinye To dye before his day. "

 40. Robin thought on Our Lady deere, And soone leapt up againe, And thus he came with an awkwarde[37] stroke; Good Sir Guy hee has slayne. 

 41. He tooke Sir Guy's head by the hayre, And sticked it on his bowe's end: "Thou has beene traytor all thy life, Which thing must have an ende. "

 42. Robin pulled forth an Irish kniffe, And nicked Sir Guy in the face, That he was never on[38] a woman borne Could tell who Sir Guye was. 

 43. Saies, Lye there, lye there, good Sir Guye, And with me not wrothe; If thou have had the worse stroakes at my hand, Thou shalt have the better cloathe. 

 44. Robin did off his gowne of greene, Sir Guye he did it throwe; And he put on that capull-hyde That clad him topp to toe. 

 45. "Tis bowe, the arrowes, and litle horne, And with me now I'll beare; For now I will goe to Barnesdale, To see how my men doe fare. "

 46. Robin sett Guye's horne to his mouth, A lowd blast in it he did blow; That beheard the sheriffe of Nottingham, As he leaned under a lowe[39]. 

 47. "Hearken! hearken!" sayd the sheriffe, "I heard noe tydings but good; For yonder I heare Sir Guye's horne blowe, For he hath slaine Robin Hoode. "

 48. "For yonder I heare Sir Guye's horne blowe, It blowes soe well in tyde, For yonder conies that wighty yeoman Cladd in his capull-hyde. "

 49. "Come hither, thou good Sir Guy, Aske of mee what thou wilt have:" "I'll none of thy gold, " sayes Robin Hood, "Nor I'll none of it have. "

 50. "But now I have slaine the master, " he sayd, "Let me goe strike the knave; This is all the reward I aske, Nor noe other will I have. "

 51. "Thou art a madman, " said the sheriffe, "Thou sholdest have had a knight's fee; Seeing thy asking hath beene soe badd, Well granted it shall be. "

 52. But Litle John heard his master speake, Well he knew that was his steven[40]; "Now shall I be loset, " quoth Litle John, "With Christ's might in heaven. "

 53. But Robin hee hyed him towards Litle John, Hee thought hee wold loose him belive; The sheriffe and all his companye Fast after him did drive. 

 54. "Stand abacke! stand abacke!" sayd Robin; "Why draw you mee soe neere? It was never the use in our countrye One's shrift another should heere. "

 55. But Robin pulled forth an Irysh kniffe, And losed John hand and foote, And gave him Sir Guye's bow in his hand, And bade it be his boote. 

 56. But John tooke Guye's bow in his hand (His arrowes were rawstye[41] by the roote); The sherriffe saw Litle John draw a bow And fettle him to shoote. 

 57. Towards his house in Nottingham He fled full fast away, And so did all his companye, Not one behind did stay. 

 58. But he cold neither soe fast goe, Nor away soe fast runn, But Litle John, with an arrow broade, Did cleave his heart in twinn. 

 [Footnote 8: This ballad is a good specimen of the Robin Hood Cycle, and is remarkable for its many proverbial and alliterative phrases. A few lines have been lost between stanzas 2 and 3. Gisborne is a "market-town in the West Riding of the County of York, on the borders of Lancashire. " For the probable tune of the ballad, see Chappell's 'Popular Music of the Olden Time, ' ii. 397. ]

 [Footnote 9: Woods, groves. --This touch of description at the outset is common in our old ballads, as well as in the mediæval German popular lyric, and may perhaps spring from the old "summer-lays" and chorus of pagan times. ]

 [Footnote 10: Beautiful; German, _schön_. ]

 [Footnote 11: Coppices or openings in a wood. ]

 [Footnote 12: In some glossaries the woodpecker, but here of course a song-bird, --perhaps, as Chappell suggests, the woodlark. ]

 [Footnote 13: _A_, on; _lyne_, lime or linden. ]

 [Footnote 14: Sturdy, brave. ]

 [Footnote 15: Robin now tells of a dream in which "they" (=the two "wight yeomen, " who are Guy and, as Professor Child suggests, the Sheriff of Nottingham) maltreat him; and he thus foresees trouble "from two quarters. "]

 [Footnote 16: Revenged. ]

 [Footnote 17: Dreams. ]

 [Footnote 18: Tautological phrase, --"prepare and make ready. "]

 [Footnote 19: Murder, destruction. ]

 [Footnote 20: Horse's hide. ]

 [Footnote 21: Strange. ]

 [Footnote 22: Paths. ]

 [Footnote 23: Green valley between woods. ]

 [Footnote 24: Perhaps the yew-bow. ]

 [Footnote 25: Made ready. ]

 [Footnote 26: "Woe be to thee. " _Worth_ is the old subjunctive present of an exact English equivalent to the modern German _werden_. ]

 [Footnote 27: Note these alliterative phrases. _Boote_, remedy. ]

 [Footnote 28: As Percy noted, this "quoth the sheriffe, " was probably added by some explainer. The reader, however, must remember the license of slurring or contracting the syllables of a word, as well as the opposite freedom of expansion. Thus in the second line of stanza 7, _man's_ is to be pronounced _man-ës. _]

 [Footnote 29: I have lost my way. ]

 [Footnote 30: At some unappointed time, --by chance. ]

 [Footnote 31: Stunted shrubs. ]

 [Footnote 32: Apart. ]

 [Footnote 33: "_Prickes_ seem to have been the long-range targets, _butts_ the near. "--Furnivall. ]

 [Footnote 34: _Garlande_, perhaps "the ring within which the prick was set"; and the _pricke-wande_ perhaps a pole or stick. The terms are not easy to understand clearly. ]

 [Footnote 35: Reckless, careless. ]

 [Footnote 36: Maiden. ]

 [Footnote 37: Dangerous, or perhaps simply backward, backhanded. ]

 [Footnote 38: _On_ is frequently used for _of_. ]

 [Footnote 39: Hillock. ]

 [Footnote 40: Voice. ]

 [Footnote 41: Rusty]

 THE HUNTING OF THE CHEVIOT

 [This is the older and better version of the famous ballad. The younger version was the subject of Addison's papers in the Spectator. ]

 1. The Percy out of Northumberlande, and a vowe to God mayd he That he would hunte in the mountayns of Cheviot within days thre, In the magger[42] of doughty Douglas, and all that ever with him be. 

 2. The fattiste hartes in all Cheviot he sayd he would kyll, and cary them away: "Be my feth, " sayd the doughty Douglas agayn, "I will let[43] that hontyng if that I may. "

 3. Then the Percy out of Banborowe cam, with him a myghtee meany[44], With fifteen hondred archares bold of blood and bone; they were chosen out of shyars thre. 

 4. This began on a Monday at morn, in Cheviot the hillys so he; The chyld may rue that ys unborn, it was the more pittë. 

 5. The dryvars thorowe the woodës went, for to reas the deer; Bowmen byckarte uppone the bent[45] with their browd arrows cleare. 

 6. Then the wyld thorowe the woodës went, on every sydë shear; Greahondës thorowe the grevis glent[46], for to kyll their deer. 

 7. This begane in Cheviot the hyls abone, yerly on a Monnyn-day; Be that it drewe to the hour of noon, a hondred fat hartës ded ther lay. 

 8. They blewe a mort[47] uppone the bent, they semblyde on sydis shear; To the quyrry then the Percy went, to see the bryttlynge[48] of the deere. 

 9. He sayd, "It was the Douglas promys this day to met me hear; But I wyste he wolde faylle, verament;" a great oth the Percy swear. 

 10. At the laste a squyar of Northumberlande lokyde at his hand full ny; He was war a the doughtie Douglas commynge, with him a myghtë meany. 

 11. Both with spear, bylle, and brande, yt was a myghtë sight to se; Hardyar men, both of hart nor hande, were not in Cristiantë. 

 12. They were twenty hondred spear-men good, withoute any fail; They were borne along be the water a Twyde, yth bowndës of Tividale. 

 13. "Leave of the brytlyng of the deer, " he said, "and to your bows look ye tayk good hede; For never sithe ye were on your mothers borne had ye never so mickle nede. "

 14. The doughty Douglas on a stede, he rode alle his men beforne; His armor glytteyrde as dyd a glede[49]; a boldar barne was never born. 

 15. "Tell me whose men ye are, " he says, "or whose men that ye be: Who gave youe leave to hunte in this Cheviot chays, in the spyt of myn and of me. "

 16. The first man that ever him an answer mayd, yt was the good lord Percy: "We wyll not tell the whose men we are, " he says, "nor whose men that we be; But we wyll hounte here in this chays, in spyt of thyne and of the. "

 17. "The fattiste hartës in all Cheviot we have kyld, and cast to carry them away:" "Be my troth, " sayd the doughty Douglas agayn, "therefor the tone of us shall die this day. "

 18. Then sayd the doughtë Douglas unto the lord Percy, "To kyll alle thes giltles men, alas, it wear great pittë!"

 19. "But, Percy, thowe art a lord of lande, I am a yerle callyd within my contrë; Let all our men uppone a parti stande, and do the battell of the and of me. "

 20. "Nowe Cristes curse on his crowne, " sayd the lord Percy, "whosoever thereto says nay; Be my troth, doughty Douglas, " he says, "thow shalt never se that day. "

 21. "Nethar in Ynglonde, Skottlonde, nor France, nor for no man of a woman born, But, and fortune be my chance, I dar met him, one man for one. "

 22. Then bespayke a squyar of Northumberlande, Richard Wytharyngton was his name: "It shall never be told in Sothe-Ynglonde, " he says, "To Kyng Kerry the Fourth for shame. "

 23. "I wat youe byn great lordës twa, I am a poor squyar of lande: I wylle never se my captayne fyght on a fylde, and stande my selffe and looke on, But whylle I may my weppone welde, I wylle not fayle both hart and hande. "

 24. That day, that day, that dredfull day! the first fit here I fynde[50]; And you wyll hear any more a the hountyng a the Cheviot yet ys ther mor behynde. 

 25. The Yngglyshe men had their bowys ybent, ther hartes were good yenoughe; The first of arrows that they shote off, seven skore spear-men they sloughe. 

 26. Yet bides the yerle Douglas upon the bent, a captayne good yenoughe, And that was sene verament, for he wrought hem both wo and wouche. 

 27. The Douglas partyd his host in thre, like a chief chieftain of pryde; With sure spears of myghtty tre, they cum in on every syde:

 28. Throughe our Yngglyshe archery gave many a wounde fulle wyde; Many a doughty they garde to dy, which ganyde them no pryde. 

 29. The Ynglyshe men let ther bowës be, and pulde out brandes that were brighte; It was a heavy syght to se bryght swordes on basnites lyght. 

 30. Thorowe ryche male and myneyeple[51], many sterne they strocke down straight; Many a freyke[52] that was fulle fre, there under foot dyd lyght. 

 31. At last the Douglas and the Percy met, lyk to captayns of myght and of mayne; The swapte together tylle they both swat, with swordes that were of fine milan. 

 32. These worthy freckys for to fyght, ther-to they were fulle fayne, Tylle the bloode out off their basnetes sprente, as ever dyd hail or rayn. 

 33. "Yield thee, Percy, " sayd the Douglas, "and i faith I shalle thee brynge Where thowe shalte have a yerls wagis of Jamy our Scottish kynge. "

 34. "Thou shalte have thy ransom fre, I hight[53] the here this thinge; For the manfullyste man yet art thow that ever I conqueryd in fielde fighttynge. "

 35. "Nay, " sayd the lord Percy, "I tolde it thee beforne, That I wolde never yeldyde be to no man of a woman born. "

 36. With that ther came an arrow hastely, forthe off a myghtty wane[54]; It hath strekene the yerle Douglas in at the brest-bane. 

 37. Thorowe lyvar and lungës bothe the sharpe arrowe ys gane, That never after in all his lyfe-days he spayke mo wordës but ane: That was, "Fyghte ye, my myrry men, whyllys ye may, for my lyfe-days ben gane. "

 38. The Percy leanyde on his brande, and sawe the Douglas de; He tooke the dead man by the hande, and said, "Wo ys me for thee!"

 39. "To have savyde thy lyfe, I would have partyde with my landes for years three, For a better man, of hart nor of hande, was not in all the north contrë. "

 40. Of all that see a Scottish knyght, was callyd Sir Hewe the Monggombyrry; He saw the Douglas to the death was dyght, he spendyd a spear, a trusti tree. 

 41. He rode upon a corsiare throughe a hondred archery; He never stynttyde nor never blane[55], till he came to the good lord Percy. 

 42. He set upon the lorde Percy a dynte that was full sore; With a sure spear of a myghttë tree clean thorow the body he the Percy ber[56], 43. A the tother syde that a man might see a large cloth-yard and mare; Two better captayns were not in Cristiantë than that day slain were there. 

 44. An archer off Northumberlande saw slain was the lord Percy; He bore a bende bowe in his hand, was made of trusti tree;

 45. An arrow, that a cloth-yarde was long, to the harde stele halyde he; A dynt that was both sad and soar he set on Sir Hewe the Monggombyrry. 

 46. The dynt yt was both sad and sore, that he of Monggombyrry set; The swane-fethars that his arrowe bar with his hart-blood they were wet. 

 47. There was never a freak one foot wolde flee, but still in stour[57] dyd stand, Hewyng on eache other, whyle they myghte dree, with many a balefull brande. 

 48. This battell begane in Cheviot an hour before the none, And when even-songe bell was rang, the battell was not half done. 

 49. They took . .. On either hande by the lyght of the mone; Many hade no strength for to stande, in Cheviot the hillys abon. 

 50. Of fifteen hundred archers of Ynglonde went away but seventy and three; Of twenty hundred spear-men of Scotlonde, but even five and fifty. 

 51. But all were slayne Cheviot within; they had no strength to stand on by; The chylde may rue that ys unborne, it was the more pittë. 

 52. There was slayne, withe the lord Percy, Sir John of Agerstone, Sir Rogar, the hinde Hartly, Sir Wyllyam, the bold Hearone. 

 53. Sir George, the worthy Loumle, a knyghte of great renown, Sir Raff, the ryche Rugbe, with dyntes were beaten downe. 

 54. For Wetharryngton my harte was wo, that ever he slayne shulde be; For when both his leggis were hewyn in to, yet he kneeled and fought on hys knee. 

 55. There was slayne, with the doughty Douglas, Sir Hewe the Monggombyrry, Sir Davy Lwdale, that worthy was, his sister's son was he. 

 56. Sir Charles a Murrë in that place, that never a foot wolde fie; Sir Hewe Maxwelle, a lorde he was, with the Douglas dyd he die. 

 57. So on the morrowe they mayde them biers off birch and hasell so gray; Many widows, with weepyng tears, came to fetch ther makys[58] away. 

 58. Tivydale may carpe of care, Northumberland may mayk great moan, For two such captayns as slayne were there, on the March-parti shall never be none. 

 59. Word ys commen to Eddenburrowe, to Jamy the Scottische kynge, That doughty Douglas, lyff-tenant of the Marches, he lay slean Cheviot within. 

 60. His handdës dyd he weal and wryng, he sayd, "Alas, and woe ys me! Such an othar captayn Skotland within, " he sayd, "i-faith should never be. "

 61. Worde ys commyn to lovely Londone, till the fourth Harry our kynge. That lord Percy, leyff-tenante of the Marchis he lay slayne Cheviot within. 

 62. "God have merci on his soule, " sayde Kyng Harry, "good lord, yf thy will it be! I have a hondred captayns in Ynglonde, " he sayd, "as good as ever was he: But Percy, and I brook my lyfe, thy deth well quyte shall be. "

 63. As our noble kynge mayd his avowe, lyke a noble prince of renown, For the deth of the lord Percy he dyd the battle of Hombyll-down:

 64. Where syx and thirty Skottishe knyghtes on a day were beaten down: Glendale glytteryde on their armor bryght, over castille, towar, and town. 

 65. This was the hontynge of the Cheviot, that tear[59] begane this spurn; Old men that knowen the grownde well enoughe call it the battell of Otterburn. 

 66. At Otterburn begane this spume upon a Monnynday; There was the doughty Douglas slean, the Percy never went away. 

 67. There was never a tyme on the Marche-partës sen the Douglas and the Percy met, But yt ys mervele and the rede blude ronne not, as the rain does in the stret. 

 68. Jesus Christ our bales[60] bete, and to the bliss us bring! Thus was the hunting of the Cheviot; God send us alle good ending!

 [Footnote 42: 'Maugre, ' in spite of. ]

 [Footnote 43: Hinder. ]

 [Footnote 44: Company. ]

 [Footnote 45: Skirmished on the field. ]

 [Footnote 46: Ran through the groves. ]

 [Footnote 47: Blast blown when game is killed. ]

 [Footnote 48: Quartering, cutting. ]

 [Footnote 49: Flame. ]

 [Footnote 50: Perhaps "finish. "]

 [Footnote 51: "A gauntlet covering hand and forearm. "]

 [Footnote 52: Man. ]

 [Footnote 53: Promise. ]

 [Footnote 54: Meaning uncertain. ]

 [Footnote 55: Stopped. ]

 [Footnote 56: Pierced. ]

 [Footnote 57: Stress of battle. ]

 [Footnote 58: Mates. ]

 [Footnote 59: That there (?). ]

 [Footnote 60: Evils. ]

 JOHNIE COCK

 1. Up Johnie raise[61] in a May morning, Calld for water to wash his hands, And he has called for his gude gray hounds That lay bound in iron bands, bands, That lay bound in iron bands. 

 2. "Ye'll busk[62], ye'll busk my noble dogs, Ye'll busk and make them boun[63], For I'm going to the Braidscaur hill To ding the dun deer doun. "

 3. Johnie's mother has gotten word o' that, And care-bed she has ta'en[64]: "O Johnie, for my benison, I beg you'l stay at hame; For the wine so red, and the well-baken bread, My Johnie shall want nane. "

 4. "There are seven forsters at Pickeram Side, At Pickeram where they dwell, And for a drop of thy heart's bluid They wad ride the fords of hell. "

 5. But Johnie has cast off the black velvet, And put on the Lincoln twine, And he is on the goode greenwood As fast as he could gang. 

 6. Johnie lookit east, and Johnie lookit west, And he lookit aneath the sun, And there he spied the dun deer sleeping Aneath a buss o' whun[65]. 

 7. Johnie shot, and the dun deer lap[66], And she lap wondrous wide, Until they came to the wan water, And he stem'd her of her pride. 

 8. He has ta'en out the little pen-knife, 'Twas full three quarters[67] long, And he has ta'en out of that dun deer The liver but and[68] the tongue. 

 9. They eat of the flesh, and they drank of the blood, And the blood it was so sweet, Which caused Johnie and his bloody hounds To fall in a deep sleep. 

 10. By then came an old palmer, And an ill death may he die! For he's away to Pickeram Side As fast as he can drie[69]. 

 11. "What news, what news?" says the Seven Forsters, "What news have ye brought to me?" "I have no news, " the palmer said, "But what I saw with my eye. "

 12. "As I came in by Braidisbanks, And down among the whuns, The bonniest youngster e'er I saw Lay sleepin amang his hunds. "

 13. "The shirt that was upon his back Was o' the holland fine; The doublet which was over that Was o' the Lincoln twine. "

 14. Up bespake the Seven Forsters, Up bespake they ane and a': "O that is Johnie o' Cockleys Well, And near him we will draw. "

 15. O the first stroke that they gae him, They struck him off by the knee, Then up bespake his sister's son: "O the next'll gar[70] him die!"

 16. "O some they count ye well wight men, But I do count ye nane; For you might well ha' waken'd me, And ask'd gin I wad be ta'en. "

 17. "The wildest wolf as in a' this wood Wad not ha' done so by me; She'd ha' wet her foot i' the wan water, And sprinkled it o'er my brae, And if that wad not ha' waken'd me, She wad ha' gone and let me be. "

 18. "O bows of yew, if ye be true, In London, where ye were bought, Fingers five, get up belive[71], Manhuid shall fail me nought. "

 19. He has kill'd the Seven Forsters, He has kill'd them all but ane, And that wan scarce to Pickeram Side, To carry the bode-words hame. 

 20. "Is there never a [bird] in a' this wood That will tell what I can say; That will go to Cockleys Well, Tell my mither to fetch me away?"

 21. There was a [bird] into that wood, That carried the tidings away, And many ae[72] was the well-wight man At the fetching o' Johnie away. 

 [Footnote 61: Rose. ]

 [Footnote 62: Prepare. ]

 [Footnote 63: Ready. ]

 [Footnote 64: Has fallen ill with anxiety. ]

 [Footnote 65: Bush of whin, furze. ]

 [Footnote 66: Leaped. ]

 [Footnote 67: Quarter--the fourth part of a yard. ]

 [Footnote 68: "But and"--as well as. ]

 [Footnote 69: Bear, endure. ]

 [Footnote 70: Make, cause. ]

 [Footnote 71: Quickly. ]

 [Footnote 72: One. ]

 SIR PATRICK SPENS

 1. The king sits in Dumferling toune, Drinking the blude-reid wine: "O whar will I get guid sailor, To sail this ship of mine?"

 2. Up and spak an eldern knight, Sat at the kings right kne: "Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor, That sails upon the sea. "

 3. The king has written a braid letter[73], And sign'd it wi' his hand, And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens, Was walking on the sand. 

 4. The first line that Sir Patrick read, A loud laugh laughed he; The next line that Sir Patrick read, The tear blinded his ee. 

 5. "O wha is this has done this deed, This ill deed done to me, To send me out this time o' the year, To sail upon the sea!"

 6. "Make haste, make haste, my mirry men all, Our guide ship sails the morne:" "O say na sae, my master dear, For I fear a deadlie storme. "

 7. "Late, late yestreen I saw the new moone[74], Wi' the auld moone in hir arme, And I fear, I fear, my dear master, That we will come to harme"

 8. O our Scots nobles were right laith To weet their cork-heeled shoone; But lang owre a' the play wer play'd, Their hats they swam aboone. 

 9. O lang, lang may their ladies sit, Wi' their fans into their hand, Or e'er they see Sir Patrick Spens Cum sailing to the land. 

 10. O lang, lang may the ladies stand, Wi' their gold kerns[75] in their hair, Waiting for their ain dear lords, For they'll se thame na mair. 

 11. Half owre, half owre to Aberdour, It's "fiftie fadom deep, And their lies guid Sir Patrick Spens, Wi' the Scots lords at his feet. "

 [Footnote 73: "_A braid letter_, open or patent, in opposition to close rolls. "--Percy. ]

 [Footnote 74: Note that it is the sight of the new moon _late_ in the evening which makes a bad omen. ]

 [Footnote 75: Combs. ]

 THE BONNY EARL OF MURRAY[76]

 1. Ye highlands, and ye Lowlands, Oh where have you been? They have slain the Earl of Murray, And they layd him on the green. 

 2. "Now wae be to thee, Huntly! And wherefore did you sae? I bade you bring him wi' you, But forbade you him to slay. "

 3. He was a braw gallant, And he rid at the ring[77]; And the bonny Earl of Murray, Oh he might have been a king!

 4. He was a braw gallant, And he play'd at the ba'; And the bonny Earl of Murray Was the flower amang them a'. 

 5. He was a braw gallant, And he play'd at the glove[78]; And the bonny Earl of Murray, Oh he was the Queen's love!

 6. Oh lang will his lady Look o'er the Castle Down, E'er she see the Earl of Murray Come sounding thro the town!

 [Footnote 76: James Stewart, Earl of Murray, was killed by the Earl of Huntly's followers, February, 1592. The second stanza is spoken, of course, by the King. ]

 [Footnote 77: Piercing with the lance a suspended ring, as one rode at full speed, was a favorite sport of the day. ]

 [Footnote 78: Probably this reference is to the glove worn by knights as a lady's favor. ]

 MARY HAMILTON

 1. Word's gane to the kitchen, And word's gane to the ha', That Marie Hamilton has born a bairn To the highest Stewart of a'. 

 2. She's tyed it in her apron And she's thrown it in the sea; Says, "Sink ye, swim ye, bonny wee babe, You'll ne'er get mair o' me. "

 3. Down then cam the auld Queen, Goud[79] tassels tying her hair: "O Marie, where's the bonny wee babe That I heard greet[80] sae sair?"

 4. "There was never a babe intill my room, As little designs to be; It was but a touch o' my sair side, Came o'er my fair bodie. "

 5. "O Marie, put on your robes o' black, Or else your robes o' brown, For ye maun gang wi' me the night, To see fair Edinbro town. "

 6. "I winna put on my robes o' black, Nor yet my robes o' brown; But I'll put on my robes o' white, To shine through Edinbro town. "

 7. When she gaed up the Cannogate, She laugh'd loud laughters three; But when she cam down the Cannogate The tear blinded her ee. 

 8. When she gaed up the Parliament stair, The heel cam aff her shee[81]; And lang or she cam down again She was condemn'd to dee. 

 9. When she cam down the Cannogate, The Cannogate sae free, Many a ladie look'd o'er her window, Weeping for this ladie. 

 10. "Make never meen[82] for me, " she says, "Make never meen for me; Seek never grace frae a graceless face, For that ye'll never see. "

 11. "Bring me a bottle of wine, " she says, "The best that e'er ye hae, That I may drink to my weil-wishers, And they may drink to me. "

 12. "And here's to the jolly sailor lad That sails upon the faem; But let not my father nor mother get wit But that I shall come again. "

 13. "And here's to the jolly sailor lad That sails upon the sea; But let not my father nor mother get wit O' the death that I maun dee. "

 14. "Oh little did my mother think, The day she cradled me, What lands I was to travel through, What death I was to dee. "

 15. "Oh little did my father think, The day he held up[83] me, What lands I was to travel through, What death I was to dee. "

 16. "Last night I wash'd the Queen's feet, And gently laid her down; And a' the thanks I've gotten the nicht To be hangd in Edinbro town!"

 17. "Last nicht there was four Maries, The nicht there'll be but three; There was Marie Seton, and Marie Beton, And Marie Carmichael, and me. "

 [Footnote 79: Gold. ]

 [Footnote 80: Weep. ]

 [Footnote 81: Shoe. ]

 [Footnote 82: Moan. ]

 [Footnote 83: Held up, lifted up, recognized as his lawful child, --a world-wide and ancient ceremony. ]

 BONNIE GEORGE CAMPBELL

 1. High upon Highlands, and low upon Tay, Bonnie George Campbell rade out on a day. 

 2. Saddled and bridled and gallant rade he; Hame cam his guid horse, but never cam he. 

 3. Out cam his auld mither greeting fu' sair, And out cam his bonnie bride riving her hair. 

 4. Saddled and bridled and booted rade he; Toom[84] hame cam the saddle, but never came he. 

 5. "My meadow lies green, and my corn is unshorn, My barn is to build, and my babe is unborn. "

 6. Saddled and bridled and booted rade he; Toom hame cam the saddle, but never cam he. 

 [Footnote 84: Empty. ]

 BESSIE BELL AND MARY GRAY[85]

 1. O Bessie Bell and Mary Gray, They war twa bonnie lasses! They biggit[86] a bower on yon burn-brae[87], And theekit[88] it oer wi rashes. 

 2. They theekit it oer wi' rashes green, They theekit it oer wi' heather: But the pest cam frae the burrows-town, And slew them baith thegither. 

 3. They thought to lie in Methven kirk-yard Amang their noble kin; But they maun lye in Stronach haugh, To biek forenent the sin[89]. 

 4. And Bessie Bell and Mary Gray, They war twa bonnie lasses; They biggit a bower on yon burn-brae, And theekit it oer wi' rashes. 

 THE THREE RAVENS[90]

 1. There were three ravens sat on a tree, Downe a downe, hay down, hay downe[91], There were three ravens sat on a tree, With a downe. There were three ravens sat on a tree, They were as blacke as they might be. With a downe derrie, derrie, derrie, downe, downe. 

 2. The one of them said to his mate, "Where shall we our breakfast take?"

 3. "Downe in yonder greene field There lies a knight slain under his shield. "

 4. His hounds they lie down at his feete, So well they can their master keepe[92]. 

 5. His haukes they flie so eagerly, There's no fowle dare him come nie. 

 6. Downe there comes a fallow doe, As great with young as she might goe. 

 7. She lift up his bloudy head, And kist his wounds that were so red. 

 8. She got him up upon her backe, And carried him to earthen lake[93]. 

 9. She buried him before the prime, She was dead herselfe ere even-song time. 

 10. God send every gentleman Such haukes, such hounds, and such a leman[94]. 

 [Footnote 85: Founded on an actual event of the plague, near Perth, in 1645. See the interesting account in Professor Child's 'Ballads, ' Part VII, p. 75f. ]

 [Footnote 86: Built. ]

 [Footnote 87: A hill sloping down to a brook. ]

 [Footnote 88: Thatched. ]

 [Footnote 89: To bake in the rays of the sun. ]

 [Footnote 90: The counterpart, or perhaps parody, of this ballad, called 'The Twa Corbies, ' is better known than the exquisite original. ]

 [Footnote 91: The refrain, or burden, differs in another version of the ballad. ]

 [Footnote 92: Guard. ]

 [Footnote 93: Shroud of earth, burial. ]

 [Footnote 94: Sweetheart, darling, literally 'dear-one' (liefman). The word had originally no offensive meaning. ]

 LORD RANDAL

 1. Where hae ye been, Lord Randal, my son? O where hae ye been, my handsome young man? "I hae been to the wild wood; mother, make my bed soon, For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain wald lie down. "

 2. "Where gat ye your dinner, Lord Randal, my son? Where gat ye your dinner, my handsome young man?" "I din'd wi' my true-love; mother, make my bed soon, For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain wald lie down. "

 3. "What gat ye to your dinner, Lord Randal, my son? What gat ye to your dinner, my handsome young man?" "I gat eels boiled in broo[95]; mother, make my bed soon, For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain wald lie down. "

 4. "What became o' your bloodhounds, Lord Randal, my son? What became' o' your bloodhounds, my handsome young man?" "O they swell'd and they died; mother, make my bed soon, For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain wald lie down. "

 5. "O I fear you are poison'd, Lord Randal, my son! O I fear you are poison'd, my handsome young man!" "O yes! I'm poison'd; mother, make my bed soon, For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wald lie down[96]. "

 [Footnote 95: Broth. ]

 [Footnote 96: Frogs, toads, snakes, and the like were often served for fish, and of course were supposed to act as a poison. One variant has a verse to elaborate this:--

 "Where gat she those eels, Lord Randal, my son? Where gat she those eels, my handsome young man?" "'Neath the bush o' brown bracken; mother, make my bed soon, For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain wald lie down. " ]

 EDWARD[97]

 1. "Why dois your brand sae drap wi bluid, Edward, Edward, Why dois your brand sae drap wi bluid, And why sae sad gang yee O?" "O I hae killed my hauke sae guid, Mither, mither, O I hae killed my hauke sae guid, And I had nae mair hot hee O. "

 2. "Your haukis bluid was nevir sae reid, Edward, Edward, Your haukis bluid was nevir sae reid, My deir son I tell thee O. " "O I hae killed my reid-roan steid, Mither, mither, O I hae killed my reid-roan steid, That erst was sae fair and frie O. "

 3. "Your steid was auld, and ye hae gat mair, Edward, Edward, Your steid was auld, and ye hae gat mair, Sum other dule ye drie O[98]. " "O I hae killed my fadir deir, Mither, mither, O I hae killed my fadir deir, Alas, and wae is mee O!"

 4. "And whatten penance wul ye drie, for that, Edward, Edward, And whatten penance wul ye drie, for that? My deir son, now tell me O. " "I'll set my feit in yonder boat, Mither, mither, I'll set my feit in yonder boat, And I'll fare over the sea O. "

 5. "And what wul ye doe wi' your towers and your ha', Edward, Edward, And what wul ye doe wi' your towers and your ha', That were sae fair to see O?" "I'll let them stand till they doun fa', Mither, mither, I'll let them stand till they doun fa', For here nevir mair maun I bee O. "

 6. "And what wul ye leive to your bairns and your wife, Edward, Edward, And what wul ye leive to your bairns and your wife, When ye gang over the sea O?" "The warldis room; let them beg thrae life, Mither, mither, The warldis room; let them beg thrae life, For them never mair wul I see O. "

 7. "And what wul ye leive to your ain mither dear, Edward, Edward, And what will ye leive to your ain mither dear? My dear son, now tell me O. " "The curse of hell frae me sall ye beir, Mither, mither, The curse of hell frae me sall ye beir, Sic counsels ye gave to me O. "

 [Footnote 97: One of the finest of our ballads. It was sent from Scotland to Percy by David Dalrymple. ]

 [Footnote 98: You suffer some other sorrow. ]

 THE TWA BROTHERS

 1. There were twa brethren in the north, They went to the school thegither; The one unto the other said, "Will you try a warsle[99] afore?"

 2. They warsled up, they warsled down, Till Sir John fell to the ground, And there was a knife in Sir Willie's pouch, Gied him a deadlie wound. 

 3. "Oh brither dear, take me on your back, Carry me to yon burn clear, And wash the blood from off my wound, And it will bleed nae mair. "

 4. He took him up upon his back, Carried him to yon burn clear, And washed the blood from off his wound, But aye it bled the mair. 

 5. "Oh brither dear, take me on your back, Carry me to yon kirk-yard, And dig a grave baith wide and deep. And lay my body there. "

 6. He's taen him up upon his back, Carried him to yon kirk-yard, And dug a grave baith deep and wide, And laid his body there. 

 7. "But what will I say to my father dear, Gin he chance to say, Willie, whar's John?" "Oh say that he's to England gone, To buy him a cask of wine. "

 8. "And what will I say to my mother dear, Gin she chance to say, Willie, whar's John?" "Oh say that he's to England gone, To buy her a new silk gown. "

 9. "And what will I say to my sister dear, Gin she chance to say, Willie, whar's John?" "Oh say that he's to England gone, To buy her a wedding ring. "

 10. "But what will I say to her you loe[100] dear, Gin she cry, Why tarries my John?" "Oh tell her I lie in Kirk-land fair, And home again will never come. "

 [Footnote 99: Wrestle. ]

 [Footnote 100: Love. ]

 BABYLON; OR THE BONNIE BANKS O' FORDIE

 1. There were three ladies lived in a bower, Eh vow bonnie, And they went out to pull a flower On the bonnie banks o' Fordie. 

 2. They hadna pu'ed a flower but ane, When up started to them a banisht man. 

 3. He's ta'en the first sister by her hand, And he's turned her round and made her stand. 

 4. "It's whether will ye be a rank robber's wife, Or will ye die by my wee pen-knife?"

 5. "It's I'll not be a rank robber's wife, But I'll rather die by your wee pen-knife!"

 6. He's killed this may, and he's laid her by, For to bear the red rose company. 

 7. He's taken the second ane by the hand, And he's turned her round and made her stand. 

 8. "It's whether will ye be a rank robber's wife, Or will ye die by my wee pen-knife?"

 9. "I'll not be a rank robber's wife, But I'll rather die by your wee pen-knife. "

 10. He's killed this may, and he's laid her by, For to bear the red rose company. 

 11. He's taken the youngest ane by the hand, And he's turned her round and made her stand. 

 12. Says, "Will ye be a rank robber's wife, Or will ye die by my wee pen-knife?"

 13. "I'll not be a rank robber's wife, Nor will I die by your wee pen-knife. "

 14. "For I hae a brother in this wood, And gin ye kill me, it's he'll kill thee. "

 15. "What's thy brother's name? Come tell to me. " "My brother's name is Baby Lon. "

 16. "O sister, sister, what have I done! O have I done this ill to thee!"

 17. "O since I've done this evil deed, Good sall never be seen o' me. "

 18. He's taken out his wee pen-knife, And he's twyned[101] himsel o' his own sweet life. 

 [Footnote 101: Parted, deprived. ]

 CHILDE MAURICE[102]

 1. Childe Maurice hunted i' the silver wood, He hunted it round about, And noebodye that he found therein, Nor none there was without. 

 2. He says, "Come hither, thou little foot-page, That runneth lowlye by my knee, For thou shalt goe to John Steward's wife And pray her speake with me. "

 3. ". .. . . .. . I, and greete thou doe that ladye well, Ever soe well fro me. "

 4. "And, as it falls, as many times As knots beene knit on a kell[103], Or marchant men gone to leeve London Either to buy ware or sell. "

 5. "And, as it falles, as many times As any hart can thinke, Or schoole-masters are in any schoole-house Writing with pen and inke: For if I might, as well as she may, This night I would with her speake. "

 6. "And heere I send her a mantle of greene, As greene as any grasse, And bid her come to the silver wood, To hunt with Child Maurice. "

 7. "And there I send her a ring of gold, A ring of precious stone, And bid her come to the silver wood, Let[104] for no kind of man. "

 8. One while this little boy he yode[105], Another while he ran, Until he came to John Steward's hall, I-wis[106] he never blan[107]. 

 9. And of nurture the child had good, He ran up hall and bower free, And when he came to this ladye faire, Sayes, "God you save and see[108]!"

 10. "I am come from Child Maurice, A message unto thee; And Child Maurice, he greetes you well, And ever soe well from me. "

 11. "And as it falls, as oftentimes As knots beene knit on a kell, Or marchant men gone to leeve London Either for to buy ware or sell. "

 12. "And as oftentimes he greetes you well As any hart can thinke, Or schoolemasters are in any schoole, Wryting with pen and inke. "

 13. "And heere he sends a mantle of greene[109], As greene as any grasse, And he bids you come to the silver wood, To hunt with Child Maurice. "

 14. "And heere he sends you a ring of gold, A ring of the precious stone; He prayes you to come to the silver wood, Let for no kind of man. "

 15. "Now peace, now peace, thou little foot-page, For Christes sake, I pray thee! For if my lord heare one of these words, Thou must be hanged hye!"

 16. John Steward stood under the castle wall, And he wrote the words everye one, . .. . . .. . 

 17. And he called upon his hors-keeper, "Make ready you my steede!" I, and soe he did to his chamberlaine, "Make ready thou my weede[110]!"

 18. And he cast a lease[111] upon his backe, And he rode to the silver wood, And there he sought all about, About the silver wood. 

 19. And there he found him Child Maurice Sitting upon a blocke, With a silver combe in his hand, Kembing his yellow lockes. . .. . 

 20. But then stood up him Child Maurice, And sayd these words trulye: "I doe not know your ladye, " he said, "If that I doe her see. "

 21. He sayes, "How now, how now, Child Maurice? Alacke, how may this be? For thou hast sent her love-tokens, More now then two or three;"

 22. "For thou hast sent her a mantle of greene, As greene as any grasse, And bade her come to the silver woode To hunt with Child Maurice. "

 23. "And thou hast sent her a ring of gold, A ring of precyous stone, And bade her come to the silver wood, Let for no kind of man. "

 24. "And by my faith, now, Child Maurice, The tone[112] of us shall dye!" "Now be my troth, " sayd Child Maurice, "And that shall not be I. "

 25. But he pulled forth a bright browne[113] sword, And dryed it on the grasse, And soe fast he smote at John Steward, I-wisse he never did rest. 

 26. Then he[114] pulled forth his bright browne sword, And dryed it on his sleeve, And the first good stroke John Stewart stroke, Child Maurice head he did cleeve. 

 27. And he pricked it on his sword's poynt, Went singing there beside, And he rode till he came to that ladye faire, Whereas this ladye lyed[115]. 

 28. And sayes, "Dost thou know Child Maurice head, If that thou dost it see? And lap it soft, and kisse it oft, For thou lovedst him better than me. "

 29. But when she looked on Child Maurice head, She never spake words but three:-- "I never beare no childe but one, And you have slaine him trulye. "

 30. Sayes[116], "Wicked be my merrymen all, I gave meate, drinke, and clothe! But could they not have holden me When I was in all that wrath!"

 31. "For I have slaine one of the curteousest knights That ever bestrode a steed, So[117] have I done one of the fairest ladyes That ever ware woman's weede!"

 [Footnote 102: It is worth while to quote Gray's praise of this ballad:--"I have got the old Scotch ballad on which 'Douglas' [the well-known tragedy by Home] was founded. It is divine. .. . Aristotle's best rules are observed in a manner which shows the author never had heard of Aristotle. "--Letter to Mason, in 'Works, ' ed. Gosse, ii. 316. ]

 [Footnote 103: That is, the page is to greet the lady as many times as there are knots in nets for the hair (_kell_), or merchants going to dear (_leeve_, lief) London, or thoughts of the heart, or schoolmasters in all schoolhouses. These multiplied and comparative greetings are common in folk-lore, particularly in German popular lyric. ]

 [Footnote 104: _Let_ (desist) is an infinitive depending on _bid_. ]

 [Footnote 105: Went, walked. ]

 [Footnote 106: Certainly. ]

 [Footnote 107: Stopped. ]

 [Footnote 108: Protect. ]

 [Footnote 109: These, of course, are tokens of the Childe's identity. ]

 [Footnote 110: Clothes. ]

 [Footnote 111: Leash. ]

 [Footnote 112: That one = the one. _That_ is the old neuter form of the definite article. Cf. _the tother_ for _that other_. ]

 [Footnote 113: _Brown_, used in this way, seems to mean burnished, or glistening, and is found in Anglo-Saxon. ]

 [Footnote 114: _He_, John Steward. ]

 [Footnote 115: Lived. ]

 [Footnote 116: John Steward. ]

 [Footnote 117: Compare the similar swiftness of tragic development in 'Babylon. ']¸

 THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL

 1. There lived a wife at Usher's Well, And a wealthy wife was she; She had three stout and stalwart sons, And sent them o'er the sea. 

 2. They hadna been a week from her, A week but barely ane, When word came to the carlin[118] wife That her three sons were gane. 

 3. They hadna been a week from her, A week but barely three, When word came to the carlin wife That her sons she'd never see. 

 4. "I wish the wind may never cease, Nor fashes[119] in the flood, Till my three sons come hame to me, In earthly flesh and blood. "

 5. It fell about the Martinmass[120], When nights are lang and mirk, The carlin wife's three sons came hame, And their hats were o' the birk[121]. 

 6. It neither grew in syke[122] nor ditch, Nor yet in ony sheugh[123], But at the gates o' Paradise, That birk grew fair eneugh. 

 * * * * *

 7. "Blow up the fire, my maidens! Bring water from the well! For a' my house shall feast this night, Since my three sons are well. "

 8. And she has made to them a bed, She's made it large and wide, And she's ta'en her mantle her about, Sat down at the bed-side. 

 * * * * *

 9. Up then crew the red, red cock[124], And up and crew the gray; The eldest to the youngest said, "'Tis time we were away. "

 10. The cock he hadna craw'd but once, And clapp'd his wing at a', When the youngest to the eldest said, "Brother, we must awa'. "

 11. "The cock doth craw, the day doth daw. The channerin[125] worm doth chide; Gin we be mist out o' our place, A sair pain we maun bide. "

 12. "Fare ye weel, my mother dear! Fareweel to barn and byre! And fare ye weel, the bonny lass That kindles my mother's fire!"

 [Footnote 118: Old woman. ]

 [Footnote 119: Lockhart's clever emendation for the _fishes_ of the Ms. _Fashes_ = disturbances, storms. ]

 [Footnote 120: November 11th. Another version gives the time as "the hallow days of Yule. "]

 [Footnote 121: Birch. ]

 [Footnote 122: Marsh. ]

 [Footnote 123: Furrow, ditch. ]

 [Footnote 124: In folk-lore, the break of day is announced to demons and ghosts by three cocks, --usually a white, a red, and a black; but the colors, and even the numbers, vary. At the third crow, the ghosts must vanish. This applies to guilty and innocent alike; of course, the sons are "spirits of health. "]

 [Footnote 125: Fretting. ]

 SWEET WILLIAM'S GHOST

 1. Whan bells war rung, an mass was sung, A wat[126] a' man to bed were gone, Clark Sanders came to Margret's window, With mony a sad sigh and groan. 

 2. "Are ye sleeping, Margret, " he says, "Or are ye waking, presentlie? Give me my faith and trouth again, A wat, true-love, I gied to thee. "

 3. "Your faith and trouth ye's never get, Nor our true love shall never twin[127], Till ye come with me in my bower, And kiss me both cheek and chin. "

 4. "My mouth it is full cold, Margret, It has the smell now of the ground; And if I kiss thy comely mouth, Thy life-days will not be long. "

 5. "Cocks are crowing a merry mid-larf[128], I wat the wild fule boded day; Give me my faith and trouth again, And let me fare me on my way. "

 6. "Thy faith and trouth thou shall na get, Nor our true love shall never twin, Till ye tell me what comes of women A wat that dy's in strong traveling[129]. "

 7. "Their beds are made in the heavens high, Down at the foot of our good Lord's knee, Well set about wi' gilly-flowers, A wat sweet company for to see. "

 8. "O cocks are crowing a merry mid-larf, A wat the wild fule boded day; The salms of Heaven will be sung, And ere now I'll be missed away. "

 9. Up she has taen a bright long wand, And she has straked her trouth thereon[130]; She has given it him out at the shot-window, Wi mony a sad sigh and heavy groan. 

 10. "I thank you, Margret, I thank you, Margret, And I thank you heartilie; Gin ever the dead come for the quick, Be sure, Margret, I'll come again for thee. "

 11. It's hose and shoon an gound[131] alane She clame the wall and followed him, Until she came to a green forest, On this she lost the sight of him. 

 12. "Is there any room at your head, Sanders? Is there any room at your feet? Or any room at your twa sides? Where fain, fain woud I sleep. "

 13. "There is nae room at my head, Margret, There is nae room at my feet; There is room at my twa sides, For ladys for to sleep. "

 14. "Cold meal[132] is my covering owre, But an[133] my winding sheet: My bed it is full low, I say, Among hungry worms I sleep. "

 15. "Cold meal is my covering owre, But an my winding sheet: The dew it falls nae sooner down Than ay it is full weet. "

 [Footnote 126: "I wot, " "I know, " = truly, in sooth. The same in 5-2, 6-4, 7-4, 8-2. ]

 [Footnote 127: Part, separate. She does not yet know he is dead. ]

 [Footnote 128: Probably the distorted name of a town; _a_ = in. "Cocks are crowing in merry--, and the wild-fowl announce the dawn. "]

 [Footnote 129: That die in childbirth. ]

 [Footnote 130: Margaret thus gives him back his troth-plight by "stroking" it upon the wand, much as savages and peasants believe they can rid themselves of a disease by rubbing the affected part with a stick or pebble and flinging the latter into the road. ]

 [Footnote 131: Gown. ]

 [Footnote 132: Mold, earth. ]

 [Footnote 133: But and==also. ]

HONORÉ DE BALZAC

(1799-1850)

BY WILLIAM P. TRENT

Honoré de Balzac, by common consent the greatest of French novelists andto many of his admirers the greatest of all writers of prose fiction, was born at Tours, May 16th, 1799. Neither his family nor his place ofbirth counts for much in his artistic development; but his sister Laure, afterwards Madame Surville, --to whom we owe a charming sketch of herbrother and many of his most delightful letters, --made him her herothrough life, and gave him a sympathy that was better than any merelyliterary environment. He was a sensitive child, little comprehended byhis parents or teachers, which probably accounts for the fact that fewwriters have so well described the feelings of children so situated [See'Le lys dans la vallée' (The Lily in the Valley) and 'Louis Lambert']. He was not a good student, but undermined his health by desultory thoughenormous reading and by writing a precocious Treatise on the Will, whichan irate master burned and the future novelist afterwards naïvelydeplored. When brought home to recuperate, he turned from books tonature, and the effects of the beautiful landscape of Touraine upon hisimagination are to be found throughout his writings, in passages ofdescription worthy of a nature-worshiper like Senancour himself. Aboutthis time a vague desire for fame seems to have seized him, --a desiredestined to grow into an almost morbid passion; and it was a kindlyProvidence that soon after (1814) led his family to quit the stagnantprovinces for that nursery of ambition, Paris. Here he studied under newmasters, heard lectures at the Sorbonne, read in the libraries, andfinally, at the desire of his practical father, took a three years'course in law. 

[Illustration: HON. DE BALZAC. ]

He was now at the parting of the ways, and he chose the one nearest hisheart. After much discussion, it was settled that he should not beobliged to return to the provinces with his family, or to enter upon theregular practice of law, but that he might try his luck as a writer onan allowance purposely fixed low enough to test his constancy andendurance. Two years was the period of probation allotted, during whichtime Balzac read still more widely and walked the streets studying thecharacters he met, all the while endeavoring to grind out verses for atragedy on Cromwell. This, when completed, was promptly and justlydamned by his family, and he was temporarily forced to retire fromParis. He did not give up his aspirations, however, and before long hewas back in his attic, this time supporting himself by his pen. Novels, not tragedies, were what the public most wanted, so he laboredindefatigably to supply their needs and his own necessities; notrelinquishing, however, the hope that he might some day watch theperformance of one of his own plays. His perseverance was destined to berewarded, for he lived to write five dramas which fill a volume of hiscollected works; but only one, the posthumous comedy 'Mercadet', waseven fairly successful. Yet that Balzac had dramatic genius his maturednovels abundantly prove. 

The ten romances, however, that he wrote for cheap booksellers between1822 and 1829 displayed so little genius of any sort that he wasafterwards unwilling to cover their deficiencies with his great name. They have been collected as youthful works ('Oeuvres de jeunesse'), andare useful to a complete understanding of the evolution of theirauthor's genius; but they are rarely read even by his most devotedadmirers. They served, however, to enable him to get through his longand heart-rending period of apprenticeship, and they taught him how toexpress himself; for this born novelist was not a born writer and had tolabor painfully to acquire a style which only at rare moments quitefitted itself to the subject he had in hand. 

Much more interesting than these early sensational romances were theletters he wrote to his sister Laure, in which he grew eloquent over hisambition and gave himself needed practice in describing the characterswith whom he came in contact. But he had not the means to wait quietlyand ripen, so he embarked in a publishing business which brought himinto debt. Then, to make up his losses, he became partner in a printingenterprise which failed in 1827, leaving him still more embarrassedfinancially, but endowed with a fund of experience which he turned torich account as a novelist. Henceforth the sordid world of debt, bankruptcy, usury, and speculation had no mystery for him, and he laidit bare in novel after novel, utilizing also the knowledge he had gainedof the law, and even pressing into service the technicalities of theprinting office [See 'Illusions perdues' (Lost Illusions)]. But now atthe age of twenty-eight he had over 100, 000 francs to pay, and hadwritten nothing better than some cheap stories; the task of wiping outhis debts by his writings seemed therefore a more hopeless one thanScott's. Nothing daunted, however, he set to work, and the year thatfollowed his second failure in business saw the composition of the firstnovel he was willing to acknowledge, 'Les Chouans. ' This romance ofBrittany in 1799 deserved the praise it received from press and public, in spite of its badly jointed plot and overdrawn characters. It stillappeals to many readers, and is important to the 'Comédie humaine' asbeing the only novel of the "Military Scenes. ". The 'Physiology ofMarriage' followed quickly (1829-30), and despite a certain pruriency ofimagination, displayed considerable powers of analysis, powers destinedshortly to distinguish a story which ranks high among its author'sworks, 'La Maison du chat-qui-pelote' (1830). This delightful novelette, the queer title of which is nearly equivalent to 'At the Sign of the Catand the Racket, ' showed in its treatment of the heroine's unhappypassion the intuition and penetration of the born psychologist, and inits admirable description of bourgeois life the pictorial genius of thegenuine realist. In other words the youthful romancer was merged oncefor all in the matured novelist. The years of waiting and observationhad done their work, and along the streets of Paris now walked the mostprofound analyst of human character that had scrutinized society sincethe days when William Shakespeare, fresh from Stratford, trod thestreets and lanes of Elizabethan London. 

The year 1830 marks the beginning not merely of Balzac's success as thegreatest of modern realists, but also of his marvelous literaryactivity. Novel after novel is begun before its predecessor is finished;short stories of almost perfect workmanship are completed; sketches aredashed off that will one day find their appropriate place in largercompositions, as yet existing only in the brain of the master. Nor is itmerely a question of individual works: novels and stories are to formdifferent series, --'Scenes from Private Life, ' 'Philosophical Novels andTales, '--which are themselves destined to merge into 'Studies of Mannersin the Nineteenth Century, ' and finally into the 'Comédie humaine'itself. Yet it was more than a swarm of stories that was buzzing in hishead; it was a swarm of individuals often more truly alive to him thanthe friends with whom he loved to converse about them. And just becausehe knew these people of his brain, just because he entered into theleast details of their daily lives, Balzac was destined to become muchmore than a mere philosopher or student of society; to wit, a creator ofcharacters, endowed with that "absolute dramatic vision" whichdistinguishes Homer and Shakespeare and Chaucer. But because he was alsosomething of a philosopher and student of sociology, he conceived thestupendous idea of linking these characters with one another and withtheir several environments, in order that he might make himself notmerely the historian but also the creator of an entire society. In otherwords, conservative though he was, Balzac had the audacity to rangehimself by the side of Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire, and to espouse the causeof evolution even in its infancy. The great ideas of the mutability ofspecies and of the influence of environment and heredity were, hethought, as applicable to sociology as to zoölogy, and as applicable tofiction as to either. So he meditated the 'Comédie humaine' for severalyears before he announced it in 1842, and from being almost the rival ofSaint-Hilaire he became almost the anticipator of Darwin. 

But this idea of evolution was itself due to the evolution of hisgenius, to which many various elements contributed: his friendships andenmities with contemporary authors, his intimacies with women ofrefinement and fashion, his business struggles with creditors andpublishers, his frequent journeys to the provinces and foreigncountries; and finally his grandiose schemes to surround himself withluxury and the paraphernalia of power, not so much for his own sake asfor the sake of her whose least smile was a delight and an inspiration. About each of these topics an interesting chapter might be written, buthere a few words must suffice. 

After his position as an author was more or less assured, Balzac'srelations with the leaders of his craft--such as Victor Hugo, ThéophileGautier, and George Sand--were on the whole cordial. He had trouble withSainte-Beuve, however, and often felt that his brother-writers begrudgedhis success. His constant attacks on contemporary journalists, and hisegotistic and erratic manners naturally prejudiced the critics, so thateven the marvelous romance entitled 'La Peau de chagrin' (The MagicSkin: 1831), --a work of superb genius, --speedily followed as it was by'Eugénie Grandet' and 'Le Père Goriot, ' did not win him cordialrecognition. One or two of his friendships, however, gave him aknowledge of higher social circles than he was by birth entitled to, afact which should be remembered in face of the charge that he did notknow high life, although it is of course true that a writer like Balzac, possessing the intuition of genius, need not frequent salons or live inhovels in order to describe them with absolute verisimilitude. 

With regard to Balzac's debts, the fact should be noted that he mighthave paid them off more easily and speedily had he been more prudent. Hecut into the profits of his books by the costly changes he was alwaysmaking in his proof-sheets, --changes which the artist felt to benecessary, but against which the publishers naturally protested. Inreality he wrote his books on his proof-sheets, for he would cut andhack the original version and make new insertions until he drove hisprinters wild. Indeed, composition never became easy to him, althoughunder a sudden inspiration he could sometimes dash off page after pagewhile other men slept. He had, too, his affectations; he must even havea special and peculiar garb in which to write. All these eccentricitiesand his outside distractions and ambitions, as well as his noble andpathetic love affair, entered into the warp and woof of his work witheffects that can easily be detected by the careful student, who shouldremember, however, that the master's foibles and peculiarities never forone moment set him outside the small circle of the men of supremegenius. He belongs to them by virtue of his tremendous grasp of life inits totality, his superhuman force of execution and the inevitablenessof his art at its best. 

The decade from 1830 to 1840 is the most prolific period of Balzac'sgenius in the creation of individual works; that from 1840 to 1850 ishis great period of philosophical co-ordination and arrangement. In thefirst he hewed out materials for his house; in the second he put themtogether. This statement is of course relatively true only, for we oweto the second decade three of his greatest masterpieces: 'Splendeurs etmisères des courtisanes, ' and 'La Cousine Bette' and 'Le Cousin Pons, 'collectively known as 'Les Parents pauvres' (Poor Relations). And what aperiod of masterful literary activity the first decade presents! For theyear 1830 alone the Vicomte de Spoelberch de Lovenjoul gives seventy-oneentries, many of slight importance, but some familiar to every studentof modern literature, such as 'El Verdugo, ' 'La Maison duchat-qui-pelote, ' 'Gobseck, ' 'Adieu, ' 'Une Passion dans le desert' (APassion in the Desert), 'Un Épisode sous la Terreur' (An Episode of theTerror). For 1831 there are seventy-six entries, among them suchmasterpieces as 'Le Réequisitionnaire' (The Conscript), 'Les Proscrits'(The Outlaws), 'La Peau de chagrin, ' and 'Jésus-Christ en Flandre. ' In1832 the number of entries falls to thirty-six, but among them are 'LeColonel Chabert, ' 'Le Curé de Tours' (The Priest of Tours), 'La GrandeBretèche, ' 'Louis Lambert, ' and 'Les Marana. ' After this year there arefewer short stories. In 1833 we have 'Le Médecin de campagne' (TheCountry Doctor), and 'Eugénie Grandet, ' with parts of the 'Histoire destreize' (Story of the Thirteen), and of the 'Contes drolatiques' (DrollTales). The next year gives us 'La Recherche de l'absolu' (Search forthe Absolute) and 'Le Père Goriot' (Old Goriot) and during the next sixthere were no less than a dozen masterpieces. Such a decade ofaccomplishment is little short of miraculous, and the work was doneunder stress of anxieties that would have crushed any normal man. 

But anxieties and labors were lightened by a friendship which was aninspiration long before it ripened into love, and were rendered bearableboth by Balzac's confidence in himself and by his ever nearer view ofthe goal he had set himself. The task before him was as stupendous asthat which Comte had undertaken, and required not merely the planningand writing of new works but the utilization of all that he hadpreviously written. Untiring labor had to be devoted to thismanipulation of old material, for practically the great output of thefive years 1829-1834 was to be co-ordinated internally, story beingbrought into relation with story and character with character. Thismeant the creation and management of an immense number of personages, the careful investigation of the various localities which served forenvironments, and the profound study of complicated social and politicalproblems. No wonder, then, that the second decade of his maturity showsa falling off in abundance, though not in intensity of creative power;and that the gradual breaking down of his health, under the strain ofhis ceaseless efforts and of his abnormal habits of life, made itselfmore and more felt in the years that followed the great preface which in1842 set forth the splendid design of the 'Comédie humaine. '

This preface, one of the most important documents in literary history, must be carefully studied by all who would comprehend Balzac in hisentirety. It cannot be too often repeated that Balzac's scientific andhistorical aspirations are important only in so far as they caused himto take a great step forward in the development of his art. The nearerthe artist comes to reproducing for us life in its totality, the higherthe rank we assign him among his fellows. Tried by this canon, Balzac issupreme. His interweaving of characters and events through a series ofvolumes gives a verisimilitude to his work unrivaled in prose fiction, and paralleled only in the work of the world-poets. In other words, hisuse of co-ordination upon a vast scale makes up for his lack of delicacyand sureness of touch, as compared with what Shakespeare and Homer andChaucer have taught us to look for. Hence he is with them even if notof them. 

This great claim can be made for the Balzac of the 'Comédie humaine'only; it could not be made for the Balzac of any one masterpiece like'Le Père Goriot, ' or even for the Balzac of all the masterpieces takenin lump and without co-ordination. Balzac by co-ordination has in spiteof his limitations given us a world, just as Shakespeare and Homer havedone; and so Taine was profoundly right when he put him in the samecategory with the greatest of all writers. When, however, he added St. Simon to Shakespeare, and proclaimed that with them Balzac was thegreatest storehouse of documents that we have on human nature, he wasguilty not merely of confounding _genres_ of art, but also of layingstress on the philosophic rather than on the artistic side of fiction. Balzac does make himself a great storehouse of documents on humannature, but he also does something far more important, he sets before usa world of living men and women. 

To have brought this world into existence, to have given it order in themidst of complexity, and that in spite of the fact that death overtookhim before he could complete his work, would have been sufficient tooccupy a decade of any other man's life; but he, though harassed withillness and with hopes of love and ambition deferred, was strong enoughto do more. The year 1840 saw the appearance of 'Pierrette, ' and theestablishment of the ill-fated 'Revue parisienne. ' The following yearsaw 'Ursule Mirouet, ' and until 1848 the stream of great works ispractically unbroken. The 'Splendeurs et misères' and the 'Parentspauvres' have been named already, but to these must be added 'Un Ménagede garçon' (A Bachelor's House-keeping), 'Modeste Mignon, ' and 'LesPaysans' (The Peasants). The three following years added nothing to hiswork and closed his life, but they brought him his crowning happiness. On March 14th, 1850, he was married to Mme. Hanska, at Berditchef; onAugust 18th, 1850, he died at Paris. 

Madame Evelina de Hanska came into Balzac's life about 1833, just afterhe had shaken off the unfortunate influence of the Duchesse de Castries. The young Polish countess was much impressed, we are told, by readingthe 'Scènes de la vie privée' (Scenes of Private Life), and was somewhatperplexed and worried by Balzac's apparent change of method in 'La Peaude chagrin. ' She wrote to him over the signature "L'Étrangère" (AForeigner), and he answered in a series of letters recently published inthe Revue de Paris. Not long after the opening of this correspondencethe two met, and a firm friendship was cemented between them. The ladywas about thirty, and married to a Russian gentleman of large fortune, to whom she had given an only daughter. She was in the habit oftraveling about Europe to carry on this daughter's education, and Balzacmade it his pleasure and duty to see her whenever he could, sometimesjourneying as far as Vienna. In the interim he would write her letterswhich possess great charm and importance to the student of his life. Thehusband made no objection to the intimacy, trusting both to his wife andto Balzac; but for some time before the death of the aged nobleman, Balzac seems to have distrusted himself and to have held slightly alooffrom the woman whom he was destined finally to love with all the fervorof his nature. Madame Hanska became free in the winter of 1842-3, andthe next summer Balzac visited St. Petersburg to see her. His love soonbecame an absorbing passion, but consideration for her daughter's futurewithheld the lady's consent to a betrothal till 1846. It was a period ofweary waiting, in which our sympathies are all on one side; for if evera man deserved to be happy in a woman's love, it was Balzac. Hishappiness came, but almost too late to be enjoyed. His last two years, which he spent in Poland with Madame de Hanska, were oppressed byillness, and he returned to his beloved Paris only to die. The struggleof thirty years was over, and although his immense genius was not yetfully recognized, his greatest contemporary, Victor Hugo, wasmagnanimous enough to exclaim on hearing that he was dying, "Europe ison the point of losing a great mind. " Balzac's disciples feel thatEurope really lost its greatest writer since Shakespeare. 

In the definitive edition of Balzac's writings in twenty-four volumes, seventeen are occupied by the various divisions of the 'Comédiehumaine. ' The plays take up one volume; and the correspondence, notincluding of course the letters to "L'Étrangère, " another; the 'Contesdrolatiques' make still another; and finally we have four volumes filledwith sketches, tales, reviews, and historical and political articlesleft uncollected by their author. 

The 'Contes' are thirty in number, divided into "dixains, " each with itsappropriate prologue and epilogue. They purport to have been collectedin the abbeys of Touraine, and set forth by the Sieur de Balzac for thedelight of Pantagruelists and none others. Not merely the spirit but thevery language of Rabelais is caught with remarkable verve and fidelity, so that from the point of view of style Balzac has never done betterwork. A book which holds by Rabelais on the one hand and by the Queen ofNavarre on the other is not likely, however, to appeal to that part ofthe English and American reading public that expurgates its Chaucer, andblushes at the mention of Fielding and Smollett. Such readers will dowell to avoid the 'Contes drolatiques;' although, like 'Don Juan, ' theycontain a great deal of what was best in their author, of his frank, ebullient, sensuous nature, lighted up here at least by a genuine ifscarcely delicate humor. Of direct suggestion of vice Balzac was, naturally, as incapable as he was of smug puritanism; but it must beconfessed that as a _raconteur_ his proper audience, now that themonastic orders have passed away, would be a group of middle-agedclub-men. 

The 'Comédie humaine' is divided into three main sections: first andmost important, the 'Études de moeurs' (Studies of Manners), second the'Études philosophiques' (Philosophic Studies), and finally the 'Étudesanalytiques' (Analytic Studies). These divisions, as M. Barrière pointsout in his 'L'Oeuvre de H. De Balzac' (The Work of Balzac), wereintended to bear to one another the relations that moral science, psychology, and metaphysics do to one another with regard to the life ofman, whether as an individual or as a member of society. No singledivision was left complete at the author's death; but enough wasfinished and put together to give us the sense of moving in a living, breathing world, no matter where we make our entry. This, as we haveinsisted, is the real secret of his greatness. To think, for example, that the importance of 'Séraphita' lies in the fact that it givesBalzac's view of Swedenborgianism, or that the importance of 'LouisLambert' lies in its author's queer theories about the human will, isentirely to misapprehend his true position in the world of literature. His mysticism, his psychology, his theories of economics, hisreactionary devotion to monarchy, and his idealization of the Church ofRome, may or may not appeal to us, and have certainly nothing that iseternal or inevitable about them; but in his knowledge of the human mindand heart he is as inevitable and eternal as any writer has ever been, save only Shakespeare and Homer. 

The 'Études de moeurs' were systematically divided by their author into'Scenes of Private Life, ' 'Scenes of Provincial Life, ' 'Scenes ofCountry Life, ' 'Scenes of Parisian Life, ' 'Scenes of Political Life, 'and 'Scenes of Military Life, '--the last three divisions representingmore or less exceptional phases of existence. The group relating toParis is by far the most important and powerful, but the provincialstories show almost as fine workmanship, and furnish not a few of thewell-known masterpieces. Less interesting, though still important, arethe 'Scenes of Private Life, ' which consist of twenty-four novels, novelettes, and tales, under the following titles: 'Béatrix, ' 'AlbertSavarus, ' 'La Fausse maitresse' (The False Mistress), 'Le Message' (TheMessage), 'La Grande Bretèche, ' 'Étude de femme' (Study of Woman), 'Autre étude de femme' (Another Story of Woman), 'Madame Firmiani, ''Modeste Mignon, ' 'Un Début dans la vie' (An Entrance upon Life), 'Pierre Grassou, ' 'Mémoires de deux jeunes mariées' (Recollections of aYoung Couple), 'La Maison du chat-qui-pelote, ' 'Le Bal de Sceaux' (TheBall of Sceaux), 'Le Contrat de mariage' (The Marriage Contract), 'LaVendetta, ' 'La Paix du ménage' (Household Peace), 'Une Double famille'(A Double Family), 'Une Fille d'Éve' (A Daughter of Eve), 'Honorine, ''La Femme abandonnée' (The Abandoned Wife), 'La Grenadière, ' 'La Femmede trente ans' (The Woman of Thirty). 

Of all these stories, hardly one shows genuine greatness except thepowerful tragic tale 'La Grande Bretèche, ' which was subsequentlyincorporated in 'Autre étude de femme, ' This story of a jealoushusband's walling up his wife's lover in a closet of her chamber is asdramatic a piece of writing as Balzac ever did, and is almost if notquite as perfect a short story as any that has since been written inFrance. 'La Maison du chat-qui-pelote' has been mentioned already onaccount of its importance in the evolution of Balzac's realism, butwhile a delightful novelette, it is hardly great, its charm comingrather from its descriptions of bourgeois life than from the working outof its central theme, the infelicity of a young wife married to anunfaithful artist. 'Modeste Mignon' is interesting, and more romanticthan Balzac's later works were wont to be; but while it may be safelyrecommended to the average novel-reader, few admirers of its authorwould wish to have it taken as a sample of their master. 'Béatrix' is apowerful story in its delineation of the weakness of the young Bretonnobleman, Calyste du Guénie. It derives a factitious interest from thefact that George Sand is depicted in 'Camille Maupin, ' the _nom deplume_ of Mlle. Des Touches, and perhaps Balzac himself in ClaudeVignon, the critic. Less factitious is the interest derived fromBalzac's admirable delineation of a doting mother and aunt, and from hisrealistic handling of one of the cleverest of his ladies of lightreputation, Madame Schontz; his studies of such characters of the_demi-monde_--especially of the wonderful Esther of the 'Splendeurs etmisères'--serving plainly, by the way, as a point of departure for Dumas_fils_. Yet 'Béatrix' is an able rather than a truly great book, for itneither elevates nor delights us. In fact, all the stories in thisseries are interesting rather than truly great; but all display Balzac'sremarkable analytic powers. Love, false or true, is of course their maintheme; wrought out to a happy issue in 'La Bourse, ' a charming tale, orto a death of despair in 'La Grenadière' The childless young marriedwoman is contrasted with her more fortunate friend surrounded by littleones ('Mémoires de deux jeunes mariées'), the heartless coquette flirtsonce too often ('Le Bal de Sceaux'), the eligible young man is taken inby a scheming mother ('Le Contrat du mariage'), the deserted husbandlabors to win back his wife ('Honorine'), the tempted wife learns atlast the real nature of her peril ('Une Fille d'Éve'); in short, loversand mistresses, husbands and wives, make us participants of all the joysand sorrows that form a miniature world within the four walls ofevery house. 

The 'Scenes of Provincial Life' number only ten stories, but nearly allof them are masterpieces. They are 'Eugénie Grandet, ' 'Le Lys dans lavallée, ' 'Ursule Mirouet, ' 'Pierrette, ' 'Le Curé de Tours, ' 'LaRabouilleuse, ' 'La Vielle fille' (The Old Maid), 'Le Cabinet desantiques' (The Cabinet of Antiques), 'L'Illustre Gaudissart' (TheIllustrious Gaudissart), and 'La Muse du département' (The DepartmentalMuse). Of these 'Eugénie Grandet' is of course easily first in interest, pathos, and power. The character of old Grandet, the miserly father, ispresented to us with Shakespearean vividness, although Eugénie herselfhas, less than the Shakespearean charm. Any lesser artist would havemade the tyrant himself and his yielding wife and daughters seemcaricatures rather than living people. It is only the Shakespeares andBalzacs who are able to make their Shylocks and lagos, their Grandetsand Philippe Brideaus, monsters and human beings at one and the sametime. It is only the greater artists, too, who can bring out all thepathos inherent in the subjection of two gentle women to a tyrant intheir own household. But it is Balzac the inimitable alone who canportray fully the life of the provinces, its banality, its meanness, itswatchful selfishness, and yet save us through the perfection of his artfrom the degradation which results from contact with low and sordidlife. The reader who rises unaffected from a perusal of 'EugénieGrandet' would be unmoved by the grief of Priam in the tent of Achilles, or of Othello in the death-chamber of Desdemona. 

'Le Lys dans la vallée' has been pronounced by an able French critic tobe the worst novel he knows; but as a study of more or less ethereal andslightly morbid love it is characterized by remarkable power. Itsheroine, Madame Mortsauf, tied to a nearly insane husband and pursued bya sentimental lover, undergoes tortures of conscience through anagonizing sense of half-failure in her duty. Balzac himself used to citeher when he was charged with not being able to draw a pure woman; but hehas created nobler types. The other stories of the group are alsodecidedly more interesting. The distress of the abbé Birotteau over hislandlady's treatment, and the intrigues of the abbé Troubert ('Le Curéde Tours') absorb us as completely as the career of Caesar himself inMommsen's famous chapter. The woes of the little orphan subjected to thetyranny of her selfish aunt and uncle ('Pierrette'), the struggles ofthe rapacious heirs for the Mirouet fortune ('Ursule Mirouet, ') a storywhich gives us one of Balzac's purest women, treats interestingly ofmesmerism (and may be read without fear by the young), the siege ofMlle. Cormon's mature affections by her two adroit suitors ('Une Viellefille'), the intrigues against the peace of the d'Esgrignons and thesublime devotion to their interests of the notary Chesnel ('Le Cabinetdes antiques'), and finally the ignoble passions that fought themselvesout around the senile Jean Jacques Rouget, under the direction of thediabolical ex-soldier Philippe Brideau ('La Rabouilleuse, ' sometimesentitled 'Un Ménage de Garcon'), form the absorbing central themes of agroup of novels--or rather stories, for few of them attain considerablelength--unrivaled in the annals of realistic fiction. 

The 'Scenes of Country Life, ' comprising 'Les Paysans, ' 'Le Médecin decampagne, ' and 'Le Curé de village' (The Village Priest), take high rankamong their author's works. Where Balzac might have been crudelynaturalistic, he has preferred to be either realistic as in the firstnamed admirable novel, or idealistic as in the two latter. Hence he hascreated characters like the country physician, Doctor Benassis, almostas great a boon to the world of readers as that philanthropist himselfwas to the little village of his adoption. If Madame Graslin of 'LeCuré de village' fails to reach the height of Benassis, her career hasat least a sensational interest which his lacked; and the countrycurate, the good abbé Bonnet, surely makes up for her lack on the idealside. This story, by the way, is important for the light it throws onthe workings of the Roman Church among the common people; and thedescription of Madame Graslin's death is one of Balzac's most effectivepieces of writing. 

We are now brought to the 'Parisian Scenes, ' and with the exception of'Eugénie Grandet, ' to the best-known masterpieces. There are twentytitles; but as two of these are collective in character, the number ofnovels and stories amounts to twenty-four, as follows:--'Le PèreGoriot, ' 'Illusions perdues, ' 'Splendeurs et misères des courtisanes, ''Les Secrets de la princesse de Cadignan' (The Secrets of the Princessof Cadignan), 'Histoire des treize' [containing 'Ferragus, ' 'La Duchessede Langeais, ' and 'La Fille aux yeux d'or' (The Girl with the GoldenEyes)], 'Sarrasine, ' 'Le Colonel Chabert, ' 'L'lnterdiction' (TheInterdiction), 'Les Parents pauvres' (Poor Relations, including 'LaCousine Bette' and 'Le Cousin Pons'), 'La Messe de l'athée' (TheAtheist's Mass), 'Facino Cane, ' 'Gobseck, ' 'La Maison Nucingen, ' 'UnPrince de la Bohème' (A Prince of Bohemia), 'Esquisse d'hommed'affaires' (Sketch of a Business man), 'Gaudissart II. ' 'Les Comédienssans le savoir' (The Unconscious Humorists), 'Les Employés' (TheEmployees), 'Histoire de César Birotteau, ' and 'Les Petits bourgeois'(Little Bourgeois). Of these twenty-four titles six belong to novels, five of which are of great power, nine to novelettes and short storiestoo admirable to be passed over without notice, eight to novelettes andstories of interest and value which need not, however, detain us, andone, 'Les Petits bourgeois', to a novel of much promise unfortunatelyleft incomplete. 'Les Secrets de la princesse de Cadignan' is remarkablechiefly as a study of the blind passion that often overtakes a man ofletters. Daniel d'Arthez, the author, a fine character and a favoritewith Balzac, succumbs to the wiles of the Princess of Cadignan (formerlythe dashing and fascinating Duchesse de Maufrigneuse) and is happy inhis subjection. The 'Histoire des treize' contains three novelettes, linked together through the fact that in each a band of thirteen youngmen, sworn to assist one another in conquering society, play animportant part. This volume is the most frankly sensational of Balzac'sworks. 'La Duchesse de Langeais' however, is more than sensational: itgives perhaps Balzac's best description of the Faubourg St. Germain andone of his ablest analyses of feminine character, while in thedescription of General Montriveau's recognition of the Duchess in theSpanish convent the novelist's dramatic power is seen at its highest. 'La Fille aux yeux d'or, ' which concludes the volume devoted to themysterious brotherhood, may be considered, with 'Sarrasine, ' one of thedark closets of the great building known as the 'Comédie humaine. ' Bothstories deal with unnatural passions, and the first is one of Balzac'smost effective compositions. For sheer voluptuousness of style there islittle in literature to parallel the description of the boudoir of theuncanny heroine. Very different from these stories is 'Le ColonelChabert, ' the record of the misfortunes of one of Napoleon's heroicsoldiers, who after untold hardships returns to France to find his wifemarried a second time and determined to deny his existence. The law isinvoked, but the treachery of the wife induces the noble old man to putan end to the proceedings, after which he sinks into an indigent andpathetic senility. Balzac has never drawn a more heart-moving figure, nor has he ever sounded more thoroughly the depths of human selfishness. But the description of the battle of Eylau and of Chabert's sufferingsin retreat would alone suffice to make the story memorable. 'L'Interdiction' is the proper pendant to the history of thisunfortunate soldier. In it another husband, the Marquis d'Espard, suffers from the selfishness of his wife, one of the worst characters inthe range of Balzac's fiction. That she may keep him from alienating hisproperty to discharge a moral obligation she endeavors to prove himinsane. The legal complications which ensue bring forward one ofBalzac's great figures, the judge of instruction, Popinot; but toappreciate him the reader must go to the marvelous book itself. 'Gobseck' is a study of a Parisian usurer, almost worthy of a placebeside the description of old Grandet; while 'Les Employés' is arealistic study of bureaucratic life, which, besides showing a wonderfulfamiliarity with the details of a world of which Balzac had littlepersonal experience, contains several admirably drawn characters and asufficient amount of incident. But it is time to leave these sketchesand novels in miniature, and to pass by the less important 'Scenes' ofthis fascinating Parisian life, in order to consider in some detail thefive novels of consummate power. 

First of these in date of composition, and in popular estimation atleast among English readers, comes, 'Le Père Goriot. ' It is certainlytrite to call the book a French "Lear, " but the expression emphasizesthe supreme artistic power that could treat the _motif_ of one ofShakespeare's plays in a manner that never forces a disadvantageouscomparison with the great tragedy. The retired vermicelli-maker is notas grand a figure as the doting King of Britain, but he is as real. TheFrench daughters, Anastasie, Countess de Restaud, and Delphine, Baronessde Nucingen, are not such types of savage wickedness as Regan andGoneril, but they fit the nineteenth century as well as the Britishprincesses did their more barbarous day. Yet there is no Cordelia in'Le Père Goriot, ' for the pale Victorine Taillefer cannot fill the placeof that noblest of daughters. This is but to say that Balzac's bourgeoistragedy lacks that element of the noble that every great poetic tragedymust have. The self-immolation of old Goriot to the cold-heartedambitions of his daughters is not noble, but his parental passiontouches the infinite, and so proves the essential kinship of his creatorwith the creator of Lear. This touch of the infinite, as in 'EugénieGrandet, ' lifts the book up from the level of a merely masterly study ofcharacters or a merely powerful novel to that of the suprememasterpieces of human genius. The marvelously lifelike description ofthe vulgar Parisian boarding-house, the fascinating delineation of thecharacter of that king of convicts, Vautrin, and the fine analysis ofthe ambitions of Rastignac (who comes nearer perhaps to being _the_ heroof the 'Comédie humaine' than any other of its characters, and is herepresented to us at the threshold of his successful career) remain in thememory of every reader, but would never alone have sufficed to makeBalzac's name worthy of immortality. The infinite quality of Goriot'spassion would, however, have conferred this honor on his creator had henever written another book. 

'Illusions perdues' and 'Splendeurs et misères des courtisanes' mightalmost be regarded as one novel in seven parts. More than any other ofhis works they show the sun of Balzac's genius at its meridian. Nowhereelse does he give us plots so absorbing, nowhere else does he bring usso completely in contact with the world his imagination has peopled. Thefirst novel devotes two of its parts to the provinces and one to Paris. The provincial stories centre around two brothers-in-law, David Séchardand Lucien de Rubempré, types of the practical and the artisticintellect respectively. David, after struggling for fame and fortune, succumbs and finds his recompense in the love of his wife Eve, Lucien'ssister, one of Balzac's noble women. Lucien, on the other hand, aftersome provincial successes as a poet, tries the great world of Paris, yields to its temptations, fails ignominiously, and attempts suicide, but is rescued by the great Vautrin, who has escaped from prison and isabout to renew his war on society disguised as a Spanish priest. Vautrinhas conceived the idea that as he can take no part in society, he willhave a representative in it and taste its pleasures through him. Lucienaccepts this disgraceful position and plunges once more into the vortex, supported by the strong arm of the king of the convicts. His career andthat of his patron form the subject of the four parts of the 'Splendeurset misères' and are too complicated to be described here. Suffice it tosay that probably nowhere else in fiction are the novel of character andthe novel of incident so splendidly combined; and certainly nowhereelse in the range of his work does Balzac so fully display all hismaster qualities. That the story is sensational cannot be denied, but itis at least worthy of being called the Iliad of Crime. Nemesis waitsupon both Lucien and Vautrin, and upon the poor courtesan Esther whomthey entrap in their toils, and when the two former are at last incustody, Lucien commits suicide. Vautrin baffles his acute judge in awonderful interview; but with his cherished hope cut short by Lucien'sdeath, finally gives up the struggle. Here the novel might have ended;yet Balzac adds a fourth part, in order to complete the career ofVautrin. The famous convict is transformed into a government spy, andengages to use his immense power against his former comrades and indefense of the society he has hitherto warred upon. The artisticpropriety of this transformation may be questioned, but not the powerand interest of the novel of which it is the finishing touch. 

Many readers would put the companion novels 'La Cousine Bette' and 'LeCousin Pons' at the head of Balzac's works. They have not the infinitepathos of 'Le Père Goriot, ' or the superb construction of the firstthree parts of the 'Splendeurs et misères, ' but for sheer strength theformer at least is unsurpassed in fiction. Never before or since havethe effects of vice in dragging down a man below the level of the lowestbrute been so portrayed as in Baron Hulot; never before or since hasfemale depravity been so illustrated as in the diabolical career ofValérie Marneffe, probably the worst woman in fiction. As for CousineBette herself, and her power to breed mischief and crime, it suffices tosay that she is worthy of a place beside the two chief characters. 

'Le Cousin Pons' is a very different book; one which, though pathetic inthe extreme, may be safely recommended to the youngest reader. The herowho gives his name to the story is an old musician who has worn out hiswelcome among his relations, but who becomes an object of interest tothem when they learn that his collection of bric-a-brac is valuable andthat he is about to die. The intrigues that circulate around thiscollection and the childlike German, Schmucke, to whom Pons hasbequeathed it, are described as only the author of 'Le Curé de Tours'could have succeeded in doing; but the book contains also an almostperfect description of the ideal friendship existing between Pons andSchmucke. One remembers them longer than one does Frazier, thescoundrelly advocate who cheats poor Schmucke; a fact which should becited against those who urge that Balzac is at home with his viciouscharacters only. 

The last novel of this group, 'César Birotteau, ' is the least powerful, though not perhaps the least popular. It is an excellent study ofbourgeois life, and therefore fills an important place in the scheme ofthe 'Comedy, ' describing as it does the spreading ambitions of a richbut stupid perfumer, and containing an admirable study of bankruptcy. Itmay be dismissed with the remark that around the innocent Caesar surgemost of the scoundrels that figure in the 'Comédie humaine, ' and withthe regret that it should have been completed while the far morepowerful 'Les Petits bourgeois' was left unfinished. 

We now come to the concluding parts of the 'Études de moeurs. ' the'Scenes' describing Political and Military Life. In the first group arefive novels and stories: 'L'Envers de l'histoire contemporaine' (TheUnder Side of Contemporary History, a fine story, but rather social thanpolitical), 'Une Ténébreuse affaire' (A Shady Affair), 'Un Épisode sousla Terreur, ' 'Z. Marcas, ' and 'Le Deputé d'Arcis' (The Deputy of Arcis). Of these the 'Episode' is probably the most admirable, although 'Z. Marcas' has not a little strength. The 'Deputé, ' like 'Les Petitsbourgeois, ' was continued by M. Charles Rabou and a considerable part ofit is not Balzac's; a fact which is to be regretted, since practicallyit is the only one of these stories that touches actual politics as theterm is usually understood. The military scenes are only two in number, 'Les Chouans' and 'Une Passion dans le désert. ' The former of these hasbeen sufficiently described already; the latter is one of the best knownof the short stories, but rather deserves a place beside 'La Fille auxyeux d'or. ' Indeed, for Balzac's best military scenes we must go to 'LeColonel Chabert' or to 'Adieu. '

We now pass to those subterranean chambers of the great structure we areexploring, the 'Études philosophiques. ' They are twenty in number, fourbeing novels, one a composite volume of tales, and the rest stories. Thetitles run as follows:--'La Peau de chagrin, ' 'L'Élixir de longue vie'(The Elixir of Life), 'Melmoth réconcilié, ' 'Le Chef-d'oeuvre inconnu'(The Anonymous Masterpiece), 'Gambara, ' 'Massimila Doni, ' 'LeRéquisitionnaire, ' 'Adieu, ' 'El Verdugo, ' 'Les Marana, ' 'L'Aubergerouge' (The Red Inn), 'Un Drame au bord de la mer' (A Seaside Drama), 'L'Enfant maudit' (A Child Accursed) 'Maître Cornélius' (MasterCornelius), 'Sur Catherine de Médicis, ' 'La Recherche de l'absolu, ''Louis Lambert, ' 'Séraphita, ' 'Les Proscrits, ' and 'Jésus-Christen Flandre. '

Of the novels, 'La Peau de chagrin' is easily first. Its central themeis the world-old conflict between the infinite desires and the finitepowers of man. The hero, Raphael, is hardly, as M. Barrière asserts, ona level with Hamlet, Faust, and Manfred, but the struggle of hisinfinite and his finite natures is almost as intensely interesting asthe similar struggles in them. The introduction of the talisman, thewild ass's skin that accomplishes all the wishes of its owner, but oncondition that it is to shrink away in proportion to the intensity ofthose wishes, and that when it disappears the owner's life is to end, gave to the story a weird interest not altogether, perhaps, in keepingwith its realistic setting, and certainly forcing a disastrouscomparison with the three great poems named. But when all allowances aremade, one is forced to conclude that 'La Peau de chagrin' is a novel ofextraordinary power and absorbing interest; and that its description ofits hero's dissipations in the libertine circles of Paris, and itsportrayal of the sublime devotion of the heroine Pauline for her slowlyperishing lover, are scarcely to be paralleled in literature. Far lesspowerful are the short stories on similar themes, entitled 'L'Élixir delongue vie, ' and 'Melmoth réconcilié' (Melmoth Reconciled), which giveus Balzac's rehandling of the Don Juan of Molière and Byron, and theMelmoth of Maturin. 

Below the 'Peau de chagrin, ' but still among its author's best novels, should be placed 'La Recherche de l'absolu, ' which, as its titleimplies, describes the efforts of a chemist to "prove by chemicalanalysis the unity of composition of matter. " In the pursuit of hisphilosophic will-o'-the-wisp, Balthazar Claës loses his fortune andsacrifices his noble wife and children. His madness serves, however, tobring into relief the splendid qualities of these latter; and it is justhere, in its human rather than in its philosophic bearings, that thestory rises to real greatness. Marguerite Claës, the daughter, is anoble heroine; and if one wishes to see how Balzac's characters andideas suffer when treated by another though an able hand, one has but toread in conjunction with this novel the 'Maître Guérin' of thedistinguished dramatist Émile Augier. A proper pendant to this historyof a noble genius perverted is 'La Confidence des Ruggieri, ' the secondpart of that remarkable composite 'Sur Catherine de Médicis, ' a bookwhich in spite of its mixture of history, fiction, and speculativepolitics is one of the most suggestive of Balzac's minor productions. 

Concerning 'Séraphita' and 'Louis Lambert, ' the remaining novels of thisseries, certain noted mystics assert that they contain the essence ofBalzac's genius, and at least suggest the secret of the universe. Perhaps an ordinary critic may content himself with saying that bothbooks are remarkable proofs of their author's power, and that the formeris notable for its marvelous descriptions of Norwegian scenery. 

Of the lesser members of the philosophic group, nearly all are admirablein their kind and degree. 'Le Chef-d'oeuvre inconnu' and 'Gambara' treatof the pains of the artistic life and temperament. 'Massimila Doni, 'like 'Gambara, ' treats of music, but also gives a brilliant picture ofVenetian life. 'Le réquisitionnaire, ' perhaps the best of Balzac'sshort stories, deals with the phenomenon of second sight, as 'Adieu'does with that of mental alienation caused by a sudden shock. 'LesMarana' is an absorbing study of the effects of heredity; 'L'Aubergerouge' is an analysis of remorse, as is also 'Un Drame au bord de lamer'; while 'L'Enfant maudit' is an analysis of the effects of extremesensibility, especially as manifested in the passion of poetic love. Finally, 'Maître Cornelius' is a study of avarice, in which is set aremarkable portrait of Louis XI. ; 'Les Proscrits' is a masterly sketchof the exile of Dante at Paris; and 'Jésus-Christ en Flandre' is anexquisite allegory, the most delicate flower, perhaps, ofBalzac's genius. 

It remains only to say a few words about the third division of the'Comédie humaine, ' viz. , the 'Études analytiques. ' Only two members ofthe series, the 'Physiologie du mariage' and the 'Petites misères de lavie conjugale, ' were ever completed, and they are not great enough tomake us regret the loss of the 'Pathology of Social Life' and the otherunwritten volumes. For the two books we have are neither novels norprofound studies, neither great fiction nor great psychology. That theyare worth reading for their suggestiveness with regard to such importantsubjects as marriage and conjugal life goes without saying, since theyare Balzac's; but that they add greatly to his reputation, not even hismost ardent admirer would be hardy enough to affirm. 

And now in conclusion, what can one say about this great writer thatwill not fall far short of his deserts? Plainly, nothing, yet a fewpoints may be accentuated with profit. We should notice in the firstplace that Balzac has consciously tried almost every form of prosefiction, and has been nearly always splendidly successful. In analyticstudies of high, middle, and low life he has not his superior. In thenovel of intrigue and sensation he is easily a master, while he succeedsat least fairly in a form of fiction at just the opposite pole fromthis, to wit, the idyl ('Le Lys dans la vallée'). In character sketchesof extreme types, like 'Gobseck, ' his supremacy has long beenrecognized, and he is almost as powerful when he enters the world ofmysticism, whither so few of us can follow him. As a writer ofnovelettes he is unrivaled and some of his short stories are worthy torank with the best that his followers have produced. In the extensiveuse of dialect he was a pioneer; in romance he has 'La Peau de chagrin'and 'La Recherche de l'absolu' to his credit; while some of the work inthe tales connected with the name of Catherine de Medici shows what hecould have done in historical fiction had he continued to follow Scott. And what is true of the form of his fiction is true of its elements. Tragedy, comedy, melodrama are all within his reach; he can call uptears and shudders, laughter and smiles at will. He knows the wholerange of human emotions, and he dares to penetrate into the arcana ofpassions almost too terrible or loathsome for literature to touch. 

In style, in the larger sense of the word, he is almost equally supreme. He is the father of modern realism and remains its greatest exponent. Heretains always some of the good elements of romance, --that is to say, hesees the thing as it ought to be, --and he avoids the pitfalls ofnaturalism, being a painter and not a photographer. In other words, likeall truly great writers he never forgets his ideals; but he is tooimpartial to his characters and has too fast a grip on life to fall intothe unrealities of sentimentalism. It is true that he lacked thespontaneity that characterized his great forerunner, Shakespeare, andhis great contemporary, George Sand; but this loss was made up by theinevitable and impersonal character of his work when once his genius wasthoroughly aroused to action. His laborious method of describing by anaccumulation of details postponed the play of his powers, which are attheir height in the action of his characters; yet sooner or later theinert masses of his composition were fused into a burning whole. But ifBalzac is primarily a dramatist in the creation and manipulation of hischaracters, he is also a supreme painter in his presentation of scenes. And what characters and what scenes has he not set before us! Over twothousand personages move through the 'Comédie humaine, ' whosebiographies MM. Cerfberr and Christophe have collected for us in theiradmirable 'Répertoire de la comédie humaine, ' and whose chief types M. Paul Flat has described in the first series of his 'Essais sur Balzac. 'Some of these personages are of course shadowy; but an amazingly largenumber live for us as truly as Shakespeare's heroes and heroines do. Norwill any one who has trod the streets of Balzac's Paris, or spent thesummer with him at the chateau des Aigues ('Les Paysans'), or in thebeautiful valleys of Touraine, ever forget the master's pictures. 

Yet the Balzac who with intangible materials created living andbreathing men and women and unfading scenes, has been accused ofvitiating the French language and has been denied the possession ofverbal style. On this point French critics must give the final verdict;but a foreigner may cite Taine's defense of that style, and maintainthat most of the liberties taken by Balzac with his native language wereforced on him by the novel and far-reaching character of his work. Norshould it be forgotten that he was capable at times of almost perfectpassages of description, and that he rarely confounded, as novelists aretoo apt to do, the provinces of poetry and prose. 

But one might write a hundred essays on Balzac and not exhaust him. Onemight write a volume on his women, a volume to refute the charge thathis bad men are better drawn than his good, a volume to discuss Mr. Henry James's epigrammatic declaration that a five-franc piece may befairly called the protagonist of the 'Comédie humaine. ' In short onemight go on defending and praising and even criticizing Balzac for alifetime, and be little further advanced than when one began; for tocriticize Balzac, is it not to criticize life itself?

[Illustration: Signature W. P. Trent]

THE MEETING IN THE CONVENT

From 'The Duchess of Langeais'

 I

In a Spanish town on an island of the Mediterranean there is a conventof the Barefooted Carmelites, where the rule of the Order instituted bySaint Theresa is still kept with the primitive rigor of the reformationbrought about by that illustrious woman. Extraordinary as this fact mayseem, it is true. Though the monasteries of the Peninsula and those ofthe Continent were nearly all destroyed or broken up by the outburst ofthe French Revolution and the turmoil of the Napoleonic wars, yet onthis island, protected by the British fleets, the wealthy convent andits peaceful inmates were sheltered from the dangers of change andgeneral spoliation. The storms from all quarters which shook the firstfifteen years of the nineteenth century subsided ere they reached thislonely rock near the coast of Andalusia. If the name of the greatEmperor echoed fitfully upon its shores, it may be doubted whether thefantastic march of his glory or the flaming majesty of his meteoric lifeever reached the comprehension of those saintly women kneeling in theirdistant cloister. 

A conventual rigor, which was never relaxed, gave to this haven aspecial place in the thoughts and history of the Catholic world. Thepurity of its rule drew to its shelter from different parts of Europesad women, whose souls, deprived of human ties, longed for the death inlife which they found here in the bosom of God. No other convent was sofitted to wean the heart and teach it that aloofness from the things ofthis world which the religious life imperatively demands. On theContinent may be found a number of such Houses, nobly planned to meetthe wants of their sacred purpose. Some are buried in the depths ofsolitary valleys; others hang, as it were, in mid-air above the hills, clinging to the mountain slopes or projecting from the verge ofprecipices. On all sides man has sought out the poesy of the infinite, the solemnity of silence: he has sought God; and on the mountain-tops, in the abysmal depths, among the caverned cliffs he has found Him. Yetnowhere as on this European islet, half African though it be, can hefind such differing harmonies all blending to lift the soul and quellits springs of anguish; to cool its fevers, and give to the sorrows oflife a bed of rest. 

The monastery is built at the extremity of the island at its highestpart, where the rock by some convulsion of Nature has been rent sharplydown to the sea, and presents at all points keen angles and edges, slightly eaten away at the water-line by the action of the waves, butinsurmountable to all approach. The rock is also protected from assaultby dangerous reefs running far out from its base, over which frolic theblue waters of the Mediterranean. It is only from the sea that thevisitor can perceive the four principal parts of the square structure, which adheres minutely as to shape, height, and the piercing of itswindows to the prescribed laws of monastic architecture. On the sidetowards the town the church hides the massive lines of the cloister, whose roof is covered with large tiles to protect it from winds andstorms, and also from the fierce heat of the sun. The church, the giftof a Spanish family, looks down upon the town and crowns it. Its boldyet elegant façade gives a noble aspect to the little maritime city. Isit not a picture of terrestrial sublimity? See the tiny town withclustering roofs, rising like an amphitheatre from the picturesque portupward to the noble Gothic frontal of the church, from which spring theslender shafts of the bell-towers with their pointed finials: religiondominating life: offering to man the end and the way of living, --imageof a thought altogether Spanish. Place this scene upon the bosom of theMediterranean beneath an ardent sky; plant it with palms whose wavingfronds mingle their green life with the sculptured leafage of theimmutable architecture; look at the white fringes of the sea as it runsup the reef and they sparkle upon the sapphire of its wave; see thegalleries and the terraces built upon the roofs of houses, where theinhabitants come at eve to breathe the flower-scented air as it risesthrough the tree-tops from their little gardens. Below, in the harbor, are the white sails. The serenity of night is coming on; listen to thenotes of the organ, the chant of evening orisons, the echoing bells ofthe ships at sea: on all sides sound and peace, --oftenest peace. 

Within the church are three naves, dark and mysterious. The fury of thewinds evidently forbade the architect to build out lateral buttresses, such as adorn all other cathedrals, and between which little chapels areusually constructed. Thus the strong walls which flank the lesser navesshed no light into the building. Outside, their gray masses are shoredup from point to point by enormous beams. The great nave and its twosmall lateral galleries are lighted solely by the rose-window of stainedglass, which pierces with miraculous art the wall above the greatportal, whose fortunate exposure permits a wealth of tracery anddentellated stone-work belonging to that order of architecturemiscalled Gothic. 

The greater part of the three naves is given up to the inhabitants ofthe town who come to hear Mass and the Offices of the Church. In frontof the choir is a latticed screen, within which brown curtains hang inample folds, slightly parted in the middle to give a limited view of thealtar and the officiating priest. The screen is divided at intervals bypillars that hold up a gallery within the choir which contains theorgan. This construction, in harmony with the rest of the building, continues, in sculptured wood, the little columns of the lateralgalleries which are supported by the pillars of the great nave. Thus itis impossible for the boldest curiosity, if any such should dare tomount the narrow balustrade of these galleries, to see farther into thechoir than the octagonal stained windows which pierce the apse behindthe high altar. 

At the time of the French expedition into Spain for the purpose ofre-establishing the authority of Ferdinand VII. , and after the fall ofCadiz, a French general who was sent to the island to obtain itsrecognition of the royal government prolonged his stay upon it that hemight reconnoitre the convent and gain, if possible, admittance there. The enterprise was a delicate one. But a man of passion, --a man whoselife had been, so to speak, a series of poems in action, who had livedromances instead of writing them; above all a man of deeds, --might wellbe tempted by a project apparently so impossible. To open for himselflegally the gates of a convent of women! The Pope and the MetropolitanArchbishop would scarcely sanction it. Should he use force or artifice?In case of failure was he not certain to lose his station and hismilitary future, besides missing his aim? The Duc d'Angoulême was stillin Spain; and of all the indiscretions which an officer in favor withthe commander-in-chief could commit, this alone would be punishedwithout pity. The general had solicited his present mission for thepurpose of following up a secret hope, albeit no hope was ever sodespairing. This last effort, however, was a matter of conscience. Thehouse of these Barefooted Carmelites was the only Spanish convent whichhad escaped his search. While crossing from the mainland, a voyage whichtook less than an hour, a strong presentiment of success had seized hisheart. Since then, although he had seen nothing of the convent but itswalls, nothing of the nuns, not so much as their brown habit; though hehad heard only the echoes of their chanted liturgies, --he had gatheredfrom those walls and from these chants faint indications that seemed tojustify his fragile hope. Slight as the auguries thus capriciouslyawakened might be, no human passion was ever more violently roused thanthe curiosity of this French general. To the heart there are noinsignificant events; it magnifies all things; it puts in the samebalance the fall of an empire and the fall of a woman's glove, --andoftentimes the glove outweighs the empire. But let us give the facts intheir actual simplicity: after the facts will come the feelings. 

An hour after the expedition had landed on the island the royalauthority was re-established. A few Spaniards who had taken refuge thereafter the fall of Cadiz embarked on a vessel which the general allowedthem to charter for their voyage to London. There was thus neitherresistance nor reaction. This little insular restoration could not, however, be accomplished without a Mass, at which both companies of thetroops were ordered to be present. Not knowing the rigor of theCarmelite rule, the general hoped to gain in the church some informationabout the nuns who were immured in the convent, one of whom might be abeing dearer to him than life, more precious even than honor. His hopeswere at first cruelly disappointed. Mass was celebrated with the utmostpomp. In honor of this solemn occasion the curtains which habituallyhid the choir were drawn aside, and gave to view the rich ornaments, thepriceless pictures, and the shrines incrusted with jewels whosebrilliancy surpassed that of the votive offerings fastened by themariners of the port to the pillars of the great nave. The nuns, however, had retired to the seclusion of the organ gallery. 

Yet in spite of this check, and while the Mass of thanksgiving was beingsung, suddenly and secretly the drama widened into an interest asprofound as any that ever moved the heart of man. The Sister who playedthe organ roused an enthusiasm so vivid that not one soldier presentregretted the order which had brought him to the church. The menlistened to the music with pleasure; the officers were carried away byit. As for the general, he remained to all appearance calm and cold: thefeelings with which he heard the notes given forth by the nun are amongthe small number of earthly things whose expression is withheld fromimpotent human speech, but which--like death, like God, likeeternity--can be perceived only at their slender point of contact withthe heart of man. By a strange chance the music of the organ seemed tobe that of Rossini, --a composer who more than any other has carriedhuman passion into the art of music, and whose works by their number andextent will some day inspire an Homeric respect. From among the scoresof this fine genius the nun seemed to have chiefly studied that of Mosesin Egypt; doubtless because the feelings of sacred music are therecarried to the highest pitch. Perhaps these two souls--one so gloriouslyEuropean, the other unknown--had met together in some intuitiveperception of the same poetic thought. This idea occurred to twoofficers now present, true _dilettanti_, who no doubt keenly regrettedthe Théatre Favart in their Spanish exile. At last, at the Te Deum, itwas impossible not to recognize a French soul in the character which themusic suddenly took on. The triumph of his Most Christian Majestyevidently roused to joy the heart of that cloistered nun. Surely she wasa Frenchwoman. Presently the patriotic spirit burst forth, sparklinglike a jet of light through the antiphonals of the organ, as the Sisterrecalled melodies breathing the delicacy of Parisian taste, and blendedthem with vague memories of our national anthems. Spanish hands couldnot have put into this graceful homage paid to victorious arms the firethat thus betrayed the origin of the musician. 

"France is everywhere!" said a soldier. 

The general left the church during the Te Deum; it was impossible forhim to listen to it. The notes of the musician revealed to him a womanloved to madness; who had buried herself so deeply in the heart ofreligion, hid herself so carefully away from the sight of the world, that up to this time she had escaped the keen search of men armed notonly with immense power, but with great sagacity and intelligence. Thehopes which had wakened in the general's heart seemed justified as helistened to the vague echo of a tender and melancholy air, 'La Fleuve duTage, '--a ballad whose prelude he had often heard in Paris in theboudoir of the woman he loved, and which this nun now used to express, amid the joys of the conquerors, the suffering of an exiled heart. Terrible moment! to long for the resurrection of a lost love; to findthat love--still lost; to meet it mysteriously after five years in whichpassion, exasperated by the void, had been intensified by the uselessefforts made to satisfy it. 

Who is there that has not, once at least in his life, upturnedeverything about him, his papers and his receptacles, taxing his memoryimpatiently as he seeks some precious lost object; and then felt theineffable pleasure of finding it after days consumed in the search, after hoping and despairing of its recovery, --spending upon some triflean excitement of mind almost amounting to a passion? Well, stretch thisfury of search through five long years; put a woman, a heart, a love inthe place of the insignificant trifle; lift the passion into the highestrealms of feeling; and then picture to yourself an ardent man, a manwith the heart of lion and the front of Jove, one of those men whocommand, and communicate to those about them, respectful terror, --youwill then understand the abrupt departure of the general during the TeDeum, at the moment when the prelude of an air, once heard in Paris withdelight under gilded ceilings, vibrated through the dark naves of thechurch by the sea. 

He went down the hilly street which led up to the convent, withoutpausing until the sonorous echoes of the organ could no longer reach hisear. Unable to think of anything but of the love that like a volcaniceruption rent his heart, the French general only perceived that the TeDeum was ended when the Spanish contingent poured from the church. Hefelt that his conduct and appearance were open to ridicule, and hehastily resumed his place at the head of the cavalcade, explaining tothe alcalde and to the governor of the town that a sudden indispositionhad obliged him to come out into the air. Then it suddenly occurred tohim to use the pretext thus hastily given, as a means of prolonging hisstay on the island. Excusing himself on the score of increased illness, he declined to preside at the banquet given by the authorities of theisland to the French officers, and took to his bed, after writing to themajor-general that a passing illness compelled him to turn over hiscommand to the colonel. This commonplace artifice, natural as it was, left him free from all duties and able to seek the fulfilment of hishopes. Like a man essentially Catholic and monarchical, he inquired thehours of the various services, and showed the utmost interest in theduties of religion, --a piety which in Spain excited no surprise. 

 II

The following day, while the soldiers were embarking, the general wentup to the convent to be present at vespers. He found the church desertedby the townspeople, who in spite of their natural devotion wereattracted to the port by the embarkation of the troops. The Frenchman, glad to find himself alone in the church, took pains to make the clinkof his spurs resound through the vaulted roof; he walked noisily, andcoughed, and spoke aloud to himself, hoping to inform the nuns, butespecially the Sister at the organ, that if the French soldiers weredeparting, one at least remained behind. Was this singular method ofcommunication heard and understood? The general believed it was. In theMagnificat the organ seemed to give an answer which came to him in thevibrations of the air. The soul of the nun floated towards him on thewings of the notes she touched, quivering with the movements of thesound. The music burst forth with power; it glorified the church. Thishymn of joy, consecrated by the sublime liturgy of Roman Christianity tothe uplifting of the soul in presence of the splendors of theever-living God, became the utterance of a heart terrified at its ownhappiness in presence of the splendors of a perishable love, which stilllived, and came to move it once more beyond the tomb where this womanhad buried herself, to rise again the bride of Christ. 

The organ is beyond all question the finest, the most daring, the mostmagnificent of the instruments created by human genius. It is anorchestra in itself, from which a practiced hand may demand all things;for it expresses all things. Is it not, as it were, a coign of vantage, where the soul may poise itself ere it springs into space, bearing, asit flies, the listening mind through a thousand scenes of life towardsthe infinite which parts earth from heaven? The longer a poet listens toits gigantic harmonies, the more fully will he comprehend that betweenkneeling humanity and the God hidden by the dazzling rays of the Holy ofHolies, the hundred voices of terrestrial choirs can alone bridge thevast distance and interpret to Heaven the prayers of men in all theomnipotence of their desires, in the diversities of their woe, with thetints of their meditations and their ecstasies, with the impetuousspring of their repentance, and the thousand imaginations of theirmanifold beliefs. Yes! beneath these soaring vaults the harmonies bornof the genius of sacred things find a yet unheard-of grandeur, whichadorns and strengthens them. Here the dim light, the deep silence, thevoices alternating with the solemn tones of the organ, seem like a veilthrough which the luminous attributes of God himself pierce and radiate. Yet all these sacred riches now seem flung like a grain of incense onthe frail altar of an earthly love, in presence of the eternal throne ofa jealous and avenging Deity. The joy of the nun had not the gravitywhich properly belongs to the solemnity of the Magnificat. She gave tothe music rich and graceful modulations, whose rhythms breathed of humangayety; her measures ran into the brilliant cadences of a great singerstriving to express her love, and the notes rose buoyantly like thecarol of a bird by the side of its mate. At moments she darted back intothe past, as if to sport there or to weep there for an instant. Herchanging moods had something discomposed about them, like the agitationsof a happy woman rejoicing at the return of her lover. Then, as thesesupple strains of passionate emotion ceased, the soul that spokereturned upon itself; the musician passed from the major to the minorkey, and told her hearer the story of her present. She revealed to himher long melancholy, the slow malady of her moral being, --every day afeeling crushed, every night a thought subdued, hour by hour a heartburning down to ashes. After soft modulations the music took on slowly, tint by tint, the hue of deepest sadness. Soon it poured forth inechoing torrents the well-springs of grief, till suddenly the highernotes struck clear like the voice of angels, as if to tell to her lostlove--lost, but not forgotten--that the reunion of their souls must bein heaven, and only there: hope most precious! Then came the Amen. Inthat no joy, no tears, nor sadness, nor regrets, but a return to God. The last chord that sounded was grave, solemn, terrible. The musicianrevealed the nun in the garb of her vocation; and as the thunder of thebasses rolled away, causing the hearer to shudder through his wholebeing, she seemed to sink into the tomb from which for a brief momentshe had risen. As the echoes slowly ceased to vibrate along the vaultedroofs, the church, made luminous by the music, fell suddenly intoprofound obscurity. 

The general, carried away by the course of this powerful genius, hadfollowed her, step by step, along her way. He comprehended in their fullmeaning the pictures that gleamed through that burning symphony; for himthose chords told all. For him, as for the Sister, this poem of soundwas the future, the past, the present. Music, even the music of anopera, is it not to tender and poetic souls, to wounded and sufferinghearts, a text which they interpret as their memories need? If the heartof a poet must be given to a musician, must not poetry and love belisteners ere the great musical works of art are understood? Religion, love, and music: are they not the triple expression of one fact, theneed of expansion, the need of touching with their own infinite theinfinite beyond them, which is in the fibre of all noble souls? Thesethree forms of poesy end in God, who alone can unwind the knot ofearthly emotion. Thus this holy human trinity joins itself to theholiness of God, of whom we make to ourselves no conception unless wesurround him by the fires of love and the golden cymbals of music andlight and harmony. 

The French general divined that on this desert rock, surrounded by thesurging seas, the nun had cherished music to free her soul of the excessof passion that consumed it. Did she offer her love as a homage to God?Did the love triumph over the vows she had made to Him? Questionsdifficult to answer. But, beyond all doubt, the lover had found in aheart dead to the world a love as passionate as that which burnedwithin his own. 

When vespers ended he returned to the house of the alcalde, where he wasquartered. Giving himself over, a willing prey, to the delights of asuccess long expected, laboriously sought, his mind at first could dwellon nothing else, --he was still loved. Solitude had nourished the love ofthat heart, just as his own had thriven on the barriers, successivelysurmounted, which this woman had placed between herself and him. Thisecstasy of the spirit had its natural duration; then came the desire tosee this woman, to withdraw her from God, to win her back to himself, --abold project, welcome to a bold man. After the evening repast, heretired to his room to escape questions and think in peace, and remainedplunged in deep meditation throughout the night. He rose early and wentto Mass. He placed himself close to the latticed screen, his browtouching the brown curtain. He longed to rend it away; but he was notalone, his host had accompanied him, and the least imprudence mightcompromise the future of his love and ruin his new-found hopes. Theorgan was played, but not by the same hand; the musician of the last twodays was absent from its key-board. All was chill and pale to thegeneral. Was his mistress worn out by the emotions which had wellnighbroken down his own vigorous heart? Had she so truly shared andcomprehended his faithful and eager love that she now lay exhausted anddying in her cell? At the moment when such thoughts as these rose in thegeneral's mind, he heard beside him the voice beloved; he knew the clearring of its tones. The voice, slightly changed by a tremor which gave itthe timid grace and modesty of a young girl, detached itself from thevolume of song, like the voice of a prima donna in the harmonies of herfinal notes. It gave to the ear an impression like the effect to the eyeof a fillet of silver or gold threading a dark frieze. It was indeedshe! Still Parisian, she had not lost her gracious charm, though she hadforsaken the coronet and adornments of the world for the frontlet andserge of a Carmelite. Having revealed her love the night before in thepraises addressed to the Lord of all, she seemed now to say to herlover:--"Yes, it is I: I am here. I love forever; yet I am aloof fromlove. Thou shalt hear me; my soul shall enfold thee; but I must staybeneath the brown shroud of this choir, from which no power can tear me. Thou canst not see me. "

"It is she!" whispered the general to himself, as he raised his head andwithdrew his hands from his face; for he had not been able to bear erectthe storm of feeling that shook his heart as the voice vibrated throughthe arches and blended with the murmur of the waves. A storm ragedwithout, yet peace was within the sanctuary. The rich voice stillcaressed the ear, and fell like balm upon the parched heart of thelover; it flowered in the air about him, from which he breathed theemanations of her spirit exhaling her love through the aspirations ofits prayer. 

The alcalde came to rejoin his guest, and found him bathed in tears atthe elevation of the Host which was chanted by the nun. Surprised tofind such devotion in a French officer, he invited the confessor of theconvent to join them at supper, and informed the general, to whom nonews had ever given such pleasure, of what he had done. During thesupper the general made the confessor the object of much attention, andthus confirmed the Spaniards in the high opinion they had formed of hispiety. He inquired with grave interest the number of the nuns, and askeddetails about the revenues of the convent and its wealth, with the airof a man who politely wished to choose topics which occupied the mind ofthe good old priest. Then he inquired about the life led by the sisters. Could they go out? Could they see friends?

"Senhor, " said the venorable priest, "the rule is severe. If thepermission of our Holy Father must be obtained before a woman can entera house of Saint Bruno [the Chartreux] the like rule exists here. It isimpossible for any man to enter a convent of the Bare-footed Carmelites, unless he is a priest delegated by the archbishop for duty in the House. No nun can go out. It is true, however, that the Great Saint, MotherTheresa, did frequently leave her cell. A Mother-superior can alone, under authority of the archbishop, permit a nun to see her friends, especially in case of illness. As this convent is one of the chiefHouses of the Order, it has a Mother-superior residing in it. We haveseveral foreigners, --among them a Frenchwoman, Sister Theresa, the onewho directs the music in the chapel. "

"Ah!" said the general, feigning surprise: "she must have been gratifiedby the triumph of the House of Bourbon?"

"I told them the object of the Mass; they are always rather curious. "

"Perhaps Sister Theresa has some interests in France; she might be gladto receive some news, or ask some questions?"

"I think not; or she would have spoken to me. "

"As a compatriot, " said the general, "I should be curious to see--thatis, if it were possible, if the superior would consent, if--"

"At the grating, even in the presence of the reverend Mother, aninterview would be absolutely impossible for any ordinary man, no matterwho he was; but in favor of a liberator of a Catholic throne and ourholy religion, possibly, in spite of the rigid rule of our MotherTheresa, the rule might be relaxed, " said the confessor. "I will speakabout it. "

"How old is Sister Theresa?" asked the lover, who dared not question thepriest about the beauty of the nun. 

"She is no longer of any age, " said the good old man, with a simplicitywhich made the general shudder. 

 III

The next day, before the _siesta_, the confessor came to tell thegeneral that Sister Theresa and the Mother-superior consented to receivehim at the grating that evening before the hour of vespers. After the_siesta_, during which the Frenchman had whiled away the time by walkinground the port in the fierce heat of the sun, the priest came to showhim the way into the convent. 

He was guided through a gallery which ran the length of the cemetery, where fountains and trees and numerous arcades gave a cool freshness inkeeping with that still and silent spot. When they reached the end ofthis long gallery, the priest led his companion into a parlor, dividedin the middle by a grating covered with a brown curtain. On the sidewhich we must call public, and where the confessor left the general, there was a wooden bench along one side of the wall; some chairs, alsoof wood, were near the grating. The ceiling was of wood, crossed byheavy beams of the evergreen oak, without ornament. Daylight came fromtwo windows in the division set apart for the nuns, and was absorbed bythe brown tones of the room; so that it barely showed the picture of thegreat black Christ, and those of Saint Theresa and the Blessed Virgin, which hung on the dark panels of the walls. 

The feelings of the general turned, in spite of their violence, to atone of melancholy. He grew calm in these calm precincts. Somethingmighty as the grave seized him beneath these chilling rafters. Was itnot the eternal silence, the deep peace, the near presence of theinfinite? Through the stillness came the fixed thought of thecloister, --that thought which glides through the air in the half-lights, and is in all things, --the thought unchangeable; nowhere seen, which yetgrows vast to the imagination; the all-comprising phrase, _the peace ofGod_. It enters there, with living power, into the least religiousheart. Convents of men are not easily conceivable; man seems feeble andunmanly in them. He is born to act, to fulfil a life of toil; and heescapes it in his cell. But in a monastery of women what strength toendure, and yet what touching weakness! A man may be pushed by athousand sentiments into the depths of an abbey; he flings himself intothem as from a precipice. But the woman is drawn only by one feeling;she does not unsex herself, --she espouses holiness. You may say to theman, Why did you not struggle? but to the cloistered woman life is astruggle still. 

The general found in this mute parlor of the seagirt convent memories ofhimself. Love seldom reaches upward to solemnity; but love in the bosomof God, --is there nothing solemn there? Yes, more than a man has theright to hope for in this nineteenth century, with our manners and ourcustoms what they are. 

The general's soul was one on which such impressions act. His nature wasnoble enough to forget self-interest, honors, Spain, the world, orParis, and rise to the heights of feeling roused by this unspeakabletermination of his long pursuit. What could be more tragic? How manyemotions held these lovers, reunited at last on this granite ledge farout at sea, yet separated by an idea, an impassable barrier. Look atthis man, saying to himself, "Can I triumph over God in that heart?"

A slight noise made him quiver. The brown curtain was drawn back; he sawin the half-light a woman standing, but her face was hidden from him bythe projection of a veil, which lay in many folds upon her head. According to the rule of the Order she was clothed in the brown garbwhose color has become proverbial. The general could not see the nakedfeet, which would have told him the frightful emaciation of her body;yet through the thick folds of the coarse robe that swathed her, hisheart divined that tears and prayers and passion and solitude hadwasted her away. 

The chill hand of a woman, doubtless the Mother-superior, held back thecurtain, and the general, examining this unwelcome witness of theinterview, encountered the deep grave eyes of an old nun, very aged, whose clear, even youthful, glance belied the wrinkles that furrowed herpale face. 

"Madame la duchesse, " he said, in a voice shaken by emotion, to theSister, who bowed her head, "does your companion understand French?"

"There is no duchess here, " replied the nun. "You are in presence ofSister Theresa. The woman whom you call my companion is my Mother inGod, my superior here below. "

These words, humbly uttered by a voice that once harmonized with theluxury and elegance in which this woman had lived queen of the world ofParis, that fell from lips whose language had been of old so gay, somocking, struck the general as if with an electric shock. 

"My holy Mother speaks only Latin and Spanish, " she added. 

"I understand neither. Dear Antoinette, make her my excuses. "

As she heard her name softly uttered by a man once so hard to her, thenun was shaken by emotion, betrayed only by the light quivering of herveil, on which the light now fully fell. 

"My brother, " she said, passing her sleeve beneath her veil, perhaps towipe her eyes, "my name is Sister Theresa. "

Then she turned to the Mother, and said to her in Spanish a few wordswhich the general plainly heard. He knew enough of the language tounderstand it, perhaps to speak it. "My dear Mother, this gentlemanpresents to you his respects, and begs you to excuse him for not layingthem himself at your feet; but he knows neither of the languages whichyou speak. "

The old woman slowly bowed her head; her countenance took an expressionof angelic sweetness, tempered, nevertheless, by the consciousness ofher power and dignity. 

"You know this gentleman?" she asked, with a piercing glance at theSister. 

"Yes, my Mother. "

"Retire to your cell, my daughter, " said the Superior in a tone ofauthority. 

The general hastily withdrew to the shelter of the curtain, lest hisface should betray the anguish these words cost him; but he fancied thatthe penetrating eyes of the Superior followed him even into the shadow. This woman, arbiter of the frail and fleeting joy he had won at suchcost, made him afraid; he trembled, he whom a triple range of cannoncould not shake. 

The duchess walked to the door, but there she turned. "My Mother, " shesaid, in a voice horribly calm, "this Frenchman is one of my brothers. "

"Remain, therefore, my daughter, " said the old woman, after a pause. 

The jesuitism of this answer revealed such love and such regret, that aman of less firmness than the general would have betrayed his joy in themidst of a peril so novel to him. But what value could there be in thewords, looks, gestures of a love that must be hidden from the eyes of alynx, the claws of a tiger? The Sister came back. 

"You see, my brother, " she said, "what I have dared to do that I mightfor one moment speak to you of your salvation, and tell you of theprayers which day by day my soul offers to heaven on your behalf. I havecommitted a mortal sin, --I have lied. How many days of penitence to washout that lie! But I shall suffer for you. You know not, my brother, thejoy of loving in heaven, of daring to avow affections that religion haspurified, that have risen to the highest regions, that at last we knowand feel with the soul alone. If the doctrines--if the spirit of thesaint to whom we owe this refuge had not lifted me above the anguish ofearth to a world, not indeed where she is, but far above my lower life, I could not have seen you now. But I can see you, I can hear you, andremain calm. "

"Antoinette, " said the general, interrupting these words, "suffer me tosee you--you, whom I love passionately, to madness, as you once wouldhave had me love you. "

"Do not call me Antoinette, I implore you: memories of the past do meharm. See in me only the Sister Theresa, a creature trusting all to thedivine pity. And, " she added, after a pause, "subdue yourself, mybrother. Our Mother would separate us instantly if your face betrayedearthly passions, or your eyes shed tears. "

The general bowed his head, as if to collect himself; when he againlifted his eyes to the grating he saw between two bars the pale, emaciated, but still ardent face of the nun. Her complexion, where oncehad bloomed the loveliness of youth, --where once there shone the happycontrast of a pure, clear whiteness with the colors of a Bengalrose, --now had the tints of a porcelain cup through which a feeble lightshowed faintly. The beautiful hair of which this woman was once so proudwas shaven; a white band bound her brows and was wrapped around herface. Her eyes, circled with dark shadows due to the austerities of herlife, glanced at moments with a feverish light, of which their habitualcalm was but the mask. In a word, of this woman nothing remained buther soul. 

"Ah! you will leave this tomb--you, who are my life! You belonged to me;you were not free to give yourself--not even to God. Did you not promiseto sacrifice all to the least of my commands? Will you now think meworthy to claim that promise, if I tell you what I have done for yoursake? I have sought you through the whole world. For five years you havebeen the thought of every instant, the occupation of every hour, of mylife. My friends--friends all-powerful as you know--have helped me tosearch the convents of France, Spain, Italy, Sicily, America. My lovehas deepened with every fruitless search. Many a long journey I havetaken on a false hope. I have spent my life and the strong beatings ofmy heart about the walls of cloisters. I will not speak to you of afidelity unlimited. What is it?--nothing compared to the infinitude ofmy love! If in other days your remorse was real, you cannot hesitate tofollow me now. "

"You forget that I am not free. "

"The duke is dead, " he said hastily. 

Sister Theresa colored. "May Heaven receive him!" she said, with quickemotion: "he was generous to me. But I did not speak of those ties: oneof my faults was my willingness to break them without scruple for you. "

"You speak of your vows, " cried the general, frowning. "I little thoughtthat anything would weigh in your heart against our love. But do notfear, Antoinette; I will obtain a brief from the Holy Father which willabsolve your vows. I will go to Rome; I will petition every earthlypower; if God himself came down from heaven I--"

"Do not blaspheme!"

"Do not fear how God would see it! Ah! I wish I were as sure that youwill leave these walls with me; that to-night--to-night, you wouldembark at the feet of these rocks. Let us go to find happiness! I knownot where--at the ends of the earth! With me you will come back to life, to health--in the shelter of my love!"

"Do not say these things, " replied the Sister; "you do not know what younow are to me. I love you better than I once loved you. I pray to Godfor you daily. I see you no longer with the eyes of my body. If you butknew, Armand, the joy of being able, without shame, to spend myself upona pure love which God protects! You do not know the joy I have incalling down the blessings of heaven upon your head. I never pray formyself: God will do with me according to his will. But you--at the priceof my eternity I would win the assurance that you are happy in thisworld, that you will be happy in another throughout the ages. My lifeeternal is all that misfortunes have left me to give you. I have grownold in grief; I am no longer young or beautiful. Ah! you would despise anun who returned to be a woman; no sentiment, not even maternal love, could absolve her. What could you say to me that would shake theunnumbered reflections my heart has made in five long years, --and whichhave changed it, hollowed it, withered it? Ah! I should have givensomething less sad to God!"

"What can I say to you, dear Antoinette? I will say that I love you;that affection, love, true love, the joy of living in a heart allours, --wholly ours, without one reservation, --is so rare, so difficultto find, that I once doubted you; I put you to cruel tests. But to-day Ilove and trust you with all the powers of my soul. If you will follow meI will listen throughout life to no voice but thine. I will look onno face--"

"Silence, Armand! you shorten the sole moments which are given to us tosee each other here below. "

"Antoinette! will you follow me?"

"I never leave you. I live in your heart--but with another power thanthat of earthly pleasure, or vanity, or selfish joy. I live here foryou, pale and faded, in the bosom of God. If God is just, you willbe happy. "

"Phrases! you give me phrases! But if I will to have you pale andfaded, --if I cannot be happy unless you are with me? What! will youforever place duties before my love? Shall I never be above all thingselse in your heart? In the past you put the world, or self--I know notwhat--above me; to-day it is God, it is my salvation. In this SisterTheresa I recognize the duchess; ignorant of the joys of love, unfeelingbeneath a pretense of tenderness! You do not love me! you neverloved me!--"

"Oh, my brother!--"

"You will not leave this tomb. You love my soul, you say: well! youshall destroy it forever and ever. I will kill myself--"

"My Mother!" cried the nun, "I have lied to you; this man is my lover. "

The curtain fell. The general, stunned, heard the doors close withviolence. 

"She loves me still!" he cried, comprehending all that was revealed inthe cry of the nun. "I will find means to carry her away!"

He left the island immediately, and returned to France. 

Translation copyrighted by Roberts Brothers. 

'AN EPISODE UNDER THE TERROR'

On the 22d of January, 1793, towards eight o'clock in the evening, anold gentlewoman came down the sharp declivity of the FaubourgSaint-Martin, which ends near the church of Saint-Laurent in Paris. Snowhad fallen throughout the day, so that footfalls could be scarcelyheard. The streets were deserted. The natural fear inspired by suchstillness was deepened by the terror to which all France was thena prey. 

The old lady had met no one. Her failing sight hindered her fromperceiving in the distance a few pedestrians, sparsely scattered likeshadows, along the broad road of the faubourg. She was walking bravelythrough the solitude as if her age were a talisman to guard her fromdanger; but after passing the Rue des Morts she fancied that she heardthe firm, heavy tread of a man coming behind her. The thought seized hermind that she had been listening to it unconsciously for some time. Terrified at the idea of being followed, she tried to walk faster toreach a lighted shop-window, and settle the doubt which thus assailedher. When well beyond the horizontal rays of light thrown across thepavement, she turned abruptly and saw a human form looming through thefog. The indistinct glimpse was enough. She staggered for an instantunder the weight of terror, for she no longer doubted that this unknownman had tracked her, step by step, from her home. The hope of escapingsuch a spy lent strength to her feeble limbs. Incapable of reasoning, she quickened her steps to a run, as if it were possible to escape a mannecessarily more agile than she. After running for a few minutes, shereached the shop of a pastry-cook, entered it, and fell, rather thansat, down on a chair which stood before the counter. 

As she lifted the creaking latch of the door, a young woman, who was atwork on a piece of embroidery, looked up and recognized through theglass panes the antiquated mantle of purple silk which wrapped the oldlady, and hastened to pull open a drawer, as if to take from thencesomething that she had to give her. The action and the expression of theyoung woman not only implied a wish to get rid of the stranger, as ofsome one most unwelcome, but she let fall an exclamation of impatienceat finding the drawer empty. Then, without looking at the lady, she camerapidly from behind the counter, and went towards the back-shop to callher husband, who appeared at once. 

"Where have you put ---- ----?" she asked him, mysteriously, calling hisattention to the old lady by a glance, and not concluding her sentence. 

Although the pastry-cook could see nothing but the enormous black-silkhood circled with purple ribbons which the stranger wore, hedisappeared, with a glance at his wife which seemed to say, "Do yousuppose I should leave _that_ on your counter?"

Surprised at the silence and immobility of her customer, the wife cameforward, and was seized with a sudden movement of compassion as well asof curiosity when she looked at her. Though the complexion of the oldgentlewoman was naturally livid, like that of a person vowed to secretausterities, it was easy to see that some recent alarm had spread anunusual paleness over her features. Her head-covering was so arranged asto hide the hair, whitened no doubt by age, for the cleanly collar ofher dress proved that she wore no powder. The concealment of thisnatural adornment gave to her countenance a sort of conventual severity;but its features were grave and noble. In former days the habits andmanners of people of quality were so different from those of all otherclasses that it was easy to distinguish persons of noble birth. Theyoung shop-woman felt certain, therefore, that the stranger was a_ci-devant_, and one who had probably belonged to the court. 

"Madame?" she said, with involuntary respect, forgetting that the titlewas proscribed. 

The old lady made no answer. Her eyes were fixed on the glass of theshop-window, as if some alarming object were painted upon it. 

"What is the matter, _citoyenne_?" asked the master of theestablishment, re-entering, and drawing the attention of his customerto a little cardboard box covered with blue paper, which he held outto her. 

"It is nothing, nothing, my friends, " she answered in a gentle voice, asshe raised her eyes to give the man a thankful look. Seeing a phrygiancap upon his head, a cry escaped her:--"Ah! it is you who havebetrayed me!"

The young woman and her husband replied by a deprecating gesture ofhorror which caused the unknown lady to blush, either for her harshsuspicion or from the relief of feeling it unjust. 

"Excuse me, " she said, with childlike sweetness. Then taking a gold_louis_ from her pocket, she offered it to the pastry-cook. "Here is thesum we agreed upon, " she added. 

There is a poverty which poor people quickly divine. The shopkeeper andhis wife looked at each other with a glance at the old lady thatconveyed a mutual thought. The _louis_ was doubtless her last. The handsof the poor woman trembled as she offered it, and her eyes rested uponit sadly, yet not with avarice. She seemed to feel the full extent ofher sacrifice. Hunger and want were traced upon her features in lines aslegible as those of timidity and ascetic habits. Her clothing showedvestiges of luxury. It was of silk, well-worn; the mantle was clean, though faded; the laces carefully darned; in short, here were the ragsof opulence. The two shopkeepers, divided between pity andself-interest, began to soothe their conscience with words:--

"_Citoyenne_, you seem very feeble--"

"Would Madame like to take something?" asked the wife, cutting short herhusband's speech. 

"We have some very good broth, " he added. 

"It is so cold, perhaps Madame is chilled by her walk; but you can resthere and warm yourself. "

"The devil is not so black as he is painted, " cried the husband. 

Won by the kind tone of these words, the old lady admitted that she hadbeen followed by a man and was afraid of going home alone. 

"Is that all?" said the man with the phrygian cap. "Wait for me, _citoyenne_. "

He gave the _louis_ to his wife. Then moved by a species of gratitudewhich slips into the shopkeeping soul when its owner receives anexorbitant price for an article of little value, he went to put on hisuniform as a National guard, took his hat, slung on his sabre, andreappeared under arms. But the wife meantime had reflected. Reflection, as often happens in many hearts, had closed the open hand of herbenevolence. Uneasy, and alarmed lest her husband should be mixed up insome dangerous affair, she pulled him by the flap of his coat, intendingto stop him; but the worthy man, obeying the impulse of charity, promptly offered to escort the poor lady to her home. 

"It seems that the man who has given her this fright is prowlingoutside, " said his wife nervously. 

"I am afraid he is, " said the old lady, with much simplicity. 

"Suppose he should be a spy. Perhaps it is a conspiracy. Don't go. Takeback the box. " These words, whispered in the pastry-cook's ear by thewife of his bosom, chilled the sudden compassion that had warmed him. 

"Well, well, I will just say two words to the man and get rid of him, "he said, opening the door and hurrying out. 

The old gentlewoman, passive as a child and half paralyzed with fear, sat down again. The shopkeeper almost instantly reappeared; but hisface, red by nature and still further scorched by the fires of hisbakery, had suddenly turned pale, and he was in the grasp of such terrorthat his legs shook and his eyes were like those of a drunken man. 

"Miserable aristocrat!" he cried, furiously, "do you want to cut off ourheads? Go out from here; let me see your heels, and don't dare to comeback; don't expect me to supply you with the means of conspiracy!"

So saying, the pastry-cook endeavored to get back the little box whichthe old lady had already slipped into one of her pockets. Hardly had thebold hands of the shopkeeper touched her clothing, than, preferring toencounter danger with no protection but that of God rather than lose thething she had come to buy, she recovered the agility of youth, andsprang to the door, through which she disappeared abruptly, leaving thehusband and wife amazed and trembling. 

As soon as the poor lady found herself alone in the street she began towalk rapidly; but her strength soon gave way, for she once more heardthe snow creaking under the footsteps of the spy as he trod heavily uponit. She was obliged to stop short: the man stopped also. She dared notspeak to him, nor even look at him; either because of her terror, orfrom some lack of natural intelligence. Presently she continued her walkslowly; the man measured his step by hers, and kept at the same distancebehind her; he seemed to move like her shadow. Nine o'clock struck asthe silent couple repassed the church of Saint-Laurent. It is the natureof all souls, even the weakest, to fall back into quietude after momentsof violent agitation; for manifold as our feelings may be, our bodilypowers are limited. Thus the old lady, receiving no injury from herapparent persecutor, began to think that he might be a secret friendwatching to protect her. She gathered up in her mind the circumstancesattending other apparitions of the mysterious stranger as if to findplausible grounds for this consoling opinion, and took pleasure increditing him with good rather than sinister intentions. Forgetting theterror he had inspired in the pastry-cook, she walked on with a firmerstep towards the upper part of the Faubourg Saint-Martin. 

At the end of half an hour she reached a house standing close to thejunction of the chief street of the faubourg with the street leading outto the Barrière de Pantin. The place is to this day one of the loneliestin Paris. The north wind blowing from Belleville and the Buttes Chaumontwhistled among the houses, or rather cottages, scattered through thesparsely inhabited little valley, where the inclosures are fenced withwalls built of mud and refuse bones. This dismal region seems thenatural home of poverty and despair. The man who was intent on followingthe poor creature who had had the courage to thread these dark andsilent streets seemed struck with the spectacle they offered. He stoppedas if reflecting, and stood in a hesitating attitude, dimly visible by astreet lantern whose flickering light scarcely pierced the fog. Feargave eyes to the old gentlewoman, who now fancied that she saw somethingsinister in the features of this unknown man. All her terrors revived, and profiting by the curious hesitation that had seized him, she glidedlike a shadow to the doorway of the solitary dwelling, touched a spring, and disappeared with phantasmagoric rapidity. 

The man, standing motionless, gazed at the house, which was, as it were, a type of the wretched buildings of the neighborhood. The totteringhovel, built of porous stone in rough blocks, was coated with yellowplaster much cracked, and looked ready to fall before a gust of wind. The roof, of brown tiles covered with moss, had sunk in several places, and gave the impression that the weight of snow might break it down atany moment. Each story had three windows whose frames, rotted bydampness and shrunken by the heat of the sun, told that the outer coldpenetrated to the chambers. The lonely house seemed like an ancienttower that time had forgotten to destroy. A faint light gleamed from thegarret windows, which were irregularly cut in the roof; but the rest ofthe house was in complete obscurity. The old woman went up the rough andclumsy stairs with difficulty, holding fast to a rope which took theplace of baluster. She knocked furtively at the door of a lodging underthe roof, and sat hastily down on a chair which an old man offered her. 

"Hide! hide yourself!" she cried. "Though we go out so seldom, ourerrands are known, our steps are watched--"

"What has happened?" asked another old woman sitting near the fire. 

"The man who has hung about the house since yesterday followed meto-night. "

At these words the occupants of the hovel looked at each other withterror in their faces. The old man was the least moved of the three, possibly because he was the one in greatest danger. Under the pressureof misfortune or the yoke of persecution a man of courage begins, as itwere, by preparing for the sacrifice of himself: he looks upon his daysas so many victories won from fate. The eyes of the two women, fixedupon the old man, showed plainly that he alone was the object of theirextreme anxiety. 

"Why distrust God, my sisters?" he said, in a hollow but impressivevoice. "We chanted praises to his name amid the cries of victims andassassins at the convent. If it pleased him to save me from thatbutchery, it was doubtless for some destiny which I shall accept withouta murmur. God protects his own, and disposes of them according to hiswill. It is of you, not of me, that we should think. "

"No, " said one of the women: "what is our life in comparison with thatof a priest?"

"Ever since the day when I found myself outside of the Abbaye desChelles, " said the nun beside the fire, "I have given myself upfor dead. "

"Here, " said the one who had just come in, holding out the little box tothe priest, "here are the sacramental wafers--Listen!" she cried, interrupting herself. "I hear some one on the stairs. "

At these words all three listened intently. The noise ceased. 

"Do not be frightened, " said the priest, "even if some one asks toenter. A person on whose fidelity we can safely rely has taken measuresto cross the frontier, and he will soon call here for letters which Ihave written to the Duc de Langeais and the Marquis de Beauséant, advising them as to the measures they must take to get you out of thisdreadful country, and save you from the misery or the death you wouldotherwise undergo here. "

"Shall you not follow us?" said the two nuns softly, but in a tone ofdespair. 

"My place is near the victims, " said the priest, simply. 

The nuns were silent, looking at him with devout admiration. 

"Sister Martha, " he said, addressing the nun who had fetched the wafers, "this messenger must answer '_Fiat voluntas_' to the word '_Hosanna_. '"

"There is some one on the stairway, " exclaimed the other nun, hastilyopening a hiding-place burrowed at the edge of the roof. 

This time it was easy to hear the steps of a man sounding through thedeep silence on the rough stairs, which were caked with patches ofhardened mud. The priest slid with difficulty into a narrowhiding-place, and the nuns hastily threw articles of apparel over him. 

"You can shut me in, Sister Agatha, " he said, in a smothered voice. 

He was scarcely hidden when three knocks upon the door made the sisterstremble and consult each other with their eyes, for they dared notspeak. Forty years' separation from the world had made them like plantsof a hot-house which wilt when brought into the outer air. Accustomed tothe life of a convent, they could not conceive of any other; and whenone morning their bars and gratings were flung down, they had shudderedat finding themselves free. It is easy to imagine the species ofimbecility which the events of the Revolution, enacted before theireyes, had produced in these innocent souls. Quite incapable ofharmonizing their conventual ideas with the exigencies of ordinary life, not even comprehending their own situation, they were like children whohad always been cared for, and who now, torn from their maternalprovidence, had taken to prayers as other children take to tears. So ithappened that in presence of immediate danger they were dumb andpassive, and could think of no other defence than Christian resignation. 

The man who sought to enter interpreted their silence as he pleased; hesuddenly opened the door and showed himself. The two nuns trembled whenthey recognized the individual who for some days had watched the houseand seemed to make inquiries about its inmates. They stood quite stilland looked at him with uneasy curiosity, like the children of savagesexamining a being of another sphere. The stranger was very tall andstout, but nothing in his manner or appearance denoted that he was a badman. He copied the immobility of the sisters and stood motionless, letting his eye rove slowly round the room. 

Two bundles of straw placed on two planks served as beds for the nuns. Atable was in the middle of the room; upon it a copper candlestick, a fewplates, three knives, and a round loaf of bread. The fire on the hearthwas very low, and a few sticks of wood piled in a corner of the roomtestified to the poverty of the occupants. The walls, once covered witha coat of paint now much defaced, showed the wretched condition of theroof through which the rain had trickled, making a network of brownstains. A sacred relic, saved no doubt from the pillage of the Abbayedes Chelles, adorned the mantel-shelf of the chimney. Three chairs, twocoffers, and a broken chest of drawers completed the furniture of theroom. A doorway cut near the fireplace showed there was probably aninner chamber. 

The inventory of this poor cell was soon made by the individual who hadpresented himself under such alarming auspices. An expression of pitycrossed his features, and as he threw a kind glance upon the frightenedwomen he seemed as much embarrassed as they. The strange silence inwhich they all three stood and faced each other lasted but a moment; forthe stranger seemed to guess the moral weakness and inexperience of thepoor helpless creatures, and he said, in a voice which he strove torender gentle, "I have not come as an enemy, _citoyennes_. "

Then he paused, but resumed:--"My sisters, if harm should ever happen toyou, be sure that I shall not have contributed to it. I have come to aska favor of you. "

They still kept silence. 

"If I ask too much--if I annoy you--I will go away; but believe me, I amheartily devoted to you, and if there is any service that I couldrender you, you may employ me without fear. I, and I alone, perhaps, amabove law--since there is no longer a king. "

The ring of truth in these words induced Sister Agatha, a nun belongingto the ducal house of Langeais, and whose manners indicated that she hadonce lived amid the festivities of life and breathed the air of courts, to point to a chair as if she asked their guest to be seated. Theunknown gave vent to an expression of joy, mingled with melancholy, ashe understood this gesture. He waited respectfully till the sisters wereseated, and then obeyed it. 

"You have given shelter, " he said, "to a venerable priest not sworn inby the Republic, who escaped miraculously from the massacre at theConvent of the Carmelites. "

"_Hosanna_, " said Sister Agatha, suddenly interrupting the stranger, andlooking at him with anxious curiosity. 

"That is not his name, I think, " he answered. 

"But, Monsieur, we have no priest here, " cried Sister Martha, hastily, "and--"

"Then you should take better precautions, " said the unknown gently, stretching his arm to the table and picking up a breviary. "I do notthink you understand Latin, and--"

He stopped short, for the extreme distress painted on the faces of thepoor nuns made him fear he had gone too far; they trembled violently, and their eyes filled with tears. 

"Do not fear, " he said; "I know the name of your guest, and yours also. During the last three days I have learned your poverty, and your greatdevotion to the venerable Abbé of--"

"Hush!" exclaimed Sister Agatha, ingenuously putting a finger on herlip. 

"You see, my sisters, that if I had the horrible design of betrayingyou, I might have accomplished it again and again. "

As he uttered these words the priest emerged from his prison andappeared in the middle of the room. 

"I cannot believe, Monsieur, " he said courteously, "that you are one ofour persecutors. I trust you. What is it you desire of me?"

The saintly confidence of the old man, and the nobility of mindimprinted on his countenance, might have disarmed even an assassin. Hewho thus mysteriously agitated this home of penury and resignation stoodcontemplating the group before him; then he addressed the priest in atrustful tone, with these words:--

"My father, I came to ask you to celebrate a mass for the repose of thesoul--of--of a sacred being whose body can never lie in holy ground. "

The priest involuntarily shuddered. The nuns, not as yet understandingwho it was of whom the unknown man had spoken, stood with their necksstretched and their faces turned towards the speakers, in an attitude ofeager curiosity. The ecclesiastic looked intently at the stranger;unequivocal anxiety was marked on every feature, and his eyes offered anearnest and even ardent prayer. 

"Yes, " said the priest at length. "Return here at midnight, and I shallbe ready to celebrate the only funeral service that we are able to offerin expiation of the crime of which you speak. "

The unknown shivered; a joy both sweet and solemn seemed to rise in hissoul above some secret grief. Respectfully saluting the priest and thetwo saintly women, he disappeared with a mute gratitude which thesegenerous souls knew well how to interpret. 

Two hours later the stranger returned, knocked cautiously at the door ofthe garret, and was admitted by Mademoiselle de Langeais, who led him tothe inner chamber of the humble refuge, where all was in readiness forthe ceremony. Between two flues of the chimney the nuns had placed theold chest of drawers, whose broken edges were concealed by a magnificentaltar-cloth of green moiré. A large ebony and ivory crucifix hanging onthe discolored wall stood out in strong relief from the surroundingbareness, and necessarily caught the eye. Four slender little tapers, which the sisters had contrived to fasten to the altar with sealing-wax, threw a pale glimmer dimly reflected by the yellow wall. These feeblerays scarcely lit up the rest of the chamber, but as their light fellupon the sacred objects it seemed a halo falling from heaven upon thebare and undecorated altar. 

The floor was damp. The attic roof, which sloped sharply on both sidesof the room, was full of chinks through which the wind penetrated. Nothing could be less stately, yet nothing was ever more solemn thanthis lugubrious ceremony. Silence so deep that some far-distant crycould have pierced it, lent a sombre majesty to the nocturnal scene. Thegrandeur of the occasion contrasted vividly with the poverty of itscircumstances, and roused a feeling of religious terror. On either sideof the altar the old nuns, kneeling on the tiled floor and taking nothought of its mortal dampness, were praying in concert with the priest, who, robed in his pontifical vestments, placed upon the altar a goldenchalice incrusted with precious stones, --a sacred vessel rescued, nodoubt, from the pillage of the Abbaye des Chelles. Close to this vase, which was a gift of royal munificence, the bread and wine of theconsecrated sacrifice were contained in two glass tumblers scarcelyworthy of the meanest tavern. In default of a missal the priest hadplaced his breviary on a corner of the altar. A common earthenwareplatter was provided for the washing of those innocent hands, pure andunspotted with blood. All was majestic and yet paltry; poor but noble;profane and holy in one. 

The unknown man knelt piously between the sisters. Suddenly, as hecaught sight of the crape upon the chalice and the crucifix, --for indefault of other means of proclaiming the object of this funeral ritethe priest had put God himself into mourning, --the mysterious visitantwas seized by some all-powerful recollection, and drops of sweatgathered on his brow. The four silent actors in this scene looked ateach other with mysterious sympathy; their souls, acting one uponanother, communicated to each the feelings of all, blending them intothe one emotion of religious pity. It seemed as though their thought hadevoked from the dead the sacred martyr whose body was devoured byquicklime, but whose shade rose up before them in royal majesty. Theywere celebrating a funeral Mass without the remains of the deceased. Beneath these rafters and disjointed laths four Christian souls wereinterceding with God for a king of France, and making his burial withouta coffin. It was the purest of all devotions; an act of wonderfulloyalty accomplished without one thought of self. Doubtless in the eyesof God it was the cup of cold water that weighed in the balance againstmany virtues. The whole of monarchy was there in the prayers of thepriest and the two poor women; but also it may have been that theRevolution was present likewise, in the person of the strange beingwhose face betrayed the remorse that led him to make this solemnoffering of a vast repentance. 

Instead of pronouncing the Latin words, "Introibo ad altare Dei" etc. , the priest, with divine intuition, glanced at his three assistants, whorepresented all Christian France, and said, in words which effaced thepenury and meanness of the hovel, "We enter now into the sanctuaryof God. "

At these words, uttered with penetrating unction, a solemn awe seizedthe participants. Beneath the dome of St. Peter's in Rome, God had neverseemed more majestic to man than he did now in this refuge of povertyand to the eyes of these Christians, --so true is it that between man andGod all mediation is unneeded, for his glory descends from himselfalone. The fervent piety of the nameless man was unfeigned, and thefeeling that held these four servants of God and the king was unanimous. The sacred words echoed like celestial music amid the silence. There wasa moment when the unknown broke down and wept: it was at the PaterNoster, to which the priest added a Latin clause which the strangerdoubtless comprehended and applied, --"Et remitte scelus regicidis sicutLudovicus eis remisit semetipse" (And forgive the regicides even asLouis XVI. Himself forgave them). The two nuns saw the tears coursingdown the manly cheeks of their visitant, and dropping fast on thetiled floor. 

The Office of the Dead was recited. The "Domine salvum fac regem, " sungin low tones, touched the hearts of these faithful royalists as theythought of the infant king, now captive in the hands of his enemies, forwhom this prayer was offered. The unknown shuddered; perhaps he fearedan impending crime in which he would be called to take anunwilling part. 

When the service was over, the priest made a sign to the nuns, whowithdrew to the outer room. As soon as he was alone with the unknown, the old man went up to him with gentle sadness of manner, and said inthe tone of a father, --

"My son, if you have steeped your hands in the blood of the martyr king, confess yourself to me. There is no crime which, in the eyes of God, isnot washed out by a repentance as deep and sincere as yours appearsto be. "

At the first words of the ecclesiastic an involuntary motion of terrorescaped the stranger; but he quickly recovered himself, and looked atthe astonished priest with calm assurance. 

"My father, " he said, in a voice that nevertheless trembled, "no one ismore innocent than I of the blood shed--"

"I believe it!" said the priest. 

He paused a moment, during which he examined afresh his penitent; then, persisting in the belief that he was one of those timid members of theAssembly who sacrificed the inviolate and sacred head to save their own, he resumed in a grave voice:--

"Reflect, my son, that something more than taking no part in that greatcrime is needed to absolve from guilt. Those who kept their sword in thescabbard when they might have defended their king have a heavy accountto render to the King of kings. Oh, yes, " added the venerable man, moving his head from right to left with an expressive motion; "yes, heavy, indeed! for, standing idle, they made themselves the accomplicesof a horrible transgression. "

"Do you believe, " asked the stranger, in a surprised tone, "that even anindirect participation will be punished? The soldier ordered to form theline--do you think he was guilty?"

The priest hesitated. Glad of the dilemma that placed this puritan ofroyalty between the dogma of passive obedience, which according to thepartisans of monarchy should dominate the military system, and the otherdogma, equally imperative, which consecrates the person of the king, thestranger hastened to accept the hesitation of the priest as a solutionof the doubts that seemed to trouble him. Then, so as not to allow theold Jansenist time for further reflection, he said quickly:--

"I should blush to offer you any fee whatever in acknowledgment of thefuneral service you have just celebrated for the repose of the king'ssoul and for the discharge of my conscience. We can only pay forinestimable things by offerings which are likewise beyond all price. Deign to accept, Monsieur, the gift which I now make to you of a holyrelic; the day may come when you will know its value. "

As he said these words he gave the ecclesiastic a little box of lightweight. The priest took it as it were involuntarily; for the solemn tonein which the words were uttered, and the awe with which the strangerheld the box, struck him with fresh amazement. They re-entered the outerroom, where the two nuns were waiting for them. 

"You are living, " said the unknown, "in a house whose owner, MuciusScaevola, the plasterer who lives on the first floor, is noted in theSection for his patriotism. He is, however, secretly attached to theBourbons. He was formerly huntsman to Monseigneur the Prince de Conti, to whom he owes everything. As long as you stay in this house you are ingreater safety than you can be in any other part of France. Remainhere. Pious souls will watch over you and supply your wants; and youcan await without danger the coming of better days. A year hence, on the21st of January" (as he uttered these last words he could not repress aninvoluntary shudder), "I shall return to celebrate once more the Mass ofexpiation--"

He could not end the sentence. Bowing to the silent occupants of thegarret, he cast a last look upon the signs of their poverty anddisappeared. 

To the two simple-minded women this event had all the interest of aromance. As soon as the venerable abbé told them of the mysterious giftso solemnly offered by the stranger, they placed the box upon the table, and the three anxious faces, faintly lighted by a tallow-candle, betrayed an indescribable curiosity. Mademoiselle de Langeais opened thebox and took from it a handkerchief of extreme fineness, stained withsweat. As she unfolded it they saw dark stains. 

"That is blood!" exclaimed the priest. 

"It is marked with the royal crown!" cried the other nun. 

The sisters let fall the precious relic with gestures of horror. Tothese ingenuous souls the mystery that wrapped their unknown visitorbecame inexplicable, and the priest from that day forth forbade himselfto search for its solution. 

The three prisoners soon perceived that, in spite of the Terror, apowerful arm was stretched over them. First, they received firewood andprovisions; next, the sisters guessed that a woman was associated withtheir protector, for linen and clothing came to them mysteriously, andenabled them to go out without danger of observation from thearistocratic fashion of the only garments they had been able to secure;finally, Mucius Scaevola brought them certificates of citizenship. Advice as to the necessary means of insuring the safety of the venerablepriest often came to them from unexpected quarters, and proved sosingularly opportune that it was quite evident it could only have beengiven by some one in possession of state secrets. In spite of the faminewhich then afflicted Paris, they found daily at the door of their hovelrations of white bread, laid there by invisible hands. They thought theyrecognized in Mucius Scaevola the agent of these mysteriousbenefactions, which were always timely and intelligent; but the nobleoccupants of the poor garret had no doubt whatever that the unknownindividual who had celebrated the midnight Mass on the 22d of January, 1793, was their secret protector. They added to their daily prayers aspecial prayer for him; night and day these pious hearts madesupplication for his happiness, his prosperity, his redemption. Theyprayed that God would keep his feet from snares and save him from hisenemies, and grant him a long and peaceful life. 

Their gratitude, renewed as it were daily, was necessarily mingled withcuriosity that grew keener day by day. The circumstances attending theappearance of the stranger were a ceaseless topic of conversation and ofendless conjecture, and soon became a benefit of a special kind, fromthe occupation and distraction of mind which was thus produced. Theyresolved that the stranger should not be allowed to escape theexpression of their gratitude when he came to commemorate the next sadanniversary of the death of Louis XVI. 

That night, so impatiently awaited, came at length. At midnight theheavy steps resounded up the wooden stairway. The room was prepared forthe service; the altar was dressed. This time the sisters opened thedoor and hastened to light the entrance. Mademoiselle de Langeais evenwent down a few stairs that she might catch the first glimpse of theirbenefactor. 

"Come!" she said, in a trembling and affectionate voice. "Come, you areexpected!"

The man raised his head, gave the nun a gloomy look, and made no answer. She felt as though an icy garment had fallen upon her, and she keptsilence. At his aspect gratitude and curiosity died within their hearts. He may have been less cold, less taciturn, less terrible than he seemedto these poor souls, whose own emotions led them to expect a flow offriendship from his. They saw that this mysterious being was resolved toremain a stranger to them, and they acquiesced with resignation. But thepriest fancied he saw a smile, quickly repressed, upon the stranger'slip as he saw the preparations made to receive him. He heard the Massand prayed, but immediately disappeared, refusing in a few courteouswords the invitation given by Mademoiselle de Langeais to remain andpartake of the humble collation they had prepared for him. 

After the 9th Thermidor the nuns and the Abbé de Marolles were able togo about Paris without incurring any danger. The first visit of the oldpriest was to a perfumery at the sign of the "Queen of Flowers, " keptby the citizen and _citoyenne_ Ragon, formerly perfumers to the Court, well known for their faithfulness to the royal family, and employed bythe Vendéens as a channel of communication with the princes and royalcommittees in Paris. The abbé, dressed as the times required, wasleaving the doorstep of the shop, situated between the church ofSaint-Roch and the Rue des Fondeurs, when a great crowd coming down theRue Saint-Honoré hindered him from advancing. 

"What is it?" he asked of Madame Ragon. 

"Oh, nothing!" she answered. "It is the cart and the executioner goingto the Place Louis XV. Ah, we saw enough of that last year! but now, four days after the anniversary of the 21st of January, we can look atthe horrid procession without distress. "

"Why so?" asked the abbé. "What you say is not Christian. "

"But this is the execution of the accomplices of Robespierre. They havefought it off as long as they could, but now they are going in theirturn where they have sent so many innocent people. "

The crowd which filled the Rue Saint-Honoré passed on like a wave. Abovethe sea of heads the Abbé de Marolles, yielding to an impulse, saw, standing erect in the cart, the stranger who three days before hadassisted for the second time in the Mass of commemoration. 

"Who is that?" he asked; "the one standing--"

"That is the executioner, " answered Monsieur Ragon, calling the man byhis monarchical name. 

"Help! help!" cried Madame Ragon. "Monsieur l'Abbé is fainting!"

She caught up a flask of vinegar and brought him quickly back toconsciousness. 

"He must have given me, " said the old priest, "the handkerchief withwhich the king wiped his brow as he went to his martyrdom. Poor man!that steel knife had a heart when all France had none!"

The perfumers thought the words of the priest were an effect ofdelirium. 

Translation copyrighted by Roberts Brothers. 

A PASSION IN THE DESERT

"The sight was fearful!" she exclaimed, as we left the menagerie ofMonsieur Martin. 

She had been watching that daring speculator as he went through hiswonderful performance in the den of the hyena. 

"How is it possible, " she continued, "to tame those animals so as to becertain that he can trust them?"

"You think it a problem, " I answered, interrupting her, "and yet it is anatural fact. "

"Oh!" she cried, an incredulous smile flickering on her lip. 

"Do you think that beasts are devoid of passions?" I asked. "Let meassure you that we teach them all the vices and virtues of our own stateof civilization. "

She looked at me in amazement. 

"The first time I saw Monsieur Martin, " I added, "I exclaimed, as youdo, with surprise. I happened to be sitting beside an old soldier whoseright leg was amputated, and whose appearance had attracted my notice asI entered the building. His face, stamped with the scars of battle, worethe undaunted look of a veteran of the wars of Napoleon. Moreover, theold hero had a frank and joyous manner which attracts me wherever I meetit. He was doubtless one of those old campaigners whom nothing cansurprise, who find something to laugh at in the last contortions of acomrade, and will bury a friend or rifle his body gayly; challengingbullets with indifference; making short shrift for themselves or others;and fraternizing, as a usual thing, with the devil. After looking veryattentively at the proprietor of the menagerie as he entered the den, mycompanion curled his lip with that expression of satirical contemptwhich well-informed men sometimes put on to mark the difference betweenthemselves and dupes. As I uttered my exclamation of surprise at thecoolness and courage of Monsieur Martin, the old soldier smiled, shookhis head, and said with a knowing glance, 'An old story!'

"'How do you mean an old story?' I asked. 'If you could explain thesecret of this mysterious power, I should be greatly obliged to you. '

"After a while, during which we became better acquainted, we went todine at the first cafe we could find after leaving the menagerie. Abottle of champagne with our dessert brightened the old man'srecollections and made them singularly vivid. He related to me acircumstance in his early history which proved that he had ample causeto pronounce Monsieur Martin's performance 'an old story. '"

When we reached her house, she was so persuasive and captivating, andmade me so many pretty promises, that I consented to write down for herbenefit the story told me by the old hero. On the following day I senther this episode of a historical epic, which might be entitled, 'TheFrench in Egypt. '

 * * * * *

At the time of General Desaix's expedition to Upper Egypt a Provençalsoldier, who had fallen into the hands of the Maugrabins, was marched bythose tireless Arabs across the desert which lies beyond the cataractsof the Nile. To put sufficient distance between themselves and theFrench army, the Maugrabins made a forced march and did not halt untilafter nightfall. They then camped about a well shaded with palm-trees, near which they had previously buried a stock of provisions. Notdreaming that the thought of escape could enter their captive's mind, they merely bound his wrists, and lay down to sleep themselves, aftereating a few dates and giving their horses a feed of barley. When thebold Provençal saw his enemies too soundly asleep to watch him, he usedhis teeth to pick up a scimitar, with which, steadying the blade bymeans of his knees, he contrived to cut through the cord which bound hishands, and thus recovered his liberty. He at once seized a carbine and aponiard, took the precaution to lay in a supply of dates, a small bag ofbarley, some powder and ball, buckled on the scimitar, mounted one ofthe horses, and spurred him in the direction where he supposed theFrench army to be. Impatient to meet the outposts, he pressed the horse, which was already wearied, so severely that the poor animal fell deadwith his flanks torn, leaving the Frenchman alone in the midst ofthe desert. 

After marching for a long time through the sand with the dogged courageof an escaping galley-slave, the soldier was forced to halt, as darknessdrew on: for his utter weariness compelled him to rest, though theexquisite sky of an eastern night might well have tempted him tocontinue the journey. Happily he had reached a slight elevation, at thetop of which a few palm-trees shot upward, whose leafage, seen from along distance against the sky, had helped to sustain his hopes. Hisfatigue was so great that he threw himself down on a block of granite, cut by Nature into the shape of a camp-bed, and slept heavily, withouttaking the least precaution to protect himself while asleep. He acceptedthe loss of his life as inevitable, and his last waking thought was oneof regret for having left the Maugrabins, whose nomad life began tocharm him now that he was far away from them and from every other hopeof succor. 

He was awakened by the sun, whose pitiless beams falling vertically uponthe granite rock produced an intolerable heat. The Provençal hadignorantly flung himself down in a contrary direction to the shadowsthrown by the verdant and majestic fronds of the palm-trees. He gazed atthese solitary monarchs and shuddered. They recalled to his mind thegraceful shafts, crowned with long weaving leaves, which distinguish theSaracenic columns of the cathedral of Arles. The thought overcame him, and when, after counting the trees, he threw his eyes upon the scenearound him, an agony of despair convulsed his soul. He saw a limitlessocean. The sombre sands of the desert stretched out till lost to sightin all directions; they glittered with dark lustre like a steel bladeshining in the sun. He could not tell if it were an ocean or a chain oflakes that lay mirrored before him. A hot vapor swept in waves above thesurface of this heaving continent. The sky had the Oriental glow oftranslucent purity, which disappoints because it leaves nothing for theimagination to desire. The heavens and the earth were both on fire. Silence added its awful and desolate majesty. Infinitude, immensitypressed down upon the soul on every side; not a cloud in the sky, not abreath in the air, not a rift on the breast of the sand, which wasruffled only with little ridges scarcely rising above its surface. Faras the eye could reach the horizon fell away into space, marked by aslender line, slim as the edge of a sabre, --like as in summer seas athread of light parts this earth from the heaven it meets. 

The Provençal clasped the trunk of a palm-tree as if it were the body ofa friend. Sheltered from the sun by its straight and slender shadow, hewept; and presently sitting down he remained motionless, contemplatingwith awful dread the implacable Nature stretched out before him. Hecried aloud, as if to tempt the solitude to answer him. His voice, lostin the hollows of the hillock, sounded afar with a thin resonance thatreturned no echo; the echo came from the soldier's heart. He wastwenty-two years old, and he loaded his carbine. 

"Time enough!" he muttered, as he put the liberating weapon on the sandbeneath him. 

Gazing by turns at the burnished blackness of the sand and the blueexpanse of the sky, the soldier dreamed of France. He smelt in fancy thegutters of Paris; he remembered the towns through which he had passed, the faces of his comrades, and the most trifling incidents of his life. His southern imagination saw the pebbles of his own Provence in theundulating play of the heated air, as it seemed to roughen thefar-reaching surface of the desert. Dreading the dangers of this cruelmirage, he went down the little hill on the side opposite to that bywhich he had gone up the night before. His joy was great when hediscovered a natural grotto, formed by the immense blocks of granitewhich made a foundation for the rising ground. The remnants of a matshowed that the place had once been inhabited, and close to the entrancewere a few palm-trees loaded with fruit. The instinct which binds men tolife woke in his heart. He now hoped to live until some Maugrabin shouldpass that way; possibly he might even hear the roar of cannon, forBonaparte was at that time overrunning Egypt. Encouraged by thesethoughts, the Frenchman shook down a cluster of the ripe fruit under theweight of which the palms were bending; and as he tasted thisunhoped-for manna, he thanked the former inhabitant of the grotto forthe cultivation of the trees, which the rich and luscious flesh of thefruit amply attested. Like a true Provençal, he passed from the gloom ofdespair to a joy that was half insane. He ran back to the top of thehill, and busied himself for the rest of the day in cutting down one ofthe sterile trees which had been his shelter the night before. 

Some vague recollection made him think of the wild beasts of the desert, and foreseeing that they would come to drink at a spring which bubbledthrough the sand at the foot of the rock, he resolved to protect hishermitage by felling a tree across the entrance. Notwithstanding hiseagerness, and the strength which the fear of being attacked whileasleep gave to his muscles, he was unable to cut the palm-tree in piecesduring the day; but he succeeded in bringing it down. Towards eveningthe king of the desert fell; and the noise of his fall, echoing far, was like a moan from the breast of Solitude. The soldier shuddered, asthough he had heard a voice predicting evil. But, like an heir who doesnot long mourn a parent, he stripped from the beautiful tree the archinggreen fronds--its poetical adornment--and made a bed of them in hisrefuge. Then, tired with his work and by the heat of the day, he fellasleep beneath the red vault of the grotto. 

In the middle of the night his sleep was broken by a strange noise. Hesat up; the deep silence that reigned everywhere enabled him to hear thealternating rhythm of a respiration whose savage vigor could not belongto a human being. A terrible fear, increased by the darkness, by thesilence, by the rush of his waking fancies, numbed his heart. He feltthe contraction of his hair, which rose on end as his eyes, dilating totheir full strength, beheld through the darkness two faint amber lights. At first he thought them an optical delusion; but by degrees theclearness of the night enabled him to distinguish objects in the grotto, and he saw, within two feet of him, an enormous animal lying at rest. 

Was it a lion? Was it a tiger? Was it a crocodile? The Provençal had notenough education to know in what sub-species he ought to class theintruder; but his terror was all the greater because his ignorance madeit vague. He endured the cruel trial of listening, of striving to catchthe peculiarties of this breathing without losing one of itsinflections, and without daring to make the slightest movement. A strongodor, like that exhaled by foxes, only far more pungent and penetrating, filled the grotto. When the soldier had tasted it, so to speak, by thenose, his fear became terror; he could no longer doubt the nature of theterrible companion whose royal lair he had taken for a bivouac. Beforelong, the reflection of the moon, as it sank to the horizon, lighted upthe den and gleamed upon the shining, spotted skin of a panther. 

The lion of Egypt lay asleep, curled up like a dog, the peaceablepossessor of a kennel at the gate of a mansion; its eyes, which hadopened for a moment, were now closed; its head was turned towards theFrenchman. A hundred conflicting thoughts rushed through the mind of thepanther's prisoner. Should he kill it with a shot from his musket? Butere the thought was formed, he saw there was no room to take aim; themuzzle would have gone beyond the animal. Suppose he were to wake it?The fear kept him motionless. As he heard the beating of his heartthrough the dead silence, he cursed the strong pulsations of hisvigorous blood, lest they should disturb the sleep which gave him timeto think and plan for safety. Twice he put his hand on his scimitar, with the idea of striking off the head of his enemy; but the difficultyof cutting through the close-haired skin made him renounce the boldattempt. Suppose he missed his aim? It would, he knew, be certain death. He preferred the chances of a struggle, and resolved to await the dawn. It was not long in coming. As daylight broke, the Frenchman was able toexamine the animal. Its muzzle was stained with blood. "It has eaten agood meal, " thought he, not caring whether the feast were human flesh ornot; "it will not be hungry when it wakes. "

It was a female. The fur on the belly and on the thighs was of sparklingwhiteness. Several little spots like velvet made pretty bracelets roundher paws. The muscular tail was also white, but it terminated with blackrings. The fur of the back, yellow as dead gold and very soft andglossy, bore the characteristic spots, shaded like a full-blown rose, which distinguish the panther from all other species of _felis_. Thisterrible hostess lay tranquilly snoring, in an attitude as easy andgraceful as that of a cat on the cushions of an ottoman. Her bloodypaws, sinewy and well-armed, were stretched beyond her head, which layupon them; and from her muzzle projected a few straight hairs calledwhiskers, which shimmered in the early light like silver wires. 

If he had seen her lying thus imprisoned in a cage, the Provençal wouldhave admired the creature's grace, and the strong contrasts of vividcolor which gave to her robe an imperial splendor; but as it was, hissight was jaundiced by sinister forebodings. The presence of thepanther, though she was still asleep, had the same effect upon his mindas the magnetic eyes of a snake produce, we are told, upon thenightingale. The soldier's courage oozed away in presence of this silentperil, though he was a man who gathered nerve before the mouths ofcannon belching grape-shot. And yet, ere long, a bold thought enteredhis mind, and checked the cold sweat which was rolling from his brow. Roused to action, as some men are when, driven face to face with death, they defy it and offer themselves to their doom, he saw a tragedybefore him, and he resolved to play his part with honor to the last. 

"Yesterday, " he said, "the Arabs might have killed me. "

Regarding himself as dead, he waited bravely, but with anxiouscuriosity, for the waking of his enemy. When the sun rose, the panthersuddenly opened her eyes; then she stretched her paws violently, as ifto unlimber them from the cramp of their position. Presently she yawnedand showed the frightful armament of her teeth, and her cloven tongue, rough as a grater. 

"She is like a dainty woman, " thought the Frenchman, watching her as sherolled and turned on her side with an easy and coquettish movement. Shelicked the blood from her paws, and rubbed her head with a reiteratedmovement full of grace. 

"Well done! dress yourself prettily, my little woman, " said theFrenchman, who recovered his gayety as soon as he had recovered hiscourage. "We are going to bid each other good-morning;" and he felt forthe short poniard which he had taken from the Maugrabins. 

At this instant the panther turned her head towards the Frenchman andlooked at him fixedly, without moving. The rigidity of her metallic eyesand their insupportable clearness made the Provençal shudder. The beastmoved towards him; he looked at her caressingly, with a soothing glanceby which he hoped to magnetize her. He let her come quite close to himbefore he stirred; then with a touch as gentle and loving as he mighthave used to a pretty woman, he slid his hand along her spine from thehead to the flanks, scratching with his nails the flexible vertebraewhich divide the yellow back of a panther. The creature drew up her tailvoluptuously, her eyes softened, and when for the third time theFrenchman bestowed this self-interested caress, she gave vent to a purrlike that with which a cat expresses pleasure: but it issued from athroat so deep and powerful that the sound echoed through the grottolike the last chords of an organ rolling along the roof of a church. TheProvençal, perceiving the value of his caresses, redoubled them untilthey had completely soothed and lulled the imperious courtesan. 

When he felt that he had subdued the ferocity of his capriciouscompanion, whose hunger had so fortunately been appeased the nightbefore, he rose to leave the grotto. The panther let him go; but as soonas he reached the top of the little hill she bounded after him with thelightness of a bird hopping from branch to branch, and rubbed againsthis legs, arching her back with the gesture of a domestic cat. Thenlooking at her guest with an eye that was growing less inflexible, sheuttered the savage cry which naturalists liken to the noise of a saw. 

"My lady is exacting, " cried the Frenchman, smiling. He began to playwith her ears and stroke her belly, and at last he scratched her headfirmly with his nails. Encouraged by success, he tickled her skull withthe point of his dagger, looking for the right spot where to stab her;but the hardness of the bone made him pause, dreading failure. 

The sultana of the desert acknowledged the talents of her slave bylifting her head and swaying her neck to his caresses, betrayingsatisfaction by the tranquillity of her relaxed attitude. The Frenchmansuddenly perceived that he could assassinate the fierce princess at ablow, if he struck her in the throat; and he had raised the weapon, whenthe panther, surfeited perhaps with his caresses, threw herselfgracefully at his feet, glancing up at him with a look in which, despiteher natural ferocity, a flicker of kindness could be seen. The poorProvençal, frustrated for the moment, ate his dates as he leaned againsta palm-tree, casting from time to time an interrogating eye across thedesert in the hope of discerning rescue from afar, and then lowering itupon his terrible companion, to watch the chances of her uncertainclemency. Each time that he threw away a date-stone the panther eyed thespot where it fell with an expression of keen distrust; and she examinedthe Frenchman with what might be called commercial prudence. Theexamination, however, seemed favorable, for when the man had finishedhis meagre meal she licked his shoes and wiped off the dust, which wascaked into the folds of the leather, with her rough and powerful tongue. 

"How will it be when she is hungry?" thought the Provençal. In spite ofthe shudder which this reflection cost him, his attention was attractedby the symmetrical proportions of the animal, and he began to measurethem with his eye. She was three feet in height to the shoulder, andfour feet long, not including the tail. That powerful weapon, which wasround as a club, measured three feet. The head, as large as that of alioness, was remarkable for an expression of crafty intelligence; thecold cruelty of a tiger was its ruling trait, and yet it bore a vagueresemblance to the face of an artful woman. As the soldier watched her, the countenance of this solitary queen shone with savage gayety likethat of Nero in his cups: she had slaked her thirst for blood, and nowwished for play. The Frenchman tried to come and go, and accustomed herto his movements. The panther left him free, as if contented to followhim with her eyes, seeming, however, less like a faithful dog watchinghis master's movements with affection, than a huge Angora cat uneasy andsuspicious of them. A few steps brought him to the spring, where he sawthe carcass of his horse, which the panther had evidently carried there. Only two-thirds was eaten. The sight reassured the Frenchman; for itexplained the absence of his terrible companion and the forbearancewhich she had shown to him while asleep. 

This first good luck encouraged the reckless soldier as he thought ofthe future. The wild idea of making a home with the panther until somechance of escape occurred entered his mind, and he resolved to try everymeans of taming her and of turning her good-will to account. With thesethoughts he returned to her side, and noticed joyfully that she movedher tail with an almost imperceptible motion. He sat down beside herfearlessly, and they began to play with each other. He held her paws andher muzzle, twisted her ears, threw her over on her back, and strokedher soft warm flanks. She allowed him to do so; and when he began tosmooth the fur of her paws, she carefully drew in her murderous claws, which were sharp and curved like a Damascus blade. The Frenchman keptone hand on his dagger, again watching his opportunity to plunge it intothe belly of the too-confiding beast; but the fear that she mightstrangle him in her last convulsions once more stayed his hand. Moreover, he felt in his heart a foreboding of a remorse which warnedhim not to destroy a hitherto inoffensive creature. He even fancied thathe had found a friend in the limitless desert. His mind turned back, involuntarily, to his first mistress, whom he had named in derision"Mignonne, " because her jealousy was so furious that throughout thewhole period of their intercourse he lived in dread of the knife withwhich she threatened him. This recollection of his youth suggested theidea of teaching the young panther, whose soft agility and grace he nowadmired with less terror, to answer to the caressing name. Towardsevening he had grown so familiar with his perilous position that he washalf in love with its dangers, and his companion was so far tamed thatshe had caught the habit of turning to him when he called, in falsettotones, "Mignonne!"

As the sun went down Mignonne uttered at intervals a prolonged, deep, melancholy cry. 

"She is well brought up, " thought the gay soldier. "She says herprayers. " But the jest only came into his mind as he watched thepeaceful attitude of his comrade. 

"Come, my pretty blonde, I will let you go to bed first, " he said, relying on the activity of his legs to get away as soon as she fellasleep, and trusting to find some other resting-place for the night. Hewaited anxiously for the right moment, and when it came he startedvigorously in the direction of the Nile. But he had scarcely marched forhalf an hour through the sand before he heard the panther bounding afterhim, giving at intervals the saw-like cry which was more terrible tohear than the thud of her bounds. 

"Well, well!" he cried, "she must have fallen in love with me! Perhapsshe has never met any one else. It is flattering to be her first love. "

So thinking, he fell into one of the treacherous quicksands whichdeceive the inexperienced traveler in the desert, and from which thereis seldom any escape. He felt he was sinking, and he uttered a cry ofdespair. The panther seized him by the collar with her teeth, and sprangvigorously backward, drawing him, like magic, from the sucking sand. 

"Ah, Mignonne!" cried the soldier, kissing her with enthusiasm, "webelong to each other now, --for life, for death! But play me no tricks, "he added, as he turned back the way he came. 

From that moment the desert was, as it were, peopled for him. It held abeing to whom he could talk, and whose ferocity was now lulled intogentleness, although he could scarcely explain to himself the reasonsfor this extraordinary friendship. His anxiety to keep awake and on hisguard succumbed to excessive weariness both of body and mind, andthrowing himself down on the floor of the grotto he slept soundly. Athis waking Mignonne was gone. He mounted the little hill to scan thehorizon, and perceived her in the far distance returning with the longbounds peculiar to these animals, who are prevented from running by theextreme flexibility of their spinal column. 

Mignonne came home with bloody jaws, and received the tribute ofcaresses which her slave hastened to pay, all the while manifesting herpleasure by reiterated purring. 

Her eyes, now soft and gentle, rested kindly on the Provençal, who spoketo her lovingly as he would to a domestic animal. 

"Ah! Mademoiselle, --for you are an honest girl, are you not? You like tobe petted, don't you? Are you not ashamed of yourself? You have beeneating a Maugrabin. Well, well! they are animals like the rest of you. But you are not to craunch up a Frenchman; remember that! If you do, Iwill not love you. "

She played like a young dog with her master, and let him roll her overand pat and stroke her, and sometimes she would coax him to play bylaying a paw upon his knee with a pretty soliciting gesture. 

Several days passed rapidly. This strange companionship revealed to theProvençal the sublime beauties of the desert. The alternations of hopeand fear, the sufficiency of food, the presence of a creature whooccupied his thoughts, --all this kept his mind alert, yet free: it was alife full of strange contrasts. Solitude revealed to him her secrets, and wrapped him with her charm. In the rising and the setting of the sunhe saw splendors unknown to the world of men. He quivered as he listenedto the soft whirring of the wings of a bird, --rare visitant!--or watchedthe blending of the fleeting clouds, --those changeful and many-tintedvoyagers. In the waking hours of the night he studied the play of themoon upon the sandy ocean, where the strong simoom had rippled thesurface into waves and ever-varying undulations. He lived in the Easternday; he worshiped its marvelous glory. He rejoiced in the grandeur ofthe storms when they rolled across the vast plain, and tossed the sandupward till it looked like a dry red fog or a solid death-dealing vapor;and as the night came on he welcomed it with ecstasy, grateful for theblessed coolness of the light of the stars. His ears listened to themusic of the skies. Solitude taught him the treasures of meditation. Hespent hours in recalling trifles, and in comparing his past life withthe weird present. 

He grew fondly attached to his panther; for he was a man who needed anaffection. Whether it were that his own will, magnetically strong, hadmodified the nature of his savage princess, or that the wars then ragingin the desert had provided her with an ample supply of food, it iscertain that she showed no sign of attacking him, and became so tamethat he soon felt no fear of her. He spent much of his time in sleeping;though with his mind awake, like a spider in its web, lest he shouldmiss some deliverance that might chance to cross the sandy sphere markedout by the horizon. He had made his shirt into a banner and tied it tothe top of a palm-tree which he had stripped of its leafage. Takingcounsel of necessity, he kept the flag extended by fastening the cornerswith twigs and wedges; for the fitful wind might have failed to wave itat the moment when the longed-for succor came in sight. 

Nevertheless, there were long hours of gloom when hope forsook him; andthen he played with his panther. He learned to know the differentinflections of her voice and the meanings of her expressive glance; hestudied the variegation of the spots which shaded the dead gold of herrobe. Mignonne no longer growled when he caught the tuft of herdangerous tail and counted the black and white rings which glittered inthe sunlight like a cluster of precious stones. He delighted in the softlines of her lithe body, the whiteness of her belly, the grace of hercharming head: but above all he loved to watch her as she gamboled atplay. The agility and youthfulness of her movements were a constantlyfresh surprise to him. He admired the suppleness of the flexible body asshe bounded, crept, and glided, or clung to the trunk of palm-trees, orrolled over and over, crouching sometimes to the ground, and gatheringherself together as she made ready for her vigorous spring. Yet, howevervigorous the bound, however slippery the granite block on which shelanded, she would stop short, motionless, at the one word "Mignonne. "

One day, under a dazzling sun, a large bird hovered in the sky. TheProvençal left his panther to watch the new guest. After a moment'spause the neglected sultana uttered a low growl. 

"The devil take me! I believe she is jealous!" exclaimed the soldier, observing the rigid look which once more appeared in her metallic eyes. "The soul of Sophronie has got into her body!"

The eagle disappeared in ether, and the Frenchman, recalled by thepanther's displeasure, admired afresh her rounded flanks and the perfectgrace of her attitude. She was as pretty as a woman. The blondebrightness of her robe shaded, with delicate gradations, to thedead-white tones of her furry thighs; the vivid sunshine brought out thebrilliancy of this living gold and its variegated brown spots withindescribable lustre. The panther and the Provençal gazed at each otherwith human comprehension. She trembled with delight--the coquettishcreature!--as she felt the nails of her friend scratching the strongbones of her skull. Her eyes glittered like flashes of lightning, andthen she closed them tightly. 

"She has a soul!" cried the soldier, watching the tranquil repose ofthis sovereign of the desert, golden as the sands, white as theirpulsing light, solitary and burning as they. 

 * * * * *

"Well, " she said, "I have read your defense of the beasts. But tell mewhat was the end of this friendship between two beings so formed tounderstand each other?"

"Ah, exactly, " I replied. "It ended as all great passions end, --by amisunderstanding. Both sides imagine treachery, pride prevents anexplanation, and the rupture comes about through obstinacy. "

"Yes, " she said, "and sometimes a word, a look, an exclamation suffices. But tell me the end of the story. "

"That is difficult, " I answered. "But I will give it to you in the wordsof the old veteran, as he finished the bottle of champagne andexclaimed:--

"'I don't know how I could have hurt her, but she suddenly turned uponme as if in fury, and seized my thigh with her sharp teeth; and yet (asI afterwards remembered) not cruelly. I thought she meant to devour me, and I plunged my dagger into her throat. She rolled over with a cry thatfroze my soul; she looked at me in her death struggle, but withoutanger. I would have given all the world--my cross, which I had not thengained, all, everything--to have brought her back to life. It was as ifI had murdered a friend, a human being. When the soldiers who saw myflag came to my rescue they found me weeping. Monsieur, ' he resumed, after a moment's silence, 'I went through the wars in Germany, Spain, Russia, France; I have marched my carcass well-nigh over all the world;but I have seen nothing comparable to the desert. Ah, it is grand!glorious!'

"'What were your feelings there?' I asked. 

"'They cannot be told, young man. Besides, I do not always regret mypanther and my palm-tree oasis: I must be very sad for that. But I willtell you this: in the desert there is all--and yet nothing. '

"'Stay!--explain that. '

"'Well, then, ' he said, with a gesture of impatience, 'God is there, andman is not. '"

FROM 'THE COUNTRY DOCTOR'

THE NAPOLEON OF THE PEOPLE

"Let us go to my barn, " said the doctor, taking Genestas by the arm, after saying good-night to the curate and his other guests. "And there, Captain Bluteau, you will hear about Napoleon. We shall find a few oldcronies who will set Goguelat, the postman, to declaiming about thepeople's god. Nicolle, my stable-man, was to put a ladder by which wecan get into the hay-loft through a window, and find a place where wecan see and hear all that goes on. A _veillée_ is worth the trouble, believe me. Come, it isn't the first time I've hidden in the hay to hearthe tale of a soldier or some peasant yarn. But we must hide; if thesepoor people see a stranger they are constrained at once, and are nolonger their natural selves. "

"Eh! my dear host, " said Genestas, "haven't I often pretended to sleep, that I might listen to my troopers round a bivouac? I never laughed moreheartily in the Paris theatres than I did at an account of the retreatfrom Moscow, told in fun, by an old sergeant to a lot of recruits whowere afraid of war. He declared the French army slept in sheets, anddrank its wine well-iced; that the dead stood still in the roads; Russiawas white, they curried the horses with their teeth; those who liked toskate had lots of fun, and those who fancied frozen puddings ate theirfill; the women were usually cold, and the only thing that was reallydisagreeable was the want of hot water to shave with: in short, herecounted such absurdities that an old quarter-master, who had had hisnose frozen off and was known by the name Nez-restant, laughed himself. "

"Hush, " said Benassis, "here we are: I'll go first; follow me. "

The pair mounted the ladder and crouched in the hay, without being seenor heard by the people below, and placed themselves at ease, so thatthey could see and hear all that went on. The women were sitting ingroups round the three or four candles that stood on the tables. Somewere sewing, some knitting; several sat idle, their necks stretched outand their heads and eyes turned to an old peasant who was telling astory. Most of the men were standing, or lying on bales of hay. Thesegroups, all perfectly silent, were scarcely visible in the flickeringglimmer of the tallow-candles encircled by glass bowls full of water, which concentrated the light in rays upon the women at work about thetables. The size of the barn, whose roof was dark and sombre, stillfurther obscured the rays of light, which touched the heads with unequalcolor, and brought out picturesque effects of light and shade. Here, thebrown forehead and the clear eyes of an eager little peasant-girl shoneforth; there, the rough brows of a few old men were sharply defined by aluminous band, which made fantastic shapes of their worn and discoloredgarments. These various listeners, so diverse in their attitudes, allexpressed on their motionless features the absolute abandonment of theirintelligence to the narrator. It was a curious picture, illustrating theenormous influence exercised over every class of mind by poetry. Inexacting from a story-teller the marvelous that must still be simple, orthe impossible that is almost believable, the peasant proves himself tobe a true lover of the purest poetry. 

"Come, Monsieur Goguelat, " said the game-keeper, "tell us about theEmperor. "

"The evening is half over, " said the postman, "and I don't like toshorten the victories. "

"Never mind; go on! You've told them so many times we know them all byheart; but it is always a pleasure to hear them again. "

"Yes! tell us about the Emperor, " cried many voices together. 

"Since you wish it, " replied Goguelat. "But you'll see it isn't worthmuch when I have to tell it on the double-quick, charge! I'd rather tellabout a battle. Shall I tell about Champ-Aubert, where we used up allthe cartridges and spitted the enemy on our bayonets?"

"No! no! the Emperor! the Emperor!"

The veteran rose from his bale of hay and cast upon the assemblage thatblack look laden with miseries, emergencies, and sufferings, whichdistinguishes the faces of old soldiers. He seized his jacket by the twofront flaps, raised them as if about to pack the knapsack which formerlyheld his clothes, his shoes, and all his fortune; then he threw theweight of his body on his left leg, advanced the right, and yielded witha good grace to the demands of the company. After pushing his gray hairto one side to show his forehead, he raised his head towards heaven thathe might, as it were, put himself on the level of the gigantic historyhe was about to relate. 

"You see, my friends, Napoleon was born in Corsica, a French island, warmed by the sun of Italy, where it is like a furnace, and where thepeople kill each other, from father to son, all about nothing: that's away they have. To begin with the marvel of the thing, --his mother, whowas the handsomest woman of her time, and a knowing one, bethoughtherself of dedicating him to God, so that he might escape the dangers ofhis childhood and future life; for she had dreamed that the world wasset on fire the day he was born. And indeed it was a prophecy! So sheasked God to protect him, on condition that Napoleon should restore Hisholy religion, which was then cast to the ground. Well, that was agreedupon, and we shall see what came of it. 

"Follow me closely, and tell me if what you hear is in the nature ofman. 

"Sure and certain it is that none but a man who conceived the idea ofmaking a compact with God could have passed unhurt through the enemy'slines, through cannon-balls, and discharges of grape-shot that swept therest of us off like flies, and always respected his head. I had a proofof that--I myself--at Eylau. I see him now, as he rode up a height, tookhis field glass, looked at the battle, and said, 'A11 goes well. ' One ofthose plumed busy-bodies, who plagued him considerably and followed himeverywhere, even to his meals, so they said, thought to play the wag, and took the Emperor's place as he rode away. Ho! in a twinkling, headand plume were off! You must understand that Napoleon had promised tokeep the secret of his compact all to himself. That's why all those whofollowed him, even his nearest friends, fell like nuts, --Duroc, Bessières, Lannes, --all strong as steel bars, though _he_ could bendthem as he pleased. Besides, --to prove he was the child of God, and madeto be the father of soldiers, --was he ever known to be lieutenant orcaptain? no, no; commander-in-chief from the start. He didn't look to bemore than twenty-four years of age when he was an old general at thetaking of Toulon, where he first began to show the others that theyknew nothing about manoeuvring cannon. 

"After that, down came our slip of a general to command the grand armyof Italy, which hadn't bread nor munitions, nor shoes, nor coats, --apoor army, as naked as a worm. 'My friends, ' said he, 'here we aretogether. Get it into your pates that fifteen days from now you will beconquerors, --new clothes, good gaiters, famous shoes, and every man witha great-coat; but, my children, to get these things you must march toMilan where they are. ' And we marched. France, crushed as flat as abedbug, straightened up. We were thirty thousand barefeet against eightythousand Austrian bullies, all fine men, well set up. I see 'em now! ButNapoleon--he was then only Bonaparte--he knew how to put the courageinto us! We marched by night, and we marched by day; we slapped theirfaces at Montenotte, we thrashed 'em at Rivoli, Lodi, Arcole, Millesimo, and we never let 'em up. A soldier gets the taste of conquest. SoNapoleon whirled round those Austrian generals, who didn't know where topoke themselves to get out of his way, and he pelted 'em well, --nippedoff ten thousand men at a blow sometimes, by getting round them withfifteen hundred Frenchmen, and then he gleaned as he pleased. He tooktheir cannon, their supplies, their money, their munitions, in short, all they had that was good to take. He fought them and beat them on themountains, he drove them into the rivers and seas, he bit 'em in theair, he devoured 'em on the ground, and he lashed 'em everywhere. Hey!the grand army feathered itself well; for, d'ye see, the Emperor, whowas also a wit, called up the inhabitants and told them he was there todeliver them. So after that the natives lodged and cherished us; thewomen too, and very judicious they were. Now here's the end of it. InVentose, '96, --in those times that was the month of March of to-day, --welay cuddled in a corner of Savoy with the marmots; and yet, before thatcampaign was over, we were masters of Italy, just as Napoleon hadpredicted; and by the following March--in a single year and twocampaigns--he had brought us within sight of Vienna. 'Twas a cleansweep. We devoured their armies, one after the other, and made an end offour Austrian generals. One old fellow, with white hair, was roastedlike a rat in the straw at Mantua. Kings begged for mercy on theirknees! Peace was won. 

"Could a _man_ have done that? No; God helped him, to a certainty!

"He divided himself up like the loaves in the Gospel, commanded thebattle by day, planned it by night; going and coming, for the sentinelssaw him, --never eating, never sleeping. So, seeing these prodigies, thesoldiers adopted him for their father. Forward, march! Then thoseothers, the rulers in Paris, seeing this, said to themselves:--'Here's abold one that seems to get his orders from the skies; he's likely to puthis paw on France. We must let him loose on Asia; we will send him toAmerica, perhaps that will satisfy him. ' But 'twas _written above_ forhim, as it was for Jesus Christ. The command went forth that he shouldgo to Egypt. See again his resemblance to the Son of God. But that's notall. He called together his best veterans, his fire-eaters, the ones hehad particularly put the devil into, and he said to them like this:--'Myfriends, they have given us Egypt to chew up, just to keep us busy, butwe'll swallow it whole in a couple of campaigns, as we did Italy. Thecommon soldiers shall be princes and have the land for their own. Forward, march!' 'Forward, march!' cried the sergeants, and there wewere at Toulon, road to Egypt. At that time the English had all theirships in the sea; but when we embarked Napoleon said, 'They won't seeus. It is just as well that you should know from this time forth thatyour general has got his star in the sky, which guides and protects us. 'What was said was done. Passing over the sea, we took Malta like anorange, just to quench his thirst for victory; for he was a man whocouldn't live and do nothing. 

"So here we are in Egypt. Good. Once here, other orders. The Egyptians, d'ye see, are men who, ever since the earth was, have had giants forsovereigns, and armies as numerous as ants; for, you must understand, that's the land of genii and crocodiles, where they've built pyramids asbig as our mountains, and buried their kings under them to keep themfresh, --an idea that pleased 'em mightily. So then, after wedisembarked, the Little Corporal said to us, 'My children, the countryyou are going to conquer has a lot of gods that you must respect;because Frenchmen ought to be friends with everybody, and fight thenations without vexing the inhabitants. Get it into your skulls that youare not to touch anything at first, for it is all going to be yourssoon. Forward, march!' So far, so good. But all those people of Africa, to whom Napoleon was foretold under the name of Kébir-Bonaberdis, --aword of their lingo that means 'the sultan fires, '--were afraid as thedevil of him. So the Grand Turk, and Asia, and Africa, had recourse tomagic. They sent us a demon, named the Mahdi, supposed to have descendedfrom heaven on a white horse, which, like its master, was bullet-proof;and both of them lived on air, without food to support them. There aresome that say they saw them; but I can't give you any reasons to makeyou certain about that. The rulers of Arabia and the Mamelukes tried tomake their troopers believe that the Mahdi could keep them fromperishing in battle; and they pretended he was an angel sent from heavento fight Napoleon and get back Solomon's seal. Solomon's seal was partof their paraphernalia which they vowed our General had stolen. You mustunderstand that we'd given 'em a good many wry faces, in spite of whathe had said to us. 

"Now, tell me how they knew that Napoleon had a pact with God? Was thatnatural, d'ye think?

"They held to it in their minds that Napoleon commanded the genii, andcould pass hither and thither in the twinkling of an eye, like a bird. The fact is, he was everywhere. At last, it came to his carrying off aqueen, beautiful as the dawn, for whom he had offered all his treasure, and diamonds as big as pigeons' eggs, --a bargain which the Mameluke towhom she particularly belonged positively refused, although he hadseveral others. Such matters, when they come to that pass, can't besettled without a great many battles; and, indeed, there was no scarcityof battles; there was fighting enough to please everybody. We were inline at Alexandria, at Gizeh, and before the Pyramids; we marched in thesun and through the sand, where some, who had the dazzles, saw waterthat they couldn't drink, and shade where their flesh was roasted. Butwe made short work of the Mamelukes; and everybody else yielded at thevoice of Napoleon, who took possession of Upper and Lower Egypt, Arabia, and even the capitals of kingdoms that were no more, where there werethousand of statues and all the plagues of Egypt, more particularlylizards, --a mammoth of a country where everybody could take his acres ofland for as little as he pleased. Well, while Napoleon was busy with hisaffairs inland, --where he had it in his head to do fine things, --theEnglish burned his fleet at Aboukir; for they were always looking aboutthem to annoy us. But Napoleon, who had the respect of the East and ofthe West, whom the Pope called his son, and the cousin of Mohammedcalled 'his dear father, ' resolved to punish England, and get hold ofIndia in exchange for his fleet. He was just about to take us across theRed Sea into Asia, a country where there are diamonds and gold to paythe soldiers and palaces for bivouacs, when the Mahdi made a treaty withthe Plague, and sent it down to hinder our victories. Halt! The army toa man defiled at that parade; and few there were who came back on theirfeet. Dying soldiers couldn't take Saint-Jean d'Acre, though they rushedat it three times with generous and martial obstinacy. The Plague wasthe strongest. No saying to that enemy, 'My good friend. ' Every soldierlay ill. Napoleon alone was fresh as a rose, and the whole army saw himdrinking in pestilence without its doing him a bit of harm. 

"Ha! my friends! will you tell me that _that's_ in the nature of a mereman?

"The Mamelukes knowing we were all in the ambulances, thought they couldstop the way; but that sort of joke wouldn't do with Napoleon. So hesaid to his demons, his veterans, those that had the toughest hide, 'Go, clear me the way. ' Junot, a sabre of the first cut, and his particularfriend, took a thousand men, no more, and ripped up the army of thepacha who had had the presumption to put himself in the way. After that, we came back to headquarters at Cairo. Now, here's another side of thestory. Napoleon absent, France was letting herself be ruined by therulers in Paris, who kept back the pay of the soldiers of the otherarmies, and their clothing, and their rations; left them to die ofhunger, and expected them to lay down the law to the universe withouttaking any trouble to help them. Idiots! who amused themselves bychattering, instead of putting their own hands in the dough. Well, that's how it happened that our armies were beaten, and the frontiers ofFrance were encroached upon: THE MAN was not there. Now observe, I say_man_ because that's what they called him; but 'twas nonsense, for hehad a star and all its belongings; it was we who were only men. Hetaught history to France after his famous battle of Aboukir, where, without losing more than three hundred men, and with a single division, he vanquished the grand army of the Turk, seventy-five thousand strong, and hustled more than half of it into the sea, r-r-rah!

"That was his last thunder-clap in Egypt. He said to himself, seeingthe way things were going in Paris, 'I am the savior of France. I knowit, and I must go. ' But, understand me, the army didn't know he wasgoing, or they'd have kept him by force and made him Emperor of theEast. So now we were sad; for He was gone who was all our joy. He leftthe command to Kléber, a big mastiff, who came off duty at Cairo, assassinated by an Egyptian, whom they put to death by impaling him on abayonet; that's the way they guillotine people down there. But it makes'em suffer so much that a soldier had pity on the criminal and gave himhis canteen; and then, as soon as the Egyptian had drunk his fill, hegave up the ghost with all the pleasure in life. But that's a trifle wecouldn't laugh at then. Napoleon embarked in a cockleshell, a littleskiff that was nothing at all, though 'twas called 'Fortune'; and in atwinkling, under the nose of England, who was blockading him with shipsof the line, frigates, and anything that could hoist a sail, he crossedover, and there he was in France. For he always had the power, mind you, of crossing the seas at one straddle. 

"Was that a human man? Bah!

"So, one minute he is at Fréjus, the next in Paris. There, they alladore him; but he summons the government. 'What have you done with mychildren, the soldiers?' he says to the lawyers. 'You're a mob ofrascally scribblers; you are making France a mess of pottage, andsnapping your fingers at what people think of you. It won't do; and Ispeak the opinion of everybody. ' So, on that, they wanted to battle withhim and kill him--click! he had 'em locked up in barracks, or flying outof windows, or drafted among his followers, where they were as mute asfishes, and as pliable as a quid of tobacco. After that stroke--consul!And then, as it was not for him to doubt the Supreme Being, he fulfilledhis promise to the good God, who, you see, had kept His word to him. Hegave Him back his churches, and re-established His religion; the bellsrang for God and for him: and lo! everybody was pleased: _primo_, thepriests, whom he saved from being harassed; _secundo_, the bourgeois, who thought only of their trade, and no longer had to fear the_rapiamus_ of the law, which had got to be unjust; _tertio_, the nobles, for he forbade they should be killed, as, unfortunately, the people hadgot the habit of doing. 

"But he still had the Enemy to wipe out; and he wasn't the man to go tosleep at a mess-table, because, d'ye see, his eye looked over the wholeearth as if it were no bigger than a man's head. So then he appeared inItaly, like as though he had stuck his head through the window. Oneglance was enough. The Austrians were swallowed up at Marengo like somany gudgeons by a whale! Ouf! The French eagles sang their paeans soloud that all the world heard them--and it sufficed! 'We won't play thatgame any more, ' said the German. 'Enough, enough!' said all the rest. 

"To sum up: Europe backed down, England knocked under. General peace;and the kings and the people made believe kiss each other. That's thetime when the Emperor invented the Legion of Honor--and a fine thing, too. 'In France'--this is what he said at Boulogne before the wholearmy--'every man is brave. So the citizen who does a fine action shallbe sister to the soldier, and the soldier shall be his brother, and thetwo shall be one under the flag of honor. '

"We, who were down in Egypt, now came home. All was changed! He left usgeneral, and hey! in a twinkling we found him EMPEROR. France gaveherself to him, like a fine girl to a lancer. When it was done--to thesatisfaction of all, as you may say--a sacred ceremony took place, thelike of which was never seen under the canopy of the skies. The Pope andthe cardinals, in their red and gold vestments, crossed the Alpsexpressly to crown him before the army and the people, who clapped theirhands. There is one thing that I should do very wrong not to tell you. In Egypt, in the desert close to Syria, the RED MAN came to him on theMount of Moses, and said, 'All is well. ' Then, at Marengo, the nightbefore the victory, the same Red Man appeared before him for the secondtime, standing erect and saying, 'Thou shalt see the world at thy feet;thou shalt be Emperor of France, King of Italy, master of Holland, sovereign of Spain, Portugal, and the Illyrian provinces, protector ofGermany, savior of Poland, first eagle of the Legion of Honor--all. 'This Red Man, you understand, was his genius, his spirit, --a sort ofsatellite who served him, as some say, to communicate with his star. Inever really believed that. But the Red Man himself is a true fact. Napoleon spoke of him, and said he came to him in troubled moments, andlived in the palace of the Tuileries under the roof. So, on the day ofthe coronation, Napoleon saw him for the third time; and they were inconsultation over many things. 

"After that, Napoleon went to Milan to be crowned king of Italy, andthere the grand triumph of the soldier began. Every man who could writewas made an officer. Down came pensions; it rained duchies; treasurespoured in for the staff which didn't cost France a penny; and the Legionof Honor provided incomes for the private soldiers, --of which I receivemine to this day. So here were the armies maintained as never before onthis earth. But besides that, the Emperor, knowing that he was to be theemperor of the whole world, bethought him of the bourgeois, and toplease them he built fairy monuments, after their own ideas, in placeswhere you'd never think to find any. For instance, suppose you werecoming back from Spain and going to Berlin--well, you'd find triumphalarches along the way, with common soldiers sculptured on the stone, every bit the same as generals. In two or three years, and withoutimposing taxes on any of you, Napoleon filled his vaults with gold, built palaces, made bridges, roads, scholars, fêtes, laws, vessels, harbors, and spent millions upon millions, --such enormous sums that hecould, so they tell me, have paved France from end to end withfive-franc pieces, if he had had a mind to. 

"Now, when he sat at ease on his throne, and was master of all, so thatEurope waited his permission to do his bidding, he remembered his fourbrothers and his three sisters, and he said to us, as it might be inconversation, in an order of the day, 'My children, is it right that theblood relations of your Emperor should be begging their bread? No. Iwish to see them in splendor like myself. It becomes, therefore, absolutely necessary to conquer a kingdom for each of them, --to the endthat Frenchmen may be masters over all lands, that the soldiers of theGuard shall make the whole earth tremble, that France may spit where shelikes, and that all the nations shall say to her, as it is written on mycopper coins, '_God protects you_!' 'Agreed, ' cried the army. 'We'll gofish for thy kingdoms with our bayonets. ' Ha! there was no backing down, don't you see! If he had taken it into his head to conquer the moon, weshould have made ready, packed knapsacks, and clambered up; happily, hedidn't think of it. The kings of the countries, who liked theircomfortable thrones, were naturally loathe to budge, and had to havetheir ears pulled; so then--Forward, march! We did march; we got there;and the earth once more trembled to its centre. Hey! the men and theshoes he used up in those days! The enemy dealt us such blows that nonebut the grand army could have stood the fatigue of it. But you are notignorant that a Frenchman is born a philosopher, and knows that a littlesooner, or a little later, he has got to die. So we were ready to diewithout a word, for we liked to see the Emperor doing _that_ on thegeographies. "

Here the narrator nimbly described a circle with his foot on the floorof the barn. 

"And Napoleon said, 'There, that's to be a kingdom. ' And a kingdom itwas. Ha! the good times! The colonels were generals; the generals, marshals; and the marshals, kings. There's one of 'em still on histhrone, to prove it to Europe; but he's a Gascon and a traitor to Francefor keeping that crown; and he doesn't blush for shame as he ought todo, because crowns, don't you see, are made of gold. I who am speakingto you, I have seen, in Paris, eleven kings and a mob of princessurrounding Napoleon like the rays of the sun. You understand, ofcourse, that every soldier had the chance to mount a throne, providedalways he had the merit; so a corporal of the Guard was a sight to belooked at as he walked along, for each man had his share in the victory, and 'twas plainly set forth in the bulletin. What victories they were!Austerlitz, where the army manoeuvred as if on parade; Eylau, where wedrowned the Russians in a lake, as though Napoleon had blown them intoit with the breath of his mouth; Wagram, where the army fought for threedays without grumbling. We won as many battles as there are saints inthe calendar. It was proved then beyond a doubt, that Napoleon had thesword of God in his scabbard. The soldiers were his friends; he madethem his children; he looked after us; he saw that we had shoes, andshirts, and great-coats, and bread, and cartridges; but he always keptup his majesty; for, don't you see, 'twas his business to reign. Nomatter for that, however; a sergeant, and even a common soldier couldsay to him, 'My Emperor, ' just as you say to me sometimes, 'My goodfriend. ' He gave us an answer if we appealed to him; he slept in thesnow like the rest of us; and indeed, he had almost the air of a humanman. I who speak to you, I have seen him with his feet among thegrapeshot, and no more uneasy than you are now, --standing steady, looking through his field glass, and minding his business. 'Twas thatkept the rest of us quiet. I don't know how he did it, but when he spokehe made our hearts burn within us; and to show him we were his children, incapable of balking, didn't we rush at the mouths of the rascallycannon, that belched and vomited shot and shell without so much assaying, 'Look out!' Why! the dying must needs raise their heads tosalute him and cry, 'LONG LIVE THE EMPEROR!'

"I ask you, was that natural? would they have done that for a human man?

"Well, after he had settled the world, the Empress Josephine, his wife, a good woman all the same, managed matters so that she did not bear himany children, and he was obliged to give her up, though he loved herconsiderably. But, you see, he had to have little ones for reasons ofstate. Hearing of this, all the sovereigns of Europe quarreled as towhich of them should give him a wife. And he married, so they told us, an Austrian archduchess, daughter of Caesar, an ancient man about whompeople talk a good deal, and not in France only, --where any one willtell you what he did, --but in Europe. It is all true, for I myself whoaddress you at this moment, I have been on the Danube, and have seen theremains of a bridge built by that man, who, it seems, was a relation ofNapoleon in Rome, and that's how the Emperor got the inheritance of thatcity for his son. So after the marriage, which was a fête for the wholeworld, and in honor of which he released the people of ten years'taxes, --which they had to pay all the same, however, because theassessors didn't take account of what he said, --his wife had a littleone, who was King of Rome. Now, there's a thing that had never been seenon this earth; never before was a child born a king with his fatherliving. On that day a balloon went up in Paris to tell the news to Rome, and that balloon made the journey in one day!

"Now, is there any man among you who will stand up and declare to methat all that was human? No; it was _written above;_ and may the scurvyseize them who deny that he was sent by God himself for the triumphof France!

"Well, here's the Emperor of Russia, that used to be his friend, he getsangry because Napoleon didn't marry a Russian; so he joins with theEnglish, our enemies, --to whom our Emperor always wanted to say a coupleof words in their burrows, only he was prevented. Napoleon gets angrytoo; an end had to be put to such doings; so he says to us:--'Soldiers!you have been masters of every capital in Europe, except Moscow, whichis now the ally of England. To conquer England, and India which belongsto the English, it becomes our peremptory duty to go to Moscow. ' Then heassembled the greatest army that ever trailed its gaiters over theglobe; and so marvelously in hand it was that he reviewed a million ofmen in one day. 'Hourra! cried the Russians. Down came all Russia andthose animals of Cossacks in a flock. 'Twas nation against nation, ageneral hurly-burly, and beware who could; 'Asia against Europe, ' as theRed Man had foretold to Napoleon. 'Enough, ' cried the Emperor, 'I'llbe ready. '

"So now, sure enough, came all the kings, as the Red Man had said, tolick Napoleon's hand! Austria, Prussia, Bavaria, Saxony, Poland, Italy, every one of them were with us, flattering us; ah, it was fine! Theeagles never cawed so loud as at those parades, perched high above thebanners of all Europe. The Poles were bursting with joy, becauseNapoleon was going to release them; and that's why France and Poland arebrothers to this day. 'Russia is ours, ' cried the army. We plunged intoit well supplied; we marched and we marched, --no Russians. At last wefound the brutes entrenched on the banks of the Moskova. That's where Iwon my cross, and I've got the right to say it was a damnable battle. This was how it came about. The Emperor was anxious. He had seen the RedMan, who said to him, 'My son, you are going too fast for your feet; youwill lack men; friends will betray you. ' So the Emperor offered peace. But before signing, 'Let us drub those Russians!' he said to us. 'Done!'cried the army. 'Forward, march!' said the sergeants. My clothes were inrags, my shoes worn out, from trudging along those roads, which are veryuncomfortable ones; but no matter! I said to myself, 'As it's the lastof our earthquakings, I'll go into it, tooth and nail!' We were drawn upin line before the great ravine, --front seats, as 'twere. Signal given;and seven hundred pieces of artillery began a conversation that wouldbring the blood from your ears. Then--must do justice to one'senemies--the Russians let themselves be killed like Frenchmen; theywouldn't give way; we couldn't advance. 'Forward, ' some one cried, 'herecomes the Emperor!' True enough; he passed at a gallop, waving his handto let us know we must take the redoubt. He inspired us; on we ran, Iwas the first in the ravine. Ha! my God! how the lieutenants fell, andthe colonels, and the soldiers! No matter! all the more shoes for thosethat had none, and epaulets for the clever ones who knew how to read. 'Victory!' cried the whole line; 'Victory!'--and, would you believe it?a thing never seen before, there lay twenty-five thousand Frenchmen onthe ground. 'Twas like mowing down a wheat-field; only in place of theears of wheat put the heads of men! We were sobered by this time, --thosewho were left alive. The MAN rode up; we made a circle round him. Ha! heknew how to cajole his children; he could be amiable when he liked, andfeed 'em with words when their stomachs were ravenous with the hunger ofwolves. Flatterer! he distributed the crosses himself, he uncovered tothe dead, and then he cried to us, 'On! to Moscow!' 'To Moscow!'answered the army. 

"We took Moscow. Would you believe it? the Russians burned their owncity! 'Twas a haystack six miles square, and it blazed for two days. Thebuildings crashed like slates, and showers of melted iron and leadrained down upon us, which was naturally horrible. I may say to youplainly, it was like a flash of lightning on our disasters. The Emperorsaid, 'We have done enough; my soldiers shall rest here. ' So we restedawhile, just to get the breath into our bodies and the flesh on ourbones, for we were really tired. We took possession of the golden crossthat was on the Kremlin; and every soldier brought away with him a smallfortune. But out there the winter sets in a month earlier, --a thingthose fools of science didn't properly explain. So, coming back, thecold nipped us. No longer an army--do you hear me?--no longer anygenerals, no longer any sergeants even. 'Twas the reign of wretchednessand hunger, --a reign of equality at last. No one thought of anything butto see France once more; no one stooped to pick up his gun or his moneyif he dropped them; each man followed his nose, and went as he pleasedwithout caring for glory. The weather was so bad the Emperor couldn'tsee his star; there was something between him and the skies. Poor man!it made him ill to see his eagles flying away from victory. Ah! 'twas amortal blow, you may believe me. 

"Well, we got to the Beresina. My friends, I can affirm to you by allthat is most sacred, by my honor, that since mankind came into theworld, never, never, was there seen such a fricassee of an army--guns, carriages, artillery wagons--in the midst of such snows, under suchrelentless skies! The muzzles of the muskets burned our hands if wetouched them, the iron was so cold. It was there that the army was savedby the pontoniers, who were firm at their post; and there thatGondrin--sole survivor of the men who were bold enough to go into thewater and build the bridges by which the army crossed--that Gondrin, here present, admirably conducted himself, and saved us from theRussians, who, I must tell you, still respected the grand army, remembering its victories. And, " he added, pointing to Gondrin, who wasgazing at him with the peculiar attention of a deaf man, "Gondrin is afinished soldier, a soldier who is honor itself, and he merits yourhighest esteem. "

"I saw the Emperor, " he resumed, "standing by the bridge, motionless, not feeling the cold--was that human? He looked at the destruction ofhis treasure, his friends, his old Egyptians. Bah! all that passed him, women, army wagons, artillery, all were shattered, destroyed, ruined. The bravest carried the eagles; for the eagles, d'ye see, were France, the nation, all of you! they were the civil and the military honor thatmust be kept pure; could their heads be lowered because of the cold? Itwas only near the Emperor that we warmed ourselves, because when he wasin danger we ran, frozen as we were--we, who wouldn't have stretched ahand to save a friend. They told us he wept at night over his poorfamily of soldiers. Ah! none but he and Frenchmen could have gotthemselves out of that business. 

"We did get out, but with losses, great losses, as I tell you. TheAllies captured our provisions. Men began to betray him, as the Red Manpredicted. Those chatterers in Paris, who had held their tongues afterthe Imperial Guard was formed, now thought he was dead; so theyhoodwinked the prefect of police, and hatched a conspiracy to overthrowthe empire. He heard of it; it worried him. He left us, saying: 'Adieu, my children; guard the outposts; I shall return to you. ' Bah! withouthim nothing went right; the generals lost their heads; the marshalstalked nonsense and committed follies; but that was not surprising, forNapoleon, who was kind, had fed 'em on gold; they had got as fat aslard, and wouldn't stir; some stayed in camp when they ought to havebeen warming the backs of the enemy who was between us and France. 

"But the Emperor came back, and he brought recruits, famous recruits;he changed their backbone and made 'em dogs of war, fit to set theirteeth into anything; and he brought a guard of honor, a fine bodyindeed!--all bourgeois, who melted away like butter on a gridiron. 

"Well, spite of our stern bearing, here's everything going against us;and yet the army did prodigies of valor. Then came battles on themountains, nations against nations, --Dresden, Lutzen, Bautzen. Rememberthese days, all of you, for 'twas then that Frenchmen were soparticularly heroic that a good grenadier only lasted six months. Wetriumphed always; yet there were those English, in our rear, rousingrevolts against us with their lies! No matter, we cut our way homethrough the whole pack of the nations. Wherever the Emperor showedhimself we followed him; for if, by sea or land, he gave us the word'Go!' we went. At last, we were in France; and many a poor foot-soldierfelt the air of his own country restore his soul to satisfaction, spiteof the wintry weather. I can say for myself that it refreshed my life. Well, next, our business was to defend France, our country, ourbeautiful France, against all Europe, which resented our having laiddown the law to the Russians, and pushed them back into their dens, sothat they couldn't eat us up alive, as northern nations, who are daintyand like southern flesh, have a habit of doing, --at least, so I've heardsome generals say. Then the Emperor saw his own father-in-law, hisfriends whom he had made kings, and the scoundrels to whom he had givenback their thrones, all against him. Even Frenchmen, and allies in ourown ranks, turned against us under secret orders, as at the battle ofLeipsic. Would common soldiers have been capable of such wickedness?Three times a day men were false to their word, --and they calledthemselves princes!

"So, then, France was invaded. Wherever the Emperor showed his lionface, the enemy retreated; and he did more prodigies in defending Francethan ever he had done in conquering Italy, the East, Spain, Europe, andRussia. He meant to bury every invader under the sod, and teach 'em torespect the soil of France. So he let them get to Paris, that he mightswallow them at a mouthful, and rise to the height of his genius in abattle greater than all the rest, --a mother-battle, as 'twere. Butthere, there! the Parisians were afraid for their twopenny skins, andtheir trumpery shops; they opened the gates. Then the Ragusadesbegan, and happiness ended. The Empress was fooled, and the whitebanner flaunted from the windows. The generals whom he had madehis nearest friends abandoned him for the Bourbons, --a set ofpeople no one had heard tell of. The Emperor bade us farewell atFontainebleau:--'Soldiers!'--I can hear him now; we wept like children;the flags and the eagles were lowered as if for a funeral: it was, I maywell say it to you, it was the funeral of the Empire; her dapper armieswere nothing now but skeletons. So he said to us, standing there on theportico of his palace:--'My soldiers! we are vanquished by treachery;but we shall meet in heaven, the country of the brave. Defend my child, whom I commit to you. Long live Napoleon II!' He meant to die, that noman should look upon Napoleon vanquished; he took poison, enough to havekilled a regiment, because, like Jesus Christ before his Passion, hethought himself abandoned of God and his talisman. But the poison didnot hurt him. 

"See again! he found he was immortal. 

"Sure of himself, knowing he must ever be THE EMPEROR, he went for awhile to an island to study out the nature of these others, who, you maybe sure, committed follies without end. Whilst he bided his time downthere, the Chinese, and the wild men on the coast of Africa, and theBarbary States, and others who are not at all accommodating, knew sowell he was more than man that they respected his tent, saying to touchit would be to offend God. Thus, d'ye see, when these others turned himfrom the doors of his own France, he still reigned over the whole world. Before long he embarked in the same little cockleshell of a boat he hadhad in Egypt, sailed round the beard of the English, set foot in France, and France acclaimed him. The sacred cuckoo flew from spire to spire;all France cried out with one voice, 'LONG LIVE THE EMPEROR!' In thisregion, here, the enthusiasm for that wonder of the ages was, I may say, solid. Dauphiné behaved well; and I am particularly pleased to know thather people wept when they saw, once more, the gray overcoat. March firstit was, when Napoleon landed with two hundred men to conquer thatkingdom of France and of Navarre, which on the twentieth of the samemonth was again the French Empire. On that day our MAN was in Paris; hehad made a clean sweep, recovered his dear France, and gathered hisveterans together by saying no more than three words, 'I am here. '

"'Twas the greatest miracle God had yet done! Before _him_, did everman recover an empire by showing his hat? And these others, who thoughtthey had subdued France! Not they! At sight of the eagles, a nationalarmy sprang up, and we marched to Waterloo. There, the Guard died at oneblow. Napoleon, in despair, threw himself three times before the cannonof the enemy without obtaining death. We saw that. The battle was lost. That night the Emperor called his old soldiers to him; on the fieldsoaked with our blood he burned his banner and his eagles, --his pooreagles, ever victorious, who cried 'Forward' in the battles, and hadflown the length and breadth of Europe, _they_ were saved the infamy ofbelonging to the enemy: all the treasures of England couldn't get her atail-feather of them. No more eagles!--the rest is well known. The RedMan went over to the Bourbons, like the scoundrel that he is. France iscrushed; the soldier is nothing; they deprive him of his dues; theydischarge him to make room for broken-down nobles--ah, 'tis pitiable!They seized Napoleon by treachery; the English nailed him on a desertisland in mid-ocean on a rock raised ten thousand feet above the earth;and there he is, and will be, till the Red Man gives him back his powerfor the happiness of France. These others say he's dead. Ha, dead! 'Tiseasy to see they don't know Him. They tell that fib to catch the people, and feel safe in their hovel of a government. Listen! the truth at thebottom of it all is that his friends have left him alone on the desertisland to fulfil a prophecy, for I forgot to say that his name, Napoleon, means 'lion of the desert. ' Now this that I tell you is trueas the Gospel. All other tales that you hear about the Emperor arefollies without common-sense; because, d'ye see, God never gave to childof woman born the right to stamp his name in red as _he_ did, on theearth, which forever shall remember him! Long live Napoleon, the fatherof his people and of the soldier!"

"Long live General Eblé!" cried the pontonier. 

"How happened it you were not killed in the ravine at Moskova?" asked apeasant woman. 

"How do I know? We went in a regiment, we came out a hundredfoot-soldiers; none but the lines were capable of taking that redoubt:the infantry, d'ye see, that's the real army. "

"And the cavalry! what of that?" cried Genastas, letting himself rollfrom the top of the hay, and appearing to us with a suddenness whichmade the bravest utter a cry of terror. "Eh! my old veteran, you forgetthe red lancers of Poniatowski, the cuirassiers, the dragoons! they thatshook the earth when Napoleon, impatient that the victory was delayed, said to Murat, 'Sire, cut them in two. ' Ha, we were off! first at atrot, then at a gallop, 'one, two, ' and the enemy's line was cut inhalves like an apple with a knife. A charge of cavalry, my old hero!why, 'tis a column of cannon balls!"

"How about the pontoniers?" cried Gondrin. 

"My children, " said Genastas, becoming suddenly quite ashamed of hissortie when he saw himself in the midst of a silent and bewilderedgroup, "there are no spies here, --see, take this and drink to the LittleCorporal. "

"LONG LIVE THE EMPEROR!" cried all the people present, with one voice. 

"Hush, my children!" said the officer, struggling to control hisemotion. "Hush! _he is dead_. He died saying, 'Glory, France, andbattle. ' My friends, he had to die, he! but his memory--never!"

Goguelat made a gesture of disbelief; then he said in a low voice tothose nearest, "The officer is still in the service, and he's told totell the people the Emperor is dead. We mustn't be angry with him, because, d'ye see, a soldier has to obey orders. "

As Genestas left the barn he heard the Fosseuse say, "That officer is afriend of the Emperor and of Monsieur Benassis. " On that, all the peoplerushed to the door to get another sight of him, and by the light of themoon they saw the doctor take his arm. 

"I committed a great folly, " said Genestas. "Let us get home quickly. Those eagles--the cannon--the campaigns! I no longer knew where I was. "

"What do you think of my Goguelat?" asked Benassis. 

"Monsieur, so long as such tales are told, France will carry in herentrails the fourteen armies of the Republic, and may at any time renewthe conversation of cannon with all Europe. That's my opinion. "

GEORGE BANCROFT

(1800-1891)

BY AUSTIN SCOTT

The life of George Bancroft was nearly conterminous with the nineteenthcentury. He was born at Worcester, Mass. , October 3d, 1800, and died atWashington, D. C. , January 17th, 1891. But it was not merely the stretchof his years that identified him with this century. In some respects herepresented his time as no other of its men. He came into touch withmany widely differing elements which made up its life and character. Hespent most of his life in cities, but never lost the sense for countrysights and sounds which central Massachusetts gave him in Worcester, hisbirthplace, and in Northampton, where he taught school. The home intowhich he was born offered him from his infancy a rich possession. Hisfather was a Unitarian clergyman who wrote a 'Life of Washington' thatwas received with favor; thus things concerning God and country were hispatrimony. Not without significance was a word of his mother which herecalled in his latest years, "My son, I do not wish you to become arich man, but I would have you be an affluent man: _ad fluo_, always alittle more coming in than going out. "

To the advantages of his boyhood home and of Harvard College, to whichhe went as a lad of thirteen, the eager young student added theopportunity, then uncommon, of a systematic course of study in German, and won the degree of Doctor of Philosophy at Göttingen in 1820. He hadin a marked degree the characteristics of his countrymen, versatilityand adaptability. Giving up an early purpose of fitting himself for thepulpit, he taught in Harvard, and helped to found a school of anadvanced type at Northampton. Meantime he published a volume of verse, and found out that the passionate love of poetry which lasted throughhis life was not creative. At Northampton he published in 1828 atranslation in two volumes of Heeren's 'History of the Political Systemof Europe, ' and also edited two editions of a Latin Reader; but theduties of a schoolmaster's life were early thrown aside, and he couldnot be persuaded to resume them later when the headship of an importanteducational institution was offered to him. Together with the one greatpursuit of his life, to which he remained true for sixty years, hedelighted in the activities of a politician, the duties of a statesman, and the occupations of a man of affairs and of the world. 

[Illustration: GEORGE BANCROFT. ]

Bancroft received a large but insufficient vote as the Democraticcandidate for the Governorship of Massachusetts, and for a time he heldthe office of Collector of the port of Boston. As Secretary of the Navyin the Cabinet of Polk, he rendered to his country two distinct servicesof great value: he founded the Naval School at Annapolis, and by hisprompt orders to the American commander in the Pacific waters he securedthe acquisition of California for the United States. The specialabilities he displayed in the Cabinet were such, so Polk thought, as tolead to his appointment as Minister to England in 1846. He was adiplomat of no mean order. President Johnson appointed him Minister toGermany in 1867, and Grant retained him at that post until 1874, as longas Bancroft desired it. During his stay there he concluded justnaturalization treaties with Germany, and in a masterly way won from theEmperor, William I. , as arbitrator, judgment in favor of the UnitedStates's claim over that of Great Britain in the Northwesternboundary dispute. 

Always holding fast his one cherished object, --that of worthily writingthe history of the United States, --Bancroft did not deny himself thepleasure of roaming in other fields. He wrote frequently on currenttopics, on literary, historical, and political subjects. His eulogies ofJackson and of Lincoln, pronounced before Congress, entitle him to therank of an orator. He was very fond of studies in metaphysics, andTrendelenburg, the eminent German philosopher, said of him, "Bancroftknows Kant through and through. "

His home--whether in Boston, or in New York where he spent the middleportion of his life, or in Washington his abode for the last sixteenyears, or during his residence abroad--was the scene of the occupationsand delights which the highest culture craves. He was gladly welcomed tothe inner circle of the finest minds of Germany, and the tribute of theGerman men of learning was unfeigned and universal when he quitted thecountry in 1874. Many of the best men of England and of France wereamong his warm friends. At his table were gathered from time to timesome of the world's greatest thinkers, --men of science, soldiers, statesmen and men of affairs. Fond as he was of social joys, it was hisdaily pleasure to mount his horse and alone, or with a single companion, to ride where nature in her shy or in her exuberant mood inspired. Oneday, after he was eighty years old, he rode on his young, bloodedKentucky horse along the Virginia bank of the Potomac for more thanthirty-six miles. He could be seen every day among the perfect roses ofhis garden at "Roseclyffe, " his Newport summer-home, often full ofthought, at other times in wellnigh boisterous glee, always givingunstinted care and expense to the queen of flowers. The books in whichhe kept the record of the rose garden were almost as elaborate as thosein which were entered the facts and fancies out of which his Historygrew. His home life was charming. By a careful use of opportunities andof his means he became an "affluent" man. He was twice married: bothtimes a new source of refined domestic happiness long blessed his home, and new means for enlarged comfort and hospitality were added to hisown. Two sons, children of his first wife, survived him. 

Some of Bancroft's characteristics were not unlike those of Jefferson. Aconstant tendency to idealize called up in him at times a feelingverging on impatience with the facts or the men that stood in the way ofa theory or the accomplishment of a personal desire. He had a keenperception of an underlying or a final truth and professed warm love forit, whether in the large range of history or in the nexus of currentpolitics: any one taking a different point of view at times was led tothink that his facts, as he stated them, lay crosswise, and mighttherefore find the perspective out of drawing, but could not rightlyimpugn his good faith. 

Although a genuine lover of his race and a believer in Democracy, he wasnot always ready to put implicit trust in the individual as beingcapable of exercising a wise judgment and the power of trueself-direction. For man he avowed a perfect respect; among men hisbearing showed now and then a trace of condescension. In controversiesover disputed points of history--and he had many such--he meant to befair and to anticipate the final verdict of truth, but overwhelmingevidence was necessary to convince him that his judgment, formed afterpainstaking research, could be wrong. His ample love of justice, however, is proved by his passionate appreciation of the character ofWashington, by his unswerving devotion to the conception of our nationalunity, both in its historical development and at the moment when it wasimperiled by civil war, and by his hatred of slavery and of falsefinancial policies. He took pleasure in giving generously, but alwaysjudiciously and without ostentation. On one occasion he, with a few ofhis friends, paid off the debt from the house of an eminent scholar; onanother, he helped to rebuild for a great thinker the home which hadbeen burned. At Harvard, more than fifty years after his graduation, hefounded a traveling scholarship and named it in honor of the presidentof his college days. 

As to the manner of his work, Bancroft laid large plans and gave to thedetails of their execution unwearied zeal. The scope of the 'History ofthe United States' as he planned it was admirable. In carrying it out hewas persistent in acquiring materials, sparing no pains in his researchat home and abroad, and no cost in securing original papers or exactcopies and transcripts from the archives of England and France, Spainand Holland and Germany, from public libraries and from individuals; hefished in all waters and drew fish of all sorts into his net. He tookgreat pains, and the secretaries whom he employed to aid him in his workwere instructed likewise to take great pains, not only to enter facts inthe reference books in their chronological order, but to make allpossible cross-references to related facts. The books of his library, which was large and rich in treasures, he used as tools, and many ofthem were filled with cross references. In the fly-leaves of the bookshe read he made note with a word and the cited page of what the printedpages contained of interest to him or of value in his work. 

His mind was one of quick perceptions within a wide range, and alwaysalert to grasp an idea in its manifold relations. It is remarkable, therefore, that he was very laborious in his method of work. He oftenstruggled long with a thought for intellectual mastery. In giving itexpression, his habit was to dictate rapidly and with enthusiasm and atgreat length, but he usually selected the final form after repeatedefforts. His first draft of a chapter was revised again and again andcondensed. One of his early volumes in its first manuscript form waseight times as long as when finally published. He had another strikinghabit, that of writing by topics rather than in strict chronologicalorder, so that a chapter which was to find its place late in the volumewas often completed before one which was to precede it. Partly by natureand perhaps partly by this practice, he had the power to carry onsimultaneously several trains of thought. When preparing one of hispublic orations, it was remarked by one of his household that after anevening spent over a trifling game of bezique, the next morning foundhim well advanced beyond the point where the work had been seeminglylaid down. He had the faculty of buoying a thought, knowing just whereto take it up after an interruption and deftly splicing it in continuousline, sometimes after a long interval. When about to begin thepreparation of the argument which was to sustain triumphantly the claimof the United States in the boundary question, he wrote from Berlin forcopies of documents filed in the office of the Navy Department, which heremembered were there five-and-twenty years before. 

The 'History of the United States from the Discovery of America to theInauguration of Washington' is treated by Bancroft in three parts. Thefirst, Colonial History from 1492 to 1748, occupies more than one fourthof his pages. The second part, the American Revolution, 1748 to 1782, claims more than one half of the entire work, and is divided into fourepochs:--the first, 1748-1763, is entitled 'The Overthrow of theEuropean Colonial System'; the second, 1763-1774, 'How Great BritainEstranged America'; the third, 1774-1776, 'America Declares ItselfIndependent'; the fourth, 1776-1782, 'The Independence of America isAcknowledged. ' The last part, 'The History of the Formation of theConstitution, ' 1782-1789, though published as a separate work, isessentially a continuation of the History proper, of which it forms inbulk rather more than one tenth. 

If his services as a historian are to be judged by any one portion ofhis work rather than by another, the history of the formation of theConstitution affords the best test. In that the preceding work comes tofruition; the time of its writing, after the Civil War and theconsequent settling of the one vexing question by the abolition ofsectionalism, and when he was in the fullness of the experience of hisown ripe years, was most opportune. Bancroft was equal to hisopportunity. He does not teach us that the Constitution is the result ofsuperhuman wisdom, nor on the other hand does he admit, as John Adamsasserted, that however excellent, the Constitution was wrung "from thegrinding necessity of a reluctant people. " He does not fail to point outthe critical nature of the four years prior to the meeting of theFederal Convention; but he discerns that whatever occasions, whethertransitory or for the time of "steady and commanding influence, " mayhelp or hinder the formation of the now perfect union, its true causewas "an indwelling necessity" in the people to "form above the States acommon constitution for the whole. "

Recognizing the fact that the primary cause for the true union wasremote in origin and deep and persistent, Bancroft gives a retrospect ofthe steps toward union from the founding of the colonies to the close ofthe war for independence. Thenceforward, suggestions as to method orform of amending the Articles of Confederation, whether made byindividuals, or State Legislatures, or by Congress, were in his viewhelps indeed to promote the movement; but they were first of all so manyproofs that despite all the contrary wayward surface indications, thestrong current was flowing independently toward the just and perfectunion. Having acknowledged this fundamental fact of the critical yearsbetween Yorktown and the Constitution, the historian is free to givejust and discriminating praise to all who shared at that time inredeeming the political hope of mankind, to give due but not exclusivehonor to Washington and Thomas Paine, to Madison and Hamilton and theirco-worthies. 

The many attempts, isolated or systematic, during the period from1781-1786, to reform the Articles of Confederation, were happily futile;but they were essential in the training of the people in theconsciousness of the nature of the work for which they are responsible. The balances must come slowly to a poise. Not merely union strong andfor a time effective, was needed, but union of a certain andunprecedented sort: one in which the true pledge of permanency for acontinental republic was to be found in the federative principle, bywhich the highest activities of nation and of State were conditionedeach by the welfare of the other. The people rightly felt, too, that aCongress of one house would be inadequate and dangerous. They waited inthe midst of risks for the proper hour, and then, not reluctantly butresolutely, adopted the Constitution as a promising experiment ingovernment. 

Bancroft's treatment of the evolution of the second great organic act ofthis time--the Northwestern ordinance--is no less just and true to thefacts. For two generations men had snatched at the laurels due to thecreator of that matchless piece of legislation; to award them now toJefferson, now to Nathan Dane, now to Rufus King, now to ManassehCutler. Bancroft calmly and clearly shows how the great law grew withthe kindly aid and watchful care of these men and of others. 

The deliberations of the Federal Constitution are adequately recorded;and he gives fair relative recognition to the work and words ofindividuals, and the actions of State delegations in making the greatadjustments between nation and States, between large and small and slaveand free States. From his account we infer that the New Jersey plan wasintended by its authors only for temporary use in securing equality forthe States in one essential part of the government, while the men fromConnecticut receive credit for the compromise which reconcilednationality with true State rights. Further to be noticed are theresults of the exhaustive study which Bancroft gave to the matter ofpaper money, and to the meaning of the clause prohibiting the Statesfrom impairing the obligation of contracts. He devotes nearly onehundred pages to 'The People of the States in Judgment on theConstitution, ' and rightly; for it is the final act of the separateStates, and by it their individual wills are merged in the will of thepeople, which is one, though still politically distributed and activewithin State lines. His summary of the main principles of theConstitution is excellent; and he concludes with a worthy sketch of theorganization of the first Congress under the Constitution, and of theinauguration of Washington as President. 

In this last portion of the 'History, ' while all of his merits as ahistorian are not conspicuous, neither are some of his chief defects. Here the tendency to philosophize, to marshal stately sentences, and tobe discursive, is not so marked. 

The first volume of Bancroft's 'History of the United States' waspublished in 1834, when the democratic spirit was finding its first fullexpression under Jackson, and when John Marshall was finishing hismighty task of revealing to the people of the United States the strengththat lay in their organic law. As he put forth volume after volume atirregular intervals for fifty years, he in a measure continued this workof bringing to the exultant consciousness of the people the value oftheir possession of a continent of liberty and the realization of theirresponsibility. In the course of another generation, portions of this'History of the United States' may begin to grow antiquated, though themost brilliant of contemporary journalists quite recently placed itamong the ten books indispensable to every American; but time cannottake away Bancroft's good part in producing influences, which, howeverthey may vary in form and force, will last throughout the nation's life. 

[Illustration: Signature: Austin Scott]

THE BEGINNINGS OF VIRGINIA

From 'History of the United States'

The period of success in planting Virginia had arrived; yet not tillchanges in European politics and society had molded the forms ofcolonization. The Reformation had broken the harmony of religiousopinion; and differences in the Church began to constitute the basis ofpolitical parties. After the East Indies had been reached by doublingthe southern promontory of Africa, the great commerce of the world wascarried upon the ocean. The art of printing had been perfected anddiffused; and the press spread intelligence and multiplied thefacilities of instruction. The feudal institutions, which had beenreared in the middle ages, were already undermined by the current oftime and events, and, swaying from their base, threatened to fall. Productive industry had built up the fortunes and extended the influenceof the active classes; while habits of indolence and expense hadimpaired the estates and diminished the power of the nobility. Thesechanges produced corresponding results in the institutions which were torise in America. 

A revolution had equally occurred in the purposes for which voyages wereundertaken. The hope of Columbus, as he sailed to the west, had beenthe discovery of a new passage to the East Indies. The passion for goldnext became the prevailing motive. Then the islands and countries nearthe equator were made the tropical gardens of the Europeans. At last, the higher design was matured: to plant permanent Christian colonies; toestablish for the oppressed and the enterprising places of refuge andabode; to found states in a temperate clime, with all the elements ofindependent existence. 

In the imperfect condition of industry, a redundant population hadexisted in England even before the peace with Spain, which threw out ofemployment the gallant men who had served under Elizabeth by sea andland, and left them no option but to engage as mercenaries in thequarrels of strangers, or incur the hazards of "seeking a New World. "The minds of many persons of intelligence and rank were directed toVirginia. The brave and ingenious Gosnold, who had himself witnessed thefertility of the western soil, long solicited the concurrence of hisfriends for the establishment of a colony, and at last prevailed withEdward Maria Wingfield, a merchant of the west of England, Robert Hunt, a clergyman of fortitude and modest worth, and John Smith, an adventurerof rarest qualities, to risk their lives and hopes of fortune in anexpedition. For more than a year this little company revolved theproject of a plantation. At the same time Sir Ferdinando Gorges wasgathering information of the native Americans, whom he had received fromWaymouth, and whose descriptions of the country, joined to the favorableviews which he had already imbibed, filled him with the strongest desireof becoming a proprietary of domains beyond the Atlantic. Gorges was aman of wealth, rank and influence; he readily persuaded Sir John Popham, Lord Chief Justice of England, to share his intentions. Nor had theassigns of Raleigh become indifferent to "western planting"; which themost distinguished of them all, "industrious Hakluyt, " the historian ofmaritime enterprise, still promoted by his personal exertions, hisweight of character, and his invincible zeal. Possessed of whateverinformation could be derived from foreign sources and a correspondencewith eminent navigators of his times, and anxiously watching theprogress of Englishmen in the West, his extensive knowledge made him acounselor in every colonial enterprise. 

The King of England, too timid to be active, yet too vain to beindifferent, favored the design of enlarging his dominions. He hadattempted in Scotland the introduction of the arts of life among theHighlanders and the Western Isles, by the establishment of colonies; andthe Scottish plantations which he founded in the northern counties ofIreland contributed to the affluence and the security of that island. When, therefore, a company of men of business and men of rank, formed bythe experience of Gosnold, the enthusiasm of Smith, the perseverance ofHakluyt, the influence of Popham and Gorges, applied to James I. Forleave "to deduce a colony into Virginia, " the monarch, on the tenth ofApril, 1606, readily set his seal to an ample patent. 

The first colonial charter, under which the English were planted inAmerica, deserves careful consideration. 

Appleton and Company, New York. 

MEN AND GOVERNMENT IN EARLY MASSACHUSETTS

From 'History of the United States'

These better auspices, and the invitations of Winthrop, won newemigrants from Europe. During the long summer voyage of the two hundredpassengers who freighted the Griffin, three sermons a day beguiled theirweariness. Among them was Haynes, a man of very large estate, and largeraffections; of a "heavenly" mind, and a spotless life; of rare sagacity, and accurate but unassuming judgment; by nature tolerant, ever a friendto freedom, ever conciliating peace; an able legislator; dear to thepeople by his benevolent virtues and his disinterested conduct. Thenalso came the most revered spiritual teachers of two commonwealths: theacute and subtle Cotton, the son of a Puritan lawyer; eminent inCambridge as a scholar; quick in the nice perception of distinctions, and pliant in dialects; in manner persuasive rather than commanding;skilled in the fathers and the schoolmen, but finding all their wisdomcompactly stored in Calvin; deeply devout by nature as well as habitfrom childhood; hating heresy and still precipitately eager to preventevil actions by suppressing ill opinions, yet verging toward a progressin truth and in religious freedom; an avowed enemy to democracy, whichhe feared as the blind despotism of animal instincts in the multitude, yet opposing hereditary power in all its forms; desiring a government ofmoral opinion, according to the laws of universal equity, and claiming"the ultimate resolution for the whole body of the people:" and Hooker, of vast endowments, a strong will and an energetic mind; ingenuous inhis temper, and open in his professions; trained to benevolence by thediscipline of affliction; versed in tolerance by his refuge in Holland;choleric, yet gentle in his affections; firm in his faith, yet readilyyielding to the power of reason; the peer of the reformers, withouttheir harshness; the devoted apostle to the humble and the poor, severetoward the proud, mild in his soothings of a wounded spirit, glowingwith the raptures of devotion, and kindling with the messages ofredeeming love; his eye, voice, gesture, and whole frame animate withthe living vigor of heart-felt religion; public-spirited and lavishlycharitable; and, "though persecutions and banishments had awaited him asone wave follows another, " ever serenely blessed with "a glorious peaceof soul"; fixed in his trust in Providence, and in his adhesion to thatcause of advancing civilization, which he cherished always, even whileit remained to him a mystery. This was he whom, for his abilities andservices, his contemporaries placed "in the first rank" of men; praisinghim as "the one rich pearl, with which Europe more than repaid Americafor the treasures from her coast. " The people to whom Hooker ministeredhad preceded him; as he landed they crowded about him with theirwelcome. "Now I live, " exclaimed he, as with open arms he embraced them, "now I live if ye stand fast in the Lord. "

Thus recruited, the little band in Massachusetts grew more jealous ofits liberties. "The prophets in exile see the true forms of the house. "By a common impulse, the freemen of the towns chose deputies to considerin advance the duties of the general court. The charter plainly gavelegislative power to the whole body of the freemen; if it allowedrepresentatives, thought Winthrop, it was only by inference; and, as thewhole people could not always assemble, the chief power, it was argued, lay necessarily with the assistants. 

Far different was the reasoning of the people. To check the democratictendency, Cotton, on the election day, preached to the assembled freemenagainst rotation in office. The right of an honest magistrate to hisplace was like that of a proprietor to his freehold. But the electors, now between three and four hundred in number, were bent on exercising"their absolute power, " and, reversing the decision of the pulpit, chosea new governor and deputy. The mode of taking the votes was at the sametime reformed; and, instead of the erection of hands, the ballot-box wasintroduced. Thus "the people established a reformation of such things asthey judged to be amiss in the government. "

It was further decreed that the whole body of the freemen should beconvened only for the election of the magistrates: to these, withdeputies to be chosen by the several towns, the powers of legislationand appointment were henceforward intrusted. The trading corporation wasunconsciously become a representative democracy. 

The law against arbitrary taxation followed. None but the immediaterepresentatives of the people might dispose of lands or raise money. Thus early did Massachusetts echo the voice of Virginia, like deepcalling unto deep. The state was filled with the hum of villagepoliticians; "the freemen of every town in the Bay were busy ininquiring into their liberties and privileges. " With the exception ofthe principle of universal suffrage, now so happily established, therepresentative democracy was as perfect two centuries ago as it isto-day. Even the magistrates, who acted as judges, held their office bythe annual popular choice. "Elections cannot be safe there long, " saidthe lawyer Lechford. The same prediction has been made these two hundredyears. The public mind, ever in perpetual agitation, is still easilyshaken, even by slight and transient impulses; but, after allvibrations, it follows the laws of the moral world, and safely recoversits balance. 

Appleton and Company, New York. 

KING PHILIP'S WAR

From 'History of the United States'

Thus was Philip hurried into "his rebellion"; and he is reported to havewept as he heard that a white man's blood had been shed. He had kept hismen about him in arms, and had welcomed every stranger; and yet, againsthis judgment and his will, he was involved in war. For what prospect hadhe of success? The English were united; the Indians had no alliance: theEnglish made a common cause; half the Indians were allies of theEnglish, or were quiet spectators of the fight: the English had gunsenough; but few of the Indians were well armed, and they could get nonew supplies: the English had towns for their shelter and safe retreat;the miserable wigwams of the natives were defenseless: the English hadsure supplies of food; the Indians might easily lose their precariousstores. Frenzy prompted their rising. They rose without hope, and theyfought without mercy. For them as a nation, there was no to-morrow. 

The minds of the English were appalled by the horrors of the impendingconflict, and superstition indulged in its wild inventions. At the timeof the eclipse of the moon, you might have seen the figure of an Indianscalp imprinted on the centre of its disk. The perfect form of an Indianbow appeared in the sky. The sighing of the wind was like the whistlingof bullets. Some heard invisible troops of horses gallop through theair, while others found the prophecy of calamities in the howling ofthe wolves. 

At the very beginning of danger the colonists exerted their wontedenergy. Volunteers from Massachusetts joined the troops from Plymouth;and, within a week from the commencement of hostilities, the insulatedPokanokets were driven from Mount Hope, and in less than a month Philipwas a fugitive among the Nipmucks, the interior tribes of Massachusetts. The little army of the colonists then entered the territory of theNarragansetts, and from the reluctant tribe extorted a treaty ofneutrality, with a promise to deliver up every hostile Indian. Victoryseemed promptly assured. But it was only the commencement of horrors. Canonchet, the chief sachem of the Narragansetts, was the son ofMiantonomoh; and could he forget his father's wrongs? Desolationextended along the whole frontier. Banished from his patrimony, wherethe pilgrims found a friend, and from his cabin, which had sheltered theexiles, Philip, with his warriors, spread through the country, awakeningtheir brethren to a warfare of extermination. 

The war, on the part of the Indians, was one of ambuscades andsurprises. They never once met the English in open field; but always, even if eightfold in numbers, fled timorously before infantry. They weresecret as beasts of prey, skillful marksmen, and in part provided withfirearms, fleet of foot, conversant with all the paths of the forest, patient of fatigue, and mad with a passion for rapine, vengeance, anddestruction, retreating into swamps for their fastnesses, or hiding inthe greenwood thickets, where the leaves muffled the eyes of thepursuer. By the rapidity of their descent, they seemed omnipresent amongthe scattered villages, which they ravished like a passing storm; andfor a full year they kept all New England in a state of terror andexcitement. The exploring party was waylaid and cut off, and the mangledcarcasses and disjointed limbs of the dead were hung upon the trees. Thelaborer in the field, the reapers as they sallied forth to the harvest, men as they went to mill, the shepherd's boy among the sheep, were shotdown by skulking foes, whose approach was invisible. Who can tell theheavy hours of woman? The mother, if left alone in the house, feared thetomahawk for herself and children; on the sudden attack, the husbandwould fly with one child, the wife with another, and, perhaps, one onlyescape; the village cavalcade, making its way to meeting on Sunday infiles on horseback, the farmer holding the bridle in one hand and achild in the other, his wife seated on a pillion behind him, it may bewith a child in her lap, as was the fashion in those days, could notproceed safely; but, at the moment when least expected, bullets wouldwhizz among them, sent from an unseen enemy by the wayside. The forestthat protected the ambush of the Indians secured their retreat. 

D. Appleton and Company, New York. 

THE NEW NETHERLAND

From 'History of the United States'

During the absence of Stuyvesant from Manhattan, the warriors of theneighboring Algonkin tribes, never reposing confidence in the Dutch, made a desperate assault on the colony. In sixty-four canoes theyappeared before the town, and ravaged the adjacent country. The returnof the expedition restored confidence. The captives were ransomed, andindustry repaired its losses. The Dutch seemed to have firmlyestablished their power, and promised themselves happier years. NewNetherland consoled them for the loss of Brazil. They exulted in thepossession of an admirable territory, that needed no embankments againstthe ocean. They were proud of its vast extent, --from New England toMaryland, from the sea to the Great River of Canada, and the remoteNorthwestern wilderness. They sounded with exultation the channel of thedeep stream, which was no longer shared with the Swedes; they countedwith delight its many lovely runs of water, on which the beavers builttheir villages; and the great travelers who had visited every continent, as they ascended the Delaware, declared it one of the noblest rivers inthe world, with banks more inviting than the lands on the Amazon. 

Meantime, the country near the Hudson gained by increasing emigration. Manhattan was already the chosen abode of merchants; and the policy ofthe government invited them by its good-will. If Stuyvesant sometimesdisplayed the rash despotism of a soldier, he was sure to be reproved byhis employers. Did he change the rate of duties arbitrarily, thedirectors, sensitive to commercial honor, charged him "to keep everycontract inviolate. " Did he tamper with the currency by raising thenominal value of foreign coin, the measure was rebuked as dishonest. Didhe attempt to fix the price of labor by arbitrary rules, this also wascondemned as unwise and impracticable. Did he interfere with themerchants by inspecting their accounts, the deed was censured as withoutprecedent "in Christendom"; and he was ordered to "treat the merchantswith kindness, lest they return, and the country be depopulated. " Didhis zeal for Calvinism lead him to persecute Lutherans, he was chid forhis bigotry. Did his hatred of "the abominable sect of Quakers" imprisonand afterward exile the blameless Bowne, "let every peaceful citizen, "wrote the directors, "enjoy freedom of conscience; this maxim has madeour city the asylum for fugitives from every land; tread in its steps, and you shall be blessed. "

Private worship was therefore allowed to every religion. Opinion, if notyet enfranchised, was already tolerated. The people of Palestine, fromthe destruction of their temple an outcast and a wandering race, wereallured by the traffic and the condition of the New World; and not theSaxon and Celtic races only, the children of the bondmen that broke fromslavery in Egypt, the posterity of those who had wandered in Arabia, andworshiped near Calvary, found a home, liberty, and a burial place on theisland of Manhattan. 

The emigrants from Holland were themselves of the most various lineage;for Holland had long been the gathering-place of the unfortunate. Couldwe trace the descent of the emigrants from the Low Countries to NewNetherland, we should be carried not only to the banks of the Rhine andthe borders of the German Sea, but to the Protestants who escaped fromFrance after the massacre of Bartholomew's Eve, and to those earlierinquirers who were swayed by the voice of Huss in the heart of Bohemia. New York was always a city of the world. Its settlers were relics of thefirst fruits of the Reformation, chosen from the Belgic provinces andEngland, from France and Bohemia, from Germany and Switzerland, fromPiedmont and the Italian Alps. 

The religious sects, which, in the middle ages, had been fostered by themunicipal liberties of the south of France, were the harbingers ofmodern freedom, and had therefore been sacrificed to the inexorablefeudalism of the north. After a bloody conflict, the plebeian reformers, crushed by the merciless leaders of the military aristocracy, escaped tothe highlands that divide France and Italy. Preserving the discipline ofa benevolent, ascetic morality, with the simplicity of aspiritual worship, "When all our fathers worshiped stocks and stones, "

it was found, on the progress of the Reformation, that they had by threecenturies anticipated Luther and Calvin. The hurricane of persecution, which was to have swept Protestantism from the earth, did not sparetheir seclusion; mothers with infants were rolled down the rocks, andthe bones of martyrs scattered on the Alpine mountains. The city ofAmsterdam offered the fugitive Waldenses a free passage to America, anda welcome was prepared in New Netherland for the few who were willingto emigrate. 

The persecuted of every creed and every clime were invited to thecolony. When the Protestant churches in Rochelle were razed, theCalvinists of that city were gladly admitted; and the French Protestantscame in such numbers that the public documents were sometimes issued inFrench as well as in Dutch and English. Troops of orphans were shippedfor the milder destinies of the New World; a free passage was offered tomechanics; for "population was known to be the bulwark of every State. "The government of New Netherland had formed just ideas of the fitmaterials for building a commonwealth; they desired "farmers andlaborers, foreigners and exiles, men inured to toil and penury. " Thecolony increased; children swarmed in every village; the advent of theyear and the month of May were welcomed with noisy frolics; new modes ofactivity were devised; lumber was shipped to France; the whale pursuedoff the coast; the vine, the mulberry, planted; flocks of sheep as wellas cattle were multiplied; and tile, so long imported from Holland, began to be manufactured near Fort Orange. New Amsterdam could, in a fewyears, boast of stately buildings, and almost vied with Boston. "Thishappily situated province, " said its inhabitants, "may become thegranary of our fatherland; should our Netherlands be wasted by grievouswars, it will offer our countrymen a safe retreat; by God's blessing, weshall in a few years become a mighty people. "

Thus did various nations of the Caucasian race assist in colonizing ourcentral states. 

D. Appleton and Company, New York. 

FRANKLIN

From 'History of the United States'

Franklin looked quietly and deeply into the secrets of nature. His clearunderstanding was never perverted by passion, nor corrupted by the prideof theory. The son of a rigid Calvinist, the grandson of a tolerantQuaker, he had from boyhood been familiar not only with theologicalsubtilities, but with a catholic respect for freedom of mind. Skepticalof tradition as the basis of faith, he respected reason rather thanauthority; and, after a momentary lapse into fatalism, he gained withincreasing years an increasing trust in the overruling providence ofGod. Adhering to none of all the religions in the colonies, he yetdevoutly, though without form, adhered to religion. But though famous asa disputant, and having a natural aptitude for metaphysics, he obeyedthe tendency of his age, and sought by observation to win an insightinto the mysteries of being. The best observers praise his method most. He so sincerely loved truth, that in his pursuit of her she met himhalf-way. Without prejudice and without bias, he discerned intuitivelythe identity of the laws of nature with those of which humanity isconscious; so that his mind was like a mirror, in which the universe, asit reflected itself, revealed her laws. His morality, repudiatingascetic severities and the system which enjoins them, was indulgent toappetites of which he abhorred the sway; but his affections were of acalm intensity: in all his career, the love of man held the mastery overpersonal interest. He had not the imagination which inspires the bard orkindles the orator; but an exquisite propriety, parsimonious ofornament, gave ease, correctness, and graceful simplicity even to hismost careless writings. In life, also, his tastes were delicate. Indifferent to the pleasures of the table, he relished the delights ofmusic and harmony, of which he enlarged the instruments. His blandnessof temper, his modesty, the benignity of his manners, made him thefavorite of intelligent society; and, with healthy cheerfulness, hederived pleasure from books, from philosophy, from conversation, --nowadministering consolation to the sorrower, now indulging inlight-hearted gayety. In his intercourse, the universality of hisperceptions bore, perhaps, the character of humor; but, while he clearlydiscerned the contrast between the grandeur of the universe and thefeebleness of man, a serene benevolence saved him from contempt of hisrace or disgust at its toils. To superficial observers, he might haveseemed as an alien from speculative truth, limiting himself to the worldof the senses; and yet, in study, and among men, his mind always soughtto discover and apply the general principles by which nature and affairsare controlled, --now deducing from the theory of caloric improvements infireplaces and lanterns, and now advancing human freedom by firminductions from the inalienable rights of man. Never professingenthusiasm, never making a parade of sentiment, his practical wisdom wassometimes mistaken for the offspring of selfish prudence; yet his hopewas steadfast, like that hope which rests on the Rock of Ages, and hisconduct was as unerring as though the light that led him was a lightfrom heaven. He never anticipated action by theories of self-sacrificingvirtue; and yet, in the moments of intense activity, he from the abodesof ideal truth brought down and applied to the affairs of life theprinciples of goodness, as unostentatiously as became the man who with akite and hempen string drew lightning from the skies. He separatedhimself so little from his age that he has been called therepresentative of materialism; and yet, when he thought on religion, hismind passed beyond reliance on sects to faith in God; when he wrote onpolitics, he founded freedom on principles that know no change; when heturned an observing eye on nature, he passed from the effect to thecause, from individual appearances to universal laws; when he reflectedon history, his philosophic mind found gladness and repose in the clearanticipation of the progress of humanity. 

End of Volume III.