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. IV. 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. IV LIVEDGEORGE BANCROFT--_Continued_: 1800-1891 Wolfe on the Plains of Abraham ('History of the United States') Lexington (same) Washington (same) JOHN AND MICHAEL BANIM 1798-1874 The Publican's Dream ('The Bit of Writin'') Ailleen Soggarth Aroon Irish Maiden's Song THÉODORE DE BANVILLE 1823--1891 Le Café ('The Soul of Paris') The Mysterious Hosts of the Forests ('The Caryatids': Lang's Translation) Aux Enfants Perdus: Lang's Translation Ballade des Pendus: Lang's Translation ANNA LÆITIA BARBAULD 1743-1825 Against Inconsistency in Our Expectations A Dialogue of the Dead Life Praise to God ALEXANDER BARCLAY 1475-1552 The Courtier's Life (Second Eclogue) RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM 1788-1845 As I Laye A-Thynkynge The Lay of St. Cuthbert A Lay of St. Nicholas SABINE BARING-GOULD 1834- St. Patrick's Purgatory ('Curious Myths of the Middle Ages') The Cornish Wreckers ('The Vicar of Morwenstow') JANE BARLOW 18-- Widow Joyce's Cloak ('Strangers at Lisconnel') Walled Out ('Bogland Studies') JOEL BARLOW 1754-1812 A Feast ('Hasty Pudding') WILLIAM BARNES 1800-1886 Blackmwore Maidens May Milken Time Jessie Lee The Turnstile To the Water-Crowfoot Zummer an' Winter JAMES MATTHEW BARRIE 1860- The Courtin' of T'nowhead's Bell ('Auld Licht Idylls') Jess Left Alone ('A Window in Thrums') After the Sermon ('The Little Minister') The Mutual Discovery (same) Lost Illusions ('Sentimental Tommy') Sins of Circumstance (same) FRÉDÉRIC BASTIAT 1801-1850 Petition of Manufacturers of Artificial Light Stulta and Puera Inapplicable Terms ('Economic Sophisms') CHARLES BAUDELAIRE (by Grace King) 1821-1867 Meditation Death of the Poor Music The Broken Bell The Enemy Beauty Death The Painter of Modern Life ('L'Art Romantique') Modernness From 'Little Poems in Prose': Every One His Own Chimera; Humanity; Windows; Drink From a Journal LORD BEACONSFIELD (by Isa Carrington Cabell) 1804-1881 A Day at Ems ('Vivian Grey') The Festa in the Alhambra ('The Young Duke') Squibs from 'The Young Duke': Charles Annesley; The Fussy Hostess; Public Speaking; Female Beauty Lothair in Palestine ('Lothair') BEAUMARCHAIS 1732-1799 Outwitting a Guardian ('The Barber of Seville') Outwitting a Husband ('The Marriage of Figaro') FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER 1584-1625 The Faithful Shepherdess Song Song Aspatia's Song Leandro's Song True Beauty Ode to Melancholy To Ben Jonson, on His 'Fox' On the Tombs in Westminster Arethusa's Declaration ('Philaster') The Story of Bellario (same) Evadne's Confession ('The Maid's Tragedy') Death of the Boy Hengo ('Bonduca') From 'The Two Noble Kinsmen' WILLIAM BECKFORD 1759-1844 The Incantation and the Sacrifice ('Vathek') Vathek and Nouronihar in the Halls of Eblis (same) HENRY WARD BEECHER 1813-1887 Book-Stores and Books ('Star Papers') Selected Paragraphs Sermon: Poverty and the Gospel A New England Sunday ('Norwood') LUDWIG VAN BEETHOVEN (by Irenæus Stevenson) 1770-1827 Letters: To Dr. Wegeler; To the Same; To Bettina Brentano; To Countess Giulietta Guicciardi; To the Same; To His Brothers; To the Royal and Imperial High Court of Appeal; To Baroness von Drossdick; To Zmeskall; To the Same; To Stephan v. Breuning CARL MICHAEL BELLMAN (by Olga Flinch) 1740-1795 To Ulla Cradle-Song for My Son Carl Amaryllis Art and Politics Drink Out Thy Glass JEREMY BENTHAM 1748-1832 Of the Principle of Utility ('An Introduction to the Principles of Morals and Legislation') Reminiscences of Childhood Letter to George Wilson (1781) Fragment of a Letter to Lord Lansdowne (1790) JEAN-PIERRE DE BÉRANGER (by Alcée Fortier) 1780-1857 From 'The Gipsies' The Gad-Fly Draw It Mild The King of Yvetot Fortune The People's Reminiscences The Old Tramp Fifty Years The Garret My Tomb From His Preface to His Collected Poems GEORGE BERKELEY 1685-1753 On the Prospect of Planting Arts and Learning in America Essay on Tar-Water ('Siris') HECTOR BERLIOZ 1803-1869 The Italian Race as Musicians and Auditors ('Autobiography') The Famous "K Snuff-Box Treachery" (same) On Gluck (same) On Bach (same) Music as an Aristocratic Art (same) Beginning of a "Grand Passion" (same) On Theatrical Managers in Relation to Art SAINT BERNARD OF CLAIRVAUX 1091-1153 Saint Bernard's Hymn Monastic Luxury (Apology to the Abbot William of St. Thierry) From His Sermon on the Death of Gerard BERNARD OF CLUNY (by William C. Prime) Twelfth Century Brief Life Is Here Our Portion JULIANA BERNERS Fifteenth Century The Treatyse of Fyssbynge with an Angle WALTER BESANT 1838- Old-Time London ('London') The Synagogue ('The Rebel Queen') BESTIARIES AND LAPIDARIES (by L. Oscar Kuhns) The Lion The Pelican The Eagle The Phoenix The Ant The Siren The Whale The Crocodile The Turtle-Dove The Mandragora Sapphire Coral MARIE-HENRI BEYLE (Stendhal) (by Frederic Taber Cooper) 1783-1842 Princess Sanseverina's Interview ('Chartreuse de Parme') Clélia Aids Fabrice to Escape (same) WlLLEM BlLDERDIJK 1756-1831 Ode to Beauty From the 'Ode to Napoleon' Slighted Love The Village Schoolmaster ('Country Life') BION Second Century B. C. Threnody Hesper AUGUSTINE BIRRELL 1850- Dr. Johnson ('Obiter Dicta') The Office of Literature (same) Truth-Hunting (same) Benvenuto Cellini (same) On the Alleged Obscurity of Mr. Browning's Poetry (same) FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS VOLUME IV. * * * * * PAGEEgyptian Hieroglyphics (Colored Plate) Frontispiece"The Irish Maiden's Song" (Photogravure) 1473"Milking Time" (Photogravure) 1567"Music" (Photogravure) 1625Henry Ward Beecher (Portrait) 1714"Beethoven" (Photogravure) 1750Jean-Pierre de Béranger (Portrait) 1784"Monastic Luxury" (Photogravure) 1824 VIGNETTE PORTRAITS John BanimThéodore de BanvilleAnna Lætitia BarbauldRichard Harris BarhamJane BarlowJoel BarlowJames Matthew BarrieFrédéric BastiatCharles BaudelaireLord BeaconsfieldBeaumarchaisFrancis BeaumontWilliam BeckfordLudwig van BeethovenJeremy BenthamGeorge BerkeleyHector BerliozSaint Bernard of ClairvauxJuliana BernersWalter BesantHenri Beyle (Stendhal)Augustine Birrell GEORGE BANCROFT (Continued from Volume III) WOLFE ON THE PLAINS OF ABRAHAM From 'History of the United States' But, in the meantime, Wolfe applied himself intently to reconnoiteringthe north shore above Quebec. Nature had given him good eyes, as well asa warmth of temper to follow first impressions. He himself discoveredthe cove which now bears his name, where the bending promontories almostform a basin, with a very narrow margin, over which the hill risesprecipitously. He saw the path that wound up the steep, though so narrowthat two men could hardly march in it abreast; and he knew, by thenumber of tents which he counted on the summit, that the Canadian postwhich guarded it could not exceed a hundred. Here he resolved to landhis army by surprise. To mislead the enemy, his troops were kept farabove the town; while Saunders, as if an attack was intended atBeauport, set Cook, the great mariner, with others, to sound the waterand plant buoys along that shore. The day and night of the twelfth were employed in preparations. Theautumn evening was bright; and the general, under the clear starlight, visited his stations, to make his final inspection and utter his lastwords of encouragement. As he passed from ship to ship, he spoke tothose in the boat with him of the poet Gray, and the 'Elegy in a CountryChurchyard. ' "I, " said he, "would prefer being the author of that poemto the glory of beating the French to-morrow;" and, while the oarsstruck the river as it rippled in the silence of the night air under theflowing tide, he repeated:-- "The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await alike the inevitable hour-- The paths of glory lead but to the grave. " Every officer knew his appointed duty, when, at one o'clock in themorning of the thirteenth of September, Wolfe, Monckton, and Murray, andabout half the forces, set off in boats, and, using neither sail noroars, glided down with the tide. In three quarters of an hour the shipsfollowed; and, though the night had become dark, aided by the rapidcurrent, they reached the cove just in time to cover the landing. Wolfeand the troops with him leaped on shore; the light infantry, who foundthemselves borne by the current a little below the intrenched path, clambered up the steep hill, staying themselves by the roots and boughsof the maple and spruce and ash trees that covered the precipitousdeclivity, and, after a little firing, dispersed the picket whichguarded the height; the rest ascended safely by the pathway. A batteryof four guns on the left was abandoned to Colonel Howe. When Townshend'sdivision disembarked, the English had already gained one of the roads toQuebec; and, advancing in front of the forest, Wolfe stood at daybreakwith his invincible battalions on the Plains of Abraham, thebattle-field of the Celtic and Saxon races. "It can be but a small party, come to burn a few houses and retire, "said Montcalm, in amazement as the news reached him in his intrenchmentsthe other side of the St. Charles; but, obtaining better information, "Then, " he cried, "they have at last got to the weak side of thismiserable garrison; we must give battle and crush them before mid-day. "And, before ten, the two armies, equal in numbers, each being composedof less than five thousand men, were ranged in presence of one anotherfor battle. The English, not easily accessible from intervening shallowravines and rail fences, were all regulars, perfect in discipline, terrible in their fearless enthusiasm, thrilling with pride at theirmorning's success, commanded by a man whom they obeyed with confidenceand love. The doomed and devoted Montcalm had what Wolfe had called but"five weak French battalions, " of less than two thousand men, "mingledwith disorderly peasantry, " formed on commanding ground. The French hadthree little pieces of artillery; the English, one or two. The twoarmies cannonaded each other for nearly an hour; when Montcalm, havingsummoned De Bougainville to his aid, and dispatched messenger aftermessenger for De Vaudreuil, who had fifteen hundred men at the camp, tocome up before he should be driven from the ground, endeavored to flankthe British and crowd them down the high bank of the river. Wolfecounteracted the movement by detaching Townshend with Amherst'sregiment, and afterward a part of the Royal Americans, who formed on theleft with a double front. Waiting no longer for more troops, Montcalm led the French armyimpetuously to the attack. The ill-disciplined companies broke by theirprecipitation and the unevenness of the ground; and fired by platoons, without unity. Their adversaries, especially the Forty-third and theForty-seventh, where Monckton stood, of which three men out of four wereAmericans, received the shock with calmness; and after having, atWolfe's command, reserved their fire till their enemy was within fortyyards, their line began a regular, rapid, and exact discharge ofmusketry. Montcalm was present everywhere, braving danger, wounded, butcheering by his example. The second in command, De Sennezergues, anassociate in glory at Ticonderoga, was killed. The brave but untriedCanadians, flinching from a hot fire in the open field, began to waver;and, so soon as Wolfe, placing himself at the head of the Twenty-eighthand the Louisburg grenadiers, charged with bayonets, they everywheregave way. Of the English officers, Carleton was wounded; Barré, whofought near Wolfe, received in the head a ball which made him blind ofone eye, and ultimately of both. Wolfe, also, as he led the charge, waswounded in the wrist; but still pressing forward, he received a secondball; and having decided the day, was struck a third time, and mortally, in the breast. "Support me, " he cried to an officer near him; "let notmy brave fellows see me drop. " He was carried to the rear, and theybrought him water to quench his thirst. "They run! they run!" spoke theofficer on whom he leaned. "Who run?" asked Wolfe, as his life was fastebbing. "The French, " replied the officer, "give way everywhere. ""What, " cried the expiring hero, "do they run already? Go, one of you, to Colonel Burton; bid him march Webb's regiment with all speed toCharles River to cut off the fugitives. " Four days before, he had lookedforward to early death with dismay. "Now, God be praised, I die happy. "These were his words as his spirit escaped in the blaze of his glory. Night, silence, the rushing tide, veteran discipline, the sureinspiration of genius, had been his allies; his battle-field, high overthe ocean river, was the grandest theatre for illustrious deeds; hisvictory, one of the most momentous in the annals of mankind, gave to theEnglish tongue and the institutions of the Germanic race the unexploredand seemingly infinite West and South. He crowded into a few hoursactions that would have given lustre to length of life; and, filling hisday with greatness, completed it before its noon. Copyrighted by D. Appleton and Company, New York. LEXINGTON From 'History of the United States' Day came in all the beauty of an early spring. The trees were budding;the grass growing rankly a full month before its time; the bluebird andthe robin gladdening the genial season, and calling forth the beams ofthe sun which on that morning shone with the warmth of summer; butdistress and horror gathered over the inhabitants of the peaceful town. There on the green lay in death the gray-haired and the young; thegrassy field was red "with the innocent blood of their brethren slain, "crying unto God for vengeance from the ground. Seven of the men of Lexington were killed, nine wounded; a quarter partof all who stood in arms on the green. These are the village heroes, whowere more than of noble blood, proving by their spirit that they were ofa race divine. They gave their lives in testimony to the rights ofmankind, bequeathing to their country an assurance of success in themighty struggle which they began. Their names are held in gratefulremembrance, and the expanding millions of their countrymen renew andmultiply their praise from generation to generation. They fulfilledtheir duty not from the accidental impulse of the moment; their actionwas the slowly ripened fruit of Providence and of time. The light thatled them on was combined of rays from the whole history of the race;from the traditions of the Hebrews in the gray of the world's morning;from the heroes and sages of republican Greece and Rome; from theexample of Him who died on the cross for the life of humanity; from thereligious creed which proclaimed the divine presence in man, and on thistruth, as in a life-boat, floated the liberties of nations over the darkflood of the Middle Ages; from the customs of the Germans transmittedout of their forests to the councils of Saxon England; from the burningfaith and courage of Martin Luther; from trust in the inevitableuniversality of God's sovereignty as taught by Paul of Tarsus andAugustine, through Calvin and the divines of New England; from theavenging fierceness of the Puritans, who dashed the mitre on the ruinsof the throne; from the bold dissent and creative self-assertion of theearliest emigrants to Massachusetts; from the statesmen who made, andthe philosophers who expounded, the revolution of England; from theliberal spirit and analyzing inquisitiveness of the eighteenth century;from the cloud of witnesses of all the ages to the reality and therightfulness of human freedom. All the centuries bowed themselves fromthe recesses of the past to cheer in their sacrifice the lowly men whoproved themselves worthy of their forerunners, and whose children riseup and call them blessed. Heedless of his own danger, Samuel Adams, with the voice of a prophet, exclaimed: "Oh, what a glorious morning is this!" for he saw hiscountry's independence hastening on, and, like Columbus in the tempest, knew that the storm did but bear him the more swiftly toward theundiscovered world. Copyrighted by D. Appleton and Company, New York. WASHINGTON From 'History of the United States' Then, on the fifteenth of June, it was voted to appoint a general. Thomas Johnson, of Maryland, nominated George Washington; and as he hadbeen brought forward "at the particular request of the people of NewEngland, " he was elected by ballot unanimously. Washington was then forty-three years of age. In stature he a littleexceeded six feet; his limbs were sinewy and well-proportioned; hischest broad; his figure stately, blending dignity of presence with ease. His robust constitution had been tried and invigorated by his early lifein the wilderness, the habit of occupation out of doors, and rigidtemperance; so that few equaled him in strength of arm, or power ofendurance, or noble horsemanship. His complexion was florid; his hairdark brown; his head in its shape perfectly round. His broad nostrilsseemed formed to give expression and escape to scornful anger. Hiseyebrows were rayed and finely arched. His dark-blue eyes, which weredeeply set, had an expression of resignation, and an earnestness thatwas almost pensiveness. His forehead was sometimes marked with thought, but never with inquietude; his countenance was mild and pleasing andfull of benignity. At eleven years old left an orphan to the care of an excellent butunlettered mother, he grew up without learning. Of arithmetic andgeometry he acquired just knowledge enough to be able to practicemeasuring land; but all his instruction at school taught him not somuch as the orthography or rules of grammar of his own tongue. Hisculture was altogether his own work, and he was in the strictest sense aself-made man; yet from his early life he never seemed uneducated. Atsixteen, he went into the wilderness as a surveyor, and for three yearscontinued the pursuit, where the forests trained him, in meditativesolitude, to freedom and largeness of mind; and nature revealed to himher obedience to serene and silent laws. In his intervals from toil, heseemed always to be attracted to the best men, and to be cherished bythem. Fairfax, his employer, an Oxford scholar, already aged, became hisfast friend. He read little, but with close attention. Whatever he tookin hand he applied himself to with care; and his papers, which have beenpreserved, show how he almost imperceptibly gained the power of writingcorrectly; always expressing himself with clearness and directness, often with felicity of language and grace. When the frontiers on the west became disturbed, he at nineteen wascommissioned an adjutant-general with the rank of major. At twenty-one, he went as the envoy of Virginia to the council of Indian chiefs on theOhio, and to the French officers near Lake Erie. Fame waited upon himfrom his youth; and no one of his colony was so much spoken of. Heconducted the first military expedition from Virginia that crossed theAlleghanies. Braddock selected him as an aid, and he was the only manwho came out of the disastrous defeat near the Monongahela, withincreased reputation, which extended to England. The next year, when hewas but four-and-twenty, "the great esteem" in which he was held inVirginia, and his "real merit, " led the lieutenant-governor of Marylandto request that he might be "commissioned and appointed second incommand" of the army designed to march to the Ohio; and Shirley, thecommander-in-chief, heard the proposal "with great satisfaction andpleasure, " for "he knew no provincial officer upon the continent to whomhe would so readily give that rank as to Washington. " In 1758 he actedunder Forbes as a brigadier, and but for him that general would neverhave crossed the mountains. Courage was so natural to him that it was hardly spoken of to hispraise; no one ever at any moment of his life discovered in him theleast shrinking in danger; and he had a hardihood of daring whichescaped notice, because it was so enveloped by superior calmnessand wisdom. His address was most easy and agreeable; his step firm and graceful;his air neither grave nor familiar. He was as cheerful as he wasspirited, frank and communicative in the society of friends, fond of thefox-chase and the dance, often sportive in his letters, and liked ahearty laugh. "His smile, " writes Chastellux, "was always the smile ofbenevolence. " This joyousness of disposition remained to the last, though the vastness of his responsibilities was soon to take from himthe right of displaying the impulsive qualities of his nature, and theweight which he was to bear up was to overlay and repress his gayetyand openness. His hand was liberal; giving quietly and without observation, as thoughhe was ashamed of nothing but being discovered in doing good. He waskindly and compassionate, and of lively sensibility to the sorrows ofothers; so that, if his country had only needed a victim for its relief, he would have willingly offered himself as a sacrifice. But while he wasprodigal of himself, he was considerate for others; ever parsimonious ofthe blood of his countrymen. He was prudent in the management of his private affairs, purchased richlands from the Mohawk valley to the flats of the Kanawha, and improvedhis fortune by the correctness of his judgment; but, as a public man, heknew no other aim than the good of his country, and in the hour of hiscountry's poverty he refused personal emolument for his service. His faculties were so well balanced and combined that his constitution, free from excess, was tempered evenly with all the elements of activity, and his mind resembled a well-ordered commonwealth; his passions, whichhad the intensest vigor, owned allegiance to reason; and with all thefiery quickness of his spirit, his impetuous and massive will was heldin check by consummate judgment. He had in his composition a calm, whichgave him in moments of highest excitement the power of self-control, andenabled him to excel in patience, even when he had most cause fordisgust. Washington was offered a command when there was little to bringout the unorganized resources of the continent but his own influence, and authority was connected with the people by the most frail, mostattenuated, scarcely discernible threads; yet, vehement as was hisnature, impassioned as was his courage, he so retained his ardor that henever failed continuously to exert the attractive power of thatinfluence, and never exerted it so sharply as to break its force. In secrecy he was unsurpassed; but his secrecy had the character ofprudent reserve, not of cunning or concealment. His great natural powerof vigilance had been developed by his life in the wilderness. His understanding was lucid, and his judgment accurate; so that hisconduct never betrayed hurry or confusion. No detail was too minute forhis personal inquiry and continued supervision; and at the same time hecomprehended events in their widest aspects and relations. He neverseemed above the object that engaged his attention, and he was alwaysequal, without an effort, to the solution of the highest questions, evenwhen there existed no precedents to guide his decision. In theperfection of the reflective powers, which he used habitually, he hadno peer. In this way he never drew to himself admiration for the possession ofany one quality in excess, never made in council any one suggestion thatwas sublime but impracticable, never in action took to himself thepraise or the blame of undertakings astonishing in conception, butbeyond his means of execution. It was the most wonderful accomplishmentof this man that, placed upon the largest theatre of events, at the headof the greatest revolution in human affairs, he never failed to observeall that was possible, and at the same time to bound his aspirations bythat which was possible. A slight tinge in his character, perceptible only to the close observer, revealed the region from which he sprung, and he might be described asthe best specimen of manhood as developed in the South; but hisqualities were so faultlessly proportioned that his whole country ratherclaimed him as its choicest representative, the most complete expressionof all its attainments and aspirations. He studied his country andconformed to it. His countrymen felt that he was the best type ofAmerica, and rejoiced in it, and were proud of it. They lived in hislife, and made his success and his praise their own. Profoundly impressed with confidence in God's providence, and exemplaryin his respect for the forms of public worship, no philosopher of theeighteenth century was more firm in the support of freedom of religiousopinion, none more remote from bigotry; but belief in God, and trust inhis overruling power, formed the essence of his character. Divine wisdomnot only illumines the spirit, it inspires the will. Washington was aman of action, and not of theory or words; his creed appears in hislife, not in his professions, which burst from him very rarely, andonly at those great moments of crisis in the fortunes of his country, when earth and heaven seemed actually to meet, and his emotions becametoo intense for suppression; but his whole being was one continued actof faith in the eternal, intelligent, moral order of the universe. Integrity was so completely the law of his nature, that a planet wouldsooner have shot from its sphere than he have departed from hisuprightness, which was so constant that it often seemed to be almostimpersonal. "His integrity was the most pure, his justice the mostinflexible I have ever known, " writes Jefferson; "no motives of interestor consanguinity, of friendship or hatred, being able to bias hisdecision. " They say of Giotto that he introduced goodness into the art of painting;Washington carried it with him to the camp and the Cabinet, andestablished a new criterion of human greatness. The purity of his willconfirmed his fortitude: and as he never faltered in his faith invirtue, he stood fast by that which he knew to be just; free fromillusions; never dejected by the apprehension of the difficulties andperils that went before him, and drawing the promise of success from thejustice of his cause. Hence he was persevering, leaving nothingunfinished; devoid of all taint of obstinacy in his firmness; seekingand gladly receiving advice, but immovable in his devotedness to right. Of a "retiring modesty and habitual reserve, " his ambition was no morethan the consciousness of his power, and was subordinate to his sense ofduty; he took the foremost place, for he knew from inborn magnanimitythat it belonged to him, and he dared not withhold the service requiredof him; so that, with all his humility, he was by necessity the first, though never for himself or for private ends. He loved fame, theapproval of coming generations, the good opinion of his fellow-men ofhis own time, and he desired to make his conduct coincide with hiswishes; but not fear of censure, not the prospect of applause couldtempt him to swerve from rectitude, and the praise which he coveted wasthe sympathy of that moral sentiment which exists in every human breast, and goes forth only to the welcome of virtue. There have been soldiers who have achieved mightier victories in thefield, and made conquests more nearly corresponding to the boundlessnessof selfish ambition; statesmen who have been connected with morestartling upheavals of society: but it is the greatness of Washingtonthat in public trusts he used power solely for the public good; that hewas the life and moderator and stay of the most momentous revolution inhuman affairs; its moving impulse and its restraining power. .. . This also is the praise of Washington: that never in the tide of timehas any man lived who had in so great a degree the almost divine facultyto command the confidence of his fellow-men and rule the willing. Wherever he became known, in his family, his neighborhood, his county, his native State, the continent, the camp, civil life, among the commonpeople, in foreign courts, throughout the civilized world, and evenamong the savages, he, beyond all other men, had the confidence ofhis kind. Copyrighted by D. Appleton and Company, New York. JOHN AND MICHAEL BANIM (1798-1846) (1796-1874) Of the writers who have won esteem by telling the pathetic stories oftheir country's people, the names of John and Michael Banim are rankedamong the Irish Gael not lower than that of Sir Walter Scott among theBritish Gael. The works of the Banim brothers continued the same sad andfascinating story of the "mere Irish" which Maria Edgeworth and LadyMorgan had laid to the hearts of English readers in the late eighteenthand early nineteenth century days. The Banim family was one of thosewhich belonged to the class of "middlemen, " people so designated inIreland who were neither rich nor poor, but in the fortunate mean. Thefamily home was in the historic town of Kilkenny, famous alike for itsfighting confederation and its fighting cats. Here Michael was bornAugust 5th, 1796, and John April 3d, 1798. Michael lived to a green oldage, and survived his younger brother John twenty-eight years, lessseventeen days; he died at Booterstown, August 30th, 1874. [Illustration: JOHN BANIM] The first stories of this brotherly collaboration in letters appeared in1825 without mark of authorship, as recitals contributed for instructionand amusement about the hearth-stone of an Irish household, called 'TheO'Hara Family. ' The minor chords of the soft music of the Gaelic Englishas it fell from the tongues of Irish lads and lasses, whether in note ofsorrow or of sport, had already begun to touch with winsome tendernessthe stolid Saxon hearts, when that idyl of their country's penal days, 'The Bit o' Writin', ' was sent out from the O'Hara fireside. The almostinstantaneous success and popularity of their first stories speedilybroke down the anonymity of the Banims, and publishers became eager andgain-giving. About two dozen stories were published before the death ofJohn, in 1842. The best-known of them, in addition to the one alreadymentioned, are 'The Boyne Water, ' 'The Croppy, ' and 'Father Connell. ' The fact that during the long survival of Michael no more of the Banimstories appeared, is sometimes called in as evidence that the latter hadlittle to do with the writing of the series. Michael and John, it waswell known, had worked lovingly together, and Michael claimed a part inthirteen of the tales, without excluding his brother from jointauthorship. Exactly what each wrote of the joint productions has neverbeen known. A single dramatic work of the Banim brothers has attained toa position in the standard drama, the play of 'Damon and Pythias, ' afree adaptation from an Italian original, written by John Banim at theinstance of Richard Lalor Shiel. The songs are also attributed to John. It is but just to say that the great emigration to the United Stateswhich absorbed the Irish during the '40's and '50's depreciated the saleof such works as those of the Banims to the lowest point, and Michaelhad good reason, aside from the loss of his brother's aid, to lay downhis pen. The audience of the Irish story-teller had gone away across thegreat western sea. There was nothing to do but sit by the lonesomehearth and await one's own to-morrow for the voyage of the greater sea. THE PUBLICAN'S DREAM From 'The Bit o' Writin' and Other Tales' The fair-day had passed over in a little straggling town in thesoutheast of Ireland, and was succeeded by a languor proportioned to thewild excitement it never failed to create. But of all in the village, its publicans suffered most under the reaction of great bustle. Few oftheir houses appeared open at broad noon; and some--the envy of theircompetitors--continued closed even after that late hour. Of theselatter, many were of the very humblest kind; little cabins, in fact, skirting the outlets of the village, or standing alone on the roadside agood distance beyond it. About two o'clock upon the day in question, a house of "Entertainmentfor Man and Horse, " the very last of the description noticed to be foundbetween the village and the wild tract of mountain country adjacent toit, was opened by the proprietress, who had that moment arisen from bed. The cabin consisted of only two apartments, and scarce more thannominally even of two; for the half-plastered wicker and strawpartition, which professed to cut off a sleeping-nook from the wholearea inclosed by the clay walls, was little higher than a tall man, andmoreover chinky and porous in many places. Let the assumed distinctionbe here allowed to stand, however, while the reader casts his eyesaround what was sometimes called the kitchen, sometimes the tap-room, sometimes the "dancing-flure. " Forms which had run by the walls, andplanks by way of tables which had been propped before them, were turnedtopsy-turvy, and in some instances broken. Pewter pots and pints, battered and bruised, or squeezed together and flattened, and fragmentsof twisted glass tumblers, lay beside them. The clay floor was scrapedwith brogue-nails and indented with the heel of that primitivefoot-gear, in token of the energetic dancing which had lately beenperformed upon it. In a corner still appeared (capsized, however) anempty eight-gallon beer barrel, recently the piper's throne, whence hisbag had blown forth the inspiring storms of jigs and reels, whichprompted to more antics than ever did a bag of the laughing-gas. Amongthe yellow turf-ashes of the hearth lay on its side an old blackened tinkettle, without a spout, --a principal utensil in brewing scalding waterfor the manufacture of whisky-punch; and its soft and yet warm bed wasshared by a red cat, who had stolen in from his own orgies, through somecranny, since day-break. The single four-paned window of the apartmentremained veiled by its rough shutter, that turned on leather hinges; butdown the wide yawning chimney came sufficient light to reveal theobjects here described. The proprietress opened her back door. She was a woman of about forty;of a robust, large-boned figure; with broad, rosy visage, dark, handsomeeyes, and well-cut nose: but inheriting a mouth so wide as to proclaimher pure aboriginal Irish pedigree. After a look abroad, to inhale thefresh air, and then a remonstrance (ending in a kick) with the hungrypig, who ran, squeaking and grunting, to demand his long-deferredbreakfast, she settled her cap, rubbed down her _prauskeen_ [coarseapron], tucked and pinned up her skirts behind, and saying in a loud, commanding voice, as she spoke into the sleeping-chamber, "Get up now atonce, Jer, I bid you, " vigorously if not tidily set about putting hertavern to rights. During her bustle the dame would stop an instant, and bend her ear tolisten for a stir inside the partition; but at last losing patience sheresumed:-- "Why, then, my heavy hatred on you, Jer Mulcahy, is it gone into a_sauvaun_ [pleasant drowsiness] you are, over again? or maybe you stoleout of bed, an' put your hand on one o' them ould good-for-nothingbooks, that makes you the laziest man that a poor woman ever had tinderone roof wid her? ay, an' that sent you out of our dacent shop an'house, in the heart of the town below, an' banished us here, JerMulcahy, to sell drams o' whisky an' pots o' beer to all the riff-raffo' the counthry-side, instead o' the nate boots an' shoes you servedyour honest time to?" She entered his, or her chamber, rather, hoping that she might detecthim luxuriantly perusing in bed one of the mutilated books, a love ofwhich (or more truly a love of indolence, thus manifesting itself) hadindeed chiefly caused his downfall in the world. Her husband, however, really tired after his unusual bodily efforts of the previous day, onlyslumbered, as Mrs. Mulcahy had at first anticipated; and when she hadshaken and aroused him, for the twentieth time that morning, and scoldedhim until the spirit-broken blockhead whimpered, --nay, wept, orpretended to weep, --the dame returned to her household duties. She did not neglect, however, to keep calling to him every half-minute, until at last Mr. Jeremiah Mulcahy strode into the kitchen: a tall, ill-contrived figure, that had once been well fitted out, but that nowwore its old skin, like its old clothes, very loosely; and those oldclothes were a discolored, threadbare, half-polished kerseymere pair oftrousers, and aged superfine black coat, the last relics of his formerSunday finery, --to which had recently and incongruously been added acalfskin vest, a pair of coarse sky-blue peasant's stockings, and a pairof brogues. His hanging cheeks and lips told, together, his present badliving and domestic subjection; and an eye that had been blinded by thesmallpox wore neither patch nor band, although in better days it used tobe genteelly hidden from remark, --an assumption of consequence nowdeemed incompatible with his altered condition in society. "O Cauth! oh, I had such a dhrame, " he said, as he made his appearance. "An' I'll go bail you had, " answered Cauth, "an' when do you ever goasleep without having one dhrame or another, that pesters me off o' mylegs the livelong day, till the night falls again to let you haveanother? Musha, Jer, don't be ever an' always such a fool; an' nevermind the dhrame now, but lend a hand to help me in the work o' thehouse. See the pewther there: haive it up, man alive, an' take it outinto the garden, and sit on the big stone in the sun, an' make it lookas well as you can, afther the ill usage it got last night; come, hurry, Jer--go an' do what I bid you. " He retired in silence to "the garden, " a little patch of groundluxuriant in potatoes and a few cabbages. Mrs. Mulcahy pursued her worktill her own sensations warned her that it was time to prepare herhusband's morning or rather day meal; for by the height of the sun itshould now be many hours past noon. So she put down her pot of potatoes;and when they were boiled, took out a wooden trencher full of them, anda mug of sour milk, to Jer, determined not to summon him from his usefuloccupation of restoring the pints and quarts to something of theirformer shape. Stepping through the back door, and getting him in view, she stoppedshort in silent anger. His back was turned to her, because of the sun;and while the vessels, huddled about in confusion, seemed little thebetter of his latent skill and industry, there he sat on his favoriteround stone, studiously perusing, half aloud to himself, some idlevolume which doubtless he had smuggled into the garden in his pocket. Laying down her trencher and her mug, Mrs. Mulcahy stole forward ontiptoe, gained his shoulder without being heard, snatched the imperfectbundle of soiled pages out of his hand, and hurled it into a neighbor'scabbage-bed. Jeremiah complained, in his usual half-crying tone, declaring that "shenever could let him alone, so she couldn't, and he would rather list fora soger than lade such a life, from year's end to year's end, sohe would. " "Well, an' do then--an' whistle that idle cur off wid you, " pointing toa nondescript puppy, which had lain happily coiled up at his master'sfeet until Mrs. Mulcahy's appearance, but that now watched her closely, his ears half cocked and his eyes wide open, though his positionremained unaltered. "Go along to the divil, you lazy whelp you!"--shetook up a pint in which a few drops of beer remained since the previousnight, and drained it on the puppy's head, who instantly ran off, jumping sideways, and yelping as loud as if some bodily injury hadreally visited him--"Yes, an' now you begin to yowl, like your masther, for nothing at all, only because a body axes you to stir your idlelegs--hould your tongue, you foolish baste!" she stooped for astone--"one would think I scalded you. " "You know you did, once, Cauth, to the backbone; an' small blame forShuffle to be afeard o' you ever since, " said Jer. This vindication of his own occasional remonstrances, as well as ofShuffle's, was founded in truth. When very young, just to keep him fromrunning against her legs while she was busy over the fire, Mrs. Mulcahycertainly had emptied a ladleful of boiling potato-water upon the poorpuppy's back; and from that moment it was only necessary to spill a dropof the coldest possible water, or of any cold liquid, on any part of hisbody, and he believed he was again dreadfully scalded, and ran out ofthe house screaming in all the fancied theories of torture. "Will you ate your good dinner, now, Jer Mulcahy, an' promise to dosomething to help me, afther it?--Mother o' Saints!"--thus sheinterrupted herself, turning towards the place where she had depositedthe eulogized food--"see that yon unlucky bird! May I never do an illturn but there's the pig afther spilling the sweet milk, an' nowshoveling the beautiful white-eyes down her throat at a mouthful!" Jer, really afflicted at this scene, promised to work hard the moment hegot his dinner; and his spouse, first procuring a pitchfork to beat thepig into her sty, prepared a fresh meal for him, and retired to eat herown in the house, and then to continue her labor. In about an hour she thought of paying him another visit of inspection, when Jeremiah's voice reached her ear, calling out in disturbed accents, "Cauth! Cauth! _a-vourneen!_ For the love o' heaven, Cauth! whereare you?" Running to him, she found her husband sitting upright, though not uponhis round stone, amongst the still untouched heap of pots and pints, hispock-marked face very pale, his single eye staring, his hands claspedand shaking, and moisture on his forehead. "What!" she cried, "the pewther just as I left it, over again!" "O Cauth! Cauth! don't mind that now--but spake to me kind, Cauth, an'comfort me. " "Why, what ails you, Jer _a-vous neen_?" affectionately taking his hand, when she saw how really agitated he was. "O Cauth, oh, I had such a dhrame, now, in earnest, at any rate!" "A dhrame!" she repeated, letting go his hand, "a dhrame, Jer Mulcahy!so, afther your good dinner, you go for to fall asleep, Jer Mulcahy, just to be ready wid a new dhrame for me, instead of the work you cameout here to do, five blessed hours ago!" "Don't scould me, now, Cauth; don't, a-pet: only listen to me, an' thensay what you like. You know the lonesome little glen between the hills, on the short cut for man or horse, to Kilbroggan? Well, Cauth, there Ifound myself in the dhrame; and I saw two sailors, tired afther a day'shard walking, sitting before one of the big rocks that stand upright inthe wild place; an' they were ating or dhrinking, I couldn't make outwhich; and one was a tall, sthrong, broad-shouldhered man, an' the otherwas sthrong, too, but short an' burly; an' while they were talking verycivilly to each other, lo an' behould you, Cauth, I seen the tall manwhip his knife into the little man; an' then they both sthruggled, an'wrastled, an' schreeched together, till the rocks rung again; but atlast the little man was a corpse; an' may I never see a sight o' glory, Cauth, but all this was afore me as plain as you are, in this garden!an' since the hour I was born, Cauth, I never got such a fright;an'--oh, Cauth! what's that now?" "What is it, you poor fool, you, but a customer, come at last into thekitchen--an' time for us to see the face o' one this blessed day. Get upout o' that, wid your dhrames--don't you hear 'em knocking? I'll stayhere to put one vessel at laste to rights--for I see I must. " Jeremiah arose, groaning, and entered the cabin through the back door. In a few seconds he hastened to his wife, more terror-stricken than hehad left her, and settling his loins against the low garden wall, stared at her. "Why, then, duoul's in you, Jer Mulcahy (saints forgive me forcursing!)--and what's the matter wid you, at-all at-all?" "They're in the kitchen, " he whispered. "Well, an' what will they take?" "I spoke never a word to them, Cauth, nor they to me;--I couldn't--an' Iwon't, for a duke's ransom: I only saw them stannin' together, in thedark that's coming on, behind the dour, an' I knew them at the firstlook--the tall one an' the little one. " With a flout at his dreams, and his cowardice, and hisgood-for-nothingness, the dame hurried to serve her customers. Jeremiahheard her loud voice addressing them, and their hoarse tones answering. She came out again for two pints to draw some beer, and commanded him tofollow her and "discoorse the customers. " He remained motionless. Shereturned in a short time, and fairly drove him before her intothe house. He took a seat remote from his guests, with difficulty pronouncing theordinary words of "God save ye, genteels, " which they bluffly andheartily answered. His glances towards them were also few; yet enough toinform him that they conversed together like friends, pledging healthsand shaking hands. The tall sailor abruptly asked him how far it was, bythe short cut, to a village where they proposed to pass thenight--Kilbroggan?--Jeremiah started on his seat, and his wife, after aglance and a grumble at him, was obliged to speak for her husband. Theyfinished their beer; paid for it; put up half a loaf and a cut of badwatery cheese, saying that they might feel more hungry a few miles onthan they now did; and then they arose to leave the cabin. Jeremiahglanced in great trouble around. His wife had fortunately disappeared;he snatched up his old hat, and with more energy than he could himselfremember, ran forward to be a short way on the road before them. Theysoon approached him; and then, obeying a conscientious impulse, Jeremiahsaluted the smaller of the two, and requested to speak with him apart. The sailor, in evident surprise, assented. Jer vaguely cautioned himagainst going any farther that night, as it would be quite dark by thetime he should get to the mountain pass, on the by-road to Kilbroggan. His warning was made light of. He grew more earnest, asserting, what wasnot the fact, that it was "a bad road, " meaning one infested by robbers. Still the bluff tar paid no attention, and was turning away. "Oh, sir;oh, stop, sir, " resumed Jeremiah, taking great courage, "I have a thingto tell you;" and he rehearsed his dream, averring that in it he haddistinctly seen the present object of his solicitude set upon and slainby his colossal companion. The listener paused a moment; first lookingat Jer, and then at the ground, very gravely: but the next moment heburst into a loud, and Jeremiah thought, frightful laugh, and walkedrapidly to overtake his shipmate. Jeremiah, much oppressed, returned home. Towards dawn, next morning, the publican awoke in an ominous panic, andaroused his wife to listen to a loud knocking, and a clamor of voices attheir door. She insisted that there was no such thing, and scolded himfor disturbing her sleep. A renewal of the noise, however, convincedeven her incredulity, and showed that Jeremiah was right for the firsttime in his life, at least. Both arose, and hastened to answerthe summons. When they unbarred the front door, a gentleman, surrounded by a crowd ofpeople of the village, stood before it. He had discovered on the by-roadthrough the hills from Kilbroggan, a dead body, weltering in its gore, and wearing sailor's clothes; had ridden on in alarm; had raised thevillage; and some of its population, recollecting to have seen Mrs. Mulcahy's visitors of the previous evening, now brought him to her houseto hear what she could say on the subject. Before she could say anything, her husband fell senseless at her side, groaning dolefully. While the bystanders raised him, she clapped herhands, and exalted her voice in ejaculations, as Irishwomen, whengrieved or astonished or vexed, usually do; and now, as proud ofJeremiah's dreaming capabilities as she had before been impatient ofthem, rehearsed his vision of the murder, and authenticated the visit ofthe two sailors to her house, almost while he was in the act of makingher the confidant of his prophetic ravings. The auditors stept back inconsternation, crossing themselves, smiting their breasts, and cryingout, "The Lord save us! The Lord have mercy upon us!" Jeremiah slowly awoke from his swoon. The gentleman who had discoveredthe body commanded his attendants back to the lonesome glen, where itlay. Poor Jeremiah fell on his knees, and with tears streaming down hischeeks, prayed to be saved from such a trial. His neighbors almostforced him along. All soon gained the spot, a narrow pass between slanting piles ofdisplaced rocks; the hills from which they had tumbled rising brown andbarren and to a great height above and beyond them. And there, indeed, upon the strip of verdure which formed the winding road through thedefile, lay the corpse of one of the sailors who had visited thepublican's house the evening before. Again Jeremiah dropt on his knees, at some distance from the body, exclaiming, "Lord save us!--yes! oh, yes, neighbors, this is the veryplace!--only--the saints be good to us again!--'twas the tall sailor Iseen killing the little sailor, and here's the tall sailor murthered bythe little sailor. " "Dhrames go by conthraries, some way or another, " observed one of hisneighbors; and Jeremiah's puzzle was resolved. Two steps were now indispensable to be taken; the county coroner shouldbe summoned, and the murderer sought after. The crowd parted to engagein both matters simultaneously. Evening drew on when they again met inthe pass: and the first, who had gone for the coroner, returned withhim, a distance of near twenty miles; but the second party did not proveso successful. In fact they had discovered no clue to the presentretreat of the supposed assassin. The coroner impaneled his jury, and held his inquest under a largeupright rock, bedded in the middle of the pass, such as Jeremiah said hehad seen in his dream. A verdict of willful murder against the absentsailor was quickly agreed upon; but ere it could be recorded, allhesitated, not knowing how to individualize a man of whose name theywere ignorant. The summer night had fallen upon their deliberations, and the moon arosein splendor, shining over the top of one of the high hills that inclosedthe pass, so as fully to illumine the bosom of the other. During theirpause, a man appeared standing upon the line of the hill thus favored bythe moonlight, and every eye turned in that direction. He ran down theabrupt declivity beneath him; he gained the continued sweep of jumbledrocks which immediately walled in the little valley, springing from oneto another of them with such agility and certainty that it seemed almostmagical; and a general whisper of fear now attested the fact of hisbeing dressed in a straw hat, a short jacket, and loose white trousers. As he jumped from the last rock upon the sward of the pass, thespectators drew back; but he, not seeming to notice them, walked up tothe corpse, which had not yet been touched; took its hand; turned upits face into the moonlight, and attentively regarded the features; letthe hand go; pushed his hat upon his forehead; glanced around him;recognized the person in authority; approached, and stood still beforehim, and said "Here I am, Tom Mills, that killed long Harry Holmes, andthere he lies. " The coroner cried out to secure him, now fearing that the man'ssturdiness meant farther harm. "No need, " resumed the self-accused;"here's my bread-and-cheese knife, the only weapon about me;" he threwit on the ground: "I come back just to ax you, commodore, to order me acruise after poor Harry, bless his precious eyes, wherever he is bound. " "You have been pursued hither?" "No, bless your heart; but I wouldn't pass such another watch as thelast twenty-four hours for all the prize-money won at Trafalgar. 'Tisn'tin regard of not tasting food or wetting my lips ever since I fell foulof Harry, or of hiding my head like a cursed animal o' the yearth, andstarting if a bird only hopped nigh me: but I cannot go on living onthis tack no longer; that's it; and the least I can say to you, Harry, my hearty. " "What caused your quarrel with your comrade?" "There was no jar or jabber betwixt us, d'you see me. " "Not at the time, I understand you to mean; but surely you must havelong owed him a grudge?" "No, but long loved him; and he me. " "Then, in heaven's name, what put the dreadful thought in your head?" "The devil, commodore, (the horned lubber!) and another lubber to helphim"--pointing at Jeremiah, who shrank to the skirts of the crowd. "I'lltell you every word of it, commodore, as true as a log-book. For twentylong and merry years, Harry and I sailed together, and worked together, thro' a hard gale sometimes, and thro' hot sun another time; and never asqually word came between us till last night, and then it all came ofthat lubberly swipes-seller, I say again. I thought as how it was a realawful thing that a strange landsman, before ever he laid eyes on eitherof us, should come to have this here dream about us. After falling inwith Harry, when the lubber and I parted company, my old mate saw I wascast down, and he told me as much in his own gruff, well-meaning way;upon which I gave him the story, laughing at it. _He_ didn't laugh inreturn, but grew glum--glummer than I ever seed him; and I wondered, and fell to boxing about my thoughts, more and more (deep sea sink thatcursed thinking and thinking, say I!--it sends many an honest fellow outof his course); and 'It's hard to know the best man's mind, ' I thoughtto myself. Well, we came on the tack into these rocky parts, and Harrysays to me all on a sudden, 'Tom, try the soundings here, ahead, byyourself--or let me, by myself. ' I axed him why? 'No matter, ' says Harryagain, 'but after what you chawed about, I don't like your company anyfarther, till we fall in again at the next village. ' 'What, Harry, ' Icries, laughing heartier than ever, 'are you afeard of your own mindwith Tom Mills?' 'Pho, ' he made answer, walking on before me, and Ifollowed him. "'Yes, ' I kept saying to myself, 'he _is_ afeard of his own mind withhis old shipmate. ' 'Twas a darker night than this, and when I lookedahead, the devil (for I know 'twas _he_ that boarded me!) made me takenotice what a good spot it was for Harry to fall foul of me. And then Iwatched him making way before me, in the dark, and couldn't helpthinking he was the better man of the two--a head and shoulders over me, and a match for any two of my inches. And then again, I brought to mindthat Harry would be a heavy purse the better of sending me to Davy'slocker, seeing we had both been just paid off, and got a lot ofprize-money to boot;--and at last (the real red devil having fairly gotme helm a-larboard) I argufied with myself that Tom Mills would be aswell alive, with Harry Holmes's luck in his pocket, as he could be dead, and _his_ in Harry Holmes's; not to say nothing of taking one's ownpart, just to keep one's self afloat, if so be Harry let his mind run asmine was running. "All this time Harry never gave me no hail, but kept tacking throughthese cursed rocks; and that, and his last words, made me doubt him moreand more. At last he stopped nigh where he now lies, and sitting withhis back to that high stone, he calls for my blade to cut the bread andcheese he had got at the village; and while he spoke I believed helooked glummer and glummer, and that he wanted the blade, the only onebetween us, for some'at else than to cut bread and cheese; though now Idon't believe no such thing howsumdever; but then I did: and so, d'yousee me, commodore, I lost ballast all of a sudden, and when he stretchedout his hand for the blade (hell's fire blazing up in my lubberlyheart!)--'Here it is, Harry, ' says I, and I gives it to him in theside!--once, twice, in the right place!" (the sailor's voice, hithertocalm, though broken and rugged, now rose into a high, wildcadence)--"and then how we did grapple! and sing out one to another!ahoy! yeho! aye; till I thought the whole crew of devils answered ourhail from the hill-tops!--But I hit you again and again, Harry! beforeyou could master me, " continued the sailor, returning to the corpse, andonce more taking its hand--"until at last you struck, --my oldmessmate!--And now--nothing remains for Tom Mills--but to man theyard-arm!" The narrator stood his trial at the ensuing assizes, and was executedfor this avowed murder of his shipmate; Jeremiah appearing as aprincipal witness. Our story may seem drawn either from imagination, orfrom mere village gossip: its chief acts rest, however, upon theauthority of members of the Irish bar, since risen to high professionaleminence; and they can even vouch that at least Jeremiah asserted thetruth of "The Publican's Dream. " AILLEEN 'Tis not for love of gold I go, 'Tis not for love of fame; Tho' Fortune should her smile bestow, And I may win a name, Ailleen, And I may win a name. And yet it is for gold I go, And yet it is for fame, -- That they may deck another brow And bless another name, Ailleen, And bless another name. For this, but this, I go--for this I lose thy love awhile; And all the soft and quiet bliss Of thy young, faithful smile, Ailleen, Of thy young, faithful smile. And I go to brave a world I hate And woo it o'er and o'er, And tempt a wave and try a fate Upon a stranger shore, Ailleen. Upon a stranger shore. Oh! when the gold is wooed and won, I know a heart will care! Oh! when the bays are all my own, I know a brow shall wear, Ailleen, I know a brow shall wear. And when, with both returned again, My native land to see, I know a smile will meet me there And a hand will welcome me, Ailleen, And a hand will welcome me! SOGGARTH AROON ("O Priest, O Love!") THE IRISH PEASANT'S ADDRESS TO HIS PRIEST Am I the slave they say, Soggarth Aroon? Since you did show the way, Soggarth Aroon, Their slave no more to be, While they would work with me Ould Ireland's slavery, Soggarth Aroon? Why not her poorest man, Soggarth Aroon, Try and do all he can, Soggarth Aroon, Her commands to fulfill Of his own heart and will, Side by side with you still, Soggarth Aroon? Loyal and brave to you, Soggarth Aroon, Yet be no slave to you, Soggarth Aroon, Nor out of fear to you Stand up so near to you-- Och! out of fear to _you!_ Soggarth Aroon! Who, in the winter's night, Soggarth Aroon, When the cowld blast did bite, Soggarth Aroon, Came to my cabin door, And on my earthen floor Knelt by me, sick and poor, Soggarth Aroon? Who, on the marriage day, Soggarth Aroon, Made the poor cabin gay, Soggarth Aroon; And did both laugh and sing, Making our hearts to ring, At the poor christening, Soggarth Aroon? Who, as friend only met, Soggarth Aroon, Never did flout me yet, Soggarth Aroon? And when my hearth was dim Gave, while his eye did brim, What I should give to him, Soggarth Aroon? Och! you, and only you, Soggarth Aroon! And for this I was true to you, Soggarth Aroon; In love they'll never shake When for ould Ireland's sake We a true part did take, Soggarth Aroon! [Illustration: _THE IRISH MAIDEN'S SONG. _Photogravure from a Painting by E. Hebert. ] THE IRISH MAIDEN'S SONG You know it now--it is betrayed This moment in mine eye, And in my young cheeks' crimson shade, And in my whispered sigh. You know it now--yet listen now-- Though ne'er was love more true, My plight and troth and virgin vow Still, still I keep from you, Ever! Ever, until a proof you give How oft you've heard me say, I would not even his empress live Who idles life away, Without one effort for the land In which my fathers' graves Were hollowed by a despot hand To darkly close on slaves-- Never! See! round yourself the shackles hang, Yet come you to love's bowers, That only he may soothe their pang Or hide their links in flowers-- But try all things to snap them first, And should all fail when tried, The fated chain you cannot burst My twining arms shall hide-- Ever! THÉODORE DE BANVILLE (1823-1891) Théodore Faullain De Banville is best known as a very skillful maker ofpolished artificial verse. His poetry stands high; but it is the poetrynot of nature, but of elegant society. His muse, as Mr. Henley says, isalways in evening dress. References to the classic poets are woven intoall of his descriptions of nature. He is distinguished, scholarly, fullof taste, and brilliant in execution; never failing in propriety, andnever reaching inspiration. As an artist in words and cadences he hasfew superiors. [Illustration: De Banville] These qualities are partly acquired, and partly the result of birth. Born in 1823, the son of a naval officer, from his earliest years hedevoted himself to literature. His birthplace, Moulins, an oldprovincial town on the banks of the Allier, where he spent a happychildhood, made little impression on him. Still almost a child he wentto Paris, where he led a life without events, --without even a marriageor an election to the Academy; he died March 13th, 1891. His place wasamong the society people and the artists; the painter Courbet and thewriters Mürger, Baudelaire, and Gautier were among his closest friends. He first attracted attention in 1848 by the publication of a volume ofverse, 'The Caryatids. ' In 1857 came another, 'Odes Funambulesque, ' andlater another series under the same title, the two together containinghis best work in verse. Here he stands highest; though he wrote alsomany plays, one of which, 'Gringoire, ' has been acted in varioustranslations. 'The Wife of Socrates' also holds the stage. Like hisother work, his drama is artificial, refined, and skillful. He presentsa marked instance of the artist working for art's sake. During thelatter years of his life he wrote mostly prose, and he has left manywell-drawn portraits of his contemporaries, in addition to several booksof criticism, with much color and charm, but little definiteness. He wasalways vague, for facts did not interest him; but he had the power ofmaking his remote, unreal world attractive, and among the writers of theschool of Gautier he stands among the first. LE CAFÉ From 'The Soul of Paris' Imagine a place where you do not endure the horror of being alone, andyet have the freedom of solitude. There, free from the dust, theboredom, the vulgarities of a household, you reflect at ease, comfortably seated before a table, unincumbered by all the things thatoppress you in houses; for if useless objects and papers had accumulatedhere they would have been promptly removed. You smoke slowly, quietly, like a Turk, following your thoughts among the blue curves. If you have a voluptuous desire to taste some warm or refreshingbeverage, well-trained waiters bring it to you immediately. If you feellike talking with clever men who will not bully you, you have withinreach light sheets on which are printed winged thoughts, rapid, writtenfor you, which you are not forced to bind and preserve in a library whenthey have ceased to please you. This place, the paradise ofcivilization, the last and inviolable refuge of the free man, isthe café. It is the café; but in the ideal, as we dream it, as it ought to be. Thelack of room and the fabulous cost of land on the boulevards of Parismake it hideous in actuality. In these little boxes--of which the rentis that of a palace--one would be foolish to look for the space of avestiary. Besides, the walls are decorated with stovepipe hats andovercoats hung on clothes-pegs--an abominable sight, for which atonementis offered by multitudes of white panels and ignoble gilding, imitationsmade by economical process. And (let us not deceive ourselves) the overcoat, with which one neverknows what to do, and which makes us worry everywhere, --in society, atthe theatre, at balls, --is the great enemy and the abominableenslavement of modern life. Happy the gentlemen of the age of LouisXIV. , who in the morning dressed themselves for all day, in satin andvelvet, their brows protected by wigs, and who remained superb even whenbeaten by the storm, and who, moreover, brave as lions, ran the risk ofpneumonia even if they had to put on, one outside the other, theinnumerable waistcoats of Jodelet in 'Les Précieuses Ridicules'! "How shall I find my overcoat and my wife's party cape?" is the greatand only cry, the Hamlet-monologue of the modern man, that poisons everyminute of his life and makes him look with resignation toward his dyinghour. On the morning after a ball given by Marshal MacMahon nothing isfound: the overcoats have disappeared; the satin cloaks, the boas, thelace scarfs have gone up in smoke; and the women must rush in despairthrough the driving snow while their husbands try to button theirevening coats, which will not button! One evening, at a party given by the wife of the President of theChamber of Deputies, at which the gardens were lighted by electricity, Gambetta suddenly wished to show some of his guests a curiosity, andinvited them to go down with him into the bushes. A valet hastened tohand him his overcoat, but the guests did not dare to ask for theirs, and followed Gambetta as they were! However, I believe one or two ofthem survived. At the café no one carries off your overcoat, no one hides it; but theyare all hung up, spread out on the wall like masterpieces of art, treated as if they were portraits of Mona Lisa or Violante, and you havethem before your eyes, you see them continually. Is there not reason tocurse the moment your eyes first saw the light? One may, as I have said, read the papers; or rather one might read them if they were not hung onthose abominable racks, which remove them a mile from you and force youto see them on your horizon. As to the drinks, give up all hope; for the owner of the café has noproper place for their preparation, and his rent is so enormous that hehas to make the best even of the quality he sells. But aside from thisreason, the drinks could not be good, because there are too many ofthem. The last thing one finds at these coffee-houses is coffee. It isdelicious, divine, in those little Oriental shops where it is made toorder for each drinker in a special little pot. As to syrups, how manyare there in Paris? In what inconceivable place can they keep the jarscontaining the fruit juices needed to make them? A few real ladies, rich, well-born, good housekeepers, not reduced to slavery by the greatshops, who do not rouge or paint their cheeks, still know how to make intheir own homes good syrups from the fruit of their gardens and theirvineyards. But they naturally do not give them away or sell them to thekeepers of cafés, but keep them to gladden their flaxen-haired children. Such as it is, --with its failings and its vices, even a full centuryafter the fame of Procope, --the café, which we cannot drive out of ourmemories, has been the asylum and the refuge of many charming spirits. The old Tabourey, who, after having been illustrious, now has a sort ofhalf popularity and a pewter bar, formerly heard the captivatingconversations of Barbey and of Aurevilly, who were rivals in the noblestsalons, and who sometimes preferred to converse seated before a marbletable in a hall from which one could see the foliage and the flowers ofthe Luxembourg. Baudelaire also talked there, with his clear caressingvoice dropping diamonds and precious stones, like the princess of thefairy tale, from beautiful red, somewhat thick lips. A problem with no possible solution holds in check the writers and theartists of Paris. When one has worked hard all day it is pleasant totake a seat, during the short stroll that precedes the dinner, to meetone's comrades and talk with them of everything but politics. The onlyfavorable place for these necessary accidental meetings is the café; butis the game worth the candle, or, to speak more exactly, the blindinggas-jets? Is it worth while, for the pleasure of exchanging words, toaccept criminal absinthe, unnatural bitters, tragic vermouth, concoctedin the sombre laboratories of the cafés by frightful parasites? Aurélien Scholl, who, being a fine poet and excellent writer, isnaturally a practical man, had a pleasing idea. He wished that thereunions in the cafés might continue at the absinthe hour, but withoutthe absinthe! A very honest man, chosen for that purpose, would pour outfor the passers-by, in place of everything else, excellent claret withquinquina, which would have the double advantage of not poisoning themand of giving them a wholesome and comforting drink. But this seductivedream could never be realized. Of course, honest men exist in greatnumbers, among keepers of cafés as well as in other walks of life; butthe individual honest man could not be found who would be willing topour out quinquina wine in which there was both quinquina and wine. In the Palais Royal there used to be a café which had retained Empirefittings and oil lamps. One found there real wine, real coffee, realmilk, and good beefsteaks. Roqueplan, Arsène Houssaye, Michel Lévy, andthe handsome Fiorentino used to breakfast there, and they knew how toget the best mushrooms. The proprietor of the café had said that as soonas he could no longer make a living by selling genuine articles, hewould not give up his stock in trade to another, but would sell hisfurniture and shut up shop. He kept his word. He was a hero. BALLADE ON THE MYSTERIOUS HOSTS OF THE FOREST From 'The Caryatids' Still sing the mocking fairies, as of old, Beneath the shade of thorn and holly-tree; The west wind breathes upon them pure and cold, And still wolves dread Diana roving free, In secret woodland with her company. 'Tis thought the peasants' hovels know her rite When now the wolds are bathed in silver light, And first the moonrise breaks the dusky gray; Then down the dells, with blown soft hair and bright, And through the dim wood, Dian thrids her way. With water-weeds twined in their locks of gold The strange cold forest-fairies dance in glee; Sylphs over-timorous and over-bold Haunt the dark hollows where the dwarf may be, The wild red dwarf, the nixies' enemy: Then, 'mid their mirth and laughter and affright, The sudden goddess enters, tall and white, With one long sigh for summers passed away; The swift feet tear the ivy nets outright, And through the dim wood Dian thrids her way. She gleans her sylvan trophies; down the wold She hears the sobbing of the stags that flee, Mixed with the music of the hunting rolled, But her delight is all in archery, And naught of ruth and pity wotteth she More than the hounds that follow on the flight; The tall nymph draws a golden bow of might, And thick she rains the gentle shafts that slay; She tosses loose her locks upon the night, And through the dim wood Dian thrids her way. ENVOI Prince, let us leave the din, the dust, the spite, The gloom and glare of towns, the plague, the blight; Amid the forest leaves and fountain spray There is the mystic home of our delight, And through the dim wood Dian thrids her way. Translation of Andrew Lang. AUX ENFANTS PERDUS I know Cythera long is desolate; I know the winds have stripped the garden green. Alas, my friends! beneath the fierce sun's weight A barren reef lies where Love's flowers have been, Nor ever lover on that coast is seen! So be it, for we seek a fabled shore, To lull our vague desires with mystic lore, To wander where Love's labyrinths beguile; There let us land, there dream for evermore, "It may be we shall touch the happy isle. " The sea may be our sepulchre. If Fate, If tempests wreak their wrath on us, serene We watch the bolt of Heaven, and scorn the hate Of angry gods that smite us in their spleen. Perchance the jealous mists are but the screen That veils the fairy coast we would explore. Come, though the sea be vexed, and breakers roar, Come, for the breath of this old world is vile, Haste we, and toil, and faint not at the oar; "It may be we shall touch the happy isle. " Gray serpents trail in temples desecrate Where Cypris smiled, the golden maid, the queen, And ruined is the palace of our state; But happy loves flit round the mast, and keen The shrill winds sings the silken cords between. Heroes are we, with wearied hearts and sore, Whose flower is faded and whose locks are hoar. Haste, ye light skiffs, where myrtle thickets smile Love's panthers sleep 'mid roses, as of yore: "It may be we shall touch the happy isle. " ENVOI Sad eyes! the blue sea laughs as heretofore. Ah, singing birds, your happy music pour; Ah, poets, leave the sordid earth awhile; Flit to these ancient gods we still adore: "It may be we shall touch the happy isle. " Translation of Andrew Lang. BALLADE DES PENDUS Where wide the forest bows are spread, Where Flora wakes with sylph and fay, Are crowns and garlands of men dead, All golden in the morning gay; Within this ancient garden gray Are clusters such as no man knows, Where Moor and Soldan bear the sway: _This is King Louis's orchard close_! These wretched folk wave overhead, With such strange thoughts as none may say; A moment still, then sudden sped, They swing in a ring and waste away. The morning smites them with her ray; They toss with every breeze that blows, They dance where fires of dawning play: _This is King Louis's orchard close_! All hanged and dead, they've summonèd (With Hell to aid, that hears them pray) New legions of an army dread. Now down the blue sky flames the day; The dew dies off; the foul array Of obscene ravens gathers and goes, With wings that flap and beaks that flay: _This is King Louis's orchard close_! ENVOI Prince, where leaves murmur of the May, A tree of bitter clusters grows; The bodies of men dead are they! _This is King Louis's orchard close_! Translation of Andrew Lang. ANNA LÆTITIA BARBAULD (1743-1825) When Lætitia Aikin Barbauld was about thirty years old, her friend, Mrs. Elizabeth Montague, wishing to establish a college for women, asked herto be its principal. In her letter of refusal Mrs. Barbauld said:--"Akind of Academy for ladies, where they are to be taught in a regularmanner the various branches of science, appears to me better calculatedto form such characters as the _Précieuses_ or _Femmes Savantes_ thangood wives or agreeable companions. The very best way for a woman toacquire knowledge is from conversation with a father or brother. .. . Thethefts of knowledge in our sex are only connived at while carefullyconcealed, and if displayed are punished with disgrace. " It is odd tofind Mrs. Barbauld thus reflecting the old-fashioned view of thecapacity and requirements of her own sex, for she herself belonged tothat brilliant group--Hannah More, Fanny Burney, Maria Edgeworth, JaneAusten, Joanna Baillie, Mary Russell Mitford--who were the livingrefutation of her inherited theories. Their influence shows a pedagogicimpulse to present morally helpful ideas to the public. [Illustration: ANNA L. BARBAULD] From preceding generations whose lives had been concentrated uponhousehold affairs, these women pioneers had acquired the strictlypractical bent of mind which comes out in all their verse, as in alltheir prose. The child born at Kibworth Harcourt, Leicestershire, a century and ahalf ago, became one of the first of these pleasant writers for youngand old. She was one of the thousand refutations of the stupid popularidea that precocious children never amount to anything. When only two, she "could read roundly without spelling, and in half a year more couldread as well as most women. " Her father was master of a boys' school, where her childhood was passed under the rule of a loving but austeremother, who disliked all intercourse with the pupils for her daughter. It was not the fashion for women to be highly educated; but, stimulatedperhaps by the scholastic atmosphere, Lætitia implored her father for aclassical training, until, against his judgment, he allowed her tostudy Greek and Latin as well as French and Italian. Though not fond ofthe housewifely accomplishments insisted upon by Mrs. Aikin, the eagerstudent also cooked and sewed with due obedience. Her dull childhood ended when she was fifteen, for then her fatheraccepted a position as classical tutor in a boys' school at Warrington, Lancashire, to which place the family moved. The new home affordedgreater freedom and an interesting circle of friends, among them Currie, William Roscoe, John Taylor, and the famous Dr. Priestley. A very prettygirl, with brilliant blonde coloring and animated dark-blue eyes, shewas witty and vivacious, too, under the modest diffidence to which shehad been trained. Naturally she attracted much admiration from theschoolboys and even from their elders, but on the whole she seems tohave found study and writing more interesting than love affairs. Thefirst suitor, who presented himself when she was about sixteen, was afarmer from her early home at Kibworth. He stated his wishes to herfather. "She is in the garden, " said Mr. Aikin. "You may ask heryourself. " Lætitia was not propitious, but the young man was persistent, and the position grew irksome. So the nimble girl scrambled into aconvenient tree, and escaped her rustic wooer by swinging herself downupon the other side of the garden wall. During these years at Warrington she wrote for her own pleasure, andwhen her brother John returned home after several years' absence, hehelped her to arrange and publish a selection of her poems. The littlebook which appeared in 1773 was highly praised, and ran through foureditions within a year. In spite of grace and fluency, most of theseverses seem flat and antiquated to the modern reader. Of the spiritedfirst poem 'Corsica, ' Dr. Priestley wrote to her:--"I consider that youare as much a general as Tyrtæus was, and your poems (which I amconfident are much better than his ever were) may have as great effectas his. They may be the _coup de grace_ to the French troops in thatisland, and Paoli, who reads English, will cause it to be printed inevery history in that renowned island. " Miss Aikin's next venture was a small volume in collaboration with herbrother, 'Miscellaneous Pieces in Prose by J. And A. L. Aikin. ' This toowas widely read and admired. Samuel Rogers has related an amusingconversation about the book in its first vogue:--"I am greatly pleasedwith your 'Miscellaneous Pieces, '" said Charles James Fox to Mrs. Barbauld's brother. Dr. Aikin bowed. "I particularly admire, " continuedFox, "your essay 'Against Inconsistency in our Expectations. '" "That, "replied Aikin, "is my sister's. " "I like much, " continued Fox, "youressay on 'Monastic Institutions. '" "That, " answered Aikin, "is also mysister's. " Fox thought it wise to say no more about the book. The essay'Against Inconsistency in our Expectations' was most highly praised bythe critics, and pronounced by Mackintosh "the best short essay in thelanguage. " When thirty years old, Lætitia Aikin married Rochemont Barbauld, andwent to live at Palgrave in Suffolk, where her husband opened a boys'school, soon made popular by her personal charm and influence. SirWilliam Gell, a classic topographer still remembered; William Taylor, author of a 'Historic Survey of German Poetry '; and Lord Chief JusticeDenman, were a few among the many who looked back with gratitude to achildhood under her care. Perhaps her best known work is the 'Early Lessons for Children, ' whichwas written during this period. Coming as it did when, as Hannah Moresaid, there was nothing for children to read between 'Cinderella' andthe Spectator, it was largely welcomed, and has been used by generationsof English children. The lessons were written for a real little Charles, her adopted son, the child of her brother, Dr. Aikin. For him, too, shewrote her 'Hymns in Prose for Children, ' a book equally successful, which has been translated into French, German, Spanish, Italian, andeven Latin. After eleven busy years at Palgrave, during which, in spite of hercheerful energy, Mrs. Barbauld had been much harassed by the nervousirritability of her invalid husband, the Barbaulds gave up their schooland treated themselves to a year of Continental travel. On their returnthey settled at Hampstead, where Mr. Barbauld became pastor of a smallUnitarian congregation. The nearness to London was a great advantage toMrs. Barbauld's refreshed activity, and she soon made the new home apleasant rendezvous for literary men and women. At one of her Londondinner parties she met Sir Walter Scott, who declared that her readingof Taylor's translation of Bürger's 'Lenore' had inspired him to writepoetry. She met Dr. Johnson too, who, though he railed at her after hisfashion, calling her Deborah and Virago Barbauld, did sometimes betray asincere admiration for her character and accomplishments. Miss Edgeworthand Hannah More were dear friends and regular correspondents. From time to time she published a poem or an essay; not many, for inspite of her brother's continual admonition to write, hers was asomewhat indolent talent. In 1790 she wrote a capable essay upon therepeal of the Test and Corporation Acts; a year later, a poeticalepistle to Mr. Wilberforce on the Slave Trade; in 1792, a defense ofPublic Worship; and in 1793, a discourse as to a Fast Day upon the Sinsof Government. In 1808 her husband's violent death, the result of a long insanity, prostrated her for a time. Then as a diversion from morbid thought sheundertook an edition of the best English novels in fifty volumes, forwhich she wrote an admirable introductory essay. She also made acompilation from the Spectator, Tatler, Guardian, and Free-holder, witha preliminary discourse, which she published in 1811. It was called 'TheFemale Speaker, ' and intended for young women. The same year her'Eighteen Hundred and Eleven, ' a patriotic didactic poem, woundednational self-love and drew upon her much unfriendly criticism, which sopained her that she would publish no more. But the stirring lines werewidely read, and in them Macaulay found the original of his famoustraveler from New Zealand, who meditates on the ruined arches of LondonBridge. Her prose style, in its light philosophy, its humorouslysympathetic dealing with every-day affairs, has been often compared withAddison's. Her old age was serene and happy, rich in intellectual companionshipsand in the love and respect of many friends. Somewhere she speaks of"that state of middling life to which I have been accustomed and which Ilove. " She disliked extremes, in emotion as in all things, and took whatcame with cheerful courage. The poem 'Life, ' which the self-satisfiedWordsworth wished that he had written, expresses her serene andphilosophic spirit. AGAINST INCONSISTENCY IN OUR EXPECTATIONS As most of the unhappiness in the world arises rather from disappointeddesires than from positive evil, it is of the utmost consequence toattain just notions of the laws and order of the universe, that we maynot vex ourselves with fruitless wishes, or give way to groundless andunreasonable discontent. The laws of natural philosophy, indeed, aretolerably understood and attended to; and though we may sufferinconveniences, we are seldom disappointed in consequence of them. Noman expects to preserve orange-trees in the open air through an Englishwinter; or when he has planted an acorn, to see it become a large oak ina few months. The mind of man naturally yields to necessity; and ourwishes soon subside when we see the impossibility of their beinggratified. Now, upon an accurate inspection, we shall find in the moral governmentof the world, and the order of the intellectual system, laws asdeterminate, fixed, and invariable as any in Newton's 'Principia. ' Theprogress of vegetation is not more certain than the growth of habit; noris the power of attraction more clearly proved than the force ofaffection or the influence of example. The man, therefore, who has wellstudied the operations of nature in mind as well as matter, will acquirea certain moderation and equity in his claims upon Providence. He neverwill be disappointed either in himself or others. He will act withprecision; and expect that effect and that alone, from his efforts, which they are naturally adapted to produce. For want of this, men of merit and integrity often censure thedispositions of Providence for suffering characters they despise to runaway with advantages which, they yet know, are purchased by such meansas a high and noble spirit could never submit to. If you refuse to paythe price, why expect the purchase? We should consider this world as agreat mart of commerce, where fortune exposes to our view variouscommodities, --riches, ease, tranquillity, fame, integrity, knowledge. Everything is marked at a settled price. Our time, our labor, ouringenuity, is so much ready money which we are to lay out to the bestadvantage. Examine, compare, choose, reject; but stand to your ownjudgment: and do not, like children, when you have purchased one thing, repine that you do not possess another which you did not purchase. Suchis the force of well-regulated industry, that a steady and vigorousexertion of our faculties, directed to one end, will generallyinsure success. Would you, for instance, be rich: Do you think that single point worththe sacrificing everything else to? You may then be rich. Thousands havebecome so from the lowest beginnings, by toil, and patient diligence, and attention to the minutest article of expense and profit. But youmust give up the pleasures of leisure, of a vacant mind, of a free, unsuspicious temper. If you preserve your integrity, it must be acoarse-spun and vulgar honesty. Those high and lofty notions of moralswhich you brought with you from the schools must be considerablylowered, and mixed with the baser alloy of a jealous and worldly-mindedprudence. You must learn to do hard if not unjust things; and for thenice embarrassments of a delicate and ingenuous spirit, it is necessaryfor you to get rid of them as fast as possible. You must shut your heartagainst the Muses, and be content to feed your understanding with plain, household truths. In short, you must not attempt to enlarge your ideas, or polish your taste, or refine your sentiments; but must keep on in onebeaten track, without turning aside either to the right hand or to theleft. "But I cannot submit to drudgery like this: I feel a spirit aboveit. " 'Tis well: be above it then; only do not repine that you arenot rich. Is knowledge the pearl of price? That too may be purchased--by steadyapplication, and long solitary hours of study and reflection. Bestowthese, and you shall be wise. "But" (says the man of letters) "what ahardship is it that many an illiterate fellow who cannot construe themotto of the arms on his coach, shall raise a fortune and make a figure, while I have little more than the common conveniences of life. " _Et tibimagni satis_!--Was it in order to raise a fortune that you consumed thesprightly hours of youth in study and retirement? Was it to be rich thatyou grew pale over the midnight lamp, and distilled the sweetness fromthe Greek and Roman spring? You have then mistaken your path, and illemployed your industry. "What reward have I then for all my labors?"What reward! A large, comprehensive soul, well purged from vulgar fearsand perturbations and prejudices; able to comprehend and interpret theworks of man--of God. A rich, flourishing, cultivated mind, pregnantwith inexhaustible stores of entertainment and reflection. A perpetualspring of fresh ideas; and the conscious dignity of superiorintelligence. Good heaven! and what reward can you ask besides? "But is it not some reproach upon the economy of Providence that such aone, who is a mean, dirty fellow, should have amassed wealth enough tobuy half a nation?" Not in the least. He made himself a mean, dirtyfellow for that very end. He has paid his health, his conscience, hisliberty, for it; and will you envy him his bargain? Will you hang yourhead and blush in his presence because he outshines you in equipage andshow? Lift up your brow with a noble confidence, and say to yourself, Ihave not these things, it is true; but it is because I have not sought, because I have not desired them; it is because I possess somethingbetter. I have chosen my lot. I am content and satisfied. You are a modest man--you love quiet and independence, and have adelicacy and reserve in your temper which renders it impossible for youto elbow your way in the world, and be the herald of your own merits. Becontent then with a modest retirement, with the esteem of your intimatefriends, with the praises of a blameless heart, and a delicate, ingenuous spirit; but resign the splendid distinctions of the world tothose who can better scramble for them. The man whose tender sensibility of conscience and strict regard to therules of morality makes him scrupulous and fearful of offending, isoften heard to complain of the disadvantages he lies under in every pathof honor and profit. "Could I but get over some nice points, and conformto the practice and opinion of those about me, I might stand as fair achance as others for dignities and preferment. " And why can you not?What hinders you from discarding this troublesome scrupulosity of yourswhich stands so grievously in your way? If it be a small thing to enjoya healthful mind, sound at the very core, that does not shrink from thekeenest inspection; inward freedom from remorse and perturbation;unsullied whiteness and simplicity of manners; a genuine integrity, "Pure in the last recesses of the mind;" if you think these advantages an inadequate recompense for what youresign, dismiss your scruples this instant, and be a slave-merchant, aparasite, or--what you please. "If these be motives weak, break off betimes;" and as you have not spirit to assert the dignity of virtue, be wiseenough not to forego the emoluments of vice. I much admire the spirit of the ancient philosophers, in that they neverattempted, as our moralists often do, to lower the tone of philosophy, and make it consistent with all the indulgences of indolence andsensuality. They never thought of having the bulk of mankind for theirdisciples; but kept themselves as distinct as possible from a worldlylife. They plainly told men what sacrifices were required, and whatadvantages they were which might be expected. "Si virtus hoc una potest dare, fortis omissis Hoc age deliciis . .. " If you would be a philosopher, these are the terms. You must do thus andthus; there is no other way. If not, go and be one of the vulgar. There is no one quality gives so much dignity to a character asconsistency of conduct. Even if a man's pursuits be wrong andunjustifiable, yet if they are prosecuted with steadiness and vigor, wecannot withhold our admiration. The most characteristic mark of a greatmind is to choose some one important object, and pursue it throughlife. It was this made Cæsar a great man. His object was ambition: hepursued it steadily; and was always ready to sacrifice to it everyinterfering passion or inclination. There is a pretty passage in one of Lucian's dialogues, where Jupitercomplains to Cupid that though he has had so many intrigues, he wasnever sincerely beloved. In order to be loved, says Cupid, you must layaside your aegis and your thunderbolts, and you must curl and perfumeyour hair, and place a garland on your head, and walk with a soft step, and assume a winning, obsequious deportment. But, replied Jupiter, I amnot willing to resign so much of my dignity. Then, returns Cupid, leaveoff desiring to be loved. He wanted to be Jupiter and Adonis at thesame time. It must be confessed that men of genius are of all others most inclinedto make these unreasonable claims. As their relish for enjoyment isstrong, their views large and comprehensive, and they feel themselveslifted above the common bulk of mankind, they are apt to slight thatnatural reward of praise and admiration which is ever largely paid todistinguished abilities; and to expect to be called forth to publicnotice and favor: without considering that their talents are commonlyvery unfit for active life; that their eccentricity and turn forspeculation disqualifies them for the business of the world, which isbest carried on by men of moderate genius; and that society is notobliged to reward any one who is not useful to it. The poets have been avery unreasonable race, and have often complained loudly of the neglectof genius and the ingratitude of the age. The tender and pensive Cowley, and the elegant Shenstone, had their minds tinctured by this discontent;and even the sublime melancholy of Young was too much owing to thestings of disappointed ambition. The moderation we have been endeavoring to inculcate will likewiseprevent much mortification and disgust in our commerce with mankind. Aswe ought not to wish in ourselves, so neither should we expect in ourfriends, contrary qualifications. Young and sanguine, when we enter theworld, and feel our affections drawn forth by any particular excellencein a character, we immediately give it credit for all others; and arebeyond measure disgusted when we come to discover, as we soon mustdiscover, the defects in the other side of the balance. But nature ismuch more frugal than to heap together all manner of shining qualitiesin one glaring mass. Like a judicious painter, she endeavors to preservea certain unity of style and coloring in her pieces. Models of absoluteperfection are only to be met with in romance; where exquisite beauty, and brilliant wit, and profound judgment, and immaculate virtue, are allblended together to adorn some favorite character. As an anatomist knowsthat the racer cannot have the strength and muscles of thedraught-horse; and that winged men, griffins, and mermaids must be merecreatures of the imagination: so the philosopher is sensible that thereare combinations of moral qualities which never can take place but inidea. There is a different air and complexion in characters as well asin faces, though perhaps each equally beautiful; and the excellences ofone cannot be transferred to the other. Thus if one man possesses astoical apathy of soul, acts independent of the opinion of the world, and fulfills every duty with mathematical exactness, you must not expectthat man to be greatly influenced by the weakness of pity, or thepartialities of friendship; you must not be offended that he does notfly to meet you after a short absence, or require from him the convivialspirit and honest effusions of a warm, open, susceptible heart. Ifanother is remarkable for a lively, active zeal, inflexible integrity, astrong indignation against vice, and freedom in reproving it, he willprobably have some little bluntness in his address not altogethersuitable to polished life; he will want the winning arts ofconversation; he will disgust by a kind of haughtiness and negligence inhis manner, and often hurt the delicacy of his acquaintance with harshand disagreeable truths. We usually say--That man is a genius, but he has some whims andoddities--Such a one has a very general knowledge, but he issuperficial, etc. Now in all such cases we should speak more rationally, did we substitute "therefore" for "but": "He is a genius, therefore heis whimsical" and the like. It is the fault of the present age, owing to the freer commerce thatdifferent ranks and professions now enjoy with each other, thatcharacters are not marked with sufficient strength; the several classesrun too much into one another. We have fewer pedants, it is true, but wehave fewer striking originals. Every one is expected to have such atincture of general knowledge as is incompatible with going deep intoany science; and such a conformity to fashionable manners as checks thefree workings of the ruling passion, and gives an insipid sameness tothe face of society, under the idea of polish and regularity. There is a cast of manners peculiar and becoming to each age, sex, andprofession; one, therefore, should not throw out illiberal andcommonplace censures against another. Each is perfect in its kind: awoman as a woman; a tradesman as a tradesman. We are often hurt by thebrutality and sluggish conceptions of the vulgar; not considering thatsome there must be to be hewers of wood and drawers of water, and thatcultivated genius, or even any great refinement and delicacy in theirmoral feelings, would be a real misfortune to them. Let us then study the philosophy of the human mind. The man who ismaster of this science will know what to expect from every one. Fromthis man, wise advice; from that, cordial sympathy; from another, casualentertainment. The passions and inclinations of others are his tools, which he can use with as much precision as he would the mechanicalpowers; and he can as readily make allowance for the workings of vanity, or the bias of self-interest in his friends, as for the power offriction, or the irregularities of the needle. A DIALOGUE OF THE DEAD BETWEEN HELEN AND MADAME MAINTENON _Helen_--Whence comes it, my dear Madame Maintenon, that beauty, whichin the age I lived in produced such extraordinary effects, has now lostalmost all its power? _Maintenon_--I should wish first to be convinced of the fact, before Ioffer to give you a reason for it. _Helen_--That will be very easy; for there is no occasion to go anyfurther than our own histories and experience to prove what I advance. You were beautiful, accomplished, and fortunate; endowed with everytalent and every grace to bend the heart of man and mold it to yourwish; and your schemes were successful; for you raised yourself fromobscurity and dependence to be the wife of a great monarch. --But what isthis to the influence my beauty had over sovereigns and nations! Ioccasioned a long ten-years' war between the most celebrated heroes ofantiquity; contending kingdoms disputed the honor of placing me on theirrespective thrones; my story is recorded by the father of verse; and mycharms make a figure even in the annals of mankind. You were, it istrue, the wife of Louis XIV. , and respected in his court, but youoccasioned no wars; you are not spoken of in the history of France, though you furnished materials for the memoirs of a court. Are the loveand admiration that were paid you merely as an amiable woman to becompared with the enthusiasm I inspired, and the boundless empire Iobtained over all that was celebrated, great, or powerful in the ageI lived in? _Maintenon_--All this, my dear Helen, has a splendid appearance, andsounds well in a heroic poem; but you greatly deceive yourself if youimpute it all to your personal merit. Do you imagine that half thechiefs concerned in the war of Troy were at all influenced by yourbeauty, or troubled their heads what became of you, provided they cameoff with honor? Believe me, love had very little to do in the affair:Menelaus sought to revenge the affront he had received; Agamemnon wasflattered with the supreme command; some came to share the glory, othersthe plunder; some because they had bad wives at home, some in hopes ofgetting Trojan mistresses abroad; and Homer thought the story extremelyproper for the subject of the best poem in the world. Thus you becamefamous; your elopement was made a national quarrel; the animosities ofboth nations were kindled by frequent battles; and the object was notthe restoring of Helen to Menelaus, but the destruction of Troy by theGreeks. --My triumphs, on the other hand, were all owing to myself, andto the influence of personal merit and charms over the heart of man. Mybirth was obscure; my fortunes low; I had past the bloom of youth, andwas advancing to that period at which the generality of our sex lose allimportance with the other; I had to do with a man of gallantry andintrigue, a monarch who had been long familiarized with beauty, andaccustomed to every refinement of pleasure which the most splendid courtin Europe could afford: Love and Beauty seemed to have exhausted alltheir powers of pleasing for him in vain. Yet this man I captivated, Ifixed; and far from being content, as other beauties had been, with thehonor of possessing his heart, I brought him to make me his wife, andgained an honorable title to his tenderest affection. --The infatuationof Paris reflected little honor upon you. A thoughtless youth, gay, tender, and impressible, struck with your beauty, in violation of allthe most sacred laws of hospitality carries you off, and obstinatelyrefuses to restore you to your husband. You seduced Paris from his duty, I recovered Louis from vice; you were the mistress of the Trojan prince, I was the companion of the French monarch. _Helen_--I grant you were the wife of Louis, but not the Queen ofFrance. Your great object was ambition, and in that you met with apartial success;--my ruling star was love, and I gave up everything forit. But tell me, did not I show my influence over Menelaus in his takingme again after the destruction of Troy? _Maintenon_--That circumstance alone is sufficient to show that he didnot love you with any delicacy. He took you as a possession that wasrestored to him, as a booty that he had recovered; and he had notsentiment enough to care whether he had your heart or not. The heroes ofyour age were capable of admiring beauty, and often fought for thepossession of it; but they had not refinement enough to be capable ofany pure, sentimental attachment or delicate passion. Was that periodthe triumph of love and gallantry, when a fine woman and a tripod wereplaced together for prizes at a wrestling-bout, and the tripod esteemedthe most valuable reward of the two? No; it is our Clélia, our Cassandraand Princess of Cleves, that have polished mankind and taught themhow to love. _Helen_--Rather say you have lost sight of nature and passion, betweenbombast on one hand and conceit on the other. Shall one of the coldtemperament of France teach a Grecian how to love? Greece, the parent offair forms and soft desires, the nurse of poetry, whose soft climate andtempered skies disposed to every gentler feeling, and tuned the heart toharmony and love!--was Greece a land of barbarians? But recollect, ifyou can, an incident which showed the power of beauty in strongercolors--that when the grave old counselors of Priam on my appearancewere struck with fond admiration, and could not bring themselves toblame the cause of a war that had almost ruined their country;--you seeI charmed the old as well as seduced the young. _Maintenon_--But I, after I was grown old, charmed the young; I wasidolized in a capital where taste, luxury, and magnificence were at theheight; I was celebrated by the greatest wits of my time, and my lettershave been carefully handed down to posterity. _Helen_--Tell me now sincerely, were you happy in your elevatedfortune? _Maintenon_--- Alas! Heaven knows I was far otherwise: a thousand timesdid I wish for my dear Scarron again. He was a very ugly fellow, it istrue, and had but little money: but the most easy, entertainingcompanion in the world: we danced, laughed, and sung; I spoke withoutfear or anxiety, and was sure to please. With Louis all was gloom, constraint, and a painful solicitude to please--which seldom producesits effect; the king's temper had been soured in the latter part of lifeby frequent disappointments; and I was forced continually to endeavor toprocure him that cheerfulness which I had not myself. Louis wasaccustomed to the most delicate flatteries; and though I had a goodshare of wit, my faculties were continually on the stretch to entertainhim, --a state of mind little consistent with happiness or ease; I wasafraid to advance my friends or punish my enemies. My pupils at St. Cyrwere not more secluded from the world in a cloister than I was in thebosom of the court; a secret disgust and weariness consumed me. I had norelief but in my work and books of devotion; with these alone I had agleam of happiness. _Helen_--Alas! one need not have married a great monarch for that. _Maintenon_--But deign to inform me, Helen, if you were really asbeautiful as fame reports? for to say truth, I cannot in your shade seethe beauty which for nine long years had set the world in arms. _Helen_--Honestly, no: I was rather low, and something sunburnt; but Ihad the good fortune to please; that was all. I was greatly obligedto Homer. _Maintenon_--And did you live tolerably with Menelaus after all youradventures? _Helen_--As well as possible. Menelaus was a good-natured domestic man, and was glad to sit down and end his days in quiet. I persuaded him thatVenus and the Fates were the cause of all my irregularities, which hecomplaisantly believed. Besides, I was not sorry to return home: for totell you a secret, Paris had been unfaithful to me long before hisdeath, and was fond of a little Trojan brunette whose office it was tohold up my train; but it was thought dishonorable to give me up. I beganto think love a very foolish thing: I became a great housekeeper, workedthe battles of Troy in tapestry, and spun with my maids by the side ofMenelaus, who was so satisfied with my conduct, and behaved, good man, with so much fondness, that I verily think this was the happiest periodof my life. _Maintenon_--Nothing more likely; but the most obscure wife in Greececould rival you there. --Adieu! you have convinced me how little fame andgreatness conduce to happiness. LIFE Life! I know not what thou art, But know that thou and I must part; And when or how or where we met, I own to me's a secret yet. But this I know, when thou art fled, Where'er they lay these limbs, this head, No clod so valueless shall be, As all that then remains of me. O whither, whither dost thou fly, Where bend unseen thy trackless course, And in this strange divorce, Ah, tell where I must seek this compound I? To the vast ocean of empyreal flame, From whence thy essence came, Dost thou thy flight pursue, when freed From matter's base encumbering weed? Or dost thou, hid from sight, Wait, like some spell-bound knight, Through blank oblivion's years th' appointed hour, To break thy trance and reassume thy power? Yet canst thou without thought or feeling be? O say what art thou, when no more thou'rt thee? Life! we've been long together, Through pleasant and through cloudy weather; 'Tis hard to part when friends are dear; Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear; Then steal away, give little warning, Choose thine own time; Say not good-night, but in some brighter clime Bid me good-morning. PRAISE TO GOD Praise to God, immortal praise, For the love that crowns our days-- Bounteous source of every joy, Let Thy praise our tongues employ! For the blessings of the field, For the stores the gardens yield, For the vine's exalted juice, For the generous olive's use; Flocks that whiten all the plain, Yellow sheaves of ripened grain, Clouds that drop their fattening dews, Suns that temperate warmth diffuse-- All that Spring, with bounteous hand, Scatters o'er the smiling land; All that liberal Autumn pours From her rich o'erflowing stores: These to Thee, my God, we owe-- Source whence all our blessings flow! And for these my soul shall raise Grateful vows and solemn praise. Yet should rising whirlwinds tear From its stem the ripening ear-- Should the fig-tree's blasted shoot Drop her green untimely fruit-- Should the vine put forth no more, Nor the olive yield her store-- Though the sickening flocks should fall, And the herds desert the stall-- Should Thine altered hand restrain The early and the latter rain, Blast each opening bud of joy, And the rising year destroy: Yet to Thee my soul should raise Grateful vows and solemn praise, And, when every blessing's flown, Love Thee--for Thyself alone. ALEXANDER BARCLAY (1475-1552) Barclay's reputation rests upon his translation of the famous 'Ship ofFools' and his original 'Eclogues. ' A controversy as to the land of hisbirth--an event which happened about the year 1475--has lasted from hiscentury to our own. The decision in favor of Scotland rests upon thetestimony of two witnesses: first, Dr. William Bullim, a youngercontemporary of Barclay, who mentions him in 'A Dialogue Both Pleasauntand Pietifull Wherein is a Godlie Regement Against the Fever Pestilencewith a Consolation and Comforte Against Death, ' which was published in1564; and secondly, Barclay himself. Bullim groups the Muses at the foot of Parnassus, and gathers about themGreek and Latin poets, and such Englishmen as Chaucer, Gower, Skelton, and Barclay, the latter "with an hoopyng russet long coate, with apretie hood in his necke, and five knottes upon his girdle, afterFrancis's tricks. He was borne beyond the cold river of Twede. He lodgedupon a sweetebed of chamomill under the sinamone-tree: about him manyshepherdes and shepe, with pleasaunte pipes; greatly abhorring the lifeof Courtiers, Citizens, Usurers, and Banckruptes, etc. , whose daies aremiserable. And the estate of shepherdes and countrie people he accomptedmoste happie and sure. " Deprived of its poetic fancy, this passage meansthat Barclay was a monk of the order of St. Francis, that he was bornnorth of the Tweed, that his verse was infused with such bitterness andtonic qualities as camomile possesses, and that he advocated the causeof the country people in his independent and admirable 'Eclogues, 'another title for the first three of which is 'Miseryes of Courtiers andCourtes of all Princes in General. ' Barclay was educated at Oxford and Cambridge, and upon his return toEngland after several years of residence abroad, he was made one of thepriests of Saint Mary Ottery, an institution of devout practice andlearning in Devonshire. Here in 1508 was finished 'The Shyp of Folys ofthe Worlde translated out of Laten, Frenche, and Doche into Englysshetonge by Alexander Barclay, Preste, and at that time chaplen in thesayd College. ' After his work was completed Barclay went to London, where his poem was"imprentyd . .. In Fleet Street at the signe of Saynt George by RychardePyreson to hys Coste and charge: ended the yere of our Saviour MDIX. The XIII. Day of December. " That he became a Benedictine and lived atthe monastery of the order at Ely is evident from his 'Eclogues. ' Herehe translated at the instance of Sir Giles Arlington, Knight, 'TheMyrrour of Good Maners, ' from a Latin elegiac poem which Dominic Mancinipublished in the year 1516. "It was about this period of his life, " says Mr. Jamieson in hisadmirable edition of the 'Ship of Fools, ' "probably the period of thefull bloom of his popularity, that the quiet life of the poet and priestwas interrupted by the recognition of his eminence in the highestquarters, and by a request for his aid in maintaining the honor of thecountry on an occasion to which the eyes of all Europe were thendirected. In a letter to Wolsey dated 10th April, 1520, Sir NicholasVaux--busied with the preparation for that meeting of Henry VIII andFrancis I called the Field of the Cloth of Gold--begs the Cardinal tosend them . .. Maistre Barkleye, the Black Monke and Poete, to devisehistoires and convenient raisons to florisshe the buildings and banquethouse withal. " He became a Franciscan, the habit of which order Bullim refers to; and"sure 'tis, " says Wood, "that living to see his monastery dissolv'd, in1539, at the general dissolution by act of Henry VIII, he became vicarof Much Badew in Essex, and in 1546, the same year, of the Church of St. Matthew the Apostle at Wokey, in Somersetshire, and finally in 1552, theyear in which he died, of that of All Saints, Lombard Street, London. Inhis younger days he was esteemed a good poet and orator, but when yearscame on, he spent his time mostly in pious matters, and in reading thehistories of Saints. " 'The Ship of Fools' is the most important work associated with Barclay'sname. It was a translation of Sebastian Brandt's 'Stultifera Navis, ' abook which had attracted universal attention on the Continent when itappeared in 1494. In his preface, Barclay admits that "it is nottranslated word by word according to the verses of my actor. For I havebut only drawn into our mother tongue in rude language the sentences ofthe verses as near as the paucity of my wit will suffer me, sometimeadding, sometime detracting and taking away such things as seemeth menecessary. " The classes and conditions of society that Barclay knew wereas deserving of satire as those of Germany. He tells us that his workwas undertaken "to cleanse the vanity and madness of foolish people, ofwhom over great number is in the Realm of England. " The diction of Barclay's version is exceptionally fine. Jamieson callsit "a rich and unique exhibition of early art, " and says:--"Page afterpage, even in the antique spelling of Pynson's edition, may be read bythe ordinary reader of to-day without reference to a dictionary; andwhen reference is required, it will be found in nine cases out of tenthat the archaism is Saxon, not Latin. This is all the more remarkablethat it occurs in the case of a priest translating mainly from the Latinand French, and can only be explained with reference to his standpointas a social reformer of the broadest type, and to his evident intentionthat his book should be an appeal to all classes, but especially to themass of people for amendment of their follies. " As the original work belonged to the German satirist, the extract fromthe 'Ship of Fools' is placed under the essay entitled 'SebastianBrandt. ' His 'Eclogues' show Barclay at his best. They portray themanners and customs of the period, and are full of local proverbs andwise sayings. According to Warton, Barclay's are the first 'Eclogues'that appeared in the English language. "They are like Petrarch's, " hesays, "and Mantuans of the moral and satirical kind; and contain but fewtouches of moral description and bucolic imagery. " Two shepherds meet totalk about the pleasures and crosses of rustic life and life at court. The hoary locks of the one show that he is old. His suit of Kendal greenis threadbare, his rough boots are patched, and the torn side of hiscoat reveals a bottle never full and never empty. His wallet containsbread and cheese; he has a crook, and an oaten pipe. His name is Cornix, and he boasts that he has had worldly experience. The other shepherd, Coridon, having seen nothing, complains of country life. He grumbles atthe summer's heat and the winter's cold; at beds on the flinty ground, and the dangers of sleeping where the wolves may creep in to devour thesheep; of his stiff rough hands, and his parched, wrinkled, andweather-beaten skin. He asks whether all men are so unhappy. Cornix, refreshing himself at intervals with his bottle and crusts, shows himthe small amount of liberty at court, discourses upon the folly ofambition, lays bare the rapine, avarice, and covetousness of theworldly-minded, and demonstrates that the court is "painted fairwithout, but within it is ugly and vile. " He then gives the picture of acourtier's life, which is cited below. He tells how the minstrels andsingers, philosophers, poets, and orators are but the slaves ofpatronizing princes; how beautiful women deceive; describes to him, whohas known nothing but a diet of bread and cheese, the delights of thetable; dilates on the cups of silver and gold, and the crystal glassshining with red and yellow wine; the sewers bearing in roasted crane, gorgeous peacocks, and savory joints of beef and mutton; the carverwielding his dexterous knife; the puddings, the pasties, the fish friedin sweet oils and garnished with herbs; the costumes of the men andwomen in cloth of gold and silver and gay damask; the din of music, voices, laughter, and jests; and then paints a picture of the lords andladies who plunge their knives into the meats and their hands intoplatters, spilling wine and gravy upon their equally gluttonousneighbors. He finishes by saying:-- "Shepherds have not so wretched lives as they: Though they live poorely on cruddes, chese, and whey, On apples, plummes, and drinke cleree water deepe, As it were lordes reigning among their sheepe. The wretched lazar with clinking of his bell, Hath life which doth the courtiers excell; The caytif begger hath meate and libertie, When courtiers hunger in harde captivitie. The poore man beggeth nothing hurting his name, As touching courters they dare not beg for shame. And an olde proverb is sayde by men moste sage, That oft yonge courters be beggars in their age. " The third 'Eclogue' begins with Coridon relating a dream that he went tocourt and saw the scullions standing "about me thicke With knives ready for to flay me quicke. " This is a text for Cornix, who continues his tirade, and convincesCoridon of the misery of the court and his happier life, ending asfollows:-- "Than let all shepheardes, from hence to Salisbury With easie riches, live well, laugh and be mery, Pipe under shadowes, small riches hath most rest, In greatest seas moste sorest is tempest, The court is nought els but a tempesteous sea; Avoyde the rockes. He ruled after me. " The fourth 'Eclogue' is a dialogue on the rich man's treatment of poets, by two shepherds, Codrus and Menalcas, musing in "shadowe on the green, "while their snowy flocks graze on the sweet meadow. This contains a fineallegorical description of 'Labour. ' The fifth 'Eclogue' is the 'Cytezen and the Uplondyshman. ' Here thescene changes, and two shepherds, Faustus and Amyntas, discourse in acottage while the snows of January whirl without. Amyntas has learned inLondon "to go so manerly. " Not a wrinkle may be found in his clothes, not a hair on his cloak, and he wears a brooch of tin high on hisbonnet. He has been hostler, costermonger, and taverner, and sings thedelights of the city. Faustus, the rustic, is contented with his lot. The 'Cytezen and the Uplondyshman' was printed from the original editionof Wynkyn de Worde, with a preface by F. W. Fairholt, Percy Society(Vol. Xxii. ). Other works ascribed to Barclay are:--'The Figure of Our Holy MotherChurch, Oppressed by the French King'; 'The Lyfe of the Glorious MartyrSaynt George, ' translated (from Mantuan) by Alexander Barclay; 'The Lyfeof the Blessed Martyr, Saynte Thomas'; 'Contra Skeltonum, ' in which thequarrel he had with his contemporary poet, John Skelton, was doubtlesscontinued. Estimates of Barclay may be found in 'The Ship of Fools, ' edited by T. H. Jamieson (1874); 'Sibbald's Chronicle of Scottish Poetry, ' from thethirteenth century to the union of the crowns (1802); 'The History ofEnglish Poetry, ' by Thomas Warton (1824); 'The History of ScottishPoetry, ' by David Irving (1861); and 'Chips from a German Workshop, ' byF. Max Müller (1870). THE COURTIER'S LIFE Second Eclogue CORNIX Some men deliteth beholding men to fight, Or goodly knights in pleasaunt apparayle, Or sturdie soldiers in bright harnes and male, Or an army arrayde ready to the warre, Or to see them fight, so that he stand afarre. Some glad is to see those ladies beauteous Goodly appoynted in clothing sumpteous: A number of people appoynted in like wise In costly clothing after the newest gise, Sportes, disgising, fayre coursers mount and praunce, Or goodly ladies and knightes sing and daunce, To see fayre houses and curious picture, Or pleasaunt hanging or sumpteous vesture Of silke, of purpure or golde moste oriente, And other clothing divers and excellent, Hye curious buildinges or palaces royall, Or chapels, temples fayre and substantial, Images graven or vaultes curious, Gardeyns and medowes, or place delicious, Forestes and parkes well furnished with dere, Cold pleasaunt streams or welles fayre and clere, Curious cundites or shadowie mountaynes, Swete pleasaunt valleys, laundes or playnes, Houndes, and such other things manyfolde Some men take pleasour and solace to beholde. But all these pleasoures be much more jocounde, To private persons which not to court be bounde, Than to such other whiche of necessitie Are bounde to the court as in captivitie; For they which be bounde to princes without fayle When they must nedes be present in battayle, When shall they not be at large to see the sight, But as souldiours in the middest of the fight, To runne here and there sometime his foe to smite, And oftetimes wounded, herein is small delite, And more muste he think his body to defende, Than for any pleasour about him to intende, And oft is he faynt and beaten to the grounde, I trowe in suche sight small pleasour may be founde. As for fayre ladies, clothed in silke and golde, In court at thy pleasour thou canst not beholde. At thy princes pleasour thou shalt them only see, Then suche shalt thou see which little set by thee, Whose shape and beautie may so inflame thine heart, That thought and languor may cause thee for to smart. For a small sparcle may kindle love certayne, But skantly Severne may quench it clene againe; And beautie blindeth and causeth man to set His hearte on the thing which he shall never get. To see men clothed in silkes pleasauntly It is small pleasour, and ofte causeth envy. While thy lean jade halteth by thy side, To see another upon a, courser ride, Though he be neyther gentleman nor knight, Nothing is thy fortune, thy hart cannot be light. As touching sportes and games of pleasaunce. To sing, to revell, and other daliaunce: Who that will truely upon his lord attende, Unto suche sportes he seldome may entende. Palaces, pictures, and temples sumptuous, And other buildings both gay and curious, These may marchauntes more at their pleasour see, Men suche as in court be bounde alway to bee. Sith kinges for moste part passe not their regions, Thou seest nowe cities of foreyn nations. Suche outwarde pleasoures may the people see, So may not courtiers for lacke of libertie. As for these pleasours of thinges vanable Whiche in the fieldes appeareth delectable, But seldome season mayest thou obtayne respite. The same to beholde with pleasour and delite, Sometime the courtier remayneth halfe the yere Close within walls muche like a prisonere, To make escapes some seldome times are wont, Save when the powers have pleasour for to hunt, Or its otherwise themselfe to recreate, And then this pleasour shall they not love but hate; For then shall they foorth most chiefely to their payne, When they in mindes would at home remayne. Other in the frost, hayle, or els snowe, Or when some tempest or mightie wind doth blowe, Or else in great heat and fervour excessife, But close in houses the moste parte waste their life, Of colour faded, and choked were with duste: This is of courtiers the joy and all the lust. CORIDON What! yet may they sing and with fayre ladies daunce, Both commen and laugh; herein is some pleasaunce. CORNIX Nay, nay, Coridon, that pleasour is but small, Some to contente what man will pleasour call, For some in the daunce his pincheth by the hande, Which gladly would see him stretched in a bande. Some galand seketh his favour to purchase Which playne abhorreth for to beholde his face. And still in dauncing moste parte inclineth she To one muche viler and more abject then he. No day over passeth but that in court men finde A thousande thinges to vexe and greve their minde; Alway thy foes are present in thy sight, And often so great is their degree and might That nedes must thou kisse the hand which did thee harm, Though thou would see it cut gladly from the arme. And briefly to speake, if thou to courte resorte, If thou see one thing of pleasour or comfort, Thou shalt see many, before or thou depart, To thy displeasour and pensiveness of heart: So findeth thy sight there more of bitternes And of displeasour, than pleasour and gladnes. RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM (1788-1845) The author of the 'Ingoldsby Legends' belonged to a well-defined anddelightful class of men, chiefly found in modern England, and indeedmostly bred and made possible by the conditions of English society andthe Anglican Church. It is that of clergymen who in the public eye arechiefly wits and diners-out, jokers and literary humorists, yet areconscientious and devoted ministers of their religion and curators oftheir religious charges, honoring their profession and humanity by trueand useful lives and lovable characters. They are men of the sortloathed by Lewis Carroll's heroine in the 'Two Voices, ' "a kind of folk Who have no horror of a joke, " and indeed love it dearly, but are as firm in principle andunostentatiously dutiful in conduct as if they were leaden Puritans ornarrow devotees. [Illustration: RICHARD H. BARHAM] By far the best remembered of this class, for themselves or their work, are Sydney Smith and Richard Harris Barham; but their relative repute isone of the oddest paradoxes in literary history. Roughly speaking, theone is remembered and unread, the other read and unremembered. SydneySmith's name is almost as familiar to the masses as Scott's, and fewcould tell a line that he wrote; Barham's writing is almost as familiaras Scott's, and few would recognize his name. Yet he is in the foremostrank of humorists; his place is wholly unique, and is likely to remainso. It will be an age before a similar combination of tastes andabilities is found once more. Macaulay said truly of Sir Walter Scottthat he "combined the minute learning of an antiquary with the fire of agreat poet. " Barham combined a like learning in different fields, andjoined to a different outlook and temper of mind, with the quickperceptions of a great wit, the brimming zest and high spirits of agreat joker, the genial nature and lightness of a born man of the world, and the gifts of a wonderful improvisatore in verse. Withal, he had justenough of serious purpose to give much of his work a certain measure ofcohesive unity, and thus impress it on the mind as no collection ofrandom skits could do. That purpose is the feathering which steadies thearrows and sends them home. It is pleasant to know that one who has given so good a time to othershad a very good time himself; that we are not, as so often happens, relishing a farce that stood for tragedy with the maker, andsubstituting our laughter for his tears. Barham had the cruel sorrows ofpersonal bereavement so few escape; but in material things his careerwas wholly among pleasant ways. He was well born and with means, welleducated, well nurtured. He was free from the sordid squabbles oranxious watching and privation which fall to the lot of so many of thebest. He was happy in his marriage and its attendant home and family, and most fortunate in his friendships and the superb society he enjoyed. His birth and position as a gentleman of good landed family, combinedwith his profession, opened all doors to him. But it was the qualities personal to himself, after all, which madethese things available for enjoyment. His desires were moderate; hecounted success what more eager and covetous natures might have esteemedcomparative failure. His really strong intellect and wide knowledge andcultivation enabled him to meet the foremost men of letters on equalterms. His kind heart, generous nature, exuberant fun, and entertainingconversation endeared him to every one and made his company sought byevery one; they saved much trouble from coming upon him and lightenedwhat did come. And no blight could have withered that perennial fountainof jollity, drollery, and light-heartedness. But these were only theornaments of a stanchly loyal and honorable nature, and a lovable andunselfish soul. One of his friends writes of him thus:-- "The profits of agitating pettifoggers would have materially lessened in a district where he acted as a magistrate; and duels would have been nipped in the bud at his regimental mess. It is not always an easy task to do as you would be done by; but to think as you would be thought of and thought for, and to feel as you would be felt for, is perhaps still more difficult, as superior powers of tact and intellect are here required in order to second good intentions. These faculties, backed by an uncompromising love of truth and fair dealing, indefatigable good nature, and a nice sense of what was due to every one in the several relations of life, both gentle and simple, rendered our late friend invaluable, either as an adviser or a peacemaker, in matters of delicate and difficult handling. " Barham was born in Canterbury, England, December 6th, 1788, and died inLondon, June 17th, 1845. His ancestry was superior, the family havingderived its name from possessions in Kent in Norman days. He lost hisfather--a genial _bon vivant_ of literary tastes who seems like areduced copy of his son--when but five years old; and became heir to afair estate, including Tappington Hall, the picturesque old gabledmansion so often imaginatively misdescribed in the 'Ingoldsby Legends, 'but really having the famous blood-stained stairway. He had an expensiveprivate education, which was nearly ended with his life at the age offourteen by a carriage accident which shattered and mangled his rightarm, crippling it permanently. As so often happens, the disaster wasreally a piece of good fortune: it turned him to or confirmed him inquiet antiquarian scholarship, and established connections whichultimately led to the 'Legends'; he may owe immortality to it. After passing through St. Paul's (London) and Brasenose (Oxford), hestudied law, but finally entered the church. After a couple of smallcuracies in Kent, he was made rector of Snargate and curate of Warehorn, near Romney Marsh; all four in a district where smuggling was a chiefindustry, and the Marsh in especial a noted haunt of desperadoes (forsmugglers then took their lives in their hands), of which the 'Legends'are rich in reminiscences. In 1819, during this incumbency, he wrote anovel, 'Baldwin, ' which was a failure; and part of another, 'My CousinNicholas, ' which, finished fifteen years later, had fair success as aserial in Blackwood's Magazine. An opportunity offering in 1821, he stood for a minor canonry in St. Paul's Cathedral, London, and obtained it; his income was less thanbefore, but he had entered the metropolitan field, which brought himrich enjoyment and permanent fame. He paid a terrible price for them:his unhealthy London house cost him the lives of three of his children. To make up for his shortened means he became editor of the LondonChronicle and a contributor to various other periodicals, including thenotorious weekly John Bull, sometime edited by Theodore Hook. In 1824 hebecame a priest in the Chapel Royal at St. James's Palace, and soonafter gained a couple of excellent livings in Essex, which put him atease financially. He was inflexible in principle, a firm Tory, though without rancor. Hewas very High Church, but had no sympathy with the Oxford movement orCatholicism. He preached careful and sober sermons, without oratoricaldisplay and with rigid avoidance of levity. He would not make the churcha field either for fireworks or jokes, or even for displays ofscholarship or intellectual gymnastics. In his opinion, religiousestablishments were kept up to advance religion and morals. And both heand his wife wrought zealously in the humble but exacting field ofparochial good works. He was, however, fast becoming one of the chief ornaments of thatbrilliant group of London wits whose repute still vibrates from theearly part of the century. Many of them--actors, authors, artists, musicians, and others met at the Garrick Club, and Barham joined it. Thenames of Sydney Smith and Theodore Hook are enough to show what it was;but there were others equally delightful, --not the least so, or leastuseful, a few who could not see a joke at all, and whose simplicity andgood nature made them butts for the hoaxes and solemn chaff of the rest. Barbara's diary, quoted in his son's (Life, ) gives an exquisiteinstance. In 1834 his old schoolmaster Bentley established Bentley's Miscellany;and Barham was asked for contributions. The first he sent was theamusing but quite "conceivable" (Spectre of Tappington); but there soonbegan the immortal series of versified local stories, legendary churchmiracles, antiquarian curios, witty summaries of popular plays, skits onLondon life, and so on, under the pseudonym of 'Thomas Ingoldsby, ' whichsprang instantly into wide popularity, and have never fallen from publicfavor since--nor can they till appreciation of humor is dead in theworld. They were collected and illustrated by Leech, Cruikshank, andothers, who were inspired by them to some of their best designs: perhapsthe most perfect realization in art of the Devil in his moments ofjocose triumph is Leech's figure in 'The House-Warming. ' A later seriesappeared in Colburn's New Monthly Magazine in 1843. He wrote some excellent pieces (of their kind) in prose, besides the onealready mentioned: the weird and well-constructed 'Leech of Folkestone'and the 'Passage in the Life of Henry Harris, ' both half-serious talesof mediaeval magic; the thoroughly Ingoldsbian 'Legend of Sheppey, ' withits irreverent farce, high animal spirits, and antiquarianism; theequally characteristic 'Lady Rohesia, ' which would be vulgar but for hissly wit and drollery. But none of these are as familiar as the versified'Legends, ' nor have they the astonishing variety of entertainment foundin the latter. The 'Ingoldsby Legends' have been called an English naturalization ofthe French metrical _contes;_ but Barham owes nothing to his Frenchmodels save the suggestion of method and form. Not only is his matterall his own, but he has _Anglified_ the whole being of the metrical formitself. His facility of versification, the way in which the wholelanguage seems to be liquid in his hands and ready to pour into anychannel of verse, was one of the marvelous things of literature. It didnot need the free random movement of the majority of the tales, wherethe lines may be anything from one foot to six, from spondaic todactylic: in some of them he tied himself down to the most rigid andinflexible metrical forms, and moved as lightly and freely in thosefetters as if they were non-existent. As to the astonishing rhymes whichmeet us at every step, they form in themselves a poignant kind of wit;often double and even treble, one word rhyming with an entire phrase orone phrase with another, --not only of the oddest kind, but as nicelyadapted to the necessities of expression and meaning as if intended orinvented for that purpose alone, --they produce on us the effect of therichest humor. One of his most diverting "properties" is the set of "morals" he drawsto everything, of nonsensical literalness and infantile gravity, theperfection of solemn fooling. Thus in the 'Lay of St. Cuthbert, ' wherethe Devil has captured the heir of the house, "Whom the nurse had forgot and left there in his chair, Alternately sucking his thumb and his pear, " the moral is drawn, among others, -- "Perhaps it's as well to keep children from plums, And pears in their season--and sucking their thumbs. " And part of the moral to the 'Lay of St. Medard' is-- "Don't give people nicknames! don't, even in fun, Call any one 'snuff-colored son of a gun'!" And they generally wind up with some slyly shrewd piece of worldlywisdom and wit. Thus, the closing moral to 'The Blasphemer'sWarning' is:-- "To married men this--For the rest of your lives, Think how your misconduct may act on your wives! Don't swear then before them, lest haply they faint, Or--what sometimes occurs--run away with a Saint!" Often they are broader yet, and intended for the club rather than thefamily. Indeed, the tales as a whole are club tales, with an audience ofclub-men always in mind; not, be it remembered, bestialities like theirFrench counterparts, or the later English and American improvements onthe French, not even objectionable for general reading, but full ofexclusively masculine joking, allusions, and winks, unintelligible tothe other sex, and not welcome if they were intelligible. He has plenty of melody, but it is hardly recognized because of thedoggerel meaning, which swamps the music in the farce. And this appliesto more important things than the melody. The average reader floats onthe surface of this rapid and foamy stream, covered with sticks andstraws and flowers and bonbons, and never realizes its depth and volume. This light frothy verse is only the vehicle of a solid and laboriousantiquarian scholarship, of an immense knowledge of the world andsociety, books and men. He modestly disclaimed having any imagination, and said he must always have facts to work upon. This was true; but thesame may be said of some great poets, who have lacked invention exceptaround a skeleton ready furnished. What was true of Keats and Fitzgeraldcannot nullify the merit of Barham. His fancy erected a huge andconsistent superstructure on a very slender foundation. The samematerials lay ready to the hands of thousands of others, who, however, saw only stupid monkish fables or dull country superstition. His own explanation of his handling of the church legends tickles acritic's sense of humor almost as much as the verses themselves. It istrue that while differing utterly in his tone of mind, and his attitudetoward the mediaeval stories, from that of the mediaeval artists andsculptors, --whose gargoyles and other grotesques were carved without athought of travesty on anything religious, --he is at one with them incombining extreme irreverence of form with a total lack of irreverenceof spirit toward the real spiritual mysteries of religion. He burlesquessaints and devils alike, mocks the swarm of miracles of the mediaevalChurch, makes salient all the ludicrous aspects of mediaeval religiousfaith in its devout credulity and barbarous gropings; yet he neversneers at holiness or real aspiration, and through all the riot of funin his masques, one feels the sincere Christian and the warm-heartedman. But he was evidently troubled by the feeling that a clergyman oughtnot to ridicule any form in which religious feeling had ever clotheditself; and he justified himself by professing that he wished to exposethe absurdity of old superstitions and mummeries to help countervail theeffect of the Oxford movement. Ingoldsby as a soldier of Protestantism, turning monkish stories into rollicking farces in order to show up whathe conceived to be the errors of his opponents, is as truly Ingoldsbiana figure as any in his own 'Legends. ' Yet one need not accuse him ofhypocrisy or falsehood, hardly even of self-deception. He felt that deadsuperstitions, and stories not reverenced even by the Church thatdeveloped them, were legitimate material for any use he could make ofthem; he felt that in dressing them up with his wit and fancy he washarming nothing that existed, nor making any one look lightly on thereligion of Christ or the Church of Christ: and that they were theproperty of an opposing church body was a happy thought to set hisconscience at rest. He wrote them thenceforth with greater peace of mindand added satisfaction, and no doubt really believed that he was doinggood in the way he alleged. And if the excuse gave to the world even onemore of the inimitable 'Legends, ' it was worth feeling and making. Barham's nature was not one which felt the problems and tragedies of theworld deeply. He grieved for his friends, he helped the distresses hesaw, but his imagination rested closely in the concrete. He wasincapable of _weltschmerz_; even for things just beyond his personalken he had little vision or fancy. His treatment of the perpetualproblem of sex-temptations and lapses is a good example: he never seemsto be conscious of the tragedy they envelop. To him they are always goodjokes, to wink over or smile at or be indulgent to. No one would everguess from 'Ingoldsby' the truth he finds even in 'Don Juan, ' that "A heavy price must all pay who thus err, In some shape. " But we cannot have everything: if Barham had been sensitive to thetragic side of life, he could not have been the incomparable fun-makerhe was. We do not go to the 'Ingoldsby Legends' to solace our souls whenhurt or remorseful, to brace ourselves for duty, or to feel ourselvesnobler by contact with the expression of nobility. But there must beplay and rest for the senses, as well as work and aspiration; and thereare worse services than relieving the strain of serious endeavor byenabling us to become jolly pagans once again for a little space, andcare naught for the morrow. AS I LAYE A-THYNKYNGE THE LAST LINES OF BARHAM As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, Merrie sang the Birde as she sat upon the spraye; There came a noble Knighte, With his hauberke shynynge brighte, And his gallant heart was lyghte, Free and gaye; As I laye a-thynkynge, he rode upon his waye. As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, Sadly sang the Birde as she sat upon the tree! There seemed a crimson plain, Where a gallant Knyghte lay slayne, And a steed with broken rein Ran free, As I laye a-thynkynge, most pitiful to see! As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, Merrie sang the Birde as she sat upon the boughe; A lovely mayde came bye, And a gentil youth was nyghe, And he breathed many a syghe, And a vowe; As I laye a-thynkynge, her hearte was gladsome now. As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, Sadly sang the Birde as she sat upon the thorne; No more a youth was there, But a Maiden rent her haire, And cried in sad despaire, "That I was borne!" As I laye a-thynkynge, she perished forlorne. As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, Sweetly sang the Birde as she sat upon the briar; There came a lovely childe, And his face was meek and milde, Yet joyously he smiled On his sire; As I laye a-thynkynge, a Cherub mote admire. But I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, And sadly sang the Birde as it perched upon a bier; That joyous smile was gone, And the face was white and wan, As the downe upon the Swan Doth appear, As I laye a-thynkynge, --oh! bitter flowed the tear! As I laye a-thynkynge, the golden sun was sinking, Oh, merrie sang that Birde, as it glittered on her breast With a thousand gorgeous dyes; While soaring to the skies, 'Mid the stars she seemed to rise, As to her nest; As I laye a-thynkynge, her meaning was exprest:-- "Follow me away, It boots not to delay, "-- 'Twas so she seemed to saye, "HERE IS REST!" THE LAY OF ST. CUTHBERT OR THE DEVIL'S DINNER-PARTY A LEGEND OF THE NORTH COUNTREE Nobilis quidam, cui nomen _Monsr. Lescrop, Chivaler_, cum invitassetconvivas, et, hora convivii jam instante et apparatu facto, spefrustratus esset, excusantibus se convivis cur non compararent, prorupitiratus in haec verba: "_Veniant igitur omnes dæmones, si nullus hominummecum esse potest_!" Quod cum fieret, et Dominus, et famuli, et ancillæ, a domo properantes, forte obliti, infantem in cunis jacentem secum non auferent, Dæmonesincipiunt commessari et vociferari, prospicereque per fenestras formisursorum, luporum, felium, et monstrare pocula vino repleta. _Ah_, inquitpater, _ubi infans meus?_ Vix cum haec dixisset, unus ex Dæmonibus ulnissuis infantem ad fenestram gestat, etc. --_Chronicon de Bolton_. It's in Bolton Hall, and the clock strikes One, And the roast meat's brown and the boiled meat's done, And the barbecued sucking-pig's crisped to a turn, And the pancakes are fried and beginning to burn; The fat stubble-goose Swims in gravy and juice, With the mustard and apple-sauce ready for use; Fish, flesh, and fowl, and all of the best, Want nothing but eating--they're all ready drest, But where is the Host, and where is the Guest? Pantler and serving-man, henchman and page Stand sniffing the duck-stuffing (onion and sage), And the scullions and cooks, With fidgety looks, Are grumbling and mutt'ring, and scowling as black As cooks always do when the dinner's put back; For though the board's deckt, and the napery, fair As the unsunned snow-flake, is spread out with care, And the Dais is furnished with stool and with chair, And plate of _orféverie_ costly and rare, Apostle-spoons, salt-cellar, all are there, And Mess John in his place, With his rubicund face, And his hands ready folded, prepared to say Grace, Yet where is the Host?--and his convives--where? The Scroope sits lonely in Bolton Hall, And he watches the dial that hangs by the wall, He watches the large hand, he watches the small, And he fidgets and looks As cross as the cooks, And he utters--a word which we'll soften to "Zooks!" And he cries, "What on earth has become of them all?-- What can delay De Vaux and De Saye? What makes Sir Gilbert de Umfraville stay? What's gone with Poyntz, and Sir Reginald Braye? Why are Ralph Ufford and Marny away? And De Nokes and De Styles, and Lord Marmaduke Grey? And De Roe? And De Doe? Poynings and Vavasour--where be they? Fitz-Walter, Fitz-Osbert, Fitz-Hugh, and Fitz-John, And the Mandevilles, _père et filz_ (father and son); Their cards said 'Dinner precisely at One!' There's nothing I hate, in The world, like waiting! It's a monstrous great bore, when a Gentleman feels A good appetite, thus to be kept from his meals!" It's in Bolton Hall, and the clock strikes Two! And the scullions and cooks are themselves "in a stew, " And the kitchen-maids stand, and don't know what to do, For the rich plum-puddings are bursting their bags, And the mutton and turnips are boiling to rags, And the fish is all spoiled, And the butter's all oiled, And the soup's got cold in the silver tureen, And there's nothing, in short, that is fit to be seen! While Sir Guy Le Scroope continues to fume, And to fret by himself in the tapestried room, And still fidgets and looks More cross than the cooks, And repeats that bad word, which we've softened to "Zooks!" Two o'clock's come, and Two o'clock's gone, And the large and the small hands move steadily on, Still nobody's there, No De Roos, or De Clare, To taste of the Scroope's most delicate fare, Or to quaff off a health unto Bolton's Heir, That nice little boy who sits in his chair, Some four years old, and a few months to spare, With his laughing blue eyes and his long curly hair, Now sucking his thumb, and now munching his pear. Again Sir Guy the silence broke, "It's hard upon Three!--it's just on the stroke! Come, serve up the dinner!--A joke is a joke"-- Little he deems that Stephen de Hoaques, Who "his fun, " as the Yankees say, everywhere "pokes, " And is always a great deal too fond of his jokes, Has written a circular note to De Nokes, And De Styles and De Roe, and the rest of the folks, One and all, Great and small, Who were asked to the Hall To dine there and sup, and wind up with a ball, And had told all the party a great bouncing lie, he Cooked up, that the "_fête_ was postponed _sine die_, The dear little curly-wigged heir of Le Scroope Being taken alarmingly ill with the croop!" When the clock struck Three, And the Page on his knee Said, "An't please you, Sir Guy Le Scroope, _On a servi_!" And the Knight found the banquet-hall empty and clear, With nobody near To partake of his cheer, He stamped, and he stormed--then his language!--Oh dear! 'Twas awful to see, and 'twas awful to hear! And he cried to the button-decked Page at his knee, Who had told him so civilly "_On a servi, "_ "Ten thousand fiends seize them, wherever they be! --The Devil take _them_! and the Devil take _thee!_ And the DEVIL MAY EAT UP THE DINNER FOR ME!" In a terrible fume He bounced out of the room, He bounced out of the house--and page, footman, and groom Bounced after their master; for scarce had they heard Of this left-handed grace the last finishing word, Ere the horn at the gate of the Barbican tower Was blown with a loud twenty-trumpeter power, And in rush'd a troop Of strange guests!--such a group As had ne'er before darkened the door of the Scroope! This looks like De Saye--yet--it is not De Saye-- And this is--no, 'tis not--Sir Reginald Braye, This has somewhat the favor of Marmaduke Grey-- But stay!--_Where on earth did he get those long nails?_ Why, they're _claws_!--then Good Gracious!--they've all of them _tails!_ That can't be De Vaux--why, his nose is a bill, Or, I would say a beak!--and he can't keep it still!-- Is that Poynings?--Oh, Gemini! look at his feet!! Why, they're absolute _hoofs_!--is it gout or his corns, That have crumpled them up so?--by Jingo, he's _horns!_ Run! run!--There's Fitz-Walter, Fitz-Hugh, and Fitz-John, And the Mandevilles, _père et filz_ (father and son), And Fitz-Osbert, and Ufford--_they've all got them on!_ Then their great saucer eyes-- It's the Father of lies And his Imps--run! run! run!--they're all fiends in disguise, Who've partly assumed, with more sombre complexions, The forms of Sir Guy Le Scroope's friends and connections, And He--at the top there--that grim-looking elf-- Run! run!--that's the "muckle-horned Clootie" himself! And now what a din Without and within! For the courtyard is full of them. --How they begin To mop, and to mowe, and to make faces, and grin! Cock their tails up together, Like cows in hot weather, And butt at each other, all eating and drinking, The viands and wine disappearing like winking, And then such a lot As together had got! Master Cabbage, the steward, who'd made a machine To calculate with, and count noses, --I ween The cleverest thing of the kind ever seen, -- Declared, when he'd made By the said machine's aid, Up, what's now called the "tottle" of those he surveyed, There were just--how he proved it I cannot divine-- _Nine thousand, nine hundred, and ninety and nine. _ Exclusive of Him Who, giant in limb, And black as the crow they denominate _Jim_, With a tail like a bull, and a head like a bear, Stands forth at the window--and what holds he there, Which he hugs with such care, And pokes out in the air, And grasps as its limbs from each other he'd tear? Oh! grief and despair! I vow and declare It's Le Scroope's poor, dear, sweet, little, curly-wigged Heir! Whom the nurse had forgot and left there in his chair, Alternately sucking his thumb and his pear. What words can express The dismay and distress Of Sir Guy, when he found what a terrible mess His cursing and banning had now got him into? That words, which to use are a shame and a sin too, Had thus on their speaker recoiled, and his malison Placed in the hands of the Devil's own "pal" his son!-- He sobbed and he sighed, And he screamed, and he cried, And behaved like a man that is mad or in liquor--he Tore his peaked beard, and he dashed off his "Vicary, " Stamped on the jasey As though he were crazy, And staggering about just as if he were "hazy, " Exclaimed, "Fifty pounds!" (a large sum in those times) "To the person, whoever he may be, that climbs To that window above there, _en ogive_, and painted, And brings down my curly-wi'--" Here Sir Guy fainted! With many a moan, And many a groan, What with tweaks of the nose, and some _eau de Cologne_, He revived, --Reason once more remounted her throne, Or rather the instinct of Nature--'twere treason To her, in the Scroope's case, perhaps, to say Reason-- But what saw he then--Oh! my goodness! a sight Enough to have banished his reason outright!-- In that broad banquet-hall The fiends one and all Regardless of shriek, and of squeak, and of squall, From one to another were tossing that small Pretty, curly-wigged boy, as if playing at ball; Yet none of his friends or his vassals might dare To fly to the rescue or rush up the stair, And bring down in safety his curly-wigged Heir! Well a day! Well a day! All he can say Is but just so much trouble and time thrown away; Not a man can be tempted to join the _mêlée:_ E'en those words cabalistic, "I promise to pay Fifty pounds on demand, " have for once lost their sway, And there the Knight stands Wringing his hands In his agony--when on a sudden, one ray Of hope darts through his midriff!--His Saint!-- Oh, it's funny And almost absurd, That it never occurred!-- "Ay! the Scroope's Patron Saint!--he's the man for my money! Saint--who is it?--really I'm sadly to blame, -- On my word I'm afraid, --I confess it with shame, -- That I've almost forgot the good Gentleman's name, -- Cut--let me see--Cutbeard?--no--CUTHBERT!--egad! St. Cuthbert of Bolton!--I'm right--he's the lad! O holy St. Cuthbert, if forbears of mine-- Of myself I say little--have knelt at your shrine, And have lashed their bare backs, and--no matter--with twine, Oh! list to the vow Which I make to you now, Only snatch my poor little boy out of the row Which that Imp's kicking up with his fiendish bow-wow, And his head like a bear, and his tail like a cow! Bring him back here in safety!--perform but this task, And I'll give--Oh!--I'll give you whatever you ask!-- There is not a shrine In the county shall shine With a brilliancy half so resplendent as thine, Or have so many candles, or look half so fine!-- Haste, holy St. Cuthbert, then, --hasten in pity!--" Conceive his surprise When a strange voice replies, "It's a bargain!--but, mind, sir, THE BEST SPERMACETI!"-- Say, whose that voice?--whose that form by his side, That old, old, gray man, with his beard long and wide, In his coarse Palmer's weeds, And his cockle and beads?-- And how did he come?--did he walk?--did he ride? Oh! none could determine, --oh! none could decide, -- The fact is, I don't believe any one tried; For while every one stared, with a dignified stride And without a word more, He marched on before, Up a flight of stone steps, and so through the front door, To the banqueting-hall that was on the first floor, While the fiendish assembly were making a rare Little shuttlecock there of the curly-wigged Heir. --I wish, gentle Reader, that you could have seen The pause that ensued when he stepped in between, With his resolute air, and his dignified mien, And said, in a tone most decided though mild, "Come! I'll trouble you just to hand over that child!" The Demoniac crowd In an instant seemed cowed; Not one of the crew volunteered a reply, All shrunk from the glance of that keen-flashing eye, Save one horrid Humgruffin, who seemed by his talk, And the airs he assumed, to be cock of the walk. He quailed not before it, but saucily met it, And as saucily said, "Don't you wish you may get it?" My goodness!--the look that the old Palmer gave! And his frown!--'twas quite dreadful to witness--"Why, slave! You rascal!" quoth he, "This language to ME! At once, Mr. Nicholas! down on your knee, And hand me that curly-wigged boy!--I command it-- Come!--none of your nonsense!--you know I won't stand it. " Old Nicholas trembled, --he shook in his shoes, And seemed half inclined, but afraid, to refuse. "Well, Cuthbert, " said he, "If so it must be, For you've had your own way from the first time I knew ye;-- Take your curly-wigged brat, and much good may he do ye! But I'll have in exchange"--here his eye flashed with rage-- "That chap with the buttons--he _gave me_ the Page!" "Come, come, " the saint answered, "you very well know The young man's no more his than your own to bestow. Touch one button of his if you dare, Nick---no! no! Cut your stick, sir--come, mizzle! be off with you! go!"-- The Devil grew hot-- "If I do I'll be shot! An you come to that, Cuthbert, I'll tell you what's what; He has _asked_ us to _dine here_, and go we will not! Why, you Skinflint, --at least You may leave us the feast! Here we've come all that way from our brimstone abode, Ten million good leagues, sir, as ever you strode, And the deuce of a luncheon we've had on the road-- 'Go!'--'Mizzle!' indeed--Mr. Saint, who are you, I should like to know?--'Go!' I'll be hanged if I do! He invited us all--we've a right here--it's known That a Baron may do what he likes with his own-- Here, Asmodeus--a slice of that beef;--now the mustard!-- What have _you_ got?--oh, apple-pie--try it with custard. " The Saint made a pause As uncertain, because He knew Nick is pretty well "up" in the laws, And they _might_ be on _his_ side--and then, he'd such claws! On the whole, it was better, he thought, to retire With the curly-wigged boy he'd picked out of the fire, And give up the victuals--to retrace his path, And to compromise--(spite of the Member for Bath). So to Old Nick's appeal, As he turned on his heel, He replied, "Well, I'll leave you the mutton and veal, And the soup _à la Reine_, and the sauce _Bechamel;_ As the Scroope _did_ invite you to dinner, I feel I can't well turn you out--'twould be hardly genteel--- But be moderate, pray, --and remember thus much, Since you're treated as Gentlemen--show yourselves such, And don't make it late, But mind and go straight Home to bed when you've finished--and don't steal the plate, Nor wrench off the knocker, or bell from the gate. Walk away, like respectable Devils, in peace, And don't 'lark' with the watch, or annoy the police!" Having thus said his say, That Palmer gray Took up little La Scroope, and walked coolly away, While the Demons all set up a "Hip! hip! hurrah!" Then fell, tooth and nail, on the victuals, as they Had been guests at Guildhall upon Lord Mayor's day, All scrambling and scuffling for what was before 'em, No care for precedence or common decorum. Few ate more hearty Than Madame Astarte, And Hecate, --considered the Belles of the party. Between them was seated Leviathan, eager To "do the polite, " and take wine with Belphegor; Here was _Morbleu_ (a French devil), supping soup-meagre, And there, munching leeks, Davy Jones of Tredegar (A Welsh one), who'd left the domains of Ap Morgan To "follow the sea, "--and next him Demogorgon, -- Then Pan with his pipes, and Fauns grinding the organ To Mammon and Belial, and half a score dancers, Who'd joined with Medusa to get up 'the Lancers'; Here's Lucifer lying blind drunk with Scotch ale, While Beelzebub's tying huge knots in his tail. There's Setebos, storming because Mephistopheles Gave him the lie, Said he'd "blacken his eye, " And dashed in his face a whole cup of hot coffee-lees;-- Ramping and roaring, Hiccoughing, snoring, Never was seen such a riot before in A gentleman's house, or such profligate reveling At any _soirée_--where they don't let the Devil in. Hark! as sure as fate The clock's striking Eight! (An hour which our ancestors called "getting late, ") When Nick, who by this time was rather elate, Rose up and addressed them:-- "'Tis full time, " he said, "For all elderly Devils to be in their bed; For my own part I mean to be jogging, because I don't find myself now quite so young as I was; But, Gentlemen, ere I depart from my post I must call on you all for one bumper--the toast Which I have to propose is, --OUR EXCELLENT HOST! Many thanks for his kind hospitality--may _We_ also be able To see at _our_ table Himself, and enjoy, in a family way, His good company _down-stairs_ at no distant day! You'd, I'm sure, think me rude If I did not include, In the toast my young friend there, the curly-wigged Heir! He's in very good hands, for you're all well aware That St. Cuthbert has taken him under his care; Though I must not say 'bless, '-- Why, you'll easily guess, -- May our curly-wigged Friend's shadow never be less!" Nick took off his heel-taps--bowed--smiled---with an air Most graciously grim, --and vacated the chair. Of course the _élite_ Rose at once on their feet, And followed their leader, and beat a retreat: When a sky-larking Imp took the President's seat, And requesting that each would replenish his cup, Said, "Where we have dined, my boys, there let us sup!"-- It was three in the morning before they broke up!!! * * * * * I scarcely need say Sir Guy didn't delay To fulfill his vow made to St. Cuthbert, or pay For the candles he'd promised, or make light as day The shrine he assured him he'd render so gay. In fact, when the votaries came there to pray, All said there was naught to compare with it--nay, For fear that the Abbey Might think he was shabby, Four Brethren, thenceforward, two cleric, two lay, He ordained should take charge of a new-founded chantry, With six marcs apiece, and some claims on the pantry; In short, the whole county Declared, through his bounty, The Abbey of Bolton exhibited fresh scenes From any displayed since Sir William de Meschines And Cecily Roumeli came to this nation With William the Norman, and laid its foundation. For the rest, it is said, And I know I have read In some Chronicle--whose, has gone out of my head-- That what with these candles, and other expenses, Which no man would go to if quite in his senses, He reduced and brought low His property so, That at last he'd not much of it left to bestow; And that many years after that terrible feast, Sir Guy, in the Abbey, was living a priest; And there, in one thousand and---something--deceased. (It's supposed by this trick He bamboozled Old Nick, And slipped through his fingers remarkably "slick. ") While as to young Curly-wig, --dear little Soul, Would you know more of him, you must look at "The Roll, " Which records the dispute, And the subsequent suit, Commenced in "Thirteen sev'nty-five, "--which took root In Le Grosvenor's assuming the arms Le Scroope swore That none but _his_ ancestors, ever before, In foray, joust, battle, or tournament wore, To wit, "_On a Prussian-blue Field_, a _Bend Or_;" While the Grosvenor averred that _his_ ancestors bore The same, and Scroope lied like a--somebody tore Off the simile, --so I can tell you no more, Till some A double S shall the fragment restore. MORAL This Legend sound maxims exemplifies--_e. G. _ 1_mo. _ Should anything tease you, Annoy, or displease you, Remember what Lilly says, "_Animum rege!_" And as for that shocking bad habit of swearing, -- In all good society voted past bearing, -- Eschew it! and leave it to dustmen and mobs, Nor commit yourself much beyond "Zooks!" or "Odsbobs!" 2_do. _ When asked out to dine by a Person of Quality, Mind, and observe the most strict punctuality! For should you come late, And make dinner wait, And the victuals get cold, you'll incur, sure as fate, The Master's displeasure, the Mistress's hate. And though both may perhaps be too well-bred to swear, They'll heartily _wish_ you--I will not say _Where_. 3_tio. _ Look well to your Maid-servants!--say you expect them To see to the children, and not to neglect them! And if you're a widower, just throw a cursory Glance in, at times, when you go near the Nursery. Perhaps it's as well to keep children from plums, And from pears in the season, --and sucking their thumbs! 4_to. _ To sum up the whole with a "saw" of much use, Be _just_ and be _generous_, --don't be _profuse!_-- Pay the debts that you owe, keep your word to your friends, But--DON'T SET YOUR CANDLES ALIGHT AT BOTH ENDS!!-- For of this be assured, if you "go it" too fast, You'll be "dished" like Sir Guy, And like him, perhaps, die A poor, old, half-starved Country Parson at last! A LAY OF ST. NICHOLAS "Statim sacerdoti apparuit diabolus in specie puellæ pulchritudinismiræ, et ecce Divus, fide catholicâ, et cruce, et aquâ benedicta armatusvenit, et aspersit aquam in nomine Sanctæ et Individuæ Trinitatis, quam, quasi ardentem, diabolus, nequaquam sustinere valens, mugitibusfugit. "--ROGER HOVEDEN. "Lord Abbot! Lord Abbot! I'd fain confess; I am a-weary, and worn with woe; Many a grief doth my heart oppress, And haunt me whithersoever I go!" On bended knee spake the beautiful Maid; "Now lithe and listen, Lord Abbot, to me!"-- "Now naye, fair daughter, " the Lord Abbot said, "Now naye, in sooth it may hardly be. "There is Mess Michael, and holy Mess John, Sage penitauncers I ween be they! And hard by doth dwell, in St. Catherine's cell, Ambrose, the anchorite old and gray!" --"Oh, I will have none of Ambrose or John, Though sage penitauncers I trow they be; Shrive me may none save the Abbot alone-- Now listen, Lord Abbot, I speak to thee. "Nor think foul scorn, though mitre adorn Thy brow, to listen to shrift of mine! I am a maiden royally born, And I come of old Plantagenet's line. "Though hither I stray in lowly array, I am a damsel of high degree; And the Compte of Eu, and the Lord of Ponthieu, They serve my father on bended knee! "Counts a many, and Dukes a few, A suitoring came to my father's Hall; But the Duke of Lorraine, with his large domain, He pleased my father beyond them all. "Dukes a many, and Counts a few, I would have wedded right cheerfullie; But the Duke of Lorraine was uncommonly plain, And I vowed that he ne'er should my bridegroom be! "So hither I fly, in lowly guise, From their gilded domes and their princely halls; Fain would I dwell in some holy cell, Or within some Convent's peaceful walls!" --Then out and spake that proud Lord Abbot, "Now rest thee, fair daughter, withouten fear. Nor Count nor Duke but shall meet the rebuke Of Holy Church an he seek thee here: "Holy Church denieth all search 'Midst her sanctified ewes and her saintly rams, And the wolves doth mock who would scathe her flock, Or, especially, worry her little pet lambs. "Then lay, fair daughter, thy fears aside, For here this day shalt thou dine with me!"-- "Now naye, now naye, " the fair maiden cried; "In sooth, Lord Abbot, that scarce may be! "Friends would whisper, and foes would frown, Sith thou art a Churchman of high degree, And ill mote it match with thy fair renown That a wandering damsel dine with thee! "There is Simon the Deacon hath pulse in store, With beans and lettuces fair to see: His lenten fare now let me share, I pray thee, Lord Abbot, in charitie!" --"Though Simon the Deacon hath pulse in store, To our patron Saint foul shame it were Should wayworn guest, with toil oppressed, Meet in his Abbey such churlish fare. "There is Peter the Prior, and Francis the Friar, And Roger the Monk shall our convives be; Small scandal I ween shall then be seen: They are a goodly companie!" The Abbot hath donned his mitre and ring, His rich dalmatic, and maniple fine; And the choristers sing, as the lay-brothers bring To the board a magnificent turkey and chine. The turkey and chine, they are done to a nicety; Liver, and gizzard, and all are there; Ne'er mote Lord Abbot pronounce _Benedicite_ Over more luscious or delicate fare. But no pious stave he, no _Pater_ or _Ave_ Pronounced, as he gazed on that maiden's face; She asked him for stuffing, she asked him for gravy, She asked him for gizzard;--but not for grace! Yet gayly the Lord Abbot smiled, and pressed, And the blood-red wine in the wine-cup filled; And he helped his guest to a bit of the breast, And he sent the drumsticks down to be grilled. There was no lack of the old Sherris sack, Of Hippocras fine, or of Malmsey bright; And aye, as he drained off his cup with a smack, He grew less pious and more polite. She pledged him once, and she pledged him twice, And she drank as Lady ought not to drink; And he pressed her hand 'neath the table thrice, And he winked as Abbot ought not to wink. And Peter the Prior, and Francis the Friar, Sat each with a napkin under his chin; But Roger the Monk got excessively drunk, So they put him to bed, and they tucked him in! The lay-brothers gazed on each other, amazed; And Simon the Deacon, with grief and surprise. As he peeped through the key-hole, could scarce fancy real The scene he beheld, or believe his own eyes. In his ear was ringing the Lord Abbot singing-- He could not distinguish the words very plain, But 'twas all about "Cole, " and "jolly old Soul, " And "Fiddlers, " and "Punch, " and things quite as profane. Even Porter Paul, at the sound of such reveling, With fervor himself began to bless; For he thought he must somehow have let the Devil in-- And perhaps was not very much out in his guess. The Accusing Byers[1] "flew up to Heaven's Chancery, " Blushing like scarlet with shame and concern; The Archangel took down his tale, and in answer he Wept (see the works of the late Mr. Sterne). Indeed, it is said, a less taking both were in When, after a lapse of a great many years, They booked Uncle Toby five shillings for swearing, And blotted the fine out again with their tears! But St. Nicholas's agony who may paint? His senses at first were well-nigh gone; The beatified saint was ready to faint When he saw in his Abbey such sad goings on! For never, I ween, had such doings been seen There before, from the time that most excellent Prince, Earl Baldwin of Flanders, and other Commanders, Had built and endowed it some centuries since. --But hark--'tis a sound from the outermost gate: A startling sound from a powerful blow. -- Who knocks so late?--it is half after eight By the clock, --and the clock's five minutes too slow. Never, perhaps, had such loud double raps Been heard in St. Nicholas's Abbey before; All agreed "it was shocking to keep people knocking, " But none seemed inclined to "answer the door. " Now a louder bang through the cloisters rang, And the gate on its hinges wide open flew; And all were aware of a Palmer there, With his cockle, hat, staff, and his sandal shoe. Many a furrow, and many a frown, By toil and time on his brow were traced; And his long loose gown was of ginger brown, And his rosary dangled below his waist. Now seldom, I ween, is such costume seen, Except at a stage-play or masquerade; But who doth not know it was rather the go With Pilgrims and Saints in the second Crusade? With noiseless stride did that Palmer glide Across that oaken floor; And he made them all jump, he gave such a thump Against the Refectory door! Wide open it flew, and plain to the view The Lord Abbot they all mote see; In his hand was a cup and he lifted it up, "Here's the Pope's good health with three!" Rang in their ears three deafening cheers, "Huzza! huzza! huzza!" And one of the party said, "Go it, my hearty!"-- When outspake that Pilgrim gray-- "A boon, Lord Abbot! a boon! a boon! Worn is my foot, and empty my scrip; And nothing to speak of since yesterday noon Of food, Lord Abbot, hath passed my lip. "And I am come from a far countree, And have visited many a holy shrine; And long have I trod the sacred sod Where the Saints do rest in Palestine!"-- "An thou art come from a far countree, And if thou in Paynim lands hast been, Now rede me aright the most wonderful sight, Thou Palmer gray, that thine eyes have seen. "Arede me aright the most wonderful sight, Gray Palmer, that ever thine eyes did see, And a manchette of bread, and a good warm bed, And a cup o' the best shall thy guerdon be!" "Oh! I have been east, and I have been west, And I have seen many a wonderful sight; But never to me did it happen to see A wonder like that which I see this night! "To see a Lord Abbot, in rochet and stole, With Prior and Friar, --a strange mar-velle!-- O'er a jolly full bowl, sitting cheek by jowl, And hob-nobbing away with a Devil from Hell!" He felt in his gown of ginger brown, And he pulled out a flask from beneath; It was rather tough work to get out the cork, But he drew it at last with his teeth. O'er a pint and a quarter of holy water, He made a sacred sign; And he dashed the whole on the _soi-disant_ daughter Of old Plantagenet's line! Oh! then did she reek, and squeak, and shriek, With a wild unearthly scream; And fizzled, and hissed, and produced such a mist, They were all half-choked by the steam. Her dove-like eyes turned to coals of fire, Her beautiful nose to a horrible snout, Her hands to paws, with nasty great claws, And her bosom went in and her tail came out. On her chin there appeared a long Nanny-goat's beard, And her tusks and her teeth no man mote tell; And her horns and her hoofs gave infallible proofs 'Twas a frightful Fiend from the nethermost hell! The Palmer threw down his ginger gown, His hat and his cockle; and, plain to sight, Stood St. Nicholas' self, and his shaven crown Had a glow-worm halo of heavenly light. The fiend made a grasp the Abbot to clasp; But St. Nicholas lifted his holy toe, And, just in the nick, let fly such a kick On his elderly namesake, he made him let go. And out of the window he flew like a shot, For the foot flew up with a terrible thwack, And caught the foul demon about the spot Where his tail joins on to the small of his back. And he bounded away like a foot-ball at play, Till into the bottomless pit he fell slap, Knocking Mammon the meagre o'er pursy Belphegor, And Lucifer into Beëlzebub's lap. Oh! happy the slip from his Succubine grip, That saved the Lord Abbot, --though breathless with fright, In escaping he tumbled, and fractured his hip, And his left leg was shorter thenceforth than his right! * * * * * On the banks of the Rhine, as he's stopping to dine, From a certain inn-window the traveler is shown Most picturesque ruins, the scene of these doings, Some miles up the river south-east of Cologne. And while "_sauer-kraut_" she sells you, the landlady tells you That there, in those walls all roofless and bare, One Simon, a Deacon, from a lean grew a sleek one On filling a _ci-devant_ Abbot's state chair. How a _ci-devant_ Abbot, all clothed in drab, but Of texture the coarsest, hair shirt and no shoes (His mitre and ring, and all that sort of thing Laid aside), in yon cave lived a pious recluse; How he rose with the sun, limping "dot and go one, " To yon rill of the mountain, in all sorts of weather, Where a Prior and a Friar, who lived somewhat higher Up the rock, used to come and eat cresses together; How a thirsty old codger the neighbors called Roger, With them drank cold water in lieu of old wine! What its quality wanted he made up in quantity, Swigging as though he would empty the Rhine! And how, as their bodily strength failed, the mental man Gained tenfold vigor and force in all four; And how, to the day of their death, the "Old Gentleman" Never attempted to kidnap them more. And how, when at length, in the odor of sanctity, All of them died without grief or complaint, The monks of St. Nicholas said 'twas ridiculous Not to suppose every one was a Saint. And how, in the Abbey, no one was so shabby As not to say yearly four masses ahead, On the eve of that supper, and kick on the crupper Which Satan received, for the souls of the dead! How folks long held in reverence their reliques and memories, How the _ci-devant_ Abbot's obtained greater still, When some cripples, on touching his fractured _os femoris_, Threw down their crutches and danced a quadrille! And how Abbot Simon (who turned out a prime one) These words, which grew into a proverb full soon, O'er the late Abbot's grotto, stuck up as a motto, "Who Suppes with the Deville sholde have a long spoone!" [Footnote 1: The Prince of Peripatetic Informers, and terror of Stage Coachmen, when such things were. ] SABINE BARING-GOULD (1834-) The Rev. Sabine Baring-Gould was born in Exeter, England, in 1834. Theaddition of Gould to the name of Baring came in the time of hisgreat-grandfather, a brother of Sir Francis Baring, who married an onlydaughter and heiress of W. D. Gould of Devonshire. Much of the early lifeof Baring-Gould was passed in Germany and France, and at Clare College, Cambridge, where he graduated in 1854, taking orders ten years later, and in 1881 becoming rector of Lew Trenchard, Devonshire, where he holdsestates and privileges belonging to his family. He has worked in many fields, and in all with so much acceptance that alist of his books would be the best exposition of the range of hisuntiring pen. To a gift of ready words and ready illustration, whetherhe concerns himself with diversities of early Christian belief, thecourse of country-dances in England, or the growth of mediaeval legends, he adds the grace of telling a tale and drawing a character. He haspublished nearly a hundred volumes, not one of them unreadable. But noone man may write with equal pen of German history, of comparativemythology and philology, of theological dissertations, and of thepleasures of English rural life, while he adds to these a long listof novels. His secret of popularity lies not in his treatment, which is neithercritical nor scientific, but rather in a clever, easy, diffuse, jovial, amusing way of saying clearly what at the moment comes to him to say. His books have a certain raciness and spirit that recall the Englishsquire of tradition. They rarely smell of the lamp. Now and then appearsa strain of sturdy scholarship, leading the reader to wonder what hisauthor might have accomplished had he not enjoyed the comfortable easeof a country justice of the peace, and a rector with large landedestates, to whom his poorer neighbors appear a sort of dancing puppets. Between 1857 and 1870, Baring-Gould had published nine volumes, the bestknown of these being 'Curious Myths of the Middle Ages. ' From 1870 to1890 his name appeared as author on the title-page of forty-three books:sermons, lectures, essays, archaeological treatises, memoirs, curiosities of literature, histories, and fiction; sixteen novels, tales, and romances being included. From 1890 to 1896 he publishedseventeen more novels, and many of his books have passed through severaleditions. His most successful novels are 'Mehalah; a Tale of the SaltMarshes, ' 'In the Roar of the Sea, ' 'Red Spider, ' 'Richard Cable, ' and'Noémi; a Story of Rock-Dwellers. ' In an essay upon his fiction, Mr. J. M. Barrie writes in The ContemporaryReview (February, 1890):-- "Of our eight or ten living novelists who are popular by merit, few have greater ability than Mr. Baring-Gould. His characters are bold and forcible figures, his wit is as ready as his figures of speech are apt. He has a powerful imagination, and is quaintly fanciful. When he describes a storm, we can see his trees breaking in the gale. So enormous and accurate is his general information that there is no trade or profession with which he does not seem familiar. So far as scientific knowledge is concerned, he is obviously better equipped than any contemporary writer of fiction. Yet one rises from his books with a feeling of repulsion, or at least with the glad conviction that his ignoble views of life are as untrue as the characters who illustrate them. Here is a melancholy case of a novelist, not only clever but sincere, undone by want of sympathy. .. . The author's want of sympathy prevents 'Mehalah's' rising to the highest art; for though we shudder at the end, there the effect of the story stops. It illustrates the futility of battling with fate, but the theme is not allowable to writers with the modern notion of a Supreme Power. .. . But 'Mehalah' is still one of the most powerful romances of recent years. " ST. PATRICK'S PURGATORY From 'Curious Myths of the Middle Ages' In that charming mediaeval romance 'Fortunatus and his Sons, ' which bythe way is a treasury of popular mythology, is an account of a visitpaid by the favored youth to that cave of mystery in Lough Derg, thePurgatory of St. Patrick. Fortunatus, we are told, had heard in his travels of how two days'journey from the town Valdric, in Ireland, was a town, Vernic, where wasthe entrance to the Purgatory; so thither he went with many servants. Hefound a great abbey, and behind the altar of the church a door, whichled into the dark cave which is called the Purgatory of St. Patrick. Inorder to enter it, leave had to be obtained from the abbot; consequentlyLeopold, servant to Fortunatus, betook himself to that worthy and madeknown to him that a nobleman from Cyprus desired to enter the mysteriouscavern. The abbot at once requested Leopold to bring his master tosupper with him. Fortunatus bought a large jar of wine and sent it as apresent to the monastery, and followed at the meal-time. "Venerable sir!" said Fortunatus, "I understand the Purgatory of St. Patrick is here: is it so?" The abbot replied, "It is so indeed. Many hundred years ago, this place, where stand the abbey and the town, was a howling wilderness. Not faroff, however, lived a venerable hermit, Patrick by name, who oftensought the desert for the purpose of therein exercising his austerities. One day he lighted on this cave, which is of vast extent. He entered it, and wandering on in the dark, lost his way, so that he could no morefind how to return to the light of day. After long ramblings through thegloomy passages, he fell on his knees and besought Almighty God, if itwere His will, to deliver him from the great peril wherein he lay. Whilst Patrick thus prayed, he was ware of piteous cries issuing fromthe depths of the cave, just such as would be the wailings of souls inpurgatory. The hermit rose from his orison, and by God's mercy found hisway back to the surface, and from that day exercised greaterausterities, and after his death he was numbered with the saints. Piouspeople, who had heard the story of Patrick's adventure in the cave, built this cloister on the site. " Then Fortunatus asked whether all who ventured into the place heardlikewise the howls of the tormented souls. The abbot replied, "Some have affirmed that they have heard a bittercrying and piping therein; whilst others have heard and seen nothing. Noone, however, has penetrated as yet to the furthest limits ofthe cavern. " Fortunatus then asked permission to enter, and the abbot cheerfullyconsented, only stipulating that his guest should keep near the entranceand not ramble too far, as some who had ventured in had never returned. Next day early, Fortunatus received the Blessed Sacrament with histrusty Leopold; the door of the Purgatory was unlocked, each wasprovided with a taper, and then with the blessing of the abbot they wereleft in total darkness, and the door bolted behind them. Both wanderedon in the cave, hearing faintly the chanting of the monks in the church, till the sound died away. They traversed several passages, lost theirway, their candles burned out, and they sat down in despair on theground, a prey to hunger, thirst, and fear. The monks waited in the church hour after hour; and the visitors of thePurgatory had not returned. Day declined, vespers were sung, and stillthere was no sign of the two who in the morning had passed from thechurch into the cave. Then the servants of Fortunatus began to exhibitanger, and to insist on their master being restored to them. The abbotwas frightened, and sent for an old man who had once penetrated far intothe cave with a ball of twine, the end attached to the door-handle. Thisman volunteered to seek Fortunatus, and providentially his search wassuccessful. After this the abbot refused permission to any one tovisit the cave. In the reign of Henry II. Lived Henry of Saltrey, who wrote a history ofthe visit of a Knight Owen to the Purgatory of St. Patrick, which gainedimmense popularity, . .. Was soon translated into other languages, andspread the fable through mediaeval Europe. .. . In English there are twoversions. In one of these, 'Owayne Miles, ' the origin of the purgatoryis thus described:-- "Holy byschoppes some tyme ther were, That tawgte me of Goddes lore. In Irlonde preched Seyn Patryke; In that londe was non hym lyke: He prechede Goddes worde full wyde, And tolde men what shullde betyde. Fyrste he preched of Heven blysse, Who ever go thyder may ryght nowgt mysse: Sethen he preched of Hell pyne, Howe we them ys that cometh therinne: And then he preched of purgatory, As he fonde in hisstory; But yet the folke of the contré Beleved not that hit mygth be; And seyed, but gyf hit were so, That eny non myth hymself go, And se alle that, and come ageyn, Then wolde they beleve fayn. " Vexed at the obstinacy of his hearers, St. Patrick besought the Almightyto make the truth manifest to the unbelievers; whereupon "God spakke to Saynt Patryke tho By nam, and badde hym with Hym go: He ladde hym ynte a wyldernesse, Wher was no reste more no lesse, And shewed that he might se Inte the erthe a pryvé entré: Hit was yn a depe dyches ende. 'What mon, ' He sayde, 'that wylle hereyn wende, And dwelle theryn a day and a nyght, And hold his byleve and ryght, And come ageyn that he ne dwelle, Mony a mervayle he may of telle. And alle tho that doth thys pylgrymage, I shalle hem graunt for her wage, Whether he be sqwyer or knave, Other purgatorye shalle he non have. '" Thereupon St. Patrick, "he ne stynte ner day ne night, " till he hadbuilt there a "fayr abbey, " and stocked it with pious canons. Then hemade a door to the cave, and locked the door, and gave the key to thekeeping of the prior. The Knight Owain, who had served under KingStephen, had lived a life of violence and dissolution; but filled withrepentance, he sought by way of penance St. Patrick's Purgatory. Fifteendays he spent in preliminary devotions and alms-deeds, and then he heardmass, was washed with holy water, received the Holy Sacrament, andfollowed the sacred relics in procession, whilst the priests sang forhim the Litany, "as lowde as they mygth crye. " Then Sir Owain was lockedin the cave, and he groped his way onward in darkness, till he reached aglimmering light; this brightened, and he came out into an undergroundland, where was a great hall and cloister, in which were men with shavenheads and white garments. These men informed the knight how he was toprotect himself against the assaults of evil spirits. After havingreceived this instruction, he heard "grete dynn, " and "Then come ther develes on every syde, Wykked gostes, I wote, fro Helle, So mony that no tonge mygte telle: They fylled the hows yn two rowes; Some grenned on hym and some mad mowes. " He then visits the different places of torment. In one, the souls arenailed to the ground with glowing hot brazen nails; in another they arefastened to the soil by their hair, and are bitten by fiery reptiles. Inanother, again, they are hung over fires by those members which hadsinned, whilst others are roasted on spits. In one place were pits inwhich were molten metals. In these pits were men and women, some up totheir chins, others to their breasts, others to their hams. The knightwas pushed by the devils into one of these pits and was dreadfullyscalded, but he cried to the Savior and escaped. Then he visited a lakewhere souls were tormented with great cold; and a river of pitch, whichhe crossed on a frail and narrow bridge. Beyond this bridge was a wallof glass, in which opened a beautiful gate, which conducted intoParadise. This place so delighted him that he would fain have remainedin it had he been suffered, but he was bidden return to earth and finishthere his penitence. He was put into a shorter and pleasanter way backto the cave than that by which he had come; and the prior found theknight next morning at the door, waiting to be let out, and full of hisadventures. He afterwards went on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, andended his life in piety. .. . Froissart tells us of a conversation he had with one Sir William Lisle, who had been in the Purgatory. "I asked him of what sort was the cavethat is in Ireland, called St. Patrick's Purgatory, and if that weretrue which was related of it. He replied that there certainly was sucha cave, for he and another English knight had been there whilst the kingwas at Dublin, and said that they entered the cave, and were shut in asthe sun set, and that they remained there all night and left it nextmorning at sunrise. And then I asked if he had seen the strange sightsand visions spoken of. Then he said that when he and his companion hadpassed the gate of the Purgatory of St. Patrick, that they had descendedas though into a cellar, and that a hot vapor rose towards them and soaffected their heads that they were obliged to sit down on the stonesteps. And after sitting there awhile they felt heavy with sleep, and sofell asleep, and slept all night. Then I asked if they knew where theywere in their sleep, and what sort of dreams they had had; he answeredthat they had been oppressed with many fancies and wonderful dreams, different from those they were accustomed to in their chambers; and inthe morning when they went out, in a short while they had cleanforgotten their dreams and visions; wherefore he concluded that thewhole matter was fancy. " The next to give us an account of his descent into St. Patrick'sPurgatory is William Staunton of Durham, who went down into the cave onthe Friday next after the feast of Holyrood, in the year 1409. "I was put in by the Prior of St. Matthew, of the same Purgatory, withprocession and devout prayers of the prior, and the convent gave me anorison to bless me with, and to write the first word in my forehead, thewhich prayer is this, 'Jhesu Christe, Fili Dei vivi, miserere mihipeccatori. ' And the prior taught me to say this prayer when any spirit, good or evil, appeared unto me, or when I heard any noise that I shouldbe afraid of. " When left in the cave, William fell asleep, and dreamedthat he saw coming to him St. John of Bridlington and St. Ive, whoundertook to conduct him through the scenes of mystery. After they hadproceeded a while, William was found to be guilty of a trespass againstHoly Church, of which he had to be purged before he could proceed muchfurther. Of this trespass he was accused by his sister, who appeared inthe way. "I make my complaint unto you against my brother that herestandeth; for this man that standeth hereby loved me, and I loved him, and either of us would have had the other according to God's law, asHoly Church teaches, and I should have gotten of me three-souls to God, but my brother hindered us from marrying. " St. John of Bridlington thenturned to William, and asked him why he did not allow the two who lovedone another to be married. "I tell thee there is no man that hinderethman or woman from being united in the bond of God, though the man be ashepherd and all his ancestors and the woman be come of kings or ofemperors, or if the man be come of never so high kin and the woman ofnever so low kin, if they love one another, but he sinneth in HolyChurch against God and his deed, and therefore he shall have much painand tribulations. " Being assoiled of this crying sin, St. John takesWilliam to a fire "grete and styngkyng, " in which he sees people burningin their gay clothes. "I saw some with collars of gold about theirnecks, and some of silver, and some men I saw with gay girdles of silverand gold, and harnessed with horns about their necks, some with mojagges on their clothes than whole cloth, others full of jingles andbells of silver all over set, and some with long pokes on their sleeves, and women with gowns trailing behind them a long space, and some withchaplets on their heads of gold and pearls and other precious stones. And I looked on him that I saw first in pain, and saw the collars andgay girdles and baldrics burning, and the fiends dragging him by twofingermits. And I saw the jagges that men were clothed in turn all toadders, to dragons, and to toads, and 'many other orrible bestes, 'sucking them, and biting them, and stinging them with all their might, and through every jingle I saw fiends smite burning nails of fire intotheir flesh. I also saw fiends drawing down the skin of their shoulderslike to pokes, and cutting them off, and drawing them to the heads ofthose they cut them from, all burning as fire. And then I saw the womenthat had side trails behind them, and the side trails cut off by thefiends and burned on their head; and some took of the cutting allburning and stopped therewith their mouths, their noses, and their ears. I saw also their gay chaplets of gold and pearls and precious stonesturned into nails of iron, burning, and fiends with burning hammerssmiting them into their heads. " These were proud and vain people. Thenhe saw another fire, where the fiends were putting out people's eyes andpouring molten brass and lead into the sockets, and tearing off theirarms and the nails of their feet and hands, and soldering them on again. This was the doom of swearers. William saw other fires wherein thedevils were executing tortures varied and horrible on their unfortunatevictims. We need follow him no further. At the end of the fifteenth century the Purgatory in Lough Derg wasdestroyed by orders of the Pope, on hearing the report of a monk ofEymstadt in Holland, who had visited it, and had satisfied himself thatthere was nothing in it more remarkable than in any ordinary cavern. ThePurgatory was closed on St. Patrick's Day, 1497; but the belief in itwas not so speedily banished from popular superstition. Calderon made itthe subject of one of his dramas; and it became the subject of numerouspopular chap-books in France and Spain, where during last century itoccupied in the religious belief of the people precisely the sameposition which is assumed by the marvelous visions of heaven and hellsold by hawkers in England at the present day. THE CORNISH WRECKERS From 'The Vicar of Morwenstow' When the Rev. R. S. Hawker came to Morwenstow in 1834, he found that hehad much to contend with, not only in the external condition of churchand vicarage, but also in that which is of greater importance. .. . "The farmers of the parish were simple-hearted and respectable; but thedenizens of the hamlet, after receiving the wages of the harvest time, eked out a precarious existence in the winter, and watched eagerly andexpectantly for the shipwrecks that were certain to happen, and upon theplunder of which they surely calculated for the scant provision of theirfamilies. The wrecked goods supplied them with the necessaries of life, and the rended planks of the dismembered vessel contributed to thewarmth of the hovel hearthstone. "When Mr. Hawker came to Morwenstow, 'the cruel and covetous natives ofthe strand, the wreckers of the seas and rocks for flotsam and jetsam, 'held as an axiom and an injunction to be strictly obeyed:-- "'Save a stranger from the sea, And he'll turn your enemy!' "The Morwenstow wreckers allowed a fainting brother to perish in thesea before their eyes without extending a hand of safety, --nay, more, for the egotistical canons of a shipwreck, superstitiously obeyed, permitted and absolved the crime of murder by 'shoving the drowning maninto the sea, ' to be swallowed by the waves. Cain! Cain! where is thybrother? And the wrecker of Morwenstow answered and pleaded in excuse, as in the case of undiluted brandy after meals, 'It is Cornish custom. 'The illicit spirit of Cornish custom was supplied by the smuggler, andthe gold of the wreck paid him for the cursed abomination of drink. " One of Mr. Hawker's parishioners, Peter Barrow, had been for full fortyyears a wrecker, but of a much more harmless description: he had been awatcher of the coast for such objects as the waves might turn up toreward his patience. Another was Tristam Pentire, a hero of contrabandadventure, and agent for sale of smuggled cargoes in bygone times. Witha merry twinkle of the eye, and in a sharp and ringing tone, he loved totell such tales of wild adventure and of "derring do, " as would make thefoot of the exciseman falter and his cheek turn pale. During the latter years of last century there lived in Wellcombe, one ofMr. Hawker's parishes, a man whose name is still remembered withterror--Cruel Coppinger. There are people still alive who rememberhis wife. Local recollections of the man have molded themselves into the rhyme-- Will you hear of Cruel Coppinger? He came from a foreign land: He was brought to us by the salt water, He was carried away by the wind!" His arrival on the north coast of Cornwall was signalized by a terrifichurricane. The storm came up Channel from the south-west. A strangevessel of foreign rig went on the reefs of Harty Race, and was broken topieces by the waves. The only man who came ashore was the skipper. Acrowd was gathered on the sand, on horseback and on foot, women as wellas men, drawn together by the tidings of a probable wreck. Into theirmidst rushed the dripping stranger, and bounded suddenly upon thecrupper of a young damsel who had ridden to the beach to see the sight. He grasped her bridle, and shouting in some foreign tongue, urged thedouble-laden animal into full speed, and the horse naturally took hishomeward way. The damsel was Miss Dinah Hamlyn. The stranger descendedat her father's door, and lifted her off her saddle. He then announcedhimself as a Dane, named Coppinger. He took his place at the familyboard, and there remained until he had secured the affections and handof Dinah. The father died, and Coppinger at once succeeded to themanagement and control of the house, which thenceforth became a den andrefuge of every lawless character along the coast. All kinds of wilduproar and reckless revelry appalled the neighborhood day and night. Itwas discovered that an organized band of smugglers, wreckers, andpoachers made this house their rendezvous, and that "Cruel Coppinger"was their captain. In those days, and in that far-away region, thepeaceable inhabitants were unprotected. There was not a single residentgentleman of property and weight in the entire district. No revenueofficer durst exercise vigilance west of the Tamar; and to put an end toall such surveillance at once, the head of a gauger was chopped off byone of Coppinger's gang on the gunwale of a boat. Strange vessels began to appear at regular intervals on the coast, andsignals were flashed from the headlands to lead them into the safestcreek or cove. Amongst these vessels, one, a full-rigged schooner, soonbecame ominously conspicuous. She was for long the chief terror of theCornish Channel. Her name was The Black Prince. Once, with Coppinger onboard, she led a revenue-cutter into an intricate channel near the BullRock, where, from knowledge of the bearings, The Black Prince escapedscathless, while the king's vessel perished with all on board. In thosetimes, if any landsman became obnoxious to Coppinger's men, he wasseized and carried on board The Black Prince, and obliged to save hislife by enrolling himself in the crew. In 1835, an old man of the age ofninety-seven related to Mr. Hawker that he had been so abducted, andafter two years' service had been ransomed by his friends with a largesum. "And all, " said the old man very simply, "because I happened to seeone man kill another, and they thought I would mention it. " Amid such practices, ill-gotten gold began to flow and ebb in the handsof Coppinger. At one time he had enough money to purchase a freeholdfarm bordering on the sea. When the day of transfer came, he and one ofhis followers appeared before the lawyer and paid the money in dollars, ducats, doubloons, and pistoles. The man of law demurred, but Coppingerwith an oath bade him take this or none. The document bearingCoppinger's name is still extant. His signature is traced in stern boldcharacters, and under his autograph is the word "Thuro" (thorough) alsoin his own handwriting. Long impunity increased Coppinger's daring. There were certain bridleroads along the fields over which he exercised exclusive control. Heissued orders that no man was to pass over them by night, andaccordingly from that hour none ever did. They were called "Coppinger'sTracks. " They all converged at a headland which had the name of SteepleBrink. Here the cliff sheered off, and stood three hundred feet ofperpendicular height, a precipice of smooth rock towards the beach, withan overhanging face one hundred feet down from the brow. Under this wasa cave, only reached by a cable ladder lowered from above, and made fastbelow on a projecting crag. It received the name of "Coppinger's Cave. "Here sheep were tethered to the rock, and fed on stolen hay and corntill slaughtered; kegs of brandy and hollands were piled around; chestsof tea; and iron-bound sea-chests contained the chattels and revenues ofthe Coppinger royalty of the sea. .. . But the end arrived. Money became scarce, and more than one armed king'scutter was seen day and night hovering off the land. So he "who camewith the water went with the wind. " His disappearance, like his arrival, was commemorated by a storm. A wrecker who had gone to watch the shore, saw, as the sun went down, afull-rigged vessel standing off and on. Coppinger came to the beach, putoff in a boat to the vessel, and jumped on board. She spread canvas, stood off shore, and with Coppinger in her was seen no more. That nightwas one of storm. Whether the vessel rode it out, or was lost, none knew. * * * * * In 1864 a large ship was seen in distress off the coast. The Rev. A. Thynne, rector of Kilkhampton, at once drove to Morwenstow. The vesselwas riding at anchor a mile off shore, west of Hartland Race. He foundMr. Hawker in the greatest excitement, pacing his room and shouting forsome things he wanted to put in his greatcoat-pockets, and intenselyimpatient because his carriage was not round. With him was the Rev. W. Valentine, rector of Whixley in Yorkshire, then resident at Chapel inthe parish of Morwenstow. "What are you going to do?" asked the rector of Kilkhampton: "I shalldrive at once to Bude for the lifeboat. " "No good!" thundered the vicar, "no good comes out of the west. You mustgo east. I shall go to Clovelly, and then, if that fails, to Appledore. I shall not stop till I have got a lifeboat to take those poor fellowsoff the wreck. " "Then, " said the rector of Kilkhampton, "I shall go to Bude, and see tothe lifeboat there being brought out. " "Do as you like; but mark my words, no good comes of turning to thewest. Why, " said he, "in the primitive church they turned to the west torenounce the Devil. " His carriage came to the door, and he drove off with Mr. Valentine asfast as his horses could spin him along the hilly, wretched roads. Before he reached Clovelly, a boat had put off with the mate from theship, which was the Margaret Quail, laden with salt. The captain wouldnot leave the vessel; for, till deserted by him, no salvage could beclaimed. The mate was picked up on the way, and the threereached Clovelly. Down the street proceeded the following procession--the street ofClovelly being a flight of stairs:-- _First_, the vicar of Morwenstow in a claret-colored coat, with longtails flying in the gale, blue knitted jersey, and pilot-boots, his longsilver locks fluttering about his head. He was appealing to thefishermen and sailors of Clovelly to put out in their lifeboat to rescuethe crew of the Margaret Quail. The men stood sulky, lounging about withfolded arms, or hands in their pockets, and sou'-westers slouched overtheir brows. The women were screaming at the tops of their voices thatthey would not have their husbands and sons and sweethearts enticed awayto risk their lives to save wrecked men. Above the clamor of theirshrill tongues and the sough of the wind rose the roar of the vicar'svoice: he was convulsed with indignation, and poured forth the mostsacred appeals to their compassion for drowning sailors. _Second_ in the procession moved the Rev. W. Valentine, with purse fullof gold in his hand, offering any amount of money to the Clovelly men, if they would only go forth in the lifeboat to the wreck. _Third_ came the mate of the Margaret Quail, restrained by noconsideration of cloth, swearing and damning right and left, in atowering rage at the cowardice of the Clovelly men. _Fourth_ came John, the servant of Mr. Hawker, with bottles of whiskyunder his arm, another inducement to the men to relent and be mercifulto their imperiled brethren. The first appeal was to their love of heaven and to their humanity; thesecond was to their pockets, their love of gold; the third to theirterrors, their fear of Satan, to whom they were consigned; and thefourth to their stomachs, their love of grog. But all appeals were in vain. Then Mr. Hawker returned to his carriage, and drove away farther east to Appledore, where he secured the lifeboat. It was mounted on a wagon; ten horses were harnessed to it; and as fastas possible it was conveyed to the scene of distress. But in the mean while the captain of the Margaret Quail, despairing ofhelp and thinking that his vessel would break up under him, came off inhis boat with the rest of the crew, trusting rather to a rotten boat, patched with canvas which they had tarred over, than to the tendermercies of the covetous Clovellites, in whose veins ran the too recentblood of wreckers. The only living being left on board was a poor dog. No sooner was the captain seen to leave the ship than the Clovelly menlost their repugnance to go to sea. They manned boats at once, gainedthe Margaret Quail, and claimed three thousand pounds for salvage. There was an action in court, as the owners refused to pay such a sum;and it was lost by the Clovelly men, who however got an award of twelvehundred pounds. The case turned somewhat on the presence of the dog onthe wreck; and it was argued that the vessel was not deserted, because adog had been left on board to keep guard for its masters. The owner ofthe cargo failed; and the amount actually paid to the salvors was sixhundred pounds to two steam-tugs (three hundred pounds each), and threehundred pounds to the Clovelly skiff and sixteen men. Mr. Hawker went round the country indignantly denouncing the sailors ofClovelly, and with justice. It roused all the righteous wrath in hisbreast. And as may well be believed, no love was borne him by theinhabitants of that little fishing village. They would probably havemade a wreck of him had he ventured among them. Jane Barlow (18-) The general reader has yet to learn the most private and sacred eventsof Miss Jane Barlow's life, now known only to herself and friends. Sheis the daughter of Dr. Barlow of Trinity College, and lives in theseclusion of a collage at Raheny, a hamlet near Dublin. Her family hasbeen in Ireland for generations, and she comes of German and Normanstock. As some one has said, the knowledge and skill displayed indepicting Irish peasant life, which her books show, are hers not throughCeltic blood and affinities, but by a sympathetic genius andinspiration. [Illustration: Jane Barlow] The publication of her writings in book form was preceded by theappearance of some poems and stories in the magazines, the DublinUniversity Review of 1885 containing 'Walled Out; or, Eschatology in aBog. ' 'Irish Idyls' (1892), and 'Bogland Studies' (of the same year), show the same pitiful, sombre pictures of Irish peasant life about thesodden-roofed mud hut and "pitaties" boiling, which only a genial, impulsive, generous, light-hearted, half-Greek and half-philosophicpeople could make endurable to the reader or attractive to the writer. The innate sweetness of the Irish character, which the author brings outwith fine touches, makes it worth portrayal. "It is safe to say, " writesa critic, "that the philanthropist or the political student interestedin the eternal Irish problem will learn more from Miss Barlow's twinvolumes than from a dozen Royal Commissions and a hundred Blue Books. "Her sympathy constantly crops out, as, for instance, in the mirthfultale of 'Jerry Dunne's Basket, ' where-- "Andy Joyce had an ill-advised predilection for seeing things which he called 'dacint and proper' about him, and he built some highly superior sheds on the lawn, to the bettering, no doubt, of his cattle's condition. The abrupt raising of his rent by fifty per cent, was a broad hint which most men would have taken; and it did keep Andy ruefully quiet for a season or two. Then, however, having again saved up a trifle, he could not resist the temptation to drain the swampy corner of the farthest river-field, which was as kind a bit of land as you could wish, only for the water lying on it, and in which he afterward raised himself a remarkably fine crop of white oats. The sight of them 'done his heart good, ' he said, exultantly, nothing recking that it was the last touch of farmer's pride he would ever feel. Yet on the next quarter-day the Joyces received notice to quit, and their landlord determined to keep the vacated holding in his own hands; those new sheds were just the thing for his young stock. Andy, in fact, had done his best to improve himself off the face of the earth. " The long story which Miss Barlow has published, 'Kerrigan's Quality'(1894), is told with her distinguishing charm, but the book has not theclose-knit force of the 'Idyls. ' Miss Barlow herself prefers the'Bogland Studies, ' because, she says, they are "a sort of poetry. " "Ihad set my heart too long upon being a poet ever to give up the ideaquite contentedly; 'the old hope is hardest to be lost. ' A real poet Ican never be, as I have, I fear, nothing of the lyrical faculty; and apoet without that is worse than a bird without wings, so, like Mrs. Browning's Nazianzen, I am doomed to look 'at the lyre hung outof reach. '" Besides the three books named, Miss Barlow has published 'Mockus of theShallow Waters' (1893); 'The End of Elfintown' (1894); 'The Battle ofthe Frogs and Mice in English' (1894); 'Maureen's Fairing and otherStories' (1895); and 'Strangers at Lisconnel, ' a second series of 'IrishIdyls' (1895). In the last book we again have the sorrows and joys ofthe small hamlet in the west of Ireland, where "the broad level spreadsaway and away to the horizon before and behind and on either side ofyou, very sombre-hued, yet less black-a-vised than more frequent bergs, "where in the distance the mountains "loom up on its borders much lesssubstantial, apparently, in fabric than so many spirals of blue turfsmoke, " and where the curlew's cry "can set a whole landscape tomelancholy in one chromatic phrase. " THE WIDOW JOYCE'S CLOAK From 'Strangers at Lisconnel' Still, although the Tinkers' name has become a byword among us through along series of petty offenses rather than any one flagrant crime, thereis a notable misdeed on record against them, which has never beenforgotten in the lapse of many years. It was perpetrated soon after thedeath of Mrs. Kilfoyle's mother, the Widow Joyce, an event which is butdimly recollected now at Lisconnel, as nearly half a century has goneby. She did not very long survive her husband, and he had left hisroots behind in his little place at Clonmena, where, as we know, he hadfarmed not wisely but too well, and had been put out of it for his painsto expend his energy upon our oozy black sods and stark-white bowlders. But instead he moped about, fretting for his fair green fields, and fewproudly cherished beasts, --especially the little old Kerry cow. And athis funeral the neighbors said, "Ah, bedad, poor man, God help him, heniver held up his head agin from that good day to this. " When Mrs. Joyce felt that it behooved her to settle her affairs, shefound that the most important possession she had to dispose of was herlarge cloak. She had acquired it at the prosperous time of her marriage, and it was a very superior specimen of its kind, in dark-blue clothbeing superfine, and its ample capes and capacious hood beingdouble-lined and quilted and stitched in a way which I cannot pretend todescribe, but which made it a most substantial and handsome garment. IfMrs. Joyce had been left entirely to her own choice in the matter, Ithink she would have bequeathed it to her younger daughter Theresa, notwithstanding that custom clearly designated Bessy Kilfoyle, theeldest of the family, as the heiress. For she said to herself that poorBessy had her husband and childer to consowl her, any way, but littleTheresa, the crathur, had ne'er such a thing at all, and wouldn't have, not she, God love her. "And the back of me hand to some I could name. "It seemed to her that to leave the child the cloak would be almost likekeeping a warm wing spread over her in the cold wide world; and therewas no fear that Bessy would take it amiss. But Theresa herself protested strongly against such a disposition, urging for one thing that sure she'd be lost in it entirely if ever sheput it on; a not unfounded objection, as Theresa was several sizessmaller than Bessy, and even she fell far short of her mother in statureand portliness. Theresa also said confidently with a sinking heart, "Butsure, anyhow, mother jewel, what matter about it? 'Twill be all gone tohoules and flitters and thraneens, and so it will, plase goodness, aforethere's any talk of anybody else wearin' it except your own ould self. "And she expressed much the same conviction one day to her next-doorneighbor, old Biddy Ryan, to whom she had run in for the loan of a supof sour milk, which Mrs. Joyce fancied. To Biddy's sincere regret shecould offer Theresa barely a skimpy noggin of milk, and only a meagreshred of encouragement; and by way of eking out the latter with itssorry substitute, consolation, she said as she tilted the jugperpendicularly to extract its last drop:-- "Well, sure, me dear, I do be sayin' me prayers for her every sun goesover our heads that she might be left wid you this great while yet;'deed, I do so. But ah, acushla, if we could be keepin' peoplethat-a-way, would there be e'er a funeral iver goin' black on the roadat all at all? I'm thinkin' there's scarce a one livin', and he as ouldand foolish and little-good-for as you plase, but some crathur'ill begrudgin' him to his grave, that's himself may be all the while wishin'he was in it. Or, morebetoken, how can we tell what quare uglymisfortin' thim that's took is took out of the road of, that we shouldbe as good as biddin' thim stay till it comes to ruinate them? So it'sprayin' away I am, honey, " said old Biddy, whom Theresa could not helphating heart-sickly. "But like enough the Lord might know better than tobe mindin' a word I say. " And it seemed that He did; anyway, the day soon came when the heavy bluecloak passed into Mrs. Kilfoyle's possession. At that time it was clear, still autumn weather, with just a sprinkle offrost white on the wayside grass, like the wraith of belated moonlight, when the sun rose, and shimmering into rainbow stars by noon. But abouta month later the winter swooped suddenly on Lisconnel: with wild windsand cold rain that made crystal-silver streaks down the purple of thegreat mountainheads peering in over our bogland. So one perishing Saturday Mrs. Kilfoyle made up her mind that she wouldwear her warm legacy on the bleak walk to Mass next morning, andreaching it down from where it was stored away among the rafters wrappedin an old sack, she shook it respectfully out of its straight-creasedfolds. As she did so she noticed that the binding of the hood had rippedin one place, and that the lining was fraying out, a mishap which shouldbe promptly remedied before it spread any further. She was not a veryexpert needlewoman, and she thought she had better run over the way toconsult Mrs. O'Driscoll, then a young matron, esteemed the handiest andmost helpful person in Lisconnel. "It's the nathur of her to be settin' things straight wherever shegoes, " Mrs. Kilfoyle said to herself as she stood in her doorway waitingfor the rain to clear off, and looking across the road to the soddenroof which sheltered her neighbor's head. It had long been lying low, vanquished by a trouble which even she could not set to rights, and someof the older people say that things have gone a little crookeder inLisconnel ever since. The shower was a vicious one, with the sting of sleet and hail in itsdrops, pelted about by gusts that ruffled up the puddles into ripples, all set on end, like the feathers of a frightened hen. The hensthemselves stood disconsolately sheltering under the bank, mostly on oneleg, as if they preferred to keep up the slightest possible connectionwith such a very damp and disagreeable earth. You could not see far inany direction for the fluttering sheets of mist, and a stranger who hadbeen coming along the road from Duffelane stepped out of them abruptlyquite close to Mrs. Kilfoyle's door, before she knew that there wasanybody near. He was a tall, elderly man, gaunt and grizzled, veryragged, and so miserable-looking that Mrs. Kilfoyle could have feltnothing but compassion for him had he not carried over his shoulder abunch of shiny cans, which was to her mind as satisfactory a passport asa ticket of leave. For although these were yet rather early days atLisconnel, the Tinkers had already begun to establish their reputation. So when he stopped in front of her and said, "Good-day, ma'am, " she onlyreplied distantly, "It's a hardy mornin', " and hoped he would move on. But he said, "It's cruel could, ma'am, " and continued to stand lookingat her with wide and woful eyes, in which she conjectured--erroneously, as it happened--hunger for warmth or food. Under these circumstances, what could be done by a woman who was conscious of owning a redlyglowing hearth with a big black pot, fairly well filled, clucking andbobbing upon it? To possess such wealth as this, and think seriously ofwithholding a share from anybody who urges the incontestable claim ofwanting it, is a mood altogether foreign to Lisconnel, where theresponsibilities of poverty are no doubt very imperfectly understood. Accordingly Mrs. Kilfoyle said to the tattered tramp, "Ah, thin, stepinside and have a couple of hot pitaties. " And when he accepted theinvitation without much alacrity, as if he had something else on hismind, she picked for him out of the steam two of the biggest potatoes, whose earth-colored skins, cracking, showed a fair flouriness within;and she shook a little heap of salt, the only relish she had, onto thechipped white plate as she handed it to him, saying, "Sit you down bethe fire, there, and git a taste of the heat. " Then she lifted her old shawl over her head, and ran out to see where atall Brian and Thady were gettin' their deaths on her under the pours ofrain; and as she passed the Keoghs' adjacent door--which was afterwardthe Sheridans', whence their Larry departed so reluctantly--young Mrs. Keogh called her to come in and look at "the child, " who, being a newand unique possession, was liable to develop alarmingly strangesymptoms, and had now "woke up wid his head that hot, you might as wellput your hand on the hob of the grate. " Mrs. Kilfoyle stayed only longenough to suggest, as a possible remedy, a drop of two-milk whey. "Butah, sure, woman dear, where at all 'ud we come by that, wid the crathurof a goat scarce wettin' the bottom of the pan?" and to draw reassuringomens from the avidity with which the invalid grabbed at a sugaredcrust. In fact, she was less than five minutes out of her house; butwhen she returned to it, she found it empty. First, she noted with amoderate thrill of surprise that her visitor had gone away leaving hispotatoes untouched; and next, with a rough shock of dismay, that hercloak no longer lay on the window seat where she had left it. From thatmoment she never felt any real doubts about what had befallen her, though for some time she kept on trying to conjure them up, and searchedwildly round and round and round her little room, like a distracted beestrayed into the hollow furze-bush, before she sped over to Mrs. O'Driscoll with the news of her loss. It spread rapidly through Lisconnel, and brought the neighbors togetherexclaiming and condoling, though not in great force, as there was a fairgoing on down beyant, which nearly all the men and some of the women hadattended. This was accounted cruel unlucky, as it left the place withoutany one able-bodied and active enough to go in pursuit of the thief. Aprompt start might have overtaken him, especially as he was said to be a"thrifle lame-futted"; though Mrs. M'Gurk, who had seen him come downthe hill, opined that "'twasn't the sort of lameness 'ud hinder themiscreant of steppin' out, on'y a quare manner of flourish he had in aone of his knees, as if he was gatherin' himself up to make an offer ata grasshopper's lep, and then thinkin' better of it. " Little Thady Kilfoyle reported that he had met the strange man a bitdown the road, "leggin' it along at a great rate, wid a black rowl ofsomethin' under his arm that he looked to be crumplin' up as small as hecould, "--the word "crumpling" went acutely to Mrs. Kilfoyle'sheart, --and some long-sighted people declared that they could stillcatch glimpses of a receding figure through the hovering fog on the waytoward Sallinbeg. "I'd think he'd be beyant seein' afore now, " said Mrs. Kilfoyle, whostood in the rain, the disconsolate centre of the group about her door;all women and children except old Johnny Keogh, who was so bothered anddeaf that he grasped new situations slowly and feebly, and had now animpression of somebody's house being on fire. "He must ha' took off widhimself the instiant me back was turned, for ne'er a crumb had hetouched of the pitaties. " "Maybe he'd that much shame in him, " said Mrs. O'Driscoll. "They'd a right to ha' choked him, troth and they had, " said OdyRafferty's aunt. "Is it chokin'?" said young Mrs. M'Gurk, bitterly. "Sure the biggerthief a body is, the more he'll thrive on whatever he gits; you mightthink villiny was as good as butter to people's pitaties, you might so. Sharne how are you? Liker he'd ate all he could swally in the last placehe got the chance of layin' his hands on anythin'. " "Och, woman alive, but it's the fool you were to let him out of yoursight, " said Ody Rafferty's aunt. "If it had been me, I'd niver ha' tookme eyes off him, for the look of him on'y goin' by made me flesh creepupon me bones. " "'Deed was I, " said Mrs. Kilfoyle, sorrowfully, "a fine fool. And vexedshe'd be, rael vexed, if she guessed the way it was gone on us, for thedear knows what dirty ould rapscallions 'ill get the wearin' of it now. Rael vexed she'd be. " This speculation was more saddening than the actual loss of the cloak, though that bereft her wardrobe of far and away its most valuableproperty, which should have descended as an heirloom to her littleKatty, who, however, being at present but three months old, lay sleepinghappily unaware of the cloud that had come over her prospects. "I wish to goodness a couple of the lads 'ud step home wid themselvesthis minit of time, " said Mrs. M'Gurk. "They'd come tip wid him yet, andtake it off of him ready enough. And smash his ugly head for him, if hewould be givin' them any impidence. " "Aye, and 'twould be a real charity--the mane baste;--or sling him inone of the bog-houles, " said the elder Mrs. Keogh, a mild-looking littleold woman. "I'd liefer than nine nine-pennies see thim comin' along. ButI'm afeard it's early for thim yet. " Everybody's eyes turned, as she spoke, toward the ridge of the Knockawn, though with no particular expectation of seeing what they wished uponit. But behold, just at that moment three figures, blurred among thegray rain-mists, looming into view. "Be the powers, " said Mrs. M'Gurk, jubilantly, "it's Ody Raffertyhimself. To your sowls! Now you've a great good chance, ma'am, to begettin' it back. He's the boy 'ill leg it over all before him"--for inthose days Ody was lithe and limber--"and it's hard-set the thievin'Turk 'ill be to get the better of him at a racin' match--Hi--Och. " Shehad begun to hail him with a call eager and shrill, which broke off in astrangled croak, like a young cock's unsuccessful effort. "Och, murdher, murdher, murdher, " she said to the bystanders, in a disgusted undertone. "I'll give you me misfort'nit word thim other two is the pólis. " Now it might seem on the face of things that the arrival of those twoactive and stalwart civil servants would have been welcomed as happeningjust in the nick of time; yet it argues an alien ignorance to supposesuch a view of the matter by any means possible. The men in invisiblegreen tunics belonged completely to the category of pitaty-blights, rint-warnin's, fevers, and the like devastators of life, that dog a manmore or less all through it, but close in on him, a pitiful quarry, whenthe bad seasons come and the childer and the old crathurs are starvin'wid the hunger, and his own heart is broke; therefore, to acceptassistance from them in their official capacity would have been aproceeding most reprehensibly unnatural. To put a private quarrel orinjury into the hands of the peelers were a disloyal making of termswith the public foe; a condoning of great permanent wrongs for the sakeof a trivial temporary convenience. Lisconnel has never been skilled inthe profitable and ignoble art of utilizing its enemies. Not thatanybody was more than vaguely conscious of these sentiments, much lessattempted to express them in set terms. When a policeman appeared therein an inquiring mood, what people said among themselves was, "Mushacock him up. I hope he'll get his health till I would be tellin' him, "or words to that effect; while in reply to his questions, they madestatements superficially so clear and simple, and essentially sobewilderingly involved, that the longest experience could do little morefor a constable than teach him the futility of wasting his time inattempts to disentangle them. Thus it was that when Mrs. Kilfoyle saw who Ody's companions were, shebade a regretful adieu to her hopes of recovering her stolen property. For how could she set him on the Tinker's felonious track withoutapprising them likewise? You might as well try to huroosh one chickenoff a rafter and not scare the couple that were huddled beside it. Theimpossibility became more obvious presently as the constables, stridingquickly down to where the group of women stood in the rain and wind withfluttering shawls and flapping cap-borders, said briskly, "Good-day toyou all. Did any of yous happen to see e'er a one of them tinkerin'people goin' by here this mornin'?" It was a moment of strong temptation to everybody, but especially toMrs. Kilfoyle, who had in her mind that vivid picture of her preciouscloak receding from her along the wet road, recklessly wisped up in thegrasp of as thankless a thievin' black-hearted slieveen as ever stepped, and not yet, perhaps, utterly out of reach, though every fleetinginstant carried it nearer to that hopeless point. However, she and herneighbors stood the test unshaken. Mrs. Ryan rolled her eyesdeliberatively, and said to Mrs. M'Gurk, "The saints bless us, was ityisterday or the day before, me dear, you said you seen a couple of thembelow, near ould O'Beirne's?" And Mrs. M'Gurk replied, "Ah, sure, not at all, ma'am, glory be togoodness. I couldn't ha' tould you such a thing, for I wasn't next ornigh the place. Would it ha' been Ody Rafferty's aunt? She was belowthere fetchin' up a bag of male, and bedad she came home that dhreeped, the crathur, you might ha' thought she'd been after fishin' it up out ofthe botthom of one of thim bog-houles. " And Mrs. Kilfoyle heroically hustled her Thady into the house, as shesaw him on the brink of beginning loudly to relate his encounter with astrange man, and desired him to whisht and stay where he was in a mannerso sternly repressive that he actually remained there as if he had beena pebble dropped into a pool, and not, as usual, a cork to bob up againimmediately. Then Mrs. M'Gurk made a bold stroke, designed to shake off thehampering presence of the professionals, and enable Ody's amateurservices to be utilized while there was yet time. "I declare, " she said, "now that I think of it, I seen a feller crossin'the ridge along there a while ago, like as if he was comin' fromSallinbeg ways; and according to the apparence of him, I wouldn't won'erif he _was_ a one of thim tinker crathures--carryin' a big clump of canshe was, at any rate--I noticed the shine of thim. And he couldn't ha'got any great way yet to spake of, supposin' there was anybody lookin'to folly after him. " But Constable Black crushed her hopes as he replied, "Ah, it's nobodycomin' _from_ Sallinbeg that we've anything to say to. There's afterbein' a robbery last night, down below at Jerry Dunne's--a shawl as goodas new took, that his wife's ragin' over frantic, along wid a sight offowl and other things. And the Tinkers that was settled this long whilein the boreen at the back of his haggard is quit out of it aforedaylight this mornin', every rogue of them. So we'd have more than anotion where the property's went to if we could tell the road they'vetook. We thought like enough some of them might ha' come this way. " Now, Mr. Jerry Dunne was not a popular person in Lisconnel, where he haseven become, as we have seen, proverbial for what we call "ouldnaygurliness. " So there was a general tendency to say, "The divil's cureto him, " and listen complacently to any details their visitors couldimpart. For in his private capacity a policeman, provided that he beotherwise "a dacint lad, " which to do him justice is commonly the case, may join, with a few unobtrusive restrictions, in our neighborlygossips; the rule in fact being--Free admission except on business. Only Mrs. Kilfoyle was so much cast down by her misfortune that shecould not raise herself to the level of an interest in the affairs ofher thrifty suitor, and the babble of voices relating and commentingsounded as meaningless as the patter of the drops which jumped likelittle fishes in the large puddle at their feet. It had spreadconsiderably before Constable Black said to his comrade:-- "Well, Daly, we'd better be steppin' home wid ourselves as wise as we come, as the man said when he'd axed his road of the ould black horse in the dark lane. There's no good goin' further, for the whole gang of them's scattered over the counthry agin now like a seedin' thistle in a high win'. " "Aye, bedad, " said Constable Daly, "and be the same token, this win' ud skin a tanned elephant. It's on'y bogged and drenched we'd git. Look at what's comin' up over there. That rain's snow on the hills, every could drop of it; I seen Ben Bawn this mornin' as white as the top of a musharoon, and it's thickenin' wid sleet here this minute, and so it is. " The landscape did, indeed, frown upon further explorations. In quarters where the rain had abated it seemed as if the mists had curdled on the breath of the bitter air, and they lay floating in long white bars and reefs low on the track of their own shadow, which threw down upon the sombre bogland deeper stains of gloom. Here and there one caught on the crest of some gray-bowldered knoll, and was teazed into fleecy threads that trailed melting instead of tangling. But toward the north the horizon was all blank, with one vast, smooth slant of slate-color, like a pent-house roof, which had a sliding motion onwards. Ody Rafferty pointed to it and said, "Troth, it's teemin' powerful this instiant up there in the mountains. 'Twill be much if you land home afore it's atop of you; for 'twould be the most I could do myself. " And as the constables departed hastily, most people forgot the stolencloak for a while to wonder whether their friends would escape beingentirely drowned on the way back from the fair. Mrs. Kilfoyle, however, still stood in deep dejection at her door, andsaid, "Och, but she was the great fool to go let the likes of him setfut widin' her house. " To console her Mrs. O'Driscoll said, "Ah, sure, sorra a fool were you, woman dear; how would you know the villiny of him? And if you'd turnedthe man away widout givin' him e'er a bit, it's bad you'd be thinkin' ofit all the day after. " And to improve the occasion for her juniors, old Mrs. Keogh added, "Aye, and morebetoken you'd ha' been committin' a sin. " But Mrs. Kilfoyle replied with much candor, "'Deed, then, I'd a daleliefer be after committin' a sin, or a dozen sins, than to have me poormother's good cloak thieved away on me, and walkin' wild aboutthe world. " As it happened, the fate of Mrs. Kilfoyle's cloak was very differentfrom her forecast. But I do not think that a knowledge of it would haveteen consolatory to her by any means. If she had heard of it, she wouldprobably have said, "The cross of Christ upon us. God be good to themisfort'nit crathur. " For she was not at all of an implacable temper, and would, under the circumstances, have condoned even the injury thatobliged her to appear at Mass with a flannel petticoat over her headuntil the end of her days. Yet she did hold the Tinkers in a perhapssomewhat too unqualified reprobation. For there are tinkers and tinkers. Some of them, indeed, are stout and sturdy thieves, --veritable birds ofprey, --whose rapacity is continually questing for plunder. But some ofthem have merely the magpies' and jackdaws' thievish propensity forpicking up what lies temptingly in their way. And some few are so honestthat they pass by as harmlessly as a wedge of high-flying wild duck. AndI have heard it said that to places like Lisconnel their pickings andstealings have at worst never been so serious a matter as those ofanother flock, finer of feather, but not less predacious in theirhabits, who roosted, for the most part, a long way off, and made theircollections by deputy. Copyrighted 1895, by Dodd, Mead and Company. WALLED OUT From 'Bogland Studies' An' wanst we were restin' a bit in the sun on the smooth hillside, Where the grass felt warm to your hand as the fleece of a sheep, for wide, As ye'd look overhead an' around, 'twas all a-blaze and a-glow, An' the blue was blinkin' up from the blackest bog-holes below; An' the scent o' the bogmint was sthrong on the air, an' never a sound But the plover's pipe that ye'll seldom miss by a lone bit o' ground. An' he laned--Misther Pierce--on his elbow, an' stared at the sky as he smoked, Till just in an idle way he sthretched out his hand an' sthroked The feathers o' wan of the snipe that was kilt an' lay close by on the grass; An' there was the death in the crathur's eyes like a breath upon glass. An' sez he, "It's quare to think that a hole ye might bore wid a pin 'Ill be wide enough to let such a power o' darkness in On such a power o' light; an' it's quarer to think, " sez he, "That wan o' these days the like is bound to happen to you an' me. " Thin Misther Barry, he sez: "Musha, how's wan to know but there's light On t'other side o' the dark, as the day comes afther the night?" An' "Och, " says Misther Pierce, "what more's our knowin'--save the mark-- Than guessin' which way the chances run, an' thinks I they run to the dark; Or else agin now some glint of a bame'd ha' come slithered an' slid; Sure light's not aisy to hide, an' what for should it be hid?" Up he stood with a sort o' laugh: "If on light, " sez he, "ye're set, Let's make the most o' this same, as it's all that we're like to get. " Thim were his words, as I minded well, for often afore an' sin, The 'dintical thought 'ud bother me head that seemed to bother him thin; An' many's the time I'd be wond'rin' whatever it all might mane, The sky, an' the lan', an' the bastes, an' the rest o' thim plain as plain, And all behind an' beyant thim a big black shadow let fall; Ye'll sthrain the sight out of your eyes, but there it stands like a wall. "An' there, " sez I to meself, "we're goin' wherever we go, But where we'll be whin we git there it's never a know I know. " Thin whiles I thought I was maybe a sthookawn to throuble me mind Wid sthrivin' to comprehind onnathural things o' the kind; An' Quality, now, that have larnin', might know the rights o' the case, But ignorant wans like me had betther lave it in pace. Priest, tubbe sure, an' Parson, accordin' to what they say, The whole matther's plain as a pikestaff an' clear as the day, An' to hear thim talk of a world beyant, ye'd think at the laste They'd been dead an' buried half their lives, an' had thramped it from west to aist; An' who's for above an' who's for below they've as pat as if they could tell The name of every saint in heaven an' every divil in hell. But cock up the lives of thimselves to be settlin' it all to their taste-- I sez, and the wife she sez I'm no more nor a haythin baste-- For mighty few o' thim's rael Quality, musha, they're mostly a pack O' playbians, each wid a tag to his name an' a long black coat to his back; An' it's on'y romancin' they are belike; a man must stick be his trade, An' _they_ git their livin' by lettin' on they know how wan's sowl is made. And in chapel or church they're bound to know somethin' for sure, good or bad, Or where'd be the sinse o' their preachin' an' prayers an' hymns an' howlin' like mad? So who'd go mindin' o' thim? barrin' women, in coorse, an' wanes, That believe 'most aught ye tell thim, if they don't understand what it manes-- Bedad, if it worn't the nathur o' women to want the wit, Parson and Priest I'm a-thinkin' might shut up their shop an' quit. But, och, it's lost an' disthracted the crathurs 'ud be without Their bit of divarsion on Sundays whin all o' thim gits about, Cluth'rin' an' pluth'rin' together like hins, an' a-roostin' in rows, An' meetin' their frins an' their neighbors, and wearin' their dacint clothes. An' sure it's quare that the clergy can't ever agree to keep Be tellin' the same thrue story, sin' they know such a won'erful heap; For many a thing Priest tells ye that Parson sez is a lie, An' which has a right to be wrong, the divil a much know I, For all the differ I see 'twixt the pair o' thim 'd fit in a nut: Wan for the Union, an' wan for the League, an' both o' thim bitther as sut. But Misther Pierce, that's a gintleman born, an' has college larnin' and all, There he was starin' no wiser than me where the shadow stands like a wall. Authorized American Edition, Dodd, Mead and Company. JOEL BARLOW (1754-1812) One morning late in the July of 1778, a select company gathered in thelittle chapel of Yale College to listen to orations and other exercisesby a picked number of students of the Senior class, one of whom, namedBarlow, had been given the coveted honor of delivering what was termedthe 'Commencement Poem. ' Those of the audience who came from a distancecarried back to their homes in elm-shaded Norwich, or Stratford, orLitchfield, high on its hills, lively recollections of a handsome youngman and of his 'Prospect of Peace, ' whose cheerful prophecies in heroicverse so greatly "improved the occasion. " They had heard that he was afarmer's son from Redding, Connecticut, who had been to school atHanover, New Hampshire, and had entered Dartmouth College, but soonremoved to Yale on account of its superior advantages; that he had twiceseen active service in the Continental army, and that he was engaged tomarry a beautiful New Haven girl. [Illustration: Joel Barlow] The brilliant career predicted for Barlow did not begin immediately. Distaste for war, hope of securing a tutorship in college, and--we maywell believe--Miss Ruth's entreaties, kept him in New Haven two yearslonger, engaged in teaching and in various courses of study. 'TheProspect of Peace' had been issued in pamphlet form, and the complimentspaid the author incited him to plan a poem of a philosophic character onthe subject of America at large, bearing the title 'The Vision ofColumbus. ' The appointment as tutor never came, and instead ofcultivating the Muse in peaceful New Haven, he was forced to evoke heraid in a tent on the banks of the Hudson, whither after a hurried coursein theology, he proceeded as an army chaplain in 1780. During hisconnection with the army, which lasted until its disbandment in 1783, hewon repute by lyrics written to encourage the soldiers, and by "aflaming political sermon, " as he termed it, on the treason of Arnold. Army life ended, Barlow removed to Hartford, where he studied law, edited the American Mercury, --a weekly paper he had helped to found, ---and with John Trumbull, Lemuel Hopkins, and David Humphreys formed aliterary club which became widely known as the "Hartford Wits. " Itschief publication, a series of political lampoons styled 'TheAnarchiad, ' satirized those factions whose disputes imperiled the youngrepublic, and did much to influence public opinion in Connecticut andelsewhere in favor of the Federal Constitution. A revision andenlargement of Dr. Watts's 'Book of Psalmody, ' and the publication(1787) of his own 'Vision of Columbus, ' occupied part of Barlow's timewhile in Hartford. The latter poem was extravagantly praised, ranthrough several editions, and was republished in London and Paris; butthe poet, who now had a wife to support, could not live by his pen norby the law, and when in 1788 he was urged by the Scioto Land Company tobecome its agent in Paris, he gladly accepted. The company was a privateassociation, formed to buy large tracts of government land situated inOhio and sell them in Europe to capitalists or actual settlers. Thisfailed disastrously, and Barlow was left stranded in Paris, where heremained, supporting himself partly by writing, partly by businessventures. Becoming intimate with the leaders of the Girondist party, theman who had dedicated his 'Vision of Columbus' to Louis XVI. , and hadalso dined with the nobility, now began to figure as a zealousRepublican and as a Liberal in religion. From 1790 to 1793 he passedmost of his time in London, where he wrote a number of politicalpamphlets for the Society for Constitutional Information, anorganization openly favoring French Republicanism and a revision of theBritish Constitution. Here also, in 1791, he finished a work entitled'Advice to the Privileged Orders, ' which probably would have run throughmany editions had it not been suppressed by the British government. Thebook was an arraignment of tyranny in church and state, and was quicklyfollowed by 'The Conspiracy of Kings, ' an attack in verse on thoseEuropean countries which had combined to kill Republicanism in France. In 1792 Barlow was made a citizen of France as a mark of appreciation ofa 'Letter' addressed to the National Convention, giving that bodyadvice, and when the convention sent commissioners to organize theprovince of Savoy into a department, Barlow was one of the number. As acandidate for deputy from Savoy, he was defeated; but his visit was notfruitless, for at Chambéry the sight of a dish of maize-meal porridgereminded him of his early home in Connecticut, and inspired him to writein that ancient French town a typical Yankee poem, 'Hasty Pudding. ' Itspreface, in prose, addressed to Mrs. Washington, assured her thatsimplicity of diet was one of the virtues; and if cherished by her, asit doubtless was, it would be more highly regarded by her countrywomen. Between the years of 1795-97, Barlow held the important but unenviableposition of United States Consul at Algiers, and succeeded both inliberating many of his countrymen who were held as prisoners, and inperfecting treaties with the rulers of the Barbary States, which gaveUnited States vessels entrance to their ports and secured them frompiratical attacks. On his return to Paris he translated Volney's 'Ruins'into English, made preparations for writing histories of the Americanand French revolutions, and expanded his 'Vision of Columbus' into avolume which as 'The Columbiad'--a beautiful specimen of typography--waspublished in Philadelphia in 1807 and republished in London. The poemwas held to have increased Barlow's fame; but it is stilted andmonotonous, and 'Hasty Pudding' has done more to perpetuate his name. In 1805 Barlow returned to the United States and bought an estate nearWashington, D. C. , where he entertained distinguished visitors. In 1811he returned to France authorized to negotiate a treaty of commerce. After waiting nine months, he was invited by Napoleon, who was then inPoland, to a conference at Wilna. On his arrival Barlow found the Frencharmy on the retreat from Moscow, and endured such privations on themarch that on December 24th he died of exhaustion at the village ofZarnowiec, near Cracow, and there was buried. Barlow's part in developing American literature was important, andtherefore he has a rightful place in a work which traces thatdevelopment. He certainly was a man of varied ability and power, whoadvanced more than one good cause and stimulated the movement towardhigher thought. The only complete 'Life and Letters of Joel Barlow, ' byCharles Burr Todd, published in 1888, gives him unstinted praise asexcelling in statesmanship, letters, and philosophy. With more assuredjustice, which all can echo, it praises his nobility of spirit as a man. No one can read the letter to his wife, written from Algiers when hethought himself in danger of death, without a warm feeling for sounselfish and affectionate a nature. A FEAST From 'Hasty Pudding' There are various ways of preparing and eating Hasty Pudding, withmolasses, butter, sugar, cream, and fried. Why so excellent a thingcannot be eaten alone? Nothing is perfect alone; even man, who boasts ofso much perfection, is nothing without his fellow-substance. In eating, beware of the lurking heat that lies deep in the mass; dip your spoongently, take shallow dips and cool it by degrees. It is sometimesnecessary to blow. This is indicated by certain signs which everyexperienced feeder knows. They should be taught to young beginners. Ihave known a child's tongue blistered for want of this attention, andthen the school-dame would insist that the poor thing had told a lie. Amistake: the falsehood was in the faithless pudding. A prudent motherwill cool it for her child with her own sweet breath. The husband, seeing this, pretends his own wants blowing, too, from the same lips. Asly deceit of love. She knows the cheat, but, feigning ignorance, lendsher pouting lips and gives a gentle blast, which warms the husband'sheart more than it cools his pudding. The days grow short; but though the falling sun To the glad swain proclaims his day's work done, Night's pleasing shades his various tasks prolong, And yield new subjects to my various song. For now, the corn-house filled, the harvest home, The invited neighbors to the husking come; A frolic scene, where work and mirth and play Unite their charms to chase the hours away. Where the huge heap lies centred in the hall, The lamp suspended from the cheerful wall, Brown corn-fed nymphs, and strong hard-handed beaux, Alternate ranged, extend in circling rows, Assume their seats, the solid mass attack; The dry husks rustle, and the corn-cobs crack; The song, the laugh, alternate notes resound, And the sweet cider trips in silence round. The laws of husking every wight can tell; And sure, no laws he ever keeps so well: For each red ear a general kiss he gains, With each smut ear he smuts the luckless swains; But when to some sweet maid a prize is cast, Red as her lips, and taper as her waist, She walks the round, and culls one favored beau, Who leaps, the luscious tribute to bestow. Various the sport, as are the wits and brains Of well-pleased lasses and contending swains; Till the vast mound of corn is swept away, And he that gets the last ear wins the day. Meanwhile the housewife urges all her care, The well-earned feast to hasten and prepare. The sifted meal already waits her hand, The milk is strained, the bowls in order stand, The fire flames high; and as a pool (that takes The headlong stream that o'er the mill-dam breaks) Foams, roars, and rages with incessant toils, So the vexed caldron rages, roars and boils. First with clean salt she seasons well the food, Then strews the flour, and thickens well the flood. Long o'er the simmering fire she lets it stand; To stir it well demands a stronger hand: The husband takes his turn, and round and round The ladle flies; at last the toil is crowned; When to the board the thronging huskers pour, And take their seats as at the corn before. I leave them to their feast. There still belong More useful matters to my faithful song. For rules there are, though ne'er unfolded yet, Nice rules and wise, how pudding should be ate. Some with molasses grace the luscious treat, And mix, like bards, the useful and the sweet; A wholesome dish, and well deserving praise, A great resource in those bleak wintry days, When the chilled earth lies buried deep in snow, And raging Boreas dries the shivering cow. Blest cow! thy praise shall still my notes employ, Great source of health, the only source of joy; Mother of Egypt's god, but sure, for me, Were I to leave my God, I'd worship thee. How oft thy teats these pious hands have pressed! How oft thy bounties prove my only feast! How oft I've fed thee with my favorite grain! And roared, like thee, to see thy children slain. Ye swains who know her various worth to prize, Ah! house her well from winter's angry skies. Potatoes, pumpkins, should her sadness cheer, Corn from your crib, and mashes from your beer; When spring returns, she'll well acquit the loan, And nurse at once your infants and her own. Milk, then, with pudding I should always choose; To this in future I confine my muse, Till she in haste some further hints unfold, Good for the young, nor useless to the old. First in your bowl the milk abundant take, Then drop with care along the silver lake Your flakes of pudding: these at first will hide Their little bulk beneath the swelling tide; But when their growing mass no more can sink, When the soft island looms above the brink, Then check your hand; you've got the portion due, So taught my sire, and what he taught is true. There is a choice in spoons. Though small appear The nice distinction, yet to me 'tis clear. The deep-bowled Gallic spoon, contrived to scoop In ample draughts the thin diluted soup, Performs not well in those substantial things, Whose mass adhesive to the metal clings; Where the strong labial muscles must embrace The gentle curve, and sweep the hollow space. With ease to enter and discharge the freight, A bowl less concave, but still more dilate, Becomes the pudding best. The shape, the size, A secret rests, unknown to vulgar eyes. Experienced feeders can alone impart A rule so much above the lore of art. These tuneful lips that thousand spoons have tried, With just precision could the point decide, Though not in song--the muse but poorly shines In cones, and cubes, and geometric lines; Yet the true form, as near as she can tell, Is that small section of a goose-egg shell, Which in two equal portions shall divide The distance from the centre to the side. Fear not to slaver; 'tis no deadly sin;-- Like the free Frenchman, from your joyous chin Suspend the ready napkin; or like me, Poise with one hand your bowl upon your knee; Just in the zenith your wise head project, Your full spoon rising in a line direct, Bold as a bucket, heed no drops that fall. The wide-mouthed bowl will surely catch them all! WILLIAM BARNES (1800-1886) Had he chosen to write solely in familiar English, rather than in thedialect of his native Dorsetshire, every modern anthology would begraced by the verses of William Barnes, and to multitudes who now knowhim not, his name would have become associated with many a country sightand sound. Other poets have taken homely subjects for their themes, --thehayfield, the chimney-nook, milking-time, the blossoming of"high-boughed hedges"; but it is not every one who has sung out of thefullness of his heart and with a naïve delight in that of which he sung:and so by reason of their faithfulness to every-day life and to nature, and by their spontaneity and tenderness, his lyrics, fables, andeclogues appeal to cultivated readers as well as to the rustics whosequaint speech he made his own. Short and simple are the annals of his life; for, a brief periodexcepted, it was passed in his native county--though Dorset, for all hispurposes, was as wide as the world itself. His birthplace was Bagbere inthe vale of Blackmore, far up the valley of the Stour, where hisancestors had been freeholders. The death of his parents while he was aboy threw him on his own resources; and while he was at school atSturminster and Dorchester he supported himself by clerical work inattorneys' offices. After he left school his education was mainlyself-gained; but it was so thorough that in 1827 he became master of aschool at Mere, Wilts, and in 1835 opened a boarding-school inDorchester, which he conducted for a number of years. A little later hespent a few terms at Cambridge, and in 1847 received ordination. Fromthat time until his death in 1886, most of his days were spent in thelittle parishes of Whitcombe and Winterbourne Came, near Dorchester, where his duties as rector left him plenty of time to spend on hisfavorite studies. To the last, Barnes wore the picturesque dress of theeighteenth century, and to the tourist he became almost as much acuriosity as the relics of Roman occupation described in a guide-bookhe compiled. When one is at the same time a linguist, a musician, an antiquary, aprofound student of philology, and skilled withal in the graphic arts, it would seem inevitable that he should have more than a localreputation; but when, in 1844, a thin volume entitled 'Poems of RuralLife in the Dorset Dialect' appeared in London, few bookshopfrequenters had ever heard of the author. But he was already well knownthroughout Dorset, and there he was content to be known; a welcome guestin castle and hall, but never happier than when, gathering about him theJobs and Lettys with whom Thomas Hardy has made us familiar, hedelighted their ears by reciting his verses. The dialect of Dorset, heboasted, was the least corrupted form of English; therefore to commendit as a vehicle of expression and to help preserve his mother tonguefrom corruption, and to purge it of words not of Anglo-Saxon or Teutonicorigin, --this was one of the dreams of his life, --he put his impressionsof rural scenery and his knowledge of human character into metricalform. He is remembered by scholars here and there for a number of workson philology, and one ('Outline of English Speech-Craft') in which, withzeal, but with the battle against him, he aimed to teach the Englishlanguage by using words of Teutonic derivation only; but it is throughhis four volumes of poems that he is better remembered. These include'Hwomely Rhymes' (1859), 'Poems of Rural Life' (1862), and 'Poems ofRural Life in Common English' (1863). The three collections of dialectpoems were brought out in one volume, with a glossary, in 1879. "A poet fresh as the dew, " "The first of English purely pastoral poets, ""The best writer of eclogues since Theocritus, "--these are some of thetardy tributes paid him. With a sympathy for his fellow-man and a humorakin to that of Burns, with a feeling for nature as keen asWordsworth's, though less subjective, and with a power of depicting ascene with a few well-chosen epithets which recalls Tennyson, Barnes hasfairly earned his title to remembrance. 'The Life of William Barnes, Poet and Philologist, ' written by hisdaughter, Mrs. Baxter, was published in 1887. There are numerousarticles relating to him in periodical literature, one of which, asketch by Thomas Hardy, in Vol. 86 of the 'Athenaeum, ' is ofpeculiar interest. BLACKMWORE MAIDENS The primrwose in the sheäde do blow, The cowslip in the zun, The thyme upon the down do grow, The clote where streams do run; An' where do pretty maidens grow An' blow, but where the tow'r Do rise among the bricken tuns, In Blackmwore by the Stour? If you could zee their comely gait, An' pretty feäces' smiles, A-trippèn on so light o' waïght, An' steppèn off the stiles; A-gwaïn to church, as bells do swing An' ring 'ithin the tow'r, You'd own the pretty maïdens' pleäce Is Blackmwore by the Stour? If you vrom Wimborne took your road, To Stower or Paladore, An' all the farmers' housen show'd Their daughters at the door; You'd cry to bachelors at hwome-- "Here, come: 'ithin an hour You'll vind ten maidens to your mind, In Blackmwore by the Stour. " An' if you look'd 'ithin their door, To zee em in their pleäce, A-doèn housework up avore Their smilèn mother's feäce; You'd cry, --"Why, if a man would wive An' thrive, 'ithout a dow'r, Then let en look en out a wife In Blackmwore by the Stour. " As I upon my road did pass A school-house back in May, There out upon the beäten grass Wer maïdens at their play; An' as the pretty souls did tweil An' smile, I cried, "The flow'r O' beauty, then, is still in bud In Blackmwore by the Stour. " MAY Come out o' door, 'tis Spring! 'tis May! The trees be green, the yields be gay; The weather's warm, the winter blast, Wi' all his traïn o' clouds, is past; The zun do rise while vo'k do sleep, To teäke a higher daily zweep, Wi' cloudless feäce a-flingèn down His sparklèn light upon the groun'. The aïr's a-streamèn soft, --come drow The winder open; let it blow In drough the house, where vire, an' door A-shut, kept out the cwold avore. Come, let the vew dull embers die, An' come below the open sky; An' wear your best, vor fear the groun' In colors gäy mid sheäme your gown: An' goo an' rig wi' me a mile Or two up over geäte an' stile, Drough zunny parrocks that do lead, Wi' crooked hedges, to the meäd, Where elems high, in steätely ranks, Do rise vrom yollow cowslip-banks, An' birds do twitter vrom the spräy O' bushes deck'd wi' snow-white mäy; An' gil' cups, wi' the deäisy bed, Be under ev'ry step you tread. We'll wind up roun' the hill, an' look All down the thickly timber'd nook, Out where the squier's house do show His gray-walled peaks up drough the row O' sheädy elems, where the rock Do build her nest; an' where the brook Do creep along the meäds, an' lie To catch the brightness o' the sky; An' cows, in water to theïr knees, Do stan' a-whiskèn off the vlees. Mother o' blossoms, and ov all That's feäir a-vield vrom Spring till Fall, The gookoo over white-weäv'd seas Do come to zing in thy green trees, An' buttervlees, in giddy flight, Do gleäm the mwost by thy gäy light. [Illustration: _MILKING TIME_. Photogravure from a Painting by A. Roll. ] Oh! when, at last, my fleshly eyes Shall shut upon the vields an'skies, Mid zummer's zunny days be gone, An' winter's clouds be comèn on:Nor mid I draw upon the e'th, O' thy sweet aïr my leätest breath;Alassen I mid want to stäy Behine' for thee, O flow'ry May! MILKEN TIME 'Poems of Rural Life' 'Twer when the busy birds did vlee, Wi' sheenèn wings, vrom tree to tree, To build upon the mossy lim' Their hollow nestes' rounded rim; The while the zun, a-zinkèn low, Did roll along his evenèn bow, I come along where wide-horn'd cows, 'Ithin a nook, a-screen'd by boughs, Did stan' an' flip the white-hooped pails Wi' heäiry tufts o' swingèn taïls; An' there were Jenny Coom a-gone Along the path a vew steps on, A-beärèn on her head, upstraïght, Her païl, wi' slowly-ridèn waight, An hoops a-sheenèn, lily-white, Ageän the evenèn's slantèn light; An' zo I took her païl, an' left Her neck a-freed vrom all his heft; An' she a-lookèn up an' down, Wi' sheäply head an' glossy crown, Then took my zide, an' kept my peäce, A-talkèn on wi' smilèn feäce, An' zettèn things in sich a light, I'd faïn ha' heär'd her talk all night; An' when I brought her milk avore The geäte, she took it in to door, An' if her païl had but allow'd Her head to vall, she would ha' bow'd; An' still, as 'twer, I had the zight Ov' her sweet smile, droughout the night. JESSIE LEE Above the timber's bendèn sh'ouds, The western wind did softly blow; An' up avore the knap, the clouds Did ride as white as driven snow. Vrom west to east the clouds did zwim Wi' wind that plied the elem's lim'; Vrom west to east the stream did glide, A sheenèn wide, wi' windèn brim. How feäir, I thought, avore the sky The slowly-zwimmèn clouds do look; How soft the win's a-streamèn by; How bright do roll the weävy brook: When there, a-passèn on my right, A-walkèn slow, an' treadèn light, Young Jessie Lee come by, an' there Took all my ceäre, an' all my zight. Vor lovely wer the looks her feäce Held up avore the western sky: An' comely wer the steps her peäce Did meäke a-walkèn slowly by: But I went east, wi' beatèn breast, Wi' wind, an' cloud, an' brook, vor rest, Wi' rest a-lost, vor Jessie gone So lovely on, toward the west. Blow on, O winds, athirt the hill; Zwim on, O clouds; O waters vall, Down maeshy rocks, vrom mill to mill: I now can overlook ye all. But roll, O zun, an' bring to me My day, if such a day there be, When zome dear path to my abode Shall be the road o' Jessie Lee. THE TURNSTILE Ah! sad wer we as we did peäce The wold church road, wi' downcast feäce, The while the bells, that mwoan'd so deep Above our child a-left asleep, Wer now a-zingèn all alive Wi' tother bells to meäke the vive. But up at woone pleäce we come by, 'Twere hard to keep woone's two eyes dry; On Steän-cliff road, 'ithin the drong, Up where, as vo'k do pass along, The turnèn stile, a-painted white, Do sheen by day an' show by night. Vor always there, as we did goo To church, thik stile did let us drough, Wi' spreadèn eärms that wheel'd to guide Us each in turn to tother zide. An' vu'st ov all the traïn he took My wife, wi' winsome gaït an' look; An' then zent on my little maïd, A-skippèn onward, overjäy'd To reach ageän the pleäce o' pride, Her comely mother's left han' zide. An' then, a-wheelèn roun' he took On me, 'ithin his third white nook. An' in the fourth, a-sheäken wild, He zent us on our giddy child. But eesterday he guided slow My downcast Jenny, vull o' woe, An' then my little maïd in black, A-walken softly on her track; An' after he'd a-turn'd ageän, To let me goo along the leäne, He had noo little bwoy to vill His last white eärms, an' they stood still. TO THE WATER-CROWFOOT O small-feäc'd flow'r that now dost bloom, To stud wi' white the shallow Frome, An' leäve the [2]clote to spread his flow'r On darksome pools o' stwoneless Stour, When sof'ly-rizèn airs do cool The water in the sheenèn pool, Thy beds o' snow white buds do gleam So feäir upon the sky-blue stream, As whitest clouds, a-hangèn high Avore the blueness of the sky. [Footnote 2: The yellow water-lily. ] ZUMMER AN' WINTER When I led by zummer streams The pride o' Lea, as naïghbours thought her, While the zun, wi' evenèn beams, Did cast our sheädes athirt the water: Winds a-blowèn, Streams a-flowèn, Skies a-glowèn, Tokens ov my jay zoo fleetèn, Heightened it, that happy meetèn. Then, when maïd and man took pleäces, Gay in winter's Chris'mas dances, Showèn in their merry feäces Kindly smiles an' glisnèn glances: Stars a-winkèn, Days a-shrinkèn, Sheädes a-zinkèn, Brought anew the happy meetèn, That did meäke the night too fleetèn. JAMES MATTHEW BARRIE (1860-) James Matthew Barrie was born May 9th, 1860, at Kirriemuir, Scotland('Thrums'); son of a physician whom he has lovingly embodied as 'Dr. McQueen, ' and with a mother and sister who will live as 'Jess' and'Leeby. ' After an academy course at Dumfries he entered the Universityof Edinburgh at eighteen, where he graduated M. A. , and took honors inthe English Literature class. A few months later he took a place on anewspaper in Nottingham, England, and in the spring of 1885 went toLondon, where the papers had begun to accept his work. [Illustration: "JAMES M. BARRIE"] Above all, the St. James's Gazette had published the first of the 'AuldLicht Idylls' November 17th, 1884; and the editor, Frederick Greenwood, instantly perceiving a new and rich genius, advised him to work the veinfurther, enforcing the advice by refusing to accept his contributions onother subjects. He had the usual painful struggle to become a successful journalist, detailed in 'When a Man's Single'; but his real work was other andgreater. In 1887 'When a Man's Single' came out serially in the BritishWeekly; it has little merit except in the Scottish prelude, which is ofhigh quality in style and pathos. It is curious how utterly his powersdesert him the moment he leaves his native heath: like Antæus, he is agiant on his mother earth and a pigmy off it. His first published bookwas 'Better Dead' (1887); it works out a cynical idea which would beamusing in five pages, but is diluted into tediousness by being spreadover fifty. But in 1889 came a second masterpiece, 'A Window in Thrums, 'a continuation of the Auld Licht series from an inside instead of anoutside standpoint, --not superior to the first, but their full equals ina deliciousness of which one cannot say how much is matter and how muchstyle. 'My Lady Nicotine' appeared in 1890; it was very popular, and hassome amusing sketches, but no enduring quality. 'An Edinburgh Eleven'(1890) is a set of sketches of his classmates and professors. In 1891 the third of his Scotch works appeared, --'The LittleMinister, '--which raised him from the rank of an admirable sketch writerto that of an admirable novelist, despite its fantastic plot anddetail. Since then he has written three plays, --'Walker, London, ' 'JaneAnnie, ' and 'The Professor's Love Story, ' the latter very successful andadding to his reputation; but no literature except his novel'Sentimental Tommy, ' just closed in Scribner's Magazine. This novel isnot only a great advance on 'The Little Minister' in symmetry ofconstruction, reality of matter, tragic power, and insight, but its toneis very different. Though as rich in humor, the humor is largely of agrim, bitter, and sardonic sort. The light, gay, buoyant fun of 'TheLittle Minister, ' which makes it a perpetual enjoyment, has mostlyvanished; in its stead we feel that the writer's sensitive nature iswrung by the swarming catastrophes he cannot avert, the endless wreckson the ocean of life he cannot succor, and hardly less by thosespiritual tragedies and ironies so much worse, on a true scale ofvaluation, than any material misfortune. The full secret of Mr. Barrie's genius, as of all genius, eludesanalysis; but some of its characteristics are not hard to define. Hiswonderful keenness of observation and tenacity of remembrance of thepettinesses of daily existence, which in its amazing minuteness remindsus of Dickens and Mark Twain, and his sensitiveness to the humorousaspects of their little misfits and hypocrisies and lack of proportion, might if untempered have made him a literary cynic like some others, remembered chiefly for the salience he gave to the ugly meannesses oflife and the ironies of fate. But his good angel added to these a giftof quick, sure, and spontaneous sympathy and wide spiritualunderstanding. This fills all his higher work with a generousappreciativeness, a justness of judgment, a tenderness of feeling, whichelevate as well as charm the reader. He makes us love the most grotesquecharacters, whom in life we should dislike and avoid, by the sympatheticfineness of his interpretation of their springs of life and theirwarping by circumstance. The impression left on one by the studies ofthe Thrums community is not primarily of intellectual and spiritualnarrowness, or niggardly thrift, or dour natures: all are there, butwith them are souls reaching after God and often flowering into beauty, and we reverence the quenchless aspiration of maligned human nature foran ideal far above its reach. He achieves the rare feat of portrayingevery pettiness and prejudice, even the meannesses and dishonors of apoor and hidebound country village, yet leaving us with both sincererespect and warm liking for it; a thing possible only to one himself ofa fine nature as well as of a large mind. Nor is there any mawkishnessor cheap surface sentimentality in it all. His pathos never makes youwince: you can always read his works aloud, the deadly and unfailingtest of anything flat or pinchbeck in literature. His gift of humorsaves him from this: true humor and true pathos are always foundtogether because they are not two but one, twin aspects of the verysame events. He who sees the ludicrous in misfits must see their sadnesstoo; he who can laugh at a tumble must grieve over it: both areinevitable and both are coincident. As a literary artist, he belongs in the foremost rank. He has that senseof the typical in incident, of the universal in feeling, and of thesuggestive in language, which mark the chiefs of letters. No one canexpress an idea with fewer strokes; he never expands a sufficient hintinto an essay. His management of the Scotch dialect is masterly: he usesit sparingly, in the nearest form to English compatible with retainingthe flavor; he never makes it so hard as to interfere with enjoyment; infew dialect writers do we feel so little alienness. 'Auld Licht Idylls' is a set of regular descriptions of the life of"Thrums, " with special reference to the ways and character of the "OldLights, " the stubborn conservative Scotch Puritans; it contains also amost amusing and characteristic love story of the sect (given below), and a satiric political skit. 'A Window in Thrums' is mainly a series ofselected incidents in detail, partly from the point of view of acrippled woman ("Jess"), sitting at her window and piecing out what shesees with great shrewdness from her knowledge of the general current ofaffairs, aided by her daughter "Leeby. " 'The Little Minister' isdeveloped from the real story of a Scotch clergyman who brought home awife from afar, of so alien a sort to the general run that the parishspent the rest of her short life in speculating on her previous historyand weaving legends about her. Barrie's imagined explanation is ofArabian-Nights preposterousness of incident, and indeed is only acareless fairy-tale in substance; but it is so rich in deliciousfilling, so full of his best humor, sentiment, character-drawing, andfine feeling, that one hardly cares whether it has any plot at all. 'Sentimental Tommy' is a study of a sensitive mobile boy, a born_poseur_, who passes his life in cloud-castles where he alwaysdramatizes himself as the hero, who has no continuity of purpose, and nocapacity of self-sacrifice except in spasms of impulse, and in emotionalfeeling which is real to itself; a spiritual Proteus who deceives evenhimself, and only now and then recognizes his own moral illusiveness, like Hawthorne's scarecrow-gentleman before the mirror: but with theirresistible instincts also of the born literary creator andconstructor. The other characters are drawn with great power and truth. The judgment of contemporaries is rarely conclusive; and we will notattempt to anticipate that of posterity. It may be said, however, thatthe best applicable touchstone of permanency is that of seemingcontinuously fresh to cultivated tastes after many readings; and thatMr. Barrie's four best books bear the test without failure. THE COURTING OF T'NOWHEAD'S BELL From 'Auld Licht Idylls' For two years it had been notorious in the square that Sam'l Dickie wasthinking of courting T'nowhead's Bell, and that if little SandersElshioner (which is the Thrums pronunciation of Alexander Alexander)went in for her, he might prove a formidable rival. Sam'l was a weaverin the Tenements, and Sanders a coal-carter whose trade-mark was a bellon his horse's neck that told when coals were coming. Being something ofa public man, Sanders had not, perhaps, so high a social position asSam'l; but he had succeeded his father on the coal-cart, while theweaver had already tried several trades. It had always been againstSam'l, too, that once when the kirk was vacant he had advised theselection of the third minister who preached for it, on the ground thatit came expensive to pay a large number of candidates. The scandal ofthe thing was hushed up, out of respect for his father, who was aGod-fearing man, but Sam'l was known by it in Lang Tammas's circle. Thecoal-carter was called Little Sanders, to distinguish him from hisfather, who was not much more than half his size. He had grown up withthe name, and its inapplicability now came home to nobody. Sam'l'smother had been more far-seeing than Sanders's. Her man had been calledSammy all his life, because it was the name he got as a boy, so whentheir eldest son was born she spoke of him as Sam'l while still in hiscradle. The neighbors imitated her, and thus the young man had a betterstart in life than had been granted to Sammy, his father. It was Saturday evening--the night in the week when Auld Licht young menfell in love. Sam'l Dickie, wearing a blue Glengarry bonnet with a redball on the top, came to the door of a one-story house in the Tenements, and stood there wriggling, for he was in a suit of tweeds for the firsttime that week, and did not feel at one with them. When his feeling ofbeing a stranger to himself wore off, he looked up and down the road, which straggles between houses and gardens, and then, picking his wayover the puddles, crossed to his father's hen-house and sat down on it. He was now on his way to the square. Eppie Fargus was sitting on an adjoining dike, knitting stockings, andSam'l looked at her for a time. "Is't yersel, Eppie?" he said at last. "It's a' that, " said Eppie. "Hoo's a' wi' ye?" asked Sam'l. "We're juist aff an' on, " replied Eppie, cautiously. There was not much more to say, but as Sam'l sidled off the hen-house, he murmured politely, "Ay, ay. " In another minute he would have beenfairly started, but Eppie resumed the conversation. "Sam'l, " she said, with a twinkle in her eye, "ye can tell LisbethFargus I'll likely be drappin' in on her aboot Munday or Teisday. " Lisbeth was sister to Eppie, and wife of Thomas McQuhatty, better knownas T'nowhead, which was the name of his farm. She was thusBell's mistress. Sam'l leaned against the hen-house, as if all his desire to depart hadgone. "Hoo d'ye kin I'll be at the T'nowhead the nicht?" he asked, grinning inanticipation. "Ou, I'se warrant ye'll be after Bell, " said Eppie. "Am no sae sure o' that, " said Sam'l, trying to leer. He was enjoyinghimself now. "Am no sure o' that, " he repeated, for Eppie seemed lost in stitches. "Sam'l?" "Ay. " "Ye'll be speirin' her sune noo, I dinna doot?" This took Sam'l, who had only been courting Bell for a year or two, alittle aback. "Hoo d'ye mean, Eppie?" he asked. "Maybe ye'll do't the nicht. " "Na, there's nae hurry, " said Sam'l. "Weel, we're a' coontin' on't, Sam'l. " "Gae wa wi' ye. " "What for no?" "Gae wa wi' ye, " said Sam'l again. "Bell's gei an' fond o' ye, Sam'l. " "Ay, " said Sam'l. "But am dootin' ye're a fell billy wi' the lasses. " "Ay, oh, I d'na kin, moderate, moderate, " said Sam'l, in high delight. "I saw ye, " said Eppie, speaking with a wire in her mouth, "gaen onterr'ble wi' Mysy Haggart at the pump last Saturday. " "We was juist amoosin' oorsels, " said Sam'l. "It'll be nae amoosement to Mysy, " said Eppie, "gin ye brak her heart. " "Losh, Eppie, " said Sam'l, "I didna think o' that. " "Ye maun kin weel, Sam'l, at there's mony a lass wid jump at ye. " "Ou, weel, " said Sam'l, implying that a man must take these things asthey come. "For ye're a dainty chield to look at, Sam'l. " "Do ye think so, Eppie? Ay, ay; oh, I d'na kin am onything by theordinar. " "Ye mayna be, " said Eppie, "but lasses doesna do to be ower partikler. " Sam'l resented this, and prepared to depart again. "Ye'll no tell Bell that?" he asked, anxiously. "Tell her what?" "Aboot me an' Mysy. " "We'll see hoo ye behave yersel, Sam'l. " "No 'at I care, Eppie; ye can tell her gin ye like. I widna think twiceo' tellin' her mysel. " "The Lord forgie ye for leein', Sam'l, " said Eppie, as he disappeareddown Tammy Tosh's close. Here he came upon Henders Webster. "Ye're late, Sam'l, " said Henders. "What for?" "Ou, I was thinkin' ye wid be gaen the length o' T'nowhead the nicht, an' I saw Sanders Elshioner makkin's wy there an oor syne. " "Did ye?" cried Sam'l, adding craftily; "but its naething to me. " "Tod, lad, " said Henders; "gin ye dinna buckle to, Sanders'll becarryin' her off!" Sam'l flung back his head and passed on. "Sam'l!" cried Henders after him. "Ay, " said Sam'l, wheeling round. "Gie Bell a kiss frae me. " The full force of this joke struck neither all at once. Sam'l began tosmile at it as he turned down the school-wynd, and it came upon Henderswhile he was in his garden feeding his ferret. Then he slapped his legsgleefully, and explained the conceit to Will'um Byars, who went into thehouse and thought it over. There were twelve or twenty little groups of men in the square, whichwas lighted by a flare of oil suspended over a cadger's cart. Now andagain a staid young woman passed through the square with a basket on herarm, and if she had lingered long enough to give them time, some of theidlers would have addressed her, As it was, they gazed after her, andthen grinned to each other. "Ay, Sam'l, " said two or three young men, as Sam'l joined them beneaththe town clock. "Ay, Davit, " replied Sam'l. This group was composed of some of the sharpest wits in Thrums, and itwas not to be expected that they would let this opportunity pass. Perhaps when Sam'l joined them he knew what was in store for him. "Was ye lookin' for T'nowhead's Bell, Sam'l?" asked one. "Or mebbe ye was wantin' the minister?" suggested another, the same whohad walked out twice with Chirsty Duff and not married her after all. Sam'l could not think of a good reply at the moment, so he laughedgood-naturedly. "Ondoobtedly she's a snod bit crittur, " said Davit, archly. "An' michty clever wi' her fingers, " added Jamie Deuchars. "Man, I've thocht o' makkin' up to Bell myself, " said Pete Ogle. "Widthere be ony chance, think ye, Sam'l?" "I'm thinkin' she widna hae ye for her first, Pete, " replied Sam'l, inone of those happy flashes that come to some men, "but there's naesayin' but what she micht tak ye to finish up wi'. " The unexpectedness of this sally startled every one. Though Sam'l didnot set up for a wit, however, like Davit, it was notorious that hecould say a cutting thing once in a way. "Did ye ever see Bell reddin' up?" asked Pete, recovering from hisoverthrow. He was a man who bore no malice. "It's a sicht, " said Sam'l, solemnly. "Hoo will that be?" asked Jamie Deuchars. "It's weel worth yer while, " said Pete, "to ging atower to the T'nowheadan' see. Ye'll mind the closed-in beds i' the kitchen? Ay, weel, they'rea fell spoilt crew, T'nowhead's litlins, an' no that aisy to manage. Th'ither lasses Lisbeth's ha'en had a michty trouble wi' them. When theywar i' the middle o' their reddin up the bairns wid come tumlin' aboutthe floor, but, sal, I assure ye, Bell didna fash lang wi' them. Didshe, Sam'l?" "She did not, " said Sam'l, dropping into a fine mode of speech to addemphasis to his remark. "I'll tell ye what she did, " said Pete to the others. "She juist liftedup the litlins, twa at a time, an' flung them into the coffin-beds. Syneshe snibbit the doors on them, an' keepit them there till the floorwas dry. " "Ay, man, did she so?" said Davit, admiringly. "I've seen her do't myself, " said Sam'l. "There's no a lassie maks better bannocks this side o' Fetter Lums, "continued Pete. "Her mither tocht her that, " said Sam'l; "she was a gran' han' at thebakin', Kitty Ogilvy. " "I've heard say, " remarked Jamie, putting it this way so as not to tiehimself down to anything, "'at Bell's scones is equal to Mag Lunan's. " "So they are, " said Sam'l, almost fiercely. "I kin she's a neat han' at singein' a hen, " said Pete. "An' wi't a', " said Davit, "she's a snod, canty bit stocky in herSabbath claes. " "If onything, thick in the waist, " suggested Jamie. "I dinna see that, " said Sam'l. "I d'na care for her hair either, " continued Jamie, who was very nice inhis tastes; "something mair yallowchy wid be an improvement. " "A'body kins, " growled Sam'l, "'at black hair's the bonniest. " The others chuckled. "Puir Sam'l!" Pete said. Sam'l, not being certain whether this should be received with a smile ora frown, opened his mouth wide as a kind of compromise. This wasposition one with him for thinking things over. Few Auld Lichts, as I have said, went the length of choosing a helpmatefor themselves. One day a young man's friends would see him mending thewashing-tub of a maiden's mother. They kept the joke until Saturdaynight, and then he learned from them what he had been after. It dazedhim for a time, but in a year or so he grew accustomed to the idea, andthey were then married. With a little help, he fell in love just likeother people. Sam'l was going the way of the others, but he found it difficult to cometo the point. He only went courting once a week, and he could never takeup the running at the place where he left off the Saturday before. Thushe had not, so far, made great headway. His method of making up to Bellhad been to drop in at T'nowhead on Saturday nights and talk with thefarmer about the rinderpest. The farm-kitchen was Bell's testimonial. Its chairs, tables, and stoolswere scoured by her to the whiteness of Rob Angus's saw-mill boards, andthe muslin blind on the window was starched like a child's pinafore. Bell was brave, too, as well as energetic. Once Thrums had been overrunwith thieves. It is now thought that there may have been only one; buthe had the wicked cleverness of a gang. Such was his repute, that therewere weavers who spoke of locking their doors when they went from home. He was not very skillful, however, being generally caught, and when theysaid they knew he was a robber he gave them their things back and wentaway. If they had given him time there is no doubt that he would havegone off with his plunder. One night he went to T'nowhead, and Bell, whoslept in the kitchen, was awakened by the noise. She knew who it wouldbe, so she rose and dressed herself, and went to look for him with acandle. The thief had not known what to do when he got in, and as it wasvery lonely he was glad to see Bell. She told him he ought to be ashamedof himself, and would not let him out by the door until he had taken offhis boots, so as not to soil the carpet. On this Saturday evening Sam'l stood his ground in the square, until byand by he found himself alone. There were other groups there still, buthis circle had melted away. They went separately, and no one saidgood-night. Each took himself off slowly, backing out of the group untilhe was fairly started. Sam'l looked about him, and then, seeing that the others had gone, walked round the town-house into the darkness of the brae that leadsdown and then up to the farm of T'nowhead. To get into the good graces of Lisbeth Fargus you had to know her waysand humor them. Sam'l, who was a student of women, knew this, and so, instead of pushing the door open and walking in, he went through therather ridiculous ceremony of knocking. Sanders Elshioner was also awareof this weakness of Lisbeth, but though he often made up his mind toknock, the absurdity of the thing prevented his doing so when he reachedthe door. T'nowhead himself had never got used to his wife's refinednotions, and when any one knocked he always started to his feet, thinking there must be something wrong. Lisbeth came to the door, her expansive figure blocking the way in. "Sam'l, " she said. "Lisbeth, " said Sam'l. He shook hands with the farmer's wife, knowing that she liked it, butonly said, "Ay, Bell, " to his sweetheart, "Ay, T'nowhead, " to McQuhatty, and "It's yersel, Sanders, " to his rival. They were all sitting round the fire; T'nowhead with his feet on theribs, wondering why he felt so warm, and Bell darned a stocking, whileLisbeth kept an eye on a goblet full of potatoes. "Sit in to the fire, Sam'l, " said the farmer, not, however, making wayfor him. "Na, na, " said Sam'l, "I'm to bide nae time. " Then he sat in to thefire. His face was turned away from Bell, and when she spoke he answeredher without looking round. Sam'l felt a little anxious. SandersElshioner, who had one leg shorter than the other, but looked well whensitting, seemed suspiciously at home. He asked Bell questions out of hisown head, which was beyond Sam'l, and once he said something to her insuch a low voice that the others could not catch it. T'nowhead askedcuriously what it was, and Sanders explained that he had only said, "Ay, Bell, the morn's the Sabbath. " There was nothing startling in this, butSam'l did not like it. He began to wonder if he was too late, and had heseen his opportunity would have told Bell of a nasty rumor, that Sandersintended to go over to the Free Church if they would make himkirk-officer. Sam'l had the good-will of T'nowhead's wife, who liked a polite man. Sanders did his best, but from want of practice he constantly mademistakes. To-night, for instance, he wore his hat in the house, becausehe did not like to put up his hand and take it off. T'nowhead had nottaken his off either, but that was because he meant to go out by and byand lock the byre door. It was impossible to say which of her loversBell preferred. The proper course with an Auld Licht lassie was toprefer the man who proposed to her. "Yell bide a wee, an' hae something to eat?" Lisbeth asked Sam'l, withher eyes on the goblet. "No, I thank ye, " said Sam'l, with true gentility. "Ye'll better?" "I dinna think it. " "Hoots ay; what's to hender ye?" "Weel, since ye're sae pressin', I'll bide. " No one asked Sanders to stay. Bell could not, for she was but theservant, and T'nowhead knew that the kick his wife had given him meantthat he was not to do so either. Sanders whistled to show that he wasnot uncomfortable. "Ay, then, I'll be stappin' ower the brae, " he said at last. He did not go, however. There was sufficient pride in him to get him offhis chair, but only slowly, for he had to get accustomed to the notionof going. At intervals of two or three minutes he remarked that he mustnow be going. In the same circumstances Sam'l would have actedsimilarly. For a Thrums man it is one of the hardest things in life toget away from anywhere. At last Lisbeth saw that something must be done. The potatoes wereburning, and T'nowhead had an invitation on his tongue. "Yes, I'll hae to be movin', " said Sanders, hopelessly, for the fifthtime. "Guid-nicht to ye, then, Sanders, " said Lisbeth. "Gie the door afling-to ahent ye. " Sanders, with a mighty effort, pulled himself together. He looked boldlyat Bell, and then took off his hat carefully. Sam'l saw with misgivingsthat there was something in it which was not a handkerchief. It was apaper bag glittering with gold braid, and contained such an assortmentof sweets as lads bought for their lasses on the Muckle Friday. "Hae, Bell, " said Sanders, handing the bag to Bell in an off-hand way, as if it were but a trifle. Nevertheless, he was a little excited, forhe went off without saying good-night. No one spoke. Bell's face was crimson. T'nowhead fidgeted on his chair, and Lisbeth looked at Sam'l. The weaver was strangely calm andcollected, though he would have liked to know whether this wasa proposal. "Sit in by to the table, Sam'l, " said Lisbeth, trying to look as ifthings were as they had been before. She put a saucerful of butter, salt, and pepper near the fire to melt, for melted butter is the shoeing-horn that helps over a meal ofpotatoes. Sam'l, however, saw what the hour required, and jumping up, heseized his bonnet. "Hing the tatties higher up the joist, Lisbeth, " he said with dignity;"I'se be back in ten meenits. " He hurried out of the house, leaving the others looking at each other. "What do ye think?" asked Lisbeth. "I d'na kin, " faltered Bell. "Thae tatties is lang o' comin' to the boil, " said T'nowhead. In some circles a lover who behaved like Sam'l would have been suspectedof intent upon his rival's life, but neither Bell nor Lisbeth did theweaver that injustice. In a case of this kind it does not much matterwhat T'nowhead thought. The ten minutes had barely passed when Sam'l was back in thefarm-kitchen. He was too flurried to knock this time, and indeed Lisbethdid not expect it of him. "Bell, hae!" he cried, handing his sweetheart a tinsel bag twice thesize of Sanders' gift. "Losh preserve's!" exclaimed Lisbeth; "I'se warrant there's a shillin'sworth. " "There's a' that, Lisbeth--an' mair, " said Sam'l, firmly. "I thank ye, Sam'l, " said Bell, feeling an unwonted elation as she gazedat the two paper bags in her lap. "Ye're ower extravegint, Sam'l, " Lisbeth said. "Not at all, " said Sam'l; "not at all. But I wouldna advise ye to eatthae ither anes, Bell--they're second quality. " Bell drew back a step from Sam'l. "How do ye kin?" asked the farmer, shortly; for he liked Sanders. "I speired i' the shop, " said Sam'l. The goblet was placed on a broken plate on the table, with the saucerbeside it, and Sam'l, like the others, helped himself. What he did wasto take potatoes from the pot with his fingers, peel off their coats, and then dip them into the butter. Lisbeth would have liked to provideknives and forks, but she knew that beyond a certain point T'nowhead wasmaster in his own house. As for Sam'l, he felt victory in his hands, andbegan to think that he had gone too far. In the meantime, Sanders, little witting that Sam'l had trumped histrick, was sauntering along the kirk-wynd with his hat on the side ofhis head. Fortunately he did not meet the minister. The courting of T'nowhead's Bell reached its crisis one Sabbath about amonth after the events above recorded. The minister was in great forcethat day, but it is no part of mine to tell how he bore himself. I wasthere, and am not likely to forget the scene. It was a fateful Sabbathfor T'nowhead's Bell and her swains, and destined to be remembered forthe painful scandal which they perpetrated in their passion. Bell was not in the kirk. There being an infant of six months in thehouse, it was a question of either Lisbeth or the lassie's staying athome with him, and though Lisbeth was unselfish in a general way, shecould not resist the delight of going to church. She had nine childrenbesides the baby, and being but a woman, it was the pride of her life tomarch them into the T'nowhead pew, so well watched that they dared notdisbehave, and so tightly packed that they could not fall. Thecongregation looked at that pew, the mothers enviously, when they sungthe lines:-- "Jerusalem like a city is Compactly built together. " The first half of the service had been gone through on this particularSunday without anything remarkable happening. It was at the end of thepsalm which preceded the sermon that Sanders Elshioner, who sat near thedoor, lowered his head until it was no higher than the pews, and in thatattitude, looking almost like a four-footed animal, slipped out of thechurch. In their eagerness to be at the sermon, many of the congregationdid not notice him, and those who did, put the matter by in their mindsfor future investigation. Sam'l, however, could not take it so coolly. From his seat in the gallery he saw Sanders disappear and his mindmisgave him. With the true lover's instinct, he understood it all. Sanders had been struck by the fine turn-out in the T'nowhead pew. Bellwas alone at the farm. What an opportunity to work one's way up to aproposal. T'nowhead was so overrun with children that such a chanceseldom occurred, except on a Sabbath. Sanders, doubtless, was off topropose, and he, Sam'l, was left behind. The suspense was terrible. Sam'l and Sanders had both known all alongthat Bell would take the first of the two who asked her. Even those whothought her proud admitted that she was modest. Bitterly the weaverrepented having waited so long. Now it was too late. In ten minutesSanders would be at T'nowhead; in an hour all would be over. Sam'l roseto his feet in a daze. His mother pulled him down by the coat-tail, andhis father shook him, thinking he was walking in his sleep. He totteredpast them, however, hurried up the aisle, which was so narrow that Dan'lRoss could only reach his seat by walking sideways, and was gone beforethe minister could do more than stop in the middle of a whirl and gapein horror after him. A number of the congregation felt that day the advantage of sitting inthe laft. What was a mystery to those down-stairs was revealed to them. From the gallery windows they had a fine open view to the south; and asSam'l took the common, which was a short cut, though a steep ascent, toT'nowhead, he was never out of their line of vision. Sanders was not tobe seen, but they guessed rightly the reason why. Thinking he had ampletime, he had gone round by the main road to save his boots--perhaps alittle scared by what was coming. Sam'l's design was to forestall him bytaking the shorter path over the burn and up the commonty. It was a race for a wife, and several onlookers in the gallery bravedthe minister's displeasure to see who won. Those who favored Sam'l'ssuit exultingly saw him leap the stream, while the friends of Sandersfixed their eyes on the top of the common where it ran into the road. Sanders must come into sight there, and the one who reached this pointfirst would get Bell. As Auld Lichts do not walk abroad on the Sabbath, Sanders would probablynot be delayed. The chances were in his favor. Had it been any other dayin the week, Sam'l might have run. So some of the congregation in thegallery were thinking, when suddenly they saw him bend low and then taketo his heels. He had caught sight of Sanders's head bobbing over thehedge that separated the road from the common, and feared that Sandersmight see him. The congregation who could crane their necks sufficientlysaw a black object, which they guessed to be the carter's hat, crawlingalong the hedge-top. For a moment it was motionless, and then it shotahead. The rivals had seen each other. It was now a hot race. Sam'l, dissembling no longer, clattered up the common, becoming smaller andsmaller to the onlookers as he neared the top. More than one person inthe gallery almost rose to their feet in their excitement. Sam'l had it. No, Sanders was in front. Then the two figures disappeared from view. They seemed to run into each other at the top of the brae, and no onecould say who was first. The congregation looked at one another. Someof them perspired. But the minister held on his course. Sam'l had just been in time to cut Sanders out. It was the weaver'ssaving that Sanders saw this when his rival turned the corner; for Sam'lwas sadly blown. Sanders took in the situation and gave in at once. Thelast hundred yards of the distance he covered at his leisure, and whenhe arrived at his destination he did not go in. It was a fine afternoonfor the time of year, and he went round to have a look at the pig, aboutwhich T'nowhead was a little sinfully puffed up. "Ay, " said Sanders, digging his fingers critically into the gruntinganimal; "quite so. " "Grumph!" said the pig, getting reluctantly to his feet. "Ou ay; yes, " said Sanders, thoughtfully. Then he sat down on the edge of the sty, and looked long and silently atan empty bucket. But whether his thoughts were of T'nowhead's Bell, whomhe had lost forever, or of the food the farmer fed his pig on, isnot known. "Lord preserve's! Are ye no at the kirk?" cried Bell, nearly droppingthe baby as Sam'l broke into the room. "Bell!" cried Sam'l. Then T'nowhead's Bell knew that her hour had come. "Sam'l, " she faltered. "Will ye hae's, Bell?" demanded Sam'l, glaring at her sheepishly. "Ay, " answered Bell. Sam'l fell into a chair. "Bring's a drink o' water, Bell, " he said. But Bell thought the occasion required milk, and there was none in thekitchen. She went out to the byre, still with the baby in her arms, andsaw Sanders Elshioner sitting gloomily on the pig-sty. "Weel, Bell, " said Sanders. "I thocht ye'd been at the kirk, Sanders, " said Bell. Then there was a silence between them. "Has Sam'l speired ye, Bell?" asked Sanders, stolidly. "Ay, " said Bell again, and this time there was a tear in her eye. Sanders was little better than an "orra man, " and Sam'l was aweaver, and yet-- But it was too late now. Sanders gave the pig a vicious poke with astick, and when it had ceased to grunt, Bell was back in the kitchen. She had forgotten about the milk, however, and Sam'l only got waterafter all. In after days, when the story of Bell's wooing was told, there were somewho held that the circumstances would have almost justified the lassiein giving Sam'l the go-by. But these perhaps forgot that her other loverwas in the same predicament as the accepted one--that, of the two, indeed, he was the more to blame, for he set off to T'nowhead on theSabbath of his own accord, while Sam'l only ran after him. And thenthere is no one to say for certain whether Bell heard of her suitors'delinquencies until Lisbeth's return from the kirk. Sam'l could neverremember whether he told her, and Bell was not sure whether, if he did, she took it in. Sanders was greatly in demand for weeks after to tellwhat he knew of the affair, but though he was twice asked to tea to themanse among the trees, and subjected thereafter to ministerialcross-examinations, this is all he told. He remained at the pigsty untilSam'l left the farm, when he joined him at the top of the brae, and theywent home together. "It's yersel, Sanders, " said Sam'l. "It is so, Sam'l, " said Sanders. "Very cauld, " said Sam'l. "Blawy, " assented Sanders. After a pause-- "Sam'l, " said Sanders. "Ay. " "I'm hearin' yer to be mairit. " "Ay. " "Weel, Sam'l, she's a snod bit lassie. " "Thank ye, " said Sam'l. "I had ance a kin' o' notion o' Bell mysel, " continued Sanders. "Ye had?" "Yes, Sam'l; but I thocht better o't. " "Hoo d'ye mean?" asked Sam'l, a little anxiously. "Weel, Sam'l, mairitch is a terrible responsibeelity. " "It is so, " said Sam'l, wincing. "An' no the thing to take up withoot conseederation. " "But it's a blessed and honorable state, Sanders; ye've heard theminister on't. " "They say, " continued the relentless Sanders, "'at the minister doesnaget on sair wi' the wife himsel. " "So they do, " cried Sam'l, with a sinking at the heart. "I've been telt, " Sanders went on, "'at gin you can get the upper han'o' the wife for awhile at first, there's the mair chance o' a harmoniousexeestence. " "Bell's no the lassie, " said Sam'l, appealingly, "to thwart her man. " Sanders smiled. "D'ye think she is, Sanders?" "Weel, Sam'l, I d'na want to fluster ye, but she's been ower lang wi'Lisbeth Fargus no to hae learnt her ways. An' a'body kins what a lifeT'nowhead has wi' her. " "Guid sake, Sanders, hoo did ye no speak o' this afoore?" "I thocht ye kent o't, Sam'l. " They had now reached the square, and the U. P. Kirk was coming out. TheAuld Licht kirk would be half an hour yet. "But, Sanders, " said Sam'l, brightening up, "ye was on yer wy to spierher yersel. " "I was, Sam'l, " said Sanders, "and I canna but be thankfu' ye was owerquick for's. " "Gin't hadna been for you, " said Sam'l, "I wid never hae thocht o't. " "I'm sayin' naething agin Bell, " pursued the other, "but, man Sam'l, abody should be mair deleeberate in a thing o' the kind. " "It was michty hurried, " said Sam'l, wofully. "It's a serious thing to spier a lassie, " said Sanders. "It's an awfu' thing, " said Sam'l. "But we'll hope for the best, " added Sanders, in a hopeless, voice. They were close to the Tenements now, and Sam'l looked as if he were onhis way to be hanged. "Sam'l?" "Ay, Sanders. " "Did ye--did ye kiss her, Sam'l?" "Na. " "Hoo?" "There's was varra little time, Sanders. " "Half an 'oor, " said Sanders. "Was there? Man Sanders, to tell ye the truth, I never thocht o't. " Then the soul of Sanders Elshioner was filled with contempt for Sam'lDickie. The scandal blew over. At first it was expected that the minister wouldinterfere to prevent the union, but beyond intimating from the pulpitthat the souls of Sabbath-breakers were beyond praying for, and thenpraying for Sam'l and Sanders at great length, with a word thrown in forBell, he let things take their course. Some said it was because he wasalways frightened lest his young men should intermarry with otherdenominations, but Sanders explained it differently to Sam'l. "I hav'na a word to say agin the minister, " he said; "they're gran'prayers, but Sam'l, he's a mairit man himsel. " "He's a' the better for that, Sanders, isna he?" "Do ye no see, " asked Sanders, compassionately, "'at he's tryin' to makthe best o't?" "Oh, Sanders, man!" said Sam'l. "Cheer up, Sam'l, " said Sanders; "it'll sune be ower. " Their having been rival suitors had not interfered with theirfriendship. On the contrary, while they had hitherto been mereacquaintances, they became inseparables as the wedding-day drew near. Itwas noticed that they had much to say to each other, and that when theycould not get a room to themselves they wandered about together in thechurchyard. When Sam'l had anything to tell Bell, he sent Sanders totell it, and Sanders did as he was bid. There was nothing that he wouldnot have done for Sam'l. The more obliging Sanders was, however, the sadder Sam'l grew. He neverlaughed now on Saturdays, and sometimes his loom was silent half theday. Sam'l felt that Sanders's was the kindness of a friend for adying man. It was to be a penny wedding, and Lisbeth Fargus said it was delicacythat made Sam'l superintend the fitting-up of the barn by deputy. Oncehe came to see it in person, but he looked so ill that Sanders had tosee him home. This was on the Thursday afternoon, and the wedding wasfixed for Friday. "Sanders, Sanders, " said Sam'l, in a voice strangely unlike his own, "it'll a' be ower by this time the morn. " "It will, " said Sanders. "If I had only kent her langer, " continued Sam'l. "It wid hae been safer, " said Sanders. "Did ye see the yallow floor in Bell's bonnet?" asked the acceptedswain. "Ay, " said Sanders, reluctantly. "I'm dootin'--I'm sair dootin' she's but a flichty, licht-heartedcrittur, after a'. " "I had ay my suspeecions o't, " said Sanders. "Ye hae kent her langer than me, " said Sam'l. "Yes, " said Sanders, "but there's nae gettin' at the heart o' women. ManSam'l, they're desperate cunnin'. " "I'm dootin't; I'm sair dootin't. " "It'll be a warnin' to ye, Sam'l, no to be in sic a hurry i' the futur, "said Sanders. Sam'l groaned. "Ye'll be gaein up to the manse to arrange wi' the minister the morn'smornin', " continued Sanders, in a subdued voice. Sam'l looked wistfully at his friend. "I canna do't, Sanders, " he said, "I canna do't. " "Ye maun, " said Sanders. "It's aisy to speak, " retorted Sam'l, bitterly. "We have a' oor troubles, Sam'l, " said Sanders, soothingly, "an' everyman maun bear his ain burdens. Johnny Davie's wife's dead, an' he's norepinin'. " "Ay, " said Sam'l, "but a death's no a mairitch. We hae haen deaths inour family, too. " "It may a' be for the best, " added Sanders, "an' there wid be a michtytalk i' the hale country-side gin ye didna ging to the minister likea man. " "I maun hae langer to think o't, " said Sam'l. "Bell's mairitch is the morn, " said Sanders, decisively. Sam'l glanced up with a wild look in his eyes. "Sanders!" he cried. "Sam'l!" "Ye hae been a guid friend to me, Sanders, in this sair affliction. " "Nothing ava, " said Sanders; "dount mention't. " "But, Sanders, ye canna deny but what your rinnin oot o' the kirk thatawfu' day was at the bottom o't a'. " "It was so, " said Sanders, bravely. "An' ye used to be fond o' Bell, Sanders. " "I dinna deny't. " "Sanders, laddie, " said Sam'l, bending forward and speaking in awheedling voice, "I aye thocht it was you she likit. " "I had some sic idea mysel, " said Sanders. "Sanders, I canna think to pairt twa fowk sae weel suited to aneanither as you an' Bell. " "Canna ye, Sam'l?" "She wid make ye a guid wife, Sanders. I hae studied her weel, and she'sa thrifty, douce, clever lassie. Sanders, there's no the like o' her. Mony a time, Sanders, I hae said to mysel, There's a lass ony man michtbe prood to tak. A'body says the same, Sanders. There's nae risk ava, man; nane to speak o'. Tak her, laddie, tak her, Sanders, it's a grandchance, Sanders. She's yours for the speirin. I'll gie her up, Sanders. " "Will ye, though?" said Sanders. "What d'ye think?" asked Sam'l. "If ye wid rayther, " said Sanders, politely. "There's my han' on't, " said Sam'l. "Bless ye, Sanders; ye've been atrue frien' to me. " Then they shook hands for the first time in their lives; and soonafterward Sanders struck up the brae to T'nowhead. Next morning Sanders Elshioner, who had been very busy the night before, put on his Sabbath clothes and strolled up to the manse. "But--but where is Sam'l?" asked the minister. "I must see himself. " "It's a new arrangement, " said Sanders. "What do you mean, Sanders?" "Bell's to marry me, " explained Sanders. "But--- but what does Sam'l say?" "He's willin', " said Sanders. "And Bell?" "She's willin', too. She prefers it. " "It is unusual, " said the minister. "It's a' richt, " said Sanders. "Well, you know best, " said the minister. "You see, the hoose was taen, at ony rate, " continued Sanders. "An' I'lljuist ging in til't instead o' Sam'l. " "Quite so. " "An" I cudna think to disappoint the lassie. " "Your sentiments do you credit, Sanders, " said the minister; "but I hopeyou do not enter upon the blessed state of matrimony without fullconsideration of its responsibilities. It is a serious business, marriage. " "It's a' that, " said Sanders; "but I'm willin' to stan' the risk. " So, as soon as it could be done, Sanders Elshioner took to wifeT'nowhead's Bell, and I remember seeing Sam'l Dickie trying to dance atthe penny wedding. Years afterward it was said in Thrums that Sam'l had treated Bell badly, but he was never sure about it himself. "It was a near thing--a michty near thing, " he admitted in the square. "They say, " some other weaver would remark, "'at it was you Bell likedbest. " "I d'na kin, " Sam'l would reply, "but there's nae doot the lassie wasfell fond o' me. Ou, a mere passin' fancy's ye micht say. " JESS LEFT ALONE From 'A Window in Thrums' There may be a few who care to know how the lives of Jess and Hendryended. Leeby died in the back end of the year I have been speaking of, and as I was snowed up in the school-house at the time, I heard the newsfrom Gavin Birse too late to attend her funeral. She got her death onthe commonty one day of sudden rain, when she had run out to bring inher washing, for the terrible cold she woke with next morning carriedher off very quickly. Leeby did not blame Jamie for not coming to her, nor did I, for I knew that even in the presence of death the poor mustdrag their chains. He never got Hendry's letter with the news, and weknow now that he was already in the hands of her who played the devilwith his life. Before the spring came he had been lost to Jess. "Them 'at has got sae mony blessin's mair than the generality, " Hendrysaid to me one day, when Craigiebuckle had given me a lift into Thrums, "has nae shame if they would pray aye for mair. The Lord has gi'en thishoose sae muckle, 'at to pray for mair looks like no bein' thankfu' forwhat we've got. Ay, but I canna help prayin' to Him 'at in His greatmercy he'll tak Jess afore me. Noo 'at Leeby's gone, an' Jamie neverlets us hear frae him, I canna gulp doon the thocht o' Jess bein'left alane. " This was a prayer that Hendry may be pardoned for having so often in hisheart, though God did not think fit to grant it. In Thrums, when aweaver died, his women-folk had to take his seat at the loom, and thosewho, by reason of infirmities, could not do so, went to a place, thename of which, I thank God, I am not compelled to write in this chapter. I could not, even at this day, have told any episode in the life of Jesshad it ended in the poor house. Hendry would probably have recovered from the fever had not thisterrible dread darkened his intellect when he was still prostrate. Hewas lying in the kitchen when I saw him last in life, and his partingwords must be sadder to the reader than they were to me. "Ay, richt ye are, " he said, in a voice that had become a child's; "Ihae muckle, muckle to be thankfu' for, an' no the least is 'at baith mean' Jess has aye belonged to a bural society. We hae nae cause to beanxious aboot a' thing bein' dune respectable aince we're gone. It wasJess 'at insisted on oor joinin': a' the wisest things I ever did I wasput up to by her. " I parted from Hendry, cheered by the doctor's report, but the old weaverdied a few days afterward. His end was mournful, yet I can recall it nowas the not unworthy close of a good man's life. One night poor worn Jesshad been helped ben into the room, Tibbie Birse having undertaken to situp with Hendry. Jess slept for the first time for many days, and as the night was dyingTibbie fell asleep too. Hendry had been better than usual, lyingquietly, Tibbie said, and the fever was gone. About three o'clock Tibbiewoke and rose to mend the fire. Then she saw that Hendry was not inhis bed. Tibbie went ben the house in her stocking soles, but Jess heard her. "What is't, Tibbie?" she asked, anxiously. "Ou, it's no naething, " Tibbie said; "he's lyin' rale quiet. " Then she went up to the attic. Hendry was not in the house. She opened the door gently and stole out. It was not snowing, but therehad been a heavy fall two days before, and the night was windy. Atearing gale had blown the upper part of the brae clear, and fromT'nowhead's fields the snow was rising like smoke. Tibbie ran to thefarm and woke up T'nowhead. For an hour they looked in vain for Hendry. At last some one asked whowas working in Elshioner's shop all night. This was the longearthen-floored room in which Hendry's loom stood with three others. "It'll be Sanders Whamond likely, " T'nowhead said, and the other mennodded. But it happened that T'nowhead's Bell, who had flung on a wrapper, andhastened across to sit with Jess, heard of the light inElshioner's shop. "It's Hendry, " she cried; and then every one moved toward the workshop. The light at the diminutive, darn-covered window was pale and dim, butBell, who was at the house first, could make the most of acruizey's glimmer. "It's him, " she said; and then, with swelling throat, she ran back toJess. The door of the workshop was wide open, held against the wall by thewind. T'nowhead and the others went in. The cruizey stood on the littlewindow. Hendry's back was to the door, and he was leaning forward on thesilent loom. He had been dead for some time, but his fellow-workers sawthat he must have weaved for nearly an hour. So it came about that for the last few months of her pilgrimage Jess wasleft alone. Yet I may not say that she was alone. Jamie, who should havebeen with her, was undergoing his own ordeal far away; where, we did notnow even know. But though the poorhouse stands in Thrums, where all maysee it, the neighbors did not think only of themselves. Than Tammas Haggart there can scarcely have been a poorer man, butTammas was the first to come forward with offer of help. To the day ofJess's death he did not once fail to carry her water to her in themorning, and the luxuriously living men of Thrums in these present daysof pumps at every corner, can hardly realize what that meant. Oftenthere were lines of people at the well by three o'clock in the morning, and each had to wait his turn. Tammas filled his own pitcher and pan, and then had to take his place at the end of the line with Jess'spitcher and pan, to wait his turn again. His own house was in theTenements, far from the brae in winter time, but he always said to Jessit was "naething ava. " Every Saturday old Robbie Angus sent a bag of sticks and shavings fromthe sawmill by his little son Rob, who was afterward to become a man forspeaking about at nights. Of all the friends that Jess and Hendry had, T'nowhead was the ablest to help, and the sweetest memory I have of thefarmer and his wife is the delicate way they offered it. You who readwill see Jess wince at the offer of charity. But the poor have finefeelings beneath the grime, as you will discover if you care to look forthem; and when Jess said she would bake if anyone would buy, you wouldwonder to hear how many kindly folk came to her door for scones. She had the house to herself at nights, but Tibbie Birse was with herearly in the morning, and other neighbors dropped in. Not for long didshe have to wait the summons to the better home. "Na, " she said to the minister, who has told me that he was a better manfrom knowing her, "my thocht is no nane set on the vanities o' the worldnoo. I kenna hoo I could ever hae haen sic an ambeetion to hae thaestuff-bottomed chairs. " I have tried to keep away from Jamie, whom the neighbors sometimesupbraided in her presence. It is of him you who read would like to hear, and I cannot pretend that Jess did not sit at her window lookingfor him. "Even when she was bakin', " Tibbie told me, "she aye had an eye on thebrae. If Jamie had come at ony time when it was licht she would hae seen'im as sune as he turned the corner. " "If he ever comes back, the sacket" (rascal), T'nowhead said to Jess, "we'll show 'im the door gey quick. " Jess just looked, and all the women knew how she would take Jamie to herarms. We did not know of the London woman then, and Jess never knew of her. Jamie's mother never for an hour allowed that he had become anything butthe loving laddie of his youth. "I ken 'im ower weel, " she always said, "my ain Jamie. " Toward the end she was sure he was dead. I do not know when she firstmade up her mind to this, nor whether it was not merely a phrase forthose who wanted to discuss him with her. I know that she still sat atthe window looking at the elbow of the brae. The minister was with her when she died. She was in her chair, and heasked her, as was his custom, if there was any particular chapter whichshe would like him to read. Since her husband's death she had alwaysasked for the fourteenth of John, "Hendry's chapter, " as it is stillcalled among a very few old people in Thrums. This time she asked him toread the sixteenth chapter of Genesis. "When I came to the thirteenth verse, " the minister told me, "'And shecalled the name of the Lord that spake unto her, Thou God seest me, ' shecovered her face with her two hands, and said, 'Joey's text, Joey'stext. Oh, but I grudged ye sair, Joey. '" "I shut the book, " the minister said, "when I came to the end of thechapter, and then I saw that she was dead. It is my belief that herheart broke one-and-twenty years ago. " AFTER THE SERMON From 'The Little Minister': by permission of the American Publishers'Corporation. One may gossip in a glen on Sabbaths, though not in a town, withoutlosing his character, and I used to await the return of my neighbor, thefarmer of Waster Lunny, and of Birse, the Glen Quharity post, at the endof the school-house path. Waster Lunny was a man whose care in hisleisure hours was to keep from his wife his great pride in her. Hishorse, Catlaw, on the other hand, he told outright what he thought ofit, praising it to its face and blackguarding it as it deserved, and Ihave seen him, when completely baffled by the brute, sit down before iton a stone and thus harangue:--"You think you're clever, Catlaw, mylass, but you're mista'en. You're a thrawn limmer, that's what you are. You think you have blood in you. You ha'e blood! Gae awa, and dinnablether. I tell you what, Catlaw, I met a man yestreen that kent yourmither, and he says she was a feikie, [3] fushionless besom. What do yousay to that?" [Footnote 3: Feikie, over-particular. ] As for the post, I will say no more of him than that his bitter topicwas the unreasonableness of humanity, which treated him graciously whenhe had a letter for it, but scowled at him when he had none, "ayeimplying that I ha'e a letter, but keep it back. " On the Sabbath evening after the riot, I stood at the usual placeawaiting my friends, and saw before they reached me that they hadsomething untoward to tell. The farmer, his wife, and three children, holding each other's hands, stretched across the road. Birse was alittle behind, but a conversation was being kept up by shouting. Allwere walking the Sabbath pace, and the family having started half aminute in advance, the post had not yet made up on them. "It's sitting to snaw, " Waster Lunny said, drawing near, and just as Iwas to reply, "It is so, " Silva slipped in the words before me. "You wasna at the kirk, " was Elspeth's salutation. I had been at theglen church, but did not contradict her, for it is Established, and soneither here nor there. I was anxious, too, to know what their longfaces meant, and therefore asked at once, --"Was Mr. Dishart onthe riot?" "Forenoon, ay; afternoon, no, " replied Waster Lunny, walking round hiswife to get nearer me. "Dominie, a queery thing happened in the kirkthis day, sic as--" "Waster Lunny, " interrupted Elspeth sharply, "have you on your Sabbathshoon or have you no on your Sabbath shoon?" "Guid care you took I should ha'e the dagont oncanny things on, "retorted the farmer. "Keep out o' the gutter, then, " said Elspeth, "on the Lord's day. " "Him, " said her man, "that is forced by a foolish woman to wear genteel'lastic-sided boots canna forget them until he takes them aff. Whaur'sthe extra reverence in wearing shoon twa sizes ower sma'?" "It mayna be mair reverent, " suggested Birse, to whom Elspeth's kitchenwas a pleasant place, "but it's grand, and you canna expect to be baithgrand and comfortable. " I reminded them that they were speaking of Mr. Dishart. "We was saying, " began the post briskly, "that--" "It was me that was saying it, " said Waster Lunny. "So, Dominie--" "Haud your gabs, baith o' you, " interrupted Elspeth. "You've beenroaring the story to one another till you're hoarse. " "In the forenoon, " Waster Lunny went on determinedly, "Mr. Dishartpreached on the riot, and fine he was. Oh, dominie, you should hae heardhim ladling it on to Lang Tammas, no by name, but in sic a way thatthere was no mistaking wha he was preaching at. Sal! oh, losh! Tammasgot it strong. " "But he's dull in the uptake, " broke in the post, "by what I expected. I spoke to him after the sermon, and I says, just to see if he wasproperly humbled:--'Ay, Tammas, ' I says, 'them that discourse waspreached against winna think themselves seven-feet men for a whileagain. ' 'Ay, Birse, ' he answers, 'and glad I am to hear you admit it, for he had you in his eye. ' I was fair scunnered at Tammas the day. " "Mr. Dishart was preaching at the whole clan-jamfray o' you, " saidElspeth. "Maybe he was, " said her husband, leering; "but you needna cast it atus, for my certie, if the men got it frae him in the forenoon, the womengot it in the afternoon. " "He redd them up most michty, " said the post. "Thae was his very wordsor something like them:--'Adam, ' says he, 'was an erring man, but asideEve he was respectable. '" "Ay, but it wasna a' women he meant, " Elspeth explained, "for when hesaid that, he pointed his finger direct at T'nowhead's lassie, and Ihope it'll do her good. " "But, I wonder, " I said, "that Mr. Dishart chose such a subject to-day. I thought he would be on the riot at both services. " "You'll wonder mair, " said Elspeth, "when you hear what happened aforehe began the afternoon sermon. But I canna get in a word wi' that mano' mine. " "We've been speaking about it, " said Birse, "ever since we left the kirkdoor. Tod, we've been sawing it like seed a' alang the glen. " "And we meant to tell you about it at once, " said Waster Lunny; "butthere's aye so muckle to say about a minister. Dagont, to hae ane keepsa body out o' languor. Aye, but this breaks the drum. Dominie, eitherMr. Dishart wasna weel or he was in the devil's grip. " This startled me, for the farmer was looking serious. "He was weel eneuch, " said Birse, "for a heap o' fowk spiered at Jean ifhe had ta'en his porridge as usual, and she admitted he had. But thelassie was skeered hersel', and said it was a mercy Mrs. Dishart wasnain the kirk. " "Why was she not there?" I asked anxiously. "Ou, he winna let her out in sic weather. " "I wish you would tell me what happened, " I said to Elspeth. "So I will, " she answered, "if Waster Lunny would haud his wheest for aminute. You see the afternoon diet began in the ordinary way, and a'was richt until we came to the sermon. 'You will find my text, ' he says, in his piercing voice, 'in the eighth chapter of Ezra. '" "And at thae words, " said Waster Lunny, "my heart gae a loup, for Ezrais an unca ill book to find; ay, and so is Ruth. " "I kent the books o' the Bible by heart, " said Elspeth, scornfully, "when I was a sax-year-auld. " "So did I, " said Waster Lunny, "and I ken them yet, except when I'mhurried. When Mr. Dishart gave out Ezra he a sort o' keeked round thekirk to find out if he had puzzled onybody, and so there was a kind o' acompetition among the congregation wha would lay hand on it first. Thatwas what doited me. Ay, there was Ruth when she wasna wanted, but Ezra, dagont, it looked as if Ezra had jumped clean out o' the Bible. " "You wasna the only distressed crittur, " said his wife. "I was ashamedto see Eppie McLaren looking up the order o' the books at the beginningo' the Bible. " "Tibbie Birse was even mair brazen, " said the post, "for the sly cuttieopened at Kings and pretended it was Ezra. " "None o' thae things would I do, " said Waster Lunny, "and sal, Idauredna, for Davit Lunan was glowering ower my shuther. Ay, you mayscowl at me, Elspeth Proctor, but as far back as I can mind Ezra hasdone me. Mony a time afore I start for the kirk I take my Bible to aquiet place and look Ezra up. In the very pew I says canny to mysel', 'Ezra, Nehemiah, Esther, Job, ' the which should be a help, but themoment the minister gi'es out that awfu' book, away goes Ezra like theEgyptian. " "And you after her, " said Elspeth, "like the weavers that wouldna fecht. You make a windmill of your Bible. " "Oh, I winna admit I'm beat. Never mind, there's queer things in theworld forby Ezra. How is cripples aye so puffed up mair than other folk?How does flour-bread aye fall on the buttered side?" "I will mind, " Elspeth said, "for I was terrified the minister wouldadmonish you frae the pulpit. " "He couldna hae done that, for was he no baffled to find Ezra himsel'?" "Him no find Ezra!" cried Elspeth. "I hae telled you a dozen times hefound it as easy as you could yoke a horse. " "The thing can be explained in no other way, " said her husband doggedly;"if he was weel and in sound mind. " "Maybe the dominie can clear it up, " suggested the post, "him being ascholar. " "Then tell me what happened, " I asked. "Man, hae we no telled you?" Birse said. "I thocht we had. " "It was a terrible scene, " said Elspeth, giving her husband a shove. "AsI said, Mr. Dishart gave out Ezra eighth. Weel, I turned it up in ajiffy, and syne looked cautiously to see how Eppie McLaren was gettingon. Just at that minute I heard a groan frae the pulpit. It didna stopshort o' a groan. Ay, you may be sure I looked quick at the minister, and there I saw a sicht that would hae made the grandest gape. His facewas as white as a baker's, and he had a sort of fallen against the backo' the pulpit, staring demented-like at his open Bible. " "And I saw him, " said Birse, "put up his hand atween him and the Book, as if he thocht it was to jump at him. " "Twice, " said Elspeth, "he tried to speak, and twice he let the wordsfall. " "That, " said Waster Lunny, "the whole congregation admits, but I didnasee it mysel', for a' this time you may picture me hunting savage-likefor Ezra. I thocht the minister was waiting till I found it. " "Hendry Munn, " said Birse, "stood upon one leg, wondering whether heshould run to the session-house for a glass of water. " "But by that time, " said Elspeth, "the fit had left Mr. Dishart, orrather it had ta'en a new turn. He grew red, and it's gospel that hestamped his foot. " "He had the face of one using bad words, " said the post. "He didnaswear, of course, but that was the face he had on. " "I missed it, " said Waster Lunny, "for I was in full cry after Ezra, with the sweat running down my face. " "But the most astounding thing has yet to be telled, " went on Elspeth. "The minister shook himsel' like one wakening frae a nasty dream, and hecries in a voice of thunder, just as if he was shaking his fist atsomebody--" "He cries, " Birse interposed, cleverly, "he cries, 'You will find thetext in Genesis, chapter three, verse six. '" "Yes, " said Elspeth, "first he gave out one text, and then he gave outanother, being the most amazing thing to my mind that ever happened inthe town of Thrums. What will our children's children think o't? Iwouldna ha'e missed it for a pound note. " "Nor me, " said Waster Lunny, "though I only got the tail o't. Dominie, no sooner had he said Genesis third and sixth, than I laid my finger onEzra. Was it no provoking? Onybody can turn up Genesis, but it needs anable-bodied man to find Ezra. " "He preached on the Fall, " Elspeth said, "for an hour and twenty-fiveminutes, but powerful though he was I would rather he had telled us whatmade him gie the go-by to Ezra. " "All I can say, " said Waster Lunny, "is that I never heard him mairawe-inspiring. Whaur has he got sic a knowledge of women? He riddledthem, he fair riddled them, till I was ashamed o' being married. " "It's easy kent whaur he got his knowledge of women, " Birse explained, "it's a' in the original Hebrew. You can howk ony mortal thing out o'the original Hebrew, the which all ministers hae at their finger ends. What else makes them ken to jump a verse now and then when giving outa psalm?" "It wasna women like me he denounced, " Elspeth insisted, "but younglassies that leads men astray wi' their abominable wheedling ways. " "Tod, " said her husband, "if they try their hands on Mr. Dishart they'llmeet their match. " "They will, " chuckled the post. "The Hebrew's a grand thing, thoughteuch, I'm telled, michty teuch. " "His sublimest burst, " Waster Lunny came back to tell me, "was about thebeauty o' the soul being everything and the beauty o' the face no wortha snuff. What a scorn he has for bonny faces and toom souls! I dinnadeny but what a bonny face fell takes me, but Mr. Dishart wouldna gi'e ablade o' grass for't. Ay, and I used to think that in their foolishnessabout women there was dagont little differ atween the unlearned and thehighly edicated. " THE MUTUAL DISCOVERY From 'The Little Minister': by permission of the American Publishers'Corporation A young man thinks that he alone of mortals is impervious to love, andso the discovery that he is in it suddenly alters his views of his ownmechanism. It is thus not unlike a rap on the funny-bone. Did Gavin makethis discovery when the Egyptian left him? Apparently he only came tothe brink of it and stood blind. He had driven her from him for ever, and his sense of loss was so acute that his soul cried out for the curerather than for the name of the malady. In time he would have realized what had happened, but time was deniedhim, for just as he was starting for the mudhouse Babbie saved hisdignity by returning to him. .. . She looked up surprised, or seeminglysurprised, to find him still there. "I thought you had gone away long ago, " she said stiffly. "Otherwise, " asked Gavin the dejected, "you would not have came back tothe well?" "Certainly not. " "I am very sorry. Had you waited another moment I should have beengone. " This was said in apology, but the willful Egyptian chose to change itsmeaning. "You have no right to blame me for disturbing you, " she declared withwarmth. "I did not. I only--" "You could have been a mile away by this time. Nanny wanted more water. " Babbie scrutinized the minister sharply as she made this statement. Surely her conscience troubled her, for on his not answering immediatelyshe said, "Do you presume to disbelieve me? What could have made mereturn except to fill the pans again?" "Nothing, " Gavin admitted eagerly, "and I assure you---" Babbie should have been grateful to his denseness, but it merely set hermind at rest. "Say anything against me you choose, " she told him. "Say it as brutallyas you like, for I won't listen. " She stopped to hear his response to that, and she looked so cold that italmost froze on Gavin's lips. "I had no right, " he said dolefully, "to speak to you as I did. " "You had not, " answered the proud Egyptian. She was looking away fromhim to show that his repentance was not even interesting to her. However, she had forgotten already not to listen. .. . She was very near him, and the tears had not yet dried on her eyes. Theywere laughing eyes, eyes in distress, imploring eyes. Her pale face, smiling, sad, dimpled yet entreating forgiveness, was the one prominentthing in the world to him just then. He wanted to kiss her. He would doit as soon as her eyes rested on his, but she continued withoutregarding him. "How mean that sounds! Oh, if I were a man I would wish to be everythingthat I am not, and nothing that I am. I would scorn to be a liar, Iwould choose to be open in all things, I would try to fight the worldhonestly. But I am only a woman, and so--well, that is the kind of man Iwould like to marry. " "A minister may be all these things, " said Gavin breathlessly. "The man I could love, " Babbie went on, not heeding him, almostforgetting that he was there, "must not spend his days in idleness asthe men I know do. " "I do not. " "He must be brave, no mere worker among others, but a leader of men. " "All ministers are. " "Who makes his influence felt. " "Assuredly. " "And takes the side of the weak against the strong, even though thestrong be in the right. " "Always my tendency. " "A man who has a mind of his own, and having once made it up stands toit in defiance even of--" "Of his session. " "Of the world. He must understand me. " "I do. " "And be my master. " "It is his lawful position in the house. " "He must not yield to my coaxing or tempers. " "It would be weakness. " "But compel me to do his bidding; yes, even thrash me if-" "If you won't listen to reason. Babbie, " cried Gavin, "I am that man!" Here the inventory abruptly ended, and these two people found themselvesstaring at each other, as if of a sudden they had heard somethingdreadful. I do not know how long they stood thus motionless andhorrified. I cannot tell even which stirred first. All I know is thatalmost simultaneously they turned from each other and hurried out of thewood in opposite directions. LOST ILLUSIONS From 'Sentimental Tommy' To-morrow came, and with it two eager little figures rose and gulpedtheir porridge, and set off to see Thrums. They were dressed in theblack clothes Aaron Latta had bought for them in London, and they hadagreed just to walk, but when they reached the door and saw thetree-tops of the Den they--they ran. Would you not like to hold themback? It is a child's tragedy. They went first into the Den, and the rocks were dripping wet, all thetrees save the firs were bare, and the mud round a tiny spring pulledoff one of Elspeth's boots. "Tommy, " she cried, quaking, "that narsty puddle can't not be the CuttleWell, can it?" "No, it ain't, " said Tommy, quickly, but he feared it was. "It's c-c-colder here than London, " Elspeth said, shivering, and Tommywas shivering too, but he answered, "I'm--I'm--I'm warm. " The Den was strangely small, and soon they were on a shabby brae, wherewomen in short gowns came to their doors and men in night-caps sat downon the shafts of their barrows to look at Jean Myles's bairns. "What does yer think?" Elspeth whispered, very doubtfully. "They're beauties, " Tommy answered, determinedly. Presently Elspeth cried, "Oh, Tommy, what a ugly stair! Where is thebeauty stairs as it wore outside for show?" This was one of them, and Tommy knew it. "Wait till you see the westtown end, " he said, bravely: "it's grand. " But when they were in thewest town end, and he had to admit it, "Wait till you see the square, "he said, and when they were in the square, "Wait, " he said, huskily, "till you see the town-house. " Alas, this was the town-house facingthem, and when they knew it, he said, hurriedly, "Wait till you see theAuld Licht kirk. " They stood long in front of the Auld Licht kirk, which he had sworn wasbigger and lovelier than St. Paul's, but--well, it is a different styleof architecture, and had Elspeth not been there with tears in waiting, Tommy would have blubbered. "It's--it's littler than I thought, " hesaid, desperately, "but--the minister, oh, what a wonderful big manhe is!" "Are you sure?" Elspeth squeaked. "I swear he is. " The church door opened and a gentleman came out, a little man, boyish inthe back, with the eager face of those who live too quickly. But it wasnot at him that Tommy pointed reassuringly; it was at the monster churchkey, half of which protruded from his tail pocket and waggled as hemoved, like the hilt of a sword. Speaking like an old residenter, Tommy explained that he had brought hissister to see the church. "She's ta'en aback, " he said, picking outScotch words carefully, "because it's littler than the London kirks, butI telled her--I telled her that the preaching is better. " This seemed to please the stranger, for he patted Tommy on the headwhile inquiring, "How do you know that the preaching is better?" "Tell him, Elspeth, " replied Tommy, modestly. "There ain't nuthin' as Tommy don't know, " Elspeth explained. "He knowswhat the minister is like, too. " "He's a noble sight, " said Tommy. "He can get anything from God he likes, " said Elspeth. "He's a terrible big man, " said Tommy. This seemed to please the little gentleman less. "Big!" he exclaimed, irritably; "why should he be big?" "He is big, " Elspeth almost screamed, for the minister was her lasthope. "Nonsense!" said the little gentleman. "He is--well, I am the minister. " "You!" roared Tommy, wrathfully. "Oh, oh, oh!" sobbed Elspeth. For a moment the Rev. Mr. Dishart looked as if he would like to knocktwo little heads together, but he walked away without doing it. "Never mind, " whispered Tommy hoarsely to Elspeth. "Never mind, Elspeth, you have me yet. " This consolation seldom failed to gladden her, but her disappointmentwas so sharp to-day that she would not even look up. "Come away to the cemetery, it's grand, " he said; but still she wouldnot be comforted. "And I'll let you hold my hand--as soon as we're past the houses, " headded. "I'll let you hold it now, " he said, eventually; but even then Elspethcried dismally, and her sobs were hurting him more than her. He knew all the ways of getting round Elspeth, and when next he spoke itwas with a sorrowful dignity. "I didna think, " he said, "as yer wantedme never to be able to speak again; no, I didna think it, Elspeth. " She took her hands from her face and looked at him inquiringly. "One of the stories mamma telled me and Reddy, " he said, "were a manwhat saw such a beauty thing that he was struck dumb with admiration. Struck dumb is never to be able to speak again, and I wish I had beenstruck dumb when you wanted it. " "But I didn't want it!" Elspeth cried. "If Thrums had been one little bit beautier than it is, " he went on, solemnly, "it would have struck me dumb. It would have hurt me sore, butwhat about that, if it pleased you!" Then did Elspeth see what a wicked girl she had been, and when next thetwo were seen by the curious (it was on the cemetery road), they wereonce more looking cheerful. At the smallest provocation they exchangednotes of admiration, such as, "O Tommy, what a bonny barrel!" or "OElspeth, I tell yer that's a dike, and there's just walls in London;"but sometimes Elspeth would stoop hastily, pretending that she wanted totie her boot-lace, but really to brush away a tear, and there weremoments when Tommy hung very limp. Each was trying to deceive the otherfor the other's sake, and one of them was never good at deception. Theysaw through each other, yet kept up the chilly game, because they couldthink of nothing better; and perhaps the game was worth playing, forlove invented it. Scribner's Magazine. Copyrighted by Charles Scribner's Sons, New York. SINS OF CIRCUMSTANCE From 'Sentimental Tommy' With the darkness, too, crept into the Muckley certain devils in thecolor of the night who spoke thickly and rolled braw lads in the mire, and egged on friends to fight, and cast lewd thoughts into the minds ofthe women. At first the men had been bashful swains. To the women's "Gieme my faring, Jock, " they had replied, "Wait, Jean, till I'm fee'd, " butby night most had got their arles, with a dram above it, and he whocould only guffaw at Jean a few hours ago had her round the waist now, and still an arm free for rough play with other kimmers. The Jeans wereas boisterous as the Jocks, giving them leer for leer, running from themwith a giggle, waiting to be caught and rudely kissed. Grand, patient, long-suffering fellows these men were, up at five, summer and winter, foddering their horses, maybe, hours before there would be food forthemselves, miserably paid, housed like cattle, and when the rheumatismseized them, liable to be flung aside like a broken graip. As hard wasthe life of the women: coarse food, chaff beds, damp clothes theirportion; their sweethearts in the service of masters who were loth tofee a married man. Is it to be wondered that these lads who could befaithful unto death drank soddenly on their one free day; that thesegirls, starved of opportunities for womanliness, of which they couldmake as much as the finest lady, sometimes woke after a Muckley to wishthat they might wake no more? Scribner's Magazine. Copyrighted by Charles Scribner's Sons, New York. FRÉDÉRIC BASTIAT (1801-1850) Political economy has been called the "dismal science"; and probably themajority think of it as either merely a matter of words and phrases, oras something too abstruse for the common mind to comprehend. It was thedistinction of Bastiat that he was able to write economic tracts in sucha language that he that ran might read, and to clothe the apparently drybones with such integuments as manifested vitality. Under his pen, questions of finance, of tax, of exchange, became questions whichconcern the lives of individual men and women, with sentiments, hopes, and aspirations. [Illustration: FRÉDÉRIC BASTIAT] He was born at Bayonne in France, June 19th, 1801. At nine years of agehe was left an orphan, but he was cared for by his grandfather and aunt. He received his schooling at the college of St. Sever and at Sorèze, where he was noted as a diligent student. When about twenty years of agehe was taken into the commercial house of his uncle at Bayonne. Hisleisure was employed in cultivating art and literature, and he becameaccomplished in languages and in instrumental and vocal music. He wasearly interested in political and social economy through the writings ofAdam Smith, J. B. Say, Comte, and others; and having inheritedconsiderable landed property at Mugron on the death of his grandfatherin 1827, he undertook the personal charge of it, at the same timecontinuing his economic studies. His experiment in farming did not provesuccessful; but he rapidly developed clear ideas upon economicalproblems, being much assisted in their consideration by frequentconferences with his neighbor, M. Felix Coudroy. These two worked muchtogether, and cherished a close sympathy in thought and heart. The bourgeois revolution of 1830 was welcomed enthusiastically byBastiat. It was a revolution of prosperous and well-instructed men, willing to make sacrifices to attain an orderly and systematic method ofgovernment. To him the form of the administration did not greatlymatter: the right to vote taxes was the right which governed thegovernors. "There is always a tendency on the part of governments toextend their powers, " he said; "the administration therefore must beunder constant surveillance. " His motto was "Foi systematiqtie à lalibre activité de I'individu; defiance systematique vis-à-vis de l'Étatconçu abstraitement, --c'est-à-dire, defiance parfaitement pure de toutehostilité de parti. " [Systematic faith in the free activity of theindividual; systematic distrust of the State conceived abstractly, --thatis, a distrust entirely free from prejudice. ] His work with his pen seems to have been begun about 1830, and from thefirst was concerned with matters of economy and government. A year laterhe was chosen to local office, and every opportunity which offered wasseized upon to bring before the common people the true milk of theeconomic word, as he conceived it. The germ of his theory of valuesappeared in a pamphlet of 1834, and the line of his development was asteady one; his leading principles being the importance of restrictingthe functions of government to the maintenance of order, and of removingall shackles from the freedom of production and exchange. Throughsubscription to an English periodical he became familiar with Cobden andthe Anti-Corn-Law League, and his subsequent intimacy with Cobdencontributed much to broaden his horizon. In 1844-5 appeared hisbrilliant 'Sophismes économiques', which in their kind have never beenequaled; and his reputation rapidly expanded. He enthusiasticallyespoused the cause of Free Trade, and issued a work entitled 'Cobden etla Ligue, ou l'Agitation anglaise pour la liberté des échanges' (Cobdenand the League, or the English Agitation for Liberty of Exchange), whichattracted great attention, and won for its author the title ofcorresponding member of the Institute. A movement for organization infavor of tariff reform was begun, of which he naturally became a leader;and feeling that Paris was the centre from which influence should flow, to Paris he removed. M. De Molinari gives an account of his debut:--"Westill seem to see him making his first round among the journals whichhad shown themselves favorable to cause of the freedom of commerce. Hehad not yet had time to call upon a Parisian tailor or hatter, and intruth it had not occurred to him to do so. With his long hair and hissmall hat, his large surtout and his family umbrella, he would naturallybe taken for a reputable countryman looking at the sights of themetropolis. But his countryman's-face was at the same time roguish andspirituelle, his large black eyes were bright and luminous, and hisforehead, of medium breadth but squarely formed, bore the imprint ofthought. At a glance one could see that he was a peasant of the countryof Montaigne, and in listening to him one realized that here was adisciple of Franklin. " He plunged at once into work, and his activity was prodigious. Hecontributed to numerous journals, maintained an active correspondencewith Cobden, kept up communications with organizations throughout thecountry, and was always ready to meet his opponents in debate. The Republic of 1848 was accepted in good faith; but he was stronglyimpressed by the extravagant schemes which accompanied the Republicanmovement, as well as by the thirst for peace which animated multitudes. The Provisional government had made solemn promises: it must pile ontaxes to enable it to keep its promises. "Poor people! How they havedeceived themselves! It would have been so easy and so just to haveeased matters by reducing the taxes; instead, this is to be done byprofusion of expenditure, and people do not see that all this machineryamounts to taking away ten in order to return eight, _without countingthe fact that liberty will succumb under the operation_. " He tried tostem the tide of extravagance; he published a journal, the RépubliqueFrançaise, for the express purpose of promulgating his views; he enteredthe Constituent and then the Legislative Assembly, as a member for thedepartment of Landes, and spoke eloquently from the tribune. He was aconstitutional "Mugwump": he cared for neither parties nor men, but forideas. He was equally opposed to the domination of arbitrary power andto the tyranny of Socialism. He voted with the right against the left onextravagant Utopian schemes, and with the left against the right when hefelt that the legitimate complaints of the poor and sufferingwere unheeded. In the midst of his activity he was overcome by a trouble in the throat, which induced his physicians to send him to Italy. The effort for reliefwas a vain one, however, and he died in Rome December 24th, 1850. Hiscomplete works, mostly composed of occasional essays, were printed in1855. Besides those mentioned, the most important are 'Propriété et Loi'(Property and Law), 'Justice et Fraternité, ' 'Protectionisme etCommunisme, ' and 'Harmonies économiques. ' The 'Harmonies économiques'and 'Sophismes économiques' have been translated and publishedin English. PETITION OF THE MANUFACTURERS OF CANDLES, WAX-LIGHTS, LAMPS, CANDLE-STICKS, STREET LAMPS, SNUFFERS, EXTINGUISHERS, AND OF THE PRODUCERS OF OIL, TALLOW, ROSIN, ALCOHOL, AND GENERALLY OF EVERYTHING CONNECTEDWITH LIGHTING. _To Messieurs the Members of the Chamber of Deputies: Gentlemen_:--You are on the right road. You reject abstract theories, and have little consideration for cheapness and plenty. Your chief careis the interest of the producer. You desire to emancipate him fromexternal competition, and reserve the _national market_ for _nationalindustry_. We are about to offer you an admirable opportunity of applyingyour--what shall we call it? your theory? no: nothing is more deceptivethan theory. Your doctrine? your system? your principle? but you dislikedoctrines, you abhor systems, and as for principles, you deny that thereare any in social economy. We shall say, then, your practice, yourpractice without theory and without principle. We are suffering from the intolerable competition of a foreign rival, placed, it would seem, in a condition so far superior to ours for theproduction of light, that he absolutely _inundates_ our _nationalmarket_ with it at a price fabulously reduced. The moment he showshimself, our trade leaves us--all consumers apply to him; and a branchof native industry, having countless ramifications, is all at oncerendered completely stagnant. This rival, who is no other than the Sun, wages war to the knife against us, and we suspect that he has beenraised up by _perfidious Albion_ (good policy as times go); inasmuch ashe displays towards that haughty island a circumspection with which hedispenses in our case. What we pray for is, that it may please you to pass a law ordering theshutting up of all windows, skylights, dormer windows, outside andinside shutters, curtains, blinds, bull's-eyes; in a word, of allopenings, holes, chinks, clefts, and fissures, by or through which thelight of the sun has been in use to enter houses, to the prejudice ofthe meritorious manufactures with which we flatter ourselves we haveaccommodated our country, --a country which, in gratitude, ought not toabandon us now to a strife so unequal. We trust, gentlemen, that you will not regard this our request as asatire, or refuse it without at least previously hearing the reasonswhich we have to urge in its support. And first, if you shut up as much as possible all access to naturallight, and create a demand for artificial light, which of our Frenchmanufactures will not be encouraged by it? If more tallow is consumed, then there must be more oxen and sheep; andconsequently, we shall behold the multiplication of artificial meadows, meat, wool, hides, and above all manure, which is the basis andfoundation of all agricultural wealth. If more oil is consumed, then we shall have an extended cultivation ofthe poppy, of the olive, and of rape. These rich and exhausting plantswill come at the right time to enable us to avail ourselves of theincreased fertility which the rearing of additional cattle will impartto our lands. Our heaths will be covered with resinous trees. Numerous swarms of beeswill, on the mountains, gather perfumed treasures, now wasting theirfragrance on the desert air, like the flowers from which they emanate. No branch of agriculture but will then exhibit a cheering development. The same remark applies to navigation. Thousands of vessels will proceedto the whale fishery; and in a short time we shall possess a navycapable of maintaining the honor of France, and gratifying the patrioticaspirations of your petitioners, the under-signed candle-makersand others. But what shall we say of the manufacture of _articles de Paris?_Henceforth you will behold gildings, bronzes, crystals, in candlesticks, in lamps, in lustres, in candelabra, shining forth in spaciouswarerooms, compared with which those of the present day can be regardedbut as mere shops. No poor _résinier_ from his heights on the sea-coast, no coal-miner fromthe depth of his sable gallery, but will rejoice in higher wages andincreased prosperity. Only have the goodness to reflect, gentlemen, and you will be convincedthat there is perhaps no Frenchman, from the wealthy coal-master to thehumblest vender of lucifer matches, whose lot will not be ameliorated bythe success of this our petition. We foresee your objections, gentlemen, but we know that you can opposeto us none but such as you have picked up from the effete works of thepartisans of Free Trade. We defy you to utter a single word against uswhich will not instantly rebound against yourselves and yourentire policy. You will tell us that if we gain by the protection which we seek, thecountry will lose by it, because the consumer must bear the loss. We answer:-- You have ceased to have any right to invoke the interest of theconsumer; for whenever his interest is found opposed to that of theproducer, you sacrifice the former. You have done so for the purpose of_encouraging labor and increasing employment_. For the same reason youshould do so again. You have yourself refuted this objection. When you are told that theconsumer is interested in the free importation of iron, coal, corn, textile fabrics--yes, you reply, but the producer is interested in theirexclusion. Well, be it so;--if consumers are interested in the freeadmission of natural light, the producers of artificial light areequally interested in its prohibition. But again, you may say that the producer and consumer are identical. Ifthe manufacturer gain by protection, he will make the agriculturist alsoa gainer; and if agriculture prosper, it will open a vent tomanufactures. Very well: if you confer upon us the monopoly offurnishing light during the day, --first of all, we shall purchasequantities of tallow, coals, oils, resinous substances, wax, alcohol--besides silver, iron, bronze, crystal--to carry on ourmanufactures; and then we, and those who furnish us with suchcommodities, having become rich, will consume a great deal, and impartprosperity to all the other branches of our national industry. If you urge that the light of the sun is a gratuitous gift of nature, and that to reject such gifts is to reject wealth itself under pretenseof encouraging the means of acquiring it, we would caution you againstgiving a death-blow to your own policy. Remember that hitherto you havealways repelled foreign products, _because_ they approximate more nearlythan home products to the character of gratuitous gifts. To comply withthe exactions of other monopolists, you have only _half a motive_; andto repulse us simply because we stand on a stronger vantage-ground thanothers would be to adopt the equation, +X+=--; in other words, it wouldbe to heap _absurdity_ upon _absurdity_. Nature and human labor co-operate in various proportions (depending oncountries and climates) in the production of commodities. The partwhich nature executes is always gratuitous; it is the part executed byhuman labor which constitutes value, and is paid for. If a Lisbon orange sells for half the price of a Paris orange, it isbecause natural and consequently gratuitous heat does for the one whatartificial and therefore expensive heat must do for the other. When an orange comes to us from Portugal, we may conclude that it isfurnished in part gratuitously, in part for an onerous consideration; inother words, it comes to us at _half-price_ as compared with thoseof Paris. Now, it is precisely the _gratuitous half_ (pardon the word) which wecontend should be excluded. You say, How can natural labor sustaincompetition with foreign labor, when the former has all the work to do, and the latter only does one-half, the sun supplying the remainder? Butif this _half_, being _gratuitous_, determines you to excludecompetition, how should the _whole_, being _gratuitous_, induce you toadmit competition? If you were consistent, you would, while excluding ashurtful to native industry what is half gratuitous, exclude _a fortiori_and with double zeal that which is altogether gratuitous. Once more, when products such as coal, iron, corn, or textile fabricsare sent us from abroad, and we can acquire them with less labor than ifwe made them ourselves, the difference is a free gift conferred upon us. The gift is more or less considerable in proportion as the difference ismore or less great. It amounts to a quarter, a half, or three-quartersof the value of the product, when the foreigner only asks us forthree-fourths, a half, or a quarter of the price we should otherwisepay. It is as perfect and complete as it can be, when the donor (likethe sun in furnishing us with light) asks us for nothing. The question, and we ask it formally, is this, Do you desire for our country thebenefit of gratuitous consumption, or the pretended advantages ofonerous production? Make your choice, but be logical; for as long as youexclude, as you do, coal, iron, corn, foreign fabrics, _in proportion_as their price approximates to _zero_, what inconsistency would it be toadmit the light of the sun, the price of which is already at _zero_during the entire day! STULTA AND PUERA There were, no matter where, two towns called Fooltown and Babytown. They completed at great cost a highway from the one town to the other. When this was done, Fooltown said to herself, "See how Babytowninundates us with her products; we must see to it. " In consequence, theycreated and paid a body of _obstructives_, so called because theirbusiness was to place _obstacles_ in the way of traffic coming fromBabytown. Soon afterwards Babytown did the same. At the end of some centuries, knowledge having in the interim made greatprogress, the common sense of Babytown enabled her to see that suchreciprocal obstacles could only be reciprocally hurtful. She thereforesent a diplomatist to Fooltown, who, laying aside official phraseology, spoke to this effect: "We have made a highway, and now we throw obstacles in the way of usingit. This is absurd. It would have been better to have left things asthey were. We should not, in that case, have had to pay for making theroad in the first place, nor afterwards have incurred the expense ofmaintaining _obstructives_. In the name of Babytown, I come to proposeto you, not to give up opposing each other all at once, --that would beto act upon a principle, and we despise principles as much as youdo, --but to lessen somewhat the present obstacles, taking care toestimate equitably the respective _sacrifices_ we make forthis purpose. " So spoke the diplomatist. Fooltown asked for time to consider theproposal, and proceeded to consult in succession her manufacturers andagriculturists. At length, after the lapse of some years, she declaredthat the negotiations were broken off. On receiving this intimation, theinhabitants of Babytown held a meeting. An old gentleman (they alwayssuspected he had been secretly bought by Fooltown) rose and said:--"Theobstacles created by Fooltown injure our sales, which is a misfortune. Those which we have ourselves created injure our purchases, which isanother misfortune. With reference to the first, we are powerless; butthe second rests with ourselves. Let us at least get quit of one, sincewe cannot rid ourselves of both evils. Let us suppress our_obstructives_ without requiring Fooltown to do the same. Some day, nodoubt, she will come to know her own interests better. " A second counselor, a practical, matter-of-fact man, guiltless of anyacquaintance with principles, and brought up in the ways of hisforefathers, replied-- "Don't listen to that Utopian dreamer, that theorist, that innovator, that economist; that _Stultomaniac_. We shall all be undone if thestoppages of the road are not equalized, weighed, and balanced betweenFooltown and Babytown. There would be greater difficulty in _going_ thanin _coming_, in _exporting_ than in _importing_. We should findourselves in the same condition of inferiority relatively to Fooltown, as Havre, Nantes, Bordeaux, Lisbon, London, Hamburg, and New Orleans, are with relation to the towns situated at the sources of the Seine, theLoire, the Garonne, the Tagus, the Thames, the Elbe, and theMississippi; for it is more difficult for a ship to ascend than todescend a river. [_A Voice_--'Towns at the _embouchures_ of riversprosper more than towns at their source. '] This is impossible. [_SameVoice_--'But it is so. '] Well, if it be so, they have prospered_contrary to rules_. " Reasoning so conclusive convinced the assembly, and the orator followedup his victory by talking largely of national independence, nationalhonor, national dignity, national labor, inundation of products, tributes, murderous competition. In short, he carried the vote in favorof the maintenance of obstacles; and if you are at all curious on thesubject, I can point out to you countries, where you will see with yourown eyes Roadmakers and Obstructives working together on the mostfriendly terms possible, under the orders of the same legislativeassembly, and at the expense of the same taxpayers, the one setendeavoring to clear the road, and the other set doing their utmost torender it impassable. INAPPLICABLE TERMS From 'Economic Sophisms' Let us give up . .. The puerility of applying to industrial competitionphrases applicable to war, --a way of speaking which is only speciouswhen applied to competition between two rival trades. The moment we cometo take into account the effect produced on the general prosperity, theanalogy disappears. In a battle, every one who is killed diminishes by so much the strengthof the army. In industry, a workshop is shut up only when what itproduced is obtained by the public from another source and in _greaterabundance_. Figure a state of things where for one man killed on thespot two should rise up full of life and vigor. Were such a state ofthings possible, war would no longer merit its name. This, however, is the distinctive character of what is so absurdlycalled _industrial war_. Let the Belgians and the English lower the price of their iron ever somuch; let them, if they will, send it to us for nothing: this mightextinguish some of our blast-furnaces; but immediately, and as a_necessary_ consequence of this very cheapness, there would rise up athousand other branches of industry more profitable than the one whichhad been superseded. We arrive, then, at the conclusion that domination by labor isimpossible, and a contradiction in terms, seeing that all superioritywhich manifests itself among a people means cheapness, and tends only toimpart force to all other nations. Let us banish, then, from politicaleconomy all terms borrowed from the military vocabulary: _to fight withequal weapons, to conquer, to crush, to stifle, to be beaten, invasion, tribute_, etc. What do such phrases mean? Squeeze them, and you obtainnothing. Yes, you do obtain something; for from such words proceedabsurd errors, and fatal and pestilent prejudices. Such phrases tend toarrest the fusion of nations, are inimical to their peaceful, universal, and indissoluble alliance, and retard the progress of the human race. CHARLES BAUDELAIRE (1821-1867) BY GRACE KING Charles Baudelaire was born in Paris in 1821; he died there in 1867. Between these dates lies the evolution of one of the most strikingpersonalities in French literature, and the development of an influencewhich affected not only the literature of the poet's own country, butthat of all Europe and America. The genuineness of both personality andinfluence was one of the first critical issues raised after Baudelaire'sadvent into literature; it is still one of the main issues in allcritical consideration of him. A question which involves by implicationthe whole relation of poetry, and of art as such, to life, is obviouslyone that furnishes more than literary issues, and engages other thanliterary interests. And thus, by easy and natural corollaries, Baudelaire has been made a subject of appeal not only to judgment, buteven to conscience. At first sight, therefore, he appears surroundedeither by an intricate moral maze, or by a no less troublesome confusionof contradictory theories from opposing camps rather than schools ofcriticism. But no author--no dead author--is more accessible, or morecommunicable in his way; his poems, his theories, and a goodly portionof his life, lie at the disposition of any reader who cares to know him. [Illustration: CHARLES BAUDELAIRE] The Baudelaire legend, as it is called by French critics, is one of theblooms of that romantic period of French literature which is presidedover by the genius of Théophile Gautier. Indeed; it is against thegolden background of Gautier's imagination that the picture of theyouthful poet is best preserved for us, appearing in all the delicateand illusive radiance of the youth and beauty of legendary saints on thegilded canvases of mediaeval art. The radiant youth and beauty may be nomore truthful to nature than the gilded background, but the fact of theimpression sought to be conveyed is not on that account to bedisbelieved. Baudelaire, Gautier writes, was born in the Rue Hautefeuille, in one ofthose old houses with a pepper-pot turret at the corner which havedisappeared from the city under the advancing improvement of straightlines and clear openings. His father, a gentleman of learning, retainedall the eighteenth-century courtesy and distinction of manner, which, like the pepper-pot turret, has also disappeared under the advance ofRepublican enlightenment. An absent-minded, reserved child, Baudelaireattracted no especial attention during his school days. When they wereover, his predilection for a literary vocation became known. From thishis parents sought to divert him by sending him to travel. He voyagedthrough the Indian Ocean, visiting the great islands: Madagascar, Ceylon, Mauritius, Bourbon. Had there been a chance for irresolution inthe mind of the youth, this voyage destroyed it forever. Hisimagination, essentially exotic, succumbed to the passionate charm of anew, strange, and splendidly glowing form of nature; the stars, theskies, the gigantic vegetation, the color, the perfumes, thedark-skinned figures in white draperies, formed for him at that time aheaven, for which his senses unceasingly yearned afterwards amid thecharms and enchantments of civilization, in the world's capital ofpleasure and luxury. Returning to Paris, of age and master of hisfortune, he established himself in his independence, openly adopting hischosen career. He and Théophile Gautier met for the first time in 1849, in the HotelPimodau, where were held the meetings of the Hashish Club. Here in thegreat Louis XIV. Saloon, with its wood-work relieved with dull gold; itscorbeled ceiling, painted after the manner of Lesueur and Poussin, withsatyrs pursuing nymphs through reeds and foliage; its great red andwhite spotted marble mantel, with gilded elephant harnessed like theelephant of Porus in Lebrun's picture, bearing an enameled clock withblue ciphers; its antique chairs and sofas, covered with faded tapestryrepresenting hunting scenes, holding the reclining figures of themembers of the club; women celebrated in the world of beauty, men in theworld of letters, meeting not only for the enjoyment of the artificialecstasies of the drug, but to talk of art, literature, and love, as inthe days of the Decameron--here Baudelaire made what might be called hishistoric impression upon literature. He was at that time twenty-eightyears of age; and even in that assemblage, in those surroundings, hispersonality was striking. His black hair, worn close to the head, grewin regular scallops over a forehead of dazzling whiteness; his eyes, thecolor of Spanish tobacco, were spiritual, deep, penetrating, perhaps tooinsistently so, in expression; the mobile sinuous mouth had the ironicalvoluptuous lips that Leonardo da Vinci loved to paint; the nose wasdelicate and sensitive, with quivering nostrils; a deep dimpleaccentuated the chin; the bluish-black tint of the shaven skin, softenedwith rice-powder, contrasted with the clear rose and white of the upperpart of his cheeks. Always dressed with meticulous neatness andsimplicity, following English rather than French taste; in mannerpunctiliously observant of the strictest conventionality, scrupulously, even excessively polite; in talk measuring his phrases, using only themost select terms, and pronouncing certain words as if the sound itselfpossessed a certain subtle, mystical value, --throwing his voice intocapitals and italics;--in contrast with the dress and manners about him, he, according to Gautier, looked like a dandy who had strayedinto Bohemia. The contrast was no less violent between Baudelaire's form and thesubstance of his conversation. With a simple, natural, and perfectlyimpartial manner, as if he were conveying commonplace information aboutevery-day life, he would advance some axiom monstrously Satanic, orsustain, with the utmost grace and coolness, some mathematicalextravagance in the way of a theory. And no one could so inflexibly pusha paradox to the uttermost limits, regardless of consequences toreceived notions of morality or religion; always employing the mostrigorous methods of logic and reason. His wit was found to lie neitherin words nor thoughts, but in the peculiar standpoint from which heregarded things, a standpoint which altered their outlines, --like thoseof objects looked down upon from a bird's flight, or looked up to on aceiling. In this way, to continue the exposition of Gautier, Baudelairesaw relations inappreciable to others, whose logical bizarrerie wasstartling. His first productions were critical articles for the Parisian journals;articles that at the time passed unperceived, but which to-day furnishperhaps the best evidences of that keen artistic insight and foresightof the poet, which was at once his greatest good and evil genius. In1856 appeared his translation of the works of Edgar Allan Poe; atranslation which may be said to have naturalized Poe in Frenchliterature, where he has played a role curiously like that of Baudelairein Poe's native literature. The natural predisposition of Baudelaire, which fitted him to be the French interpreter of Poe, rendered him alsopeculiarly sensitive to Poe's mysteriously subtle yet rankly vigorouscharms; and he showed himself as sensitively responsive to these as hehad been to the exotic charms of the East. The influence upon hisintellectual development was decisive and final. His indebtedness toPoe, or it might better be said, his identification with Poe, is visiblenot only in his paradoxical manias, but in his poetry, and in histheories of art and poetry set forth in his various essays and fugitiveprose expressions, and notably in his introduction to his translationsof the American author's works. In 1857 appeared the "Fleurs du Mal" (Flowers of Evil), the volume ofpoems upon which Baudelaire's fame as a poet is founded. It was theresult of his thirty years' devotion to the study of his art andmeditation upon it. Six of the poems were suppressed by the censor ofthe Second Empire. This action called out, in form of protest, that fineappreciation and defense of Baudelaire's genius and best defense of hismethods, by four of the foremost critics and keenest artists in poetryof Paris, which form, with the letters from Sainte-Beuve, de Custine, and Deschamps, a precious appendix to the third edition of the poems. The name 'Flowers of Evil' is a sufficient indication of the intentionsand aim of the author. Their companions in the volume are: 'Spleen andIdeal, ' 'Parisian Pictures, ' 'Wine, ' 'Revolt, ' 'Death. ' The simplestdescription of them is that they are indescribable. They must not onlybe read, they must be studied repeatedly to be understood as theydeserve. The paradox of their most exquisite art, and their at timesmost revolting revelations of the degradations and perversities ofhumanity, can be accepted with full appreciation of the author's meaningonly by granting the same paradox to his genuine nature; by creditinghim with being not only an ardent idealist of art for art's sake, but anidealist of humanity for humanity's sake; one to whom humanity, even inits lowest degradations and vilest perversions, is sublimelysacred;--one to whom life offered but one tragedy, that of human soulsflying like Cain from a guilt-stricken paradise, but pursued by theremorse of innocence, and scourged by the consciousness of their owninfinitude. But the poet's own words are the best explanation of his aim andintention:-- "Poetry, though one delve ever so little into his own self, interrogate his own soul, recall his memories of enthusiasms, has no other end than itself; it cannot have any other aim, and no poem will be so great, so noble, so truly worthy of the name of poem, as that which shall have been written solely for the pleasure of writing a poem. I do not wish to say that poetry should not ennoble manners--that its final result should not be to raise man above vulgar interests. That would be an evident absurdity. I say that if the poet has pursued a moral end, he has diminished his poetic force, and it would not be imprudent to wager that his work would be bad. Poetry cannot, under penalty of death or forfeiture, assimilate itself to science or morality. It has not Truth for object, it has only itself. Truth's modes of demonstration are different and elsewhere. Truth has nothing to do with ballads; all that constitutes the charm, the irresistible grace of a ballad, would strip Truth of its authority and power. Cold, calm, impassive, the demonstrative temperament rejects the diamonds and flowers of the muse; it is, therefore, the absolute inverse of the poetic temperament. Pure Intellect aims at Truth, Taste shows us Beauty, and the Moral Sense teaches us Duty. It is true that the middle term has intimate connection with the two extremes, and only separates itself from Moral Sense by a difference so slight that Aristotle did not hesitate to class some of its delicate operations amongst the virtues. And accordingly what, above all, exasperates the man of taste is the spectacle of vice, is its deformity, its disproportions. Vice threatens the just and true, and revolts intellect and conscience; but as an outrage upon harmony, as dissonance, it would particularly wound certain poetic minds, and I do not think it would be scandal to consider all infractions of moral beauty as a species of sin against rhythm and universal prosody. "It is this admirable, this immortal instinct of the Beautiful which makes us consider the earth and its spectacle as a sketch, as a correspondent of Heaven. The insatiable thirst for all that is beyond that which life veils is the most living proof of our immortality. It is at once by poetry and across it, across and through music, that the soul gets a glimpse of the splendors that lie beyond the tomb. And when an exquisite poem causes tears to rise in the eye, these tears are not the proof of excessive enjoyment, but rather the testimony of a moved melancholy, of a postulation of the nerves, of a nature exiled in the imperfect, which wishes to take immediate possession, even on earth, of a revealed paradise. "Thus the principle of poetry is strictly and simply human aspiration toward superior beauty; and the manifestation of this principle is enthusiasm and uplifting of the soul, --enthusiasm entirely independent of passion, --which is the intoxication of heart, and of truth which is the food of reason. For passion is a natural thing, even too natural not to introduce a wounding, discordant tone into the domain of pure beauty; too familiar, too violent, not to shock the pure Desires, the gracious Melancholies, and the noble Despairs which inhabit the supernatural regions of poetry. " Baudelaire saw himself as the poet of a decadent epoch, an epoch inwhich art had arrived at the over-ripened maturity of an agingcivilization; a glowing, savorous, fragrant over-ripeness, that isalready softening into decomposition. And to be the fitting poet of suchan epoch, he modeled his style on that of the poets of the Latindecadence; for, as he expressed it for himself and for the modern schoolof "decadents" in French poetry founded upon his name:-- "Does it not seem to the reader, as to me, that the language of the last Latin decadence--that supreme sigh of a robust person already transformed and prepared for spiritual life--is singularly fitted to express passion as it is understood and felt by the modern world? Mysticism is the other end of the magnet of which Catullus and his band, brutal and purely epidermic poets, knew only the sensual pole. In this wonderful language, solecisms and barbarisms seem to express the forced carelessness of a passion which forgets itself, and mocks at rules. The words, used in a novel sense, reveal the charming awkwardness of a barbarian from the North, kneeling before Roman Beauty. " Nature, the nature of Wordsworth and Tennyson, did not exist forBaudelaire; inspiration he denied; simplicity he scouted as ananachronism in a decadent period of perfected art, whose last word inpoetry should be the apotheosis of the Artificial. "A littlecharlatanism is permitted even to genius, " he wrote: "it is like fard onthe cheeks of a naturally beautiful woman; an appetizer for the mind. "Again he expresses himself: "It seems to me, two women are presented to me, one a rustic matron, repulsive in health and virtue, without manners, without expression; in short, owing nothing except to simple nature;--the other, one of those beauties that dominate and oppress memory, uniting to her original and unfathomable charms all the eloquence of dress; who is mistress of her part, conscious of and queen of herself, speaking like an instrument well tuned; with looks freighted with thought, yet letting flow only what she would. My choice would not be doubtful; and yet there are pedagogic sphinxes who would reproach me as recreant to classical honor. " In music it was the same choice. He saw the consummate art andartificiality of Wagner, and preferred it to all other music, at a timewhen the German master was ignored and despised by a classicized musicalworld. In perfumes it was not the simple fragrance of the rose or violetthat he loved, but musk and amber; and he said, "my soul hovers overperfumes as the souls of other men hover over music. " Besides his essays and sketches, Baudelaire published in prose anovelette; 'Fanfarlo, ' 'Artificial Paradises, ' opium and hashish, imitations of De Quincey's 'Confessions of an Opium Eater'; and 'LittleProse Poems, ' also inspired by a book, the 'Gaspard de la Nuit' ofAloysius Bertrand, and which Baudelaire thus describes:-- "The idea came to me to attempt something analogous, and to apply to the description of modern life, or rather a modern and more abstract life, the methods he had applied to the painting of ancient life, so strangely picturesque. Which one of us in his ambitious days has not dreamed of a miracle of poetic prose, musical, without rhythm and without rhyme, supple enough and rugged enough to adapt itself to the lyrical movements of the soul, to the undulations of reverie, and to the assaults of conscience?" Failing health induced Baudelaire to quit Paris and establish himself inBrussels; but he received no benefit from the change of climate, and thefirst symptoms of his terrible malady manifested themselves--a slownessof speech, and hesitation over words. As a slow and sententiousenunciation was characteristic of him, the symptoms attracted noattention, until he fell under a sudden and violent attack. He wasbrought back to Paris and conveyed to a "maison de santé, " where hedied, after lingering several months in a paralyzed condition, motionless, speechless; nothing alive in him but thought, seeking toexpress itself through his eyes. The nature of Baudelaire's malady and death was, by the public at large, accepted as confirmation of the suspicion that he was in the habit ofseeking his inspiration in the excitation of hashish and opium. Hisfriends, however, recall the fact of his incessant work, and intensestriving after his ideal in art; his fatigue of body and mind, and hisincreasing weariness of spirit under the accumulating worries and griefsof a life for which his very genius unfitted him. He was also known tobe sober in his tastes, as all great workers are. That he had lenthimself more than once to the physiological and psychological experimentof hashish was admitted; but he was a rare visitor at the séances in thesaloon of the Hotel Pimodau, and came as a simple observer of others. His masterly description of the hallucinations produced by hashish isaccompanied by analytical and moral commentaries which unmistakablyexpress repugnance to and condemnation of the drug:-- "Admitting for the moment, " he writes, "the hypothesis of a constitution tempered enough and strong enough to resist the evil effects of the perfidious drug, another, a fatal and terrible danger, must be thought of, --that of habit. He who has recourse to a poison to enable him to think, will soon not be able to think without the poison. Imagine the horrible fate of a man whose paralyzed imagination is unable to work without the aid of hashish or opium. .. . But man is not so deprived of honest means of gaining heaven, that he is obliged to invoke the aid of pharmacy or witchcraft; he need not sell his soul in order to pay for the intoxicating caresses and the love of houris. What is a paradise that one purchases at the expense of one's own soul?. .. Unfortunate wretches who have neither fasted nor prayed, and who have refused the redemption of labor, ask from black magic the means to elevate themselves at a single stroke to a supernatural existence. Magic dupes them, and lights for them a false happiness and a false light; while we, poets and philosophers, who have regenerated our souls by incessant work and contemplation, by the assiduous exercise of the will and permanent nobility of intention, we have created for our use a garden of true beauty. Confiding in the words that 'faith will remove mountains, ' we have accomplished the one miracle for which God has given us license. " The perfect art-form of Baudelaire's poems makes translation of themindeed a literal impossibility. The 'Little Old Women, ' 'The Voyage, ''The Voyage to Cytherea, ' 'A Red-haired Beggar-girl, ' 'The Seven OldMen, ' and sonnet after sonnet in 'Spleen and Ideal, ' seem to rise onlymore and more ineffable from every attempt to filter them throughanother language, or through another mind than that of their original, and, it would seem, one possible creator. [Illustration: Manuscript signature here: Grace King] MEDITATION Be pitiful, my sorrow--be thou still: For night thy thirst was--lo, it falleth down, Slowly darkening it veils the town, Bringing its peace to some, to some its ill. While the dull herd in its mad career Under the pitiless scourge, the lash of unclean desire, Goes culling remorse with fingers that never tire:-- My sorrow, --thy hand! Come, sit thou by me here. Here, far from them all. From heaven's high balconies See! in their threadbare robes the dead years cast their eyes: And from the depths below regret's wan smiles appear. The sun, about to set, under the arch sinks low, Trailing its weltering pall far through the East aglow. Hark, dear one, hark! Sweet night's approach is near. Translated for the 'Library of the World's Best Literature. ' THE DEATH OF THE POOR This is death the consoler--death that bids live again; Here life its aim: here is our hope to be found, Making, like magic elixir, our poor weak heads to swim round, And giving us heart for the struggle till night makes end of the pain. Athwart the hurricane--athwart the snow and the sleet, Afar there twinkles over the black earth's waste, The light of the Scriptural inn where the weary and the faint may taste The sweets of welcome, the plenteous feast and the secure retreat. It is an angel, in whose soothing palms Are held the boon of sleep and dreamy balms, Who makes a bed for poor unclothèd men; It is the pride of the gods--the all-mysterious room, The pauper's purse--this fatherland of gloom, The open gate to heaven, and heavens beyond our ken. Translated for the 'Library of the World's Best Literature. ' [Illustration: _Copyright 1895, by the Photographische Gesellschaft_]_MUSIC_. Photogravure from a Painting by J. M. Strudwick. MUSIC Sweet music sweeps me like the sea Toward my pale star, Whether the clouds be there or all the air be free I sail afar. With front outspread and swelling breasts, On swifter sail I bound through the steep waves' foamy crests Under night's veil. Vibrate within me I feel all the passions that lash A bark in distress: By the blast I am lulled--by the tempest's wild crash On the salt wilderness. Then comes the dead calm--mirrored there I behold my despair. Translated for the 'Library of the World's Best Literature. ' THE BROKEN BELL Bitter and sweet, when wintry evenings fall Across the quivering, smoking hearth, to hear Old memory's notes sway softly far and near, While ring the chimes across the gray fog's pall. Thrice blessed bell, that, to time insolent, Still calls afar its old and pious song, Responding faithfully in accents strong, Like some old sentinel before his tent. I too--my soul is shattered;--when at times It would beguile the wintry nights with rhymes Of old, its weak old voice at moments seems Like gasps some poor, forgotten soldier heaves Beside the blood-pools--'neath the human sheaves Gasping in anguish toward their fixèd dreams. Translated for the 'Library of the World's Best Literature. ' The two poems following are used by permission of the J. B. LippincottCompany. THE ENEMY My youth swept by in storm and cloudy gloom, Lit here and there by glimpses of the sun; But in my garden, now the storm is done, Few fruits are left to gather purple bloom. Here have I touched the autumn of the mind; And now the careful spade to labor comes, Smoothing the earth torn by the waves and wind, Full of great holes, like open mouths of tombs. And who knows if the flowers whereof I dream Shall find, beneath this soil washed like the stream, The force that bids them into beauty start? O grief! O grief! Time eats our life away, And the dark Enemy that gnaws our heart Grows with the ebbing life-blood of his prey! Translation of Miss Katharine Hillard. BEAUTY Beautiful am I as a dream in stone; And for my breast, where each falls bruised in turn, The poet with an endless love must yearn-- Endless as Matter, silent and alone. A sphinx unguessed, enthroned in azure skies, White as the swan, my heart is cold as snow; No hated motion breaks my lines' pure flow, Nor tears nor laughter ever dim mine eyes. Poets, before the attitudes sublime I seem to steal from proudest monuments, In austere studies waste the ling'ring time; For I possess, to charm my lover's sight, Mirrors wherein all things are fair and bright-- My eyes, my large eyes of eternal light! Translation of Miss Katharine Hillard. DEATH Ho, Death, Boatman Death, it is time we set sail; Up anchor, away from this region of blight: Though ocean and sky are like ink for the gale, Thou knowest our hearts are consoled with the light. Thy poison pour out--it will comfort us well; Yea--for the fire that burns in our brain We would plunge through the depth, be it heaven or hell, Through the fathomless gulf--the new vision to gain. Translated for the 'Library of the World's Best Literature. ' THE PAINTER OF MODERN LIFE From 'L'Art Romantique' The crowd is his domain, as the air is that of the bird and the waterthat of the fish. His passion and his profession is "to wed the crowd. "For the perfect _flâneur_, for the passionate observer, it is an immensepleasure to choose his home in number, change, motion, in the fleetingand the infinite. To be away from one's home and yet to be always athome; to be in the midst of the world, to see it, and yet to be hiddenfrom it; such are some of the least pleasures of these independent, passionate, impartial minds which language can but awkwardly define. Theobserver is a prince who everywhere enjoys his incognito. The amateur oflife makes the world his family, as the lover of the fair sex makes hisfamily of all beauties, discovered, discoverable, and indiscoverable, asthe lover of painting lives in an enchanted dreamland painted on canvas. Thus the man who is in love with all life goes into a crowd as into animmense electric battery. One might also compare him to a mirror asimmense as the crowd; to a conscious kaleidoscope which in each movementrepresents the multiform life and the moving grace of all life'selements. He is an ego insatiably hungry for the non-ego, every momentrendering it and expressing it in images more vital than life itself, which is always unstable and fugitive. "Any man, " said Mr. G---- oneday, in one of those conversations which he lights up with intense lookand vivid gesture, "any man, not overcome by a sorrow so heavy that itabsorbs all the faculties, who is bored in the midst of a crowd is afool, a fool, and I despise him. " When Mr. G---- awakens and sees the blustering sun attacking thewindow-panes, he says with remorse, with regret:--"What imperial order!What a trumpet flourish of light! For hours already there has been lighteverywhere, light lost by my sleep! How many lighted objects I mighthave seen and have not seen!" And then he starts off, he watches in itsflow the river of vitality, so majestic and so brilliant. He admires theeternal beauty and the astonishing harmony of life in great cities, aharmony maintained in so providential a way in the tumult of humanliberty. He contemplates the landscapes of the great city, landscapes ofstone caressed by the mist or struck by the blows of the sun. He enjoysthe fine carriages, the fiery horses, the shining neatness of thegrooms, the dexterity of the valets, the walk of the gliding women, ofthe beautiful children, happy that they are alive and dressed; in aword, he enjoys the universal life. If a fashion, the cut of a piece ofclothing has been slightly changed, if bunches of ribbon or buckles havebeen displaced by cockades, if the bonnet is larger and the back hair anotch lower on the neck, if the waist is higher and the skirt fuller, besure that his eagle eye will see it at an enormous distance. A regimentpasses, going perhaps to the end of the earth, throwing into the air ofthe boulevards the flourish of trumpets compelling and light as hope;the eye of Mr. G---- has already seen, studied, analyzed the arms, thegait, the physiognomy of the troop. Trappings, scintillations, music, firm looks, heavy and serious mustaches, all enters pell-mell into him, and in a few moments the resulting poem will be virtually composed. Hissoul is alive with the soul of this regiment which is marching like asingle animal, the proud image of joy in obedience! But evening has come. It is the strange, uncertain hour at which thecurtains of the sky are drawn and the cities are lighted. The gas throwsspots on the purple of the sunset. Honest or dishonest, sane or mad, mensay to themselves, "At last the day is at an end!" The wise and thegood-for-nothing think of pleasure, and each hurries to the place of hischoice to drink the cup of pleasure. Mr. G---- will be the last to leaveany place where the light may blaze, where poetry may throb, where lifemay tingle, where music may vibrate, where a passion may strike anattitude for his eye, where the man of nature and the man of conventionshow themselves in a strange light, where the sun lights up the rapidjoys of fallen creatures! "A day well spent, " says a kind of reader whomwe all know, "any one of us has genius enough to spend a day that way. "No! Few men are gifted with the power to see; still fewer have the powerof expression. Now, at the hour when others are asleep, this man is bentover his table, darting on his paper the same look which a short timeago he was casting on the world, battling with his pencil, his pen, hisbrush, throwing the water out of his glass against the ceiling, wipinghis pen on his shirt, --driven, violent, active, as if he fears that hisimages will escape him, a quarreler although alone, --a cudgeler ofhimself. And the things he has seen are born again upon the paper, natural and more than natural, beautiful and more than beautiful, singular and endowed with an enthusiastic life like the soul of theauthor. The phantasmagoria have been distilled from nature. All thematerials with which his memory is crowded become classified, orderly, harmonious, and undergo that compulsory idealization which is the resultof a childlike perception, that is to say, of a perception that is keen, magical by force of ingenuousness. MODERNNESS Thus he goes, he runs, he seeks. What does he seek? Certainly this man, such as I have portrayed him, this solitary, gifted with an activeimagination, always traveling through the great desert of mankind, has ahigher end than that of a mere observer, an end more general than thefugitive pleasure of the passing event. He seeks this thing which we maycall modernness, for no better word to express the idea presents itself. His object is to detach from fashion whatever it may contain of thepoetry in history, to draw the eternal from the transitory. If we glanceat the exhibitions of modern pictures, we are struck with the generaltendency of the artists to dress all their subjects in ancient costumes. That is obviously the sign of great laziness, for it is much easier todeclare that everything in the costume of a certain period is ugly thanto undertake the work of extracting from it the mysterious beauty whichmay be contained in it, however slight or light it may be. The modern isthe transitory, the fleeting, the contingent, the half of art, whoseother half is the unchanging and the eternal. There was a modernness forevery ancient painter; most of the beautiful portraits which remain tous from earlier times are dressed in the costumes of their times. Theyare perfectly harmonious, because the costumes, the hair, even thegesture, the look and the smile (every epoch has its look and itssmile), form a whole that is entirely lifelike. You have no right todespise or neglect this transitory, fleeting element, of which thechanges are so frequent. In suppressing it you fall by necessity intothe void of an abstract and undefinable beauty, like that of the onlywoman before the fall. If instead of the costume of the epoch, which isa necessary element, you substitute another, you create an anomaly whichcan have no excuse unless it is a burlesque called for by the vogue ofthe moment. Thus, the goddesses, the nymphs, the sultans of theeighteenth century are portraits morally accurate. FROM 'LITTLE POEMS IN PROSE' EVERY ONE HIS OWN CHIMERA Under a great gray sky, in a great powdery plain without roads, withoutgrass, without a thistle, without a nettle, I met several men who werewalking with heads bowed down. Each one bore upon his back an enormous Chimera, as heavy as a bag offlour or coal, or the accoutrements of a Roman soldier. But the monstrous beast was not an inert weight; on the contrary, itenveloped and oppressed the man with its elastic and mighty muscles; itfastened with its two vast claws to the breast of the bearer, and itsfabulous head surmounted the brow of the man, like one of those horriblehelmets by which the ancient warriors hoped to increase the terror ofthe enemy. I questioned one of these men, and I asked him whither they were boundthus. He answered that he knew not, neither he nor the others; but thatevidently they were bound somewhere, since they were impelled by anirresistible desire to go forward. It is curious to note that not one of these travelers looked irritatedat the ferocious beast suspended from his neck and glued against hisback; it seemed as though he considered it as making part of himself. None of these weary and serious faces bore witness to any despair; underthe sullen cupola of the sky, their feet plunging into the dust of asoil as desolate as that sky, they went their way with the resignedcountenances of those who have condemned themselves to hope forever. The procession passed by me and sank into the horizon's atmosphere, where the rounded surface of the planet slips from the curiosity ofhuman sight, and for a few moments I obstinately persisted in wishing tofathom the mystery; but soon an irresistible indifference fell upon me, and I felt more heavily oppressed by it than even they were by theircrushing Chimeras. HUMANITY At the feet of a colossal Venus, one of those artificial fools, thosevoluntary buffoons whose duty was to make kings laugh when Remorse orEnnui possessed their souls, muffled in a glaring ridiculous costume, crowned with horns and bells, and crouched against the pedestal, raisedhis eyes full of tears toward the immortal goddess. And his eyessaid:--"I am the least and the most solitary of human beings, deprivedof love and of friendship, and therefore far below the most imperfect ofthe animals. Nevertheless, I am made, even I, to feel and comprehend theimmortal Beauty! Ah, goddess! have pity on my sorrow and my despair!"But the implacable Venus gazed into the distance, at I know not what, with her marble eyes. WINDOWS He who looks from without through an open window never sees as manythings as he who looks at a closed window. There is no object moreprofound, more mysterious, more rich, more shadowy, more dazzling than awindow lighted by a candle. What one can see in the sunlight is alwaysless interesting than what takes place behind a blind. In that dark orluminous hole life lives, dreams, suffers. Over the sea of roofs I see a woman, mature, already wrinkled, alwaysbent over something, never going out. From her clothes, her movement, from almost nothing, I have reconstructed the history of this woman, orrather her legend, and sometimes I tell it over to myself in tears. If it had been a poor old man I could have reconstructed his story aseasily. And I go to bed, proud of having lived and suffered in lives not my own. Perhaps you may say, "Are you sure that this story is the true one?"What difference does it make what is the reality outside of me, if ithas helped me to live, to know who I am and what I am? DRINK One should be always drunk. That is all, the whole question. In ordernot to feel the horrible burden of Time, which is breaking yourshoulders and bearing you to earth, you must be drunk without cease. But drunk on what? On wine, poetry, or virtue, as you choose. But getdrunk. And if sometimes, on the steps of a palace, on the green grass of amoat, in the dull solitude of your chamber, you awake with yourintoxication already lessened or gone, ask of the wind, the wave, thestar, the clock, of everything that flies, sobs, rolls, sings, talks, what is the hour? and the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clockwill answer, "It is the hour to get drunk!" Not to be the martyred slaveof Time, get drunk; get drunk unceasingly. Wine, poetry, or virtue, asyou choose. FROM A JOURNAL I swear to myself henceforth to adopt the following rules as theeverlasting rules of my life. .. . To pray every morning to God, theFountain of all strength and of all justice; to my father, to Mariette, and to Poe. To pray to them to give me necessary strength to accomplishall my tasks, and to grant my mother a life long enough to enjoy myreformation. To work all day, or at least as long as my strength lasts. To trust to God--that is to say, to Justice itself--for the success ofmy projects. To pray again every evening to God to ask Him for life andstrength, for my mother and myself. To divide all my earnings into fourparts--one for my daily expenses, one for my creditors, one for myfriends, and one for my mother. To keep to principles of strictsobriety, and to banish all and every stimulant. LORD BEACONSFIELD (1804-1881) BY ISA CARRINGTON CABELL Benjamin Disraeli, Earl of Beaconsfield, born in London, December, 1804;died there April 19th, 1881. His paternal ancestors were of the house ofLara, and held high rank among Hebrew-Spanish nobles till the tribunalof Torquemada drove them from Spain to Venice. There, proud of theirrace and origin, they styled themselves, "Sons of Israel, " and becamemerchant princes. But the city's commerce failing, the grandfather ofBenjamin Disraeli removed to London with a diminished but comfortablefortune. His son, Isaac Disraeli, was a well-known literary man, and theauthor of 'The Curiosities of Literature. ' On account of the politicaland social ostracism of the Jews in England, he had all his familybaptized into the Church of England; but with Benjamin Disraeliespecially, Christianity was never more than Judaism developed. Hisbelief and his affections were in his own race. [Illustration: Lord Beaconsfield] Benjamin, like most Jewish youths, was educated in private schools, andat seventeen entered a solicitor's office. At twenty-two he published'Vivian Grey' (London, 1826), which readable and amusing take-off ofLondon society gave him great and instantaneous notoriety. Its minutedescriptions of the great world, its caricatures of well-known socialand political personages, its magnificent diction, --too magnificent tobe taken quite seriously, --excited inquiry; and the great world wasamazed to discover that the impertinent observer was not one ofthemselves, but a boy in a lawyer's office. To add to the audacity, hehad conceived himself the hero of these diverting situations, and by hiscleverness had outwitted age, beauty, rank, diplomacy itself. Statesmen, poets, fine ladies, were all genuinely amused; and the authorbade fair to become a lion, when he fell ill, and was compelled to leaveEngland for a year or more, which he spent in travel on the Continentand in Egypt, Nubia, and Palestine. His visit to the birthplace of hisrace made an impression on him that lasted through his life andliterature. It is embodied in his 'Letters to His Sister' (London, 1843), and the autobiographical novel 'Contarini Fleming' (1833), inwhich he turned his adventures into fervid English, at a guinea avolume. But although the spirit of poesy, in the form of a ChildeHarold, stalks rampant through the romance, there is both feeling andfidelity to nature whenever he describes the Orient and its people. Thenthe bizarre, brilliant _poseur_ forgets his rôle, and reveals hishighest aspirations. When Disraeli returned to London he became the fashion. Everybody, fromthe prime minister to Count D'Orsay, had read his clever novels. Thepoets praised them, Lady Blessington invited him to dine, Sir RobertPeel was "most gracious. " But literary success could never satisfy Disraeli's ambition: a seat inParliament was at the end of his rainbow. He professed himself aradical, but he was a radical in his own sense of the term; and like hisown Sidonia, half foreigner, half looker-on, he felt himself endowedwith an insight only possible to, an outsider, an observer withoutinherited prepossessions. Several contemporary sketches of Disraeli at this time have beenpreserved. His dress was purposed affectation; it led the beholder tolook for folly only: and when the brilliant flash came, it was the morestartling as unexpected from such a figure. Lady Dufferin told Mr. Motley that when she met Disraeli at dinner, he wore a black-velvet coatlined with satin, purple trousers with a gold band running down theoutside seam, a scarlet waistcoat, long lace ruffles falling down to thetips of his fingers, white gloves with several rings outside, and longblack ringlets rippling down his shoulders. She told him he had made afool of himself by appearing in such a dress, but she did not guess whyit had been adopted. Another contemporary says of him, "When dulyexcited, his command of language was wonderful, his power of sarcasmunsurpassed. " He was busy making speeches and writing political squibs for the nexttwo years; for Parliament was before his eyes. "He knew, " says Froude, "he had a devil of a tongue, and was unincumbered by the foolish form ofvanity called modesty. " 'Ixion in Heaven, ' 'The Infernal Marriage, ' and'Popanilla' were attempts to rival both Lucian and Swift on their ownground. It is doubtful, however, whether he would have risked writing'Henrietta Temple' (1837) and 'Venetia' (1837), two ardent love stories, had he not been in debt; for notoriety as a novelist is not always arecommendation to a constituency. In 'Henrietta' he found an opportunity to write the biography of a loveroppressed by duns. It is a most entertaining novel even to a reader whodoes not read for a new light on the great statesman, and is remarkableas the beginning of what is now known as the "natural" manner; a revolt, his admirers tell us, from the stilted fashion of making love that thenprevailed in novels. 'Venetia' is founded on the characters of Byron and Shelley, and isamusing reading. The high-flown language incrusted with the gems ofrhetoric excites our risibilities, but it is not safe to laugh atDisraeli; in his most diverting aspects he has a deep sense of humor, and he who would mock at him is apt to get a whip across the face at anunguarded moment. Mr. Disraeli laughs in his sleeve at many things, butfirst of all at the reader. He failed in his canvass for his seat at High Wycombe, but he turned hisfailure to good account, and established a reputation for pluck andinfluence. "A mighty independent personage, " observed Charles Greville, and his famous quarrel with O'Connell did him so little harm that in1837 he was returned for Maidstone. His first speech was a failure. Theword had gone out that he was to be put down. At last, finding ituseless to persist, he said he was not surprised at the reception he hadexperienced. He had begun several things many times and had succeeded atlast. Then pausing, and looking indignantly across the house, heexclaimed in a loud and remarkable tone, "I will sit down now, but thetime will come when you will hear me. " He married the widow of his patron, Wyndham Lewis, in 1838. This put himin possession of a fortune, and gave him the power to continue hispolitical career. His radicalism was a thing of the past. He had driftedfrom Conservatism, with Peel for a leader, to aristocratic socialism;and in 1844, 1845, and 1847 appeared the Trilogy, as he styled thenovels 'Coningsby, ' 'Tancred, ' and 'Sibyl. ' Of the three, 'Coningsby'will prove the most entertaining to the modern reader. The hero is agentleman, and in this respect is an improvement on Vivian Grey, for hisaudacity is tempered by good breeding. The plot is slight, but thescenes are entertaining. The famous Sidonia, the Jew financier, is afavorite with the author, and betrays his affection and respect forrace. Lord Monmouth, the wild peer, is a rival of the "Marquis ofSteyne" and worthy of a place in 'Vanity Fair'; the political intriguersare photographed from life, the pictures of fashionable London tickleboth the vanity and the fancy of the reader. 'Sibyl' is too clearly a novel with a motive to give so much pleasure. It is a study of the contrasts between the lives of the very rich andthe hopelessly poor, and an attempt to show the superior condition ofthe latter when the Catholic Church was all-powerful in England and theking an absolute monarch. 'Tancred' was composed when Disraeli was under "the illusion of apossibly regenerated aristocracy. " He sends Tancred, the hero, the heirof a ducal house, to Palestine to find the inspiration to a truereligious belief, and details his adventures with a power of sarcasmthat is seldom equaled. In certain scenes in this novel the author risesfrom a mere mocker to a genuine satirist. Tancred's interview with thebishop, in which he takes that dignitary's religious tenets seriously;that with Lady Constance, when she explains the "Mystery of Chaos" andshows how "the stars are formed out of the cream of the Milky Way, asort of celestial cheese churned into light" the vision of the angels onMt. Sinai, and the celestial Sidonia who talks about the "Sublime andSolacing Doctrine of Theocratic Equality, "--all these are passages wherewe wonder whether the author sneered or blushed when he wrote. Certainlywhat has since been known as the Disraelian irony stings as we turneach page. Meanwhile Disraeli had become a power in Parliament, and the bitteropponent of Peel, under whom Catholic emancipation, parliamentaryreform, and the abrogation of the commercial system, had been carriedwithout conditions and almost without mitigations. Disraeli's assaults on his leader delighted the Liberals; the countrymembers felt indignant satisfaction at the deserved chastisement oftheir betrayer. With malicious skill, Disraeli touched one after anotherthe weak points in a character that was superficially vulnerable. Finally the point before the House became Peel's general conduct. He wasbeaten by an overwhelming majority, and to the hand that dethroned himdescended the task of building up the ruins of the Conservative party. Disraeli's best friends felt this a welcome necessity. There is noexample of a rise so sudden under such conditions. His politics were asmuch distrusted as his serious literary passages. But Disraeli was thesingle person equal to the task. For the next twenty-five years he ledthe Conservative opposition in the House of Commons, varied by shortintervals of power. He was three times Chancellor of the Exchequer, 1853, 1858, and 1859; and on Lord Derby's retirement in 1868 he becamePrime Minister. In 1870, having laid aside novel-writing for twenty years, he published'Lothair. ' It is a politico-religious romance aimed at the Jesuits, theFenians, and the Communists. It had an instantaneous success, for itsauthor was the most conspicuous figure in Europe, but its popularity isalso due to its own merits. We are all of us snobs after a fashion andlove high society. The glory of entering the splendid portals of thereal English dukes and duchesses seems to be ours when Disraeli throwsopen the magic door and ushers the reader in. The decorations do notseem tawdry, nor the tinsel other than real. We move with pleasurableexcitement with Lothair from palace to castle, and thence tobattle-field and scenes of dark intrigue. The hint of the love affairwith the Olympian Theodora appeals to our romance; the circumventing ofthe wily Cardinal and his accomplices is agreeable to the Anglo-SaxonProtestant mind; their discomfiture, and the crowning of virtue in theshape of a rescued Lothair married to the English Duke's daughter withthe fixed Church of England views, is what the reader expects and praysfor, and is the last privilege of the real story-teller. That the authorhas thrown aside his proclivities for Romanism as he showed them in'Sibyl, ' no more disturbs us than the eccentricities of his politics. Wedo not quite give him our faith when he is most in earnest, talkingSemitic Arianism on Mt. Sinai. A peerage was offered to him in 1868. He refused it for himself, butasked Queen Victoria to grant the honor to his wife, who became theCountess of Beaconsfield. But in 1876 he accepted the rank and title ofEarl of Beaconsfield. The author of 'Vivian Grey' received the titlethat Burke had refused. His last novel, 'Endymion, ' was written for the £10, 000 its publisherspaid for it. It adds nothing to his fame, but is an agreeable picture offashionable London life and the struggles of a youth to gain powerand place. Lord Beaconsfield put more dukes, earls, lords and ladies, more gold andjewels, more splendor and wealth into his books than any one else evertried to do. But beside his Oriental delight in the display of luxury, it is interesting to see the effect of that Orientalism when hedescribes the people from whom he sprang. His rare tenderness andgenuine respect are for those of the race "that is the aristocracy ofnature, the purest race, the chosen people. " He sends all his heroes toPalestine for inspiration; wisdom dwells in her gates. Anotheraristocracy, that of talent, he recognizes and applauds. No dullard eversucceeds, no genius goes unrewarded. It is the part of the story-teller to make his story a probable one tothe listener, no matter how impossible both character and situation. Mr. Disraeli was accredited with the faculty of persuading himself tobelieve or disbelieve whatever he liked; and did he possess the samepower over his readers, these entertaining volumes would lift him to thehighest rank the novelist attains. As it is, he does not quite succeedin creating an illusion, and we are conscious of two lobes in theauthor's brain; in one sits a sentimentalist, in the other amocking devil. [Illustration: Signature: Isa Carrington Cabell. ] A DAY AT EMS From 'Vivian Grey' "I think we'd better take a little coffee now; and then, if you like, we'll just stroll into the REDOUTE" [continued Baron de Konigstein]. In a brilliantly illuminated saloon, adorned with Corinthian columns, and casts from some of the most famous antique statues, assembledbetween nine and ten o'clock in the evening many of the visitors at Ems. On each side of the room was placed a long, narrow table, one of whichwas covered with green baize, and unattended, while the variouslycolored leather surface of the other was very closely surrounded by aninterested crowd. Behind this table stood two individuals of verydifferent appearance. The first was a short, thick man, whose onlybusiness was dealing certain portions of playing cards with quicksuccession, one after the other; and as the fate of the table wasdecided by this process, did his companion, an extremely tall, thin man, throw various pieces of money upon certain stakes, which were depositedby the bystanders on different parts of the table; or, which was moreoften the case, with a silver rake with a long ebony handle, sweep intoa large inclosure near him the scattered sums. This inclosure was calledthe bank, and the mysterious ceremony in which these persons wereassisting was the celebrated game of _rouge-et-noir. _ A deep silence wasstrictly observed by those who immediately surrounded the table; novoice was heard save that of the little, short, stout dealer, when, without an expression of the least interest, he seemed mechanically toannounce the fate of the different colors. No other sound was heard savethe jingle of the dollars and napoleons, and the ominous rake of thetall, thin banker. The countenances of those who were hazarding theirmoney were grave and gloomy their eyes were fixed, their browscontracted, and their lips projected; and yet there was an evidenteffort visible to show that they were both easy and unconcerned. Eachplayer held in his hand a small piece of pasteboard, on which, with asteel pricker, he marked the run of the cards, in order, from hisobservations, to regulate his own play: the _rouge-et-noir_ playerimagines that chance is not capricious. Those who were not interested inthe game promenaded in two lines within the tables; or, seated inrecesses between the pillars, formed small parties for conversation. As Vivian and the baron entered, Lady Madeleine Trevor, leaning on thearm of an elderly man, left the room; but as she was in earnestconversation, she did not observe them. "I suppose we must throw away a dollar or two, Grey!" said the baron, ashe walked up to the table. "My dear De Konigstein--one pinch--one pinch!" "Ah! marquis, what fortune to-night?" "Bad--bad! I have lost my napoleon: I never risk further. There's thatcursed crusty old De Trumpetson, persisting, as usual, in his run of badluck, because he will never give in. Trust me, my dear De Konigstein, it'll end in his ruin; and then, if there's a sale of his effects, Ishall perhaps get the snuff-box--a-a-h!" "Come, Grey; shall I throw down a couple of napoleons on joint account?I don't care much for play myself; but I suppose at Ems we must make upour minds to lose a few louis. Here! now for the red--jointaccount, mind!" "Done. " "There's the archduke! Let us go and make our bow; we needn't stick atthe table as if our whole soul were staked with our crown pieces--we'llmake our bow, and then return in time to know our fate. " So saying, thegentlemen walked up to the top of the room. "Why, Grey!--surely no--it cannot be--and yet it is. De Boeffleurs, howd'ye do?" said the baron, with a face beaming with joy, and a heartyshake of the hand. "My dear, dear fellow, how the devil did you manageto get off so soon? I thought you were not to be here for a fortnight:we only arrived ourselves to-day. " "Yes--but I've made an arrangement which I did not anticipate; and so Iposted after you immediately. Whom do you think I have brought with me?" "Who?" "Salvinski. " "Ah! And the count?" "Follows immediately. I expect him to-morrow or next day. Salvinski istalking to the archduke; and see, he beckons to me. I suppose I am goingto be presented. " The chevalier moved forward, followed by the baron and Vivian. "Any friend of Prince Salvinski I shall always have great pleasure inhaving presented to me. Chevalier, I feel great pleasure in having youpresented to me! Chevalier, you ought to be proud of the name ofFrenchman. Chevalier, the French are a grand nation. Chevalier, I havethe highest respect for the French nation. " "The most subtle diplomatist, " thought Vivian, as he recalled to mindhis own introduction, "would be puzzled to decide to which interest hisimperial highness leans. " The archduke now entered into conversation with the prince, and most ofthe circle who surrounded him. As his highness was addressing Vivian, the baron let slip our hero's arm, and seizing hold of the Chevalier deBoeffleurs, began walking up and down the room with him, and was soonengaged in very animated conversation. In a few minutes the archduke, bowing to his circle, made a move and regained the side of a Saxon lady, from whose interesting company he had been disturbed by the arrival ofPrince Salvinski--an individual of whose long stories and dull romancesthe archduke had, from experience, a particular dread; but his highnesswas always very courteous to the Poles. "Grey, I've dispatched De Boeffleurs to the house to instruct theservant and Ernstorff to do the impossible, in order that our rooms maybe all together. You'll be delighted with De Boeffleurs when you knowhim, and I expect you to be great friends. Oh! by the by, his unexpectedarrival has quite made us forget our venture at _rouge-et-noir. _ Ofcourse we're too late now for anything; even if we had been fortunate, our doubled stake, remaining on the table, is of course lost; we may aswell, however, walk up. " So saying, the baron reached the table. "That is your excellency's stake!--that is your excellency's stake!"exclaimed many voices as he came up. "What's the matter, my friends? what's the matter?" asked the baron, very calmly. "There's been a run on the red! there's been a run on the red!and your excellency's stake has doubled each time. It has been4--8--16--32--64--128--256; and now it's 512!" quickly rattled a littlethin man in spectacles, pointing at the same time to his unparalleledline of punctures. This was one of those officious, noisy little men, who are always ready to give you unasked information on every possiblesubject, and who are never so happy as when they are watching over theinterest of some stranger, who never thanks them for their unnecessarysolicitude. Vivian, in spite of his philosophy, felt the excitement and wonder ofthe moment. He looked very earnestly at the baron, whose countenance, however, remained perfectly unmoved. "Grey, " said he, very coolly, "it seems we're in luck. " "The stake's then not all your own?" very eagerly asked the little manin spectacles. "No, part of it is yours, sir, " answered the baron, very dryly. "I'm going to deal, " said the short, thick man behind. "Is the boardcleared?" "Your excellency then allows the stake to remain?" inquired the tall, thin banker, with affected nonchalance. "Oh! certainly, " said the baron, with real nonchalance. "Three--eight--fourteen--twenty-four--thirty-four, Rouge 34--" All crowded nearer; the table was surrounded five or six deep, for thewonderful run of luck had got wind, and nearly the whole room were roundthe table. Indeed, the archduke and Saxon lady, and of course the silentsuite, were left alone at the upper part of the room. The tall bankerdid not conceal his agitation. Even the short, stout dealer ceased to bea machine. All looked anxious except the baron. Vivian looked at thetable; his excellency watched, with a keen eye, the little dealer. Noone even breathed as the cards descended. "Ten--twenty--" here thecountenance of the banker brightened--"twenty-two--twenty-five--twenty-eight--thirty-one'--Noir 31. The bank's broke; nomore play to-night. The roulette table opens immediately. " In spite of the great interest which had been excited, nearly the wholecrowd, without waiting to congratulate the baron, rushed to the oppositeside of the room in order to secure places at the roulette table. "Put these five hundred and twelve Napoleons into a bag, " said thebaron; "Grey, this is your share, and I congratulate you. With regard tothe other half, Mr. Hermann, what bills have you got?" "Two on Gogel's house of Frankfort--accepted of course--for two hundredand fifty each, and these twelve napoleons will make it right, " said thetall banker, as he opened a large black pocket-book, from which he tookout two small bits of paper. The baron examined them, and after havingseen them indorsed, put them calmly into his pocket, not forgetting thetwelve napoleons; and then taking Vivian's arm, and regretting extremelythat he should have the trouble of carrying such a weight, he wished Mr. Hermann a very good-night and success at his roulette, and walked withhis companion quietly home. Thus passed a day at Ems! THE FESTA IN THE "ALHAMBRA" From 'The Young Duke' You entered the Alhambra by a Saracenic cloister, from the ceiling ofwhich an occasional lamp threw a gleam upon some Eastern arms hung upagainst the wall. This passage led to the armory, a room of moderatedimensions, but hung with rich contents. Many an inlaidbreastplate--many a Mameluke scimitar and Damascus blade--many a gemmedpistol and pearl embroided saddle might there be seen, though viewed ina subdued and quiet light. All seemed hushed and still, and shrouded inwhat had the reputation of being a palace of pleasure. In this chamber assembled the expected guests. His Grace and the Bird ofParadise arrived first, with their foreign friends. Lord Squib and LordDarrell, Sir Lucius Grafton, Mr. Annesley, and Mr. Peacock Piggottfollowed, but not alone. There were two ladies who, by courtesy if noother right, bore the titles of Lady Squib and Mrs. Annesley. There wasalso a pseudo Lady Aphrodite Grafton. There was Mrs. Montfort, thefamous _blonde_, of a beauty which was quite ravishing, and dignifiedas beautiful. Some said (but really people say such things) that therewas a talk (I never believe anything I hear) that had not the Bird ofParadise flown in (these foreigners pick up everything), Mrs. Montfortwould have been the Duchess of St. James. How this may be I know not;certain, however, this superb and stately donna did not openly evinceany spleen at her more fortunate rival. Although she found herself aguest at the Alhambra instead of being the mistress of the palace, probably, like many other ladies, she looked upon this affair of thesinging-bird as a freak that must end--and then perhaps his Grace, whowas a charming young man, would return to his senses. There also washer sister, a long, fair girl, who looked sentimental, but was onlysilly. There was a little French actress, like a highly finishedminiature; and a Spanish _danseuse_, tall, dusky, and lithe, glancinglike a lynx, and graceful as a jennet. Having all arrived, they proceeded down a small gallery to thebanqueting-room. The doors were thrown open. Pardon me if for a moment Ido not describe the chamber; but really, the blaze affects my sight. Theroom was large and lofty. It was fitted up as an Eastern tent. The wallswere hung with scarlet cloth tied up with ropes of gold. Round the roomcrouched recumbent lions richly gilt, who grasped in their paw a lance, the top of which was a colored lamp. The ceiling was emblazoned with theHauteville arms, and was radiant with burnished gold. A cresset lamp wassuspended from the centre of the shield, and not only emitted an equableflow of soft though brilliant light, but also, as the aromatic oilwasted away, distilled an exquisite perfume. The table blazed with golden plate, for the Bird of Paradise lovedsplendor. At the end of the room, under a canopy and upon a throne, theshield and vases lately executed for his Grace now appeared. Everythingwas gorgeous, costly, and imposing; but there was no pretense, save inthe original outline, at maintaining the Oriental character. Thefurniture was French; and opposite the throne Canova's Hebe, byBertolini, bounded with a golden cup from a pedestal of _ormolu_. The guests are seated; but after a few minutes the servants withdraw. Small tables of ebony and silver, and dumb-waiters of ivory and gold, conveniently stored, are at hand, and Spiridion never leaves the room. The repast was most refined, most exquisite, and most various. It wasone of those meetings where all eat. When a few persons, easy andunconstrained, unincumbered with cares, and of dispositions addicted toenjoyment, get together at past midnight, it is extraordinary what anappetite they evince. Singers also are proverbially prone to gormandize;and though the Bird of Paradise unfortunately possessed the smallestmouth in all Singingland, it is astonishing how she pecked! But theytalked as well as feasted, and were really gay. It was amusing toobserve--that is to say, if you had been a dumb-waiter, and had time forobservation--how characteristic was the affectation of the women. LadySquib was witty, Mrs. Annesley refined, and the pseudo Lady Afyfashionable. As for Mrs. Montfort, she was, as her wont, somewhatsilent but excessively sublime. The Spaniard said nothing, but no doubtindicated the possession of Cervantic humor by the sly calmness withwhich she exhausted her own waiter and pillaged her neighbors. Thelittle Frenchwoman scarcely ate anything, but drank champagne andchatted, with equal rapidity and equal composure. "Prince, " said the duke, "I hope Madame de Harestein approves of yourtrip to England?" The prince only smiled, for he was of a silent disposition, andtherefore wonderfully well suited his traveling companion. "Poor Madame de Harestein!" exclaimed Count Frill. "What despair she wasin when you left Vienna, my dear duke. Ah! _mon Dieu!_ I did what Icould to amuse her. I used to take my guitar, and sing to her morningand night, but without the least effect. She certainly would have diedof a broken heart, if it had not been for the dancing-dogs. " "The dancing-dogs!" minced the pseudo Lady Aphrodite. "How shocking!" "Did they bite her?" asked Lady Squib, "and so inoculate her withgayety?" "Oh! the dancing-dogs, my dear ladies! everybody was mad about thedancing-dogs. They came from Peru, and danced the mazurka in greenjackets with a _jabot!_ Oh! what a _jabot!_" "I dislike animals excessively, " remarked Mrs. Annesley. "Dislike the dancing-dogs!" said Count Frill. "Ah, my good lady, youwould have been enchanted. Even the kaiser fed them with pistachio nuts. Oh, so pretty! delicate leetle things, soft shining little legs, andpretty little faces! so sensible, and with such _jabots!_" "I assure you, they were excessively amusing, " said the prince, in asoft, confidential undertone to his neighbor, Mrs. Montfort, who, admiring his silence, which she took for state, smiled and bowed withfascinating condescension. "And what else has happened very remarkable, count, since I left you?"asked Lord Darrell. "Nothing, nothing, my dear Darrell. This _bêtise_ of a war has made usall serious. If old Clamstandt had not married that gipsy littleDugiria, I really think I should have taken a turn to Belgrade. " "You should not eat so much, poppet, " drawled Charles Annesley to theSpaniard. "Why not?" said the little French lady, with great animation, alwaysready to fight anybody's battle, provided she could get an opportunityto talk. "Why not, Mr. Annesley? You never will let anybody eat--I nevereat myself, because every night, having to talk so much, I am dry, dry, dry--so I drink, drink, drink. It is an extraordinary thing that thereis no language which makes you so thirsty as French. I always have heardthat all the southern languages, Spanish and Italian, make you hungry. " "What can be the reason?" seriously asked the pseudo Lady Afy. "Because there is so much salt in it, " said Lord Squib. "Delia, " drawled Mr. Annesley, "you look very pretty to-night!" "I am charmed to charm you, Mr. Annesley. Shall I tell you what Lord BonMot said of you?" "No, _ma mignonne_! I never wish to hear my own good things. " "_Spoiled_, you should add, " said Lady Squib, "if Bon Mot be in thecase. " "Lord Bon Mot is a most gentlemanly man, " said Delia, indignant at anadmirer being attacked. "He always wants to be amusing. Whenever hedines out, he comes and sits with me half an hour to catch the air ofParisian badinage. " "And you tell him a variety of little things?" asked Lord Squib, insidiously drawing out the secret tactics of Bon Mot. "_Beaucoup, beaucoup_, " said Delia, extending two little white handssparkling with gems. "If he come in ever so--how do you call it?heavy--not that--in the domps--ah! it is that--if ever he come in thedomps, he goes out always like a _soufflée. _" "As empty, I have no doubt, " said Lady Squib. "And as sweet, I have no doubt, " said Lord Squib; "for Delcroixcomplains sadly of your excesses, Delia. " "Mr. Delcroix complain of me! That, indeed, is too bad. Just because Irecommended Montmorency de Versailles to him for an excellent customer, ever since he abuses me, merely because Montmorency has forgot, in thehurry of going off, to pay his little account. " "But he says you have got all the things, " said Lord Squib, whose greatamusement was to put Delia in a passion. "What of that?" screamed the little lady. "Montmorency gave them tome. " "Don't make such a noise, " said the Bird of Paradise. "I never can eatwhen there is a noise. St. James, " continued she, in a fretful tone, "they make such a noise!" "Annesley, keep Squib quiet. " "Delia, leave that young man alone. If Isidora would talk a little more, and you eat a little more, I think you would be the most agreeablelittle ladies I know. Poppet! put those _bonbons_ in your pocket. Youshould never eat sugar-plums in company. " Thus talking agreeable nonsense, tasting agreeable dishes, and sippingagreeable wines, an hour ran on. Sweetest music from an unseen sourceever and anon sounded, and Spiridion swung a censer full of perfumesaround the chamber. At length the duke requested Count Frill to givethem a song. The Bird of Paradise would never sing for pleasure, onlyfor fame and a slight check. The count begged to decline, and at thesame time asked for a guitar. The signora sent for hers; and hisExcellency, preluding with a beautiful simper, gave them some slightthing to this effect:-- Charming Bignetta! charming Bignetta! What a gay little girl is charming Bignetta! She dances, she prattles, She rides and she rattles; But she always is charming--that charming Bignetta! Charming Bignetta! charming Bignetta! What a wild little witch is charming Bignetta! When she smiles I'm all madness; When she frowns I'm all sadness; But she always is smiling--that charming Bignetta! Charming Bignetta! charming Bignetta! What a wicked young rogue is charming Bignetta! She laughs at my shyness, And flirts with his highness; Yet still she is charming--that charming Bignetta! Charming Bignetta! charming Bignetta! What a dear little girl is charming Bignetta! "Think me only a sister, " Said she trembling; I kissed her. What a charming young sister is--charming Bignetta! He ceased; and although "--the Ferrarese To choicer music chimed his gay guitar In Este's halls, " as Casti himself, or rather Mr. Rose, choicely sings, yet still his songserved its purpose, for it raised a smile. "I wrote that for Madame Sapiepha, at the Congress of Verona, " saidCount Frill. "It has been thought amusing. " "Madame Sapiepha!" exclaimed the Bird of Paradise. "What! that prettylittle woman who has such pretty caps?" "The same! Ah! what caps! _Mon Dieu!_ what taste! what taste!" "You like caps, then?" asked the Bird of Paradise, with a sparkling eye. "Oh! if there be anything more than other that I know most, it is thecap. Here, _voici!_" said he, rather oddly unbuttoning his waistcoat, "you see what lace I have got. _Voici! voici!_" "Ah! me! what lace! what lace!" exclaimed the Bird in rapture. "St. James, look at his lace. Come here, come here, sit next me. Let me lookat that lace. " She examined it with great attention, then turned up herbeautiful eyes with a fascinating smile. "_Ah! c'est jolie, n'est-cepas?_ But you like caps. I tell you what, you shall see my caps. Spiridion, go, _mon cher, _ and tell ma'amselle to bring my caps--all mycaps, one of each set. " In due time entered the Swiss, with the caps--all the caps--one of eachset. As she handed them in turn to her mistress, the Bird chirped apanegyric upon each. "That is pretty, is it not--and this also? but this is my favorite. Whatdo you think of this border? _c'est belle, cette garniture? et ce jabot, c'est tres séduisant, n'est-ce pas? Mais voici, _ the cap of PrincessLichtenstein. _C'est superb, c'est mon favori. _ But I also love verymuch this of the Duchesse de Berri. She gave me the pattern herself. Andafter all, this _cornette à petite santé_ of Lady Blaze is a dear littlething; then, again, this _coiffe à dentelle_ of Lady Macaroni is quitea pet. " "Pass them down, " said Lord Squib, "we want to look at them. "Accordingly they were passed down. Lord Squib put one on. "Do I look superb, sentimental, or only pretty?" asked his lordship. The example was contagious, and most of the caps were appropriated. Noone laughed more than their mistress, who, not having the slightest ideaof the value of money, would have given them all away on the spot; notfrom any good-natured feeling, but from the remembrance that to-morrowshe might amuse half an hour buying others. While some were stealing, and she remonstrating, the duke clapped hishands like a caliph. The curtain at the end of the apartment wasimmediately withdrawn and the ball-room stood revealed. It was of the same size as the banqueting-hall. Its walls exhibited along perspective of gilt pilasters, the frequent piers of which wereentirely of plate looking-glass, save where occasionally a picture hadbeen, as it were, inlaid in its rich frame. Here was the Titian Venus ofthe Tribune, deliciously copied by a French artist; there, the RomanFornarina, with her delicate grace, beamed like the personification ofRaphael's genius. Here Zuleikha, living in the light and shade of thatmagician Guercino, in vain summoned the passions of the blooming Hebrew;and there Cleopatra, preparing for her last immortal hour, proved bywhat we saw that Guido had been a lover. The ceiling of this apartment was richly painted and richly gilt; fromit were suspended three lustres by golden cords, which threw a softenedlight upon the floor of polished and curiously inlaid woods. At the endof the apartment was an orchestra, and here the pages, under thedirection of Carlstein, offered a very efficient domestic band. Round the room waltzed the elegant revelers. Softly and slowly, led bytheir host, they glided along like spirits of air; but each time thatthe duke passed the musicians, the music became livelier, and the motionmore brisk, till at length you might have mistaken them for a college ofspinning dervishes. One by one, an exhausted couple slunk away. Somethrew themselves on a sofa, some monopolized an easy-chair; but intwenty minutes all the dancers had disappeared. At length PeacockPiggott gave a groan, which denoted returning energy, and raised astretching leg in air, bringing up, though most unwittingly, on his footone of the Bird's sublime and beautiful caps. "Halloo! Piggott, armed _cap au pied_, I see, " said Lord Squib. Thisjoke was a signal for general resuscitation. .. . Here they lounged in different parties, 'talking on such subjects asidlers ever fall upon; now and then plucking a flower--now and thenlistening to the fountain--now and then lingering over the distantmusic--and now and then strolling through a small apartment which openedto their walks, and which bore the title of the Temple of Gnidus. HereCanova's Venus breathed an atmosphere of perfume and of light--thatwonderful statue whose full-charged eye is not very classical, to besure--but then, how true! Lord Squib proposed a visit to the theatre, which he had ordered to belit up. To the theatre they repaired. They rambled over every part ofthe house, amused themselves, to the horror of Mr. Annesley, with avisit to the gallery, and then collected behind the scenes. They wereexcessively amused with the properties; and Lord Squib proposed theyshould dress themselves. Enough champagne had been quaffed to render anyproposition palatable, and in a few minutes they were all in costume. Acrowd of queens and chambermaids, Jews and chimney-sweeps, lawyers andcharleys, Spanish dons and Irish officers, rushed upon the stage. Thelittle Spaniard was Almaviva, and fell into magnificent attitudes, withher sword and plume. Lord Squib was the old woman of Brentford, and veryfunny. Sir Lucius Grafton, Harlequin; and Darrell, Grimaldi. The princeand the count, without knowing it, figured as watchmen. Squib whisperedAnnesley that Sir Lucius O'Trigger might appear in character, but wasprudent enough to suppress the joke. The band was summoned, and they danced quadrilles with infinite spirit, and finished the night, at the suggestion of Lord Squib, by breakfastingon the stage. By the time this meal was dispatched, the purple light ofmorn had broken into the building, and the ladies proposed an immediatedeparture. Mrs. Montfort and her sister were sent home in one of theduke's carriages; and the foreign guests were requested by him to betheir escort. The respective parties drove off. Two cabriolets lingeredto the last, and finally carried away the French actress and the Spanishdancer, Lord Darrell, and Peacock Piggott; but whether the two gentlemenwent in one and two ladies in the other I cannot aver. I hope not. There was at length a dead silence, and the young duke was left tosolitude and the signora! SQUIBS PROM 'THE YOUNG DUKE' CHARLES ANNESLEY Dandy has been voted vulgar, and beau is now the word. I doubt whetherthe revival will stand; and as for the exploded title, though it had itsfaults at first, the muse or Byron has made it not only English, butclassical. However, I dare say I can do without either of these words atpresent. Charles Annesley could hardly be called a dandy or a beau. There was nothing in his dress, though some mysterious arrangement inhis costume--some rare simplicity--some curious happiness--always madeit distinguished; there was nothing, however, in his dress which couldaccount for the influence which he exercised over the manners of hiscontemporaries. Charles Annesley was about thirty. He had inherited fromhis father, a younger brother, a small estate; and though heir to awealthy earldom, he had never abused what the world called "hisprospects. " Yet his establishments--his little house in Mayfair--hishorses--his moderate stud at Melton--were all unique, and everythingconnected with him was unparalleled for its elegance, its invention, andits refinement. But his manner was his magic. His natural and subduednonchalance, so different from the assumed non-emotion of a mere dandy;his coldness of heart, which was hereditary, not acquired; his cautiouscourage, and his unadulterated self-love, had permitted him to minglemuch with mankind without being too deeply involved in the play of theirpassions; while his exquisite sense of the ridiculous quickly revealedthose weaknesses to him which his delicate satire did not spare, evenwhile it refrained from wounding. All feared, many admired, and nonehated him. He was too powerful not to dread, too dexterous not toadmire, too superior to hate. Perhaps the great secret of his manner washis exquisite superciliousness; a quality which, of all, is the mostdifficult to manage. Even with his intimates he was never confidential, and perpetually assumed his public character with the private coteriewhich he loved to rule. On the whole, he was unlike any of the leadingmen of modern days, and rather reminded one of the fine gentlemen of ourold brilliant comedy--the Dorimants, the Bellairs, and the Mirabels. THE FUSSY HOSTESS Men shrink from a fussy woman. And few can aspire to regulate thedestinies of their species, even in so slight a point as an hour'samusement, without rare powers. There is no greater sin than to be _tropprononcée_. A want of tact is worse than a want of virtue. Some women, it is said, work on pretty well against the tide without the last. Inever knew one who did not sink who ever dared to sail withoutthe first. Loud when they should be low, quoting the wrong person, talking on thewrong subject, teasing with notice, excruciating with attentions, disturbing a _tête-à-tête_ in order to make up a dance; wastingeloquence in persuading a man to participate in amusement whosereputation depends on his social sullenness; exacting homage with arestless eye, and not permitting the least worthy knot to be untwinedwithout their divinityships' interference; patronizing the meek, anticipating the slow, intoxicating with compliment, plastering withpraise that you in return may gild with flattery; in short, energeticwithout elegance, active without grace, and loquacious without wit;mistaking bustle for style, raillery for badinage, and noise forgayety--these are the characters who mar the very career they think theyare creating, and who exercise a fatal influence on the destinies of allthose who have the misfortune to be connected with them. PUBLIC SPEAKING Eloquence is the child of Knowledge. When a mind is full, like awholesome river, it is also clear. Confusion and obscurity are muchoftener the results of ignorance than of inefficiency. Few are the menwho cannot express their meaning when the occasion demands the energy;as the lowest will defend their lives with acuteness, and sometimes evenwith eloquence. They are masters of their subject. Knowledge must begained by ourselves. Mankind may supply us with facts; but the results, even if they agree with previous ones, must be the work of our own mind. To make others feel, we must feel ourselves; and to feel ourselves, wemust be natural. This we can never be when we are vomiting forth thedogmas of the schools. Knowledge is not a mere collection of words; andit is a delusion to suppose that thought can be obtained by the aid ofany other intellect than our own. What is repetition, by a curiousmystery, ceases to be truth, even if it were truth when it was firstheard; as the shadow in a mirror, though it move and mimic all theactions of vitality, is not life. When a man is not speaking or writingfrom his own mind, he is as insipid company as a looking-glass. Before aman can address a popular assembly with command, he must know somethingof mankind, and he can know nothing of mankind without he knowssomething of himself. Self-knowledge is the property of that man whosepassions have their play, but who ponders over their results. Such a mansympathizes by inspiration with his kind. He has a key to every heart. He can divine, in the flash of a single thought, all that they require, all that they wish. Such a man speaks to their very core. All feel thata master hand tears off the veil of cant, with which, from necessity, they have enveloped their souls; for cant is nothing more than thesophistry which results from attempting to account for what isunintelligible, or to defend what is improper. FEMALE BEAUTY There are some sorts of beauty which defy description, and almostscrutiny. Some faces rise upon us in the tumult of life, like stars fromout the sea, or as if they had moved out of a picture. Our firstimpression is anything but fleshly. We are struck dumb--we gasp forbreath--our limbs quiver--a faintness glides over our frame--we areawed; instead of gazing upon the apparition, we avert the eyes, whichyet will feed upon its beauty. A strange sort of unearthly pain mixeswith the intense pleasure. And not till, with a struggle, we call backto our memory the commonplaces of existence, can we recover ourcommonplace demeanor. These, indeed, are rare visions--these, indeed, are early feelings, when our young existence leaps with its mountaintorrents; but as the river of our life rolls on, our eyes grow dimmer, or our blood more cold. LOTHAIR IN PALESTINE From 'Lothair' A person approached Lothair by the pathway from Bethany. It was theSyrian gentleman whom he had met at the consulate. As he was passingLothair, he saluted him with the grace which had been before remarked;and Lothair, who was by nature courteous, and even inclined a little toceremony in his manners, especially with those with whom he was notintimate, immediately rose, as he would not receive such a salutation ina reclining posture. "Let me not disturb you, " said the stranger; "or, if we must be on equalterms, let me also be seated, for this is a view that never palls. " "It is perhaps familiar to you, " said Lothair; "but with me, only apilgrim, its effect is fascinating, almost overwhelming. " "The view of Jerusalem never becomes familiar, " said the Syrian; "forits associations are so transcendent, so various, so inexhaustible, thatthe mind can never anticipate its course of thought and feeling, whenone sits, as we do now, on this immortal mount. " . .. "I have often wished to visit the Sea of Galilee, " said Lothair. "Well, you have now an opportunity, " said the Syrian: "the north ofPalestine, though it has no tropical splendor, has much variety and apeculiar natural charm. The burst and brightness of spring have not yetquite vanished; you would find our plains radiant with wild-flowers, andour hills green with young crops, and though we cannot rival Lebanon, wehave forest glades among our famous hills that when once seen areremembered. " "But there is something to me more interesting than the splendor oftropical scenery, " said Lothair, "even if Galilee could offer it. I wishto visit the cradle of my faith. " "And you would do wisely, " said the Syrian, "for there is no doubt thespiritual nature of man is developed in this land. " "And yet there are persons at the present day who doubt--even deny--thespiritual nature of man, " said Lothair. "I do not, I could not--thereare reasons why I could not. " "There are some things I know, and some things I believe, " said theSyrian. "I know that I have a soul, and I believe that it is immortal. " "It is science that, by demonstrating the insignificance of this globein the vast scale of creation, has led to this infidelity, "said Lothair. "Science may prove the insignificance of this globe in the scale ofcreation, " said the stranger, "but it cannot prove the insignificance ofman. What is the earth compared with the sun? a molehill by a mountain;yet the inhabitants of this earth can discover the elements of which thegreat orb consists, and will probably ere long ascertain all theconditions of its being. Nay, the human mind can penetrate far beyondthe sun. There is no relation, therefore, between the faculties of manand the scale in creation of the planet which he inhabits. " "I was glad to hear you assert the other night the spiritual nature ofman in opposition to Mr. Phoebus. " "Ah, Mr. Phoebus!" said the stranger, with a smile. "He is an oldacquaintance of mine. And I must say he is very consistent--except inpaying a visit to Jerusalem. That does surprise me. He said to me theother night the same things as he said to me at Rome many years ago. Hewould revive the worship of Nature. The deities whom he so eloquentlydescribes and so exquisitely delineates are the ideal personificationsof the most eminent human qualities, and chiefly the physical. Physicalbeauty is his standard of excellence, and he has a fanciful theory thatmoral order would be the consequence of the worship of physical beauty;for without moral order he holds physical beauty cannot be maintained. But the answer to Mr. Phoebus is, that his system has been tried and hasfailed, and under conditions more favorable than are likely to existagain; the worship of Nature ended in the degradation of thehuman race. " "But Mr. Phoebus cannot really believe in Apollo and Venus, " saidLothair. "These are phrases. He is, I suppose, what is called aPantheist. " "No doubt the Olympus of Mr. Phoebus is the creation of his easel, "replied the Syrian. "I should not, however, describe him as a Pantheist, whose creed requires more abstraction than Mr. Phoebus, the worshiper ofNature, would tolerate. His school never care to pursue anyinvestigation which cannot be followed by the eye--and the worship ofthe beautiful always ends in an orgy. As for Pantheism, it is Atheism indomino. The belief in a Creator who is unconscious of creating is moremonstrous than any dogma of any of the churches in this city, and wehave them all here. " "But there are people now who tell you that there never was anycreation, and therefore there never could have been a Creator, "said Lothair. "And which is now advanced with the confidence of novelty, " said theSyrian, "though all of it has been urged, and vainly urged, thousands ofyears ago. There must be design, or all we see would be without sense, and I do not believe in the unmeaning. As for the natural forces towhich all creation is now attributed, we know they are unconscious, while consciousness is as inevitable a portion of our existence as theeye or the hand. The conscious cannot be derived from the unconscious. Man is divine. " "I wish I could assure myself of the personality of the Creator, " saidLothair. "I cling to that, but they say it is unphilosophical. " "In what sense?" asked the Syrian. "Is it more unphilosophical tobelieve in a personal God, omnipotent and omniscient, than in naturalforces unconscious and irresistible? Is it unphilosophical to combinepower with intelligence? Goethe, a Spinozist who did not believe inSpinoza, said that he could bring his mind to the conception that in thecentre of space we might meet with a monad of pure intelligence. Whatmay be the centre of space I leave to the dædal imagination of theauthor of 'Faust'; but a monad of pure intelligence--is that morephilosophical than the truth first revealed to man amid theseeverlasting hills, " said the Syrian, "that God made man in hisown image?" "I have often found in that assurance a source of sublime consolation, "said Lothair. "It is the charter of the nobility of man, " said the Syrian, "one of thedivine dogmas revealed in this land; not the invention of councils, notone of which was held on this sacred soil, confused assemblies first gottogether by the Greeks, and then by barbarous nations inbarbarous times. " "Yet the divine land no longer tells us divine things, " said Lothair. "It may or may not have fulfilled its destiny, " said the Syrian. "'In myFather's house are many mansions, ' and by the various families ofnations the designs of the Creator are accomplished. God works by races, and one was appointed in due season and after many developments toreveal and expound in this land the spiritual nature of man. The Aryanand the Semite are of the same blood and origin, but when they quittedtheir central land they were ordained to follow opposite courses. Eachdivision of the great race has developed one portion of the doublenature of humanity, till, after all their wanderings, they met again, and, represented by their two choicest families, the Hellenes and theHebrews, brought together the treasures of their accumulated wisdom, andsecured the civilization of man. " "Those among whom I have lived of late, " said Lothair, "have taught meto trust much in councils, and to believe that without them there couldbe no foundation for the Church. I observe you do not speak in thatvein, though, like myself, you find solace in those dogmas whichrecognize the relations between the created and the Creator. " "There can be no religion without that recognition, " said the Syrian, "and no creed can possibly be devised without such a recognition thatwould satisfy man. Why we are here, whence we come, whither we go--theseare questions which man is organically framed and forced to ask himself, and that would not be the case if they could not be answered. As forchurches depending on councils, the first council was held more thanthree centuries after the Sermon on the Mount. We Syrians had churchesin the interval; no one can deny that. I bow before the divine decreethat swept them away from Antioch to Jerusalem, but I am not yetprepared to transfer my spiritual allegiance to Italian popes and Greekpatriarchs. We believe that our family were among the first followers ofJesus, and that we then held lands in Bashan which we hold now. We had agospel once in our district where there was some allusion to this, andbeing written by neighbors, and probably at the time, I dare say it wasaccurate; but the Western Churches declared our gospel was notauthentic, though why I cannot tell, and they succeeded in extirpatingit. It was not an additional reason why we should enter into their fold. So I am content to dwell in Galilee and trace the footsteps of my DivineMaster, musing over his life and pregnant sayings amid the mounts hesanctified and the waters he loved so well. " BEAUMARCHAIS (1732-1799) BY BRANDER MATTHEWS Pierre Augustin Caron was born in Paris, January 24th, 1732. He was theson of a watchmaker, and learned his father's trade. He invented a newescapement, and was allowed to call himself "Clockmaker to theKing"--Louis XV. At twenty-four he married a widow, and took the name ofBeaumarchais from a small fief belonging to her. Within a year his wifedied. Being a fine musician, he was appointed instructor of the King'sdaughters; and he was quick to turn to good account the influence thusacquired. In 1764 he made a sudden trip to Spain to vindicate a sisterof his, who had been betrothed to a man called Clavijo and whom thisSpaniard had refused to marry. He succeeded in his mission, and his ownbrilliant account of this characteristic episode in his career suggestedto Goethe the play of 'Clavigo. ' Beaumarchais himself brought back fromMadrid a liking for things Spanish and a knowledge of Iberian customsand character. [Illustration: Beaumarchais] He had been a watchmaker, a musician, a court official, a speculator, and it was only when he was thirty-five that he turned dramatist. Various French authors, Diderot especially, weary of confinement totragedy and comedy, the only two forms then admitted on the Frenchstage, were seeking a new dramatic formula in which they might treatpathetic situations of modern life; and it is due largely to theirefforts that the modern "play" or "drama, " the story of every-dayexistence, has been evolved. The first dramatic attempt of Beaumarchaiswas a drama called 'Eugénie, ' acted at the Théâtre Français in 1767, andsucceeding just enough to encourage him to try again. The second, 'TheTwo Friends, ' acted in 1770, was a frank failure. For the pathetic, Beaumarchais had little aptitude; and these two serious efforts were ofuse to him only so far as their performance may have helped him tomaster the many technical difficulties of the theatre. Beaumarchais had married a second time in 1768, and he had been engagedin various speculations with the financier Pâris-Duverney. In 1770 hiswife died, and so did his associate; and he found himself soon involvedin lawsuits, into the details of which it is needless to go, but in thecourse of which he published a series of memoirs, or statements of hiscase for the public at large. These memoirs are among the most vigorousof all polemical writings; they were very clever and very witty; theywere vivacious and audacious; they were unfailingly interesting; andthey were read as eagerly as the 'Letters of Junius. ' Personal at first, the suits soon became political; and part of the public approval givento the attack of Beaumarchais on judicial injustice was due no doubt tothe general discontent with the existing order in France. His daringconduct of his own cause made him a personality. He was intrusted withone secret mission by Louis XV; and when Louis XVI came to the throne, he managed to get him again employed confidentially. Not long after his two attempts at the serious drama, he had tried toturn to account his musical faculty by writing both the book and thescore of a comic opera, which had, however, been rejected by theComédie-Italienne (the predecessor of the present Opéra Comique). Aftera while Beaumarchais cut out his music and worked over his plot into afive-act comedy in prose, 'The Barber of Seville. ' It was produced bythe Théâtre Français in 1775, and like the contemporary 'Rivals' ofSheridan, --the one English author with whom Beaumarchais must always becompared, --it was a failure on the first night and a lasting successafter the author had reduced it and rearranged it. 'The Barber ofSeville' was like the 'Gil Blas' of Lesage in that, while it wasseemingly Spanish in its scenes, it was in reality essentially French. It contained one of the strongest characters in literature, --Figaro, areincarnation of the intriguing servant of Menander and Plautus andMolière. Simple in plot, ingenious in incident, brisk in dialogue, broadly effective in character-drawing, 'The Barber of Seville' is themost famous French comedy of the eighteenth century, with the singleexception of its successor from the same pen, which appeared nineyears later. During those years Beaumarchais was not idle. Like Defoe, he was alwaysdevising projects for money-making. A few months after 'The Barber ofSeville' had been acted, the American Revolution began, and Beaumarchaiswas a chief agent in supplying the Americans with arms, ammunition, andsupplies. He had a cruiser of his own, Le Fier Roderigue, which was inD'Estaing's fleet. When the independence of the United States wasrecognized at last, Beaumarchais had a pecuniary claim against the youngnation which long remained unsettled. Not content with making war on his own account almost, Beaumarchaisalso undertook the immense task of publishing a complete edition ofVoltaire. He also prepared a sequel to the 'Barber, ' in which Figaroshould be even more important, and should serve as a mouthpiece fordeclamatory criticism of the social order. But his 'Marriage of Figaro'was so full of the revolutionary ferment that its performance wasforbidden. Following the example of Molière under the similarinterdiction of 'Tartuffe, ' Beaumarchais was untiring in arousinginterest in his unacted play, reading it himself in the houses of thegreat. Finally it was authorized, and when the first performance tookplace at the Théâtre Français in 1784, the crush to see it was so greatthat three persons were stifled to death. The new comedy was as amusingand as adroit as its predecessor, and the hits at the times were sharperand swifter and more frequent. How demoralized society was then may begauged by the fact that this disintegrating satire was soon acted by theamateurs of the court, a chief character being impersonated by MarieAntoinette herself. The career of Beaumarchais reached its climax with the production of thesecond of the Figaro plays. Afterward he wrote the libretto for anopera, 'Tarare, ' produced with Salieri's music in 1787; the year beforehe had married for the third time. In a heavy play called 'The GuiltyMother, ' acted with slight success in 1790, he brought in Figaro yetonce more. During the Terror he emigrated to Holland, returning to Parisin 1796 to find his sumptuous mansion despoiled. May 18th, 1799, hedied, leaving a fortune of $200, 000, besides numerous claims against theFrench nation and the United States. An interesting parallel could be drawn between 'The Rivals' and the'School for Scandal' on the one side, and on the other 'The Barber ofSeville' and 'The Marriage of Figaro'; and there are also piquant pointsof likeness between Sheridan and Beaumarchais. But Sheridan, with allhis failings, was of sterner stuff than Beaumarchais. He had a loftierpolitical morality, and he served the State more loyally. Yet the twocomedies of Beaumarchais are like the two comedies of Sheridan in theirincessant wit, in their dramaturgic effectiveness, and in the histrionicopportunities they afford. Indeed, the French comedies have had a wideraudience than the English, thanks to an Italian and a German, --toRossini who set 'The Barber of Seville' to music, and to Mozart who dida like service for 'The Marriage of Figaro. ' [Illustration: Signature: Brander Matthews] FROM 'THE BARBER OF SEVILLE' OUTWITTING A GUARDIAN [Rosina's lover, Count Almaviva, attempts to meet and converse with herby hoodwinking Dr. Bartolo, her zealous guardian. He comes in disguiseto Bartolo's dwelling, in a room of which the scene is laid. ] [_Enter Count Almaviva, dressed as a student_. ] _Count [solemnly]_--May peace and joy abide here evermore! _Bartolo [brusquely]_--Never, young sir, was wish more àpropos! What doyou want? _Count_--Sir, I am one Alonzo, a bachelor of arts-- _Bartolo_--Sir, I need no instructor. _Count_---- ---- a pupil of Don Basilio, the organist of the convent, who teaches music to Madame your-- _Bartolo [suspiciously]_--Basilio! Organist! Yes, I know him. Well? _Count [aside]_--What a man! _[Aloud. ]_ He's confined to his bed with asudden illness. _Bartolo_--Confined to his bed! Basilio! He's very good to send word, for I've just seen him. _Count [aside]_--Oh, the devil! [_Aloud. _] When I say to his bed, sir, it's--I mean to his room. _Bartolo_--Whatever's the matter with him, go, if you please. _Count [embarrassed]_--Sir, I was asked--Can no one hear us? _Bartolo [aside]_--It's some rogue! _[Aloud. ]_ What's that? No, MonsieurMysterious, no one can hear! Speak frankly--if you can. _Count [aside]_--Plague take the old rascal! _[Aloud. ]_ Don Basilioasked me to tell you-- _Bartolo_--Speak louder. I'm deaf in one ear. _Count [raising his voice_]--Ah! quite right: he asks me to say to youthat one Count Almaviva, who was lodging on the great square-- _Bartolo [frightened]_--Speak low, speak low. _Count [louder]_----moved away from there this morning. As it was I whotold him that this Count Almaviva-- _Bartolo_--Low, speak lower, I beg of you. _Count [in the same tone_]--Was in this city, and as I have discoveredthat Señorita Rosina has been writing to him-- _Bartolo_--Has been writing to him? My dear friend, I implore you, _do_speak low! Come, let's sit down, let's have a friendly chat. You havediscovered, you say, that Rosina-- _Count_ [_angrily_]--Certainly. Basilio, anxious about thiscorrespondence on your account, asked me to show you her letter; but theway you take things-- _Bartolo_--Good Lord! I take them well enough. But can't you possiblyspeak a little lower? _Count_--You told me you were deaf in one ear. _Bartolo_--I beg your pardon, I beg your pardon, if I've been surly andsuspicious, Signor Alonzo: I'm surrounded with spies--and then yourfigure, your age, your whole air--I beg your pardon. Well? Have youthe letter? _Count_--I'm glad you're barely civil at last, sir. But are you quitesure no one can overhear us? _Bartolo_--Not a soul. My servants are all tired out. Señorita Rosinahas shut herself up in a rage! The very devil's to pay in this house. Still I'll go and make sure. [_He goes to peep into Rosina's room_. ] _Count_ [_aside_]--Well, I've caught myself now in my own trap. Now whatshall I do about the letter? If I were to run off?--but then I mightjust as well not have come. Shall I show it to him? If I could only warnRosina beforehand! To show it would be a master-stroke. _Bartolo_ [_returning on tiptoe_]--She's sitting by the window with herback to the door, and re-reading a cousin's letter which I opened. Now, now--let me see hers. _Count_ [_handing him Rosina's letter_]--Here it is. [_Aside. _] She'sre-reading _my_ letter. _Bartolo_ [_reads quickly_]--"Since you have told me your name andestate--" Ah, the little traitress! Yes, it's her writing. _Count_ [_frightened_]--Speak low yourself, won't you? _Bartolo_--What for, if you please? _Count_--When we've finished, you can do as you choose. But after all, Don Basilio's negotiation with a lawyer-- _Bartolo_--With a lawyer? About my marriage? _Count_--Would I have stopped you for anything else? He told me to saythat all can be ready to-morrow. Then, if she resists-- _Bartolo_--She will. _Count_ [_wants to take back the letter; Bartolo clutches it_]--I'lltell you what we'll do. We will show her her letter; and then, ifnecessary, [_more mysteriously_] I'll even tell her that it was given tome by a woman--to whom the Count is sacrificing her. Shame and rage maybring her to terms on the spot. _Bartolo_ [_laughing_]--Calumny, eh? My dear fellow, I see very well nowthat you come from Basilio. But lest we should seem to have planned thistogether, don't you think it would be better if she'd met you before? _Count_ [_repressing a start of joy_]--Don Basilio thought so, I know. But how can we manage it? It is late already. There's not muchtime left. _Bartolo_--I will tell her you've come in his place. Couldn't you giveher a lesson? _Count_--I'll do anything you like. But take care she doesn't suspect. All these dodges of pretended masters are rather old and theatrical. _Bartolo_--She won't suspect if I introduce you. But how you do look!You've much more the air of a disguised lover than of a zealousstudent-friend. _Count_--Really? Don't you think I can hoodwink her all the better forthat? _Bartolo_--She'll never guess. She's in a horrible temper this evening. But if she'll only see you--Her harpsichord is in this room. Amuseyourself while you're waiting. I'll do all I can to bring her here. _Count_--Don't say a word about the letter. _Bartolo_--Before the right moment? It would lose all effect if I did. It's not necessary to tell me things twice; it's not necessary to tellme things twice. [_He goes. _] _Count_ [_alone, soliloquizes_]--At last I've won! Ouf! What a difficultlittle old imp he is! Figaro understands him. I found myself lying, andthat made me awkward; and he has eyes for everything! On my honor, ifthe letter hadn't inspired me he'd have thought me a fool!--Ah, how theyare disputing in there!--What if she refuses to come? Listen--If shewon't, my coming is all thrown away. There she is: I won't showmyself at first. [_Rosina enters_. ] _Rosina_ [_angrily_]--There's no use talking about it, sir. I've made upmy mind. I don't want to hear anything more about music. _Bartolo_--But, my child, do listen! It is Señor Alonzo, the friend andpupil of Don Basilio, whom he has chosen as one of our marriagewitnesses. I'm sure that music will calm you. _Rosina_--Oh! you needn't concern yourself about that; and as forsinging this evening--Where is this master you're so afraid ofdismissing? I'll settle him in a minute--and Señor Basilio too. [_Shesees her lover and exclaims_:] Ah! _Bartolo_--Eh, eh, what is the matter? _Rosina_ [_pressing her hands to her heart_]--Ah, sir! Ah, sir! _Bartolo_--She is ill again! Señor Alonzo! _Rosina_--No, I am not ill--but as I was turning--ah! _Count_--Did you sprain your foot, Madame? _Rosina_--Yes, yes, I sprained my foot! I--hurt myself dreadfully. _Count_--So I perceived. _Rosina_ [_looking at the Count_]--The pain really makes me feel faint. _Bartolo_--A chair--a chair there! And not a single chair here! [_Hegoes to get one_. ] _Count_--Ah, Rosina! _Rosina_--What imprudence! _Count_--There are a hundred things I must say to you. _Rosina_--He won't leave us alone. _Count_--Figaro will help us. _Bartolo_ [_bringing an arm-chair_]--Wait a minute, my child. Sit downhere. She can't take a lesson this evening, Señor: you must postponeit. Good-by. _Rosina_ [_to the Count_]--No, wait; my pain is better. [_To Bartolo_. ]I feel that I've acted foolishly! I'll imitate you, and atone at once bytaking my lesson. _Bartolo_--Oh! Such a kind little woman at heart! But after so muchexcitement, my child, I can't let you make any exertion. So good-bye, Señor, good-bye. _Rosina_ [_to the Count_]--Do wait a minute! [_To Bartolo_. ] I shallthink that you don't care to please me if you won't let me show myregret by taking my lesson. _Count_ [_aside to Bartolo_]--I wouldn't oppose her, if I were you. _Bartolo_--That settles it, my love: I am so anxious to please you thatI shall stay here all the time you are practicing. _Rosina_--No, don't. I know you don't care for music. _Bartolo_--It _will_ charm me this evening, I'm sure. _Rosina [aside to the Count_]--I'm tormented to death! _Count [taking a sheet of music from the stand_]--Will you sing this, Madame? _Rosina_--Yes, indeed--it's a very pretty thing out of the opera 'TheUseless Precaution. ' _Bartolo_--Why do you _always_ sing from 'The Useless Precaution'? _Count_--There is nothing newer! It's a picture of spring in a verybright style. So if Madame wants to try it-- _Rosina [looking at the Count_]--With pleasure. A picture of spring isdelightful! It is the youth of nature. It seems as if the heart alwaysfeels more when winter's just over. It's like a slave who finds libertyall the more charming after a long confinement. _Bartolo [to the Count_]--Always romantic ideas in her head! _Count [in a low tone_]--Did you notice the application? _Bartolo_--Zounds! _[He sits down in the chair which Rosina has been occupying. Rosinasings, during which Bartolo goes to sleep. Under cover of the refrainthe Count seizes Rosina's hand and covers it with kisses. In her emotionshe sings brokenly, and finally breaks off altogether. The suddensilence awakens Bartolo. The Count starts up, and Rosina quickly resumesher song_. ] * * * * * _[Don Basilio enters. Figaro in background_. ] _Rosina [startled, to herself_]--Don Basilio! _Count [aside]_--Good Heaven! _Figaro_--The devil! _Bartolo [going to meet him_]--Ah! welcome, Basilio. So your accidentwas not very serious? Alonzo quite alarmed me about you. He will tellyou that I was just going to see you, and if he had not detained me-- _Basilio [in astonishment_]--Señor Alonzo? _Figaro [stamping his foot_]--Well, well! How long must I wait? Twohours wasted already over your beard--Miserable business! _Basilio [looking at every one in amazement_]--But, gentlemen, will youplease tell me-- _Figaro_--You can talk to him after I've gone. _Basilio_--But still, would-- _Count_--You'd better be quiet, Basilio. Do you think you can informhim of anything new? I've told him that you sent me for the music lessoninstead of coming himself. _Basilio [still more astonished]_--The music lesson! Alonzo! _Rosina [aside to Basilio]--Do_ hold your tongue, can't you? _Basilio_--She, too! _Count [to Bartolo]_--Let him know what you and I have agreed upon. _Bartolo [aside to Basilio]_--Don't contradict, and say that he is notyour pupil, or you will spoil everything. _Basilio_--Ah! Ah! _Bartolo [aloud]_--Indeed, Basilio, your pupil has a great deal oftalent. _Basilio [stupefied]_--My pupil! [_In a low tone_. ] I came to tell youthat the Count has moved. _Bartolo [low]_--I know it. Hush. _Basilio [low]_--Who told you? _Bartolo [low]_--He did, of course. _Count [low]_--It was I, naturally. Just listen, won't you? _Rosina [low to Basilio]_--Is it so hard to keep still? _Figaro [low to Basilio]_--Hum! The sharper! He is deaf! _Basilio [aside]_--Who the devil are they trying to deceive here?Everybody seems to be in it! _Bartolo [aloud]_--Well, Basilio--about your lawyer--? _Figaro_--You have the whole evening to talk about the lawyer. _Bartolo [to Basilio]_--One word; only tell me if you are satisfied withthe lawyer. _Basilio [startled]_--With the lawyer? _Count [smiling]_--Haven't you seen the lawyer? _Basilio [impatient]_--Eh? No, I haven't seen the lawyer. _Count [aside to Bartolo]_--Do you want him to explain matters beforeher? Send him away. _Bartolo [low to the Count]_--You are right. [_To Basilio_. ] But whatmade you ill, all of a sudden? _Basilio [angrily]_--I don't understand you. _Count [secretly slipping a purse into his hands]_--Yes: he wants toknow what you are doing here, when you are so far from well? _Figaro_--He's as pale as a ghost! _Basilio_--Ah! I understand. _Count_--Go to bed, dear Basilio. You are not at all well, and you makeus all anxious. Go to bed. _Figaro_--He looks quite upset. Go to bed. _Bartolo_--I'm sure he seems feverish. Go to bed. _Rosina_--Why did you come out? They say that it's catching. Go to bed. _Basilio [in the greatest amazement]_--I'm to go to bed! _All the others together_--Yes, you must. _Basilio [looking at them all]_--Indeed, I think I will have towithdraw. I don't feel quite as well as usual. _Bartolo_--We'll look for you to-morrow, if you are better. _Count_--I'll see you soon, Basilio. _Basilio [aside]_--Devil take it if I understand all this! And if itweren't for this purse-- _All_--Good-night, Basilio, good-night. _Basilio [going]_--Very well, then; good-night, _good-night_. [_The others, all laughing, push him civilly out of the room_. ] FROM 'THE MARRIAGE OF FIGARO' OUTWITTING A HUSBAND [The scene is the boudoir of young Countess Almaviva, the Rosina of theprevious selection. She is seated alone, when her clever maid Susannaushers in the young page Cherubino, just banished from the house becauseobnoxious to the jealous Count. ] _Susanna_--Here's our young Captain, Madame. _Cherubino [timidly]_--The title is a sad reminder that--that I mustleave this delightful home and the godmother who has been so kind-- _Susanna--And_ so beautiful! _Cherubino [sighing]_--Ah, yes! _Susanna [mocking his sigh]_--Ah, yes! Just look at his hypocriticaleyelids! Madame, make him sing his new song. [_She gives it to him_. ]Come now, my beautiful bluebird, sing away. _Countess_--Does the manuscript say who wrote this--song? _Susanna_--The blushes of guilt betray him. _Cherubino_--Madame, I--I--tremble so. _Susanna_--Ta, ta, ta, ta--! Come, modest author--since you are socommanded. Madame, I'll accompany him. _Countess [to Susanna]_--Take my guitar. _[Cherubino sings his ballad to the air of 'Malbrouck. ' The Countessreads the words of it from his manuscript, with an occasional glance athim; he sometimes looks at her and sometimes lowers his eyes as hesings. Susanna, accompanying him, watches them both, laughing. ]_ _Countess [folding the song]_--Enough, my boy. Thank you. It is verygood--full of feeling-- _Susanna_--Ah! as for feeling--this is a young man who--well! _[Cherubino tries to stop her by catching hold of her dress. Susannawhispers to him]_--Ah, you good-for-nothing! I'm going to tell her. _[Aloud. ]_ Well--Captain! We'll amuse ourselves by seeing how you lookin one of my dresses! _Countess_--Susanna, how _can_ you go on so? _Susanna [going up to Cherubino and measuring herself with him]_--He'sjust the right height. Off with your coat. _[She draws it off. ]_ _Countess_--But what if some one should come? _Susanna_--What if they do? We're doing no wrong. But I'll lock thedoor, just the same. _[Locks it. ]_ I want to see him in a woman'shead-dress! _Countess_--Well, you'll find my little cap in my dressing-room on thetoilet table. _[Susanna gets the cap, and then, sitting down on a stool, she makesCherubino kneel before her and arranges it on his hair. ]_ _Susanna_--Goodness, isn't he a pretty girl? I'm jealous. Cherubino, you're altogether _too_ pretty. _Countess_--Undo his collar a little; that will give a more feminineair. [_Susanna loosens his collar so as to show his neck_. ] Now push uphis sleeves, so that the under ones show more. [_While Susanna rolls upCherubino's sleeves, the Countess notices her lost ribbon around hiswrist_. ] What is that? My ribbon? _Susanna_--Ah! I'm very glad you've seen it, for I told him I shouldtell. I should certainly have taken it away from him if the Count hadn'tcome just then; for I am almost as strong as he is. _Countess [with surprise, unrolling the ribbon]_--There's blood on it! _Cherubino_--Yes, I was tightening the curb of my horse this morning, hecurvetted and gave me a push with his head, and the bridle studgrazed my arm. _Countess_--I never saw a ribbon used as a bandage before. _Susanna_--Especially a _stolen_ ribbon. What may all those thingsbe--the curb, the curvetting, the bridle stud? [_Glances at his arms_. ]What white arms he has! just like a woman's. Madame, they are whiterthan mine. _Countess_--Never mind that, but run and find me some oiled silk. [_Susanna goes out, after humorously pushing Cherubino over so that hefalls forward on his hands. He and the Countess look at each other forsome time; then she breaks the silence_. ] _Countess_--I hope you are plucky enough. Don't show yourself before theCount again to-day. We'll tell him to hurry up your commission inhis regiment. _Cherubino_--I already have it, Madame. Basilio brought it to me. [_Hedraws the commission from his pocket and hands it to her_. ] _Countess_--Already! They haven't lost any time. [_She opens it. _] Oh, in their hurry they've forgotten to add the seal to it. _Susanna [returning with the oiled silk]_--Seal what? _Countess_--His commission in the regiment. _Susanna_--Already? _Countess_--That's what I said. _Susanna_--And the bandage? _Countess_--Oh, when you are getting my things, take a ribbon from oneof _your_ caps. [_Susanna goes out again_] _Countess_--This ribbon is of my favorite color. I must tell you I wasgreatly displeased at your taking it. _Cherubino_--That one would heal me quickest. _Countess_--And--why so? _Cherubino_--When a ribbon--has pressed the head, and--touched the skinof one-- _Countess [hastily]_--Very strange--then it can cure wounds? I neverheard that before. I shall certainly try it on the first wound of anyof--my maids-- _Cherubino [sadly]_--I must go away from here! _Countess_--But not for always? [_Cherubino begins to weep. _] And nowyou are crying! At that prediction of Figaro? _Cherubino_--I'm just where he said I'd be. [_Some one knocks on thedoor_]. _Countess_--Who can be knocking like that? _The Count [outside]_--Open the door! _Countess_--Heavens! It's my husband. Where can you hide? _The Count [outside]_--Open the door, I say. _Countess_--There's no one here, you see. _The Count_--But who are you talking to then? _Countess_--To you, I suppose. [_To Cherubino. _] Hide yourself, quick--in the dressing-room! _Cherubino_--Ah, after this morning, he'd kill me if he found me _here_. [_He runs into the dressing-room on the right, which is also Susanna'sroom; the Countess, after locking him in and taking the key, admitsthe Count. _] _Count_--You don't usually lock yourself in, Madame. _Countess_--I--I--was gossiping with Susanna. She's gone. [_Pointing toher maid's room. _] _Count_--And you seem very much agitated, Madame. _Countess_--Not at all, I assure you! We were talking about you. She'sjust gone--as I told you. _Count_--I must say, Madame, you and I seem to be surrounded by spitefulpeople. Just as I'm starting for a ride, I'm handed a note which informsme that a certain person whom I suppose far enough away is to visit youthis evening. _Countess_--The bold fellow, whoever he is, will have to come here, then; for I don't intend to leave my room to-day. [_Something falls heavily in the dressing-room where Cherubino is. _] _Count_--Ah, Madame, something dropped just then! _Countess_--I didn't hear anything. _Count_--You must be very absent-minded, then. Somebody is in that room! _Countess_--Who do you think could be there? _Count_--Madame, that is what I'm asking _you_. I have just come in. _Countess_--Probably it's Susanna wandering about. _Count [pointing]_--But you just told me that she went that way. _Countess_--This way or that--I don't know which. _Count_--Very well, Madame, I must see her. --Come here, Susanna. _Countess_--She cannot. Pray wait! She's but half dressed. She's tryingon things that I've given her for her wedding. _Count_--Dressed or not, I wish to see her at once. _Countess_--I can't prevent your doing so anywhere else, but here-- _Count_--You may say what you choose--I _will_ see her. _Countess_--I thoroughly believe you'd like to see her in that state!but-- _Count_--Very well, Madame. If Susanna can't come out, at least she cantalk. [_Turning toward the dressing-room. _] Susanna, are you there?Answer, I command you. _Countess_ [_peremptorily_]--Don't answer, Susanna! I forbid you! Sir, how can you be such a petty tyrant? Fine suspicions, indeed! [_Susanna slips by and hides behind the Countess's bed without beingnoticed either by her or by the Count. _] _Count_--They are all the easier to dispel. I can see that it would beuseless to ask you for the key, but it's easy enough to break in thedoor. Here, somebody! _Countess_--Will you really make yourself the laughing-stock of thechateau for such a silly suspicion? _Count_--- You are quite right. I shall simply force the door myself. Iam going for tools. _Countess_--Sir, if your conduct were prompted by love, I'd forgive yourjealousy for the sake of the motive. But its cause is only your vanity. _Count_--Love _or_ vanity, Madame, I mean to know who is in that room!And to guard against any tricks, I am going to lock the door to yourmaid's room. You, Madame, will kindly come with me, and without anynoise, if you please. [_He leads her away. _] As for the Susanna in thedressing-room, she will please wait a few minutes. _Countess_ [_going out with him_]--Sir, I assure you-- _Susanna_ [_coming out from behind the bed and running to thedressing-room_]--Cherubino! Open quick! It's Susanna. [_Cherubinohurries out of the dressing-room. _] Escape--you haven't a minuteto lose! _Cherubino_--Where can I go? _Susanna_--I don't know, I don't know at all! but do go somewhere! _Cherubino_ [_running to the window, then coming back_]--The windowisn't so very high. _Susanna_ [_frightened and holding him back_]--He'll kill himself! _Cherubino_--Ah, Susie, I'd rather jump into a gulf than put theCountess in danger. [_He snatches a kiss, then runs to the window, hesitates, and finally jumps down into the garden. _] _Susanna_--Ah! [_She falls fainting into an arm-chair. Recoveringslowly, she rises, and seeing Cherubino running through the garden shecomes forward panting. _] He's far away already! . .. Little scamp! asnimble as he is handsome! [_She next runs to the dressing-room. _] Now, Count Almaviva, knock as hard as you like, break down the door. Plaguetake me if I answer you. [_Goes into the dressing-room and shutsthe door. _] [_Count and Countess return. _] _Count_--Now, Madame, consider well before you drive me to extremes. _Countess_--I--I beg of you--! _Count_ [_preparing to burst open the door_]--You can't cajole me now. _Countess_ [_throwing herself on her knees_]--Then I will open it! Hereis the key. _Count_--So it is _not_ Susanna? _Countess_--No, but it's no one who should offend you. _Count_--If it's a man I kill him! Unworthy wife! You wish to stay shutup in your room--you shall stay in it long enough, I promise you. _Now_I understand the note--my suspicions are justified! _Countess_--Will you listen to me one minute? _Count_--Who is in that room? _Countess_--Your page. _Count_--Cherubino! The little scoundrel!--just let me catch him! Idon't wonder you were so agitated. _Countess_--I--I assure you we were only planning an innocent joke. [_The Count snatches the key, and goes to the dressing-room door; theCountess throws herself at his feet. _] _Countess_--Have mercy, Count! Spare this poor child; and although thedisorder in which you will find him-- _Count_--What, Madame? What do you mean? What disorder? _Countess_--He was just changing his coat--his neck and arms are bare-- [_The Countess throws herself into a chair and turns away her head. _] _Count_ [_running to the dressing-room_]--Come out here, you youngvillain! _Count_ [_seeing Susanna come out of the dressing-room_]--Eh! Why, it_is_ Susanna! [_Aside. _] What, a lesson! _Susanna_ [_mocking him_]--"I will kill him! I will kill him!" Well, then, why don't you kill this mischievous page? _Count_ [_to the Countess, who at the sight of Susanna shows thegreatest surprise_]--So _you_ also play astonishment, Madame? _Countess_--Why shouldn't I? _Count_--But perhaps she wasn't alone in there. I'll find out. [_He goesinto the dressing-room. _] _Countess_--- Susanna, I'm nearly dead. _Count_ [_aside, as he returns_]--No one there! So this time I really amwrong. [_To the Countess, coldly. _] You excel at comedy, Madame. _Susanna_--And what about me, sir? _Count_--And so do you. _Countess_--Aren't you glad you found her instead of Cherubino?[_Meaningly. _] You are generally pleased to come across her. _Susanna_--Madame ought to have let you break in the doors, call theservants-- _Count_--Yes, it's quite true--I'm at fault--I'm humiliated enough! Butwhy didn't you answer, you cruel girl, when I called you? _Susanna_--I was dressing as well as I could--with the aid of pins, andMadame knew why she forbade me to answer. She had her lessons. _Count_--Why don't you help me get pardon, instead of making me out asbad as you can? _Countess_--Did I marry you to be eternally subjected to jealousy andneglect? I mean to join the Ursulines, and-- _Count_--But, Rosina! _Countess_--I am no longer the Rosina whom you loved so well. I am onlypoor Countess Almaviva, deserted wife of a madly jealous husband. _Count_--I assure you, Rosina, this man, this letter, had excited meso-- _Countess_--I never gave my consent. _Count_--What, you knew about it? _Countess_--This rattlepate Figaro, without my sanction-- _Count_--He did it, eh! and Basilio pretended that a peasant brought it. Crafty wag, ready to impose on everybody! _Countess_--You beg pardon, but you never grant pardon. If I grant it, it shall only be on condition of a general amnesty. _Count_--Well, then, so be it. I agree. But I don't understand how yoursex can adapt itself to circumstances so quickly and so nicely. You werecertainly much agitated; and for that matter, you are yet. _Countess_--Men aren't sharp enough to distinguish between honestindignation at unjust suspicion, and the confusion of guilt. _Count_--We men think we know something of politics, but we are onlychildren. Madame, the King ought to name you his ambassador toLondon. --And now pray forget this unfortunate business, sohumiliating for me. _Countess_--For us both. _Count_--Won't you tell me again that you forgive me? _Countess_--Have I said _that_, Susanna? _Count_--Ah, say it now. _Countess_--Do you deserve it, culprit? _Count_--Yes, honestly, for my repentance. _Countess [giving him her hand_]--How weak I am! What an example I setyou, Susanna! He'll never believe in a woman's anger. _Susanna_--You are prisoner on parole; and you shall see we arehonorable. FRANCIS BEAUMONT and JOHN FLETCHER (1584-1616) (1579-1625) "The names of Beaumont and Fletcher, " says Lowell, in his lectures on'Old English Dramatists, ' "are as inseparably linked together as thoseof Castor and Pollux. They are the double star of our poeticalfirmament, and their beams are so indissolubly mingled that it is vainto attempt any division of them that shall assign to each his rightfulshare. " Theirs was not that dramatic collaboration all too common amongthe lesser Elizabethan dramatists, at a time when managers, eager tosatisfy a restless public incessantly clamoring for novelty, parceledout single acts or even scenes of a play among two or three playwrights, to put together a more or less congruous piece of work. Beaumont andFletcher joined partnership, not from any outward necessity, butinspired by a common love of their art and true congeniality of mind. Unlike many of their brother dramatists, whom the necessities of a lowlyorigin drove to seek a livelihood in writing for the theatres, Beaumontand Fletcher were of gentle birth, and sprung from families eminent atthe bar and in the Church. [Illustration: Francis Beaumont] Beaumont was born at Grace-Dieu in Leicestershire, 1584, the son of achief justice. His name is first mentioned as a gentleman commoner atBroadgate Hall, now Pembroke College, Oxford. At sixteen he was entereda member of the Inner Temple, but the dry facts of the law did notappeal to his romantic imagination. Nowhere in his work does he drawupon his barrister's experience to the extent that makes the plays ofMiddleton, who also knew the Inner Temple at first hand, a storehouse ofinformation in things legal. His feet soon strayed, therefore, into themore congenial fields of dramatic invention. Fletcher was born in Rye, Sussex, the son of a minister who later becameBishop of London. Giles Fletcher the Younger, and Phineas Fletcher, bothwell-known poets in their day, were his cousins. His early life is aslittle known as that of Beaumont, and indeed as the lives of most of theother Elizabethan dramatists. He was a pensioner at Benet College, nowCorpus Christi, Cambridge, in 1591, and in 1593 he was "Bible-clerk"there. Then we hear nothing of him until 'The Woman Hater' was broughtout in 1607. The play has been ascribed to Beaumont alone, to Fletcheralone, and to the two jointly. Whoever may be the author, it is thefirstling of his dramatic muse, and worth merely a passing mention. Howor when their literary friendship began is not known; but since bothwere friends of Jonson, both prefixing commendatory verses to the greatrealist's play of 'The Fox, ' it is fair to assume that through him theywere brought together, and that both belonged to that brilliant circleof wits, poets, and dramatists who made famous the gatherings at theMermaid Inn. They lived in the closest intimacy on the Bankside, near the GlobeTheatre in Southwark, sharing everything in common, even the bed, andsome say their clothing, --which is likely enough, as it can beparalleled without going back three centuries. It is certain that themore affluent circumstances of Beaumont tided his less fortunate friendover many a difficulty; and the astonishing dramatic productivity ofFletcher's later period was probably due to Beaumont's untimely death, making it necessary for Fletcher to rely on his pen for support. In 1613 Beaumont's marriage to a Kentish heiress put an end to thecommunistic bachelor establishment. He died March 6th, 1616, not quitesix weeks before Shakespeare, and was buried in Westminster Abbey. Fletcher survived him nine years, dying of the plague in 1625. He wasburied, not by the side of the poet with whose name his own is foreverlinked, but at St. Saviour's, Southwark. "A student of physiognomy, " says Swinburne, "will not fail to mark thepoints of likeness and of difference between the faces of the twofriends; both models of noble manhood. .. . Beaumont the statelier andserener of the two, with clear, thoughtful eyes, full arched brows, andstrong aquiline nose, with a little cleft at the tip; a grave andbeautiful mouth, with full and finely curved lips; the form of face avery pure oval, and the imperial head, with its 'fair large front' andclustering hair, set firm and carried high with an aspect of quietcommand and knightly observation. Fletcher with more keen and fervidface, sharper in outline every way, with an air of bright ardor andglad, fiery impatience; sanguine and nervous, suiting the complexion andcolor of hair; the expression of the eager eyes and lips almost rivalingthat of a noble hound in act to break the leash it strains at;--twoheads as lordly of feature and as expressive of aspect as any gallery ofgreat men can show. " It may not be altogether fanciful to transfer this description of theirphysical bearing to their mental equipment, and draw some conclusions asto their several endowments and their respective share in the work thatgoes under their common name. Of course it is impossible to draw hardand fast lines of demarkation, and assign to each poet his own words. They, above all others, would probably have resented so dogmatic aprocedure, and affirmed the dramas to be their joint offspring, --even asa child partakes of the nature of both its parents. Their plays are organic structures, with well worked-out plots and forthe most part well-sustained characters. They present a complete fusionof the different elements contributed by each author; never showing thatagglomeration of incongruous matter so often found among the work of thelesser playwrights, where each hand can be singled out and heldresponsible for its share. Elaborate attempts, based on verse tests, have been made to disentangle the two threads of their poetic fabric. These attempts show much patient analysis, and are interesting asevidences of ingenuity; but they appeal more to the scholar than to thelover of poetry. Yet a sympathetic reading and a comparison of the playsprofessedly written by Fletcher alone, after Beaumont's death, withthose jointly produced by them in the early part of Fletcher's career, shows the different qualities of mind that went to the making of thework, and the individual characteristics of the men that wrote it. HereSwinburne's eloquence gives concreteness to the picture. In the joint plays there is a surer touch, a deeper, more pathetic note, a greater intensity of emotion; there is more tragic pathos and passion, more strong genuine humor, nobler sentiments. The predominance of thesegraver, sweeter qualities may well be attributed to Beaumont'sinfluence. Although a disciple of Jonson in comedy, he was a closefollower of Shakespeare in tragedy, and a student of the rhythms andmetres of Shakespeare's second manner, --of the period that saw 'Hamlet, ''Macbeth, ' and the plays clustering around them. Too great a poethimself merely to imitate, Beaumont yet felt the influence of that stillgreater poet who swayed every one of the later dramatists, with thesingle exception perhaps of Jonson. But in pure comedy, mixed with farceand mock-heroic parody, he belongs to the school of "rare Ben. " Fletcher, on the other hand, is more brilliant, more rapid and supple, readier in his resources, of more startling invention. He has anextraordinary swiftness and fluency of speech; and no other dramatist, not even Shakespeare, equals him in the remarkable facility with whichhe reproduces in light, airy verse the bantering conversations of theyoung beaux and court-gentlemen of the time of James I. His peculiartrick of the redundant syllable at the end of many of his lines islargely responsible in producing this effect of ordinary speech, thatyet is verse without being prosy. There is a flavor about Fletcher'swork peculiarly its own. He created a new form of mixed comedy anddramatic romance, dealing with the humors and mischances of men, yetpossessing a romantic coloring. He had great skill in combining hiseffects, and threw a fresh charm and vividness over his fanciful world. The quality of his genius is essentially bright and sunny, and thereforehe is best in his comic and romantic work. His tragedy, although it hasgreat pathos and passion, does not compel tears, nor does it subdue byits terror. It lacks the note of inevitableness which is the finaltouchstone of tragic greatness. Their first joint play, 'Philaster, or Love Lies a-Bleeding, ' acted in1608, is in its detached passages the most famous. Among the others, 'The Maid's Tragedy, ' produced about the same time, is their finest playon its purely tragic side, although the plot is disagreeable. 'King andNo King' attracts because of the tender character-drawing of Panthea. 'The Scornful Lady' is noteworthy as the best exponent, outside his ownwork, of the school of Jonson on its grosser side. 'The Knight of theBurning Pestle' is at once a burlesque on knight-errantry and a comedyof manners. Among the tragedies presumably produced by Fletcher alone, 'Bonduca' isone of the best, followed closely by 'The False One, ' 'Valentinian, ' and'Thierry and Theodoret. ' 'The Chances' and 'The Wild Goose Chase' may betaken as examples of the whole work on its comic side. 'The HumorousLieutenant' is the best expression of the faults and merits of Fletcher, whose comedies Swinburne has divided into three groups: pure comedies, heroic or romantic dramas, and mixed comedy and romance. To the firstgroup belong 'Rule a Wife and Have a Wife, ' Fletcher's comicmasterpiece, 'Wit without Money, ' 'The Wild Goose Chase, ' 'The Chances, ''The Noble Gentleman. ' The second group includes 'The Knight of Malta, 'full of heroic passion and Catholic devotion, 'The Pilgrim, ' 'The LoyalSubject, ' 'A Wife for a Month, ' 'Love's Pilgrimage, ' 'The Lover'sProgress. ' The third group comprises 'The Spanish Curate, ' 'MonsieurThomas, ' 'The Custom of the Country, ' 'The Elder Brother, ' 'The LittleFrench Lawyer, ' 'The Humorous Lieutenant, ' 'Women Pleased, ' 'Beggar'sBush, ' 'The Fair Maid of the Inn. ' Fletcher had a part with Shakespeare in the 'Two Noble Kinsmen, ' and hewrote also in conjunction with Massinger, Rowley, and others; Shirley, too, is believed to have finished some of his plays. Leaving aside Shakespeare, Beaumont and Fletcher's plays are the bestdramatic expression of the romantic spirit of Elizabethan England. Theirluxurious, playful fancy delighted in the highly colored, spicy tales ofthe Southern imagination which the Renaissance was then bringing intoEngland. They drew especially upon Spanish material, and their plays arerightly interpreted only when studied in reference to this Spanishfoundation. But they are at the same time true Englishmen, and above alltrue Elizabethans; which is as much as to say that, borne along by theeager, strenuous spirit of their time, reaching out toward newsensations and impressions, new countries and customs, and dazzled bythe romanesque and fantastic, they took up this exotic material and madeit acceptable to the English mind. They satisfied the curiosity of theirtime, and expressed its surface ideas and longings. This accounts fortheir great popularity, which in their day eclipsed even Shakespeare's, as it accounts also for their shortcomings. They skimmed over thesurface of passion, they saw the pathos and the pity of it but not theterror; they lacked Shakespeare's profound insight into the well-springsof human action, and sacrificed truth of life to stage effect. Theyshared with him one grave fault which is indeed the besetting sin ofdramatists, resulting in part from the necessarily curt and outlineaction of the drama, in part from the love of audiences for strongemotional effects; namely, the abrupt and unexplained moral revolutionsof their characters. Effects are too often produced without apparentcauses; a novelist has space to fill in the blanks. The suddencontrition of the usurper in 'As You Like It' is a familiar instance;Beaumont and Fletcher have plenty as bad. Probably there was more ofthis in real life during the Middle Ages, when most people still hadmuch barbaric instability of feeling and were liable to suddenrevulsions of purpose, than in our more equable society. On the otherhand, virtue often suffers needlessly and acquiescingly. In their speech they indulged in much license, Fletcher especially; hewas prone to confuse right and wrong. The strenuousness of the earlierElizabethan age was passing away, and the relaxing morality of Jacobeansociety was making its way into literature, culminating in the entiredisintegration of the time of Charles II. , which it is very shallow tolay entirely to the Puritans. There would have been a time of greatlaxity had Cromwell or the Puritan ascendancy never existed. Beaumontand Fletcher, in their eagerness to please, took no thought of theafter-effects of their plays; morality did not enter into their schemeof life. Yet they were not immoral, but merely unmoral. They lacked thehigh seriousness that gives its permanent value to Shakespeare's tragicwork. They wrote not to embody the everlasting truths of life, as hedid; not because they were oppressed with the weight of a new messagestriving for utterance; not because they were aflame with the passionfor the unattainable, as Marlowe; not to lash with the stings of bittermockery the follies and vices of their fellow-men, as Ben Jonson; notprimarily to make us shudder at the terrible tragedies enacted bycorrupted hearts, and the needless unending sufferings of persecutedvirtue, as Webster; nor yet to give us a faithful picture of thedifferent phases of life in Jacobean London, as Dekker, Heywood, Middleton, and others. They wrote for the very joy of writing, to givevent to their over-bubbling fancy and their tender feeling. They are lyrical and descriptive poets of the first order, with awonderful ease and grace of expression. The songs scattered throughouttheir plays are second only to Shakespeare's. The volume and variety oftheir work is astonishing. They left more than fifty-two printed plays, and all of these show an extraordinary power of invention; the mostdiverse passions, characters, and situations enter into the work, theirstories stimulate our curiosity, and their characters appeal to oursympathies. Especially in half-farcical, half-pathetic comedy they haveno superior; their wit and spirit here find freest play. Despite muchcoarseness, their work is full of delicate sensibility, and suffusedwith a romantic grace of form and a tenderness of expression thatendears them to our hearts, and makes them more lovable than any oftheir brother dramatists, with the possible exception of genial Dekker. The spirit of chivalry breathes through their work, and the gentlemanand scholar is always present. For in contradiction to most of theirfellow-workers, they were not on the stage; they never took part in itsmore practical affairs either as actors or managers; they derived thetechnical knowledge necessary to a successful playwright from theirintimacy with stage folk. As poets, aside from their dramatic work, they occupy a secondary place. Beaumont especially has left, beyond one or two exquisite lyrics, littlethat is noteworthy, except some commendatory verses addressed to Jonson. On the other hand, Fletcher's 'Faithful Shepherdess, ' with Jonson's 'SadShepherd' and Milton's 'Comus, ' form that delightful trilogy of thefirst pastoral poems in the English language. The popularity of Beaumont and Fletcher in the seventeenth century, ascompared to that of Shakespeare, has been over-emphasized; for between1623 and 1685 they have only two folio editions, those of 1647 and 1679, as against four of Shakespeare. Their position among the Elizabethans isunique. They did not found a school either in comedy or tragedy. Massinger, who had more in common with them than any other of theleading dramatists, cannot be called their disciple; for though heworked in the same field, he is more sober and severe, more careful inthe construction of his plots, more of a satirist and stern judge ofsociety. With the succeeding playwrights the decadence of theElizabethan drama began. THE FAITHFUL SHEPHERDESS BY FLETCHER [Clorin, a shepherdess, watching by the grave of her lover, is found bya Satyr. ] CLORIN--Hail, holy earth, whose cold arms do embrace The truest man that ever fed his flocks By the fat plains of fruitful Thessaly. Thus I salute thy grave, thus do I pay My early vows, and tribute of mine eyes, To thy still loved ashes: thus I free Myself from all ensuing heats and fires Of love: all sports, delights, and jolly games, That shepherds hold full dear, thus put I off. Now no more shall these smooth brows be begirt With youthful coronals, and lead the dance. No more the company of fresh fair maids And wanton shepherds be to me delightful: Nor the shrill pleasing sound of merry pipes Under some shady dell, when the cool wind Plays on the leaves: all be far away, Since thou art far away, by whose dear side How often have I sat, crowned with fresh flowers For summer's queen, whilst every shepherd's boy Puts on his lusty green, with gaudy hook, And hanging script of finest cordevan! But thou art gone, and these are gone with thee, And all are dead but thy dear memory; That shall outlive thee, and shall ever spring, Whilst there are pipes, or jolly shepherds sing. And here will I, in honor of thy love, Dwell by thy grave, forgetting all those joys That former times made precious to mine eyes, Only remembering what my youth did gain In the dark hidden virtuous use of herbs. That will I practice, and as freely give All my endeavors, as I gained them free. Of all green wounds I know the remedies In men or cattle, be they stung with snakes, Or charmed with powerful words of wicked art; Or be they love-sick, or through too much heat Grown wild, or lunatic; their eyes, or ears, Thickened with misty film of dulling rheum: These I can cure, such secret virtue lies In herbs applied by a virgin's hand. My meat shall be what these wild woods afford, Berries and chestnuts, plantains, on whose cheeks The sun sits smiling, and the lofty fruit Pulled from the fair head of the straight-grown pine. On these I'll feed with free content and rest, When night shall blind the world, by thy side blessed [_A Satyr enters_. ] _Satyr_--Through yon same bending plain That flings his arms down to the main, And through these thick woods have I run, Whose bottom never kissed the sun. Since the lusty spring began, All to please my master Pan, Have I trotted without rest To get him fruit; for at a feast He entertains this coming night His paramour the Syrinx bright: But behold a fairer sight! By that heavenly form of thine, Brightest fair, thou art divine, Sprung from great immortal race Of the gods, for in thy face Shines more awful majesty Than dull weak mortality Dare with misty eyes behold, And live: therefore on this mold Lowly do I bend my knee In worship of thy deity. Deign it, goddess, from my hand To receive whate'er this land From her fertile womb doth send Of her choice fruits; and--but lend Belief to that the Satyr tells-- Fairer by the famous wells To this present day ne'er grew, Never better, nor more true. Here be grapes, whose lusty blood Is the learned poet's good; Sweeter yet did never crown The head of Bacchus: nuts more brown Than the squirrels' teeth that crack them; Deign, O fairest fair, to take them. For these, black-eyed Driope Hath oftentimes commanded me With my clasped knee to climb. See how well the lusty time Hath decked their rising cheeks in red, Such as on your lips is spread. Here be berries for a queen; Some be red, some be green; These are of that luscious meat The great god Pan himself doth eat: All these, and what the woods can yield, The hanging mountain, or the field, I freely offer, and ere long Will bring you more, more sweet and strong; Till when humbly leave I take, Lest the great Pan do awake, That sleeping lies in a deep glade, Under a broad beech's shade. I must go, I must run, Swifter than the fiery sun. _Clorin_--And all my fears go with thee. What greatness, or what private hidden power, Is there in me to draw submission From this rude man and beast? sure. I am mortal, The daughter of a shepherd; he was mortal, And she that bore me mortal; prick my hand And it will bleed; a fever shakes me, and The self-same wind that makes the young lambs shrink, Makes me a-cold: my fear says I am mortal: Yet I have heard (my mother told it me) And now I do believe it, if I keep My virgin flower uncropped, pure, chaste, and fair, No goblin, wood-god, fairy, elf, or fiend, Satyr, or other power that haunts the groves, Shall hurt my body, or by vain illusion Draw me to wander after idle fires, Or voices calling me in dead of night To make me follow, and so tole me on Through mire, and standing pools, to find my ruin. Else why should this rough thing, who never knew Manners nor smooth humanity, whose heats Are rougher than himself, and more misshapen, Thus mildly kneel to me? Sure there's a power In that great name of Virgin, that binds fast All rude uncivil bloods, all appetites That break their confines. Then, strong Chastity, Be thou my strongest guard; for here I'll dwell In opposition against fate and hell. SONG Care-charming Sleep, thou easer of all woes, Brother to Death, sweetly thyself dispose On this afflicted prince; fall, like a cloud, In gentle showers; give nothing that is loud Or painful to his slumbers; easy, light, And as a purling stream, thou son of Night, Pass by his troubled senses; sing his pain, Like hollow murmuring wind or silver rain; Into this prince gently, oh, gently slide, And kiss him into slumbers like a bride! SONG God Lyæus, ever young, Ever honored, ever sung, Stained with blood of lusty grapes, In a thousand lusty shapes, Dance upon the mazer's brim, In the crimson liquor swim; From thy plenteous hand divine, Let a river run with wine. God of youth, let this day here Enter neither care nor fear! ASPATIA'S SONG Lay a garland on my hearse Of the dismal yew; Maidens, willow-branches bear; Say I died true. My love was false, but I was firm From my hour of birth: Upon my buried body lie Lightly, gentle earth! LEANDRO'S SONG BY FLETCHER Dearest, do not you delay me, Since thou know'st I must be gone; Wind and tide, 'tis thought, doth stay me, But 'tis wind that must be blown From that breath, whose native smell Indian odors far excel. Oh then speak, thou fairest fair! Kill not him that vows to serve thee; But perfume this neighboring air, Else dull silence, sure, will starve me: 'Tis a word that's quickly spoken, Which being restrained, a heart is broken. TRUE BEAUTY May I find a woman fair, And her mind as clear as air: If her beauty go alone, 'Tis to me as if 'twere none. May I find a woman rich, And not of too high a pitch: If that pride should cause disdain, Tell me, lover, where's thy gain? May I find a woman wise, And her falsehood not disguise: Hath she wit as she hath will, Double armed she is to ill. May I find a woman kind, And not wavering like the wind: How should I call that love mine, When 'tis his, and his, and thine? May I find a woman true, There is beauty's fairest hue, There is beauty, love, and wit: Happy he can compass it! ODE TO MELANCHOLY By Fletcher Hence, all you vain delights, As short as are the nights Wherein you spend your folly! There's naught in this life sweet, If man were wise to see 't, But only melancholy; Oh, sweetest melancholy! Welcome, folded arms, and fixèd eyes, A sigh that piercing mortifies, A look that's fastened to the ground, A tongue chained up without a sound! Fountain heads, and pathless groves, Places which pale passion loves! Moonlight walks when all the fowls Are warmly housed, save bats and owls! A midnight bell, a parting groan! These are the sounds we feed upon; Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley; Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy. TO MY DEAR FRIEND, MASTER BENJAMIN JONSON, UPON HIS 'FOX' By Beaumont If it might stand with justice to allow The swift conversion of all follies, now Such is my mercy, that I could admit All sorts should equally approve the wit Of this thy even work, whose growing fame Shall raise thee high, and thou it, with thy name; And did not manners and my love command Me to forbear to make those understand Whom thou, perhaps, hast in thy wiser doom Long since firmly resolved, shall never come To know more than they do, --I would have shown To all the world the art which thou alone Hast taught our tongue, the rules of time, of place, And other rites, delivered with the grace Of comic style, which only is fat more Than any English stage hath known before. But since our subtle gallants think it good To like of naught that may be understood, Lest they should be disproved, or have, at best, Stomachs so raw, that nothing can digest But what's obscene, or barks, --let us desire They may continue, simply to admire Fine clothes and strange words, and may live, in age To see themselves ill brought upon the stage, And like it; whilst thy bold and knowing Muse Contemns all praise, but such as thou wouldst choose. ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER BY BEAUMONT Mortality, behold, and fear! What a change of flesh is here! Think how many royal bones Sleep within this heap of stones: Here they lie had realms and lands, Who now want strength to stir their hands; Where from their pulpits, soiled with dust, They preach, "In greatness is no trust. " Here's an acre sown indeed With the richest, royal'st seed, That, the earth did e'er suck in Since the first man died for sin: Here the bones of birth have cried, "Though gods they were, as men they died:" Here are sands, ignoble things, Dropt from the ruined sides of kings: Here's a world of pomp and state Buried in dust, once dead by fate. FROM 'PHILASTER, OR LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING' ARETHUSA'S DECLARATION Lady--Here is my Lord Philaster. _Arethusa_--Oh, 'tis well. Withdraw yourself. _Exit Lady_. _Philaster_--Madam, your messenger Made me believe you wished to speak with me. _Arethusa_--'Tis true, Philaster, but the words are such I have to say, and do so ill beseem The mouth of woman, that I wish them said, And yet am loath to speak them. Have you known That I have aught detracted from your worth? Have I in person wronged you? or have set My baser instruments to throw disgrace Upon your virtues? _Philaster_--Never, madam, you. _Arethusa_--Why then should you, in such a public place, Injure a princess, and a scandal lay Upon my fortunes, famed to be so great, Calling a great part of my dowry in question? _Philaster_--Madam, this truth which I shall speak will be Foolish: but, for your fair and virtuous self, I could afford myself to have no right To any thing you wished. _Arethusa_--Philaster, know, I must enjoy these kingdoms. _Philaster_--Madam, both? _Arethusa_--Both, or I die; by fate, I die, Philaster, If I not calmly may enjoy them both. _Philaster_--I would do much to save that noble life, Yet would be loath to have posterity Find in our stories, that Philaster gave His right unto a sceptre and a crown To save a lady's longing. _Arethusa_--Nay, then, hear: I must and will have them, and more-- _Philaster_--What more? _Arethusa_--Or lose that little life the gods prepared To trouble this poor piece of earth withal. _Philaster_--Madam, what more? _Arethusa_--Turn, then, away thy face. _Philaster_--No. _Arethusa_--Do. _Philaster_--I can endure it. Turn away my face! I never yet saw enemy that looked So dreadfully, but that I thought myself As great a basilisk as he; or spake So horribly, but that I thought my tongue Bore thunder underneath, as much as his; Nor beast that I could turn from: shall I then Begin to fear sweet sounds? a lady's voice, Whom I do love? Say, you would have my life: Why, I will give it you; for 'tis to me A thing so loathed, and unto you that ask Of so poor use, that I shall make no price: If you entreat, I will unmovedly hear. _Arethusa_--Yet, for my sake, a little bend thy looks. _Philaster_--I do. _Arethusa_--Then know, I must have them and thee. _Philaster_--And me? _Arethusa_--Thy love; without which, all the land Discovered yet will serve me for no use But to be buried in. _Philaster_--Is't possible? _Arethusa_--With it, it were too little to bestow On thee. Now, though thy breath do strike me dead, (Which, know, it may, ) I have unript my breast. _Philaster_--Madam, you are too full of noble thoughts To lay a train for this contemnèd life, Which you may have for asking: to suspect Were base, where I deserve no ill. Love you! By all my hopes I do, above my life! But how this passion should proceed from you So violently, would amaze a man That would be jealous. _Arethusa_--Another soul into my body shot Could not have filled me with more strength and spirit Than this thy breath. But spend not hasty time In seeking how I came thus: 'tis the gods, The gods, that make me so; and sure, our love Will be the nobler and the better blest, In that the secret justice of the gods Is mingled with it. Let us leave, and kiss: Lest some unwelcome guest should fall betwixt us, And we should part without it. _Philaster_--'Twill be ill I should abide here long. _Arethusa_--'Tis true: and worse You should come often. How shall we devise To hold intelligence, that our true loves, On any new occasion, may agree What path is best to tread? _Philaster_--I have a boy, Sent by the gods, I hope, to this intent, Yet not seen in the court. Hunting the buck, I found him sitting by a fountain's side, Of which he borrowed some to quench his thirst, And paid the nymph again as much in tears. A garland lay him by, made by himself Of many several flowers bred in the vale, Stuck in that mystic order that the rareness Delighted me; but ever when he turned His tender eyes upon 'em, he would weep, As if he meant to make 'em grow again. Seeing such pretty helpless innocence Dwell in his face, I asked him all his story. He told me that his parents gentle died, Leaving him to the mercy of the fields, Which gave him roots; and of the crystal springs, Which did not stop their courses; and the sun, Which still, he thanked him, yielded him his light. Then took he up his garland, and did show What every flower, as country-people hold, Did signify, and how all, ordered thus, Expressed his grief; and, to my thoughts, did read The prettiest lecture of his country-art That could be wished: so that methought I could Have studied it. I gladly entertained Him, who was glad to follow: and have got The trustiest, loving'st, and the gentlest boy That ever master kept. Him will I send To wait on you, and bear our hidden love. THE STORY OF BELLARIO PHILASTER--But, Bellario (For I must call thee still so), tell me why Thou didst conceal thy sex. It was a fault, A fault, Bellario, though thy other deeds Of truth outweighed it: all these jealousies Had flown to nothing, if thou hadst discovered What now we know. _Bellario_--My father oft would speak Your worth and virtue; and as I did grow More and more apprehensive, I did thirst To see the man so praised. But yet all this Was but a maiden-longing, to be lost As soon as found; till, sitting in my window, Printing my thoughts in lawn, I saw a god, I thought (but it was you), enter our gates: My blood flew out and back again, as fast As I had puffed it forth and sucked it in Like breath; then was I called away in haste To entertain you. Never was a man Heaved from a sheep-cote to a sceptre, raised So high in thoughts as I. You left a kiss Upon these lips then, which I mean to keep From you for ever; I did hear you talk, Far above singing. After you were gone, I grew acquainted with my heart, and searched What stirred it so: alas, I found it love! Yet far from lust; for, could I but have lived In presence of you, I had had my end. For this I did delude my noble father With a feigned pilgrimage, and dressed myself In habit of a boy; and, for I knew My birth no match for you, I was past hope Of having you; and, understanding well That when I made discovery of my sex I could not stay with you, I made a vow, By all the most religious things a maid Could call together, never to be known, Whilst there was hope to hide me from men's eyes. For other than I seemed, that I might ever Abide with you. Then sat I by the fount, Where first you took me up. _King_--Search out a match Within our kingdom, where and when thou wilt, And I will pay thy dowry; and thyself Wilt well deserve him. _Bellario_--Never, sir, will I Marry; it is a thing within my vow: But if I may have leave to serve the princess, To see the virtues of her lord and her, I shall have hope to live. _Arethusa_--I, Philaster, Cannot be jealous, though you had a lady Drest like a page to serve you; nor will I Suspect her living here. --Come, live with me; Live free as I do. She that loves my lord, Cursed be the wife that hates her! FROM 'THE MAID'S TRAGEDY' CONFESSION OF EVADNE TO AMINTOR Evadne--Would I could say so [farewell] to my black disgrace! Oh, where have I been all this time? how friended, That I should lose myself thus desperately, And none for pity show me how I wandered? There is not in the compass of the light A more unhappy creature: sure, I am monstrous; For I have done those follies, those mad mischiefs, Would dare a woman. Oh, my loaden soul, Be not so cruel to me; choke not up The way to my repentance! [_Enter Amintor. _] O my lord! _Amintor_--How now? _Evadne_--My much-abused lord! [_Kneels. _] _Amintor_--This cannot be! _Evadne_--I do not kneel to live; I dare not hope it; The wrongs I did are greater. Look upon me, Though I appear with all my faults. _Amintor_--Stand up. This is a new way to beget more sorrows: Heaven knows I have too many. Do not mock me: Though I am tame, and bred up with my wrongs, Which are my foster-brothers, I may leap, Like a hand-wolf, into my natural wildness, And do an outrage: prithee, do not mock me, _Evadne_--My whole life is so leprous, it infects All my repentance. I would buy your pardon, Though at the highest set, even with my life: That slight contrition, that's no sacrifice For what I have committed. _Amintor_--Sure, I dazzle: There cannot be a faith in that foul woman, That knows no God more mighty than her mischiefs. Thou dost still worse, still number on thy faults, To press my poor heart thus. Can I believe There's any seed of virtue in that woman Left to shoot up that dares go on in sin Known, and so known as thine is? O Evadne! Would there were any safety in thy sex, That I might put a thousand sorrows off, And credit thy repentance! but I must not: Thou hast brought me to that dull calamity, To that strange misbelief of all the world And all things that are in it, that I fear I shall fall like a tree, and find my grave, Only remembering that I grieve. _Evadne_--My lord, Give me your griefs: you are an innocent, A soul as white as Heaven; let not my sins Perish your noble youth. I do not fall here To shadow by dissembling with my tears, (As all say women can, ) or to make less What my hot will hath done, which Heaven and you Know to be tougher than the hand of time Can cut from man's remembrances; no, I do not; I do appear the same, the same Evadne, Drest in the shames I lived in, the same monster. But these are names of honor to what I am: I do present myself the foulest creature, Most poisonous, dangerous, and despised of men, Lerna e'er bred, or Nilus. I am hell, Till you, my dear lord, shoot your light into me, The beams of your forgiveness; I am soul-sick, And wither with the fear of one condemned, Till I have got your pardon. _Amintor_--Rise, Evadne. Those heavenly powers that put this good into thee Grant a continuance of it! I forgive thee: Make thyself worthy of it; and take heed, Take heed, Evadne, this be serious. Mock not the powers above, that can and dare Give thee a great example of their justice To all ensuing ages, if thou playest With thy repentance, the best sacrifice. _Evadne_--I have done nothing good to win belief, My life hath been so faithless. All the creatures Made for Heaven's honors have their ends, and good ones, All but the cozening crocodiles, false women: They reign here like those plagues, those killing sores, Men pray against; and when they die, like tales Ill told and unbelieved, they pass away, And go to dust forgotten. But, my lord, Those short days I shall number to my rest (As many must not see me) shall, though too late, Though in my evening, yet perceive a will, Since I can do no good, because a woman, Reach constantly at something that is near it; I will redeem one minute of my age, Or, like another Niobe, I'll weep, Till I am water. _Amintor_--I am now dissolved: My frozen soul melts. May each sin thou hast, Find a new mercy! Rise; I am at peace. [_Evadne rises_. ] Hadst thou been thus, thus excellently good, Before that devil-king tempted thy frailty, Sure thou hadst made a star. Give me thy hand: From this time I will know thee; and as far As honor gives me leave, be thy Amintor. When we meet next, I will salute thee fairly, And pray the gods to give thee happy days: My charity shall go along with thee, Though my embraces must be far from thee. I should have killed thee, but this sweet repentance Locks up my vengeance: for which thus I kiss thee-- [_Kisses her_. ] The last kiss we must take; and would to Heaven The holy priest that gave our hands together Had given us equal virtues! Go, Evadne; The gods thus part our bodies. Have a care My honor falls no farther: I am well, then. _Evadne_--All the dear joys here, and above hereafter, Crown thy fair soul! Thus I take leave, my lord; And never shall you see the foul Evadne, Till she have tried all honored means, that may Set her in rest and wash her stains away. FROM 'BONDUCA' THE DEATH OF THE BOY HENGO [_Scene: A field between the British and the Roman camps. _] _Caratach_--How does my boy? _Hengo_--I would do well; my heart's well; I do not fear. _Caratach_--My good boy! _Hengo_--I know, uncle, We must all die: my little brother died; I saw him die, and he died smiling; sure, There's no great pain in't, uncle. But pray tell me, Whither must we go when we are dead? _Caratach [aside]_--Strange questions! Why, the blessed'st place, boy! ever sweetness And happiness dwell there. _Hengo_--Will you come to me? _Caratach_--Yes, my sweet boy. _Hengo_--Mine aunt too, and my cousins? _Caratach_--All, my good child. _Hengo_--No Romans, uncle? _Caratach_--No, boy. _Hengo_--I should be loath to meet them there. _Caratach_--No ill men, That live by violence and strong oppression, Come thither: 'tis for those the gods love, good men. _Hengo_--Why, then, I care not when I go, for surely I am persuaded they love me: I never Blasphemed 'em, uncle, nor transgressed my parents; I always said my prayers. _Caratach_--Thou shalt go, then; Indeed thou shalt. _Hengo_--When they please. _Caratach_--That's my good boy! Art thou not weary, Hengo? _Hengo_--Weary, uncle! I have heard you say you have marched all day in armor. _Caratach_--I have, boy. _Hengo_--Am not I your kinsman? _Caratach_--Yes. _Hengo_--And am not I as fully allied unto you In those brave things as blood? _Caratach_--Thou art too tender. _Hengo_--To go upon my legs? they were made to bear me. I can play twenty miles a day; I see no reason But, to preserve my country and myself, I should march forty. _Caratach_--What wouldst thou be, living To wear a man's strength! _Hengo_--Why, a Caratach, A Roman-hater, a scourge sent from Heaven To whip these proud thieves from our kingdom. Hark! [_Drum within. _] * * * * * [_They are on a rock in the rear of a wood. _] _Caratach_--Courage, my boy! I have found meat: look, Hengo, Look where some blessèd Briton, to preserve thee, Has hung a little food and drink: cheer up, boy; Do not forsake me now. _Hengo_--O uncle, uncle, I feel I cannot stay long! yet I'll fetch it, To keep your noble life. Uncle, I am heart-whole, And would live. _Caratach_--Thou shalt, long, I hope. _Hengo_--But my head, uncle! Methinks the rock goes round. [_Enter Macer and Judas, and remain at the side of the stage. _] _Macer_--Mark 'em well, Judas. _Judas_--Peace, as you love your life. _Hengo_--Do not you hear The noise of bells? _Caratach_--Of bells, boy! 'tis thy fancy; Alas, thy body's full of wind! _Hengo_--Methinks, sir, They ring a strange sad knell, a preparation To some near funeral of state: nay, weep not, Mine own sweet uncle; you will kill me sooner. _Caratach_--O my poor chicken! _Hengo_--Fie, faint-hearted uncle! Come, tie me in your belt and let me down. _Caratach_--I'll go myself, boy. _Hengo_--No, as you love me, uncle: I will not eat it, if I do not fetch it; The danger only I desire: pray, tie me. _Caratach_--I will, and all my care hang o'er thee! Come, child, My valiant child! _Hengo_--Let me down apace, uncle, And you shall see how like a daw I'll whip it From all their policies; for 'tis most certain A Roman train: and you must hold me sure, too; You'll spoil all else. When I have brought it, uncle, We'll be as merry-- _Caratach_--Go, i' the name of Heaven, boy! [_Lets Hengo down by his belt. _] _Hengo_--Quick, quick, uncle! I have it. [_Judas shoots Hengo with an arrow_. ] Oh! _Caratach_--What ail'st thou? _Hengo_--Oh, my best uncle, I am slain! _Caratach [to Judas]_--I see you, And Heaven direct my hand! destruction Go with thy coward soul! [_Kills Judas with a stone, and then draws up Hengo. Exit Macer. _] How dost thou, boy?-- O villain, pocky villain! _Hengo_--Oh, uncle, uncle, Oh, how it pricks me!--am I preserved for this?-- Extremely pricks me! _Caratach_--Coward, rascal coward! Dogs eat thy flesh! _Hengo_--Oh, I bleed hard! I faint too; out upon't, How sick I am!--The lean rogue, uncle! _Caratach_--Look, boy; I have laid him sure enough. _Hengo_--Have you knocked his brains out? _Caratach_--I warrant thee, for stirring more: cheer up, child. _Hengo_--Hold my sides hard; stop, stop; oh, wretched fortune, Must we part thus? Still I grow sicker, uncle. _Caratach_--Heaven look upon this noble child! _Hengo_--I once hoped I should have lived to have met these bloody Romans At my sword's point, to have revenged my father, To have beaten 'em, --oh, hold me hard!--but, uncle-- _Caratach_--Thou shalt live still, I hope, boy. Shall I draw it? _Hengo_--You draw away my soul, then. I would live A little longer--spare me, Heavens!--but only To thank you for your tender love: good uncle, Good noble uncle, weep not. _Caratach_--O my chicken, My dear boy, what shall I lose? _Hengo_--Why, a child, That must have died however; had this 'scaped me, Fever or famine--I was born to die, sir. _Caratach_--But thus unblown, my boy? _Hengo_--I go the straighter My journey to the gods. Sure, I shall know you When you come, uncle. _Caratach_--Yes, boy. _Hengo_--And I hope We shall enjoy together that great blessedness You told me of. _Caratach_--Most certain, child. _Hengo_--I grow cold; Mine eyes are going. _Caratach_--Lift 'em up. _Hengo_--Pray for me; And, noble uncle, when my bones are ashes, Think of your little nephew!--Mercy! _Caratach_--Mercy! You blessèd angels, take him! _Hengo_--Kiss me: so. Farewell, farewell! [_Dies. _] _Caratach_--Farewell, the hopes of Britain! Thou royal graft, farewell for ever!--Time and Death, Ye have done your worst. Fortune, now see, now proudly Pluck off thy veil and view thy triumph; look, Look what thou hast brought this land to!--O fair flower, How lovely yet thy ruins show, how sweetly Even death embraces thee! the peace of Heaven, The fellowship of all great souls, be with thee! FROM 'THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN' BY SHAKESPEARE AND FLETCHER Roses, their sharp spines being gone, Not royal in their smells alone, But in their hue; Maiden-pinks, of odor faint, Daisies smell-less yet most quaint, And sweet thyme true; Primrose, first-born child of Ver, Merry spring-time's harbinger, With her bells dim; Oxlips in their cradles growing, Marigolds on death-beds blowing, Larks'-heels trim. All, dear Nature's children sweet, Lie 'fore bride and bridegroom's feet, Blessing their sense! Not an angel of the air, Bird melodious or bird fair, Be absent hence! The crow, the slanderous cuckoo, nor The boding raven, nor chough hoar, Nor chattering pie, May on our bride-house perch or sing, Or with them any discord bring, But from it fly! WILLIAM BECKFORD (1759-1844) The translation from a defective Arabic manuscript of the 'Book of theThousand Nights and A Night, ' first into the French by Galland, about1705, and presently into various English versions, exerted an immediateinfluence on French, German, and English romance. The pseudo-Oriental orsemi-Oriental tale of home-manufacture sprang into existence right andleft with the publishers of London and Paris, and in German centres ofletters. Hope's 'Anastasius, or Memoirs of a Modern Greek, ' Lewis's 'TheMonk, ' the German Hauff's admirable 'Stories of the Caravan, the Inn, and the Palace, ' Rückert's 'Tales of the Genii, ' and William Beckford's'History of the Caliph Vathek, ' are among the finest performances of thesort: productions more or less Eastern in sentiment and in their detailsof local color, but independent of direct originals in the Persian orArabic, so far as is conclusively known. [Illustration: WILLIAM BECKFORD] William Beckford, born at London in 1759 (of a strong line whichincluded a governor of Jamaica), dying in 1844, is a figure ofdistinction merely as an Englishman of his time, aside from his oneclaim to literary remembrance. His father's death left him the richestuntitled citizen of England. He was not sent to a university, butimmense care was given to his education, in which Lord Chathampersonally interested himself; and he traveled widely. The result ofthis, on a very receptive mind with varied natural gifts, was to makeBeckford an ideal dilettante. His tastes in literature, painting, music(in which Mozart was his tutor), sculpture, architecture, and what not, were refined to the highest nicety. He was able to gratify each of themas such a man can rarely have the means to do. He built palaces andtowers of splendor instead of merely a beautiful country seat. He triedto reproduce Vathek's halls in stone and stucco, employing relays ofworkmen by day and night, on two several occasions and estates, for manymonths. Where other men got together moderate collections of _bibelots_, Beckford amassed whole museums. If a builder's neglect or a firedestroyed his rarities and damaged his estates to the extent of forty orfifty thousand pounds, Beckford merely rebuilt and re-collected. Thesetastes and lavish expenditures gradually set themselves in a currenttoward things Eastern. His magnificent retreat at Cintra in Portugal, his vast Fonthill Abbey and Lansdowne Hill estates in England, were onlyappanages of his sumptuous state. England and Europe talked of him andof his properties. He was a typical egotist: but an agreeable andgracious man, esteemed by a circle of friends not called upon to be hissycophants; and he kept in close touch with the intellectual life ofall Europe. He wrote much, for an amateur, and in view of the tale which does himmost honor, he wrote with success. At twenty he invited publicity with asatiric _jeu d'esprit, _ 'Biographical Memoirs of ExtraordinaryPainters'; and his 'Italy, with Sketches of Spain and Portugal, ' and'Recollections of an Excursion to the Monasteries of Alcobaba andBaltalha, ' were well received. But these books could not be expected tosurvive even three generations; whereas 'Vathek, ' the brilliant, theunique, the inimitable 'Vathek, ' took at once a place in literaturewhich we may now almost dare to call permanent. This story, not a longone, --indeed, no more than a novelette in size, --was originally writtenin French, and still lives in that language; in which an edition, hardlythe best, has lately been issued under the editorship of M. Mallarmé. But its history is complicated by one of the most notable acts ofliterary treachery and theft on record. During the author's slow andfinicky composition of it at Lausanne, he was sending it piecemeal tohis friend Robert Henley in England for Henley to make an Englishversion, of course to be revised by himself. As soon as Henley had allthe parts, he published a hasty and slipshod translation, beforeBeckford had seen it or was even ready to publish the French original;and not only did so, but published it as a tale translated by himselffrom a genuine Arabic original. This double violation of good faith ofcourse enraged Beckford, and practically separated the two men for therest of their lives; indeed, the wonder is that Beckford would everrecognize Henley's existence again. The piracy was exposed and setaside, and Beckford in self-defense issued the story himself in Frenchas soon as he could; indeed, he issued it in two versions with curiousand interesting differences, one published at Lausanne and the other atParis. The Lausanne edition is preferable. 'Vathek' abides to-day accredited to Beckford in both French andEnglish; a thing to keep his memory green as nothing else of his work orpersonality will. The familiar legend that in its present form it wascomposed at a single sitting, with such ardor as to entail a severeillness, and "without the author's taking off his clothes, " cannot bereconciled with the known facts. But the intensely vivid movement of itcertainly suggests swift production; and it could easily be thought thatany author had sketched such a story in the heat of some undisturbedsitting, and filled, finished, and polished it at leisure. It is anextraordinary performance; even in Henley's unsatisfactory version it isirresistible. We know that Beckford expected to add liberally to it byinserting sundry subordinate tales, put into the mouths of some of thepersonages appearing in the last scene. It is quite as well that he didnot. Its distinctive Orientalism, perhaps less remarkable than theunfettered imagination of its episodes, the vividness of its characters, the easy brilliancy of its literary manner--these things, with Frenchdiction and French wit, alternate with startling descriptiveimpressiveness. It is a French combination of Cervantes and Dante, in anOriental and bizarre narrative. It is not always delicate, but it isnever vulgar, and the sprightly pages are as admirable as the weirdones. Its pictures, taken out of their connection, seem irrelevant, andare certainly unlike enough; but they are a succession of surprises andfascinations. Such are the famous description of the chase of Vathek'scourt after the Giaour; the moonlit departure of the Caliph for theTerrace of Istakhar; the episodes of his stay under the roof of the EmirFakreddin; the pursuit by Carathis on "her great camel Alboufaki, "attended by "the hideous Nerkes and the unrelenting Cafour"; Nouronihardrawn to the magic flame in the dell at night; the warning of the goodJinn; and the tremendous final tableau of the Hall of Eblis. The man curious in letters regards with affection the evidences ofvitality in a brief production little more than a century old; unique inEnglish and French literature, and occupying to-day a high rank amongthe small group of _quasi_-Oriental narratives that represent the directworkings of Galland on the Occidental literary temperament. Today'Vathek' surprises and delights persons whose mental constitution putsthem in touch with it, just as potently as ever it did. And simply as awild story, one fancies that it will appeal quite as effectually, nomatter how many editions may be its future, to a public perhapsunsympathetic toward its elliptical satire, its caustic wit, itsfantastic course of narrative, and its incongruous wavering between theflippant, the grotesque, and the terrific. THE INCANTATION AND THE SACRIFICE From 'The History of the Caliph Vathek' By secret stairs, known only to herself and her son, she [Carathis]first repaired to the mysterious recesses in which were deposited themummies that had been brought from the catacombs of the ancientPharaohs. Of these she ordered several to be taken. From thence sheresorted to a gallery, where, under the guard of fifty female negroes, mute, and blind of the right eye, were preserved the oil of the mostvenomous serpents, rhinoceros horns, and woods of a subtle andpenetrating odor, procured from the interior of the Indies, togetherwith a thousand other horrible rarities. This collection had been formedfor a purpose like the present by Carathis herself, from a presentimentthat she might one day enjoy some intercourse with the infernal powers, to whom she had ever been passionately attached, and to whose taste shewas no stranger. To familiarize herself the better with the horrors in view the Princessremained in the company of her negresses, who squinted in the mostamiable manner from the only eye they had, and leered with exquisitedelight at the skulls and skeletons which Carathis had drawn forth fromher cabinets. .. . Whilst she was thus occupied, the Caliph, who, instead of the visions heexpected, had acquired in these insubstantial regions a voraciousappetite, was greatly provoked at the negresses: for, having totallyforgotten their deafness, he had impatiently asked them for food; andseeing them regardless of his demand, he began to cuff, pinch, and pushthem, till Carathis arrived to terminate a scene so indecent. .. . "Son! what means all this?" said she, panting for breath. "I thought Iheard as I came up, the shriek of a thousand bats, tearing from theircrannies in the recesses of a cavern. .. . You but ill deserve theadmirable provision I have brought you. " "Give it me instantly!" exclaimed the Caliph: "I am perishing forhunger!" "As to that, " answered she, "you must have an excellent stomach if itcan digest what I have been preparing. " "Be quick, " replied the Caliph. "But oh, heavens! what horrors! What doyou intend?" "Come, come, " returned Carathis, "be not so squeamish, but help me toarrange everything properly, and you shall see that what you rejectwith such symptoms of disgust will soon complete your felicity. Let usget ready the pile for the sacrifice of to-night, and think not ofeating till that is performed. Know you not that all solemn rites arepreceded by a rigorous abstinence?" The Caliph, not daring to object, abandoned himself to grief, and thewind that ravaged his entrails, whilst his mother went forward with therequisite operations. Phials of serpents' oil, mummies, and bones weresoon set in order on the balustrade of the tower. The pile began torise; and in three hours was as many cubits high. At length darknessapproached, and Carathis, having stripped herself to her inmost garment, clapped her hands in an impulse of ecstasy, and struck light with allher force. The mutes followed her example: but Vathek, extenuated withhunger and impatience, was unable to support himself, and fell down in aswoon. The sparks had already kindled the dry wood; the venomous oilburst into a thousand blue flames; the mummies, dissolving, emitted athick dun vapor; and the rhinoceros' horns beginning to consume, alltogether diffused such a stench, that the Caliph, recovering, startedfrom his trance and gazed wildly on the scene in full blaze around him. The oil gushed forth in a plenitude of streams; and the negresses, whosupplied it without intermission, united their cries to those of thePrincess. At last the fire became so violent, and the flames reflectedfrom the polished marble so dazzling, that the Caliph, unable towithstand the heat and the blaze, effected his escape, and clambered upthe imperial standard. In the mean time, the inhabitants of Samarah, scared at the light whichshone over the city, arose in haste, ascended their roofs, beheld thetower on fire, and hurried half-naked to the square. Their love to theirsovereign immediately awoke; and apprehending him in danger of perishingin his tower, their whole thoughts were occupied with the means of hissafety. Morakanabad flew from his retirement, wiped away his tears, andcried out for water like the rest. Bababalouk, whose olfactory nerveswere more familiarized to magical odors, readily conjecturing thatCarathis was engaged in her favorite amusements, strenuously exhortedthem not to be alarmed. Him, however, they treated as an old poltroon;and forbore not to style him a rascally traitor. The camels anddromedaries were advancing with water, but no one knew by which way toenter the tower. Whilst the populace was obstinate in forcing the doors, a violent east wind drove such a volume of flame against them, as atfirst forced them off, but afterwards rekindled their zeal. At the sametime, the stench of the horns and mummies increasing, most of the crowdfell backward in a state of suffocation. Those that kept their feetmutually wondered at the cause of the smell, and admonished each otherto retire. Morakanabad, more sick than the rest, remained in a piteouscondition. Holding his nose with one hand, he persisted in his effortswith the other to burst open the doors, and obtain admission. A hundredand forty of the strongest and most resolute at length accomplishedtheir purpose. .. . Carathis, alarmed at the signs of her mutes, advanced to the staircase, went down a few steps, and heard several voices calling outfrom below:-- "You shall in a moment have water!" Being rather alert, considering her age, she presently regained the topof the tower, and bade her son suspend the sacrifice for someminutes, adding:-- "We shall soon be enabled to render it more grateful. Certain dolts ofyour subjects, imagining, no doubt, that we were on fire, have been rashenough to break through those doors, which had hitherto remainedinviolate, for the sake of bringing up water. They are very kind, youmust allow, so soon to forget the wrongs you have done them: but that isof little moment. Let us offer them to the Giaour. Let them come up: ourmutes, who neither want strength nor experience, will soon dispatchthem, exhausted as they are with fatigue. " "Be it so, " answered the Caliph, "provided we finish, and I dine. " In fact, these good people, out of breath from ascending eleven thousandstairs in such haste, and chagrined at having spilt, by the way, thewater they had taken, were no sooner arrived at the top than the blazeof the flames and the fumes of the mummies at once overpowered theirsenses. It was a pity! for they beheld not the agreeable smile withwhich the mutes and the negresses adjusted the cord to their necks:these amiable personages rejoiced, however, no less at the scene. Neverbefore had the ceremony of strangling been performed with so muchfacility. They all fell without the least resistance or struggle; sothat Vathek, in the space of a few moments, found himself surrounded bythe dead bodies of his most faithful subjects, all of which were thrownon the top of the pile. VATHEK AND NOURONIHAR IN THE HALLS OF EBLIS From 'The History of the Caliph Vathek' The Caliph and Nouronihar beheld each other with amazement, at findingthemselves in a place which, though roofed with a vaulted ceiling, wasso spacious and lofty that at first they took it for an immeasurableplain. But their eyes at length growing familiar with the grandeur ofthe objects at hand, they extended their view to those at a distance, and discovered rows of columns and arcades, which gradually diminishedtill they terminated in a point, radiant as the sun when he darts hislast beams athwart the ocean; the pavement, strewed over with gold dustand saffron, exhaled so subtle an odor as almost overpowered them; theyhowever went on, and observed an infinity of censers, in which ambergrisand the wood of aloes were continually burning; between the severalcolumns were placed tables, each spread with a profusion of viands, andwines of every species sparkling in vases of crystal. A throng of geniiand other fantastic spirits of each sex danced lasciviously in troops, at the sound of music which issued from beneath. In the midst of this immense hall a vast multitude was incessantlypassing, who severally kept their right hands on their hearts, withoutonce regarding anything around them; they had all the livid paleness ofdeath; their eyes, deep sunk in their sockets, resembled thosephosphoric meteors that glimmer by night in places of interment. Somestalked slowly on, absorbed in profound reverie; some, shrieking withagony, ran furiously about, like tigers wounded with poisoned arrows;whilst others, grinding their teeth in rage, foamed along, more franticthan the wildest maniac. They all avoided each other, and thoughsurrounded by a multitude that no one could number, each wandered atrandom, unheedful of the rest, as if alone on a desert which no foothad trodden. Vathek and Nouronihar, frozen with terror at a sight so baleful, demanded of the Giaour what these appearances might seem, and why theseambulating spectres never withdrew their hands from their hearts. "Perplex not yourselves, " replied he bluntly, "with so much at once; youwill soon be acquainted with all: let us haste and present youto Eblis. " They continued their way through the multitude; but notwithstandingtheir confidence at first, they were not sufficiently composed toexamine with attention the various perspectives of halls and ofgalleries that opened on the right hand and left, which were allilluminated by torches and braziers, whose flames rose in pyramids tothe centre of the vault. At length they came to a place where longcurtains, brocaded with crimson and gold, fell from all parts instriking confusion; here the choirs and dances were heard no longer, thelight which glimmered came from afar. After some time Vathck and Nouronihar perceived a gleam brighteningthrough the drapery, and entered a vast tabernacle carpeted with theskins of leopards; an infinity of elders with streaming beards, andAfrits in complete armor, had prostrated themselves before the ascent ofa lofty eminence, on the top of which, upon a globe of fire, sat theformidable Eblis. His person was that of a young man, whose noble andregular features seemed to have been tarnished by malignant vapors; inhis large eyes appeared both pride and despair; his flowing hairretained some resemblance to that of an angel of light; in his hand, which thunder had blasted, he swayed the iron sceptre that causes themonster Ouranabad, the Afrits, and all the powers of the abyss totremble; at his presence the heart of the Caliph sunk within him, andfor the first time he fell prostrate on his face. Nouronihar, however, though greatly dismayed, could not help admiring the person of Eblis;for she expected to have seen some stupendous giant. Eblis, with a voicemore mild than might be imagined, but such as transfused through thesoul the deepest melancholy, said:-- "Creatures of clay, I receive you into mine empire; ye are numberedamongst my adorers. Enjoy whatever this palace affords: the treasures ofthe pre-Adamite Sultans, their bickering sabres, and those talismansthat compel the Dives to open the subterranean expanses of the mountainof Kaf, which communicate with these. There, insatiable as yourcuriosity may be, shall you find sufficient to gratify it; you shallpossess the exclusive privilege of entering the fortress of Aherman, andthe halls of Argenk, where are portrayed all creatures endowed withintelligence, and the various animals that inhabited the earth prior tothe creation of that contemptible being whom ye denominate the Fatherof Mankind. " Vathek and Nouronihar, feeling themselves revived and encouraged bythis harangue, eagerly said to the Giaour:-- "Bring us instantly to the place which contains these precioustalismans. " "Come!" answered this wicked Dive, with his malignant grin, "come! andpossess all that my Sovereign hath promised, and more. " He then conducted them into a long aisle adjoining the tabernacle, preceding them with hasty steps, and followed by his disciples with theutmost alacrity. They reached at length a hall of great extent, andcovered with a lofty dome, around which appeared fifty portals ofbronze, secured with as many fastenings of iron. A funereal gloomprevailed over the whole scene. Here, upon two beds of incorruptiblecedar, lay recumbent the fleshless forms of the pre-Adamite kings, whohad been monarchs of the whole earth. They still possessed enough oflife to be conscious of their deplorable condition; their eyes retaineda melancholy motion; they regarded each other with looks of the deepestdejection, each holding his right hand motionless on his heart. At theirfeet were inscribed the events of their several reigns, their power, their pride, and their crimes. Soliman Raad, Soliman Daki, and SolimanDi Gian Ben Gian, who, after having chained up the Dives in the darkcaverns of Kaf, became so presumptuous as to doubt of the SupremePower, --all these maintained great state, though not to be compared withthe eminence of Soliman Ben Daoud [Solomon the son of David]. This king, so renowned for his wisdom, was on the loftiest elevation, and placed immediately under the dome; he appeared to possess moreanimation than the rest, though from time to time he labored withprofound sighs, and like his companions, kept his right hand on hisheart; yet his countenance was more composed, and he seemed to belistening to the sullen roar of a vast cataract, visible in part throughthe grated portals; this was the only sound that intruded on the silenceof these doleful mansions. A range of brazen vases surrounded theelevation. "Remove the covers from these cabalistic depositaries, " said the Giaourto Vathek, "and avail thyself of the talismans, which will break asunderall these gates of bronze, and not only render thee master of thetreasures contained within them, but also of the spirits by which theyare guarded. " The Caliph, whom this ominous preliminary had entirely disconcerted, approached the vases with faltering footsteps, and was ready to sinkwith terror when he heard the groans of Soliman. As he proceeded, avoice from the livid lips of the Prophet articulated these words:-- "In my lifetime I filled a magnificent throne, having on my right handtwelve thousand seats of gold, where the patriarchs and the prophetsheard my doctrines; on my left the sages and doctors, upon as manythrones of silver, were present at all my decisions. Whilst I thusadministered justice to innumerable multitudes, the birds of the airlibrating over me served as a canopy from the rays of the sun; my peopleflourished, and my palace rose to the clouds; I erected a temple to theMost High which was the wonder of the universe. But I basely sufferedmyself to be seduced by the love of women, and a curiosity that couldnot be restrained by sublunary things; I listened to the counsels ofAherman and the daughter of Pharaoh, and adored fire and the hosts ofheaven; I forsook the holy city, and commanded the Genii to rear thestupendous palace of Istakhar, and the terrace of the watch-towers, eachof which was consecrated to a star. There for a while I enjoyed myselfin the zenith of glory and pleasure; not only men, but supernaturalexistences were subject also to my will. I began to think, as theseunhappy monarchs around had already thought, that the vengeance ofHeaven was asleep, when at once the thunder burst my structures asunderand precipitated me hither; where however I do not remain, like theother inhabitants, totally destitute of hope, for an angel of light hathrevealed that, in consideration of the piety of my early youth, my woesshall come to an end when this cataract shall for ever cease to flow. Till then I am in torments, ineffable torments! an unrelenting firepreys on my heart. " Having uttered this exclamation, Soliman raised his hands towards Heavenin token of supplication, and the Caliph discerned through his bosom, which was transparent as crystal, his heart enveloped in flames. At asight so full of horror, Nouronihar fell back like one petrified intothe arms of Vathek, who cried out with a convulsive sob:-- "O Giaour! whither hast thou brought us? Allow us to depart, and I willrelinquish all thou hast promised. O Mahomet! remains there nomore mercy?" "None! none!" replied the malicious Dive, "Know, miserable prince! thouart now in the abode of vengeance and despair; thy heart also will bekindled, like those of the other votaries of Eblis. A few days areallotted thee previous to this fatal period. Employ them as thou wilt:recline on these heaps of gold; command the Infernal Potentates; rangeat thy pleasure through these immense subterranean domains; no barriershall be shut against thee. As for me, I have fulfilled my mission; Inow leave thee to thyself. " At these words he vanished. The Caliph and Nouronihar remained in the most abject affliction; theirtears unable to flow, scarcely could they support themselves. At length, taking each other despondingly by the hand, they went faltering fromthis fatal hall, indifferent which way they turned their steps. Everyportal opened at their approach; the Dives fell prostrate before them;every reservoir of riches was disclosed to their view: but they nolonger felt the incentives of curiosity, pride, or avarice. With likeapathy they heard the chorus of Genii, and saw the stately banquetsprepared to regale them. They went wandering on from chamber to chamber, hall to hall, and gallery to gallery, all without bounds or limit, alldistinguishable by the same lowering gloom, all adorned with the sameawful grandeur, all traversed by persons in search of repose andconsolation, but who sought them in vain; for every one carried withinhim a heart tormented in flames. Shunned by these various sufferers, whoseemed by their looks to be upbraiding the partners of their guilt, theywithdrew from them, to wait in direful suspense the moment which shouldrender them to each other the like objects of terror. "What!" exclaimed Nouronihar; "will the time come when I shall snatch myhand from thine?" "Ah, " said Vathek; "and shall my eyes ever cease to drink from thinelong draughts of enjoyment! Shall the moments of our reciprocalecstasies be reflected on with horror! It was not thou that broughtestme hither: the principles by which Carathis perverted my youth have beenthe sole cause of my perdition!" Having given vent to these painfulexpressions, he called to an Afrit, who was stirring up one of thebraziers, and bade him fetch the Princess Carathis from the palaceof Samarah. After issuing these orders, the Caliph and Nouronihar continued walkingamidst the silent crowd, till they heard voices at the end of thegallery. Presuming them to proceed from some unhappy beings who, likethemselves, were awaiting their final doom, they followed the sound, andfound it to come from a small square chamber, where they discoveredsitting on sofas five young men of goodly figure, and a lovely female, who were all holding a melancholy conversation by the glimmering of alonely lamp; each had a gloomy and forlorn air, and two of them wereembracing each other with great tenderness. On seeing the Caliph and thedaughter of Fakreddin enter, they arose, saluted and gave them place;then he who appeared the most considerable of the group addressedhimself thus to Vathek: "Strangers!--who doubtless are in the same state of suspense withourselves, as you do not yet bear your hand on your heart, --if you arecome hither to pass the interval allotted previous to the infliction ofour common punishment, condescend to relate the adventures that havebrought you to this fatal place, and we in return will acquaint you withours, which deserve but too well to be heard. We will trace back ourcrimes to their source, though we are not permitted to repent; this isthe only employment suited to wretches like us!" The Caliph and Nouronihar assented to the proposal, and Vathek began, not without tears and lamentations, a sincere recital of everycircumstance that had passed. When the afflicting narrative was closed, the young man entered on his own. Each person proceeded in order, andwhen the fourth prince had reached the midst of his adventures, a suddennoise interrupted him, which caused the vault to tremble and to open. Immediately a cloud descended, which, gradually dissipating, discoveredCarathis on the back of an Afrit, who grievously complained of hisburden. She, instantly springing to the ground, advanced towards her sonand said:-- "What dost thou here in this little square chamber? As the Dives arebecome subject to thy beck, I expected to have found thee on the throneof the pre-Adamite Kings. " "Execrable woman!" answered the Caliph; "cursed be the day thou gavestme birth! Go, follow this Afrit, let him conduct thee to the hall of theProphet Soliman; there thou wilt learn to what these palaces aredestined, and how much I ought to abhor the impious knowledge thou hasttaught me. " "The height of power to which thou art arrived has certainly turned thybrain, " answered Carathis; "but I ask no more than permission to show myrespect for the Prophet. It is however proper thou shouldest know that(as the Afrit has informed me neither of us shall return to Samarah) Irequested his permission to arrange my affairs, and he politelyconsented: availing myself therefore of the few moments allowed me, Iset fire to the tower, and consumed in it the mutes, negresses, andserpents which have rendered me so much good service; nor should I havebeen less kind to Morakanabad, had he not prevented me by deserting atlast to my brother. As for Bababalouk, who had the folly to return toSamarah, and all the good brotherhood to provide husbands for thy wives, I undoubtedly would have put them to the torture, could I but haveallowed them the time; being however in a hurry, I only hung him afterhaving caught him in a snare with thy wives, whilst them I buried aliveby the help of my negresses, who thus spent their last moments greatlyto their satisfaction. With respect to Dilara, who ever stood high in myfavor, she hath evinced the greatness of her mind by fixing herself nearin the service of one of the Magi, and I think will soon be our own. " Vathek, too much cast down to express the indignation excited by such adiscourse, ordered the Afrit to remove Carathis from his presence, andcontinued immersed in thought, which his companion durst not disturb. Carathis, however, eagerly entered the dome of Soliman, and withoutregarding in the least the groans of the Prophet, undauntedly removedthe covers of the vases, and violently seized on the talismans. Then, with a voice more loud than had hitherto been heard within thesemansions, she compelled the Dives to disclose to her the most secrettreasures, the most profound stores, which the Afrit himself had notseen; she passed by rapid descents known only to Eblis and his mostfavored potentates, and thus penetrated the very entrails of the earth, where breathes the Sansar, or icy wind of death. Nothing appalled herdauntless soul; she perceived however in all the inmates, who bore theirhands on their hearts, a little singularity, not much to her taste. Asshe was emerging from one of the abysses, Eblis stood forth to her view;but notwithstanding he displayed the full effulgence of his infernalmajesty, she preserved her countenance unaltered, and even paid hercompliments with considerable firmness. This superb Monarch thus answered:--"Princess, whose knowledge and whosecrimes have merited a conspicuous rank in my empire, thou dost well toemploy the leisure that remains; for the flames and torments which areready to seize on thy heart will not fail to provide thee with fullemployment. " He said this, and was lost in the curtains of histabernacle. Carathis paused for a moment with surprise; but, resolved to follow theadvice of Eblis, she assembled all the choirs of Genii, and all theDives, to pay her homage; thus marched she in triumph through a vapor ofperfumes, amidst the acclamations of all the malignant spirits, withmost of whom she had formed a previous acquaintance. She even attemptedto dethrone one of the Solimans for the purpose of usurping his place, when a voice proceeding from the abyss of Death proclaimed, "All isaccomplished!" Instantaneously the haughty forehead of the intrepidprincess was corrugated with agony; she uttered a tremendous yell, andfixed, no more to be withdrawn, her right hand upon her heart, which wasbecome a receptacle of eternal fire. In this delirium, forgetting all ambitious projects and her thirst forthat knowledge which should ever be hidden from mortals, she overturnedthe offerings of the Genii, and having execrated the hour she wasbegotten and the womb that had borne her, glanced off in a whirl thatrendered her invisible, and continued to revolve without intermission. At almost the same instant the same voice announced to the Caliph, Nouronihar, the five princes, and the princess, the awful andirrevocable decree. Their hearts immediately took fire, and they at oncelost the most precious of the gifts of Heaven--Hope. These unhappybeings recoiled with looks of the most furious distraction; Vathekbeheld in the eyes of Nouronihar nothing but rage and vengeance, norcould she discern aught in his but aversion and despair. The two princeswho were friends, and till that moment had preserved their attachment, shrunk back, gnashing their teeth with mutual and unchangeable hatred. Kalilah and his sister made reciprocal gestures of imprecation, whilstthe two other princes testified their horror for each other by the mostghastly convulsions, and screams that could not be smothered. Allseverally plunged themselves into the accursed multitude, there towander in an eternity of unabating anguish. HENRY WARD BEECHER (1813-1887) BY LYMAN ABBOTT The life of Henry Ward Beecher may be either compressed into a sentenceor expanded into a volume. He was born in Litchfield, Connecticut, onthe 24th day of June, 1813, the child of the well-known Lyman Beecher;graduated at Amherst College in 1834, and subsequently studied at LaneTheological Seminary (Cincinnati), of which his father was thepresident; began his ministerial life as pastor of a Home Missionary(Presbyterian) church at the little village of Lawrenceburg, twentymiles south of Cincinnati on the Ohio River; was both sexton and pastor, swept the church, built the fires, lighted the lamps, rang the bell, andpreached the sermons; was called to the pastorate of the FirstPresbyterian Church of Indianapolis, the capital of Indiana, where heremained for eight years, 1839 to 1847, and where his preaching soon wonfor him a reputation throughout the State, and his occasional writing areputation beyond its boundaries; thence was called in 1847 to be thefirst pastor of the newly organized Plymouth Church, Brooklyn, where heremained with an ever increasing reputation as preacher, lecturer, orator, and writer, until the day of his death, March 8th, 1887. Such is the outline of a life, the complete story of which would be thehistory of the United States during the most critical half-century ofthe nation's existence. Living in an epoch when the one overshadowingpolitical issue was pre-eminently a moral issue, and when no man couldbe a faithful preacher of righteousness and not a political preacher;concerned in whatever concerned humanity; believing that love is theessence of all true religion, and that love to God is impossible withoutlove to man; moral reformer not less than gospel preacher, and statesmaneven more than theologian: throwing himself into the anti-slaveryconflict with all the courage of a heroic nature and all the ardor of anintensely impulsive one, --he stands among the first half-score ofwriters, orators, reformers, statesmen, and soldiers, who combined tomake the half-century from 1835 to 1885 as brilliant and as heroic asany in human history. The greatness of Henry Ward Beecher consisted not so much in apredominance of any one quality as in a remarkable combination of many. His physique justified the well-known characterization of Mr. Fowler, the phrenologist, "Splendid animal. " He was always an eager student, though his methods were desultory. He was familiar with the latestthought in philosophy, had studied Herbert Spencer before his works wererepublished in the United States, yet was a child among children, and inhis old age retained the characteristic faults and virtues of childhood, and its innocent impulsiveness. His imagination might have made him a poet, his human sympathies adramatic poet, had not his strong common-sense kept him always in touchwith the actualities of life, and a masterful conscience compelled himto use his æsthetic faculties in sterner service than in theentertainment of mankind. The intensity of his moral nature enhancedrather than subdued his exuberant humor, which love prevented frombecoming satire, and seriousness preserved from degenerating into wit. His native faculty of mimicry led men to call him an actor, yet hewholly lacked the essential quality of a good actor, --power to take onanother's character, --and used the mimic art only to interpret the truthwhich at the moment possessed him. Such power of passion as was his is not often seen mated to suchself-control; for while he spoke with utter abandon, he rarely if everdid so until he had carefully deliberated the cause he was espousing. Hethought himself deficient in memory, and in fact rarely borrowedillustrations from his reading either of history or of literature; buthis keenness of observation photographed living scenes upon an unfadingmemory which years after he could and did produce at will. All thesecontrary elements of his strangely composite though not incongruouscharacter entered into his style, --or, to speak more accurately, hisstyles, --and make any analysis of them within reasonable limitsdifficult, if not impossible. For the writer is known by his style as the wearer by his clothes. Evenif it be no native product of the author's mind, but a consciousimitation of carefully studied models, --what I may call a tailor-madestyle, fashioned in a vain endeavor to impart sublimity to commonplacethinking, --the poverty of the author is thereby revealed, much as theboor is most clearly disclosed when wearing ill-at-ease, unaccustomedbroadcloth. Mr. Beecher's style was not artificial; its faults as wellas its excellences were those of extreme naturalness. He always wrotewith fury; rarely did he correct with phlegm. His sermons were publishedas they fell from his lips, --correct and revise he would not. The toofew editorials which he wrote, on the eve of the Civil War, were writtenwhile the press was impatiently waiting for them, were often taken pageby page from his hand, and were habitually left unread by him to becorrected in proof by others. [Illustration: HENRY WARD BEECHER. ] His lighter contributions to the New York Ledger were thrown off inthe same way, generally while the messenger waited to take them to theeditorial sanctum. It was his habit, whether unconscious or deliberate Ido not know, to speak to a great congregation with the freedom ofpersonal conversation, and to write for the press with as little reserveas to an intimate friend. This habit of taking the public into hisconfidence was one secret of his power, but it was also the cause ofthose violations of conventionality in public address which were a greatcharm to some and a grave defect to others. There are few writers ororators who have addressed such audiences with such effect, whose stylehas been so true and unmodified a reflection of their inner life. Thetitle of one of his most popular volumes might be appropriately made thetitle of them all--'Life Thoughts. ' But while his style was wholly unartificial, it was no product of merecareless genius; carelessness never gives a product worth possessing. The excellences of Mr. Beecher's style were due to a careful study ofthe great English writers; its defects to a temperament too eager toendure the dull work of correction. In his early manhood he studied theold English divines, not for their thoughts, which never took hold ofhim, but for their style, of which he was enamored. The bestcharacterization of South and Barrow I ever heard he gave me once in acasual conversation. The great English novelists he knew; Walter Scott'snovels, of which he had several editions in his library, were greatfavorites with him, but he read them rather for the beauty of theirdescriptive passages than for their romantic and dramatic interest. Ruskin's 'Modern Painters' he both used himself and recommended toothers as a text-book in the observation of nature, and certain passagesin them he read and re-read. But in his reading he followed the bent of his own mind rather than anyprescribed system. Neither in his public utterances nor in his privateconversation did he indicate much indebtedness to Shakespeare among theearlier writers, nor to Emerson or Carlyle among the moderns. Though notunfamiliar with the greatest English poets, and the great Greek poets intranslations, he was less a reader of poetry than of poetical prose. Hehad, it is true, not only read but carefully compared Dante's 'Inferno'with Milton's 'Paradise Lost'; still it was not the 'Paradise Lost, ' itwas the 'Areopagitica' which he frequently read on Saturday nights, forthe sublimity of its style and the inspiration it afforded to theimagination. He was singularly deficient in verbal memory, a deficiencywhich is usually accompanied by a relatively slight appreciation of themere rhythmic beauty of literary form. It is my impression that foramorous poems, such as Moore's songs, or even Shakespeare's sonnets, andfor purely descriptive poetry, such as the best of 'Childe Harold' andcertain poems of Wordsworth, he cared comparatively little. But he delighted in religious poetry, whether the religion was that ofthe pagan Greek Tragedies, the mediaeval Dante, or the Puritan Milton. He was a great lover of the best hymns, and with a catholicity ofaffection which included the Calvinist Toplady, the Arminian Wesley, theRoman Catholic Faber, and the Unitarian Holmes. Generally, however, hecared more for poetry of strength than for that of fancy or sentiment. It was the terrific strength in Watts's famous hymn beginning "My thoughts on awful subjects dwell, Damnation and the dead, " which caused him to include it in the 'Plymouth Collection, ' abhorrentas was the theology of that hymn alike to his heart and to hisconscience. In any estimate of Mr. Beecher's style, it must be remembered that hewas both by temperament and training a preacher. He was brought up notin a literary, but in a didactic atmosphere. If it were as true as it isfalse that art exists only for art's sake, Mr. Beecher would not havebeen an artist. His art always had a purpose; generally a distinct moralpurpose. An overwhelming proportion of his contributions to literatureconsists of sermons or extracts from sermons, or addresses not lessdistinctively didactic. His one novel was written avowedly to rectifysome common misapprehensions as to New England life and character. Evenhis lighter papers, products of the mere exuberance of a nature too fullof every phase of life to be quiescent, indicated the intensity of apurposeful soul, much as the sparks in a blacksmith's shop come from thevery vigor with which the artisan is shaping on the anvil the nailor the shoe. But Mr. Beecher was what Mr. Spurgeon has called him, "the mostmyriad-minded man since Shakespeare"; and such a mind must both dealwith many topics, and if it be true to itself, exhibit many styles. Ifone were to apply to Mr. Beecher's writings the methods which havesometimes been applied by certain Higher Critics to the Bible, he wouldconclude that the man who wrote the Sermons on Evolution and Theologycould not possibly have also written the humorous description of a housewith all the modern improvements. Sometimes grave, sometimes gay, sometimes serious, sometimes sportive, concentrating his whole power onwhatever he was doing, working with all his might but also playing withall his might, when he is on a literary frolic the reader would hardlysuspect that he was ever dominated by a strenuous moral purpose. Yetthere were certain common elements in Mr. Beecher's character whichappeared in his various styles, though mixed in very differentproportions and producing very different combinations. Within thelimits of such a study as this, it must suffice to indicate in verygeneral terms some of these elements of character which appear in andreally produce his literary method. Predominant among them was a capacity to discriminate between theessentials and the accidentals of any subject, a philosophicalperspective which enabled him to see the controlling connection and todiscard quickly such minor details as tended to obscure and to perplex. Thus a habit was formed which led him not infrequently to ignorenecessary limitations and qualifications, and to make him scientificallyinaccurate, though vitally and ethically true. It was this quality whichled critics to say of him that he was no theologian, though it isdoubtful whether any preacher in America since Jonathan Edwards hasexerted a greater influence on its theology. But this quality impartedclearness to his style. He always knew what he wanted to say and said itclearly. He sometimes produced false impressions by the verystrenuousness of his aim and the vehemence of his passion; but he wasnever foggy, obscure, or ambiguous. This clearness of style was facilitated by the singleness of hispurpose. He never considered what was safe, prudent, or expedient tosay, never reflected upon the effect which his speech might have on hisreputation or his influence, considered only how he could make hishearers apprehend the truth as he saw it. He therefore never played withwords, never used them with a double meaning, or employed them toconceal his thoughts. He was indeed utterly incapable of making a speechunless he had a purpose to accomplish; when he tried he invariablyfailed; no orator ever had less ability to roll off airy nothings forthe entertainment of an audience. Coupled with this clearness of vision and singleness of purpose was asympathy with men singularly broad and alert. He knew the way to men'sminds, and adapted his method to the minds he wished to reach. Thisquality put him at once _en rapport_ with his auditors, and with men ofwidely different mental constitution. Probably no preacher has everhabitually addressed so heterogeneous a congregation as that which heattracted to Plymouth Church. In his famous speech at the HerbertSpencer dinner he was listened to with equally rapt attention by thegreat philosopher and by the French waiters, who stopped in theirservice, arrested and held by his mingled humor, philosophy, andrestrained emotion. This human sympathy gave a peculiar dramatic qualityto his imagination. He not only recalled and reproduced material imagesfrom the past with great vividness, he re-created in his own mind theexperiences of men whose mold was entirely different from his own. As anillustration of this, a comparison of two sermons on Jacob beforePharaoh, one by Dr. Talmage, the other by Mr. Beecher, is interestingand instructive. Dr. Talmage devotes his imagination wholly toreproducing the outward circumstances, --the court in its splendor andthe patriarch with his wagons, his household, and his stuff; this sceneMr. Beecher etches vividly but carelessly in a few outlines, thenproceeds to delineate with care the imagined feelings of the king, aweddespite his imperial splendor by the spiritual majesty of the peasantherdsman. Yet Mr. Beecher could paint the outer circumstances with carewhen he chose to do so. Some of his flower pictures in 'Fruits, Flowers, and Farming' will always remain classic models of descriptiveliterature, the more amazing that some of them are portraits of flowershe had never seen when he wrote the description. While his imagination illuminated nearly all he said or wrote, it washabitually the instrument of some moral purpose; he rarely ornamentedfor ornament's sake. His pictures gave beauty, but they were employednot to give beauty but clearness. He was thus saved from mixedmetaphors, the common fault of imaginative writings which are directedto no end, and thus are liable to become first lawless, then false, finally self-contradictory and absurd. The massive Norman pillars ofDurham Cathedral are marred by the attempt which some architect has madeto give them grace and beauty by adding ornamentation. Rarely if everdid Mr. Beecher fall into the error of thus mixing in an incongruousstructure two architectural styles. He knew when to use the Normanstrength and solidity, and when the Gothic lightness and grace. Probably his keen sense of humor would have preserved him from this notuncommon error. It is said that the secret of humor is the quickperception of incongruous relations. This would seem to have been thesecret of Mr. Beecher's humor, for he had in an eminent degree what thephrenologists call the faculty of comparison. This was seen in hisarguments, which were more often analogical than logical; seen not lessin that his humor was not employed with deliberate intent to relieve atoo serious discourse, but was itself the very product of hisseriousness. He was humorous, but rarely witty, as, for the same reason, he was imaginative but not fanciful. For both his imagination and hishumor were the servants of his moral purpose; and as he did not employthe one merely as a pleasing ornament, so he never went out of his wayto introduce a joke or a funny story to make a laugh. Speaking broadly, Mr. Beecher's style as an orator passed through threeepochs. In the first, best illustrated by his 'Sermons to Young Men, 'preached in Indianapolis, his imagination is the predominant faculty. Those sermons will remain in the history of homiletical literature asremarkable of their kind, but not as a pulpit classic for all times; forthe critic will truly say that the imagination is too exuberant, thedramatic element sometimes becoming melodramatic, and the style lackingin simplicity. In the second epoch, best illustrated by the Harper andBrothers edition of his selected sermons, preached in the earlier andmiddle portion of his Brooklyn ministry, the imagination is stillpervasive, but no longer predominant. The dramatic fire still burns, butwith a steadier heat. Imagination, dramatic instinct, personal sympathy, evangelical passion, and a growing philosophic thought-structure, combine to make the sermons of this epoch the best illustration of hispower as a popular preacher. In each sermon he holds up a truth like hisfavorite opal, turning it from side to side and flashing its opalescentlight upon his congregation, but so as always to show the secret fire atthe heart of it. In the third epoch, best illustrated by his sermons onEvolution and Theology, the philosophic quality of his mindpredominates; his imagination is subservient to and the instrument ofclear statement, his dramatic quality shows itself chiefly in hisrealization of mental conditions foreign to his own, and his style, though still rich in color and warm with feeling, is mastered, trained, and directed by his intellectual purpose. In the first epoch he is thepainter, in the second the preacher, in the third the teacher. Judgments will differ: in mine the last epoch is the best, and itsutterances will long live a classic in pulpit literature. The picturesof the first epoch are already fading; the fervid oratory of the secondepoch depends so much on the personality of the preacher, that as theone grows dim in the distance the other must grow dim also; but thethird, more enduring though less fascinating, will remain so long as theheart of man hungers for the truth and the life of God, --that is, for arational religion, a philosophy of life which shall combine reverenceand love, and a reverence and love which shall not call for theabdication of the reason. [Illustration: Signature: Lyman Abbott] BOOK-STORES AND BOOKS From 'Star Papers' Nothing marks the increasing wealth of our times, and the growth of thepublic mind toward refinement, more than the demand for books. Withinten years the sale of common books has increased probably two hundredper cent. , and it is daily increasing. But the sale of expensive works, and of library editions of standard authors in costly bindings, is yetmore noticeable. Ten years ago such a display of magnificent works as isto be found at the Appletons' would have been a precursor of bankruptcy. There was no demand for them. A few dozen, in one little show-case, wasthe prudent whole. Now, one whole side of an immense store is not onlyfilled with admirably bound library books, but from some inexhaustiblesource the void continually made in the shelves is at once refilled. Areserve of heroic books supply the places of those that fall. Alas!where is human nature so weak as in a book-store! Speak of the appetitefor drink; or of a _bon vivant's_ relish for a dinner! What are thesemere animal throes and ragings compared with those fantasies of taste, those yearnings of the imagination, those insatiable appetites ofintellect, which bewilder a student in a great bookseller'stemptation-hall? How easily one may distinguish a genuine lover of books from a worldlyman! With what subdued and yet glowing enthusiasm does he gaze upon thecostly front of a thousand embattled volumes! How gently he draws themdown, as if they were little children; how tenderly he handles them! Hepeers at the title-page, at the text, or the notes, with the nicety of abird examining a flower. He studies the binding: the leather, --russia, English calf, morocco; the lettering, the gilding, the edging, the hingeof the cover! He opens it and shuts it, he holds it off and brings itnigh. It suffuses his whole body with book magnetism. He walks up anddown in a maze at the mysterious allotments of Providence, that gives somuch money to men who spend it upon their appetites, and so little tomen who would spend it in benevolence or upon their refined tastes! Itis astonishing, too, how one's necessities multiply in the presence ofthe supply. One never knows how many things it is impossible to dowithout till he goes to Windle's or Smith's house-furnishing stores. One is surprised to perceive, at some bazaar or fancy and variety store, how many _conveniences_ he needs. He is satisfied that his life musthave been utterly inconvenient aforetime. And thus too one is inwardlyconvicted, at Appletons', of having lived for years without books whichhe is now satisfied that one cannot live without! Then, too, the subtle process by which the man convinces himself that hecan afford to buy. No subtle manager or broker ever saw through a mazeof financial embarrassments half so quick as a poor book-buyer sees hisway clear to pay for what he _must_ have. He promises himself marvels ofretrenchment; he will eat less, or less costly viands, that he may buymore food for the mind. He will take an extra patch, and go on with hisraiment another year, and buy books instead of coats. Yea, he will writebooks, that he may buy books! The appetite is insatiable. Feeding doesnot satisfy it. It rages by the fuel which is put upon it. As a hungryman eats first and pays afterward, so the book-buyer purchases and thenworks at the debt afterward. This paying is rather medicinal. It curesfor a time. But a relapse takes place. The same longing, the samepromises of self-denial. He promises himself to put spurs on both heelsof his industry; and then, besides all this, he will _somehow_ get alongwhen the time for payment comes! Ah! this SOMEHOW! That word is as bigas a whole world, and is stuffed with all the vagaries and fantasiesthat Fancy ever bred upon Hope. And yet, is there not some comfort inbuying books, _to be_ paid for? We have heard of a sot who wished hisneck as long as the worm of a still, that he might so much the longerenjoy the flavor of the draught! Thus, it is a prolonged excitement ofpurchase, if you feel for six months in a slight doubt whether the bookis honestly your own or not. Had you paid down, that would have been theend of it. There would have been no affectionate and beseeching look ofyour books at you, every time you saw them, saying, as plain as a book'seyes can say, "Do not let me be taken from you. " Moreover, buying books before you can pay for them promotes caution. Youdo not feel quite at liberty to take them home. You are married. Yourwife keeps an account-book. She knows to a penny what you can and whatyou cannot afford. She has no "speculation" in _her_ eyes. Plain figuresmake desperate work with airy "_somehows_. " It is a matter of no smallskill and experience to get your books home, and into their properplaces, undiscovered. Perhaps the blundering express brings them to thedoor just at evening. "What is it, my dear?" she says to you. "Oh!nothing--a few books that I cannot do without. " That smile! A truehousewife that loves her husband can smile a whole arithmetic at him atone look! Of course she insists, in the kindest way, in sympathizingwith you in your literary acquisition. She cuts the strings of thebundle (and of your heart), and out comes the whole story. You havebought a complete set of costly English books, full bound in calf, extragilt! You are caught, and feel very much as if bound in calf yourself, and admirably lettered. Now, this must not happen frequently. The books must be smuggled home. Let them be sent to some near place. Then, when your wife has aheadache, or is out making a call, or has lain down, run the booksacross the frontier and threshold, hastily undo them, stop only for oneloving glance as you put them away in the closet, or behind other bookson the shelf, or on the topmost shelf. Clear away the twine andwrapping-paper, and every suspicious circumstance. Be very careful notto be too kind. That often brings on detection. Only the other day weheard it said, somewhere, "Why, how good you have been lately. I amreally afraid that you have been carrying on mischief secretly. " Ourheart smote us. It was a fact. That very day we had bought a few bookswhich "we could not do without. " After a while you can bring out onevolume, accidentally, and leave it on the table. "Why, my dear, _what_ abeautiful book! Where _did_ you borrow it?" You glance over thenewspaper, with the quietest tone you can command: "_That_! oh! that is_mine_. Have you not seen it before? It has been in the house these twomonths. " and you rush on with anecdote and incident, and point out thebinding, and that peculiar trick of gilding, and everything else you canthink of; but it all will not do; you cannot rub out that roguish, arithmetical smile. People may talk about the equality of the sexes!They are not equal. The silent smile of a sensible, loving woman willvanquish ten men. Of course you repent, and in time form a habit ofrepenting. Another method which will be found peculiarly effective is to make a_present_ of some fine work to your wife. Of course, whether she or youhave the name of buying it, it will go into your collection, and beyours to all intents and purposes. But it stops remark in thepresentation. A wife could not reprove you for so kindly thinking ofher. No matter what she suspects, she will say nothing. And then ifthere are three or four more works which have come home with thegift-book--they will pass through the favor of the other. These are pleasures denied to wealth and old bachelors. Indeed, onecannot imagine the peculiar pleasure of buying books if one is rich andstupid. There must be some pleasure, or so many would not do it. But thefull flavor, the whole relish of delight only comes to those who are sopoor that they must engineer for every book. They sit down before them, and besiege them. They are captured. Each book has a secret history ofways and means. It reminds you of subtle devices by which you insuredand made it yours, in spite of poverty! Copyrighted by Fords, Howard and Hulbert, New York. SELECTED PARAGRAPHS From 'Selections from the Published Works of Henry Ward Beecher', compiled by Eleanor Kirk. An intelligent conscience is one of the greatest of luxuries. It canhardly be called a necessity, or how would the world have got along aswell as it has to this day?--SERMON: 'Conscience. ' A man undertakes to jump across a chasm that is ten feet wide, and jumpseight feet; and a kind sympathizer says, "What is going to be done withthe eight feet that he did jump?" Well, what _is_ going to be done withit? It is one of those things which must be accomplished in whole, or itis not accomplished at all. --SERMON: 'The True Value of Morality. ' It is hard for a strong-willed man to bow down to a weak-willed man. Itis hard for an elephant to say his prayers to an ant. --SERMON: 'TheReward of Loving. ' When Peter heard the cock crow, it was not the tail-feathers that crew. The crowing came from the inside of the cock. Religion is something morethan the outward observances of the church. --SERMON: 'The Battle ofBenevolence. ' I have heard men, in family prayer, confess their wickedness, and praythat God would forgive them the sins that they got from Adam; but I donot know that I ever heard a father in family prayer confess that he hada bad temper. I never heard a mother confess in family prayer that shewas irritable and snappish. I never heard persons bewail those sinswhich are the engineers and artificers of the moral condition of thefamily. The angels would not know what to do with a prayer that began, "Lord, thou knowest that I am a scold. "--SERMON: 'Peaceableness. ' Getting up early is venerable. Since there has been a literature or ahistory, the habit of early rising has been recommended for health, forpleasure, and for business. The ancients are held up to us for examples. But they lived so far to the east, and so near the sun, that it was mucheasier for them than for us. People in Europe always get up severalhours before we do; people in Asia several hours before Europeans do;and we suppose, as men go toward the sun, it gets easier and easier, until, somewhere in the Orient, probably they step out of bedinvoluntarily, or, like a flower blossoming, they find their bed-clothesgently opening and turning back, by the mere attraction of light. --'EYESAND EARS. ' There are some men who never wake up enough to swear a good oath. Theman who sees the point of a joke the day after it is uttered, --because_he_ never is known to act hastily, is he to take credit forthat?--SERMON: 'Conscience. ' If you will only make your ideal mean enough, you can every one of youfeel that you are heroic. --SERMON: 'The Use of Ideals. ' There is nothing more common than for men to hang one motive outsidewhere it can be seen, and keep the others in the background to turn themachinery. --SERMON: 'Paul and Demetrius. ' Suppose I should go to God and say, "Lord, be pleased to give me salad, "he would point to the garden and say, "There is the place toget salad; and if you are too lazy to work for it, you may gowithout. "--LECTURE-ROOM TALKS: 'Answers to Prayer. ' God did not call you to be canary-birds in a little cage, and to hop upand down on three sticks, within a space no larger than the size of thecage. God calls you to be eagles, and to fly from sun to sun, overcontinents. --SERMON: 'The Perfect Manhood. ' Do not be a spy on yourself. A man who goes down the street thinking ofhimself all the time, with critical analysis, whether he is doing this, that, or any other thing, --turning himself over as if he were a goose ona spit before a fire, and basting himself with good resolutions, --issimply belittling himself. --'LECTURES ON PREACHING. ' Many persons boil themselves down to a kind of molasses goodness. Howmany there are that, like flies caught in some sweet liquid, have gotout at last upon the side of the cup, and crawl along slowly, buzzing alittle to clear their wings! Just such Christians I have seen, creeping up the side of churches, soul-poor, imperfect, anddrabbled. --'ALL-SIDEDNESS IN CHRISTIAN LIFE. ' No man, then, need hunt among hair-shirts; no man need seek for blanketstoo short at the bottom and too short at the top; no man need resort toiron seats or cushionless chairs; no man need shut himself up in grimcells; no man need stand on the tops of towers or columns, --in order todeny himself. --SERMON-'Problem of Joy and Suffering in Life. ' Copyrighted by Fords, Howard and Hulbert, New York, 1887. SERMON POVERTY AND THE GOSPEL TEXTS: Luke iv. 17-21, Matt. Xi. 2-6 Here was Christ's profession of his faith; here is the history also ofhis examination, to see whether he were fit to preach or not. It isremarkable that in both these instances the most significant indicationthat he had, both of his descent from God and of his being worthy of theMessiahship, consisted in this simple exposition of the line of hispreaching, --that he took sides with the poor, neglected, and lost. Heemphasized this, that his gospel was a gospel of mercy to the poor; andthat word "poor, " in its most comprehensive sense, looked athistorically, includes in it everything that belongs to human misery, whether it be by reason of sin or depravity, or by oppression, or by anyother cause. This, then, is the disclosure by Christ himself of thegenius of Christianity. It is his declaration of what the gospel meant. It is still further interpreted when you follow the life of Christ, andsee how exactly in his conduct he interpreted, or rather fortified, thewords of the declaration. His earliest life was that of labor andpoverty, and it was labor and poverty in the poorest districts ofPalestine. The dignified, educated, and aristocratic part of the nationdwelt in Judea, and the Athens of Palestine was Jerusalem. There Christspent the least part of his life, and that in perpetual discussions. Butin Galilee the most of his miracles, certainly the earlier, wereperformed, and the most of his discourses that are contained bodily inthe gospels were uttered. He himself carried out the declaration thatthe gospel was for the poor. The very miracles that Christ performedwere not philosophical enigmas, as we look at them. They were all ofthem miracles of mercy. They were miracles to those who were sufferinghelplessly where natural law and artificial means could not reach them. In every case the miracles of Christ were mercies, though we look atthem in a spirit totally different from that in which he performed them. In doing thus, Christ represented the best spirit of the Old Testament. The Jewish Scriptures teach mercy, the very genius of Jewishinstitutions was that of mercy, and especially to the poor, the weak, the helpless. The crimes against which the prophets thundered theirseverest denunciations were crimes upon the helpless. It was the avariceof the rich, it was the unbounded lust and cruelty of the strong, thatwere denounced by them. They did not preach against human nature ingeneral. They did not preach against total depravity and the originalcondition of mankind. They singled out violations of the law in themagistrate, in the king, in rich men, everywhere, and especially allthose wrongs committed by power either unconsciously or with purpose, cruelty upon the helpless, the defenseless, the poor and the needy. WhenChrist declared that this was his ministry, he took his text from theOld Testament; he spoke in its spirit. It was to preach the gospel tothe poor that he was sent. He had come into the world to change thecondition of mankind. Beginning at the top? No; beginning at the bottomand working up to the top from the bottom. When this view of the gospel enters into our understanding and is fullycomprehended by us, how exactly it fits in with the order of nature, andwith the order of the unfolding of human life and human society! Ittakes sides with the poor; and so the universal tendency of Providenceand of history, slowly unfolded, is on the whole going from low to high, from worse to better, and from good toward the perfect. When weconsider, we see that man begins as a helpless thing, a baby zerowithout a figure before it; and every step in life adds a figure to itand gives it more and more worth. On the whole, the law of unfoldingthroughout the world is from lower to higher; and though when applied tothe population of the globe it is almost inconceivable, still, with manyback-sets and reactions, the tendency of the universe is thus from lowerto higher. Why? Let any man consider whether there is not of necessity abenevolent intelligence somewhere that is drawing up from the crudetoward the ripe, from the rough toward the smooth, from bad to good, andfrom good through better toward best. The tendency upward runs like agolden thread through the history of the whole world, both in theunfolding of human life and in the unfolding of the race itself. Thusthe tendency of nature is in accordance with the tendency of the gospelas declared by Jesus Christ, namely, that it is a ministry of mercy tothe needy. The vast majority of mankind have been and yet are poor. There are tenthousand men poor where there is one man even comfortably provided for, body and soul, and hundreds of thousands where there is one rich, takingthe whole world together. The causes of poverty are worthy a moment'sconsideration. Climate and soil have much to do with it. Men whosewinter lasts nine or ten months in the year, and who have a summer ofbut one or two months, as in the extreme north, --how could they amassproperty, how could they enlarge their conditions of peace and ofcomfort? There are many parts of the earth where men live on the bordersof deserts, or in mountain fastnesses, or in arctic rigors, whereanything but poverty is impossible, and where it requires the wholethought, genius, industry, and foresight of men, the year round, just tofeed themselves and to live. Bad government, where men are insecure intheir property, has always been a very fertile source of poverty. Thegreat valley of Esdraelon in Northern Palestine is one of the mostfertile in the world, and yet famine perpetually stalks on the heels ofthe population; for if you sow and the harvest waves, forth come hordesof Bedouins to reap your harvest for you, and leave you, after all yourlabor, to poverty and starvation. When a man has lost his harvest inthat way two or three times, and is deprived of the reward of hislabors, he never emerges from poverty, but sinks into indolence; andthat, by and by, breeds apathetic misery. So where the governmentover-taxes its subjects, as is the case in the Orient with perhapsnearly all of the populations there to-day, it cuts the sinews anddestroys all the motives of industry; and without industry there can beneither virtue, morality, nor religion in any long period. Wars breakingout, from whatever cause, tend to absorb property, or to destroyproperty, or to prevent the development of property. Yet, strange as itmay seem, the men who suffer from war are those whose passions generallylead it on. The king may apply the spark, but the combustion is with thecommon people. They furnish the army, they themselves become destroyers;and the ravages of war, in the history of the human family, havedestroyed more property than it is possible to enter into the thoughtsof men to conceive. But besides these external reasons of poverty, there are certain greatprimary and fundamental reasons. Ignorance breeds poverty. What isproperty? It is the product of intelligence, of skill, of thoughtapplied to material substances. All property is raw material that hasbeen shaped to uses by intelligent skill. Where intelligence is low, thepower of producing property is low. It is the husbandman who thinks, foresees, plans, and calls on all natural laws to serve him, whose farmbrings forth forty, fifty, and a hundred fold. The ignorant peasantgrubs and groans, and reaps but one handful where he has sown two. It isknowledge that is the gold mine; for although every knowing man may notbe able to be a rich man, yet out of ignorance riches do not springanywhere. Ignorant men may be made the factors of wealth when they areguided and governed by superior intelligence. Slave labor producedgigantic plantations and estates. The slave was always poor, but hismaster was rich, because the master had the intelligence and theknowledge, and the slave gave the work. All through human society, menwho represent simple ignorance will be tools, and the men who representintelligence will be the master mechanics, the capitalists. All societyto-day is agitated with this question of justice as between the laborerand the thinker. Now, it is no use to kick against the pricks. A man whocan only work and not think is not the equal in any regard of the manwho can think, who can plan, who can combine, and who can live not forto-day alone, but for to-morrow, for next month, for the next year, forten years. This is the man whose volume will just as surely weigh downthat of the unthinking man as a ton will weigh down a pound in thescale. Avoirdupois is moral, industrial, as well as material, in thisrespect; and the primary, most usual cause of unprosperity in industrialcallings therefore lies in the want of intelligence, --either in theslender endowment of the man, or more likely the want of education inhis ordinary and average endowment. Any class of men who live forto-day, and do not care whether they know anything more than they didyesterday or last year--those men may have a temporary and transientprosperity, but they are the children of poverty just as surely as thedecrees of God stand. Ignorance enslaves men among men; knowledge is thecreator of liberty and wealth. As with undeveloped intelligence, so the appetites of men and theirpassions are causes of poverty. Men who live from the basilar facultieswill invariably live in inferior stations. The men who representanimalism are as a general fact at the bottom. They may say it isgovernment, climate, soil, want of capital, they may say what theyplease, but it is the devil of laziness that is in them, or of passion, that comes out in eating, in gluttony, in drinking and drunkenness, inwastefulness on every side. I do not say that the laboring classes inmodern society are poor because they are self-indulgent, but I say thatit unquestionably would be wise for all men who feel irritated that theyare so unprosperous, if they would take heed to the moral condition inwhich they are living, to self-denial in their passions and appetites, and to increasing the amount of their knowledge and fidelity. Althoughmoral conditions are not the sole causes, they are principal causes, ofthe poverty of the working classes throughout the world. It is theirmisfortune as well as their fault; but it is the reason why they do notrise. Weakness does not rise; strength does. All these causes indicate that the poor need moral and intellectualculture. "I was sent to preach the gospel to the poor:" not todistribute provisions, not to relieve their wants; that will beincluded, but that was not Christ's primary idea. It was not to bring ina golden period of fruitfulness when men would not be required to work. It was not that men should lie down on their backs under the trees, andthat the boughs should bend over and drop the ripe fruit into theirmouths. No such conception of equality and abundance entered into themind of the Creator or of Him who represented the Creator. To preach thegospel to the poor was to awaken the mind of the poor. It was to teachthe poor--"Take up your cross, deny yourselves, and follow me. Restrainall those sinful appetites and passions, and hold them back by the powerof knowledge and by the power of conscience; grow, because you are thesons of God, into the likeness of your Father. " So he preached to thepoor. That was preaching prosperity to them. That was teaching them howto develop their outward condition by developing their inward forces. Todevelop that in men which should make them wiser, purer, and stronger, is the aim of the gospel. Men have supposed that the whole end of thegospel was reconciliation between God and men who had fallen--thoughthey were born sinners in their fathers and grandfathers and ancestors;to reconcile them with God--as if an abstract disagreement had been thecause of all this world's trouble! But the plain facts of history aresimply that men, if they have not come from animals, have yet dwelt inanimalism, and that that which should raise them out of it was some suchmoral influence as should give them the power of ascension intointelligence, into virtue, and into true godliness. That is what thegospel was sent for; good news, a new power that is kindled under men, that will lift them from their low ignorances and degradations andpassions, and lift them into a higher realm; a power that will take awayall the poverty that needs to be taken away. Men may be doctrinallydepraved; they are much more depraved practically. Men may need to bebrought into the knowledge of God speculatively; but what they do needis to be brought into the knowledge of themselves practically. I do notsay that the gospel has nothing in it of this kind of spiritualknowledge; it is full of it, but its aim and the reason why it should bepreached is to wake up in men the capacity for good things, industries, frugalities, purities, moralities, kindnesses one toward another: andwhen men are brought into that state they are reconciled. When men arereconciled with the law of creation and the law of their being, they arereconciled with God. Whenever a man is reconciled with the law ofknowledge, he is reconciled with the God of knowledge, so far. Whenevera man is reconciled with the law of purity he is so far reconciled witha God of purity. When men have lifted themselves to that point thatthey recognize that they are the children of God, the kingdom of God hasbegun within them. Although the spirit and practice of the gospel will develop charities, will develop physical comfort, will feed men, will heal men, willprovide for their physical needs, yet the primary and fundamental resultof the gospel is to develop man himself, not merely to relieve his wanton an occasion. It does that as a matter of course, but that is scarcelythe first letter of the alphabet. "Seek ye first the kingdom of God andhis righteousness, and all these things [food and raiment] shall beadded unto you. " The way to relieve a man is to develop him so that hewill need no relief, or to raise higher and higher the character of thehelp that he demands. In testing Christianity, then, I remark first that it is to be testednot by creeds, but by conduct. The evidence of the gospel, the realityof the gospel that is preached in schools or churches, is to be found inthe spirit that is developed by it, not in the technical creeds that menhave constructed out of it. The biography of men who have died might behung up in their sepulchres; but you could not tell what kind of a manthis one had been, just by reading his life there--while he lay dead indust before you. There are thousands of churches that have a creed ofChristianity hung up in them, but the church itself is a sepulchre fullof dead men's bones; and indeed, many churches in modern times aregnawing the bones of their ancestors, and doing almost nothing else. The gospel, changed from a spirit of humanity into a philosophicalsystem of doctrine, is perverted. It is not the gospel. The great heresyin the world of religion is a cold heart, not a luminous head. It is notthat intelligence is of no use in religion. By no means. Neither wouldwe wage a crusade against philosophical systems of moral truth. Butwhere the active sympathy and humanity of loving hearts for living men, and for men in the ratio in which they are low, is laid aside ordiminished to a minimum, and in its place is a well-elaboratedphilosophical system of moral truths, hewn and jointed, --the gospel isgone. If you go along the sea-shores, you will often find the shells offish--the fish dead and gone, the shells left. And if you go along theshores of ecclesiastical organization, you will find multitudes ofshells of the gospel, out of which the living substance has gone longago. Organized Christianity--that is, the institutions of Christianityhave been in the first instance its power, and in the second instanceits damnation. The moment you substitute the machinery of education foreducation itself, the moment you build schools and do not educate, buildcolleges that do not increase knowledge in the pupils, you havesacrificed the aim for the instrument by which you were to gain thataim. In churches, the moment it is more important to maintain buildings, rituals, ministers, chanters, and all the paraphernalia of moraleducation than the spirit of personal sympathy, the moment these aremore sacred to men than is the welfare of the population round aboutwhich they were set to take care of, that very moment Christ is dead inthat place; that very moment religion in the midst of all itsinstitutions has perished. I am bound to say that in the history of theworld, while religious institutions have been valuable and have done agreat deal of good, they have perhaps done as much harm as good. Thereis scarcely one single perversion of civil government, there is scarcelyone single persecution of men, there is scarcely a single one of thegreat wars that have depopulated the globe, there is scarcely one greatheresy developed out of the tyranny of the church, that has not been thefruit of institutional religion; while that spirit of humanity which wasto give the institution its motive power has to a certain extent diedout of it. Secondly, churches organized upon elective affinities of men arecontrary to the spirit of the gospel. We may associate with men who areof like taste with ours. We have that privilege. If men areknowledgeable and intellectual, there is no sin in their choosing forintimate companions and associates men of like pursuits and likeintellectual qualities. That is right. If men are rich, there is noreason why men who hold like property should not confer with each other, and form interests and friendships together. If men are refined, if theyhave become æsthetic, there is no reason why they should not associatein the realm of beauty, artists with artists, nor why the great enjoyersof beauty should not be in sympathy. Exit all these are not to beallowed to do it at the price of abandoning common humanity; you have noright to make your nest in the boughs of knowledge, and let all the restof the world go as it will. You have no right to make your home amongthose who are polished and exquisite and fastidious in their tastes, whose garments are beauty, whose house is a temple of art, and all whoseassociations are of like kind, and neglect common humanity. You have noright to shut yourself up in a limited company of those who are like youin these directions, and let all the rest of men go without sympathy andwithout care. It is a right thing for a man to salute his neighbor whosalutes him; but if you salute those who salute you, says Christ, whatthank have ye--do not even the publicans so? It is no sin that a man, being intellectual in his nature, should like intellectual people, andgratify that which is divine and God-like in him; but if, because helikes intellectual people, he loses all interest in ignorant people, itconvicts him of depravity and of moral perversion. When this is carriedout to such an extent that churches are organized upon sharpclassification, upon elective affinities, they not only cease to beChristian churches, but they are heretical; not perhaps in doctrine, butworse than that, heretical in heart. The fact is that a church needs poor men and wicked men as much as itdoes pure men and virtuous men and pious men. What man needs isfamiliarity with universal human nature. He needs never to separatehimself from men in daily life. It is not necessary that in our houseswe should bring pestilential diseases or pestilential examples, butsomehow we must hold on to men if they are wicked; somehow thecirculation between the top and the bottom must be carried on; somehowthere must be an atoning power in the heart of every true believer ofthe Lord Jesus Christ who shall say, looking out and seeing that theworld is lost, and is living in sin and misery, "I belong to it, and itbelongs to me. " When you take the loaf of society and cut off the uppercrust, slicing it horizontally, you get an elect church. Yes, it is thepeculiarly elect church of selfishness. But you should cut the loaf ofsociety from the top down to the bottom, and take in something ofeverything. True, every church would be very much edified and advantagedif it had in it scholarly men, knowledgeable men; but the church isstrong in proportion as it has in it something of everything, from thevery top to the very bottom. Now, I do not disown creeds--provided they are my own! Well, you smile;but that is the way it has been since the world began. No denominationbelieves in any creed except its own. I do not say that men's knowledgeon moral subjects may not be formulated. I criticize the formulation ofbeliefs from time to time, in this: that they are very partial; thatthey are formed upon the knowledge of a past age, and that thatknowledge perishes while higher and nobler knowledge comes in; thatthere ought to be higher and better forms; and that while their power isrelatively small, the power of the spirit of humanity is relativelygreat. When I examine a church, I do not so much care whether itsworship is to the one God or to the triune God. I do not chiefly carefor the catechism, nor for the confession of faith, although they areboth interesting. I do not even look to see whether it is a synagogue ora Christian church--I do not care whether it has a cross over the top ofit or is Quaker plain. I do not care whether it is Protestant, Catholic, or anything else. Let me read the living--- the living book! What is thespirit of the people? How do they feel among each other? How do theyfeel toward the community? What is their life and conduct in regard tothe great prime moral duty of man, "Love the Lord thy God and thyneighbor as thyself, " whether he be obscure or whether he be smiling inthe very plenitude of wealth and refinement? Have you a heart forhumanity? Have you a soul that goes out for men? Are you Christ-like?Will you spend yourself for the sake of elevating men who need to belifted up? That is orthodox. I do not care what the creed is. If achurch has a good creed, that is all the more felicitous; and if it hasa bad creed, a good life cures the bad creed. One of the dangers of our civilization may be seen in the light of theseconsiderations. We are developing so much strength founded on popularintelligence, and this intelligence and the incitements to it aredeveloping such large property interests, that if the principle ofelective affinity shall sort men out and classify them, we are steeringto the not very remote danger of the disintegration of human society. Ican tell you that the classes of men who by their knowledge, refinement, and wealth think they are justified in separating themselves, and inmaking a great void between them and the myriads of men below them, arecourting their own destruction. I look with very great interest on theprocess of change going on in Great Britain, where the top of societyhad all the "blood, " but the circulation is growing larger and larger, and a change is gradually taking place in their institutions. The oldnobility of Great Britain is the lordliest of aristocracies existing inthe world. Happily, on the whole, a very noble class of men occupy thehigh positions: but the spirit of suffrage, this angel of God that somany hate, is coming in on them; and when every man in Great Britain canvote, no matter whether he is poor or rich, whether he has knowledge orno knowledge, there must be a very great change. Before the great day ofthe Lord shall come, the valleys are to go up and the mountains are tocome down; and the mountains have started already in Great Britain andmust come down. There may be an aristocracy in any nation, --that is tosay, there may be "best men"; there ought to be an aristocracy in everycommunity, --that is, an aristocracy of men who speak the truth, who arejust, who are intelligent: but that aristocracy will be like a wave ofthe sea; it has to be reconstituted in every generation, and the men whoare the best in the State become the aristocracy of that State. Butwhere rank is hereditary, if political suffrage becomes free anduniversal, aristocracy cannot live. The spirit of the gospel isdemocratic. The tendency of the gospel is leveling; leveling up, notdown. It is carrying the poor and the multitude onward and upward. It is said that democracies have no great men, no heroic men. Why is itso? When you raise the average of intelligence and power in thecommunity it is very hard to be a great man. That is to say, when thegreat mass of citizens are only ankle-high, when among the Lilliputiansa Brobdingnagian walks, he is a great man. But when the Lilliputiansgrow until they get up to his shoulder, he is not so great a man as hewas by the whole length of his body. So, make the common people grow, and there is nobody tall enough to be much higher. * * * * * The remarkable people of this world are useful in their way; but thecommon people, after all, represent the nation, the age, and thecivilization. Go into any town or city: do not ask who lives in thatsplendid house; do not say, This is a fine town, here are streets ofhouses with gardens and yards, and everything that is beautiful thewhole way through. Go into the lanes, go into the back streets, go wherethe mechanic lives; go where the day-laborer lives. See what is thecondition of the streets there. See what they do with the poor, with thehelpless, and the mean. If the top of society bends perpetually over thebottom with tenderness, if the rich and strong are the best friends ofthe poor and needy, that is a civilized and a Christian community; butif the rich and the wise are the cream and the great bulk of thepopulation skim-milk, that is not a prosperous community. There is a great deal of irreligion in men, there is a great deal ofwickedness and depravity in men, but there are times when it is truethat the church is more dissipated than the dissipated classes of thecommunity. If there is one thing that stood out more strongly than anyother in the ministry of our Lord, it is the severity with which hetreated the exclusiveness of men with knowledge, position, and a certainsort of religion, a religion of particularity and carefulness; if thereis one class of the community against which he hurled his thunderboltswithout mercy and predicted woes, it was the scribes, Pharisees, scholars, and priests of the temples. He told them in so many words, "The publican and the harlot will enter the kingdom of God before you. "The worst dissipation in this world is the dry-rot of morality, and ofthe so-called piety that separates men of prosperity and of power fromthe poor and ignoble. They are our wards. .. . I am not a socialist. I do not preach riot. I do not preach thedestruction of property. I regard property as one of the sacred things. The real property established by a man's own intelligence and labor isthe crystallized man himself. It is the fruit of what his life-work hasdone; and not in vain, society makes crime against it amongst the mostpunishable. But nevertheless, I warn these men in a country like ours, where every man votes, whether he came from Hungary, or from Russia, orfrom Germany, or from France or Italy, or Spain or Portugal, or from theOrient, --from Japan and China, because they too are going to vote! Onthe Niagara River, logs come floating down and strike an island, andthere they lodge and accumulate for a little while, and won't go over. But the rains come, the snows melt, the river rises, and the logs arelifted up and down, and they go swinging over the falls. The stream ofsuffrage of free men, having all the privileges of the State, is thisgreat stream. The figure is defective in this, that the log goes overthe Niagara Falls, but that is not the way the country is going or willgo. .. . There is a certain river of political life, and everything has togo into it first or last; and if, in days to come, a man separateshimself from his fellows without sympathy, if his wealth and power makepoverty feel itself more poor and men's misery more miserable, and setagainst him the whole stream of popular feeling, that man is in danger. He may not know who dynamites him, but there is danger; and let him takeheed who is in peril. There is nothing easier in the world than for richmen to ingratiate themselves with the whole community in which theylive, and so secure themselves. It is not selfishness that will do it;it is not by increasing the load of misfortune, it is not by wastingsubstance in riotous living upon appetites and passions. It is byrecognizing that every man is a brother. It is by recognizing theessential spirit of the gospel, "Love thy neighbor as thyself. " It is byusing some of their vast power and riches so as to diffuse joy in everysection of the community. Here then I close this discourse. How much it enrolls! How very simpleit is! It is the whole gospel. When you make an application of it to allthe phases of organization and classification of human interests anddevelopments, it seems as though it were as big as the universe. Yetwhen you condense it, it all comes back to the one simple creed: "Thoushalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and thy neighbor asthyself. " Who is my neighbor? A certain man went down to Jericho, and soon. That tells you who your neighbor is. Whosoever has been attacked byrobbers, has been beaten, has been thrown down--by liquor, by gambling, or by any form of wickedness; whosoever has been cast into distress, andyou are called on to raise him up--that is your neighbor. Love yourneighbor as yourself. That is the gospel. A NEW ENGLAND SUNDAY From 'Norwood' It is worth all the inconveniences arising from the occasionalover-action of New England Sabbath observance, to obtain the full flavorof a New England Sunday. But for this, one should have been born there;should have found Sunday already waiting for him, and accepted it withimplicit and absolute conviction, as if it were a law of nature, in thesame way that night and day, summer and winter, are parts of nature. Heshould have been brought up by parents who had done the same thing, as_they_ were by parents even more strict, if that were possible; untilnot religious persons peculiarly, but everybody--not churches alone, butsociety itself, and all its population, those who broke it as much asthose who kept it--were stained through with the color of Sunday. Nay, until Nature had adopted it, and laid its commands on all birds andbeasts, on the sun and winds, and upon the whole atmosphere; so thatwithout much imagination one might imagine, in a genuine New EnglandSunday of the Connecticut River Valley stamp, that God was still on thatday resting from all the work which he had created and made, and thatall his work rested with him! Over all the town rested the Lord's peace! The saw was ripping awayyesterday in the carpenter's shop, and the hammer was noisy enough. Today there is not a sign of life there. The anvil makes no musicto-day. Tommy Taft's buckets and barrels give forth no hollow, thumpingsound. The mill is silent--only the brook continues noisy. Listen! Inyonder pine woods what a cawing of crows! Like an echo, in a wood stillmore remote other crows are answering. But even a crow's throat to-dayis musical. Do they think, because they have black coats on, that theyare parsons, and have a right to play pulpit with all the pine-trees?Nay. The birds will not have any such monopoly, --they are all singing, and singing all together, and no one cares whether his song rushesacross another's or not. Larks and robins, blackbirds and orioles, sparrows and bluebirds, mocking cat-birds and wrens, were furrowing theair with such mixtures as no other day but Sunday, when all artificialand human sounds cease, could ever hear. Every now and then a bobolinkseemed impressed with the duty of bringing these jangling birds intomore regularity; and like a country singing-master, he flew down theranks, singing all the parts himself in snatches, as if to stimulate andhelp the laggards. In vain! Sunday is the birds' day, and they will havetheir own democratic worship. There was no sound in the village street. Look either way--not avehicle, not a human being. The smoke rose up soberly and quietly, as ifit said--It is Sunday! The leaves on the great elms hung motionless, glittering in dew, as if they too, like the people who dwelt under theirshadow, were waiting for the bell to ring for meeting. Bees sung andflew as usual; but honey-bees have a Sunday way with them all the week, and could scarcely change for the better on the seventh day. But oh, the Sun! It had sent before and cleared every stain out of thesky. The blue heaven was not dim and low, as on secular days, but curvedand deep, as if on Sunday it shook off all incumbrance which during theweek had lowered and flattened it, and sprang back to the arch andsymmetry of a dome. All ordinary sounds caught the spirit of the day. The shutting of a door sounded twice as far as usual. The rattle of abucket in a neighbor's yard, no longer mixed with heterogeneous noises, seemed a new sound. The hens went silently about, and roosters crowed inpsalm-tunes. And when the first bell rung, Nature seemed overjoyed tofind something that it might do without breaking Sunday, and rolled thesound over and over, and pushed it through the air, and raced with itover field and hill, twice as far as on week-days. There were no lessthan seven steeples in sight from the belfry, and the sexton said:--"Onstill Sundays I've heard the bell, at one time and another, when the daywas fair, and the air moving in the right way, from every one of themsteeples, and I guess likely they've all heard our'n. " "Come, Rose!" said Agate Bissell, at an even earlier hour than when Roseusually awakened--"Come, Rose, it is the Sabbath. We must not be lateSunday morning, of all days in the week. It is the Lord's day. " There was little preparation required for the day. Saturday night, insome parts of New England, was considered almost as sacred as Sundayitself. After sundown on Saturday night no play, and no work except suchas is immediately preparatory to the Sabbath, were deemed becoming ingood Christians. The clothes had been laid out the night before. Nothingwas forgotten. The best frock was ready; the hose and shoes werewaiting. Every article of linen, every ruffle and ribbon, were selectedon Saturday night. Every one in the house walked mildly. Every one spokein a low tone. Yet all were cheerful. The mother had on her kindestface, and nobody laughed, but everybody made it up in smiling. The nursesmiled, and the children held on to keep down a giggle within the lawfulbounds of a smile; and the doctor looked rounder and calmer than ever;and the dog flapped his tail on the floor with a softened sound, as ifhe had fresh wrapped it in hair for that very day. Aunt Toodie, the cook(so the children had changed Mrs. Sarah Good's name), was blacker thanever and shinier than ever, and the coffee better, and the creamricher, and the broiled chickens juicier and more tender, and thebiscuit whiter, and the corn-bread more brittle and sweet. When the good doctor read the Scriptures at family prayer, the infectionof silence had subdued everything except the clock. Out of the wide hallcould be heard in the stillness the old clock, that now lifted up itsvoice with unwonted emphasis, as if, unnoticed through the bustlingweek, Sunday was its vantage ground, to proclaim to mortals the swiftflight of time. And if the old pedant performed the task with somethingof an ostentatious precision, it was because in that house nothing elseput on official airs, and the clock felt the responsibility of doing itfor the whole mansion. And now came mother and catechism; for Mrs. Wentworth followed the oldcustom, and declared that no child of hers should grow up withoutcatechism. Secretly, the doctor was quite willing, though openly heplayed off upon the practice a world of good-natured discouragement, anddeclared that there should be an opposition set up--a catechism ofNature, with natural laws for decrees, and seasons for Providence, andflowers for graces! The younger children were taught in simplecatechism. But Rose, having reached the mature age of twelve, was nowmanifesting her power over the Westminster Shorter Catechism; and as itwas simply an achievement of memory and not of the understanding, shehad the book at great advantage, and soon subdued every question andanswer in it. As much as possible, the doctor was kept aloof on suchoccasions. His grave questions were not to edification, and often theycaused Rose to stumble, and brought down sorely the exultation withwhich she rolled forth, "They that are effectually called do in thislife partake of justification, adoption, sanctification, and the severalbenefits which in this life do either accompany or flow from them. " "What do those words mean, Rose?" "Which words, pa?" "Adoption, sanctification, and justification?" Rose hesitated, and looked at her mother for rescue. "Doctor, why do you trouble the child? Of course she don't know yet allthe meaning. But that will come to her when she grows older. " "You make a nest of her memory, then, and put words there, like eggs, for future hatching?" "Yes, that is it exactly: birds do not hatch their eggs the minute theylay them. They wait. " "Laying eggs at twelve to be hatched at twenty is subjecting them tosome risk, is it not?" "It might be so with eggs, but not with the catechism. That will keepwithout spoiling a hundred years!" "Because it is so dry?" "Because it is so good. But do, dear husband, go away, and not putnotions in the children's heads. It's hard enough already to get themthrough their tasks. Here's poor Arthur, who has been two Sundays on onequestion, and has not got it yet. " Arthur, aforesaid, was sharp and bright in anything addressed to hisreason, but he had no verbal memory, and he was therefore wadingpainfully through the catechism like a man in a deep-muddy road; withthis difference, that the man carries too much clay with him, whilenothing stuck to poor Arthur. * * * * * The beauty of the day, the genial season of the year, brought forthevery one; old men and their feebler old wives, young and hearty men andtheir plump and ruddy companions, --young men and girls and children, thick as punctuation points in Hebrew text, filled the street. In a lowvoice, they spoke to each other in single sentences. "A fine day! There'll be a good congregation out to-day. " "Yes; we may expect a house full. How is Widow Cheney--have you heard?" "Well, not much better; can't hold out many days. It will be a greatloss to the children. " "Yes; but we must all die--nobody can skip his turn. Does she still talkabout them that's gone?" "They say not. I believe she's sunk into a quiet way; and it looks as ifshe'd go off easy. " "Sunday is a good day for dying--it's about the only journey that speedswell on this day!" There was something striking in the outflow of people into the street, that till now had seemed utterly deserted. There was no fevered hurry;no negligent or poorly dressed people. Every family came in groups--oldfolks and young children; and every member blossomed forth in his bestapparel, like a rose-bush in June. Do you know that man in a silk hatand new black coat? Probably it is some stranger. No; it is thecarpenter, Mr. Baggs, who was racing about yesterday with his sleevesrolled up, and a dust-and-business look in his face! I knew you wouldnot know him. Adams Gardner, the blacksmith, --does he not look everyinch a judge, now that he is clean-washed, shaved, and dressed? His eyesare as bright as the sparks that fly from his anvil! Are not the folks proud of their children? See what groups of them! Howruddy and plump are most! Some are roguish, and cut clandestine capersat every chance. Others seem like wax figures, so perfectly proper arethey. Little hands go slyly through the pickets to pluck a temptingflower. Other hands carry hymn-books or Bibles. But, carry what theymay, dressed as each parent can afford, is there anything the sun shinesupon more beautiful than these troops of Sunday children? The old bell had it all its own way up in the steeple. It was thelicensed noise of the day. In a long shed behind the church stood ascore and half-score of wagons and chaises and carryalls, --the horsesalready beginning the forenoon's work of stamping and whisking theflies. More were coming. Hiram Beers had "hitched up, " and brought twoloads with his new hack; and now, having secured the team, he stood witha few admiring young fellows about him, remarking on the people asthey came up. "There's Trowbridge--he'll git asleep afore the first prayer's over. Idon't b'lieve he's heerd a sermon in ten years. I've seen him sleepstandin' up in singin'. "Here comes Deacon Marble, --smart old feller, ain't he?--wouldn't thinkit, jest to look at him! Face looks like an ear of last summer's sweetcorn, all dried up; but I tell ye he's got the juice in him yit! AuntPolly's gittin' old, ain't she? They say she can't walk half thetime--lost the use of her limbs; but it's all gone to her tongue. That'sas good as a razor, and a sight better 'n mine, for it never needssharpenin'. "Stand away, boys, there's 'Biah Cathcart. Good horses--not fast, butmighty strong, just like the owner. " And with that Hiram touched his new Sunday hat to Mrs. Cathcart andAlice; and as he took the horses by the bits, he dropped his head andgave the Cathcart boys a look of such awful solemnity, all except oneeye, that they lost their sobriety. Barton alone remained sober asa judge. "Here comes 'Dot-and-Go-One' and his wife. They're my kind o'Christians. She is a saint, at any rate. " "How is it with you, Tommy Taft?" "Fair to middlin', thank'e. Such weather would make a hand-spikeblossom, Hiram. " "Don't you think that's a leetle strong, Tommy, for Sunday? P'raps youmean afore it's cut?" "Sartin; that's what I mean. But you mustn't stop me, Hiram. ParsonBuell 'll be lookin' for me. He never begins till I git there. " "You mean you always git there 'fore he begins. " Next, Hiram's prying eyes saw Mr. Turfmould, the sexton and undertaker, who seemed to be in a pensive meditation upon all the dead that he hadever buried. He looked upon men in a mild and pitying manner, as if heforgave them for being in good health. You could not help feeling thathe gazed upon you with a professional eye, and saw just how you wouldlook in the condition which was to him the most interesting period of aman's earthly state. He walked with a soft tread, as if he was always ata funeral; and when he shook your hand, his left hand half followed hisright, as if he were about beginning to lay you out. He was one of thefew men absorbed by his business, and who unconsciously measured allthings from its standpoint. "Good-morning, Mr. Turfmould! How's your health? How is business withyou?" "Good--the Lord be praised! I've no reason to complain. " And he glided silently and smoothly into the church. "There comes Judge Bacon, white and ugly, " said the critical Hiram. "Iwonder what he comes to meetin' for. Lord knows he needs it, sly, slippery old sinner! Face's as white as a lily; his heart's as black asa chimney flue afore it's cleaned. He'll get his flue burned out if hedon't repent, that's certain. He don't believe the Bible. They say hedon't believe in God. Wal, I guess it's pretty even between 'em. Shouldn't wonder if God didn't believe in him neither. " As soon as the afternoon service was over, every horse on the green knewthat it was time for him to go home. Some grew restless and whinnied fortheir masters. Nimble hands soon put them into the shafts or repairedany irregularity of harness. Then came such a scramble of vehicles tothe church door for the older persons; while young women and children, venturing further out upon the green, were taken up hastily, that theimpatient horses might as soon as possible turn their heads homeward. Clouds of dust began to arise along every outward-going road. In lessthan ten minutes not a wagon or chaise was seen upon the village green. They were whirling homeward at the very best pace that the horses couldraise. Stiff old steeds vainly essayed a nimbler gait, but gave it up ina few rods, and fell back to the steady jog. Young horses, tired of longstanding, and with a strong yearning for evening oats, shot along thelevel ground, rushed up the little hills, or down upon the other side, in the most un-Sunday-like haste. The scene was not altogether unlikethe return from a military funeral, _to_ which men march with sad musicand slow, but _from_ which they return nimbly marching to the mostbrilliant quick-step. In half an hour Norwood was quiet again. The dinner, on Sunday, when forthe sake of the outlying population the two services are brought neartogether in the middle of the day, was usually deferred till theordinary supper hour. It was evident that the tone of the day waschanged. Children were not so strictly held in. There was no loudtalking, nor was laughing allowed, but a general feeling sprung uparound the table that the severer tasks of the day were ended. Devout and age-sobered people sat in a kind of golden twilight ofmeditation. The minister, in his well-ordered house, tired with a doubleservice, mingled thoughts both glad and sad. His tasks were ended. Hewas conscious that he had manfully done his best. But that best doing, as he reflected upon it, seemed so poor, so unworthy of the nobleness ofthe theme, and so relatively powerless upon the stubborn stuff of whichhis people's dispositions were made, that there remained a vague, unquiet sense of blame upon his conscience. It was Dr. Wentworth's habit to walk with his family in the garden, early in the morning and late in the afternoon. If early, Rose wasusually his company; in the afternoon the whole family, Agate Bissellalways excepted. She had in full measure that peculiar New Englandfeeling that Sunday is to be kept by staying in the house, except suchtime as is spent at church. And though she never, impliedly even, rebuked the doctor's resort to his garden, it was plain that deep downin her heart she thought it an improper way of spending Sunday; and inthat view she had the secret sympathy of almost all the noteworthyvillagers. Had any one, upon that day, made Agate a visit, unless forsome plain end of necessity or mercy, she would have deemed it apersonal affront. Sunday was the Lord's day. Agate acted as if any use of it for her ownpleasure would be literal and downright stealing. "We have six days for our own work. We ought not to begrudge the Lordone whole day. " Two circumstances distressed honest Agate's conscience. The one was thatthe incursion of summer visitors from the city was tending manifestly torelax the Sabbath, especially after the church services. The other wasthat Dr. Wentworth would occasionally allow Judge Bacon to call in anddiscuss with him topics suggested by the sermons. She once expressedherself in this wise:-- "Either Sunday is worth keeping, or it is not. If you do keep it, itought to be strictly done. But lately Sunday is raveling out at the end. We take it on like a summer dress, which in the morning is clean andsweet, but at night it is soiled at the bottom and much rumpledall over. " Dr. Wentworth sat with Rose on one side and her mother on the other, inthe honeysuckle corner, where the west could be seen, great trees lyingathwart the horizon and checkering the golden light with their darkmasses. Judge Bacon had turned the conversation upon this very topic. "I think our Sundays in New England are Puritan and Jewish more thanChristian. They are days of restriction rather than of joyousness. Theyare fast days, not feast days. " "Do you say that as a mere matter of historical criticism, or do youthink that they could be improved practically?" "Both. It is susceptible of proof that the early Christian Sunday was aday of triumph and of much social joy. It would be well if we couldfollow primitive example. " "Judge, I am hardly of your opinion. I should be unwilling to see ourNew England Sunday changed, except perhaps by a larger social liberty_in_ each family. Much might be done to make it attractive to children, and relieve older persons from _ennui_. But after all, we must judgethings by their fruits. If you bring me good apples, it is in vain toabuse the tree as craggy, rude, or homely. The fruit redeems the tree. " "A very comely figure, Doctor, but not very good reasoning. New Englandhas had something at work upon her beside her Sundays. What you call the'fruit' grew, a good deal of it at any rate, on other trees thanSunday trees. " "You are only partly right. New England character and history are theresult of a wide-spread system of influences of which the Sabbath daywas the type--and not only so, but the grand motive power. Almost everycause which has worked benignly among us has received its inspirationand impulse largely from this One Solitary Day of the week. "It is true that all the vegetable growths that we see about us heredepend upon a great variety of causes; but there is one cause that isthe condition of power in every other, and that is the Sun! And so, manyas have been the influences working at New England character, Sunday hasbeen a generic and multiplex force, inspiring and directing all others. It is indeed the _Sun's_ day. "It is a little singular that, borrowing the name from the heathencalendar, it should have tallied so well with the Scripture name, theLord's day--that Lord who was the Morning Star in early day, and atlength the Sun of Righteousness! "The Jews called it the Sabbath--a day of rest. Modern Christians callit the _Sun's_ day, or the day of light, warmth, and growth. If thisseems fanciful so far as the names of the day are concerned, it isstrikingly characteristic of the real spirit of the two days, in theancient and modern dispensation. I doubt if the old Jews ever kept aSabbath religiously, as we understand that term. Indeed, I suspect therewas not yet a religious strength in that national character that couldhold up religious feeling without the help of social and even physicaladjuvants. Their religious days were either fasts or like ourThanksgiving days. But the higher and richer moral nature which has beendeveloped by Christianity enables communities to sustain one day inseven upon a high spiritual plane, with the need of but very littlesocial help, and without the feasting element at all. " "That may be very well for a few saints like you and me, Doctor, but itis too high for the majority of men. Common people find the strictSundays a great annoyance, and clandestinely set them aside. " "I doubt it. There are a few in every society that live by theirsensuous nature. Sunday must be a dead day to them--a dark room. Nowonder they break through. But it is not so with the sturdy, unsophisticated laboring class in New England. If it came to a vote, youwould find that the farmers of New England would be the defenders of theday, even if screwed up to the old strictness. Their instinct is right. It is an observance that has always worked its best effects upon thecommon people, and if I were to change the name, I should call SundayTHE POOR MAN'S DAY. "Men do not yet perceive that the base of the brain is full ofdespotism, and the coronal brain is radiant with liberty. I mean thatthe laws and relations which grow out of men's relations in physicalthings are the sternest and hardest, and at every step in the assenttoward reason and spirituality, the relations grow more kindly and free. "Now, it is natural for men to prefer an animal life. By-and-by theywill learn that such a life necessitates force, absolutism. It isnatural for unreflecting men to complain when custom or institutionshold them up to some higher degree. But that higher degree has in it anelement of emancipation from the necessary despotisms of physical life. If it were possible to bring the whole community up to a plane ofspirituality, it would be found that there and there only could be thehighest measure of liberty. And this is my answer to those who grumbleat the restriction of Sunday liberty. It is only the liberty of thesenses that suffers. A higher and nobler civil liberty, moral liberty, social liberty, will work out of it. Sunday is the common people'sMagna Charta. " "Well done, Doctor! I give up. Hereafter you shall see me radiant onSunday. I must not get my hay in if storms do threaten to spoil it; butI shall give my conscience a hitch up, and take it out in that. I mustnot ride out; but then I shall regard every virtuous self-denial as amoral investment with good dividends coming in by-and-by. I can't letthe children frolic in the front dooryard; but then, while they sitwaiting for the sun to go down, and your _Sun_-day to be over, I shallconsole myself that they are one notch nearer an angelic condition everyweek. But good-night, good-night, Mrs. Wentworth. I hope you may notbecome so spiritual as quite to disdain the body. I really think, forthis world, the body has some respectable uses yet. Good-night, Rose. The angels take care of you, if there is one of them good enough. " And so the judge left. They sat silently looking at the sun, now but just above the horizon. Afew scarfs of cloud, brilliant with flame-color, and every momentchanging forms, seemed like winged spirits, half revealed, that hoveredround the retiring orb. Mrs. Wentworth at length broke the silence. "I always thought, Doctor, that you believed Sunday over-strictly kept, and that you were in favor of relaxation. " "I am. Just as fast as you can make it a day of real religiousenjoyment, it will relax itself. True and deep spiritual feeling is thefreest of all experiences. And it reconciles in itself the most perfectconsciousness of liberty with the most thorough observance of outwardrules and proprieties. Liberty is not an outward condition. It is aninward attribute, or rather a name for the quality of life produced bythe highest moral attributes. When communities come to that condition, we shall see fewer laws and higher morality. "The one great poem of New England is her Sunday! Through that she hasescaped materialism. That has been a crystal dome overhead, throughwhich Imagination has been kept alive. New England's imagination is tobe found, not in art and literature, but in her inventions, her socialorganism, and above all in her religious life. The Sabbath has been thenurse of that. When she ceases to have a Sunday, she will be as thislandscape is:--now growing dark, all its lines blurred, its distancesand gradations fast merging into sheeted darkness and night. Come, letus go in!" Copyrighted by Fords, Howard and Hulbert. LUDWIG VAN BEETHOVEN (1770-1827) BY E. IRENÆUS STEVENSON We are warned on high authority that no man can serve two masters. Thecaution should obtain in æsthetics as well as in ethics. As a generalrule, the painter must stick to his easel, the sculptor must carve, themusician must score or play or sing, the actor must act, --each with nomore than the merest coquettings with sister arts. Otherwise his geniusis apt to suffer from what are side-issues for temperament. To manyminds a taste, and even a singular capacity, for an avocation hasinjured the work done in the real vocation. [Illustration: BEETHOVEN] Of course there are exceptions. The versatility has not always beenfatal. We recall Leonardo, Angelo, Rossetti, and Blake among painters;in the ranks of musicians we note Hoffmann, Berlioz, Schumann, Wagner, Boito. In other art-paths, such personal pages as those of Cellini, andthe critical writings of Story, of to-day, may add their evidence. Theessentially autobiographic in such a connection must be accepted withreserve. So must be taken much admirable writing as to the art in whichthe critic or teacher has labored. Didactics are not necessarilyliterature. Perhaps the best basis of determining the right to literaryrecognition of men and women who have written and printed more or lesswithout actually professing letters, will be the interest of the matterthey have left to the kind of reader who does not care a pin about theirreal life-work, or about their self-expression as it really comesdown to us. In painting, the dual capacity--for the brush and for letters--has moreshining examples than in music. But with Beethoven, Schumann, Boito, andWagner, comes a striking succession of men who, as to autobiography orcriticism or verse, present a high quality of interest to the generalreader. In the instance of Beethoven the critical or essayistic side islimited. It is by his letters and diary that we study (only less vividlythan in his music) a character of profound depth and imposing nobility;a nature of exquisite sensitiveness. In them we follow, iffragmentarily, the battle of personality against environment, thesecrets of strong but high passion, the artist temperament, --endowedwith a dignity and a moral majesty seldom equaled in an art indeedcalled divine, but with children who frequently remind us that Panabsorbed in playing his syrinx has a goat's hoof. Beethoven in all his correspondence wrote himself down as what hewas, --a superior man, a mighty soul in many traits, as well as a supremecreative musician. His letters are absorbing, whether they breathe loveor anger, discouragement or joy, rebellion against untoward conditionsof daily life or solemn resignation. The religious quality, too, isstrong in them; that element more in touch with Deism than with one oranother orthodoxy. Withal, he is as sincere in every line of such matteras he was in the spoken word. His correspondence holds up the mirror tohis own nature, with its extremes of impulse and reserve, of affectionand austerity, of confidence and suspicion. It abounds, too, in thatbrusque yet seldom coarse humor which leaps up in the Finale of theSeventh Symphony, in the Eighth Symphony's waggery, the last movement ofthe Concerto in E flat. They offer likewise verbal admissions of suchdepression of heart as we recognize in the sternest episodes of thelater Sonatas and of the Galitzin Quartets, and in the awful Allegrettoof the Symphony in A. They hint at the amorous passion of the slowmovements of the Fourth and Ninth Symphonies, at the moral heroism ofthe Fifth, at the more human courage of the 'Heroic, ' at the mysticismof the Ninth's tremendous opening. In interesting relation to the group, and merely of superficial interest, are his hasty notes, his occasionalefforts to write in English or in French, his touches of musicalallusiveness. [Illustration: _BEETHOVEN. _ Photogravure from the Original Paintingby C. Jäger. ] It is not in the purpose of these prefatory paragraphs to a too-briefgroup of Beethoven's letters to enter upon his biography. That isessentially a musician's life; albeit the life of a musician who, as Mr. Edward Dannreuther suggests, leaves behind him the domain of mere artand enters upon that of the seer and the prophet. He was born in Bonn in1770, on a day the date of which is not certain (though we know that hisbaptism was December 17th). His youth was not a sunshiny period. Poverty, neglect, a drunken father, violin lessons under compulsion, were the circumstances ushering him into his career. He was for a brieftime a pupil of Mozart; just enough so to preserve that succession ofroyal geniuses expressed in linking Mozart to Haydn, and in rememberingthat Liszt played for Beethoven and that Schubert stood besideBeethoven's last sick-bed. High patronage and interest gradually tookthe composer under its care. Austria and Germany recognized him, England accepted him early, universal intelligence became enthusiasticover utterances in art that seemed as much innovations as Wagneristicwriting seemed to the next generation. In Vienna, Beethoven may be saidto have passed his life. There were the friends to whom he wrote--whounderstood and loved him. Afflicted early with a deafness that becametotal, --the irony of fate, --the majority of his master-works wereevolved from a mind shut away from the pleasures and disturbances ofearthly sounds, and beset by invalidism and suffering. Naturally genial, he grew morbidly sensitive. Infirmities of temper as well as of bodymarked him for their own. But underneath all superficial shortcomings ofhis intensely human nature was a Shakespearean dignity of moral andintellectual individuality. It is not necessary here even to touch on the works that follow him. They stand now as firmly as ever--perhaps more firmly--in the honor andthe affection of all the world of auditors in touch with the highestexpressions in the tone-world. The mere mention of such monuments as thesonatas, the nine symphonies, the Mass in D minor, the magnificent chainof overtures, the dramatic concert-arias, does not exhaust the list. They are the vivid self-expressions of one who learned in suffering whathe taught in song: a man whose personality impressed itself into almosteverything that he wrote, upon almost every one whom he met, and whotowers up as impressively as the author of 'Hamlet, ' the sculptor of'Moses, ' the painter of 'The Last Supper. ' It is perhaps interesting to mention that the very chirography ofBeethoven's letters is eloquent of the man. Handwriting is apt to be. Mendelssohn, the well-balanced, the precise, wrote like copper-plate. Wagner wrote a fine strong hand, seldom with erasures. Spontini, thesoldier-like, wrote with the decision of a soldier. Beethoven's lettersand notes are in a large, open, dashing hand, often scrawls, always withthe blackest of ink, full of changes, and not a flourish to spare--thehandwriting of impulse and carelessness as to form, compared with awriter's desire of making his meaning clear. [Illustration: Signature: E. IRENÆUS STEVENSON] FROM LETTER TO DR. WEGELER, VIENNA In what an odious light have you exhibited me to myself! Oh! Iacknowledge it, I do not deserve your friendship. It was no intentionalor deliberate malice that induced me to act towards you as I did--butinexcusable thoughtlessness alone. I say no more. I am coming to throw myself into your arms, and toentreat you to restore me my lost friend; and you will give him back tome, to your penitent, loving, and ever grateful BEETHOVEN. TO THE SAME VIENNA, June 29th, 1800. _My dear and valued Wegeler:_ How much I thank you for your remembrance of me, little as I deserve itor have sought to deserve it; and yet you are so kind that you allownothing, not even my unpardonable neglect, to discourage you, alwaysremaining the same true, good, and faithful friend. That I can everforget you or yours, once so dear and precious to me, do not for amoment believe. There are times when I find myself longing to see youagain, and wishing that I could go to stay with you. My fatherland, thatlovely region where I first saw the light, is still as distinct andbeauteous in my eyes as when I quitted you; in short, I shall esteem thetime when I once more see you, and again greet Father Rhine, as one ofthe happiest periods of my life. When this may be I cannot yet tell, butat all events I may say that you shall not see me again till I havebecome not only eminent as an artist, but better and more perfect as aman; and if the condition of our fatherland be then more prosperous, myart shall be entirely devoted to the benefit of the poor. Oh, blissfulmoment!--how happy do I esteem myself that I can expedite it and bringit to pass! You desire to know something of my position: well! it is by no meansbad. However incredible it may appear, I must tell you that Lichnowskyhas been, and still is, my warmest friend (slight dissensions occurredoccasionally between us, and yet they only served to strengthen ourfriendship). He settled on me last year the sum of six hundred florins, for which I am to draw on him till I can procure some suitablesituation. My compositions are very profitable, and I may really saythat I have almost more commissions than it is possible for me toexecute. I can have six or seven publishers or more for every piece if Ichoose: they no longer bargain with me--I demand, and they pay--so yousee this is a very good thing. For instance, I have a friend indistress, and my purse does not admit of my assisting him at once, but Ihave only to sit down and write, and in a short time he is relieved. Iam also become more economical than formerly. .. . To give you some idea of my extraordinary deafness, I must tell you thatin the theatre I am obliged to lean close up against the orchestra inorder to understand the actors, and when a little way off I hear none ofthe high notes of instruments or singers. It is most astonishing that inconversation some people never seem to observe this; as I am subject tofits of absence, they attribute it to that cause. Often I can scarcelyhear a person if he speaks low; I can distinguish the tones but not thewords, and yet I feel it intolerable if any one shouts to me. Heavenalone knows how it is to end! Vering declares that I shall certainlyimprove, even if I be not entirely restored. How often have I cursed myexistence! Plutarch led me to resignation. I shall strive if possible toset Fate at defiance, although there must be moments in my life when Icannot fail to be the most unhappy of God's creatures. I entreat you tosay nothing of my affliction to any one, not even to Lorchen. I confidethe secret to you alone, and entreat you some day to correspond withVering on the subject. If I continue in the same state, I shall come toyou in the ensuing spring, when you must engage a house for me somewherein the country, amid beautiful scenery, and I shall then become a rusticfor a year, which may perhaps effect a change. Resignation!--what amiserable refuge! and yet it is my sole remaining one. You will forgivemy thus appealing to your kindly sympathies at a time when your ownposition is sad enough. Farewell, my kind, faithful Wegeler! Rest assured of the love andfriendship of your BEETHOVEN. FROM THE LETTERS TO BETTINA BRENTANO Never was there a lovelier spring than this year; I say so, and feel ittoo, because it was then I first knew you. You have yourself seen thatin society I am like a fish on the sand, which writhes and writhes, butcannot get away till some benevolent Galatea casts it back into themighty ocean. I was indeed fairly stranded, dearest friend, whensurprised by you at a moment in which moroseness had entirely masteredme; but how quickly it vanished at your aspect! I was at once consciousthat you came from another sphere than this absurd world, where, withthe best inclinations, I cannot open my ears. I am a wretched creature, and yet I complain of others!! You will forgive this from the goodnessof heart that beams in your eyes, and the good sense manifested by yourears; at least they understand how to flatter, by the mode in which theylisten. My ears are, alas! a partition-wall, through which I can withdifficulty hold any intercourse with my fellow-creatures. Otherwiseperhaps I might have felt more assured with you; but I was onlyconscious of the full, intelligent glance from your eyes, which affectedme so deeply that never can I forget it. My dear friend! dearestgirl!--Art! who comprehends it? with whom can I discuss this mightygoddess? How precious to me were the few days when we talked together, or, I should rather say, corresponded! I have carefully preserved thelittle notes with your clever, charming, most charming answers; so Ihave to thank my defective hearing for the greater part of our fugitiveintercourse being written down. Since you left this I have had someunhappy hours, --hours of the deepest gloom, when I could do nothing. Iwandered for three hours in the Schönbrunn Allée after you left us, butno _angel_ met me there to take possession of me as you did. Prayforgive, my dear friend, this deviation from the original key, but Imust have such intervals as a relief to my heart. You have no doubtwritten to Goethe about me? I would gladly bury my head in a sack, sothat I might neither see nor hear what goes on in the world, because Ishall meet you there no more; but I shall get a letter from you? Hopesustains me, as it does half the world; through life she has been myclose companion, or what would have become of me? I send you 'Kennst Dudas Land, ' written with my own hand, as a remembrance of the hour when Ifirst knew you. .. . If you mention me when you write to Goethe, strive to find wordsexpressive of my deep reverence and admiration. I am about to write tohim myself with regard to 'Egmont, ' for which I have written some musicsolely from my love for his poetry, which always delights me. Who can besufficiently grateful to a great poet, --the most precious jewel ofa nation! Kings and princes can indeed create professors and privy-councillors, and confer titles and decorations, but they cannot make great men, --spirits that soar above the base turmoil of this world. There their powers fail, and this it is that forces them to respect us. When two persons like Goethe and myself meet, these grandees cannot fail to perceive what such as we consider great. Yesterday on our way home we met the whole Imperial family; we saw them coming some way off, when Goethe withdrew his arm from mine, in order to stand aside; and say what I would, I could not prevail on him to make another step in advance. I pressed down my hat more firmly on my head, buttoned up my great-coat, and crossing my arms behind me, I made my way through the thickest portion of the crowd. Princes and courtiers formed a lane for me; Archduke Rudolph took off his hat, and the Empress bowed to me first. These great ones of the earth _know me_. To my infinite amusement, I saw the procession defile past Goethe, who stood aside with his hat off, bowing profoundly. I afterwards took him sharply to task for this; I gave him no quarter and upbraided him with all his sins. TO COUNTESS GIULIETTA GUICCIARDI MONDAY EVENING, July 6th. You grieve! dearest of all beings! I have just heard that the lettersmust be sent off very early. Mondays and Thursdays are the only dayswhen the post goes to K---- from here. You grieve! Ah! where I am, thereyou are ever with me: how earnestly shall I strive to pass my life withyou, and what a life will it be!!! Whereas now!! without you!! andpersecuted by the kindness of others, which I neither deserve nor tryto deserve! The servility of man towards his fellow-man pains me, andwhen I regard myself as a component part of the universe, what am I, what is he who is called the greatest?--and yet herein are displayed thegodlike feelings of humanity!--I weep in thinking that you will receiveno intelligence from me till probably Saturday. However dearly you maylove me, I love you more fondly still. Never conceal your feelings fromme. Good-night! As a patient at these baths, I must now go to rest. [Afew words are here effaced by Beethoven himself. ] Oh, heavens! so near, and yet so far! Is not our love a truly celestial mansion, but firm asthe vault of heaven itself? JULY 7th. Good morning! Even before I rise, my thoughts throng to you, my immortalbeloved!--sometimes full of joy, and yet again sad, waiting to seewhether Fate will hear us. I must live either wholly with you, or not atall. Indeed, I have resolved to wander far from you till the momentarrives when I can fly into your arms, and feel that they are my home, and send forth my soul in unison with yours into the realm of spirits. Alas! it must be so! You will take courage, for you know my fidelity. Never can another possess my heart--never, never! Oh, heavens! Why mustI fly from her I so fondly love? and yet my existence in W--was asmiserable as here. Your love made me the most happy and yet the mostunhappy of men. At my age, life requires a uniform equality; can this befound in our mutual relations? My angel! I have this moment heard thatthe post goes every day, so I must conclude that you may get this letterthe sooner. Be calm! for we can only attain our object of livingtogether by the calm contemplation of our existence. Continue to loveme. Yesterday, to-day, what longings for you, what tears for you! foryou! for you! my life! my all! Farewell! Oh, love me for ever, and neverdoubt the faithful heart of your lover, L. Ever thine. Ever mine. Ever each other's. TO MY BROTHERS CARL AND JOHANN BEETHOVEN HEILIGENSTADT, Oct. 6th, 1802. Oh! Ye who think or declare me to be hostile, morose, andmisanthropical, how unjust you are, and how little you know the secretcause of what appears thus to you! My heart and mind were ever fromchildhood prone to the most tender feelings of affection, and I wasalways disposed to accomplish something great. But you must rememberthat six years ago I was attacked by an incurable malady, aggravated byunskillful physicians, deluded from year to year, too, by the hope ofrelief, and at length forced to the conviction of a _lasting affliction_(the cure of which may go on for years, and perhaps after all proveimpracticable). Born with a passionate and excitable temperament, keenly susceptible tothe pleasures of society, I was yet obliged early in life to isolatemyself, and to pass my existence in solitude. If I at any time resolvedto surmount all this, oh! how cruelly was I again repelled by theexperience, sadder than ever, of my defective hearing!--and yet I foundit impossible to say to others: Speak louder, shout! for I am deaf!Alas! how could I proclaim the deficiency of a sense which ought to havebeen more perfect with me than with other men--a sense which I oncepossessed in the highest perfection, to an extent indeed that few of myprofession ever enjoyed! Alas! I cannot do this! Forgive me thereforewhen you see me withdraw from you with whom I would so gladly mingle. Mymisfortune is doubly severe from causing me to be misunderstood. Nolonger can I enjoy recreation in social intercourse, refinedconversation, or mutual outpourings of thought. Completely isolated, Ionly enter society when compelled to do so. I must live like an exile. In company I am assailed by the most painful apprehensions, from thedread of being exposed to the risk of my condition being observed. Itwas the same during the last six months I spent in the country. Myintelligent physician recommended me to spare my hearing as much aspossible, which was quite in accordance with my present disposition, though sometimes, tempted by my natural inclination for society, Iallowed myself to be beguiled into it. But what humiliation when any onebeside me heard a flute in the far distance, while I heard _nothing_, orwhen others heard _a shepherd singing_, and I still heard _nothing!_Such things brought me to the verge of desperation, and well-nigh causedme to put an end to my life. _Art! art_ alone, deterred me. Ah! howcould I possibly quit the world before bringing forth all that I felt itwas my vocation to produce? And thus I spared this miserable life--soutterly miserable that any sudden change may reduce me at any momentfrom my best condition into the worst. It is decreed that I must nowchoose _Patience_ for my guide! This I have done. I hope the resolvewill not fail me, steadfastly to persevere till it may please theinexorable Fates to cut the thread of my life. Perhaps I may get better, perhaps not. I am prepared for either. Constrained to become aphilosopher in my twenty-eighth year! This is no slight trial, and moresevere on an artist than on any one else. God looks into my heart, hesearches it, and knows that love for man and feelings of benevolencehave their abode there! Oh! ye who may one day read this, think that youhave done me injustice; and let any one similarly afflicted be consoledby finding one like himself, who, in defiance of all the obstacles ofnature, has done all in his power to be included in the ranks ofestimable artists and men. My brothers Carl and Johann, as soon as I amno more, if Professor Schmidt be still alive, beg him in my name todescribe my malady, and to add these pages to the analysis of mydisease, that at least, so far as possible, the world may be reconciledto me after my death. I also hereby declare you both heirs of my smallfortune (if so it may be called). Share it fairly, agree together andassist each other. You know that anything you did to give me pain hasbeen long forgiven. I thank you, my brother Carl in particular, for theattachment you have shown me of late. My wish is that you may enjoy ahappier life, and one more free from care than mine has been. Recommend_Virtue_ to your children; that alone, and not wealth, can insurehappiness. I speak from experience. It was _Virtue_ alone whichsustained me in my misery; I have to thank her and Art for not havingended my life by suicide. Farewell! Love each other. I gratefully thankall my friends, especially Prince Lichnowsky and Professor Schmidt. Iwish one of you to keep Prince L--'s instruments; but I trust this willgive rise to no dissension between you. If you think it more beneficial, however, you have only to dispose of them. How much I shall rejoice if Ican serve you even in the grave! So be it then! I joyfully hasten tomeet Death. If he comes before I have had the opportunity of developingall my artistic powers, then, notwithstanding my cruel fate, he willcome too early for me, and I should wish for him at a more distantperiod; but even then I shall be content, for his advent will release mefrom a state of endless suffering. Come when he may, I shall meet himwith courage. Farewell! Do not quite forget me, even in death: I deservethis from you, because during my life I so often thought of you, andwished to make you happy. Amen! LUDWIG VAN BEETHOVEN. [_Written on the outside_. ] Thus, then, I take leave of you, and with sadness too. The fond hope Ibrought with me here, of being to a certain degree cured, now utterlyforsakes me. As autumn leaves fall and wither, so are my hopes blighted. Almost as I came, I depart. Even the lofty courage that so oftenanimated me in the lovely days of summer is gone forever. O Providence!vouchsafe me one day of pure felicity! How long have I been estrangedfrom the glad echo of true joy! When! O my God! when shall I again feelit in the temple of nature and of man?--never? Ah! that would betoo hard! To be read and fulfilled after my death by my brothers Carl and Johann. TO THE ROYAL AND IMPERIAL HIGH COURT OF APPEAL JANUARY 7th, 1820. The welfare of my nephew is dearer to my heart than it can be to any oneelse. I am myself childless, and have no relations except this boy, whois full of talent, and I have good grounds to hope the best for him, ifproperly trained. * * * * * My efforts and wishes have no other aim than to give the boy the bestpossible education--his abilities justifying the brightest hopes--and tofulfill the trust placed in my brotherly love by his father. The shootis still flexible; but if longer neglected it will become crooked andoutgrow the gardener's training hand, and upright bearing, intellect, and character be destroyed for ever. .. . I know no duty more sacred than the education and training of a child. The chief duties of a guardian consist in knowing how to appreciate whatis good, and in adopting a right course; then alone has proper attentionbeen devoted to the welfare of his ward, whereas in opposing what isgood he neglects his duty. Indeed, keeping in view what is most for the benefit of the boy, I donot object to the mother in so far sharing in the duties of a guardian, that she may visit her son, and see him, and be apprised of all themeasures adopted for his education; but to intrust her with his soleguardianship without a strict guardian by her side would cause theirretrievable ruin of her son. On these cogent grounds I reiterate my well-founded solicitation, andfeel the more confident of a favorable answer, as the welfare of mynephew alone guides my steps in this affair. TO BARONESS VON DROSSDICK I live in entire quiet and solitude; and even though occasional flashesof light arouse me, still since you all left, I feel a hopeless voidwhich even my art, usually so faithful to me, has not yet triumphedover. Your pianoforte is ordered, and you shall soon have it. What adifference you must have discovered between the treatment of the Theme Iextemporized on the other evening, and the mode in which I have recentlywritten it out for you! You must explain this yourself, only do not findthe solution in the punch! How happy you are to get away so soon to thecountry! I cannot enjoy this luxury till the 8th. I look forward to itwith the delight of a child. What happiness I shall feel in wanderingamong groves and woods, and among trees and plants and rocks! No man onearth can love the country as I do! Thickets, trees, and rocks supplythe echo man longs for! TO ZMESKALL 1811. Most high-born of men! We beg you to confer some goose-quills on us; we will in return send youa whole bunch of the same sort, that you may not be obliged to pluck outyour own. It is just possible that you may yet receive the Grand Crossof the Order of the Violoncello. We remain your gracious and mostfriendly of all friends, BEETHOVEN. TO ZMESKALL FEBRUARY 2d, 1812. Most wonderful of men! We beg that your servant will engage a person to fit up my apartment; ashe is acquainted with the lodgings, he can fix the proper price at once. Do this soon, you Carnival scamp!!!!!!! The inclosed note is at least a week old. TO HIS BROTHER JOHANN BADEN, May 6th, 1825. The bell and bell-pulls, etc. , etc. , are on no account whatever to beleft in my former lodging. No proposal was ever made to these people totake any of my things. Indisposition prevented my sending for it, andthe locksmith had not come during my stay to take down the bell;otherwise it might have been at once removed and sent to me in town, asthey have no right whatever to retain it. Be this as it may, I am quitedetermined not to leave the bell there, for I require one here, andtherefore intend to use the one in question for my purpose, as a similarone would cost me twice as much as in Vienna, bell-pulls being the mostexpensive things locksmiths have. If necessary, apply at once to thepolice. The window in my room is precisely in the same state as when Itook possession, but I am willing to pay for it, and also for the one inthe kitchen, 2 florins 12 kreuzers, for the two. The key I will not payfor, as I found none; on the contrary, the door was fastened or nailedup when I came, and remained in the same condition till I left; therenever was a key, so of course neither I myself, nor those who precededme, could make use of one. Perhaps it is intended to make a collection, in which case I am willing to put my hand in my pocket. LUDWIG VAN BEETHOVEN. TO STEPHAN V. BREUNING _My dear and much loved Stephan_: May our temporary estrangement be for ever effaced by the portrait I nowsend. I know that I have rent your heart. The emotion which you cannotfail now to see in mine has sufficiently punished me for it. There wasno malice towards you in my heart, for then I should be no longer worthyof your friendship. It was _passion_ both on _your_ part and on _mine_;but mistrust was rife within me, for people had come between us, unworthy both of _you_ and of _me_. My portrait was long ago intended for you; you knew that it was destinedfor some one--and to whom could I give it with such warmth of heart, asto you, my faithful, good, and noble Stephan? Forgive me for having grieved you, but I did not myself suffer less whenI no longer saw you near me. I then first keenly felt how dear you were, and ever will be to my heart. Surely you will once more fly to my armsas you formerly did. CARL MICHAEL BELLMAN (1740-1795) BY OLGA FLINCH Carl Michael Bellman was born in Stockholm on the 4th of February, 1740. His father, son of a professor at Upsala University, held a governmentoffice; of his mother he wrote that she was "fair as day, unspeakablygood, dressed prettily, was kind to everybody, of a refined nature, andhad an excellent voice. " From her he undoubtedly inherited the warm, genial heart which beats in every one of his songs. His father's housewas the rendezvous of many of the noted men of the day, among them thepoet Dalin, who was then at the zenith of his popularity. The boy'sunusual gifts were early recognized, and everything was done to give himthe best instruction, especially after an attack of fever, during whichhe not only spoke in rhyme, but sang his first improvised songs in aclear, true voice. The tutor who was then chosen taught him, "besidesthe art of making verse, " English, French, German, and Italian; and heprogressed far enough in these studies to translate several German hymnsand religious and philosophic essays, no doubt influenced in this choiceof subjects by the religious atmosphere of his home. Moreover, he taughthimself to play the zither, and very soon began to pick out his ownmelodies as an accompaniment to his songs. The instrument he used hadbeen brought home from Italy by his grandfather, became his closestcompanion throughout life, and is now kept at the Royal Academy of Artsat Stockholm. At eighteen he entered the University of Upsala, and while there wrote asatirical poem, "The Moon, " which he submitted to the criticism ofDalin, who however made but a single correction. It was written in themanner of Dalin, and he continued to be influenced by the latter untilhis twenty-fifth year. At this time, and within the same year, hisfather and mother died, and seeking among his friends the socialstimulus which his nature craved, he became a frequent guest at the innsin the company of Hallman and Krexel, who were making their mark bytheir poetic and dramatic writings. It was then that his peculiar talentcame to its own; he threw away all foreign influence and began to singhis songs, born of the impression of the moment and full of the charm ofspontaneity. Some of them he jotted down quickly, most of them he sangto the sound of his zither, often fashioning them to suit well-knownmelodies, and again creating the melody with the words, for the greaterpart set in a form of verse not previously used. And so inseparablylinked are words and melody, that it has not occurred to any one to setany other music to Bellman's songs than what he originally chose. Hetook all his characters out of the life he saw around him; and with theappreciation of the man to whom the present is everything, he seized thecharm of the fleeting moment and expressed it with such simplicity andtruth, and deep feeling withal, that it stands forth immortally freshand young. A number of these songs have probably been lost; he had nothirst for fame, and took no pains to circulate them, but they foundtheir way to the public in written copies and cheap prints, and his namewas soon known throughout the country. This way of living and singing like the birds of the air was, however, not very conducive to the satisfaction of material wants. He had madetwo attempts to go into business, but the more he was seen at the inns, the less he was seen at his business. Fortunately for him, Gustavus III. , who was himself a poet, became atthis time king of Sweden. He was an adherent of the French school ofpoetry, and Bellman's muse could hardly be said to belong to this: butwith considerable talent as a dramatic writer, Gustavus appreciated thedramatic quality in Bellman's songs; and when Bellman sent him a rhymedpetition, still kept, in which he wrote that "if his Majesty would notmost graciously give him an office, he would most obediently be obligedto starve to death before Christmas, " the king made him secretary of thelottery, with the title of court secretary, and a yearly income of threethousand dollars. Bellman promptly gave half of this to an assistant, who did the work, and continued his troubadour life on the other halfwith a superb disdain of future needs. His affairs so well in order, hecould afford to get married; and chose for his wife Lovisa Grönlund, agirl of a bright intellect and strong character, of which she ultimatelyhad great need, the responsibilities of their married life being leftaltogether to her. Bellman was now at his best; about this time he wrote most of 'Fredman'sSongs' and 'Actions concerning the Chapter of Bacchus order. ' both richin lyric gems; he was the favorite companion of the King, to whom hisdevotion was boundless, and he was happy in his chosen friends whosecompany inspired him. Nevertheless he was now, as ever, in need ofmoney. Atterbom tells that "One day the King met him on the street, sopoorly dressed that he instinctively exclaimed, 'My dear Bellman, howpoorly you are clad!' The poet answered with a bow, 'I can neverthelessmost obediently assure your Majesty that I am wearing my entirewardrobe. '" His ready wit never left him. "How goes the world with you?"asked the King once when they met; "you don't look to me as if you couldturn a single rhyme to-day. " The poet bowed and replied on the spur ofthe moment:-- "No scrip my purse doth hold; My lyre's unstrung, alas! But yet upon my glass Stands Gustaf's name in gold. " Another time the King sent his men for him, with the order to bring himin whatever condition they found him. "He was found not entirely freefrom drink, and not very presentable, but was nevertheless carried off, zither and all, to Haga Castle, where he drank some champagne, sang somesongs, drank a little more, and finally fell asleep. The King left himso to go to his supper; and when he returned and found his guest stillsleeping, he remarked, 'I wonder what Bellman would say if I awoke himnow and asked him to give me a song. ' The poet sat up, blinked with hiseyes, and said, 'Then Bellman would say, --listen;' whereupon he sang tothe tune of 'Malbrouck s'en va-t-en guerre':-- "'Oh, so heavily, heavily trailing, The clouds over Haga are sailing, And the stars their bright glances are veiling, While woods in the gloom disappear. Go, King, thy rest is dear, Go, King, thy respite taking, Rest softly, rest softly, then waking, When dawn through the darkness is breaking, Thy people with mild rule thou cheer!' Then he fell into his former position again, and was carried home asleepwith a little gift in his hand. " The task of collecting, preserving, and publishing his works fellentirely upon his friends; if it had depended on him, they wouldprobably never have been collected, much less published. During the last fifteen years of his life, from 1780 to 1795, his healthgrew very poor. In 1791 he was invited to be present at the distributionof degrees at Upsala, and at the dinner he returned a toast with a songborn of the moment; but his voice had grown so weak from lung troublethat only those nearest to him could hear him. To add to his sufferings, he had to meet the great sorrow of his King's death at the hand of amurderer, and his poem on the 'Death and Memory of the King' was not ofa nature to make friends for him at the new court. Thus it happenedthat, poor and broken in health, he was put into the debtor's prison inthe very castle where he had been so happy a guest. Hallman and Krexeland others of his best friends, as devoted to him as ever, were unableto obtain his release; but he was at last bailed out by some one, who asrecompense asked him to sing one of his jolly songs, and in his poorbroken voice he sang. 'Drink out thy glass, see, Death awaits thee. 'Atterbom remarks about the man in question, "And maybe he did not findthat song so jolly after all. " While in prison he sent in a petition to the King, --somewhat differentfrom his first petition to Gustavus III. , --in which he asked permissionto live in the castle until his death. The following is one ofthe verses:-- "Spring commands; the birds are singing, Bees are swarming, fishes play; Now and then the zephyrs stray, Breath of life the poet bringing. Lift my load of sorrow clinging, Spare me one small nook, I pray. " Of his death Atterbom writes as follows:-- "He had been the favorite of the nation and the King, content with the mere necessities of life, free from every care, not even desiring the immortality of fame; moderate in everything except in enthusiasm, he had enjoyed to the full what he wanted, --friendship, wine, and music. Now he lived to see the shadows fall over his life and genius. Feeling that his last hour was not far off, he sent word to his nearest friends that a meeting with them as in old times would be dear to him. He came to meet them almost a shadow, but with his old friendly smile; even in the toasts he took part, however moderately, and then he announced that he would let them 'hear Bellman once more. ' The spirit of song took possession of him, more powerfully than ever, and all the rays of his dying imagination were centred in an improvised good-by song. Throughout an entire night, under continual inspiration, he sang his happy life, his mild King's glory, his gratitude to Providence, who let him be born among a noble people in this beautiful Northern country, --finally he gave his grateful good-by to every one present, in a separate strophe and melody expressing the peculiar individuality of the one addressed and his relation to the poet. His friends begged him with tears to stop, and spare his already much weakened lungs; but he replied, 'Let us die, as we have lived, in music!'--emptied his last glass of champagne, and began at dawn the last verse of his song. " After this he sang no more. A few days later he went to bed, lingeredfor ten weeks, and died on the 11th of February, 1795, aged fifty-fouryears. He was buried in Clara cemetery. Bellman's critics have given themselves much trouble about his personalcharacter. Some have thought him little better than a coarse drunkard;others again have made him out a cynic who sneered at the life hedepicted; again others have laid the weight on the note found in 'Drinkout thy glass, ' and have seen only the underlying sad pathos of hissongs. His contemporaries agree that he was a man of great considerationfor form, and assert that if there are coarse passages in his songs itis because they only could express what he depicted. All coarseness wasforeign to his nature; he was reserved and somewhat shy, and only in thecompany of his chosen few did he open his heart. His critics have, moreover, assiduously sought the moral of his works. If any was intended, it may have been that of fighting sentimentalityand all false feeling; but it seems more in accordance with his entirelife that he sang out of the fullness of his heart, as a bird sings, simply because it must sing. [Illustration: Signature: OLGA FLINCH] TO ULLA Ulla, mine Ulla, tell me, may I hand thee Reddest of strawberries in milk or wine? Or from the pond a lively fish? Command me! Or, from the well, a bowl of water fine? Doors are blown open, the wind gets the blaming. Perfumes exhale from flower and tree. Clouds fleck the sky and the sun rises flaming, As you see! Isn't it heavenly--the fish market? So? "Heavenly, oh heavenly!" "See the stately trees there, standing row on row, -- Fresh, green leaves show! And that pretty bay Sparkling there?" "Ah yes!" "And, seen where sunbeams play, The meadows' loveliness? Are they not heavenly--those bright fields?--Confess!"-- Heavenly! Heavenly! Skål and good-noon, fair one in window leaning, Hark how the city bells their peals prolong! See how the dust the verdant turf is screening, Where the calashes and the wagons throng! Hand from the window--he's drowsy, the speaker, In my saddle I nod, cousin mine-- Primo a crust, and secundo a beaker, Hochländer wine! Isn't it heavenly--the fish-market? So? "Heavenly, oh heavenly!" "See the stately trees there, standing row on row, -- Fresh, green leaves show! And that pretty bay Sparkling there?" "Ah yes!" "And, seen where sunbeams play, The meadows' loveliness? Are they not heavenly--those bright fields?--Confess!"-- Heavenly! Heavenly! Look, Ulla dear! To the stable they're taking Whinnying, prancing, my good steed, I see. Still in his stall-door he lifts his head, making Efforts to look up to thee: just to thee! Nature itself into flames will be bursting; Keep those bright eyes in control! Klang! at your casement my heart, too, is thirsting. Klang! Your Skål! Isn't it heavenly--the fish-market? So? "Heavenly, oh heavenly!" "See the stately trees there, standing row on row, -- Fresh, green leaves show! And that pretty bay Sparkling there?" "Ah yes!" "And, seen where sunbeams play, The meadows' loveliness? Are they not heavenly--those bright fields?--Confess!"-- Heavenly! Heavenly! CRADLE-SONG FOR MY SON CARL Little Carl, sleep soft and sweet: Thou'lt soon enough be waking; Soon enough ill days thou'lt meet, Their bitterness partaking. Earth's an isle with grief o'ercast; Breathe our best, death comes at last, We but dust forsaking. Once, where flowed a peaceful brook Through a rye-field's stubble, Stood a little boy to look At himself; his double. Sweet the picture was to see; All at once it ceased to be; Vanished like a bubble! And thus it is with life, my pet, And thus the years go flying; Live we wisely, gaily, yet There's no escape from dying. Little Carl on this must muse When the blossoms bright he views On spring's bosom lying. Slumber, little friend so wee; Joy thy joy is bringing. Clipped from paper thou shalt see A sleigh, and horses springing; Then a house of cards so tall We will build and see it fall, And little songs be singing. * * * * * AMARYLLIS Up, Amarylis! Darling, awaken! Through the still bracken Soft airs swell; Iris, all dightly, Vestured so brightly, Coloreth lightly Wood and dell. Amaryllis, thy sweet name pronouncing, Thee in Neptune's cool embrace announcing. Slumber's god the while his sway renouncing, O'er your eyes sighs, and speech yields his spell. Now comes the fishing! The net we fasten; This minute hasten! Follow me! Don your skirt and jacket And veil, or you'll lack it; Pike and trout wait a racket; Sails flap free. Waken, Amaryllis, darling, waken! Let me not by thy smile be forsaken: Then by dolphins and fair sirens overtaken, In our gay boat we'll sport in company. Come now, your rods, lines, and nets with you taking! The day is breaking; Hasten thee nigh! Sweet little treasure, Think ill in no measure; For thee 'twere no pleasure Me to deny. Let us to the little shallows wander, Or beside the inlet over yonder, Where the pledge-knot made our fond love fonder, O'er which Thyrsis erst was moved to sigh. Step in the boat, then--both of us singing, Love his wand swinging Over our fate. Æol is moving, But though wild proving, In your arms loving Comfort doth wait. Blest, on angry waves of ocean riding, By thee clasped, vain 'twere this dear thought hiding: Death shall find me in thy pathway biding. Sirens, sing ye, and my voice imitate! ART AND POLITICS "Good servant Mollberg, what's happened to thee, Whom without coat and hatless I see? Bloody thy mouth--and thou'rt lacking a tooth! Where have you been, brother?--tell me the truth. " "At Rostock, good sir, Did the trouble occur. Over me and my harp An argument sharp Arose, touching my playing--pling plingeli plang; And a bow-legged cobbler coming along Struck me in the mouth--pling plingeli plang. "I sat there and played--no carouse could one see-- The Polish Queen's Polka--G-major the key: The best kind of people were gathered around, And each drank his schoppen 'down to the ground. ' I don't know just how Began freshly the row, But some one from my head Knocked my hat, and thus said: 'What is Poland to thee?'--Pling plingeli plang-- 'Play us no polka!' Another one sang: 'Now silent be!'--Pling plingeli plang. "Hear, my Maecenas, what still came to pass. As I sat there in quiet, enjoying my glass, On Poland's condition the silence I broke: 'Know ye, good people, ' aloud thus I spoke, 'That all monarchs I On this earth do defy My harp to prevent From giving song vent Throughout all this land--pling plingeli plang! Did only a single string to it hang, I'd play a polka--pling plingeli plang!' "There sat in the corner a sergeant old, Two notaries and a dragoon bold, Who cried 'Down with him! The cobbler is right! Poland earns the meeds of her evil might!' From behind the stove came An old squint-eyed dame, And flung at the harp Glass broken and sharp; But the cobbler--pling plingeli plang-- Made a terrible hole in my neck--that long! There hast thou the story--pling plingeli plang. "O righteous world! Now I ask of thee If I suffered not wrongly?" "Why, certainly!" "Was I not innocent?" "Bless you, most sure!" "The harp rent asunder, my nose torn and sore, Twas hard treatment, I trow! Now no better I know Than to go through the land With my harp in my hand, Play for Bacchus and Venus--kling klang-- With masters best that e'er played or sang; Attend me, Apollo!--pling plingeli plang. " DRINK OUT THY GLASS Drink out thy glass! See, on thy threshold, nightly, Staying his sword, stands Death, awaiting thee. Be not alarmed; the grave-door, opened slightly, Closes again; a full year it may be Ere thou art dragged, poor sufferer, to the grave. Pick the octave! Tune up the strings! Sing of life with glee! Golden's the hue thy dull, wan cheeks are showing; Shrunken's thy chest, and flat each shoulder-blade. Give me thy hand! Each dark vein, larger growing, Is, to my touch, as if in water laid. Damp are these hands; stiff are these veins becoming. Pick now, and strumming, Empty thy bottle! Sing! drink unafraid. . . . . . Skål, then, my boy! Old Bacchus sends last greeting; Freya's farewell receive thou, o'er thy bowl. Fast in her praise thy thin blood flows, repeating Its old-time force, as it was wont to roll. Sing, read, forget; nay, think and weep while thinking. Art thou for drinking Another bottle? Thou art dead? No Skål! JEREMY BENTHAM (1748-1832) Bentham, whose name rightly stands sponsor for the utilitarian theory ofmorals in legislation, though not its originator, was a mighty andunique figure in many ways. His childhood reminds us of that of hisdisciple John Stuart Mill in its precocity; but fortunately for him, life had more juice in it for young Bentham than it had for Mill. In hismaturity and old age he was widely recognized as a commanding authority, notwithstanding some startling absurdities. [Illustration: JEREMY BENTHAM] He was born in London, February 15th, 1747-8; the child of an attorneyof ample means, who was proud of the youth, and did not hesitate to showhim off. In his fourth year he began the study of Latin, and a yearlater was known in his father's circle as "the philosopher. " At six orseven he began the study of French. He was then sent to Westminsterschool, where he must have had a rather uncomfortable time; for he wassmall in body, sensitive and delicate, and not fond of boyish sports. Hehad a much happier life at the houses of his grandmothers at Barking andat Browning Hill, where much of his childhood was spent. Hisreminiscences of these days, as related to his biographer, are full ofcharm. He was a great reader and a great student; and going to Oxfordearly, was only sixteen when he took his degree. It must be confessed that he did not bear away with him a highappreciation of the benefits which he owed to his alma mater. "Mendacityand insincerity--- in these I found the effects, the sure and only sureeffects, of an English university education. " He wrote a Latin ode onthe death of George II. , which was much praised. In later years hehimself said of it, "It was a mediocre performance on a trumperysubject, written by a miserable child. " On taking his degree he entered at Lincoln's Inn, but he never made asuccess in the practice of the law. He hated litigation, and his mindbecame immediately absorbed in the study and development of theprinciples of legislation and jurisprudence, and this became thebusiness of his life. He had an intense antipathy to Blackstone, underwhom he had sat at Oxford; and in 1776 he published anonymously a severecriticism of his work, under the title 'Fragments on Government, or aCommentary on the Commentaries, ' which was at first attributed to LordMansfield, Lord Camden, and others. His identification as the author ofthe 'Fragments' brought him into relations with Lord Shelburne, whoinvited him to Bowood, where he made a long and happy visit, of whichbright and gossipy letters tell the story. Here he worked on his'Introduction to the Principles of Morals and Legislation, ' in which hedeveloped his utilitarian theory, and here he fell in love with a younglady who failed to respond to his wishes. Writing in 1827, he says:-- "I am alive, more than two months advanced in my eightieth year, more lively than when you presented me in ceremony with a flower in Green Lane. Since that day not a single one has passed, not to speak of nights, in which you have not engrossed more of my thoughts than I could have wished. .. . Embrace----; though it is for me, as it is by you, she will not be severe, nor refuse her lips to me as she did her hand, at a time perhaps not yet forgotten by her, any more than by me. " Bentham wrote voluminously on morals, on rewards and punishments, on thepoor laws, on education, on law reform, on the codification of laws, onspecial legislative measures, on a vast variety of subjects. His style, at first simple and direct, became turgid, involved, and obscure. He wasin the habit of beginning the same work independently many times, andusually drove several horses abreast. He was very severe in hisstrictures upon persons in authority, and upon current notions; and wasconstantly being warned that if he should publish such or such a work hewould surely be prosecuted. Numerous books were therefore not publisheduntil many years after they were written. His literary style became soprolix and unintelligible that his disciples--Dumont, Mill, andothers--came to his rescue, and disentangled and prepared for the presshis innumerable pamphlets, full of suggestiveness and teeming withprojects of reform more or less completely realized since. Hispublications include more than seventy titles, and he left a vastaccumulation of manuscript, much of which has never been read. He had a wide circle of acquaintances, by whom he was held in highhonor, and his correspondence with the leading men of his time wasconstant and important. In his later years he was a pugnacious writer, but he was on intimate and jovial terms with his friends. In 1814 heremoved to Ford Abbey, near Chard, and there wrote 'Chrestomathea, ' acollection of papers on the principles of education, in which he laidstress upon the value of instruction in science, as against theexcessive predominance of Greek and Latin. In 1823, in conjunction withJames Mill and others, he established the Westminster Review, but he didnot himself contribute largely to it. He continued, however, to the endof his life to write on his favorite topics. Robert Dale Owen, in his autobiography, gives the following descriptionof a visit to Bentham during the philosopher's later years:-- "I preserve a most agreeable recollection of that grand old face, beaming with benignity and intelligence, and occasionally with a touch of humor which I did not expect. .. . I do not remember to have met any one of his age [seventy-eight] who seemed to have more complete possession of his faculties, bodily and mental; and this surprised me the more because I knew that in his childhood he had been a feeble-limbed, frail boy. .. . I found him, having overpassed by nearly a decade the allotted threescore years and ten, with step as active and eye as bright and conversation as vivacious as one expects in a hale man of fifty. .. . "I shall never forget my surprise when we were ushered by the venerable philosopher into his dining-room. An apartment of good size, it was occupied by a platform about two feet high, and which filled the whole room, except a passageway some three or four feet wide, which had been left so that one could pass all round it. Upon this platform stood the dinner-table and chairs, with room enough for the servants to wait upon us. Around the head of the table was a huge screen, to protect the old man, I suppose, against the draught from the doors. .. . "When another half-hour had passed, he touched the bell again. This time his order to the servant startled me:-- "'John, my night-cap!' "I rose to go, and one or two others did the same; Neal sat still. 'Ah!' said Bentham, as he drew a black silk night-cap over his spare gray hair, 'you think that's a hint to go. Not a bit of it. Sit down! I'll tell you when I am tired. I'm going to _vibrate_ a little; that assists digestion, too. ' "And with that he descended into the trench-like passage, of which I have spoken, and commenced walking briskly back and forth, his head nearly on a level with ours, as we sat. Of course we all turned toward him. For full half an hour, as he walked, did he continue to pour forth such a witty and eloquent invective against kings, priests, and their retainers, as I have seldom listened to. Then he returned to the head of the table and kept up the conversation, without flagging, till midnight ere he dismissed us. "His parting words to me were characteristic:--'God bless you, --if there be such a being; and at all events, my young friend, take care of yourself. '" His weak childhood had been followed by a healthy and robust old age. But he wore out at last, and died June 6, 1832, characteristicallyleaving his body to be dissected for the benefit of science. The greaterpart of his published writings were collected by Sir John Browning, hisexecutor, and issued in nine large volumes in 1843. OF THE PRINCIPLE OF UTILITY From 'An Introduction to the Principles of Morals and Legislation' Nature has placed mankind under the governance of two sovereign masters, _pain_ and _pleasure_. It is for them alone to point out what we oughtto do, as well as to determine what we shall do. On the one hand thestandard of right and wrong, on the other the chain of causes andeffects, are fastened to their throne. They govern us in all we do, inall we say, in all we think; every effort we can make to throw off oursubjection will serve but to demonstrate and confirm it. In words a manmay pretend to abjure their empire; but in reality he will remainsubject to it all the while. The _principle of utility_ recognizes thissubjection, and assumes it for the foundation of that system, the objectof which is to rear the fabric of felicity by the hands of reason and oflaw. Systems which attempt to question it deal in sounds instead ofsense, in caprice instead of reason, in darkness instead of light. But enough of metaphor and declamation: it is not by such means thatmoral science is to be improved. The principle of utility is the foundation of the present work; it willbe proper, therefore, at the outset to give an explicit and determinateaccount of what is meant by it. By the principle of utility is meantthat principle which approves or disapproves of every action whatsoever, according to the tendency which it appears to have to augment ordiminish the happiness of the party whose interest is in question; or, what is the same thing in other words, to promote or to oppose thathappiness. I say of every action whatsoever; and therefore not only ofevery action of a private individual, but of every measure ofgovernment. By utility is meant that property in any object whereby it tends toproduce benefit, advantage, pleasure, good, or happiness (all this inthe present case comes to the same thing), or (what comes again to thesame thing) to prevent the happening of mischief, pain, evil, orunhappiness to the party whose interest is considered: if that party bethe community in general, then the happiness of the community; if aparticular individual, then the happiness of that individual. The interest of the community is one of the most general expressionsthat can occur in the phraseology of morals: no wonder that the meaningof it is often lost. When it has a meaning, it is this: The communityis a fictitious _body_, composed of the individual persons who areconsidered as constituting, as it were, its _members_. The interest ofthe community, then, is what? The sum of the interests of the severalmembers who compose it. It is vain to talk of the interest of the community, withoutunderstanding what is the interest of the individual. A thing is said topromote the interest, or to be _for_ the interest, of an individual, when it tends to add to the sum total of his pleasures: or, what comesto the same thing, to diminish the sum total of his pains. An action, then, may be said to be conformable to the principle ofutility, or for shortness' sake to utility (meaning with respect to thecommunity at large), when the tendency it has to augment the happinessof the community is greater than any it has to diminish it. A measure of government (which is but a particular kind of action, performed by a particular person or persons) may be said to beconformable to or dictated by the principle of utility, when in likemanner the tendency which it has to augment the happiness of thecommunity is greater than any which it has to diminish it. When an action, or in particular a measure of government, is supposed bya man to be conformable to the principle of utility, it may beconvenient for the purposes of discourse to imagine a kind of law ordictate called a law or dictate of utility, and to speak of the actionin question as being conformable to such law or dictate. A man may be said to be a partisan of the principle of utility, when theapprobation or disapprobation he annexes to any action, or to anymeasure, is determined by and proportioned to the tendency which heconceives it to have to augment or to diminish the happiness of thecommunity; or in other words, to its conformity or unconformity to thelaws or dictates of utility. Of an action that is conformable to the principle of utility, one mayalways say either that it is one that ought to be done, or at least thatit is not one that ought not to be done. One may say also that it isright it should be done, at least that it is not wrong it should bedone; that it is a right action, at least that it is not a wrong action. When thus interpreted, the words _ought_, and _right_ and _wrong_, andothers of that stamp, have a meaning; when otherwise, they have none. REMINISCENCES OF CHILDHOOD During my visits to Barking, I used to be my grandmother's bedfellow. The dinner hour being as early as two o'clock, she had a regular supper, which was served up in her own sleeping-room; and immediately afterfinishing it, she went to bed. Of her supper I was not permitted topartake, nor was the privation a matter of much regret. I had what Ipreferred--a portion of gooseberry pie; hers was a scrag of mutton, boiled with parsley and butter. I do not remember any variety. My amusements consisted in building houses with old cards, and sometimesplaying at 'Beat the knave out of doors' with my grandmother. My time ofgoing to bed was perhaps an hour before hers; but by way of preparation, I never failed to receive her blessing. Previous to the ceremony, Iunderwent a catechetical examination, of which one of the questions was, "Who were the children that were saved in the fiery furnace?" Answer, "Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego. " But as the examination frequently gotno farther, the word Abednego got associated in my mind with veryagreeable ideas, and it ran through my ears like "Shadrach, Meshach, andTo-bed-we-go, " in a sort of pleasant confusion, which is not yetremoved. As I grew in years, I became a fit receptacle for some of mygrandmother's communications, among which the state of her family andthe days of her youth were most prominent. There hung on the wall, perpetually in view, a sampler, the produce ofthe industry and ingenuity of her mother or her grandmother, of whichthe subject-matter was the most important of all theologico-humanincidents, the fall of man in Paradise. There was Adam--there wasEve--and there was the serpent. In these there was much to interest andamuse me. One thing alone puzzled me; it was the forbidden fruit. Thesize was enormous. It was larger than that species of the genus_Orangeum_ which goes by the name of "the forbidden fruit" in some ofour West India settlements. Its size was not less than that of the outershell of a cocoanut. All the rest of the objects were as usual in_plano_; this was in _alto_, indeed in _altissimo rilievo. _ What to makeof it, at a time when my mind was unable to distinguish fictions fromrealities, I knew not. The recollection is strong in me of the mysteryit seemed to be. My grandmother promised me the sampler after her deathas a legacy, and the promise was no small gratification; but thepromise, with many other promises of jewels and gold coins, wasproductive of nothing but disappointment. Her death took place when Iwas at Oxford. My father went down; and without consulting me, or givingthe slightest intimation of his intention, let the house, and sold tothe tenant almost everything that was in it. It was doing as he was wontto do, notwithstanding his undoubted affection for me. In the same wayhe sold the estate he had given to me as a provision on the occasion ofhis second marriage. In the mass went some music-books which I hadborrowed of Mrs. Browne. Not long after, she desired them to bereturned. I stood before her like a defenseless culprit, conscious of myinability to make restitution; and at the same time, such was my stateof mental weakness that I knew not what to say for apology or defense. My grandmother's mother was a matron, I was told, of high respectabilityand corresponding piety; well-informed and strong-minded. She wasdistinguished, however; for while other matrons of her age and qualityhad seen many a ghost, she had seen but _one_. She was in thisparticular on a level with the learned lecturer, afterwards judge, thecommentator Blackstone. But she was heretical, and her belief borderedon Unitarianism. And by the way, this subject of ghosts has been amongthe torments of my life. Even now, when sixty or seventy years havepassed over my head since my boyhood received the impression which mygrandmother gave it, though my judgment is wholly free, my imaginationis not wholly so. My infirmity was not unknown to the servants. It was apermanent source of amusement to ply me with horrible phantoms in allimaginable shapes. Under the pagan dispensation, every object a mancould set his eyes on had been the seat of some pleasant adventure. AtBarking, in the almost solitude of which so large a portion of my lifewas passed, every spot that could be made by any means to answer thepurpose was the abode of some spectre or group of spectres. So dexterouswas the invention of those who worked upon my apprehensions, that theymanaged to transform a real into a fictitious being. His name was_Palethorp_; and Palethorp, in my vocabulary, was synonymous withhobgoblin. The origin of these horrors was this:-- My father's house was a short half-mile distant from the principal partof the town, from that part where was situated the mansion of the lordof the manor, Sir Crisp Gascoigne. One morning the coachman and thefootman took a conjunct walk to a public-house kept by a man of the namePalethorp; they took me with them: it was before I was breeched. Theycalled for a pot of beer; took each of them a sip, and handed the pot tome. On their requisition, I took another; and when about to depart, theamount was called for. The two servants paid their quota, and I wascalled on for mine. _Nemo dat quod non habet_--this maxim, to my nosmall vexation, I was compelled to exemplify. Mr. Palethorp, thelandlord, had a visage harsh and ill-favored, and he insisted on mydischarging my debt. At this very early age, without having put in formy share of the gifts of fortune, I found myself in the state of aninsolvent debtor. The demand harassed me so mercilessly that I couldhold out no longer: the door being open, I took to my heels; and as theway was too plain to be missed, I ran home as fast as they could carryme. The scene of the terrors of Mr. Palethorp's name and visitation, inpursuit of me, was the country-house at Barking; but neither was thetown-house free from them; for in those terrors, the servants possessedan instrument by which it was in their power at any time to get rid ofmy presence. Level with the kitchen--level with the landing-place inwhich the staircase took its commencement--were the usual offices. Whenmy company became troublesome, a sure and continually repeated means ofexonerating themselves from it was for the footman to repair to theadjoining subterraneous apartments, invest his shoulders with somestrong covering, and concealing his countenance, stalk in with a hollow, menacing, and inarticulate tone. Lest that should not be sufficient, theservants had, stuck by the fireplace, the portraiture of a hobgoblin, towhich they had given the name of Palethorp. For some years I was in thecondition of poor Dr. Priestley, on whose bodily frame another name, tooawful to be mentioned, used to produce a sensation more than mental. LETTER FROM BOWOOD TO GEORGE WILSON (1781) SUNDAY, 12 o'clock. Where shall I begin?--Let me see--The first place, by common right, tothe ladies. The ideas I brought with me respecting the female part ofthis family are turned quite topsy-turvy, and unfortunately they are notyet cleared up. I had expected to find in Lady Shelburne a Lady LouisaFitzpatrick, sister of an Earl of Ossory, whom I remember at school;instead of her, I find a lady who has for her sister a Miss CarolineV-----: is not this the maid of honor, the sister to Lady G-----? thelady who was fond of Lord C------, and of whom he was fond? and whom hequitted for an heiress and a pair of horns? Be they who they may, theone is loveliest of matrons, the other of virgins: they have both ofthem more than I could wish of reserve, but it is a reserve of modestyrather than of pride. The quadrupeds, whom you know I love next, consist of a child of a yearold, a tiger, a spaniel formerly attached to Lady Shelburne--at presentto my Lord--besides four plebeian cats who are taken no notice of, horses, etc. , and a wild boar who is sent off on a matrimonialexpedition to the farm. The four first I have commenced a friendshipwith, especially the first of all, to whom I am body-coachmanextraordinary _en titre d'office_: Henry, (for that is his name) [thepresent Lord Lansdowne] for such an animal, has the most thinkingcountenance I ever saw; being very clean, I can keep him without disgustand even with pleasure, especially after having been rewarded, as I havejust now, for my attention to him, by a pair of the sweetest smilesimaginable from his mamma and aunt. As Providence hath ordered it, theyboth play on the harpsichord and at chess. I am flattered with the hopesof engaging with them, before long, either in war or harmony: notto-day--because, whether you know it or not, it is Sunday; I know it, having been paying my devotions--our church, the hall--our minister, asleek young parson, the curate of the parish--our saints, a nakedMercury, an Apollo in the same dress, and a Venus de' Medicis--ourcongregation, the two ladies, Captain Blankett, and your humble servant, upon the carpet by the minister--below, the domestics, _superioris etinferioris ordinis_. Among the former I was concerned to see poorMathews, the librarian, who, I could not help thinking, had as good atitle to be upon the carpet as myself. Of Lord Fitzmaurice I know nothing, but from his bust and letters: thefirst bespeaks him a handsome youth, the latter an ingenious one. He isnot sixteen, and already he writes better than his father. He is underthe care of a Mr. Jervis, a dissenting minister, who has had charge ofhim since he was six years old. He has never been at any public schoolof education. He has now for a considerable time been traveling aboutthe kingdom, that he may know something of his own country before hegoes to others, and be out of the way of adulation. I am interrupted--adieu! _le reste à l'ordinaire prochain_. FRAGMENT OF A LETTER TO LORD LANSDOWNE (1790) It was using me very ill, that it was, to get upon stilts as you did, and resolve not to be angry with me, after all the pains I had taken tomake you so. You have been angry, let me tell you, with people as littleworth it before now; and your being so niggardly of it in my instance, may be added to the account of your injustice. I see you go upon the oldChristian principle of heaping coals of fire upon people's heads, whichis the highest refinement upon vengeance. I see, moreover, thataccording to your system of cosmogony, the difference is but accidentalbetween the race of kings and that of the first Baron of Lixmore: thatex-lawyers come like other men from Adam, and ex-ministers from somebodywho started up out of the ground before him, in some more elevated partof the country. To lower these pretensions, it would be serving you right, if I were totell you that I was not half so angry as I appeared to be; that, therefore, according to the countryman's rule, you have not so much theadvantage over me as you may think you have: that the real object ofwhat anger I really felt was rather the situation in which I foundmyself than you or anybody; but that, as none but a madman would go toquarrel with a nonentity called a situation, it was necessary for me tolook out for somebody who, somehow or other, was connected with it. JEAN-PIERRE DE BÉRANGER (1780-1857) BY ALCÉE FORTIER Béranger, like Hugo, has commemorated the date of his birth, but theirverses are very different. Hugo's poem is lofty in style, beginning-- "Ce siècle avait deux ans! Rome remplaçait Sparte, Déjà Napoléon perçait sous Bonaparte, Et du premier consul déjà, par maint endroit, Le front de l'empereur brisait le masque étroit. " (This century was two years old; Rome displaced Sparta, Napoleon already was visible in Bonaparte, And the narrow mask of the First Consul, in many places, Was already pierced by the forehead of the Emperor. ) Béranger's verses have less force, but are charming in theirsimplicity:-- "Dans ce Paris plein d'or et de misère, En l'an du Christ mil sept cent quatre-vingt, Chez un tailleur, mon pauvre et vieux grand-père, Moi, nouveau-né, sachais ce qui m'advint. " (In this Paris full of gold and misery, In the year of Christ one thousand seven hundred and eighty, At the house of a tailor, my grandfather poor and old, I, a new-born child, knew what happened to me. ) Authors of the eighteenth and the nineteenth centuries are moresubjective in their writings than those of the seventeenth, whosecharacters can rarely be known from their works. A glance at the lifeand surroundings of Béranger will show their influence on his genius. Béranger's mother was abandoned by her husband shortly after hermarriage, and her child was born at the house of her father, the oldtailor referred to in the song 'The Tailor and the Fairy. ' She troubledherself little about the boy, and he was forsaken in his childhood. Béranger tells us that he does not know how he learned to read. In thebeginning of the year 1789 he was sent to a school in the FaubourgSaint-Antoine, and there, mounted on the roof of a house, he saw thecapture of the Bastille on the 14th of July. This event made a greatimpression on him, and may have laid the foundations of his republicanprinciples. When he was nine and a half his father sent him to one ofhis sisters, an innkeeper at Péronne, that town in the north of Francefamous for the interview in 1468 between Louis XI. And Charles the Bold, when the fox put himself in the power of the lion, as related so vividlyin 'Quentin Durward. ' Béranger's aunt was very kind to him. At Péronne he went to a freeprimary school founded by Ballue de Bellenglise, where the studentsgoverned themselves, electing their mayor, their judges, and theirjustices of the peace. Béranger was president of a republican club ofboys, and was called upon several times to address members of theConvention who passed through Péronne. His aunt was an ardentrepublican, and he was deeply moved by the invasion of France in 1792. He heard with delight of the capture of Toulon in 1793 and ofBonaparte's exploits, conceiving a great admiration for theextraordinary man who was just beginning his military career. At the ageof fifteen Béranger returned to Paris, where his father had establisheda kind of banking house. The boy had previously followed differenttrades, and had been for two years with a publishing house as aprinter's apprentice. There he learned spelling and the rules of Frenchprosody. He began to write verse when he was twelve or thirteen, but hehad a strange idea of prosody. In order to get lines of the same lengthhe wrote his words between two parallel lines traced from the top to thebottom of the page. His system of versification seemed to be correctwhen applied to the Alexandrine verse of Racine; but when he saw thefables of La Fontaine, in which the lines are very irregular, he beganto distrust his prosody. [Illustration: P. J. DE BÉRANGER] Béranger became a skillful financier, and was very useful to his fatherin his business. When the banker failed the young man was thrown intogreat distress. He now had ample opportunity to become familiar with thegarret, of which he has sung so well. In 1804 he applied for help toLucien Bonaparte, and received from Napoleon's brother his own fee asmember of the Institute. He obtained shortly afterwards a position in abureau of the University. Having a weak constitution and defectivesight, he avoided the conscription. He was however all his life a truepatriot, with republican instincts; and he says that he never likedVoltaire, because that celebrated writer unjustly preferred foreignersand vilified Joan of Arc, "the true patriotic divinity, who from mychildhood was the object of my worship. " He had approved of theeighteenth of Brumaire: for "my soul, " says he, "has always vibratedwith that of the people as when I was nineteen years old;" and the greatmajority of the French people in 1799 wished to see Bonaparte assumepower and govern with a firm hand. In 1813 Béranger wrote 'The King ofYvetot, ' a pleasing and amusing satire on Napoleon's reign. What acontrast between the despotic emperor and ruthless warrior, and thesimple king whose crown is a nightcap and whose chief delight is hisbottle of wine! The song circulated widely in manuscript form, and theauthor soon became popular. He made the acquaintance of Désaugiers andbecame a member of the Caveau. Concerning this joyous literary societyM. Anatole France says, in his 'Vie Littéraire, ' that the first Caveauwas founded in 1729 by Gallet, Piron, Crébillon _fils_, Collé, andPanard. They used to meet at Laudelle the tavern-keeper's. The secondCaveau was inaugurated in 1759 by Marmontel, Suard, Lanoue, and Brissy, and lasted until the Revolution. In 1806 Armand Gouffé and Capelleestablished the modern Caveau, of which Désaugiers was president. Themembers met at Balaine's restaurant. In 1834 the society was reorganizedat Champlanc's restaurant. The members wrote and published songs andsang them after dinner. "The Caveau, " says M. France, "is the FrenchAcademy of song, " and as such has some dignity. The same is true of theLice, while the Chat Noir is most _fin de siècle_. To understand Béranger's songs and to excuse them somewhat, we mustremember that the French always delighted in witty songs and tales, andpardoned the immorality of the works on account of the wit and humor. This is what is called _l'esprit gaulois_, and is seen principally inold French poetry, in the fabliaux, the farces, and 'Le Roman deRenart. ' Molière had much of this, as also had La Fontaine and Voltaire, and Béranger's wildest songs appear mild and innocent when compared withthose of the Chat Noir. In his joyous songs he continues the traditionsof the farces and fabliaux of the Middle Ages, and in his politicalsongs he uses wit and satire just as in the _sottises_ of the time ofLouis XII. Béranger's first volume of songs appeared at the beginning of the secondRestoration; and although it was hostile to the Bourbons, the author wasnot prosecuted. In 1821, when his second volume was published, heresigned his position as clerk at the University, and was brought totrial for having written immoral and seditious songs. He was condemned, after exciting scenes in court, to three months' imprisonment and a fineof five hundred francs, and in 1828 to nine months' imprisonment and afine of ten thousand francs, which was paid by public subscription. No doubt he contributed to the Revolution of July, 1830; but although hewas a republican, he favored the monarchy of Louis Philippe, saying that"it was a plank to cross over the gutter, a preparation for therepublic. " The king wished to see him and thank him, but Bérangerreplied that "he was too old to make new acquaintances. " He was invitedto apply for a seat in the French Academy, and refused that honor as hehad refused political honors and positions. He said that he "wished tobe nothing"; and when in 1848 he was elected to the ConstitutionalAssembly, he resigned his seat almost immediately. He has been accusedof affectation, and of exaggeration in his disinterestedness; but he wasnaturally timid in public, and preferred to exert an influence over hiscountrymen by his songs rather than by his voice in public assemblies. Béranger was kind and generous, and ever ready to help all who appliedto him. He had a pension given to Rouget de l'Isle, the famous author ofthe 'Marseillaise, ' who was reduced to poverty, and in 1835 he took intohis house his good aunt from Péronne, and gave hospitality also to hisfriend Mlle. Judith Frère. In 1834 he sold all his works to hispublisher, Perrotin, for an annuity of eight hundred francs, which wasincreased to four thousand by the publisher. On this small incomeBéranger lived content till his death on July 16th, 1857. The governmentof Napoleon III. Took charge of his funeral, which was solemnized withgreat pomp. Although Béranger was essentially the poet of the middleclasses, and was extremely popular, care was taken to exclude the peoplefrom the funeral procession. While he never denied that he was thegrandson of a tailor, he signed _de_ Béranger, to be distinguished fromother writers of the same name. The _de_, however, had always beenclaimed by his father, who had left him nothing but that pretenseof nobility. For forty years, from 1815 to his death, Béranger was perhaps the mostpopular French writer of his time, and he was ranked amongst thegreatest French poets. There has been a reaction against thatenthusiasm, and he is now severely judged by the critics. They say thathe lacked inspiration, and was vulgar, bombastic, and grandiloquent. Little attention is paid to him, therefore, in general histories ofFrench literature. But if he is not entitled to stand on the highpedestal given to him by his contemporaries, we yet cannot deny geniusto the man who for more than a generation swayed the hearts of thepeople at his will, and exerted on his countrymen and on his epoch animmense influence. Many of his songs are coarse and even immoral; but his muse was ofteninspired by patriotic subjects, and in his poems on Napoleon he sings ofthe exploits of the great general defending French soil from foreigninvasion, or he delights in the victories of the Emperor as reflectingglory upon France. Victor Hugo shared this feeling when he wrote hisinspiring verses in praise of the conqueror. Both poets, Béranger andHugo, contributed to create the Napoleonic legend which facilitated theelection of Louis Napoleon to the presidency in 1848, and brought aboutthe Second Empire. What is more touching than 'The Reminiscences of thePeople'? Are we not inclined to cry out, like the little childrenlistening to the old grandmother who speaks of Napoleon: "He spoke toyou, grandmother! He sat down there, grandmother! You have yet hisglass, grandmother!" The whole song is poetic, natural, and simple. François Coppée, the great poet, said of it: "Ah! if I had only written'The Reminiscences of the People, ' I should not feel concerned about thejudgment of posterity. " Other works of Béranger's are on serious subjects, as 'Mary Stuart'sFarewell to France, ' 'The Holy Alliance, ' 'The Swallows, ' and 'The OldBanner, ' All his songs have a charm. His wit is not of the highestorder, and he lacks the _finesse_ of La Fontaine, but he is often quaintand always amusing in his songs devoted to love and Lisette, to youthand to wine. He is not one of the greatest French lyric poets, andcannot be compared with Lamartine, Hugo, Musset, and Vigny; neverthelesshe has much originality, and is without doubt the greatest song-writerthat France has produced. He elevated the song and made it both a poemand a drama, full of action and interest. Béranger wrote slowly and with great care, and many of his songs costhim much labor. He was filled with compassion for the weak, for the poorand unfortunate; he loved humanity, and above all he dearly lovedFrance. Posterity will do him justice and will preserve at least a greatpart of his work. M. Ernest Legouvé in his interesting work, 'La Lectureen Action, ' relates that one day, while walking with Béranger in theBois de Boulogne, the latter stopped in the middle of an alley, andtaking hold of M. Legouvé's hand, said with emotion, "My dear friend, myambition would be that one hundred of my lines should remain. " M. Legouvé adds, "There will remain more than that, " and his words havebeen confirmed. If we read aloud, if we sing them, we too shall sharethe enthusiasm of our fathers, who were carried away by the pathos, thegrandeur, the wit, the inexpressible charm of the unrivaled_chansonnier_. [Illustration: Signature: ALCÉE FORTIER] FROM 'THE GIPSIES' (LES BOHÉMIENS) To see is to have. Come, hurry anew! Life on the wing Is a rapturous thing. To see is to have. Come, hurry anew! For to see the world is to conquer it too. * * * * * So naught do we own, from pride left free, From statutes vain, From heavy chain; So naught do we own, from pride left free, -- Cradle nor house nor coffin have we. But credit our jollity none the less, Noble or priest, or Servant or master; But credit our jollity none the less. -- Liberty always means happiness. THE GAD-FLY (LA MOUCHE) In the midst of our laughter and singing, 'Mid the clink of our glasses so gay, What gad-fly is over us winging, That returns when we drive him away? 'Tis some god. Yes, I have a suspicion Of our happiness jealous, he's come: Let us drive him away to perdition, That he bore us no more with his hum. Transformed to a gad-fly unseemly, I am certain that we must have here Old Reason, the grumbler, extremely Annoyed by our joy and our cheer. He tells us in tones of monition Of the clouds and the tempests to come: Let us drive him away to perdition, That he bore us no more with his hum. It is Reason who comes to me, quaffing, And says, "It is time to retire: At your age one stops drinking and laughing, Stops loving, nor sings with such fire;"-- An alarm that sounds ever its mission When the sweetest of flames overcome: Let us drive him away to perdition, That he bore us no more with his hum. It is Reason! Look out there for Lizzie! His dart is a menace alway. He has touched her, she swoons--she is dizzy: Come, Cupid, and drive him away. Pursue him; compel his submission, Until under your strokes he succumb. Let us drive him away to perdition, That he bore us no more with his hum. Hurrah, Victory! See, he is drowning In the wine that Lizzetta has poured. Come, the head of Joy let us be crowning, That again he may reign at our board. He was threatened just now with dismission, And a fly made us all rather glum: But we've sent him away to perdition; He will bore us no more with his hum. Translation of Walter Learned. DRAW IT MILD (LES PETITS COUPS) Let's learn to temper our desires, Not harshly to constrain; And since excess makes pleasure less, Why, so much more refrain. Small table--cozy corner--here We well may be beguiled; Our worthy host old wine can boast: Drink, drink--but draw it mild! He who would many an evil shun Will find my plan the best-- To trim the sail as shifts the gale, And half-seas over rest. Enjoyment is an art--disgust Is bred of joy run wild; Too deep a drain upsets the brain: Drink, drink--but draw it mild! Our indigence--let's cheer it up; 'Tis nonsense to repine; To give to Hope the fullest scope Needs but one draught of wine. And oh! be temperate, to enjoy, Ye on whom Fate hath smiled; If deep the bowl, your thirst control: Drink, drink--but draw it mild! What, Phyllis, dost thou fear? at this My lesson dost thou scoff? Or would'st thou say, light draughts betray The toper falling off? Keen taste, eyes keen--whate'er be seen Of joy in thine, fair child, Love's philtre use, but don't abuse: Drink, drink--but draw it mild! Yes, without hurrying, let us roam From feast to feast of gladness; And reach old age, if not quite sage, With method in our madness! Our health is sound, good wines abound; Friends, these are riches piled. To use with thrift the twofold gift: Drink, drink--but draw it mild! Translation of William Young. THE KING OF YVETOT There was a king of Yvetot, Of whom renown hath little said, Who let all thoughts of glory go, And dawdled half his days a-bed; And every night, as night came round, By Jenny with a nightcap crowned, Slept very sound: Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he! That's the kind of king for me. And every day it came to pass, That four lusty meals made he; And step by step, upon an ass, Rode abroad, his realms to see; And wherever he did stir, What think you was his escort, sir? Why, an old cur. Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he! That's the kind of king for me. If e'er he went into excess, 'Twas from a somewhat lively thirst; But he who would his subjects bless, Odd's fish!--must wet his whistle first; And so from every cask they got, Our king did to himself allot At least a pot. Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he! That's the kind of king for me. To all the ladies of the land A courteous king, and kind, was he-- The reason why, you'll understand, They named him Pater Patriae. Each year he called his fighting men, And marched a league from home, and then Marched back again. Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he! That's the kind of king for me. Neither by force nor false pretense, He sought to make his kingdom great, And made (O princes, learn from hence) "Live and let live" his rule of state. 'Twas only when he came to die, That his people who stood by Were known to cry. Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he! That's the kind of king for me. The portrait of this best of kings Is extant still, upon a sign That on a village tavern swings, Famed in the country for good wine. The people in their Sunday trim, Filling their glasses to the brim, Look up to him, Singing "ha, ha, ha!" and "he, he, he! That's the sort of king for me. " Version of W. M. Thackeray. FORTUNE Rap! rap!--Is that my lass-- Rap! rap!--is rapping there? It is Fortune. Let her pass! I'll not open the door to her. Rap! rap!-- All of my friends are making gay My little room, with lips wine-wet: We only wait for you, Lisette! Fortune! you may go your way. Rap! rap!-- If we might credit half her boast, What wonders gold has in its gift! Well, we have twenty bottles left And still some credit with our host. Rap! rap!-- Her pearls, and rubies too, she quotes, And mantles more than sumptuous: Lord! but the purple's naught to us, -- We're just now taking off our coats. Rap! rap!-- She treats us as the rawest youths, With talk of genius and of fame: Thank calumny, alas, for shame! Our faith is spoiled in laurel growths. Rap! rap!-- Far from our pleasures, we care not Her highest heavens to attain; She fills her big balloons in vain Till we have swamped our little boat. Rap! rap!-- Yet all our neighbors crowd to be Within her ring of promises, Ah! surely, friends! our mistresses Will cheat us more agreeably. Rap! rap!-- THE PEOPLE'S REMINISCENCES (LES SOUVENIRS DU PEUPLE) Ay, many a day the straw-thatched cot Shall echo with his glory! The humblest shed, these fifty years, Shall know no other story. There shall the idle villagers To some old dame resort, And beg her with those good old tales To make their evenings short. "What though they say he did us harm? Our love this cannot dim; Come, granny, talk of him to us; Come, granny, talk of him. " "Well, children--with a train of kings, Once he passed by this spot; 'Twas long ago; I had but just Begun to boil the pot. On foot he climbed the hill, whereon I watched him on his way: He wore a small three-cornered hat; His overcoat was gray. I was half frightened till he said 'Good day, my dear!' to me. " "O granny, granny, did he speak? What, granny! you and he?" "Next year, as I, poor soul, by chance Through Paris strolled one day, I saw him taking, with his court, To Notre Dame his way. The crowd were charmed with such a show; Their hearts were filled with pride: 'What splendid weather for the fête! Heaven favors him!' they cried. Softly he smiled, for God had given To his fond arms a boy. " "Oh, how much joy you must have felt! O granny, how much joy!" "But when at length our poor Champagne By foes was overrun, He seemed alone to hold his ground; Nor dangers would he shun. One night--as might be now--I heard A knock--the door unbarred-- And saw--good God! 'twas he, himself, With but a scanty guard. 'Oh, what a war is this!' he cried, Taking this very chair. " "What! granny, granny, there he sat? What! granny, he sat there?" "'I'm hungry, ' said he: quick I served Thin wine and hard brown bread; He dried his clothes, and by the fire In sleep dropped down his head. Waking, he saw my tears--'Cheer up, Good dame!' says he, 'I go 'Neath Paris' walls to strike for France One last avenging blow. ' He went; but on the cup he used Such value did I set-- It has been treasured. "--"What! till now? You have it, granny, yet?" "Here 'tis: but 'twas the hero's fate To ruin to be led; He whom a Pope had crowned, alas! In a lone isle lies dead. 'Twas long denied: 'No, no, ' said they, 'Soon shall he reappear! O'er ocean comes he, and the foe Shall find his master here. ' Ah, what a bitter pang I felt, When forced to own 'twas true!" "Poor granny! Heaven for this will look-- Will kindly look on you. " Translation of William Young. THE OLD TRAMP (LE VIEUX VAGABOND) Here in this gutter let me die: Weary and sick and old, I've done. "He's drunk, " will say the passers-by: All right, I want no pity--none. I see the heads that turn away, While others glance and toss me sous: "Off to your junket! go!" I say: Old tramp, --to die I need no help from you. Yes, of old age I'm dying now: Of hunger people never die. I hoped some almshouse might allow A shelter when my end was nigh; But all retreats are overflowed, Such crowds are suffering and forlorn. My nurse, alas! has been the road: Old tramp, --here let me die where I was born. When young, it used to be my prayer To craftsmen, "Let me learn your trade. " "Clear out--we've got no work to spare; Go beg, " was all reply they made. You rich, who bade me work, I've fed With relish on the bones you threw; Made of your straw an easy bed: Old tramp, --I have no curse to vent on you. Poor wretch, I had the choice to steal; But no, I'd rather beg my bread. At most I thieved a wayside meal Of apples ripening overhead. Yet twenty times have I been thrown In prison--'twas the King's decree; Robbed of the only thing I own: Old tramp, --at least the sun belongs to me. The poor man--is a country his? What are to me your corn and wine, Your glory and your industries, Your orators? They are not mine. And when a foreign foe waxed fat Within your undefended walls, I shed my tears, poor fool, at that: Old tramp, --his hand was open to my calls. Why, like the hateful bug you kill, Did you not crush me when you could? Or better, teach me ways and skill To labor for the common good? The ugly grub an ant may end, If sheltered from the cold and fed. You might have had me for a friend: Old tramp, --I die your enemy instead. Translated for the 'World's Best Literature. ' FIFTY YEARS (ClNQUANTE ANS) Wherefore these flowers? floral applause? Ah, no, these blossoms came to say That I am growing old, because I number fifty years to-day. O rapid, ever-fleeting day! O moments lost, I know not how! O wrinkled cheek and hair grown gray! Alas, for I am fifty now! Sad age, when we pursue no more-- Fruit dies upon the withering tree: Hark! some one rapped upon my door. Nay, open not. 'Tis not for me-- Or else the doctor calls. Not yet Must I expect his studious bow. Once I'd have called, "Come in, Lizzette"-- Alas, for I am fifty now! In age what aches and pains abound. The torturing gout racks us awhile; Blindness, a prison dark, profound; Or deafness that provokes a smile. Then Reason's lamp grows faint and dim With flickering ray. Children, allow Old Age the honor due to him-- Alas, for I am fifty now! Ah, heaven! the voice of Death I know, Who rubs his hands in joyous mood; The sexton knocks and I must go-- Farewell, my friends the human brood! Below are famine, plague, and strife; Above, new heavens my soul endow: Since God remains, begin, new life! Alas, for I am fifty now! But no, 'tis you, sweetheart, whose youth, Tempting my soul with dainty ways, Shall hide from it the sombre truth, This incubus of evil days. Springtime is yours, and flowers; come then, Scatter your roses on my brow, And let me dream of youth again-- Alas, for I am fifty now! Translation of Walter Learned. THE GARRET With pensive eyes the little room I view, Where in my youth I weathered it so long, With a wild mistress, a stanch friend or two, And a light heart still breaking into song; Making a mock of life, and all its cares, Rich in the glory of my rising sun: Lightly I vaulted up four pair of stairs, In the brave days when I was twenty-one. Yes; 'tis a garret--let him know't who will--- There was my bed--full hard it was and small; My table there--and I decipher still Half a lame couplet charcoaled on the wall. Ye joys, that Time hath swept with him away, Come to mine eyes, ye dreams of love and fun: For you I pawned my watch how many a day, In the brave days when I was twenty-one! And see my little Jessy, first of all; She comes with pouting lips and sparkling eyes: Behold, how roguishly she pins her shawl Across the narrow casement, curtain-wise: Now by the bed her petticoat glides down, And when did women look the worse in none? I have heard since who paid for many a gown, In the brave days when I was twenty-one. One jolly evening, when my friends and I Made happy music with our songs and cheers, A shout of triumph mounted up thus high, And distant cannon opened on our ears; We rise, --we join in the triumphant strain, -- Napoleon conquers--Austerlitz is won-- Tyrants shall never tread us down again, In the brave days when I was twenty-one. Let us begone--the place is sad and strange-- How far, far off, these happy times appear! All that I have to live I'd gladly change For one such month as I have wasted here-- To draw long dreams of beauty, love, and power, From founts of hope that never will outrun, And drink all life's quintessence in an hour: Give me the days when I was twenty-one. Version of W. M. Thackeray. MY TOMB (MON TOMBEAU) What! whilst I'm well, beforehand you design, At vast expense, for me to build a shrine? Friends, 'tis absurd! to no such outlay go; Leave to the great the pomp and pride of woe. Take what for marble or for brass would pay-- For a dead beggar garb by far too gay-- And buy life-stirring wine on my behalf: The money for my tomb right gayly let us quaff! A mausoleum worthy of my thanks At least would cost you twenty thousand francs: Come, for six months, rich vale and balmy sky, As gay recluses, be it ours to try. Concerts and balls, where Beauty's self invites, Shall furnish us our castle of delights; I'll run the risk of finding life too sweet: The money for my tomb right gayly let us eat! But old I grow, and Lizzy's youthful yet: Costly attire, then, she expects to get; For to long fast a show of wealth resigns-- Bear witness Longchamps, where all Paris shines! You to my fair one something surely owe; A Cashmere shawl she's looking for, I know: 'Twere well for life on such a faithful breast The money for my tomb right gayly to invest! No box of state, good friends, would I engage, For mine own use, where spectres tread the stage: What poor wan man with haggard eyes is this? Soon must he die--ah, let him taste of bliss! The veteran first should the raised curtain see-- There in the pit to keep a place for me, (Tired of his wallet, long he cannot live)-- The money for my tomb to him let's gayly give! What doth it boot me, that some learned eye May spell my name on gravestone, by and by? As to the flowers they promise for my bier, I'd rather, living, scent their perfume here. And thou, posterity!--that ne'er mayst be-- Waste not thy torch in seeking signs of me! Like a wise man, I deemed that I was bound The money for my tomb to scatter gayly round! Translation of William Young. FROM HIS PREFACE TO HIS COLLECTED POEMS I have treated it [the revolution of 1830] as a power which might havewhims one should be in a position to resist. All or nearly all myfriends have taken office. I have still one or two who are hanging fromthe greased pole. I am pleased to believe that they are caught by thecoat-tails, in spite of their efforts to come down. I might thereforehave had a share in the distribution of offices. Unluckily I have nolove for sinecures, and all compulsory labor has grown intolerable tome, except perhaps that of a copying clerk. Slanderers have pretendedthat I acted from virtue. Pshaw! I acted from laziness. That defect hasserved me in place of merits; wherefore I recommend it to many of ourhonest men. It exposes one, however, to curious reproaches. It is tothat placid indolence that severe critics have laid the distance I havekept myself from those of my honorable friends who have attained power. Giving too much honor to what they choose to call my fine intellect, andforgetting too much how far it is from simple good sense to the scienceof great affairs, these critics maintain that my counsels might haveenlightened more than one minister. If one believes them, I, crouchingbehind our statesmen's velvet chairs, would have conjured down thewinds, dispelled the storms, and enabled France to swim in an ocean ofdelights. We should all have had liberty to sell, or rather to giveaway, but we are still rather ignorant of the price. Ah! my two or threefriends who take a song-writer for a magician, have you never heard, then, that power is a bell which prevents those who set it ringing fromhearing anything else? Doubtless ministers sometimes consult those athand: consultation is a means of talking about one's self which israrely neglected. But it will not be enough even to consult in goodfaith those who will advise in the same way. One must still act: that isthe duty of the position. The purest intentions, the most enlightenedpatriotism, do not always confer it. Who has not seen high officialsleave a counselor with brave intentions, and an instant after return tohim, from I know not what fascination, with a perplexity that gave thelie to the wisest resolutions? "Oh!" they say, "we will not be caughtthere again! what drudgery!" The more shamefaced add, "I'd like to seeyou in my place!" When a minister says that, be sure he has no longer ahead. There is indeed one of them, but only one, who, without havinglost his head, has often used this phrase with the utmost sincerity; hehas therefore never used it to a friend. GEORGE BERKELEY (1685-1753) Few readers in the United States are unfamiliar with the lines, "Westward the course of empire takes its way. " It is vaguely rememberedthat a certain Bishop Berkeley was the author of a treatise ontar-water. There is moreover a general impression that this BishopBerkeley contended for the unreality of all things outside of his ownmind, and now and then some recall Byron's lines-- "When Bishop Berkeley said 'there was no matter, ' And proved it, --'twas no matter what he said. " This is the substance of the popular knowledge of one of the profoundestthinkers of the early part of the eighteenth century, --the time ofShaftesbury and Locke, of Addison and Steele, of Butler, Pope, andSwift, --one of the most fascinating men of his day, and one of the bestof any age. Beside, or rather above, Byron's line should be placedPope's tribute:-- "To Berkeley, every virtue under Heaven. " [Illustration: GEORGE BERKELEY. ] Berkeley was born in Ireland, probably at Dysart Castle in the Valley ofthe Nore, near Kilkenny, March 12, 1685. The family having but latelycome into Ireland, Berkeley always accounted himself an Englishman. AtKilkenny School he met the poet Prior, who became his intimate friend, his business representative, and his most regular correspondent forlife. Swift preceded him at this school and at Trinity College, Dublin, whither Berkeley went March 21, 1700, being then fifteen years of age. Here as at Kilkenny he took rank much beyond his years, and was soondeep in philosophical speculations. In Professor Fraser's edition of the 'Life and Works of Berkeley'appears a 'Common-Place Book, ' kept during the Trinity College terms, and full of most remarkable memoranda for a youth of his years. In 1709, while still at Trinity, he published an 'Essay toward a New Theory ofVision, ' which foreshadowed imperfectly his leading ideas. In thefollowing year he published a 'Treatise concerning the Principles ofHuman Knowledge. ' Two or three years later he went to London, where hewas received with unusual favor and quickly became intimate in theliterary circles of the day. He made friends everywhere, beingattractive in all ways, young, handsome, graceful, fascinating indiscourse, enthusiastic, and full of thought. Swift was especiallyimpressed by him, and did much to further his fortunes. His philosophical conceptions he at this time popularized in 'ThreeDialogues between Hylas and Philonous, ' a work rated by some critics asat the head of its class. Before going to London, Berkeley had been made a Fellow of Trinity, hadbeen appointed to various college offices, and had taken orders. Heremained away from Dublin for about eight years, on leave frequentlyextended, writing in London, and traveling, teaching, and writing on theContinent. On his return from his foreign travels in 1720 or 1721, hefound society completely demoralized by the collapse of the South Seabubble. He was much depressed by the conditions around him, and soughtto awaken the moral sense of the people by 'An Essay toward Preventingthe Ruin of Great Britain. ' Returning to Dublin and resuming collegeduties, he was shortly made Dean of Dromore, and then Dean of Derry. Hardly had he received these dignified appointments when he beganplanning to rid himself of them, being completely absorbed in a schemefor a University in the Bermudas, which should educate scholars, teachers, and ministers for the New World, to which his hope turned. Tothis scheme he devoted himself for many years. A singular occurrence, which released him from pecuniary cares, enabled him to give his time aswell as his heart to the work. Miss Vanhomrigh, the 'Vanessa' of Swift, upon her mother's death, left London, and went to live in Ireland, to benear her beloved Dean; and there she was informed of Swift's marriage to'Stella. ' The news killed her, but she revoked the will by which herfortune was bequeathed to Swift, and left one-half of it, or about£4, 000, to Berkeley, whom she had met but once. He must have "kept anatmosphere, " as Bagehot says of Francis Horner. Going to London on fire with his great scheme, prepared to resign hisdeanery and cast in his lot with that of the proposed University, Berkeley wasted years in the effort to secure a charter and grant fromthe administration. His enthusiasm and his fascinating manners effectedmuch, and over and over again only the simplest formalities seemednecessary to success. Only the will of Sir Robert Walpole stood in theway, but Walpole's will sufficed. At last, in September, 1728, tired ofwaiting at court, Berkeley, who had just married, sailed with three orfour friends, including the artist Smibert, for Rhode Island, intendingto await there the completion of his grant, and then proceed to Bermuda. He bought a farm near Newport, and built a house which he calledWhitehall, in which he lived for about three years, leaving a traditionof a benignant but retired and scholastic life. Among the friends whowere here drawn to him was the Rev. Samuel Johnson of Stratford, afterward the first President of King's (now Columbia) College, withwhom he corresponded during the remainder of his life, and through whomhe was able to aid greatly the cause of education in America. The Newport life was idyllic. Berkeley wrote home that the winters werecooler than those of the South of Ireland, but not worse than he hadknown in Italy. He brought over a good library, and read and wrote. Theprincipal work of this period, written in a romantic cleft in the rocks, was 'Alciphron, or the Minute Philosopher, ' in seven dialogues, directedespecially against atheism. At length, through Lord Percival, Berkeley learned that Walpole wouldnot allow the parliamentary grant of, £20, 000 for the Bermuda College, and returned to England at the close of 1732. His Whitehall estate heconveyed to Yale College for the maintenance of certain scholarships. From England he sent over nearly a thousand volumes for the Yalelibrary, the best collection of books ever brought at one time toAmerica, being helped in the undertaking by some of the Bermudasubscribers. A little later he sent a collection of books to HarvardCollege also, and presented a valuable organ to Trinity Churchin Newport. Shortly after his return, Berkeley was appointed Bishop of Cloyne, nearCork in Ireland, and here he remained for about eighteen years. Althougha recluse, he wrote much, and he kept up his loving relations with oldfriends who still survived. He had several children to educate, and hecultivated music and painting. He attempted to establish manufactures, and to cultivate habits of industry and refinement among the people. Thewinter of 1739 was bitterly cold. This was followed by general want, famine, and disease. Berkeley and his family lived simply and gave awaywhat they could save. Large numbers of the people died from an epidemic. In America Berkeley's attention had been drawn to the medicinal virtuesof tar, and he experimented successfully with tar-water as a remedy. Becoming more and more convinced of its value, he exploited his supposeddiscovery with his usual ardor, writing letters and essays, and atlength 'A Chain of Philosophical Reflections and Enquiries concerningthe Virtues of Tar-water and divers other subjects connected togetherand arising one from another. ' This was called 'Siris' in a secondedition which was soon demanded. Beginning with the use of tar-water asa remedy, the treatise gradually developed into the treatment of thelargest themes, and offered the ripest fruits of the Bishop'sphilosophy. Berkeley's system was neither consistent nor complete, but much of itremains sound. In brief, he contended that matter has no independentexistence, but is an idea in the supreme mind, which is realized invarious forms by the human mind. Without mind nothing exists. Causecannot exist except as it rests in mind and will. All so-called physicalcauses are merely cases of constant sequence of phenomena. Far fromdenying the reality of phenomena, Berkeley insists upon it; but contendsthat reality depends upon the supremacy of mind. Abstract matter doesnot and cannot exist. The mind can only perceive qualities of objects, and infers the existence of the objects from them; or as a modern writertersely puts it, "The only thing certain is mind. Matter is a doubtfuland uncertain inference of the human intellect. " The essay upon Tar-water attracted great attention. The good bishopwrote much also for periodicals, mainly upon practical themes; and inThe Querist, an intermittent journal, considered many matters of ethicaland political importance to the country. Though a bishop of theEstablished Church, he lived upon the most friendly terms with his RomanCatholic neighbors, and his labors were highly appreciated by them. But his life was waning. His friends had passed away, he had lostseveral children, his health was broken. He desired to retire to Oxfordand spend the remainder of his life in scholarly seclusion. He asked toexchange his bishopric for a canonry, but this could not be permitted. He then begged to be allowed to resign his charge, but the king repliedthat he might live where he pleased, but that he should die a bishop inspite of himself. In August, 1752, Bishop Berkeley removed himself, hiswife, his daughter, and his goods to Oxford, where his son George was astudent; and here on the fourteenth of the following January, as he wasresting on his couch by the fireside at tea-time, his busy brain stoppedthinking, and his kind heart ceased to beat. ON THE PROSPECT OF PLANTING ARTS AND LEARNING IN AMERICA The Muse, disgusted at an age and clime Barren of every glorious theme, In distant lands now waits a better time, Producing subjects worthy fame: In happy climes, where from the genial sun And virgin earth such scenes ensue, The force of art by nature seems outdone, And fancied beauties by the true; In happy climes, the seat of innocence, Where nature guides and virtue rules, Where men shall not impose for truth and sense The pedantry of courts and schools: There shall be sung another golden age, The rise of empire and of arts, The good and great inspiring epic rage, The wisest heads and noblest hearts. Not such as Europe breeds in her decay; Such as she bred when fresh and young, When heavenly flame did animate her clay, By future poets shall be sung. Westward the course of empire takes its way; The four first Acts already past, A fifth shall close the Drama with the day; Time's noblest offspring is the last. ESSAY ON TAR-WATER From 'Siris' The seeds of things seem to lie latent in the air, ready to appear andproduce their kind, whenever they light on a proper matrix. Theextremely small seeds of fern, mosses, mushrooms, and some other plants, are concealed and wafted about in the air, every part whereof seemsreplete with seeds of one kind or other. The whole atmosphere seemsalive. There is everywhere acid to corrode, and seed to engender. Ironwill rust, and mold will grow, in all places. Virgin earth becomesfertile, crops of new plants ever and anon show themselves, all whichdemonstrate the air to be a common seminary and receptacle of allvivifying principles. .. . The eye by long use comes to see, even in the darkest cavern; and thereis no subject so obscure, but we may discern some glimpse of truth bylong poring on it. Truth is the cry of all, but the game of a few. Certainly where it is the chief passion, it doth not give way to vulgarcares and views; nor is it contented with a little ardor in the earlytime of life; active, perhaps, to pursue, but not so fit to weigh andrevise. He that would make a real progress in knowledge, must dedicatehis age as well as youth, the later growth as well as first fruits, atthe altar of truth. .. . As the nerves are instruments of sensation, it follows that spasms inthe nerves may produce all symptoms, and therefore a disorder in thenervous system shall imitate all distempers, and occasion, inappearance, an asthma for instance, a pleurisy, or a fit of the stone. Now, whatever is good for the nerves in general is good against all suchsymptoms. But tar-water, as it includes in an eminent degree the virtuesof warm gums and resins, is of great use for comforting andstrengthening the nerves, curing twitches in the nervous fibres, crampsalso, and numbness in the limbs, removing anxieties and promoting sleep, in all which cases I have known it very successful. This safe and cheap medicine suits all circumstances and allconstitutions, operating easily, curing without disturbing, raising thespirits without depressing them, a circumstance that deserves repeatedattention, especially in these climates, where strong liquors so fatallyand so frequently produce those very distresses they are designed toremedy; and if I am not misinformed, even among the ladies themselves, who are truly much to be pitied. Their condition of life makes them aprey to imaginary woes, which never fail to grow up in minds unexercisedand unemployed. To get rid of these, it is said, there are who betakethemselves to distilled spirits. And it is not improbable they are ledgradually to the use of those poisons by a certain complaisant pharmacy, too much used in the modern practice, palsy drops, poppy cordial, plaguewater, and such-like, which being in truth nothing but drams disguised, yet coming from the apothecaries, are considered only as medicines. The soul of man was supposed by many ancient sages to be thrust intothe human body as into a prison, for punishment of past offenses. Butthe worst prison is the body of an indolent epicure, whose blood isinflamed by fermented liquors and high sauces, or rendered putrid, sharp, and corrosive by a stagnation of the animal juices through slothand indolence; whose membranes are irritated by pungent salts; whosemind is agitated by painful oscillations of the nervous system, andwhose nerves are mutually affected by the irregular passions of hismind. This ferment in the animal economy darkens and confounds theintellect. It produceth vain terrors and vain conceits, and stimulatesthe soul with mad desires, which, not being natural, nothing in naturecan satisfy. No wonder, therefore, there are so many fine persons ofboth sexes, shining themselves, and shone on by fortune, who areinwardly miserable and sick of life. The hardness of stubbed vulgar constitutions renders them insensible ofa thousand things that fret and gall those delicate people, who, as iftheir skin was peeled off, feel to the quick everything that touchesthem. The remedy for this exquisite and painful sensibility is commonlysought from fermented, perhaps from distilled liquors, which render manylives wretched that would otherwise have been only ridiculous. Thetender nerves and low spirits of such poor creatures would be muchrelieved by the use of tar-water, which might prolong and cheer theirlives. I do therefore recommend to them the use of a cordial, not onlysafe and innocent, but giving health and spirit as sure as othercordials destroy them. I do verily think there is not any other medicine whatsoever soeffectual to restore a crazy constitution and cheer a dreary mind, or solikely to subvert that gloomy empire of the spleen which tyrannizethover the better sort (as they are called) of these free nations, andmaketh them, in spite of their liberty and property, more wretchedslaves than even the subjects of absolute power who breathe clear air ina sunny climate, while men of low degree often enjoy a tranquillity andcontent that no advantage of birth or fortune can equal. Such indeed wasthe case while the rich alone could afford to be debauched; but wheneven beggars became debauchees, the case was altered. The public virtue and spirit of the British legislature never showeditself more conspicuous in any act, than in that for suppressing theimmoderate use of distilled spirits among the people, whose strengthand numbers constitute the true wealth of a nation: though evasive artswill, it is feared, prevail so long as distilled spirits of any kind areallowed, the character of Englishmen in general being that of Brutus, _Quicquid vult valde vult_ [whatever he desires he desires intensely]. But why should such a canker be tolerated in the vitals of a State, under any pretense, or in any shape whatsoever? Better by far the wholepresent set of distillers were pensioners of the public, and their tradeabolished by law; since all the benefit thereof put together would notbalance the hundredth part of its mischief. This tar-water will also give charitable relief to the ladies, who oftenwant it more than the parish poor; being many of them never able to makea good meal, and sitting pale and puny, and forbidden like ghosts, attheir own table, victims of vapors and indigestion. Studious persons also, pent up in narrow holes, breathing bad air, andstooping over their books, are much to be pitied. As they are debarredthe free use of air and exercise, this I will venture to recommend asthe best succedaneum to both; though it were to be wished that modernscholars would, like the ancients, meditate and converse more in walksand gardens and open air, which upon the whole would perhaps be nohindrance to their learning, and a great advantage to their health. Myown sedentary course of life had long since thrown me into an ill habit, attended with many ailments, particularly a nervous colic, whichrendered my life a burden, and the more so because my pains wereexasperated by exercise. But since the use of tar-water, I find, thoughnot a perfect recovery from my old and rooted illness, yet such agradual return of health and ease, that I esteem my having taken thismedicine the greatest of all temporal blessings, and am convinced thatunder Providence I owe my life to it. HECTOR BERLIOZ (1803-1869) To the concert-goer the name Hector Berlioz calls up a series of vastand magnificent whirlwinds of vocal and orchestral sonority, thethoughts of scores that sound and look imposingly complex to the eyesand ears of both the educated and uneducated in the composer's art. Wehave a vision of close pages embodying the most unequivocal and drasticof musical "realism. " The full audacity and mastery of a certain sort ofgenius are represented in his vast works. They bespeak, too, thecombative musician and reformer. Berlioz took the kingdom of musicby violence. [Illustration: Hector Berlioz] His _chef d'oeuvres_ do not all say to us as much as he meant them tosay, not as much as they all uttered twenty years ago. There is muchclay as well as gold in them. But such tremendous products of his energyand intellect as the 'Requiem, ' the 'Te Deum, ' 'The Damnation of Faust, 'his best descriptive symphonies such as the 'Romeo and Juliet, ' are yeteloquent to the public and to the critical-minded. His best was so verygood that his worst--weighed as a matter of principle or execution, regarded as music or "programme music"--can be excused. Berlioz's actual biography is a long tale of storm and stress. Not onlywas he slow in gaining appreciation while he lived; full comprehensionof his power was not granted him till after his energetic life was over. Recognition in his own country is incomplete to day. He was born in1803, near picturesque Grenoble, in the little town of Côte St. André, the son of an excellent country doctor. Sent to Paris to study medicine, he became a musician against his father's wish, and in lieu of theallowance that his father promptly withdrew, the young man lived byengaging in the chorus of the Gymnase, and by catching at every strawfor subsistence. He became a regular music-student of the Conservatory, under the admirable Lesueur and Reicha; quitted the Conservatory indisgust at its pedantry, in 1825; and lived and advanced in musicalstudy as best he could for a considerable time. His convictions in artwere founded largely on the rock of Gluck, Mozart, Beethoven, andWeber; and however modern, and however widely his work departs from suchacademic models, Berlioz never forswore a certain allegiance to thesegreat and serene masters. He returned to the Conservatory, studied hard, gained the Prix de Rome, gradually took a prominent place among Parisiancomposers, and was as enthusiastically the subject of a cult as wasWagner. His concerts and the production of his operas encounteredshameful cabals. His strongest works were neglected or ill-served. Totheir honor, German musicians understood him, Schumann and Liszt inespecial. Only in Germany to-day are his colossal operas heard. TheItalian Paganini showed a generous interest in his struggles. Russia andAustria too admired him, while his compatriots hissed. His career wasone of endless work, disappointments, brief successes, battles, hopes, and despairs. Personally, too, it was full of the happiness andunhappiness of the artistic temperament. It was between the two periods of his Conservatory life that he enduredhis chief sentimental misfortune, --his falling in love with and finallymarrying Henrietta Smithson. Miss Smithson was a young English actressplaying Shakespearean roles in France with a passing success. She wasexquisitely lovely--Delaroche has painted her spirituelle beauty in his'Ophelia. ' The marriage was the typically unfortunate artist-match; andshe became a paralytic invalid for years. After her death, tours inGermany and elsewhere, new works, new troubles, enthusiasms, anddisappointments filled up the remainder of the composer's days. Hereturned to his beloved Dauphiné, war-worn and almost as one who hasoutlived life. In his provincial retreat he composed the huge operaticduology 'The Trojans at Carthage, ' and 'The Taking of Troy, ' turningonce more to Virgil, his early literary love. Neither of them is oftenheard now, any more than his amazing 'Benvenuto Cellini. ' Their authordied in Dauphiné in 1869, weary, disenchanted, but conscious that hewould be greater in the eyes of a coming generation than ever he hadbeen during his harassed life. Berlioz's literary remains are valuable as criticisms, and theirpersonal matter is of brisk and varied charm. His intense feeling forShakespeare influenced his whole æsthetic life. He was extremely wellread. His most unchecked tendency to romanticism was balanced by a finefeeling for the classics. He loved the greater Greek and Latin writers. His Autobiography is a perfect picture of himself emotionally, andexhibits his wide æsthetic nature. His Letters are equally faithful asportraiture. He possessed a distinctively literary style. He tells ushow he fell in love--twice, thrice; records the disgraceful cabals andintrigues against his professional success, and explains how a landscapeaffected his nerves. He is excellent reading, apparently without takingmuch pains to be so. Vivacity, wit, sincerity, are salient traits. Inhis volume of musical essays entitled 'A Travers Chants' (anuntranslatable title which may be paraphrased 'Memoirs of Music andMusicians') are superior appreciations of musicians and interpreters andperformances in opera-house and concert-hall, expressed with grace andtaste in the _feuilletonist's_ best manner. In the Journal des Débats, year by year, he wrote himself down indisputably among the great Frenchcritics; and he never misused his critical post to make it a lever forhis own advantage. His great treatise on Orchestration is a standardwork not displaced by Gevaert or more recent authorities. He was notonly a musical intelligence of enormous capacity: he offers perhaps astypical an embodiment of the French artistic temperament as can bepointed out. THE ITALIAN RACE AS MUSICIANS AND AUDITORS From Berlioz's Autobiography It appears, however, --so at least I am assured, --that the Italians dooccasionally listen. But at any rate, music to the Milanese, no lessthan to the Neapolitans, Romans, Florentines, and Genoese, means nothingbut an air, a duet, or a trio, well sung. For anything beyond this theyfeel simply aversion or indifference. Perhaps these antipathies aremainly due to the wretched performance of their choruses and orchestras, which effectually prevents their knowing anything good outside thebeaten track they have so long followed. Possibly, too, they may to acertain extent understand the flights of men of genius, if these latterare careful not to give too rude a shock to their rooted predilections. The great success of 'Guillaume Tell' at Florence supports this opinion, and even Spontini's sublime 'Vestale' obtained a series of brilliantrepresentations at Naples some twenty-five years ago. Moreover, in thosetowns which are under the Austrian rule, you will see the people rushafter a military band, and listen with avidity to the beautiful Germanmelodies, so unlike their usual insipid cavatinas. Nevertheless, ingeneral it is impossible to disguise the fact that the Italians as anation really appreciate only the material effects of music, anddistinguish nothing but its exterior forms. Indeed, I am much inclined to regard them as more inaccessible to thepoetical side of art, and to any conceptions at all above the common, than any other European nation. To the Italians music is a sensualpleasure, and nothing more. For this most beautiful form of expressionthey have scarcely more respect than for the culinary art. In fact, theylike music which they can take in at first hearing, without reflectionor attention, just as they would do with a plate of macaroni. Now, we French, mean and contemptible musicians as we are, although weare no better than the Italians when we furiously applaud a trill or achromatic scale by the last new singer, and miss altogether the beautyof some grand recitative or animated chorus, yet at least we can listen, and if we do not take in a composer's ideas it is not our fault. Beyondthe Alps, on the contrary, people behave in a manner so humiliating bothto art and to artists, whenever any representation is going on, that Iconfess I would as soon sell pepper and spice at a grocer's in the RueSt. Denis as write an opera for the Italians--nay, I would _sooner_do it. Added to this, they are slaves to routine and to fanaticism to a degreeone hardly sees nowadays, even at the Academy. The slightest unforeseeninnovation, whether in melody, harmony, rhythm, or instrumentation, putsthem into a perfect fury; so much so, that the _dilettanti_ of Rome, onthe appearance of Rossini's 'Barbiere di Seviglia' (which is Italianenough in all conscience), were ready to kill the young maestro forhaving the insolence to do anything unlike Paisiello. But what renders all hope of improvement quite chimerical, and temptsone to believe that the musical feeling of the Italians is a merenecessary result of their organization, --the opinion both of Gall andSpurzheim, --is their love for all that is dancing, brilliant, glittering, and gay, to the utter neglect of the various passions bywhich the characters are animated, and the confusion of time andplace--in a word, of good sense itself. Their music is always laughing:and if by chance the composer in the course of the drama permits himselffor one moment not to be absurd, he at once hastens back to hisprescribed style, his melodious roulades and _grupetti_, his trills andcontemptible frivolities, either for voice or orchestra; and these, succeeding so abruptly to something true to life, have an unreal effect, and give the _opera seria_ all the appearance of a parody or caricature. I could quote plenty of examples from famous works; but speakinggenerally of these artistic questions, is it not from Italy that we getthose stereotyped conventional forms adopted by so many Frenchcomposers, resisted by Cherubim and Spontini alone among the Italians, though rejected entirely by the Germans? What well-organized person withany sense of musical expression could listen to a quartet in which fourcharacters, animated by totally conflicting passions, shouldsuccessively employ the same melodious phrase to express such differentwords as these: "O, toi que j'adore!" "Quelle terreur me glace!" "Moncoeur bat de plaisir!" "La fureur me transporte!" To suppose that musicis a language so vague that the natural inflections of fury will serveequally well for fear, joy, and love, only proves the absence of thatsense which to others makes the varieties of expression in music asincontestable a reality as the existence of the sun. .. . I regard thecourse taken by Italian composers as the inevitable result of theinstincts of the public, which react more or less on the composersthemselves. THE FAMOUS "SNUFF-BOX TREACHERY" From the Autobiography Now for another intrigue, still more cleverly contrived, the blackdepths of which I hardly dare fathom. I incriminate no one; I simplygive the naked facts, without the smallest commentary, but withscrupulous exactness. General Bernard having himself informed me that myRequiem was to be performed on certain conditions, . .. I was about tobegin my rehearsals when I was sent for by the Director of theBeaux-Arts. "You know, " said he, "that Habeneck has been commissioned to conduct allthe great official musical festivals?" ("Come, good!" thought I: "hereis another tile for my devoted head. ") "It is true that you are now inthe habit of conducting the performance of your works yourself; butHabeneck is an old man" (another tile), "and I happen to know that hewill be deeply hurt if he does not preside at your Requiem. What termsare you on with him?" "What terms? We have quarreled. I hardly know why. For three years hehas not spoken to me. I am not aware of his motives, and indeed have notcared to ask. He began by rudely refusing to conduct one of my concerts. His behavior towards me has been as inexplicable as it is uncivil. However, as I see plainly that he wishes on the present occasion tofigure at Marshal Damrémont's ceremony, and as it would evidently beagreeable to you, I consent to give up the baton to him, on conditionthat I have at least one full rehearsal. " "Agreed, " replied the Director; "I will let him know about it. " The rehearsals were accordingly conducted with great care. Habeneckspoke to me as if our relations with each other had never beeninterrupted, and all seemed likely to go well. The day of the performance arrived, in the Church of the Invalides, before all the princes, peers, and deputies, the French press, thecorrespondents of foreign papers, and an immense crowd. It wasabsolutely essential for me to have a great success; a moderate onewould have been fatal, and a failure would have annihilated mealtogether. Now listen attentively. The various groups of instruments in the orchestra were tolerably widelyseparated, especially the four brass bands introduced in the 'Tubamirum, ' each of which occupied a corner of the entire orchestra. Thereis no pause between the 'Dies Iræ' and the 'Tuba mirum, ' but the pace ofthe latter movement is reduced to half what it was before. At this pointthe whole of the brass enters, first all together, and then in passages, answering and interrupting, each a third higher than the last. It isobvious that it is of the greatest importance that the four beats of thenew _tempo_ should be distinctly marked, or else the terrible explosion, which I had so carefully prepared with combinations and proportionsnever attempted before or since, and which, rightly performed, givessuch a picture of the Last Judgment as I believe is destined to live, would be a mere enormous and hideous confusion. With my habitual mistrust, I had stationed myself behind Habeneck, andturning my back on him, overlooked the group of kettle-drums, which hecould not see, when the moment approached for them to take part in thegeneral melee. There are perhaps one thousand bars in my Requiem. Precisely in that of which I have just been speaking, when the movementis retarded, and the wind instruments burst in with their terribleflourish of trumpets; in fact, just in _the_ one bar where theconductor's motion is absolutely indispensable, Habeneck _puts down hisbaton, quietly takes out his snuff box_, and proceeds to take a pinchof snuff. I always had my eye in his direction, and instantly turnedrapidly on one heel, and springing forward before him, I stretched outmy arm and marked the four great beats of the new movement. Theorchestras followed me, each in order. I conducted the piece to the end, and the effect which I had longed for was produced. When, at the lastwords of the chorus, Habeneck saw that the 'Tuba mirum' was saved, hesaid, "What a cold perspiration I have been in! Without you we shouldhave been lost. " "Yes, I know, " I answered, looking fixedly at him. Idid not add another word. .. . Had he done it on purpose? . .. Could it bepossible that this man had dared to join my enemy, the Director, andCherubini's friends, in plotting and attempting such rascality? I don'twish to believe it . .. But I cannot doubt it. God forgive me if I amdoing the man injustice! ON GLUCK From the Autobiography Of all the ancient composers, Gluck has, I believe, the least to fearfrom the incessant revolutions of art. He sacrificed nothing either tothe caprices of singers, the exigencies of fashion, or the inveterateroutine with which he had to contend on his arrival in France, after hisprotracted struggles with the Italian theatres. Doubtless his conflictsat Milan, Naples, and Parma, instead of weakening him, had increased hisstrength by revealing its full extent to himself; for in spite of thefanaticism then prevalent in our artistic customs, he broke thesemiserable trammels and trod them underfoot with the greatest ease. True, the clamor of the critics once succeeded in forcing him into a reply;but it was the only indiscretion with which he had to reproach himself, and thenceforth, as before, he went straight to his aim in silence. Weall know what that aim was; we also know that it was never given to anyman to succeed more fully. With less conviction or less firmness, it isprobable that, notwithstanding his natural genius, his degenerate workswould not have long survived those of his mediocre rivals now completelyforgotten. But truth of expression, purity of style, and grandeur ofform belong to all time. Gluck's fine passages will always be fine. Victor Hugo is right: the heart never grows old. ON BACH From the Autobiography You will not, my dear Demarest, expect an analysis from me of Bach'sgreat work: such a task would quite exceed my prescribed limits. Indeed, the movement performed at the Conservatoire three years ago may beconsidered the type of the author's style throughout the work. TheGermans profess an unlimited admiration for Bach's recitatives; buttheir peculiar characteristic necessarily escaped me, as I did notunderstand the language and was unable to appreciate their expression. Whoever is familiar with our musical customs in Paris must witness, inorder to believe, the attention, respect, and even reverence with whicha German public listens to such a composition. Every one follows thewords on the book with his eyes; not a movement among the audience, nota murmur of praise or blame, not a sound of applause; they are listeningto a solemn discourse, they are hearing the gospel sung, they areattending divine service rather than a concert. And really such musicought to be thus listened to. They adore Bach, and believe in him, without supposing for a moment that his divinity could ever be calledinto question. A heretic would horrify them, he is forbidden even tospeak of him. God is God and Bach is Bach. Some days after theperformance of Bach's _chef d'oeuvre_, the Singing Academy announcedGraun's 'Tod Jesu. ' This is another sacred work, a holy book; theworshipers of which are, however, mainly to be found in Berlin, whereasthe religion of Bach is professed throughout the north of Germany. MUSIC AS AN ARISTOCRATIC ART From the Autobiography Dramatic art in the time of Shakespeare was more appreciated by themasses than it is in our day by those nations which lay most claim topossess a feeling for it. Music is essentially aristocratic; it is adaughter of noble race, such as princes only can dower nowadays; it mustbe able to live poor and unmated rather than form a _mésalliance_. THE BEGINNING OF A "GRAND PASSION" From the Autobiography I have now come to the grand drama of my life; but I shall not relateall its painful details. It is enough to say that an English companycame over to perform Shakespeare's plays, then entirely unknown inFrance, at the Odéon. I was present at the first performance of'Hamlet, ' and there, in the part of Ophelia, I saw Miss Smithson, whom Imarried five years afterward. I can only compare the effect produced byher wonderful talent, or rather her dramatic genius, on my imaginationand heart, with the convulsion produced on my mind by the work of thegreat poet whom she interpreted. It is impossible to say more. This sudden and unexpected revelation of Shakespeare overwhelmed me. Thelightning-flash of his genius revealed the whole heaven of art to me, illuminating its remotest depths in a single flash. I recognized themeaning of real grandeur, real beauty, and real dramatic truth; and Ialso realized the utter absurdity of the ideas circulated by Voltaire inFrance about Shakespeare, and the pitiful pettiness of our old poeticschool, the offspring of pedagogues and _frères ignorantins_. But the shock was too great, and it was a long while before I recoveredfrom it. I became possessed by an intense, overpowering sense ofsadness, that in my then sickly, nervous state produced a mentalcondition adequately to describe which would take a great physiologist. I could not sleep, I lost my spirits, my favorite studies becamedistasteful to me, and I spent my time wandering aimlessly about Parisand its environs. During that long period of suffering, I can onlyrecall four occasions on which I slept, and then it was the heavy, death-like sleep produced by complete physical exhaustion. These wereone night when I had thrown myself down on some sheaves in a field nearVille-Juif; one day in a meadow in the neighborhood of Sceaux; once onthe snow on the banks of the frozen Seine, near Neuilly; and lastly, ona table in the Café du Cardinal at the corner of the Boulevard desItaliens and the Rue Richelieu, where I slept for five hours, to theterror of the _garçons_, who thought I was dead and were afraid tocome near me. It was on my return from one of these wanderings, in which I must haveseemed like one seeking his soul, that my eyes fell on Moore's 'IrishMelodies, ' lying open on my table at the song beginning "When he whoadores thee. " I seized my pen, and then and there wrote the music tothat heart-rending farewell, which is published at the end of mycollection of songs, 'Irlande, ' under the title of 'Elégie. ' This is theonly occasion on which I have been able to vent any strong feeling inmusic while still under its influence. And I think that I have rarelyreached such intense truth of musical expression, combined with so muchrealistic power of harmony. ON THEATRICAL MANAGERS IN RELATION TO ART From the 'Autobiography' I have often wondered why theatrical managers everywhere have such amarked predilection for what genuine artists, cultivated minds, and evena certain section of the public itself persist in regarding as very poormanufacture, short-lived productions, the handiwork of which is asvalueless as the raw material itself. Not as though platitudes alwayssucceeded better than good works; indeed, the contrary is often thecase. Neither is it that careful compositions entail more expense than"shoddy. " It is often just the other way. Perhaps it arises simply fromthe fact that the good works demand the care, study, attention, and, incertain cases, even the mind, talent, and inspiration of every one inthe theatre, from the manager down to the prompter. The others, on thecontrary, being made especially for lazy, mediocre, superficial, ignorant, and silly people, naturally find a great many supporters. Well! a manager likes, above everything, whatever brings him in amiablespeeches and satisfied looks from his underlings, he likes things thatrequire no learning and disturb no accepted ideas or habits, whichgently go with the stream of prejudice, and wound no self-love, becausethey reveal no incapacity; in a word, things which do not take too longto get up. SAINT BERNARD OF CLAIRVAUX (1091-1153) Born in 1091, at Fontaines, a castle of his father Tescelin, near Dijon, France, and devotedly instructed by his pious and gentle mother Aleth, Bernard of Clairvaux was from early childhood imbued with an activereligious enthusiasm. When the time came to choose his way of life, instead of going into battle with his knighted brothers, he made them, as well as his uncle the count of Touillon, join a band of thirtycompanions, with whom he knelt in the rude chapel at Citeaux to beg thetonsure from Abbot Stephen Harding. To rise at two o'clock in themorning and chant the prayer-offices of the church until nine, to dohard manual labor until two, when the sole meal of the day--composed ofvegetable food only--was taken, to labor again until nightfall and singthe vespers until an early bedtime hour: such was the Cistercian's dailyobservance of his vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience, --vows whichBernard and his followers were to lay down only upon the cross of ashesspread upon the hard cell floor to receive their outstretched, dying bodies. [Illustration: SAINT BERNARD] Citeaux became famous from the coming of these new recruits. There was, in those tough old days, a soldierly admiration for faithfulness todiscipline; and when Bernard was professed in 1114, Abbot Stephen wasobliged to enlarge the field of work. Bernard was sent in 1115 to builda house and clear and cultivate a farm in a thickly wooded andthief-infested glen to the north of Dijon, known as the Valley ofWormwood. Here at the age of twenty-four, in a rude house built by theirown hands with timber cut from the land, the young abbot and hiscompanions lived like the sturdy pioneers of our Northwest, the earththeir floor and narrow wooden bunks in a low dark loft their beds. Ofcourse the stubborn forest gave way slowly, and grudgingly opened sunnyhillsides to the vine and wheat-sheaf. The name of the settlement waschanged to Clairvaux, but for many years the poor monks' only food wasbarley bread, with broth made from boiled beech leaves. Here Tescelincame in his old age to live under the rule of his sons; and Humbeline, the wealthy and rank-proud daughter, one day left her gay retinue at thedoor of their little abbey and went to join the nuns at Jouilly. While Bernard was studying and planting at Clairvaux, the word of hispiety and worth went everywhere through the land, and he came to beconsulted not only by his Superior at Citeaux, but by villein and noble, even to the august persons of Louis the Fat of France and Henry theNorman of England. His gentleness and integrity became the chiefreliance of the royal house of France, and his sermons and letters beganto be quoted at council board and synod even as far as Rome. Theausterity and poverty of the Cistercians had caused some friends of themonks of Cluny to fall under Bernard's zealous indignation. He wrote toWilliam of St. Thierry a famous letter, mildly termed an Apology; inwhich, by the most insinuating and biting satire, the laxity andindulgence which had weakened or effaced the power of monastic example(from which arraignment the proud house of Cluny was deemed not toescape scot-free) were lashed with uncompromising courage. France and Burgundy, with the more or less helpful aid of the Normandukes in England, had been very loyal to the interests of the Papacy. When the schism of Anacletus II. Arose in 1130, Innocent II. , drivenfrom Rome by the armed followers of Peter de Leon, found his way at onceto the side of Louis VI. There he found Bernard, and upon him he leanedfrom that time until the latter had hewed a road for him back to Romethrough kings, prelates, statesmen, and intriguers, with the sameunflinching steadfastness with which he had cut a way to the sunlightfor his vines and vegetables in the Valley of Wormwood. Bernard it waswho persuaded Henry of England to side with Innocent, and it was he whostayed the revival of the question of investitures and won the Emperorto the Pope at Liege. At the Council of Rheims in October 1131, Bernardwas the central figure; and when the path was open for a return toItaly, the restored Pope took the abbot with him, leaving in return arescript releasing Citeaux from tithes. Bernard stayed in Italy until1135, and left Innocent secure in Rome. After a short period of peace at Clairvaux, he had to hurry off again toItaly on account of the defection of the influential monastery of MonteCasino to Anacletus. Not long after his last return from Italy, Bernard met Pierre Abélard. This brilliant and unfortunate man had incurred the charge of heresy, and at some time in the year 1139 Bernard was induced to meet and conferwith him. Nothing seems to have resulted from the conference, forAbélard went in 1140 to the Bishop of Sens and demanded an opportunityof being confronted with Bernard at an approaching synod. The abbot ofClairvaux, although unwilling, was at last persuaded to accept thechallenge. Louis VII. , King of France, Count Theobald of Champagne, andthe nobles of the realm assembled to witness the notable contest. Abélard came with a brilliant following; but on the second day of thesynod, to the surprise of everybody, he abruptly closed the proceedingby appealing to Rome. The works of Abélard were condemned, but hisappeal and person were respected, and Bernard prepared a strongcondemnatory letter to be sent to the Pope. As the great scholar was onhis way to Rome to follow his appeal, he stayed to rest at Cluny withPeter the Venerable, who persuaded him to go to Bernard. When the twogreat hearts met in the quiet of Clairvaux, all animosities wereresolved in peace; and Abélard, returning to Cluny, abandoned his appealand observed the rule of the house until his death, which he endured, asPeter the Venerable wrote to Héloise, fully prepared and comforted, atChâlons in 1142. The infidels of the East having taken Edessa in 1146, the power of theChristians in the Holy Land was broken; and Eugenius III. , who had beena monk of Clairvaux, appointed Bernard to preach a new crusade. He seton foot a vast host under the personal leadership of Louis VII. AndConrad the Emperor, accompanied by Queen Eleanor and many noble ladiesof both realms. The ill fortunes which attended this war brought toBernard the greatest bitterness of his life. So signal was the failureof the Second Crusade, that but a pitiful remnant of the brilliant armywhich had crossed the Bosphorus returned to Europe, and Bernard wasassailed with execration from hut and castle throughout the length ofEurope. His only answer was as gentle as his life: "Better that I beblamed than God. " He did not neglect, however, to point out that theevil lives and excesses of those who attempted the Crusade were the realcauses of the failure of the Christian arms. In Languedoc in 1147 he quelled a dangerous heresy, and silencedGilbert, bishop of Poitiers, at the Council of Rheims. In 1148 Malachy, Archbishop of Armagh and Primate of Ireland, who nineyears before had visited Clairvaux and formed a lasting friendship forBernard, came there again to die in the arms of his friend. It isrelated that the two saints had exchanged habits upon the first visit, and that Malachy wore that of Bernard on his death-bed. The funeralsermon preached by Bernard upon the life and virtue of his Irish comradeis reputed to be one of the finest extant. It seemed as if the Gael hadcome to show the Goth the way of death. Bernard's health, early brokenby self-imposed austerity and penances, had never been robust, and ithad often seemed that nothing but the vigor of his will had kept himfrom the grave. In the year 1153 he was stricken with a fatal illness. Yet when the archbishop of Trèves came to his bedside, imploring his aidto put an end to an armed quarrel between the nobles and the people ofMetz, he went cheerfully but feebly to the field between the contendingparties, and by words which came with pain and in the merest whispers, he persuaded the men who were already at each other's throats to forgettheir enmities. He died at Clairvaux on January 12th, 1153, and was buried, as hewished, in the habit of Saint Malachy. In 1174 he was sainted, and hislife is honored in the liturgy of the church on the 20th of August. The marks of Saint Bernard's character were sweetness and gentletolerance in the presence of honest opposition, and implacable vigoragainst shams and evil-doing. His was the perfect type of well-regulatedindividual judgment. His humility and love of poverty were true andunalterable. In Italy he refused the mitres of Genoa and Milan in turn, and in France successively declined the sees of Châlons, Langres, andRheims. He wrote and spoke with simplicity and directness, and with anenergy and force of conviction which came from absolute command of hissubject. He did not disdain to use a good-tempered jest as occasionrequired, and his words afford some pleasant examples of naïve puns. Hewas a tireless letter-writer, and some of his best writings are in thatform. He devoted much labor to his sermons on the Canticle of Canticles, the work remaining unfinished at his death. He wrote a long poem on thePassion, one beautiful hymn of which is included in the Roman Breviary. SAINT BERNARD'S HYMN Jesu! the very thought of thee With sweetness fills my breast, But sweeter far thy face to see And in thy presence rest. Nor voice can sing nor heart can frame, Nor can the memory find, A sweeter sound than thy blest name, O Savior of mankind! O hope of every contrite heart! O joy of all the meek! To those who fall, how kind thou art, How good to those who seek! But what to those who find? Ah, this Nor tongue nor pen can show. The love of Jesus, what it is None but his loved ones know. Jesu! our only joy be thou, As thou our prize wilt be! Jesu! be thou our glory now And through eternity! MONASTIC LUXURY From the Apology to the Abbot William of St. Thierry There is no conversation concerning the Scriptures, none concerning thesalvation of souls; but small-talk, laughter, and idle words fill theair. At dinner the palate and ears are equally tickled--the one withdainties, the other with gossip and news, which together quite preventall moderation in feeding. In the mean time dish after dish is set onthe table; and to make up for the small privation of meat, a doublesupply is provided of well-grown fish. When you have eaten enough of thefirst, if you taste the second course, you will seem to yourself hardlyto have touched the former: such is the art of the cooks, that afterfour or five dishes have been devoured, the first does not seem to be inthe way of the last, nor does satiety invade the appetite. .. . Who couldsay, to speak of nothing else, in how many forms eggs are cooked andworked up? with what care they are turned in and out, made hard or soft, or chopped fine; now fried, now roasted, now stuffed; now they areserved mixed with other things, now by themselves. Even the externalappearance of the dishes is such that the eye, as well as the taste, ischarmed. .. . Not only have we lost the spirit of the old monasteries, but even itsoutward appearance. For this habit of ours, which of old was the sign ofhumility, by the monks of our day is turned into a source of pride. Wecan hardly find in a whole province wherewithal we condescend to beclothed. The monk and the knight cut their garments, the one his cowl, the other his cloak, from the same piece. No secular person, howevergreat, whether king or emperor, would be disgusted at our vestments ifthey were only cut and fitted to his requirements. But, say you, religion is in the heart, not in the garments? True; but you, when youare about to buy a cowl, rush over the towns, visit the markets, examine the fairs, dive into the houses of the merchants, turn over alltheir goods, undo their bundles of cloth, feel it with your fingers, hold it to your eyes or to the rays of the sun, and if anything coarseor faded appears, you reject it. But if you are pleased with any objectof unusual beauty or brightness, you at once buy it, whatever the price. I ask you, Does this come from the heart, or your simplicity? I wonder that our abbots allow these things, unless it arises from thefact that no one is apt to blame any error with confidence if he cannottrust in his own freedom from the same; and it is a right human qualityto forgive without much anger those self-indulgences in others for whichwe ourselves have the strongest inclination. How is the light of theworld overshadowed! Those whose lives should have been the way of lifeto us, by the example they give of pride, become blind leaders of theblind. What a specimen of humility is that, to march with such pomp andretinue, to be surrounded with such an escort of hairy men, so that oneabbot has about him people enough for two bishops. I lie not when I say, I have seen an abbot with sixty horses after him, and even more. Wouldyou not think, as you see them pass, that they were not fathers ofmonasteries, but lords of castles--not shepherds of souls, but princesof provinces? Then there is the baggage, containing table-cloths, andcups and basins, and candlesticks, and well-filled wallets--not with thecoverlets, but the ornaments of the beds. My lord abbot can never gomore than four leagues from his home without taking all his furniturewith him, as if he were going to the wars, or about to cross a desertwhere necessaries cannot be had. Is it quite impossible to wash one'shands in, and drink from, the same vessel? Will not your candle burnanywhere but in that gold or silver candlestick of yours, which youcarry with you? Is sleep impossible except upon a variegated mattress, or under a foreign coverlet? Could not one servant harness the mule, wait at dinner, and make the bed? If such a multitude of men and horsesis indispensable, why not at least carry with us our necessaries, andthus avoid the severe burden we are to our hosts?. .. [Illustration: _MONASTIC LUXURY. _Photogravure from a Painting by Edward Grützner. ] By the sight of wonderful and costly vanities men are prompted to give, rather than to pray. Some beautiful picture of a saint is exhibited--andthe brighter the colors the greater the holiness attributed to it: menrun, eager to kiss; they are invited to give, and the beautiful ismore admired than the sacred is revered. In the churches are suspended, not _coronae_, but wheels studded with gems and surrounded by lights, which are scarcely brighter than the precious stones which are nearthem. Instead of candlesticks, we behold great trees of brass fashionedwith wonderful skill, and glittering as much through their jewels astheir lights. What do you suppose is the object of all this? Therepentance of the contrite, or the admiration of the gazers? O vanity ofvanities! but not more vain than foolish. The church's walls areresplendent, but the poor are not there. .. . The curious find wherewithto amuse themselves; the wretched find no stay for them in their misery. Why at least do we not reverence the images of the saints, with whichthe very pavement we walk on is covered? Often an angel's mouth is spitinto, and the face of some saint trodden on by passers-by. .. . But if wecannot do without the images, why can we not spare the brilliant colors?What has all this to do with monks, with professors of poverty, with menof spiritual minds? Again, in the cloisters, what is the meaning of those ridiculousmonsters, of that deformed beauty, that beautiful deformity, before thevery eyes of the brethren when reading? What are disgusting monkeysthere for, or satyrs, or ferocious lions, or monstrous centaurs, orspotted tigers, or fighting soldiers, or huntsmen sounding the bugle?You may see there one head with many bodies, or one body with numerousheads. Here is a quadruped with a serpent's tail; there is a fish with abeast's head; there a creature, in front a horse, behind a goat; anotherhas horns at one end, and a horse's tail at the other. In fact, such anendless variety of forms appears everywhere, that it is more pleasant toread in the stonework than in books, and to spend the day in admiringthese oddities than in meditating on the law of God. Good God! if we arenot ashamed of these absurdities, why do we not grieve at the costof them? FROM HIS SERMON ON THE DEATH OF GERARD "As the tents of Kedar, as the curtains of Solomon. "--Sol. Song i. 5 Perhaps both members of the comparison--viz. , "As the tents of Kedar, asthe curtains of Solomon"--refer only to the first words, "I am black. "It may be, however, that the simile is extended to both clauses, andeach is compared with each. The former sense is the more simple, thelatter the more obscure. Let us try both, beginning with the latter, which seems the more difficult. There is no difficulty, however, in thefirst comparison, "I am black as the tents of Kedar, " but only in thelast. For Kedar, which is interpreted to mean "darkness" or "gloom, " maybe compared with blackness justly enough; but the curtains of Solomonare not so easily likened to beauty. Moreover, who does not see that"tents" fit harmoniously with the comparison? For what is the meaning of"tents" except our bodies, in which we sojourn for a time? Nor have wean abiding city, but we seek one to come. In our bodies, as under tents, we carry on warfare. Truly, we are violent to take the kingdom. Indeed, the life of man here on earth is a warfare; and as long as we do battlein this body, we are absent from the Lord, --i. E. , from the light. Forthe Lord is light; and so far as any one is not in Him, so far he is indarkness, i. E. , in Kedar. Let each one then acknowledge the sorrowfulexclamation as his own:--"Woe is me that my sojourn is prolonged! I havedwelt with those who dwell in Kedar. My soul hath long sojourned in astrange land. " Therefore this habitation of the body is not the mansionof the citizen, nor the house of the native, but either the soldier'stent or the traveler's inn. This body, I say, is a tent, and a tent ofKedar, because, by its interference, it prevents the soul from beholdingthe infinite light, nor does it allow her to see the light at all, except through a glass darkly, and not face to face. Do you not see whence blackness comes to the Church--whence a certainrust cleaves to even the fairest souls? Doubtless it comes from thetents of Kedar, from the practice of laborious warfare, from the longcontinuance of a painful sojourn, from the straits of our grievousexile, from our feeble, cumbersome bodies; for the corruptible bodypresseth down the soul, and the earthly tabernacle weigheth down themind that museth upon many things. Therefore the souls' desire to beloosed, that being freed from the body they may fly into the embraces ofChrist. Wherefore one of the miserable ones said, groaning, "O wretchedman that I am, who shall deliver me from the body of this death!" For asoul of this kind knoweth that, while in the tents of Kedar, she cannotbe entirely free from spot or wrinkle, nor from stains of blackness, andwishes to go forth and to put them off. And here we have the reason whythe spouse calls herself black as the tents of Kedar. But now, how isshe beautiful as the curtains of Solomon? Behind these curtains I feelthat an indescribable holiness and sublimity are veiled, which I darenot presume to touch, save at the command of Him who shrouded and sealedthe mystery. For I have read, He that is a searcher of Majesty shall beoverwhelmed with the glory. I pass on therefore. It will devolve on you, meanwhile, to obtain grace by your prayers, that we may the morereadily, because more confidently, recur to a subject which needsattentive minds; and it may be that the pious knocker at the door willdiscover what the bold explorer seeks in vain. BERNARD OF CLUNY Twelfth Century BY WILLIAM C. PRIME Little is known concerning the monk Bernard, sometimes called Bernard ofMorlay and sometimes Bernard of Cluny. The former name is probablyderived from the place of his origin, the latter from the fact that inthe introduction to his poem 'De Contemptu Mundi' he describes himselfas a brother of the monks of Cluny. He lived in the twelfth century, aperiod of much learning in the church; and that he was himself a man ofbroad scholarship and brilliant abilities, the Latin poem, his onlysurviving work, abundantly testifies. This poem, divided into three books, consists in all of about threethousand lines. It is introduced by a short address in prose to FatherPeter, the abbot of the monastery, in which the author describes thepeculiar operations of his mind in undertaking and accomplishing hismarvelous poem. He believes and asserts, "not arrogantly, but in allhumility and therefore boldly, " that he had divine aid. "Unless thespirit of wisdom and understanding had been with me and filled me, I hadnever been able to construct so long a work in such a difficult metre. " This metre is peculiar. In technical terms each line consists of threeparts: the first part including two dactyls, the second part twodactyls, the third part one dactyl and one trochee. The final trochee, along and a short syllable, rhymes with the following or preceding line. There is also a rhyme, in each line, of the second dactyl with thefourth. This will be made plain to the ordinary reader by quoting thefirst two lines of the poem, divided into feet:-- Hora no | vissima | tempora | pessima | sunt, vigi | lemus; Ecce mi | naciter | imminet | arbiter | ille su | premus. The adoption of such a metre would seem to be a clog on flexibility andforce of expression. But in this poem it is not so. The author rejoicesin absolute freedom of diction. The rhythm and rhyme alike lendthemselves to the uses, now of bitter satire and revilings, now ofoverpowering hope and exultant joy. The title scarcely gives an idea of the subject-matter of the poem. Theold Benedictine, living for the time in his cell, had nevertheless knownthe world of his day, had lived in it and been of it. To him it seemedan evil world, full of crimes, of moils, of deceits, of abominations;the Church seemed corrupt, venal, shameless, and Rome the centre and thesoul of this accursed world. Pondering on these conditions, the monkturned his weary gaze toward the celestial country, the country ofpurity and peace, and to the King on his throne, the centre and sourceof eternal beatitude. The contrast, on which he dwelt for a long time, filled him on the one hand with burning indignation, on the other withentrancing visions and longings. At last he broke out into magnificent poetry. It is not possible totranslate him into any other language than the Latin in which he wrote, and preserve any of the grandeur and beauty which result from the unionof ardent thought with almost miraculous music of language. Dr. Nealeaptly speaks of the majestic sweetness which invests Bernard's poem. Theexpression applies specially to those passages, abounding in all partsof the poem, in which he describes the glory and the peace of the bettercountry. Many of these have been translated or closely imitated by Dr. Neale, with such excellent effect that several hymns which are verypopular in churches of various denominations have been constructed fromDr. Neale's translations. Other portions of the poem, especially thosein which the vices and crimes of the Rome of that time are denounced andlashed with unsparing severity, have never been translated, and are notlikely ever to be, because of the impossibility of preserving in Englishthe peculiar force of the metre; and translation without this would beof small value. The fire of the descriptions of heaven is increased bythe contrast in which they stand with descriptions of Rome in thetwelfth century. Here, for example, is a passage addressed to Rome:-- "Fas mihi dicere, fas mihi scribere 'Roma fuisti, ' Obruta moenibus, obruta moribus, occubuisti. Urbs ruis inclita, tam modo subdita, quam prius alta: Quo prius altior, tam modo pressior, et labefacta. Fas mihi scribere, fas mihi dicere 'Roma, peristi. ' Sunt tua moenia vociferantia 'Roma ruisti. '" And here is one addressed to the City of God:-- "O sine luxibus, O sine luctibus, O sine lite, Splendida curia, florida patria, patria vitæ. Urbs Syon inclita, patria condita littore tuto, Te peto, te colo, te flagro, te volo, canto, saluto. " While no translation exists of this remarkable work, nor indeed can bemade to reproduce the power and melody of the original, yet a very goodidea of its spirit may be had from the work of Dr. J. Mason Neale, whomade from selected portions this English poem, which is very much morethan what he modestly called it, "a close imitation. " Dr. Neale has madeno attempt to reproduce the metre of the original. [ILLUSTRATION: signature: W. T. Prince] BRIEF LIFE IS HERE OUR PORTION Brief life is here our portion, Brief sorrow, short-lived care: The Life that knows no ending, The tearless Life, is _there_: O happy retribution, Short toil, eternal rest! For mortals and for sinners A mansion with the Blest! That we should look, poor wanderers, To have our home on high! That worms should seek for dwellings Beyond the starry sky! And now we fight the battle, And then we wear the Crown Of full and everlasting And passionless renown: Then glory, yet unheard of, Shall shed abroad its ray; Resolving all enigmas, An endless Sabbath-day. Then, then, from his oppressors The Hebrew shall go free, And celebrate in triumph The year of Jubilee: And the sun-lit land that recks not Of tempest or of fight Shall fold within its bosom Each happy Israelite. 'Midst power that knows no limit, And wisdom free from bound, The Beatific Vision Shall glad the Saints around; And peace, for war is needless, And rest, for storm is past, And goal from finished labor, And anchorage at last. There God, my King and Portion, In fullness of His Grace, Shall we behold forever, And worship face to face; There Jacob into Israel, From earthlier self estranged, And Leah into Rachel Forever shall be changed; There all the halls of Syon For aye shall be complete: And in the land of Beauty All things of beauty meet. To thee, O dear, dear country! Mine eyes their vigils keep; For very love, beholding Thy happy name, they weep: The mention of Thy glory Is unction to the breast, And medicine in sickness, And love, and life, and rest. O one, O onely mansion! O Paradise of joy! Where tears are ever banished, And smiles have no alloy: Beside thy living waters All plants are, great and small; The cedar of the forest, The hyssop of the wall; With jaspers glow thy bulwarks, Thy streets with emeralds blaze; The sardius and the topaz Unite in thee their rays; Thine ageless walls are bonded With amethyst unpriced; Thy saints build up its fabric, And the Corner-stone is CHRIST. Thou hast no shore, fair Ocean! Thou hast no time, bright Day! Dear fountain of refreshment To pilgrims far away! Upon the Rock of Ages They raise thy holy Tower. Thine is the Victor's laurel, And thine the golden dower. Thou feel'st in mystic rapture, O Bride that know'st no guile, The Prince's sweetest kisses, The Prince's loveliest smile. Unfading lilies, bracelets Of living pearl, thine own; The Lamb is ever near thee, The Bridegroom thine alone; And all thine endless leisure In sweetest accents sings The ills that were thy merit, The joys that are thy King's. Jerusalem the golden! With milk and honey blest, Beneath thy contemplation Sink heart and voice opprest; I know not, oh, I know not What social joys are there, What radiancy of glory, What light beyond compare; And when I fain would sing them, My spirit fails and faints, And vainly would it image The assembly of the Saints. They stand, those halls of Syon, All jubilant with song, And bright with many an Angel, And many a Martyr throng; The Prince is ever in them, The light is aye serene; The Pastures of the Blessed Are decked in glorious sheen; There is the Throne of David, And there, from toil released, The shout of them that triumph, The song of them that feast; And they, beneath their Leader, Who conquered in the fight, For ever and for ever Are clad in robes of white. Jerusalem the glorious! The glory of the elect, O dear and future vision That eager hearts expect: Ev'n now by faith I see thee, Ev'n here thy walls discern; To thee my thoughts are kindled And strive and pant and yearn: Jerusalem the onely, That look'st from Heav'n below, In thee is all my glory, In me is all my woe: And though my body may not, My spirit seeks thee fain; Till flesh and earth return me To earth and flesh again. O Land that seest no sorrow! O State that fear'st no strife! O princely bowers! O Land of flowers! O realm and Home of Life! JULIANA BERNERS (Fifteenth Century) About the year 1475 one William Caxton, a prosperous English woolmerchant of good standing and repute, began printing books. The artwhich he introduced into his native country was quickly taken up byothers; first, it seems, by certain monks at St. Albans, and shortlyafterward by Wynkyn de Worde, who had been an apprentice to Caxton. In1486 the press at St. Albans issued two books printed in English, ofwhich one was entitled 'The Boke of St. Albans. ' Of this volume onlythree perfect copies are known to exist. It is a compilation oftreatises on hawking, on hunting, and on heraldry, and contained butlittle evidence as to their authorship. Ten years later Wynkyn de Wordereprinted the work with additions, under the following elaborate title, in the fashion of the time:--'Treatyse perteynynge to Hawkynge, Huntynge, and Fysshynge with an Angle; also a right noble Treatyse onthe Lynage of Coote Armeris; ending with a Treatyse which specyfyeth ofBlasyng of Armys. ' [Illustration: JULIANA BERNERS] The authorship of this volume, one of the earliest books printed in theEnglish language, has generally been ascribed to a certain (oruncertain) Juliana Berners, Bernes, or Barnes, who lived in the earlypart of the fifteenth century, and who is reputed to have been prioressof the Nunnery of Sopwell, --long since in ruins, --near St. Albans, andclose to the little river Ver, which still conceals in its quiet poolsthe speckled trout. If this attribution be correct, Dame Berners was thefirst woman to write a book in English. Although the question of theauthorship is by no means settled, yet it is clear that the printerbelieved the treatise on hunting to have been written by this lady, andthe critics now generally assign a portion at least of the volume toher. In the sixteenth century the book became very popular, and wasreprinted many times. Of the several treatises it contains, that on fishing has the greatestinterest, an interest increased by the fact that it probably suggested'The Compleat Angler' of Izaak Walton, which appeared one hundred andsixty years later. HERE BEGYNNYTH THE TREATYSE OF FYSSHYNGE WYTH AN ANGLE Salomon in his parablys sayth that a glad spyryte makyth a flouryngeaege, that is a fayre aege and a longe. And syth it is soo: I aske thisquestyon, whiche ben the meanes and the causes that enduce a man in to amery spyryte: Truly to my beste dyscrecon it seemeth good dysportes andhonest gamys in whom a man Joyeth without any repentaunce after. Thenne folowyth it yt gode dysportes and honest games ben cause ofmannys fayr aege and longe life. And therefore now woll I chose of fouregood disportes and honest gamys, that is to wyte: of huntynge: hawkynge:fysshynge: and foulynge. The best to my symple dyscrecon whyche isfysshynge: called Anglynge wyth a rodde: and a lyne and an hoke. Andthereof to treate as my symple wytte may suffyce: both for the saidreason of Salomon and also for the reason that phisyk makyth in thiswyse. _Si tibi deficiant medici tibi fiant: hec tria mens leta labor etmoderata dieta_. Ye shall vnderstonde that this is for to saye, Yf a manlacke leche or medicyne he shall make thre thynges his leche andmedicyne: and he shall nede neuer no moo. The fyrste of theym is a merythought. The seconde is labour not outrageo. The thyrd is dyetemesurable. .. . Here folowyth the order made to all those whiche shall haue thevnderstondynge of this forsayd treatyse & vse it for theyr pleasures. Ye that can angle & take fysshe to your pleasures as this forsaydtreatyse techyth & shewyth you: I charge & requyre you in the name ofalle noble men that ye fysshe not in noo poore mannes seuerall water: ashis ponde: stewe: or other necessary thynges to kepe fysshe in wythouthis lycence & good wyll. Nor that ye vse not to breke noo mannys gynnyslyenge in theyr weares & in other places dve vuto theym. Ne to take thefysshe awaye that is taken in theym. For after a fysshe is taken in amannys gynne yf the gynne be layed in the comyn waters: or elles insuche waters as he hireth, it is his owne propre goodes. And yf ye takeit awaye ye robbe hym: whyche is a ryght shamfull dede to ony noble manto do yt that theuys & brybours done: whyche are punysshed for theyrevyll dedes by the necke & other wyse whan they maye be aspyed & taken. And also yf ye do in lyke manere as this treatise shewyth you: ye shalhaue no nede to take of other menys: whiles ye shal haue ynough of yourowne takyng yf ye lyste to labour therfore. Whyche shall be to you avery pleasure to se the fayr bryght shynynge scalyd fysshes dysceyved byyour crafty meanes & drawen vpon londe. Also that ye breke noo mannysheggys in goynge abowte your dysportes: ne opyn noo mannes gates butthat ye shytte theym agayn. Also ye shall not vse this forsayd craftydysporte for no covety senes to thencreasynge & sparynge of your moneyoonly, but pryncypally for your solace & to cause the helthe of yourbody, and specyally of your soule. For whanne ye purpoos to goo on yourdisportes in fysshyng ye woll not desyre gretly many persones wyth you, whiche myghte lette you of your game. And thenne ye maye serue Goddeuowtly in sayenge affectuously youre custumable prayer. And thusdoynge ye shall eschewe & voyde many vices, as ydylnes whyche ispryncypall cause to enduce man to many other vyces, as it is ryghtwell knowen. Also ye shall not be to rauenous in takyng of your sayd game as to mocheat one tyme: whyche ye maye lyghtly doo, yf ye doo in euery poynt asthis present treatyse shewyth you in euery poynt, whyche lyghtly beoccasyon to dystroye your owne dysportes & other mennys also. As whan yehaue a suffycyent mese ye sholde coveyte nomore as at that tyme. Also yeshall besye yourselfe to nouryssh the game in all that ye maye: & todystroye all such thynges as ben devourers of it. And all those thatdone after this rule shall haue the blessynge of god & saynt Petyr, whyche be theym graunte that wyth his precyous blood vs boughte. And for by cause that this present treatyse sholde not come to thehondys of eche ydle persone whyche wolde desire it yf it were enpryntydallone by itself & put in a lytyll plaunflet therfore I have compylyd itin a greter volume of dyverse bokys concernynge to gentyll & noble mento the entent that the forsayd ydle persones whyche sholde have butlytyll mesure in the sayd dysporte of fyshyng sholde not by this meaneutterly dystroye it. EMPRYNTED AT WESTMESTRE BY WYNKYN THE WORDE THE YERE THYN-CARNACON OFOUR LORD M. CCCC. LXXXXVI. Reprinted by Thomas White, Crane Court MDCCCXXVII. WALTER BESANT (1838-) Walter Besant, born in Portsmouth, England, in 1838, did not begin hiscareer as a novelist till he was thirty years old. His preparation forthe works that possess so certain a maturity of execution, with ascertain an ideal of performance, was made at King's College, London, andafterwards at Christ's College, Cambridge, where he took mathematicalhonors. Abandoning his idea of entering the Church, he taught for sevenyears in the Royal College of Mauritius. Ill health compelled his returnto England, and he then took up literature as a profession. His firstnovel he had the courage to burn when the first publisher to whom heshowed it refused it. But the succeeding years brought forth 'Studies in Early French Poetry, 'a delicate and scholarly series of essays; an edition of Rabelais, ofwhom he is the biographer and disciple, and, with Professor Palmer, a'History of Jerusalem, ' a work for which he had equipped himself whensecretary of the Palestine Exploration Fund. [Illustration: WALTER BESANT] Mr. Besant was also a student in another special field. He knew hisDickens as no other undergraduate in the University knew that branch ofpolite literature, and passed an examination on the 'Pickwick Papers'which the author declared that he himself would have failed in. By theseprocesses Mr. Besant fitted himself mentally and socially for the taskof story-telling. The relations of a man of letters to the rest of theworld are comprehensively revealed in the long list of his novels. From the beginning he was one who comes with a tale "which holdethchildren from play and old men from the chimney corner"; nor is thecharm lessened by the sense of a living and kindly voice addressing thehearer. His novels are easy reading, and do not contain an obscuresentence. As art is an expression of the artist's mind, and not a rigidecclesiastical canon, it may be expressed in as many formulas as thereare artists. Therefore, while to few readers life casts the rosyreflection that we have learned to call Besantine, one would not wish itto disappear nor to be discredited. It was in the year 1869 that Walter Besant, by a happy chance, made theacquaintance of James Rice, the editor of Once a Week, and became acontributor to that magazine. In 1871 that literary partnership betweenthem began, which is interesting in the history of collaboration. Mr. Rice had been a barrister, and added legal lore to Mr. Besant's variedand accurate literary equipment. The brilliant series of novels thatfollowed includes 'Ready-Money Morti-boy, ' 'My Little Girl, ' 'With Harpand Crown, ' 'The Golden Butterfly, ' 'The Seamy Side, ' and 'The Chaplainof the Fleet. ' The latter story, that of an innocent young country girlleft to the guardianship of her uncle, chaplain of the Fleet prison, bythe death of her father, is delicately and surprisingly original. Theinfluence of Dickens is felt in the structure of the story, and thefaithful, almost photographic fidelity to locality betrays in whosefootsteps the authors have followed; but the chaplain, though he belongsto a family whose features are familiar to the readers of 'LittleDorrit' and 'Great Expectations, ' has not existed until he appears inthese pages, --pompous, clever, and without principle, but not lacking innatural affection. The young girl whose guileless belief in everybodyforces the worst people to assume the characters her purity andinnocence endows them with, is to the foul prison what Picciola was toCharney. Nor will the moralist find fault with the author whose kindheart teaches him to include misfortune in his catalogue of virtues. Mr. Rice died in 1882, and 'All Sorts and Conditions of Men, ' Mr. Besant's first independent novel, appeared the same year. It is a novelwith a purpose, and accomplished its purpose because an artist's handwas necessary to paint the picture of East London that met with such aresponse as the People's Palace. The appeal to philanthropy was a newone. It was a plea for a little more of the pleasures and graces of lifefor the two million of people who inhabit the east end of the greatcity. It is not a picture of life in the lowest phases, where the scenesare as dramatic as in the highest social world, but a story of humanlife; the nobility, the meanness, the pathos of it in hopelesslycommonplace surroundings, where the fight is not a hand-to-hand strugglewith bitter poverty or crime, but with dullness and monotony. Thecharacters in 'All Sorts and Conditions of Men' are possibly moretypical than real, but one hesitates to question either characters orsituation. The "impossible story" has become true, and the vision thatthe enthusiastic young hero and heroine dream has materialized into alovely reality. 'The Children of Gibeon' (1884) and 'The World Went Very Well Then'(1885) are written with the same philanthropic purpose; but if SirWalter Besant were not first of all a story-teller, the possessor of aliving voice that holds one spellbound till he has finished his tale, the reader would be more sensible of the wide knowledge of the novelist, and his familiarity with life in its varied forms. Here are about thirty novels, displaying an intimate knowledge of manycrafts, trades, and professions, the ways of landsman and voyager, ofcountry and town, of the new world and the old, of modern charlatanismas shown in 'Herr Paulus, ' of the "woman question" among London Jews asin the 'Rebel Queen, ' and the suggestion of the repose and sufficiencyof life's simple needs as told in 'Call Her Mine' and 'Celia's Arbor. ' In the 'Ivory Gate' the hero is the victim of a remarkablehallucination; in the story of 'The Inner House' the plummet ofsuggestion plunges into depths not sounded before, and the soul'sregeneration is unfolded in the loveliest of parables. The range of Sir Walter Besant reaches from the somewhatconventionalized 'Dorothy Forster' to 'St. Katharine's Tower, ' wheredeep tragedy approaches the melodramatic, or from the fascination of'The Master Craftsman' to the 'Wapping Idyll' of the heaps of miser'streasure. There is largeness of stroke in this list, and a wideprospect. His humor is of the cheerful outdoor kind, and the laugh is atfoibles rather than weakness. He pays little attention to fashion inliterature, except to give a good-natured nod to a passing fad. It would be difficult to classify him under any school. His stories arenot analytical, nor is one conscious of that painstaking fidelity to artwhich is no longer classed among the minor virtues. When he fights, itis with wrong and oppression and the cheerless monotony of the lives ofthe poor; but he fights classes rather than individuals, althoughcertain characters like Fielding the plagiarist, in 'Armorel ofLyonesse, ' are studied from life. The village of bankrupts in 'All in aGarden Fair' is a whimsical conceit, like the disguise of Angela in 'AllSorts and Conditions of Men, ' and the double identity of Edmund Gray in'The Ivory Gate. ' In reading Besant we are constantly reminded thathumanity is wider than the world; and though its simplest facts are itsgreatest, there is both interest and edification in eccentricities. In 1895 he was made a baronet, and is president of the Society ofAuthors, of whom he has been a gallant champion against the publishers. OLD-TIME LONDON From Sir Walter Besant's 'London': Harper and Brothers The London house, either in Saxon or Norman time, presented no kind ofresemblance to the Roman villa. It had no cloisters, no hypocaust, nosuite or sequence of rooms. This unlikeness is another proof, if anywere wanting, that the continuity of tenure had been wholly broken. Ifthe Saxons went into London, as has been suggested, peaceably, and leftthe people to carry on their old life and their trade in their own way, the Roman and British architecture--no new thing, but a style grown upin course of years and found fitted to the climate--would certainly haveremained. That, however, was not the case. The Englishman developed hishouse from the patriarchal idea. First, there was the common hall; in this the household lived, fed, transacted business, and made their cheer in the evenings. It was builtof timber, and to keep out the cold draughts it was afterwards linedwith tapestry. At first they used simple cloths, which in great houseswere embroidered and painted; _perches_ of various kinds were affixed tothe walls, whereon the weapons, the musical instruments, the cloaks, etc. , were hung up. The lord and lady sat on a high seat; not, I aminclined to think, on a dais at the end of the hall, which would havebeen cold for them, but on a great chair near the fire, which wasburning in the middle of the hall. This fashion long continued. I havemyself seen a college hall warmed by a fire in a brazier burning underthe lantern of the hall. The furniture consisted of benches; the tablewas laid on trestles, spread with a white cloth, and removed afterdinner; the hall was open to all who came, on condition that the guestshould leave his weapons at the door. The floor was covered with reeds, which made a clean, soft, and warmcarpet, on which the company could, if they pleased, lie round the fire. They had carpets or rugs also, but reeds were commonly used. Thetraveler who chances to find himself at the ancient and most interestingtown of Kingston-on-Hull, which very few English people, and still fewerAmericans, have the curiosity to explore, should visit the TrinityHouse. There, among many interesting things, he will find a hall wherereeds are still spread, but no longer so thickly as to form a completecarpet. I believe this to be the last survival of the reed carpet. The times of meals were: the breakfast at about nine; the "noon-meat, "or dinner, at twelve; and the "even-meat, " or supper, probably at amovable time, depending on the length of the day. When lighting wascostly and candles were scarce, the hours of sleep would be naturallylonger in winter than in the summer. In their manner of living the Saxons were fond of vegetables, especiallyof the leek, onion, and garlic. Beans they also had (these wereintroduced probably at the time when they commenced intercourse with theouter world), pease, radishes, turnips, parsley, mint, sage, cress, rue, and other herbs. They had nearly all our modern fruits, though many showby their names, which are Latin or Norman, a later introduction. Theymade use of butter, honey, and cheese. They drank ale and mead. Thelatter is still made, but in small quantities, in Somerset and Herefordshires. The Normans brought over the custom of drinking wine. In the earliest times the whole family slept in the common hall. Thefirst improvement was the erection of the solar, or upper chamber. Thiswas above the hall, or a portion of it, or over the kitchen and butteryattached to the hall. The arrangement may be still observed in many ofthe old colleges of Oxford or Cambridge. The solar was first thesleeping-room of the lord and lady; though afterward it served not onlythis purpose, but also for an ante-chamber to the dormitory of thedaughters and the maid-servants. The men of the household still slept inthe hall below. Later on, bed recesses were contrived in the wall, asone may find in Northumberland at the present day. The bed was commonly, but not for the ladies of the house, merely a big bag stuffed withstraw. A sheet wrapped round the body formed the only night-dress. Butthere were also pillows, blankets, and coverlets. The early English bedwas quite as luxurious as any that followed after, until the inventionof the spring mattress gave a new and hitherto unhoped-for joy to thehours of night. The second step in advance was the ladies' bower, a room or suite ofrooms set apart for the ladies of the house and their women. For thefirst time, as soon as this room was added, the women could follow theirown vocations of embroidery, spinning, and needlework of all kinds, apart from the rough and noisy talk of the men. The main features, therefore, of every great house, whether in town orcountry, from the seventh to the twelfth century, were the hall, thesolar built over the kitchen and buttery, and the ladies' bower. There was also the garden. In all times the English have been fond ofgardens. Bacon thought it not beneath his dignity to order thearrangement of a garden. Long before Bacon, a writer of the twelfthcentury describes a garden as it should be. "It should be adorned onthis side with roses, lilies, and the marigold; on that side withparsley, cost, fennel, southernwood, coriander, sage, savery, hyssop, mint, vine, dettany, pellitory, lettuce, cresses, and the peony. Letthere be beds enriched with onions, leeks, garlic, melons, andscallions. The garden is also enriched by the cucumber, the soporiferouspoppy, and the daffodil, and the acanthus. Nor let pot herbs be wanting, as beet-root, sorrel, and mallow. It is useful also to the gardener tohave anise, mustard, and wormwood. .. . A noble garden will give youmedlars, quinces, the pear main, peaches, pears of St. Regle, pomegranates, citrons, oranges, almonds, dates, and figs. " The latterfruits were perhaps attempted, but one doubts their arriving atripeness. Perhaps the writer sets down what he hoped would be someday achieved. The indoor amusements of the time were very much like our own. We have alittle music in the evening; so did our forefathers. We sometimes have alittle dancing; so did they, but the dancing was done for them. We go tothe theatres to see the mime; in their days the mime made his theatre inthe great man's hall. He played the fiddle and the harp; he sang songs, he brought his daughter, who walked on her hands and executedastonishing capers; the gleeman, minstrel, or jongleur was already asdisreputable as when we find him later on with his _ribauderie_. Again, we play chess; so did our ancestors. We gamble with dice; so did they. We feast and drink together; so did they. We pass the time in talk; sodid they. In a word, as Alphonse Karr put it, the more we change, themore we remain the same. Out-of-doors, as Fitz-Stephen shows, the young men skated, wrestled, played ball, practiced archery, held water tournaments, baited bull andbear, fought cocks, and rode races. They were also mustered sometimesfor service in the field, and went forth cheerfully, being speciallyupheld by the reassuring consciousness that London was always on thewinning side. The growth of the city government belongs to the history of London. Suffice it here to say that the people in all times enjoyed a freedomfar above that possessed by any other city of Europe. The history ofmunicipal London is a history of continual struggle to maintain thisfreedom against all attacks, and to extend it and to make itimpregnable. Already the people are proud, turbulent, and confident intheir own strength. They refuse to own any other lord but the kinghimself; there is no Earl of London. They freely hold their free andopen meetings, their folk-motes, --in the open space outside thenorthwest corner of St. Paul's Churchyard. That they lived roughly, enduring cold, sleeping in small houses in narrow courts; that theysuffered much from the long darkness of winter; that they were always indanger of fevers, agues, "putrid" throats, plagues, fires by night, andcivil wars; that they were ignorant of letters, --three schools only forthe whole of London, --all this may very well be understood. But thesethings do not make men and women wretched. They were not alwayssuffering from preventable disease; they were not always hauling theirgoods out of the flames; they were not always fighting. The first andmost simple elements of human happiness are three; to wit, that a manshould be in bodily health, that he should be free, that he should enjoythe produce of his own labor. All these things the Londoner possessedunder the Norman kings nearly as much as in these days they can bepossessed. His city has always been one of the healthiest in the world;whatever freedom could be attained he enjoyed; and in that rich tradingtown all men who worked lived in plenty. The households, the way of living, the occupations of the women, can beclearly made out in every detail from the Anglo-Saxon literature. Thewomen in the country made the garments, carded the wool, sheared thesheep, washed the things, beat the flax, ground the corn, sat at thespinning-wheel, and prepared the food. In the towns they had no shearingto do, but all the rest of their duty fell to their province. TheEnglish women excelled in embroidery. "English" work meant the best kindof work. They worked church vestments with gold and pearls and preciousstones. "Orfrey, " or embroidery in gold, was a special art. Of coursethey are accused by the ecclesiastics of an overweening desire to wearfinery; they certainly curled their hair, and, one is sorry to read, they painted, and thereby spoiled their pretty cheeks. If the man wasthe hlaf-ord [lord], --the owner or winner of the loaf, --the wife was thehlaf-dig [lady], its distributor; the servants and the retainers werehlaf-oetas, or eaters of it. When nunneries began to be founded, theSaxon ladies in great numbers forsook the world for the cloister. Andhere they began to learn Latin, and became able at least to carry oncorrespondence--specimens of which still exist--in that language. Everynunnery possessed a school for girls. They were taught to read and towrite their own language and Latin, perhaps also rhetoric andembroidery. As the pious Sisters were fond of putting on violetchemises, tunics, and vests of delicate tissue, embroidered with silverand gold, and scarlet shoes, there was probably not much mortificationof the flesh in the nunneries of the later Saxon times. This for the better class. We cannot suppose that the daughters of thecraftsmen became scholars of the nunnery. Theirs were the lowerwalks--to spin the linen and to make the bread and carry on thehousework. THE SYNAGOGUE From 'The Rebel Queen': Harper and Brothers "D'un jour intérieur je me sens éclairé, Et j'entends une voix qui me dit d'espérer. "--LAMARTINE. "Are you ready, Francesca?" Nelly ran lightly down the narrow stairs, dressed for Sabbath andSynagogue. She was dainty and pretty at all times in the matter ofdress, but especially on a summer day, which affords opportunity forbright color and bright drapery and an ethereal appearance. This morningshe was full of color and light. When, however, she found herselfconfronted with Francesca's simple gray dress, so closely fitting, sofaultless, and her black-lace hat with its single rose for color, Nelly's artistic sense caused her heart to sink like lead. It is not fornothing that one learns and teaches the banjo; one Art leads to another;she who knows music can feel for dress. "Oh!" she cried, clasping herhands. "That's what we can never do!" "What?" "That fit! Look at me! Yet they call me clever. Clara gives me the newfashions and I copy them, and the girls in our street copy me--poorthings!--and the dressmaker comes to talk things over and to learn fromme. I make everything for myself. And they call me clever! But I can'tget near it; and if I can't nobody can. ". .. A large detached structure of red brick stood east and west, with a flatfaçade and round windows that bore out the truth of thedate--1700--carved upon the front. A word or two in that squarecharacter--that tongue which presents so few attractions to most of uscompared with other tongues--probably corroborated the internal evidenceof the façade and the windows. "This is the synagogue, " said Nelly. She entered, and turning to theright, led the way up-stairs to a gallery running along the whole sideof the building. On the other side was another gallery. In front of bothwas a tolerably wide grill, through which the congregation below couldbe seen perfectly. "This is the women's gallery, " whispered Nell--there were not many womenpresent. "We'll sit in the front. Presently they will sing. They singbeautifully. Now they're reading prayers and the Law. They've got toread the whole Law through once a week, you know. " Francesca lookedcuriously through the grill. When one is in a perfectly strange place, the first observations made are of small and unimportant things. Sheobserved that there was a circular inclosure at the east end, as if foran altar; but there was no altar: two doors indicated a cupboard in thewall. There were six tall wax-lights burning round the inclosure, although the morning was fine and bright. At the west end a high screenkept the congregation from the disturbance of those who entered or wentout. Within the screen was a company of men and boys, all with theirhats and caps on their heads; they looked like the choir. In front ofthe choir was a platform railed round. Three chairs were placed at theback of the platform. There was a table covered with red velvet, onwhich lay the book of the Law, a ponderous roll of parchment providedwith silver staves or handles. Before this desk or table stood theReader. He was a tall and handsome man, with black hair and full blackbeard, about forty years of age. He wore a gown and large Geneva bands, like a Presbyterian minister; on his head he had a kind of biretta. Fourtall wax candles were placed round the front of the platform. The chairswere occupied by two or three elders. A younger man stood at the deskbeside the Reader. The service was already begun--it was, in fact, half over. Francesca observed next that all the men wore a kind of broad scarf, made of some white stuff about eight feet long and four feet broad. Bands of black or blue were worked in the ends, which were also providedwith fringes. "It is the Talleth, " Nelly whispered. Even the boys worethis white robe, the effect of which would have been very good but forthe modern hat, tall or pot, which spoiled all. Such a robe wants aturban above it, not an English hat. The seats were ranged along thesynagogue east and west. The place was not full, but there were a goodmany worshipers. The service was chanted by the Reader. It was a kind ofchant quite new and strange to Francesca. Like many young personsbrought up with no other religion than they can pick up for themselves, she was curious and somewhat learned in the matter of ecclesiasticalmusic and ritual, which she approached, owing to her education, withunbiased mind. She knew masses and anthems and hymns and chants of allkinds; never had she heard anything of this kind before. It was notcongregational, or Gregorian; nor was it repeated by the choir fromside to side; nor was it a monotone with a drop at the end; nor was it aflorid, tuneful chant such as one may hear in some Anglican services. This Reader, with a rich, strong voice, a baritone of great power, tooknearly the whole of the service--it must have been extremelyfatiguing--upon himself, chanting it from beginning to end. No doubt, ashe rendered the reading and the prayers, so they had been given by hisancestors in Spain and Portugal generation after generation, back intothe times when they came over in Phoenician ships to the Carthaginiancolonies, even before the dispersion of the Ten Tribes. It was atraditional chant of antiquity beyond record--not a monotonous chant. Francesca knew nothing of the words; she grew tired of trying to makeout whereabouts on the page the Reader might be in the book lent her, which had Hebrew on one side and English on the other. Besides, the manattracted her--by his voice, by his energy, by his appearance. Sheclosed her book and surrendered herself to the influence of the voiceand the emotions which it expressed. There was no music to help him. From time to time the men in thecongregation lifted up their voices--not seemingly in response, but asif moved to sudden passion and crying out with one accord. This helpedhim a little, otherwise he was without any assistance. A great Voice. The man sometimes leaned over the Roll of the Law, sometimes he stood upright, always his great Voice went up and down androlled along the roof and echoed along the benches of the women'sgallery. Now the Voice sounded a note of rejoicing; now, but less often, a note of sadness; now it was a sharp and sudden cry of triumph. Thenthe people shouted with him--it was as if they clashed sword on shieldand yelled for victory; now it was a note of defiance, as when men goforth to fight an enemy; now it sank to a murmur, as of one who consolesand soothes and promises things to come; now it was a note of rapture, as if the Promised Land was already recovered. Was all that in the Voice? Did the congregation, all sitting wrapped intheir white robes, feel these emotions as the Voice thundered androlled? I know not. Such was the effect produced upon one who heard thisVoice for the first time. At first it seemed loud, even barbaric; therewas lacking something which the listener and stranger had learned toassociate with worship. What was it? Reverence? But she presently foundreverence In plenty, only of a kind that differed from that of Christianworship. Then the listener made another discovery. In this ancientservice she missed the note of humiliation. There was no Litany at aFaldstool. There was no kneeling in abasement; there was no appearanceof penitence, sorrow, or the confession of sins. The Voice was as theVoice of a Captain exhorting his soldiers to fight. The service waswarlike, the service of a people whose trust in their God is so greatthat they do not need to call perpetually upon Him for the help andforgiveness of which they are assured. Yes, yes--she thought--this isthe service of a race of warriors; they are fighting men: the Lord istheir God; He is leading them to battle: as for little sins, andbackslidings, and penitences, they belong to the Day of Atonement--whichcomes once a year. For all the other days in the year, battle andvictory occupy all the mind. The service of a great fighting people; aservice full of joy, full of faith, full of assurance, full of hope andconfidence--such assurance as few Christians can understand, and offaith to which few Christians can attain. Perhaps Francesca was wrong;but these were her first impressions, and these are mostly true. In the body of the synagogue men came late. Under one gallery was aschool of boys, in the charge of a graybeard, who, book in hand, followed the service with one eye, while he admonished perpetually theboys to keep still and to listen. The boys grew restless; it was tediousto them--the Voice which expressed so much to the stranger who knew noHebrew at all was tedious to the children; they were allowed to get upand run into the court outside and then to come back again; nobodyheeded their going in and out. One little boy of three, wrapped, likethe rest, in a white Talleth, ran up and down the side aisle withoutbeing heeded--even by the splendid Beadle with the gold-laced hat, whichlooked so truly wonderful above the Oriental Talleth. The boys in thechoir got up and went in and out just as they pleased. Nobody minded. The congregation, mostly well-to-do men with silk hats, sat in theirplaces, book in hand, and paid no attention. Under the opposite gallery sat two or three rows of worshipers, whoreminded Francesca of Browning's poem of St. John's Day at Rome. Forthey nudged and jostled each other; they whispered things; they evenlaughed over the things they whispered. But they were clad like those inthe open part in the Talleth, and they sat book in hand, and from timeto time they raised their voices with the congregation. They showed noreverence except that they did not talk or laugh loudly. They were likethe children, their neighbors, --just as restless, just as uninterested, just as perfunctory. Well, they were clearly the poorer and the moreignorant part of the community. They came here and sat through theservice because they were ordered so to do; because, like Passover, andthe Feast of Tabernacles, and the Fast of Atonement, it was the Law oftheir People. The women in the gallery sat or stood. They neither knelt nor sangaloud; they only sat when it was proper to sit, or stood when it wasproper to stand. They were like the women, the village women, in aSpanish or Italian church, for whom everything is done. Francesca, forthe moment, felt humiliated that she should be compelled to sit apartfrom the congregation, railed off in the women's gallery, to have herreligion done for her, without a voice of her own in it at all. So, Ihave heard, indignation sometimes fills the bosom of certain ladies whenthey reflect upon the fact that they are excluded from the choir, andforbidden even to play the organ in their own parish church. The chanting ceased; the Reader sat down. Then the Choir began. Theysang a hymn--a Hebrew hymn--the rhythm and metre were not English; themusic was like nothing that can be heard in a Christian Church. "It isthe music, " said Nelly, "to which the Israelites crossed the Red Sea:" abold statement, but--why not? If the music is not of Western origin andcharacter, who can disprove such an assertion? After the hymn theprayers and reading went on again. There came at last--it is a long service, such as we poor weak-kneedAnglicans could not endure--the end. There was a great bustle andceremony on the platform; they rolled up the Roll of the Law; theywrapped it in a purple velvet cloth; they hung over it a silverbreastplate set with twelve jewels for the Twelve Tribes--in memory ofthe Urim and Thummim. Francesca saw that the upper ends of the staveswere adorned with silver pomegranates and with silver bells, and theyplaced it in the arms of one of those who had been reading the law; thena procession was formed, and they walked, while the Choir sang one ofthe Psalms of David--but not in the least like the same Psalm sung inan English Cathedral--bearing the Roll of the Law to the Ark, that is tosay, to the cupboard, behind the railing and inclosure at the east end. The Reader came back. Then with another chanted Prayer--it sounded likea prolonged shout of continued Triumph--he ended his part ofthe service. And then the choir sang the last hymn--a lovely hymn, not in the leastlike a Christian, or at least an English hymn--a psalm that breathed atranquil hope and a perfect faith. One needed no words to understand thefull meaning and beauty and depth of that hymn. The service was finished. The men took off their white scarfs and foldedthem up. They stood and talked in groups for a few minutes, graduallymelting away. As for the men under the gallery, who had been whisperingand laughing, they trooped out of the synagogue all together. Evidently, to them the service was only a form. What is it, in any religion, but aform, to the baser sort? The Beadle put out the lights. Nelly led the way down the stairs. Thinking of what the service had suggested to herself--- all thosewonderful things above enumerated--Francesca wondered what it meant to agirl who heard it every Sabbath morning. But she refrained from asking. Custom too often takes the symbolism out of the symbols and the poetryout of the verse. Then the people begin to worship the symbols and makea fetich of the words. We have seen this elsewhere--in other forms offaith. Outside they found Emanuel. They had not seen him in thecongregation, probably because it is difficult to recognize a man merelyby the top of his hat. "Come, " he said, "let us look around the place. Afterwards, perhaps, wewill talk of our Service. This synagogue is built on the site of the oneerected by Manasseh and his friends when Oliver Cromwell permitted themto return to London after four hundred years of exile. They were forcedto wear yellow hats at first, but that ordinance soon fell into disuse, like many other abominable laws. When you read about mediaeval laws, Francesca, remember that when they were cruel or stupid they were seldomcarried into effect, because the arm of the executive was weak. Who wasthere to oblige the Jews to wear the yellow hat? The police? There wereno police. The people? What did the people care about the yellow hat?When the Fire burned down London, sparing not even the great Cathedral, to say nothing of the Synagogue, this second Temple arose, equal insplendor to the first. At that time all the Jews in London wereSephardim of Spain and Portugal and Italy. Even now there are many ofthe people here who speak nothing among themselves but Spanish, just asthere are Askenazim who speak nothing among themselves but Yiddish. Comewith me; I will show you something that will please you. " He led the way into another flagged court, larger than the first. Therewere stone staircases, mysterious doorways, paved passages, a suggestionof a cloister, an open space or square, and buildings on all sides withwindows opening upon the court. "It doesn't look English at all, " said Francesca. "I have seen somethinglike it in a Spanish convent. With balconies and a few bright hangingsand a black-haired woman at the open windows, and perhaps a coat of armscarved upon the wall, it would do for part of a Spanish street. It is astrange place to find in the heart of London. " "You see the memory of the Peninsula. What were we saying yesterday?Spain places her own seal upon everything that belongs to her--people, buildings, all. What you see here is the central Institute of ourPeople, the Sephardim--the Spanish part of our People. Here is oursynagogue, here are schools, alms-houses, residence of the Rabbi, andall sorts of things. You can come here sometimes and think of Spain, where your ancestors lived. Many generations in Spain have made you--asthey have made me--a Spaniard. " They went back to the first court. On their way out, as they passed thesynagogue, there came running across the court a girl of fifteen or so. She was bareheaded; a mass of thick black hair was curled round hershapely head; her figure was that of an English girl of twenty; her eyesshowed black and large and bright as she glanced at the group standingin the court; her skin was dark; she was oddly and picturesquely dressedin a grayish-blue skirt, with a bright crimson open jacket. The colorseemed literally to strike the eye. The girl disappeared under adoorway, leaving a picture of herself in Francesca's mind--a picture tobe remembered. "A Spanish Jewess, " said Emanuel. "An Oriental. She chooses by instinctthe colors that her great-grandmother might have worn to grace thetriumph of David the King. " BESTIARIES AND LAPIDARIES BY L. OSCAR KUHNS One of the marked features of literary investigation during the presentcentury is the interest which it has manifested in the Middle Ages. Notonly have specialists devoted themselves to the detailed study of theSagas of the North and the great cycles of Romance in France andEngland, but the stories of the Edda, of the Nibelungen, and ofCharlemagne and King Arthur have become popularized, so that to-day theyare familiar to the general reader. There is one class of literature, however, which was widespread and popular during the Middle Ages, butwhich is to-day known only to the student, --that is, the so-calledBestiaries and Lapidaries, or collections of stories and superstitionsconcerning the marvelous attributes of animals and of precious stones. The basis of all Bestiaries is the Greek Physiologus, the origin ofwhich can be traced back to the second century before Christ. It wasundoubtedly largely influenced by the zoölogy of the Bible; and in thereferences to the Ibex, the Phoenix, and the tree Paradixion, traces ofOriental and old Greek superstitions can be seen. It was from the Latinversions of the Greek original that translations were made into nearlyall European languages. There are extant to-day, whole or in fragments, Bestiaries in German, Old English, Old French, Provençal, Icelandic, Italian, Bohemian, and even Armenian, Ethiopic, and Syriac. Thesevarious versions differ more or less in the arrangement and number ofthe animals described, but all point back to the same ultimate source. The main object of the Bestiaries was not so much to impart scientificknowledge, as by means of symbols and allegories to teach the doctrinesand mysteries of the Church: At first this symbolical application wasshort and concise, but later became more and more expanded, until itoften occupied more space than the description of the animal whichserved as a text. Some of these animals are entirely fabulous, such as the siren, thephoenix, the unicorn; others are well known, but possess certainfabulous attributes. The descriptions of them are not the result ofpersonal observation, but are derived from stories told by travelers orread in books, or are merely due to the imagination of the author; thesestories, passing down from hand to hand, gradually becameaccepted facts. These books were enormously popular during the Middle Ages, a fact whichis proved by the large number of manuscripts still extant. Theirinfluence on literature was likewise very great. To say nothing of theencyclopaedic works, --such as 'Li Tresors' of Brunetto Latini, the'Image du Monde, ' the 'Roman de la Rose, '--which contain extracts fromthe Bestiaries, --there are many references to them in the great writers, even down to the present day. There are certain passages in Dante, Chaucer, and Shakespeare, that would be unintelligible without someknowledge of these mediaeval books of zoölogy. Hence, besides the interest inherent in these quaint and childishstories, besides their value in revealing the scientific spirit andattainments of the times, some knowledge of the Bestiaries is ofundoubted value and interest to the student of literature. Closely allied to the Bestiaries (and indeed often contained in the samemanuscript) are the Lapidaries, in which are discussed the various kindsof precious stones, with their physical characteristics, --shape, size, color, their use in medicine, and their marvelous talismanic properties. In spite of the fact that they contain the most absurd fables andsuperstitions, they were actually used as text-books in the schools, andpublished in medical treatises. The most famous of them was written inLatin by Marbode, Bishop of Rennes (died in 1123), and translated manytimes into Old French and other languages. The following extracts from the Bestiaries are translated from 'LeBestiaire' of Guillaume Le Clerc, composed in the year 1210 (edited byDr. Robert Reinsch, Leipzig, 1890). While endeavoring to retain somewhatof the quaintness and naïveté of the original, I have omitted thoserepetitions and tautological expressions which are so characteristic ofmediaeval literature. The religious application of the various animalsis usually very long, and often is the mere repetition of the same idea. The symbolical meaning of the lion here given may be taken as a type ofall the rest. [Illustration: Signature: L. OSCAR KUHNS] THE LION It is proper that we should first speak of the nature of the lion, whichis a fierce and proud beast and very bold. It has three especiallypeculiar characteristics. In the first place it always dwells upon ahigh mountain. From afar off it can scent the hunter who is pursuing it. And in order that the latter may not follow it to its lair it coversover its tracks by means of its tail. Another wonderful peculiarity ofthe lion is that when it sleeps its eyes are wide open, and clear andbright. The third characteristic is likewise very strange. For when thelioness brings forth her young, it falls to the ground, and gives nosign of life until the third day, when the lion breathes upon it and inthis way brings it back to life again. The meaning of all this is very clear. When God, our Sovereign father, who is the Spiritual lion, came for our salvation here upon earth, soskillfully did he cover his tracks that never did the hunter know thatthis was our Savior, and nature marveled how he came among us. By thehunter you must understand him who made man to go astray and seeks afterhim to devour him. This is the Devil, who desires only evil. When this lion was laid upon the Cross by the Jews, his enemies, whojudged him wrongfully, his human nature suffered death. When he gave upthe spirit from his body, he fell asleep upon the holy cross. Then hisdivine nature awoke. This must you believe if you wish to live again. When God was placed in the tomb, he was there only three days, and onthe third day the Father breathed upon him and brought him to lifeagain, just as the lion did to its young. THE PELICAN The pelican is a wonderful bird which dwells in the region about theriver Nile. The written history[4] tells us that there are twokinds, --those which dwell in the river and eat nothing but fish, andthose which dwell in the desert and eat only insects and worms. There isa wonderful thing about the pelican, for never did mother-sheep love herlamb as the pelican loves its young. When the young are born, theparent bird devotes all his care and thought to nourishing them. But theyoung birds are ungrateful, and when they have grown strong andself-reliant they peck at their father's face, and he, enraged at theirwickedness, kills them all. [Footnote 4: The reference here is probably to the 'Liber de Bestiis etAliis Rebus' of Hugo de St. Victor. ] On the third day the father comes to them, deeply moved with pity andsorrow. With his beak he pierces his own side, until the blood flowsforth. With the blood he brings back life into the body of his young[5]. [Footnote 5: There are many allusions in literature to this story. Cf. Shakespeare, -- "Like the kind life-rendering pelican, Repast them with my blood. "--'Hamlet, ' iv. 5. "Those pelican daughters. "--Lear, iii. 4. Cf. Also the beautiful metaphorof Alfred de Musset, in his 'Nuit de Mai. '] THE EAGLE The eagle is the king of birds. When it is old it becomes young again ina very strange manner. When its eyes are darkened and its wings areheavy with age, it seeks out a fountain clear and pure, where the waterbubbles up and shines in the clear sunlight. Above this fountain itrises high up into the air, and fixes its eyes upon the light of the sunand gazes upon it until the heat thereof sets on fire its eyes andwings. Then it descends down into the fountain where the water isclearest and brightest, and plunges and bathes three times, until it isfresh and renewed and healed of its old age[6]. [Footnote 6: "Bated like eagles having lately bathed. "--'I Henry IV. , 'iv. I. ] The eagle has such keen vision, that if it is high up among the clouds, soaring through the air, it sees the fish swimming beneath it, in riveror sea; then down it shoots upon the fish and seizes and drags it to theshore. Again, if unknown to the eagle its eggs should be changed andothers put into its nest, --when the young are grown, before they flyaway, it carries them up into the air when the sun is shining itsbrightest. Those which can look at the rays of the sun, withoutblinking, it loves and holds dear; those which cannot stand to look atthe light, it abandons, as base-born, nor troubles itself henceforthconcerning them[7]. [Footnote 7: "Nay, if thou be that princely eagle's bird, Show thy descent by gazing 'gainst the sun. "--'3 Henry VI. , ' ii. I. ] THE PHOENIX There is a bird named the phoenix, which dwells in India and is neverfound elsewhere. This bird is always alone and without companion, forits like cannot be found, and there is no other bird which resembles itin habits or appearance[8]. At the end of five hundred years it feelsthat it has grown old, and loads itself with many rare and preciousspices, and flies from the desert away to the city of Leopolis. There, by some sign or other, the coming of the bird is announced to a priestof that city, who causes fagots to be gathered and placed upon abeautiful altar, erected for the bird. And so, as I have said, the bird, laden with spices, comes to the altar, and smiting upon the hard stonewith its beak, it causes the flame to leap forth and set fire to thewood and the spices. When the fire is burning brightly, the phoenix laysitself upon the altar and is burned to dust and ashes. [Footnote 8: "Were man as rare as phoenix. "--'As You Like It, ' iv. 3. ] Then comes the priest and finds the ashes piled up, and separating themsoftly he finds within a little worm, which gives forth an odor sweeterthan that of roses or of any other flower. The next day and the next thepriest comes again, and on the third day he finds that the worm hasbecome a full-grown and full-fledged bird, which bows low before him andflies away, glad and joyous, nor returns again before fivehundred years[9]. [Footnote 9: "But as when The Bird of Wonder dies, the maiden phoenix, Her ashes new create another heir. "--'Henry VIII. , ' v. 5. ] THE ANT There is another kind of ant up in Ethiopia, which is of the shape andsize of dogs. They have strange habits, for they scratch into the groundand extract therefrom great quantities of fine gold. If any one wishesto take this gold from them, he soon repents of his undertaking; for theants run upon him, and if they catch him they devour him instantly. Thepeople who live near them know that they are fierce and savage, and thatthey possess a great quantity of gold, and so they have invented acunning trick. They take mares which have unweaned foals, and give themno food for three days. On the fourth the mares are saddled, and to thesaddles are fastened boxes that shine like gold. Between these peopleand the ants flows a very swift river. The famished mares are drivenacross this river, while the foals are kept on the hither side. On theother side of the river the grass is rich and thick. Here the maresgraze, and the ants seeing the shining boxes think they have found agood place to hide their gold, and so all day long they fill and loadthe boxes with their precious gold, till night comes on and the mareshave eaten their fill. When they hear the neighing of their foals theyhasten to return to the other side of the river. There their masterstake the gold from the boxes and become rich and powerful, but the antsgrieve over their loss. THE SIREN The siren is a monster of strange fashion, for from the waist up it isthe most beautiful thing in the world, formed in the shape of a woman. The rest of the body is like a fish or a bird. So sweetly andbeautifully does she sing that they who go sailing over the sea, as soonas they hear the song, cannot keep from going towards her. Entranced bythe music, they fall asleep in their boat, and are killed by the sirenbefore they can utter a cry[10]. [Footnote 10: References to the siren are innumerable; the most famousperhaps is Heine's 'Lorelei. ' Cf. Also Dante, 'Purgatorio, ' xix. 19-20. ] THE WHALE In the sea, which is mighty and vast, are many kinds of fish, such asthe turbot, the sturgeon, and the porpoise. But there is one monster, very treacherous and dangerous. In Latin its name is Cetus. It is a badneighbor for sailors. The upper part of its back looks like sand, andwhen it rises from the sea, the mariners think it is an island. Deceivedby its size they sail toward it for refuge, when the storm comes uponthem. They cast anchor, disembark upon the back of the whale, cook theirfood, build a fire, and in order to fasten their boat they drive greatstakes into what seems to them to be sand. When the monster feels theheat of the fire which burns upon its back, it plunges down into thedepths of the sea, and drags the ship and all the people after it. When the fish is hungry it opens its mouth very wide, and breathes forthan exceedingly sweet odor. Then all the little fish stream thither, and, allured by the sweet smell, crowd into its throat. Then the whale closesits jaws and swallows them into its stomach, which is as wide as avalley[11]. [Footnote 11: "Who is a whale to virginity and devours up all the fry itfinds. "--'All's Well that Ends Well, ' iv. 3. ] THE CROCODILE The crocodile is a fierce beast that lives always beside the river Nile. In shape it is somewhat like an ox; it is full twenty ells long, and asbig around as the trunk of a tree. It has four feet, large claws, andvery sharp teeth; by means of these it is well armed. So hard and toughis its skin, that it minds not in the least hard blows made by sharpstones. Never was seen another such a beast, for it lives on land and inwater. At night it is submerged in water, and during the day it reposesupon the land. If it meets and overcomes a man, it swallows him entire, so that nothing remains. But ever after it laments him as long as itlives[12]. The upper jaw of this beast is immovable when it eats, andthe lower one alone moves. No other living creature has thispeculiarity. The other beast of which I have told you (thewater-serpent), which always lives in the water, hates the crocodilewith a mortal hatred. When it sees the crocodile sleeping on the groundwith its mouth wide open, it rolls itself in the slime and mud in orderto become more slippery. Then it leaps into the throat of the crocodileand is swallowed down into its stomach. Here it bites and tears its wayout again, but the crocodile dies on account of its wounds. [Footnote 12: "Crocodile tears" are proverbial. Cf: "As the mournful crocodile With sorrow snares relenting passengers. "--'2 Henry VI. , ' iii. 1. "Each drop she falls would prove a crocodile. "--'Othello' iv. 1. ] THE TURTLE-DOVE Now I must tell you of another bird which is courteous and beautiful, and which loves much and is much loved. This is the turtle-dove. Themale and the female are always together in mountain or in desert, and ifperchance the female loses her companion never more will she cease tomourn for him, never more will she sit upon green branch or leaf. Nothing in the world can induce her to take another mate, but she everremains loyal to her husband. When I consider the faithfulness of thisbird, I wonder at the fickleness of man and woman. Many husbands andwives there are who do not love as the turtle-dove; but if the man buryhis wife, before he has eaten two meals he desires to have another womanin his arms. The turtle-dove does not so, but remains patient andfaithful to her companion, waiting if haply he might return[13]. [Footnote 13: "Like to a pair of loving turtle-doves, That could not live asunder day or night. "--'I Henry VI. , ' ii. 2. ] THE MANDRAGORA The mandragora is a wild plant, the like of which does not exist. Manykinds of medicine can be made of its root; this root, if you look at itclosely, will be seen to have the form of a man. The bark is veryuseful; when well boiled in water it helps many diseases. The skillfulphysicians gather this plant when it is old, and they say that when itis plucked it weeps and cries, and if any one hears the cry he willdie[14]. But those who gather it do this so carefully that they receiveno evil from it. If a man has a pain in his head or in his body, or inhis hand or foot, it can be cured by this herb. If you take this plantand beat it and let the man drink of it, he will fall asleep verysoftly, and no more will he feel pain[15]. There are two kinds of thisplant, --male and female. The leaves of both are beautiful. The leaf ofthe female is thick like that of the wild lettuce. [Footnote 14: "Would curses kill as doth the mandrake's groan. "--'2Henry VI. , ' iii. 2. ] [Footnote 15: "Not poppy, nor mandragora, Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world. "--'Othello, ' iii. 3. ] SAPPHIRE The following two extracts are translated from 'Les Lapidaires Françaisdu Moyen Âge, ' by Leopold Pannier, Paris, 1882. The sapphire is beautiful, and worthy to shine on the fingers of a king. In color it resembles the sky when it is pure and free from clouds[16]. No precious stone has greater virtue or beauty. One kind of sapphire isfound among the pebbles in the country of Libya; but that which comesfrom the land of the Turk is more precious. It is called the gem ofgems, and is of great value to men and women. It gives comfort to theheart and renders the limbs strong and sound. It takes away envy andperfidy and can set the prisoner at liberty. He who carries it about himwill never have fear. It pacifies those who are angry, and by means ofit one can see into the unknown. [Footnote 16: Cf. The exquisite line of Dante, 'Purgatorio, ' i. 13:-- 'Dolce color d'oriental zaffiro. '] It is very valuable in medicine. It cools those who are feverish and whoon account of pain are covered with perspiration. When powdered anddissolved in milk it is good for ulcers. It cures headache and diseasesof the eyes and tongue. He who wears it must live chastely andhonorably; so shall he never feel the distress of poverty. CORAL Coral grows like a tree in the sea, and at first its color is green. When it reaches the air it becomes hard and red. It is half a foot inlength. He who carries it will never be afraid of lightning or tempest. The field in which it is placed will be very fertile, and rendered safefrom hail or any other kind of storm. It drives away evil spirits, andgives a good beginning to all undertakings and brings them to agood end. MARIE-HENRI BEYLE (STENDHAL) (1783-1842) BY FREDERIC TABER COOPER Marie-Henri Beyle, French novelist and man of letters, who is betterknown under his bizarre pseudonym of Stendhal, is a somewhat unusualfigure among French writers. He was curiously misappreciated by his owngeneration, whose literary movements he in turn confessedly ignored. Heis recognized to-day as an important link in the development of modernfiction, and is even discussed concurrently with Balzac, in the same waythat we speak of Dickens and Thackeray, Emerson and Lowell. [Illustration: HENRI BEYLE] There is nothing dramatic in Stendhal's life, which, viewed impartially, is a simple and somewhat pathetic record of failure and disillusion. Hewas six years older than Balzac, having been born January 23d, 1783, inthe small town of Grenoble, in Dauphiné, which, with its narrowprejudices and petty formalism, seemed to him in after years "thesouvenir of an abominable indigestion. " He early developed an abnormalsensibility, which would have met with ready response had his motherlived, but which a keen dread of ridicule taught him to hide from anunsympathetic father and a still more unkind aunt, --later hisstep-mother, Séraphie Gagnon. He seemed predestined to bemisunderstood--even his school companions finding him odd, and oftenamusing themselves at his expense. Thus he grew up with a sense ofisolation in his own home, and when, in 1800, he had the opportunity ofgoing to some distant relatives in Paris, the Daru family, he seized iteagerly. The following year he accompanied the younger Darus to Italy, and was present at the battle of Marengo. This was the turning-point ofStendhal's career. He was dazzled by Napoleon's successes, andfascinated with the beauty and gayety of Milan, where he found himselffor the first time in a congenial atmosphere, and among companionsanimated by a common cause. His consequent sense of freedom andexaltation knew no bounds. Henceforth Napoleon was to be his hero, andItaly the land of his election; two lifelong passions which furnish theclew to much that is enigmatic in his character. During the ensuing years, while he followed the fortunes of Napoleonthroughout the Prussian campaign and until after the retreat fromMoscow, Italy was always present in his thoughts, and when Waterlooended his political and military aspirations he hastened back to Milan, declaring that he "had ceased to be a Frenchman, " and settled down to alife of tranquil Bohemianism, too absorbed in the paintings of Correggioand in the operas of Rossini to be provident of the future. Thefollowing years, the happiest of his life, were also the period ofStendhal's chief intellectual growth, --due quite as much to theinfluence exerted on him by Italian art and music as by his contact withmen like Manzoni, Monti, and Silvio Pellico. Unfortunately, hisrelations with certain Italian patriots aroused the suspicions of theAustrian police, and he was abruptly banished. He returned to Paris, where to his surprise life proved more than tolerable, and where he mademany valuable acquaintances, such as Benjamin Constant, Destutt deTracy, and Prosper Mérimée. The revolution of July brought him a changeof fortune; for he was in sympathy with Louis Philippe, and did notscruple to accept the consulship offered him at Cività Vecchia. He soonfound, however, that a small Mediterranean seaport was a poor substitutefor his beloved Milan, while its trying climate undoubtedly shortenedhis life. In 1841 failing health forced him to abandon his duties andreturn to Paris, where he died of apoplexy on March 23d, 1842. So much at least of Stendhal's life must be known in order to understandhis writings; all of which, not excepting the novels, belong to whatFerdinand Brunetière stigmatizes as "personal literature. " Indeed, thechief interest of many of his books lies in the side-lights they throwupon his curious personality. He was a man of violent contrasts, apuzzle to his best friends; one day making the retreat from Moscow withundaunted zeal, the next settling down contentedly in Milan, to the very_vie de café_ he affected to despise. He was a strange combination ofrestless energy and philosophic contemplation; hampered by a morbidsensibility which tended to increase, but which he flattered himselfthat he "had learned to hide under an irony imperceptible to thevulgar, " yet continually giving offense to others by his caustic tongue. He seemed to need the tonic of strong emotions, and was happiest whendevoting himself heart and soul to some person or cause, whether aNapoleon, a mistress, or a question of philosophy. His greatpreoccupation was the analysis of the human mind, an employment which inlater years became a positive detriment. He was often led to attributeulterior motives to his friends, a course which only served to renderhim morbid and unjust; while his equally pitiless dissection of his ownsensations often robbed them of half their charm. Even love and war, hisfavorite emotions, left him disillusioned, asking "Is that all itamounts to?" He always had a profound respect for force of character, regarding even lawlessness as preferable to apathy; but he wasimplacable towards baseness or vulgarity. Herein lies, perhaps, thechief reason for Stendhal's ill success in life; he would never stoop toobsequiousness or flattery, and in avoiding even the semblance ofself-interest, allowed his fairest chances to pass him by. "I havelittle regret for my lost opportunities, " he wrote in 1835. "In place often thousand, I might be getting twenty; in place of Chevalier, I mightbe Officer of the Legion of Honor: but I should have had to think threeor four hours a day of those platitudes of ambition which are dignifiedby the name of politics; I should have had to commit many base acts:" abrief but admirable epitome of Stendhal's whole life and character. Aside from his works of fiction, Stendhal's works may be convenientlygrouped under biographies, --'Vie de Haydn, de Mozart, et de Metastase, ''Vie de Napoléon, ' 'Vie de Rossini'; literary and artisticcriticism, --'Histoire de la Peinture en Italie, ' 'Racine etShakespeare, ' 'Mélanges d'Art et de Littérature'; travels, --'Rome, Naples, et Florence, ' 'Promenades dans Rome, ' 'Mémoires d'un Touriste';and one volume of sentimental psychology, his 'Essai sur l'Amour, ' towhich Bourget owes the suggestion of his 'Physiologie de l'AmourModerne. ' Many of these works merit greater popularity, being written inan easy, fluent style, and relieved by his inexhaustible fund ofanecdote and personal reminiscence. His books of travel, especially, arecharming _causeries_, full of a sympathetic spontaneity which more thanatones for their lack of method; his 'Walks in Rome' is more readablethan two-thirds of the books since written on that subject. Stendhal's present vogue, however, is due primarily to his novels, towhich he owes the almost literal fulfillment of his prophecy that hewould not be appreciated until 1880. Before that date they had beencomparatively neglected, in spite of Balzac's spontaneous andenthusiastic tribute to the 'Chartreuse de Parme, ' and the appreciativecriticisms of Taine and Prosper Mérimée. The truth is that Stendhal wasin some ways a generation behind his time, and often has an odd, old-fashioned flavor suggestive of Marivaux and Crébillon _fils_. On theother hand, his psychologic tendency is distinctly modern, and not atall to the taste of an age which found Chateaubriand or Madame de Staëleminently satisfactory. But he appeals strongly to the speculating, self-questioning spirit of the present day, and Zola and Bourget in turnhave been glad to claim kinship with him. Stendhal, however, cannot be summarily labeled and dismissed as arealist or psychologue in the modern acceptation of the term, althoughhe was a pioneer in both fields. He had a sovereign contempt forliterary style or method, and little dreamed that he would one day beregarded as the founder of a school. It must be remembered that he was asoldier before he was a man of letters, and his love of adventureoccasionally got the better of his love of logic, making his novels acurious mixture of convincing truth and wild romanticism. His heroes aresingularly like himself, a mixture of morbid introspection and restlessenergy: he seems to have taken special pleasure in making them succeedwhere he had failed in life, and when the spirit of the story-tellergets the better of the psychologist, he sends them on a career ofadventure which puts to shame Dumas _père_ or Walter Scott. And yetStendhal was a born analyst, a self-styled "observer of the humanheart"; and the real merit of his novels lies in the marvelous fidelitywith which he interprets the emotions, showing the inner workings of hishero's mind from day to day, and multiplying petty details withconvincing logic. But in his preoccupation for mental conditions he isapt to lose sight of the material side of life, and the symmetry of hisnovels is marred by a meagreness of physical detail and a lack ofatmosphere. Zola has laid his finger upon Stendhal's real weakness whenhe points out that "the landscape, the climate, the time of day, theweather, . --Nature herself, in other words, --never seems to intervene andexert an influence on his characters"; and he cites a passage which inpoint of fact admirably illustrates his meaning, the scene from the'Rouge et Noir', where Julien endeavors to take the hand of Mme. DeRênal, which he characterizes as "a little mute drama of great power, "adding in conclusion:--"Give that episode to an author for whom the_milieu_ exists, and he will make the night, with its odors, its voices, its soft voluptuousness, play a part in the defeat of the woman. Andthat author will be in the right; his picture will be more complete. " Itis this tendency to leave nature out of consideration which givesStendhal's characters a flavor of abstraction, and caused Sainte-Beuveto declare in disgust that they were "not human beings, but ingeniouslyconstructed automatons. " Yet it is unfair to conclude with Zola, thatStendhal was a man for whom the outside world did not exist; he was notinsensible to the beauties of nature, only he looked upon them as asecondary consideration. After a sympathetic description of the Rhonevalley, he had to add, "But the interest of a landscape is insufficient;in the long run, some moral or historical interest is indispensable. "Yet he recognized explicitly the influence of climate and environmentupon character, and seems to have been sensible of his own shortcomingsas an author. "I abhor material descriptions, " he confesses in'Souvenirs d'Égotisme': "the _ennui_ of making them deters me fromwriting novels. " Nevertheless, aside from his short 'Chroniques' and 'Nouvelles, ' andthe posthumous 'Lamiel' which he probably intended to destroy, Stendhalhas left four stories which deserve detailed consideration: 'Armance, ''Le Rouge et Le Noir, ' 'La Chartreuse de Parme, ' and the fragmentarynovel 'Lucien Leuwen. ' As has been justly pointed out by Stendhal's sympathetic biographer, Edouard Rod, the heroes of the four books are essentially of one type, and all more or less faithful copies of himself; having in common a needof activity, a thirst for love, a keen sensibility, and an unboundedadmiration for Napoleon--and differing only by reason of the several_milieus_ in which he has placed them. The first of these, 'Armance, 'appeared in 1827. The hero, Octave, is an aristocrat, son of the Marquisde Malivert, who "was very rich before the Revolution, and when hereturned to Paris in 1814, thought himself beggared on an income oftwenty or thirty thousand. " Octave is the most exaggerated of allStendhal's heroes; a mysterious, sombre being, "a misanthrope before histime"; coupling with his pride of birth a consciousness of itsvanity:--"Had heaven made me the son of a manufacturer of cloth, Ishould have worked at my desk from the age of sixteen, while now my soleoccupation has been luxury. I should have had less pride and morehappiness. Ah, how I despise myself!" Yet it is part of Octave'spretensions to regard himself as superior to love. When he discovers hispassion for his cousin Armance, he is overwhelmed with despair: "I am inlove, " he said in a choked voice. "I, in love! Great God!" The object ofthis reluctant passion, Armance de Zohiloff, is a poor orphan, dependentupon a rich relative. Like Octave, she struggles against her affection, but for better reasons: "The world will look upon me as a lady's-maidwho has entrapped the son of the family. " The history of their long andsecret struggle against this growing passion, complicated by outsideincidents and intrigues, forms the bulk of the volume. At last Octave iswounded in a duel, and moved by the belief that he is dying, theymutually confess their affection. Octave unexpectedly recovers, and asArmance about this time receives an inheritance from a distant relative, the story promises to end happily; but at the last moment he is inducedto credit a calumny against her, and commits suicide, when Armanceretires to a convent. The book is distinctly inferior to his laterefforts, and M. Rod is the first to find hidden beauties in it. Very different was his next book, 'Le Rouge et Le Noir, ' the Army andthe Priesthood, which appeared in 1830, and is now recognized asStendhal's masterpiece. As its singular name is intended to imply, itdeals with the changed social conditions which confronted the young menof France after the downfall of Napoleon, --the reaction against war andmilitary glory in favor of the Church; a topic which greatly occupiedStendhal, and which is well summed up in the words of his heroJulien:--"When Bonaparte made himself talked about, France was afraid ofinvasion; military merit was necessary and fashionable. Today one seespriests of forty with appointments of a hundred thousand francs, threetimes that of Napoleon's famous generals;" and he concludes, "The thingto do is to be a priest. " This Julien Sorel is the son of a shrewd but ignorant peasant, owner ofa prosperous saw-mill in the small town of Verrières, in Franche-Comté. "He was a small young man, of feeble appearance, with irregular butdelicate features, and an aquiline nose; . .. Who could have divined thatthat girlish face, so pale, and gentle, hid an indomitable resolution toexpose himself to a thousand deaths sooner than not make his fortune?"His only schooling is gained from a cousin, an old army surgeon, whotaught him Latin and inflamed his fancy with stories of Napoleon, andfrom the aged Abbé Chélan who grounds him in theology, --for Julien hadproclaimed his intention of studying for the priesthood. By unexpectedgood luck, his Latin earned him an appointment as tutor to the childrenof M. De Rênal, the pompous and purse-proud Mayor of Verrières. Julienis haunted by his peculiar notions of duties which he owes it to himselfto perform as steps towards his worldly advancement; for circumstanceshave made him a consummate hypocrite. One of these duties is to makelove to Mme. De Rênal: "Why should he not be loved as Bonaparte, whilestill poor, had been loved by the brilliant Mme. De Beauharnais?" Hispursuit of the Mayor's gentle and inexperienced wife proves only toosuccessful, but at last reaches the ears of the Abbé Chélan, whoseinfluence compels Julien to leave Verrières and go to the Seminary atBesançon, to finish his theological studies. His stay at the Seminarywas full of disappointment, for "it was in vain that he made himselfsmall and insignificant, he could not please: he was too different. " Atlast he has a chance to go to Paris, as secretary to the influentialMarquis de La Mole, who interests himself in Julien and endeavors toadvance him socially. The Marquis has a daughter, Mathilde, a femalecounterpart of Stendhal's heroes; with exalted ideas of duty, and aprofound reverence for Marguerite of Navarre, who dared to ask theexecutioner for the head of her lover, Boniface de La Mole, executedApril 30th, 1574. Mathilde always assumed mourning on April 30th. "Iknow of nothing, " she declared, "except condemnation to death, whichdistinguishes a man: it is the only thing which cannot be bought. "Julien soon conceives it his duty to win Mathilde's affections, and thelove passages which ensue between these two "ésprits supérieurs" aresingular in the extreme: they arrive at love only through a complicatedintellectual process, in which the question of duty, either tothemselves or to each other, is always paramount. At last it becomesnecessary to confess their affection to the Marquis, who is naturallyfurious. "For the first time in his life this nobleman forgot hismanners: he overwhelmed him with atrocious insults, worthy of acab-driver. Perhaps the novelty of these oaths was a distraction. " Whathurts him most is that Mathilde will be plain Mme. Sorel and not aduchess. But at this juncture the father receives a letter from Mme. DeRênal, telling of her relations with Julien, and accusing him of havingdeliberately won Mathilde in order to possess her wealth. Such basenessthe Marquis cannot pardon, and at any cost he forbids the marriage. Julien returns immediately to Verrières, and finding Mme. De Rênal inchurch, deliberately shoots her. She ultimately recovers from her wound, but Julien is nevertheless condemned and guillotined. Mme. De Rênal diesof remorse, while Mathilde, emulating Marguerite de Navarre, buriesJulien's head with her own hands. The 'Chartreuse de Parme, ' although written the same year as the 'Rougeet Noir', was not published until 1839, two years before his death, andwas judged his best effort. "He has written 'The Modern Prince, '"declared Balzac, "the book which Macchiavelli would have written if hehad been living exiled from Italy in the nineteenth century. " The actiontakes place at Parma; and as a picture of court life in a small Italianprincipality, with all its jealousies and intrigues, the book iscertainly a masterpiece. But it is marred by the extravagance of itsplot. The hero, Fabrice, is the younger son of a proud and bigotedMilanese nobleman, the Marquis del Dongo, who "joined a sordid avariceto a host of other fine qualities, " and in his devotion to the House ofAustria was implacable towards Napoleon. Fabrice, however, was "a youngman susceptible of enthusiasm, " and on learning of Napoleon's returnfrom Elba, hastened secretly to join him, and participated in the battleof Waterloo. This escapade is denounced by his father to the Austrianpolice, and on his return Fabrice is forced to take refuge in Swissterritory. About this time his aunt Gina, the beautiful CountessPietranera, goes to live at Parma; and to conceal a love affair with theprime minister Mosca marries the old Duke of Sanseverina-Taxis, whoobligingly leaves on his wedding-day for a distant embassy. Gina hasalways felt a strong interest for Fabrice, which later ripens into apassion. It is agreed that Fabrice shall study for the priesthood, andthat Count Mosca will use his influence to have him made Archbishop ofParma, an office frequently held in the past by Del Dongos. Unfortunately Fabrice is drawn into a quarrel with a certain Giletti, alow comedy actor, whom he kills in self-defense. Ordinarily the killingof a fellow of Giletti's stamp by a Del Dongo would have beenconsidered a trifling matter; but this offense assumes importancethrough the efforts of a certain political faction to discredit theminister through his protégé. The situation is further complicated bythe Prince, Ernest IV. , who has come under the spell of Gina's beauty, and furious at finding her obdurate, is glad of an opportunity tohumiliate her. Fabrice is condemned to ten years' imprisonment in theFarnese tower, the Prince treacherously disregarding his promise ofpardon. From this point the plot becomes fantastic. From his window inthe tower, Fabrice overlooks that of Clélia, daughter of General FabioConti, governor of the prison. It is a case of mutual love at firstsight, and for months the two hold communication by signs above theheads of the passing sentries. After his fabulous escape, effected bythe help of his aunt, Fabrice is inconsolable, and at length returnsvoluntarily to the tower in order to be near Clélia. It is not untilafter the death of the Prince that the Duchess obtains Fabrice's pardonfrom his son and successor. At last Clélia dies, and Fabrice enters theneighboring monastery, the Chartreuse of Parma. Fabrice's experiences on the battle-field of Waterloo, where as a rawyouth he first "smelled powder, " are recounted with a good deal ofrealistic detail. They suggest a comparison with a book of more recentdate devoted to a similar subject, Stephen Crane's 'Red Badge ofCourage, ' though of course the latter does not approach Stendhal inartistic self-restraint and mastery over form. The remaining novel, 'Lucien Leuwen, ' was left in an unfinished state, and thus published after the author's death, under the title of 'LeChasseur Vert. ' Recently they have been republished, under the name of'Lucien Leuwen, ' with additional material which the editor, M. Jean deMitty, claims to have deciphered from almost illegible manuscripts foundin the library at Grenoble. But even without these additions there isenough to show that 'Lucien Leuwen' would have been one of his bestefforts, second only, perhaps, to the 'Rouge et Noir. ' The hero, Lucien, is the son of a rich financier, who "was never out of temper and nevertook a serious tone with his son, " but cheerfully paid his debts, saying"A son is a creditor provided by nature. " Out of mere _ennui_ from lackof serious employment, Lucien enters as sub-lieutenant a regiment ofLancers in garrison at Nancy. He has no illusions about military life intimes of peace:--"I shall wage war only upon cigars; I shall become thepillager of a military café in the gloomy garrison of an ill-pavedlittle town. .. . What glory! My soul will be well caught when I presentmyself to Napoleon in the next world. 'No doubt, ' he will say, 'you weredying of hunger when you took up this life?' 'No, General, ' I shallreply, 'I thought I was imitating you. '" His early experiences atNancy, his subsequent meeting with and love for Mme. De Chasteller, areadmirable equally for their moderation and their fidelity. Since Stendhalism has become a cult, so much has been written on thesubject that a complete bibliography of Stendhaliana would occupyseveral pages. Aside from the well-known criticisms of Balzac, Taine, and Sainte-Beuve, the most important contributions to the subject arethe article by Zola in 'Romanciers Naturalistes, ' that by Bourget in'Essais de Psychologie Contemporaine, ' and the biography by Edouard Rodin the 'Grands Écrivains Français' (Great French Writers) Series. Thanksto the zeal of M. Casimir Stryienski, a considerable amount ofautobiographical material has lately been brought to light: 'Journal deStendhal' 'Vie de Henri Broulard, ' and 'Souvenirs d'Égotisme, ' which, together with his 'Correspondence, ' are indispensable for a trueknowledge of the man. [Illustration: Signature: FREDERIC TABER COOPER] PRINCESS SANSEVERINA'S INTERVIEW From 'La Chartreuse de Parme' While Fabrice was gone a-hunting after love adventures in a smallvillage close by Parma, the Fiscal General, Rassi, unaware that he wasso near, continued to treat his case as though he had been a Liberal. The witnesses for the defense he pretended that he could not find, orrather that he had frightened them off; and finally, after nearly a yearof such sharp practice, and about two months after Fabrice's last returnto Bologna, on a certain Friday, the Marquise Raversi, intoxicated withjoy, stated publicly in her salon that on the following day "thesentence which had just been passed upon that little Del Dongo would bepresented to the Prince for signature, and would be approved by him. "Shortly afterwards the Duchess learned these remarks of her enemy. "The Count must be very poorly served by his agents, " she said toherself: "only this morning he was sure that sentence could not bepassed inside of a week: perhaps he would not be sorry to have my youngGrand Vicar removed from Parma some day. But, " she added, "we shall seehim come back, and he shall be our Archbishop. " The Duchess rang. "Summon all the servants to the waiting-room, " she said to hervalet-de-chambre, "even the cooks; go and obtain from the officer incommand the requisite permit for four post-horses; and see that in lessthan half an hour these horses are attached to my landau. " All her womenwere soon busied in packing the trunks: the Duchess hastily donned atraveling dress, without once sending word to the Count; the idea ofamusing herself at his expense filled her with joy. "My friend, " she said to the assembled servants, "is about to suffercondemnation by default for having had the audacity to defend his lifeagainst a madman; it was Giletti who meant to kill him. You have allbeen able to see how gentle and inoffensive Fabrice's character is. Justly incensed at this atrocious injury, I am starting for Florence. Ishall leave ten years' wages for each of you; if you are unhappy, writeto me; and so long as I have a sequin, there shall be somethingfor you. " The Duchess felt exactly as she spoke, and at her last words theservants burst into tears; she herself had moist eyes. She added in avoice of emotion:--"Pray to God for me and for Monsigneur Fabrice delDongo, first Grand Vicar of this Diocese, who will be condemnedto-morrow morning to the galleys, or what would be less stupid, to thepenalty of death. " The tears of the servants redoubled, and little by little changed intocries which were very nearly seditious. The Duchess entered her carriageand drove directly to the palace of the Prince. In spite of the untimelyhour, she solicited an audience, through General Fontana, actingaide-de-camp. She was nowise in full court toilette, a fact which threwthat aide-de-camp into a profound stupor. The Prince, for his part, was by no means surprised, still less annoyed, at this request for an audience. "We are going to see tears shed bylovely eyes, " said he, rubbing his hands; "she is coming to ask forgrace; at last that proud beauty has to humble herself! Really she hasbeen too insupportable with her little independent airs! Those eloquenteyes always seemed to be saying to me, at the least thing which annoyedher, 'Naples or Milan would be an abode offering very differentattractions from those of your small town of Parma. ' True enough, I donot reign over Naples or Milan; but all the same, this fine lady hascome to ask me something which depends exclusively upon me, and whichshe is burning to obtain. I always thought the coming of that nephewwould give me some hold upon her. " While the Prince was smiling over his thoughts, and giving himself up toall these agreeable anticipations, he was striding up and down hiscabinet, at the door of which General Fontana still remained standing, erect and stiff as a soldier at carry-arms. Seeing the Prince's flashingeye and recalling the Duchess's traveling dress, he prepared for adissolution of the monarchy. His confusion knew no bounds when he heardthe Prince's order: "Beg Madame the Duchess to wait a small quarter ofan hour. " The general-aide-de-camp executed a right-about-face, like asoldier on parade; the Prince still smiled. "Fontana is not accustomed, "he said to himself, "to see our proud Duchess kept waiting. Theastonished face with which he has gone to tell her 'to wait that smallquarter of an hour' will pave the way for those touching tears whichthis cabinet is about to witness. " This small quarter of an hour wasdelicious to the Prince; he paced the floor with a firm and measuredstep, he _reigned_. "The important thing now is to say nothing which isnot perfectly in keeping. It will not do to forget that she is one ofthe highest ladies of my court. How would Louis XIV. Have spoken to theprincesses his daughters when he had occasion to be displeased withthem?" and his eyes sought the portrait of the great king. The amusing part of the matter was that the Prince did not even think ofasking himself whether he would show clemency to Fabrice, and how farsuch clemency would go. Finally, at the end of twenty minutes, thefaithful Fontana presented himself anew at the door, but withoututtering a word. "The Duchess Sanseverina may enter, " cried the Princewith a theatrical air. "The tears are about to commence, " he toldhimself, and as if to be prepared for such a spectacle, he drew out hishandkerchief. Never had the Duchess appeared so gay and charming; she did not looktwenty-five. The poor aide-de-camp, seeing that her light and rapidfootstep barely seemed to skim the carpet, was on the point of losinghis reason once for all. "I must crave many pardons of your Most Serene Highness, " said theDuchess in her soft tones of careless gayety: "I have taken the libertyof presenting myself in a toilette which is not altogether appropriate;but your Highness has so accustomed me to his favors that I haveventured to hope that he would accord me this additional grace. " The Duchess spoke quite slowly, so as to give herself time to enjoy theexpression of the Prince. It was delicious, on account of his profoundastonishment, and that remnant of grand airs which the pose of his headand arms still betrayed. The Prince had remained as if struck by athunderbolt; from time to time, he exclaimed, in his high-pitched voice, shrill and perturbed, as though articulating with difficulty: _"How isthis? how is this?"_ After concluding her compliment, the Duchess, asthough from respect, afforded him ample time to reply; then she added:-- "I venture to hope that your Most Serene Highness will deign to pardonthe incongruity of my costume:" but as she spoke, her mocking eyesflashed with so bright a gleam that the Prince could not meet them. Helooked at the ceiling, a sign with him of the most extremeembarrassment. "How is this? how is this?" he said to himself again; then by good luck, he found a phrase: "Madame la Duchesse, pray be seated, " and he himselfpushed forward a chair, with fairly good grace. The Duchess was by nomeans insensible to this attention, and she moderated the petulance ofher glance. "How is this? how is this?" still repeated the Prince inwardly, shiftingso uneasily in his chair that one would have said that he could not finda secure position. "I am going to take advantage of the freshness of the night to travelpost, " resumed the Duchess, "and as my absence may be of some duration, I was unwilling to leave the territory of your Most Serene Highnesswithout expressing my thanks for all the favors which for five yearsyour Highness has deigned to show me. " At these words the Prince at lastunderstood; he turned pale. It was as man of the world that he felt itmost keenly, on finding himself mistaken in his predictions. Then heassumed a grand air, in every way worthy of the portrait of Louis XIV. , which was before his eyes. "Admirable, " said the Duchess to herself, "there is a man. " "And what is the motive of this sudden departure?" asked the Prince, ina fairly firm tone. "I have contemplated leaving, for some time, " replied the Duchess, "anda slight insult which has been shown to _Monsignor_ del Dongo, who is tobe condemned to-morrow to death or to the galleys makes me hasten mydeparture. " "And to what city are you going?" "To Naples, I think. " As she arose, she added, "It only remains for meto take leave of your Most Serene Highness, and to thank him very humblyfor all his _earlier_ kindnesses. " She, on her part, spoke with so firman air that the Prince saw clearly that in a few seconds all would befinished. He knew that if a triumphant departure was once effected, allcompromise would be impossible. She was not the woman to retrace hersteps. He hastened after her. "But you know very well, Madame la Duchesse, " he said, taking her hand, "that I have always regarded you with a friendship to which it neededonly a word from you to give another name. But a murder has beencommitted; there is no way of denying that. I have intrusted the conductof the case to my best judges . .. " At these words the Duchess drew herself up to her full height: Allsemblance of respect, or even of urbanity, disappeared in a flash. Theoutraged woman was clearly revealed, the outraged woman addressingherself to the one whom she knows to be of bad faith. It was with anexpression of keenest anger and even of contempt that she said to thePrince, dwelling upon every word:-- "I am leaving forever the States of your Most Serene Highness, in orderthat I shall never again hear mentioned the Fiscal Rassi, or the otherinfamous assassins who have condemned my nephew and so many others todeath. If your Most Serene Highness does not wish to mingle a tinge ofbitterness with the last moments which I am to pass with a prince who isboth polite and entertaining when he is not misled, I beg him veryhumbly not to recall the thought of those infamous judges who sellthemselves for a thousand crowns or a decoration. " The admirable accent, and above all the tone of sincerity, with whichthese words were uttered, made the Prince tremble; for an instant hefeared to see his dignity compromised by a still more direct accusation. On the whole, however, his sensations quickly culminated in one ofpleasure. He admired the Duchess, and at this moment her entire personattained a sublime beauty. "Heavens! how beautiful she is, " the Prince said to himself: "one maywell overlook something in so unique a woman, one whose like perhaps isnot to be found in all Italy. --Well, with a little diplomacy it mightnot be altogether impossible to make her mine. --There is a widedifference between such a being and that doll of a Marquise Balbi;besides, the latter steals at least three hundred thousand francs a yearfrom my poor subjects. --But did I understand her aright?" he thought allof a sudden: "she said, 'condemned my nephew and so many others. '" Hisanger came to the surface, and it was with a haughtiness worthy ofsupreme rank that the Prince said, "And what must be done to keep Madamefrom leaving?" "Something of which you are not capable, " replied the Duchess, with anaccent of the bitterest irony and the most thinly disguised contempt. The Prince was beside himself, but thanks to his long practice of theprofession of absolute sovereign, he found the strength to resist hisfirst impulse. "That woman must be mine, " he said to himself. "I owemyself at least that; then I must let her perish under my contempt. Ifshe leaves this room, I shall never see her again. " But, intoxicated ashe was at this moment with wrath and hatred, how was he to find wordswhich would at once satisfy what was due to himself and induce theDuchess not to desert his court on the instant? "A gesture, " he thought, "is something which can neither be repeated nor turned into ridicule, "and he went and placed himself between the Duchess and the door of hiscabinet. Just then he heard a slight tapping at this door. "Who is this jackanapes?" he cried, at the top of his lungs, "who isthis jackanapes who comes here, thrusting his idiotic presence upon me?"Poor General Fontana showed his face, pale and in evident discomfiture, and with the air of a man at his last gasp, indistinctly pronouncedthese words:--"His Excellency Count Mosca solicits the honor of beingadmitted. " "Let him enter, " said the Prince in a loud voice; and as Mosca made hissalutation, greeted him with:-- "Well, sir, here is Madame the Duchess Sanseverina, who declares thatshe is on the point of leaving Parma to go and settle at Naples, and hasmade me saucy speeches into the bargain. " "How is this?" said Mosca, turning pale. "What, then you knew nothing of this project of departure?" "Not the first word. At six o'clock I left Madame joyous and contented. " This speech produced an incredible effect upon the Prince. First heglanced at Mosca, whose growing pallor proved that he spoke the truthand was in no way the accomplice of the Duchess's sudden freak. "In thatcase, " he said to himself, "I am losing her forever. Pleasure andvengeance, everything is escaping me at once. At Naples she will makeepigrams with her nephew Fabrice, about the great wrath of the littlePrince of Parma. " He looked at the Duchess; anger and the most violentcontempt were struggling in her heart; her eyes were fixed at thatmoment upon Count Mosca, and the fine lines of that lovely mouthexpressed the most bitter disdain. The entire expression of her faceseemed to say, "Vile courtier!" "So, " thought the Prince, after havingexamined her, "I have lost even this means of calling her back to ourcountry. If she leaves the room at this moment, she is lost to me. Andthe Lord only knows what she will say in Naples of my judges, and withthat wit and divine power of persuasion with which heaven has endowedher, she will make the whole world believe her. I shall owe her thereputation of being a ridiculous tyrant, who gets up in the middle ofthe night to look under his bed!" Then, by an adroit movement, and as if striving to work off hisagitation by striding up and down, the Prince placed himself anew beforethe door of his cabinet. The count was on his right, pale, unnerved, andtrembling so that he had to lean for support upon the back of the chairwhich the Duchess had occupied at the beginning of the audience, andwhich the Prince, in a moment of wrath, had hurled to a distance. TheCount was really in love. "If the Duchess goes away, I shall followher, " he told himself; "but will she tolerate my company? that is thequestion. " On the left of the Prince stood the Duchess, her arms crossed andpressed against her breast, looking at him with superb intolerance; acomplete and profound pallor had succeeded the glowing colors which justbefore had animated those exquisite features. The Prince, in contrast with both the others, had a high color and anuneasy air; his left hand played in a nervous fashion with the crossattached to the grand cordon of his order, which he wore beneath hiscoat; with his right hand he caressed his chin. "What is to be done?" he said to the Count, not altogether realizingwhat he was doing himself, but yielding to his habit of consulting thelatter about everything. "Indeed, Most Serene Highness, I know nothing about it, " answered theCount, with the air of a man who is rendering up his final sigh; hecould hardly utter the words of his response. His tone of voice gave thePrince the first consolation which his wounded pride had found duringthe interview, and this slight satisfaction helped him to a phrase whichwas comforting to his self-esteem:-- "Well, " said he, "I am the most reasonable of all three; I am quiteready to leave my position in the world entirely out of consideration. _I am going to speak as a friend_, " and he added with a charming smileof condescension, a fine imitation of the happy times of Louis XIV, "_asa friend speaking to friends:_ Madame la Duchesse, " he continued, "whatare we to do to make you forget your untimely resolution?" "Really, I am at a loss to say, " replied the Duchess, with a deep sigh, "really, I am at a loss to say: I have such a horror of Parma!" Therewas no attempt at epigram in this speech; one could see that she spokein all sincerity. The Count turned sharply away from her; his courtier's soul wasscandalized. Then he cast a supplicating glance at the Prince. With muchdignity and self-possession the latter allowed a moment to pass; then, addressing himself to the Count, "I see, " said he, "that your charmingfriend is altogether beside herself. It is perfectly simple, she_adores_ her nephew;" and turning towards the Duchess, he added with themost gallant glance, and at the same time with the air which one assumesin borrowing a phrase from a comedy: _"What must we do to find favor inthese lovely eyes?"_ The Duchess had had time to reflect: She answered in a firm, slow tone, as if she were dictating her ultimatum:-- "His Highness might write me a gracious letter, such as he knows so wellhow to write: he might say to me, that being by no means convinced ofthe guilt of Fabrice del Dongo, First Grand Vicar of the Archbishop, hewill refuse to sign the sentence when they come to present it to him, and that this unjust procedure shall have no consequence in the future. " "How is that? Unjust!" cried the Prince, coloring to the whites of hiseyes, and with renewed anger. "That is not all, " replied the Duchess with truly Roman pride, "_thisvery evening_--and, " she interposed, glancing at the clock, "it isalready a quarter past eleven--this very evening, his Most SereneHighness will send word to the Marquise Raversi that he advises her togo into the country to recuperate from the fatigues which she must havesuffered from a certain trial which she was discussing in her salonearly in the evening. " The Prince strode up and down his cabinet, like amadman. "Did one ever see such a woman?" he exclaimed. "She is lackingin respect for me. " The Duchess replied with perfect grace:-- "I have never in my life dreamed of lacking respect for his Most SereneHighness; His Highness has had the extreme condescension to say that hewas speaking _as a friend to friends_. What is more, I have not thesmallest desire to remain in Parma, " she added, glancing at the Countwith the last degree of contempt. This glance decided the Prince, who upto that moment had been quite uncertain, notwithstanding that his wordshad seemed to imply a promise; he had a fine contempt for words. There were still a few more words exchanged; but at last Count Moscareceived the order to write the gracious note solicited by the Duchess. He omitted the phrase "this unjust procedure shall have no consequencein the future. " "It is sufficient, " said the Count to himself, "if thePrince promises not to sign the sentence which is to be presented tohim. " The Prince thanked him by a glance, as he signed. The Count made a great mistake; the Prince was wearied and would havesigned the whole. He thought that he was getting out of the scene well, and the whole affair was dominated, in his eyes, by the thought--"If theDuchess leaves, I shall find my court a bore inside of a week. " TheCount observed that his master corrected the date, and substituted thatof the next day. He looked at the clock; it indicated almost midnight. The minister saw, in this altered date, nothing more than a pedanticdesire to afford proof of exactitude and good government. As to theexile of the Marquise Raversi, the Prince did not even frown; the Princehad a special weakness for exiling people. "General Fontana!" he cried, half opening the door. The General appeared, with such an astonished and curious a face that aglance of amusement passed between the Duchess and the Count, and thisglance established peace. "General Fontana, " said the Prince, "you are to take my carriage, whichis waiting under the colonnade; you will go to the house of Mme. Raversi, and have yourself announced: if she is in bed, you will addthat you are my representative, and when admitted to her chamber, youwill say precisely these words, and no others:--'Mme. La MarquiseRaversi, his Most Serene Highness requires that you shall depart beforeeight o'clock to-morrow morning, for your chateau of Valleja. HisHighness will notify you when you may return to Parma. '" The Prince's eyes sought those of the Duchess, but the latter, omittingthe thanks which he had expected, made him an extremely respectfulreverence, and rapidly left the room. "What a woman!" said the Prince, turning towards Count Mosca. Copyrighted by George H. Richmond and Company. CLÉLIA AIDS FABRICE TO ESCAPE From "La Chartreuse de Parme" One day--Fabrice had been a captive nearly three months, had hadabsolutely no communication with the outside world, and yet was notunhappy--Grillo had remained hanging about the cell until a late hour ofthe morning. Fabrice could think of no way of getting rid of him, andwas on pins and needles; half-past twelve had struck when at last he wasenabled to open the little trap in the hateful shutter. Clélia was standing at the window of the aviary in an expectantattitude, an expression of profound despair on her contracted features. As soon as she saw Fabrice she signaled to him that all was lost; then, hurrying to her piano, and adapting her words to the accompaniment of arecitative from a favorite opera, in accents tremulous with her emotionand the fear of being overheard by the sentry beneath, she sang:-- "Ah, do I see you still alive? Praise God for his infinite mercy!Barbone, the wretch whose insolence you chastised the day of yourarrival here, disappeared some time ago and for a few days was not seenabout the citadel. He returned day before yesterday, and since then Ihave reason to fear he has a design of poisoning you. He has been seenprowling about the kitchen of the palace where your meals are prepared. I can assert nothing positively, but it is my maid's belief that hisskulking there bodes you no good. I was frightened this morning, notseeing you at the usual time; I thought you must be dead. Until you hearmore from me, do not touch the food they give you; I will try to manageto convey a little chocolate to you. In any case, if you have a cord, orcan make one from your linen, let it down from your window among theorange-trees this evening at nine o'clock. I will attach a stronger cordto it, and with its aid you can draw up the bread and chocolate I willhave in readiness. " Fabrice had carefully preserved the bit of charcoal he had found in thestove; taking advantage of Clélia's more softened mood, he formed on thepalm of his hand a number of letters in succession, which taken togethermade up these words:-- "I love you, and life is dear to me only when I can see you. Above allelse, send me paper and a pencil. " As Fabrice had hoped and expected, the extreme terror visible in theyoung girl's face operated to prevent her from terminating the interviewon receipt of this audacious message; she only testified her displeasureby her looks. Fabrice had the prudence to add:--"The wind blows so hardto-day that I couldn't catch quite all you said; and then, too, thesound of the piano drowns your voice. You were saying something aboutpoison, weren't you--what was it?" At these words the young girl's terror returned in all its violence; shehurriedly set to work to describe with ink a number of large capitalletters on the leaves she tore from one of her books, and Fabrice wasdelighted to see her at last adopt the method of correspondence that hehad been vainly advocating for the last three months. But this system, although an improvement on the signals, was less desirable than aregular exchange of letters, so Fabrice constantly feigned to be unableto decipher the words of which she exhibited the component letters. A summons from her father obliged her to leave the aviary. She was ingreat alarm lest he might come to look for her there; his suspiciousnature would have been likely to scent danger in the proximity of hisdaughter's window to the prisoner's. It had occurred to Clélia a shorttime before, while so anxiously awaiting Fabrice's appearance, thatpebbles might be made factors in their correspondence, by wrapping thepaper on which the message was written round them and throwing them upso they should fall within the open upper portion of the screen. Thedevice would have worked well unless Fabrice's keeper chanced to be inthe room at the time. Our prisoner proceeded to tear one of his shirts into narrow strips, forming a sort of ribbon. Shortly after nine o'clock that evening heheard a tapping on the boxes of the orange-trees under his window; hecautiously lowered his ribbon, and on drawing it up again found attachedto its free end a long cord by means of which he hauled up a supply ofchocolate, and, to his inexpressible satisfaction, a package ofnote-paper and a pencil. He dropped the cord again, but to no purpose;perhaps the sentries on their rounds had approached the orange-trees. But his delight was sufficient for one evening. He sat down and wrote along letter to Clélia; scarcely was it ended when he fastened it to thecord and let it down. For more than three hours he waited in vain forsome one to come and take it; two or three times he drew it up and madealterations in it. "If Clélia does not get my letter to-night, " he saidto himself, "while those ideas of poison are troubling her brain, it ismore than likely that to-morrow she will refuse to receive it. " The fact was that Clélia had been obliged to drive to the city with herfather. Fabrice knew how matters stood when he heard the General'scarriage enter the court about half-past twelve; he knew it was theGeneral's carriage by the horses' step. What was his delight when, shortly after hearing the jingle of the General's spurs as he crossedthe esplanade, and the rattle of muskets as the sentries presented arms, he felt a gentle tug at the cord, the end of which he had kept wrappedaround his wrist! Something heavy was made fast to the cord; two littlejerks notified him to haul up. He had some difficulty in landing theobject over a cornice that projected under his window. The article that he had secured at expense of so much trouble proved tobe a carafe of water wrapped in a shawl. The poor young man, who hadbeen living for so long a time in such complete solitude, covered theshawl with rapturous kisses. But words are inadequate to express hisemotion when, after so many days of vain waiting, he discovered a scrapof paper pinned to the shawl. "Drink no water but this; satisfy your hunger with chocolate, " said thisprecious missive. "To-morrow I will try to get some bread to you; I willmark the crust at top and bottom with little crosses made with ink. Itis a frightful thing to say, but you must know it:--I believe others areimplicated in Barbone's design to poison you. Could you not haveunderstood that the subject you spoke of in your letter in pencil isdispleasing to me? I should not think of writing to you were it not forthe great peril that is hanging over us. I have seen the Duchess; she iswell, as is the Count, but she is very thin. Write no more on thatsubject which you know of: would you wish to make me angry?" It cost Clélia an effort to write the last sentence but one of the abovenote. It was in everybody's mouth in court circles that Mme. Sanseverinawas manifesting a great deal of friendly interest in Count Baldi, thatextremely handsome man and quondam friend of the Marquise Raversi. Theone thing certain was that he and the Marquise had separated, and he wasalleged to have behaved most shamefully toward the lady who for sixyears had been to him a mother and given him his standing in society. The next morning, long before the sun was up, Grillo entered Fabrice'scell, laid down what seemed to be a pretty heavy package, and vanishedwithout saying a word. The package contained a good-sized loaf of bread, plentifully ornamented with, little crosses made with a pen. Fabricecovered them with kisses. Why? Because he was in love. Beside the loaflay a rouleau incased in many thicknesses of paper; it contained sixthousand francs in sequins. Finally, Fabrice discovered a handsomebrand-new prayer-book: these words, in a writing he was beginning to beacquainted with, were written on the fly-leaf:-- "_Poison!_ Beware the water, the wine, everything; confine yourself tochocolate. Give the untasted dinner to the dog; it will not do to showdistrust; the enemy would have recourse to other methods. For God'ssake, be cautious! no rashness!" Fabrice made haste to remove the telltale writing which might havecompromised Clélia, and to tear out a number of leaves from theprayer-book, with which he made several alphabets; each letter wasneatly formed with powdered charcoal moistened with wine. The alphabetswere quite dry when at a quarter to twelve Clélia appeared at the windowof the aviary. "The main thing now is to persuade her to use them, " saidFabrice to himself. But as it happened, fortunately, she had much to sayto the young prisoner in regard to the plan to poison him (a dogbelonging to one of the kitchen-maids had died after eating a dishcooked for Fabrice), so that Clélia not only made no objection to theuse of the alphabets, but had herself prepared one in the highest styleof art with ink. Under this method, which did not work altogethersmoothly at the beginning, the conversation lasted an hour and a half, which was as long as Clélia dared remain in the aviary. Two or threetimes, when Fabrice trespassed on forbidden ground and alluded tomatters that were taboo, she made no answer and walked away to feedher birds. Fabrice requested that when she sent him his supply of water at eveningshe would accompany it with one of her alphabets, which, being traced inink, were legible at a greater distance. He did not fail to write her agood long letter, and was careful to put in it no soft nonsense--atleast, of a nature to offend. The next day, in their alphabetical conversation, Clélia had no reproachto make him. She informed him that there was less to be apprehended fromthe poisoners. Barbone had been waylaid and nearly murdered by thelovers of the Governor's scullery-maids; he would scarcely venture toshow his face in the kitchens again. She owned up to stealing acounter-poison from her father; she sent it to him with directions howto use it, but the main thing was to reject at once all food that seemedto have an unnatural taste. Clélia had subjected Don Cesare to a rigorous examination, withoutsucceeding in discovering whence came the six thousand francs receivedby Fabrice. In any case, it was a good sign: it showed that the severityof his confinement was relaxing. The poison episode had a very favorable effect on our hero's amatoryenterprise: still, he could never extort anything at all resembling aconfession of love; but he had the felicity of living on terms ofintimacy with Clélia. Every morning, and often at evening also, therewas a long conversation with the alphabets; every evening at nineo'clock Clélia received a lengthy letter, and sometimes accorded it afew brief words of answer; she sent him the daily paper and anoccasional new book; finally, the rugged Grillo had been so far tamed asto keep Fabrice supplied with bread and wine, which were handed himdaily by Clélia's maid. This led honest Grillo to conclude that theGovernor was not of the same mind as those who had engaged Barbone topoison the young Monsignor; at which he rejoiced exceedingly, as did hiscomrades, for there was a saying current in the prison--"You have onlyto look Monsignor del Dongo in the face; he is certain to giveyou money. " Fabrice was very pale; lack of exercise was injuring his health: but forall that he had never been so happy. The tone of the conversationbetween Clélia and him was familiar and often gay. The only moments ofthe girl's life not beset with dark forebodings and remorse were thosespent in conversing with him. She was so thoughtless as to remarkone day:-- "I admire your delicacy: because I am the Governor's daughter you havenothing to say to me of the pleasures of freedom!" "That's because I am not so absurd as to have aspirations in thatdirection, " replied Fabrice. "How often could I hope to see you if Iwere living in Parma, a free man again? And life would not be worthliving if I could not tell you all my thoughts--no, not that exactly:you take precious good care I don't tell you _all_ my thoughts! But inspite of your cruel tyranny, to live without seeing you daily would be afar worse punishment than captivity; in all my life I was never sohappy! Isn't it strange to think happiness was awaiting me in a prison?" "There is a good deal to be said on that point, " rejoined Clélia, withan air that all at once became very serious, almost threatening. "What!" exclaimed Fabrice, in alarm, "am I in danger of losing the smallplace I have won in your heart, my sole joy in this world?" "Yes, " she replied. "Although your reputation in society is that of agentleman and gallant man, I have reason to believe you are not actingingenuously toward me. But I don't wish to discuss this matter to-day. " This strange exordium cast an element of embarrassment into theconversation, and tears were often in the eyes of both. Copyrighted by George H. Richmond and Company. WILLEM BILDERDIJK (1756-1831) Willem Bilderdijk's personality, even more than his genius, exerted sopowerful an influence over his time that it has been said that to thinkof a Dutchman of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth century was tothink of Bilderdijk. He stands as the representative of the greatliterary and intellectual awakening which took place in Hollandimmediately after that country became part of the French empire. Thehistory of literature has many examples of how, under politicaldisturbances, the agitated mind has sought refuge in literary andscientific pursuits, and it seemed at that time as if Dutch literaturewas entering a new Golden Age. The country had never known better poets;but it was the poetry of the eighteenth century, to quote Ten Brink, "ceremonious and stagy. " In 'Herinnering van mijne Kindheit' (Reminiscences of My Childhood), abook which is not altogether to be relied upon, Bilderdijk gives acharming picture of his father, a physician in Amsterdam, but speaks ofhis mother in less flattering terms. He was born in Amsterdam in 1756. At an early age he suffered an injury to his foot, a peasant boy havingcarelessly stepped on it; attempts were made to cure him by continuedbleedings, and the result was that he was confined to his bed for twelveyears. These years laid the foundation of a character lacking in powerto love and to call forth love, and developing into an almost fiercehypochondria, full of complaints and fears of death. In these years, however, he acquired the information and the wonderful power of languagewhich appear in his sinewy verse. One of his poems, dated 1770, has been preserved, but is principallyinteresting as a first attempt. Others, written in his twentieth year, were prize poems, and are sufficiently characterized by theirtitles:--'Kunst wordt door Arbeid verkregen' (Art came through Toil), and 'Inloed der Dichthunst op het Staets bestuur' (Influence of Poetryon Statesmanship). When he went to Leyden in 1780 to study law, he wasalready famous. His examinations passed, he settled at the Hague topractice, and in 1785 married Katharina Rebekka Woesthoven. Thefollowing year he published his romance, 'Elius, ' in seven songs. Theromance ultimately became his favorite form of verse; but this was notthe form now called romance. It was the rhymed narrative of theeighteenth century, written with endless care and reflection, and inhis case with so superior a treatment of language that no Dutch poetsince Huygens had approached it. The year 1795 was the turning-point in Bilderdijk's life. He had beenbrought up in unswerving faith in the cause of the house of Orange, wasa fanatic monarchist and Calvinist, "anti-revolutionary, anti-Barneveldtian, anti-Loevesteinisch, anti-liberal" (thus Da Costa), a warm supporter of William the Fifth, and at the entrance of the Frenchin 1795 he refused to give his oath of allegiance to the cause of thecitizens and the sovereignty of the people. He was exiled, left theHague, and went to London, and later to Brunswick. This was notaltogether a misfortune for him, nor an unrelieved sorrow. He had beenmore successful as poet than as husband or financier, and by hiscompulsory banishment escaped his financial difficulties and what heconsidered the chains of his married life. In London Bilderdijk met hiscountryman the painter Schweikhardt; and with this meeting begins aperiod of his life over which his admirers would fain draw a veil. WithSchweikhardt were his two daughters, of whom the younger, KatherinaWilhelmina, became Bilderdijk's first pupil, and, excepting his"intellectual son, " Isaak da Costa, probably his only one. Besides hergreat poetic gifts she possessed beauty and charm. She fell in love withher teacher and followed him to Brunswick, where she lived in his houseunder the name of Frau van Heusden. In spite of this arrangement, thepoet seems to have considered himself a most faithful husband; and hedid his best to persuade his wife to join him with their children, butnaturally without success. In 1802 the marriage was legally annulled, and Frau van Heusden took his name. She did her best to atone for theblot on her repute by a self-sacrificing lovableness, and was in closesympathy with Bilderdijk on the intellectual side. Like him she wasfamiliar with all the resources of the art of poetry. Most famous of herpoems are the long one 'Rodrigo de Goth, ' and her touching, graceful'Gedichten voor Kinderen' (Poems for Children). Bilderdijk's verses showwhat she was to him:-- In the shadow of my verdure, firmly on my trunk depending, Grew the tender branch of cedar, never longing once to leave me; Faithfully through rain and tempest, modest at my side it rested, Bearing to my honor solely the first twig it might its own call; Fair the wreath thy flowers made me for my knotted trunk fast withering, And my soul with pride was swelling at the crown of thy young blossoms; Straight and strong and firmly rooted, tall and green thy head arises, Bright the glory of its freshness; never yet by aught bedimmed. Lo! my crown to thine now bending, only thine the radiant freshness, And my soul finds rest and comfort in thy sheltering foliage. Meanwhile he was no better off materially. The Duke of Brunswick, whohad known him previously, received the famous Dutch exile with openarms, and granted him a pension; but it never sufficed. Many effortswere made to have his decree of exile annulled; but they failed throughhis own peevish insolence and his boundless ingratitude. King Louis(Bonaparte) of Holland extended his protection to the dissatisfied oldpoet; and all these royal gentlemen were most generous. When the houseof Orange returned to Holland, William I. Continued the favor alreadyshown him, obtained a high pension for him, and when it provedinsufficient, supplemented it with gifts. In this way Bilderdijk'sincome in the year 1816 amounted to twenty thousand gold pieces. Thatthis should be sufficient to keep the wolf from the door in a city likeAmsterdam, Bilderdijk thought too much to expect, and consequently leftin great indignation and went to Leyden in 1817. But these personal troubles in no way interfered with his talent. On thecontrary, the history of literature has seldom known so great anactivity and productiveness; all in all, his works amounted to almost ahundred volumes. What he accomplished during his stay in Germany wasalmost incredible. He gave lessons to exiled Dutch in a great variety ofbranches, he saw volume upon volume through print; he wrote his famous'Het Buitenleven' (Country Life) after Delille, he translated Fingalafter Ossian, he wrote 'Vaderlandsche Orangezucht' (Patriotic Love forOrange). After his return to Holland he wrote 'De Ziekte der Geleerden'(The Disease of Genius: 1817), 'Leyden's Kamp' (Leyden's Battle: 1808), and the first five songs of 'De Ondergang der eerste Wereld'(Destruction of the First World: 1809), probably his masterpiece;moreover, the dramas 'Floris V. , ' 'Willem van Holland, ' and 'Kounak. 'The volumes published between 1815 and 1819 bore the double signatureWillem and Wilhelmina Katherina Bilderdijk. But it was as though time had left him behind. The younger Holland shookits head over the old gentleman of the past century, with his antagonismfor the poetry of the day and his rage against Shakespeare and thelatter's "puerile" 'King Lear. ' For to Bilderdijk even more than toVoltaire, Shakespeare was an abomination. Then in 1830 he received theseverest blow of his life: Katherina Wilhelmina died. This happened inHaarlem, whither he had gone in 1827. With this calamity his strengthwas broken and his life at an end. He followed her in 1831. He was in every way a son of the eighteenth century; he began as adidactic and patriotic poet, and might at first be considered a followerof Jakob Cats. He became principally a lyric poet, but his lyric knew nodeep sentiment, no suppressed feeling; its greatness lay in itsrhetorical power. His ode to Napoleon may therefore be one of the bestto characterize his genius. When he returned to his native country aftereleven years' exile, with heart and mind full of Holland, it was oldHolland he sought and did not find. He did not understand young Holland. In spite of this, his fame and powerful personality had an attractionfor the young; but it was the attraction of a past time, the fascinationof the glorious ruin. Young Holland wanted freedom, individualindependence, and this Bilderdijk considered a misfortune. "One shouldnot let children, women, and nations know that they possess other rightsthan those naturally theirs. This matter must be a secret between theprince and his heart and reason, --to the masses it ought always to bekept as hidden as possible. " The new age which had made its entry withthe cry of Liberty would not tolerate such sentiments, and he stoodalone, a powerful, demonic, but incomprehensible spirit. Aside from his fame as a poet, he deserves to be mentioned as JacobGrimm's correspondent, as philologist, philosopher, and theologian. ODE TO BEAUTY Child of the Unborn! dost thou bend From Him we in the day-beams see, Whose music with the breeze doth blend?-- To feel thy presence is to be. Thou, our soul's brightest effluence--thou Who in heaven's light to earth dost bow, A Spirit 'midst unspiritual clods-- Beauty! who bear'st the stamp profound Of Him with all perfection crowned, Thine image--thine alone--is God's. .. . How shall I catch a single ray Thy glowing hand from nature wakes-- Steal from the ether-waves of day One of the notes thy world-harp shakes-- Escape that miserable joy, Which dust and self with darkness cloy, Fleeting and false--and, like a bird, Cleave the air-path, and follow thee Through thine own vast infinity, Where rolls the Almighty's thunder-word? Perfect thy brightness in heaven's sphere, Where thou dost vibrate in the bliss Of anthems ever echoing there! That, that is life--not this--not this: There in the holy, holy row-- And not on earth, so deep below-- Thy music unrepressed may speak; Stay, shrouded, in that holy place;-- Enough that we have seen thy face, And kissed the smiles upon thy cheek. We stretch our eager hands to thee, And for thine influence pray in vain; The burden of mortality Hath bent us 'neath its heavy chain;-- And there are fetters forged by art, And science cold hath chilled the heart, And wrapped thy god-like crown in night; On waxen wings they soar on high, And when most distant deem, thee nigh-- They quench thy torch, and dream of light. Child of the Unborn! joy! for thou Shinest in every heavenly flame, Breathest in all the winds that blow, While self-conviction speaks thy name: Oh, let one glance of thine illume The longing soul that bids thee come, And make me feel of heaven, like thee! Shake from thy torch one blazing drop, And to my soul all heaven shall ope, And I--dissolve in melody! Translated in Westminster Review. FROM THE 'ODE TO NAPOLEON' Poesy, nay! Too long art silent! Seize now the lute! Why dost thou tarry? Let sword the Universe inherit, Noblest as prize of war be glory. Let thousand mouths sing hero-actions: E'en so, the glory is not uttered. Earth-gods--an endless life, ambrosial, Find they alone in song enchanting. Watch thou with care thy heedless fingers Striking upon the lyre so godlike; Hold thou in check thy lightning-flashes, That where they chance to fall are blighting. He who on eagle's wing soars skyward Must at the sun's bright barrier tremble. Frederic, though great in royal throning, Well may amaze the earth, and heaven, When clothed by thunder and the levin Swerves he before the hero's fanfare. * * * * * Pause then, Imagination! Portals Hiding the Future, ope your doorways! Earth, the blood-drenched, yields palms and olives. Sword that hath cleft on bone and muscle, Spear that hath drunk the hero's lifeblood, Furrow the soil, as spade and ploughshare. Blasts that alarm from blaring trumpets Laws of fair Peace anon shall herald: Heaven's shame, at last, its end attaining. Earth, see, O see your sceptres bowing. Gone is the eagle once majestic; On us a cycle new is dawning; Look, from the skies it hath descended. O potent princes, ye the throne-born! See what Almighty will hath destined. Quit ye your seats, in low adoring, Set all the earth, with you, a-kneeling; Or--as the free-born men should perish-- Sink in grave with crown and kingdom. Glorious in lucent rays, already Brighter than gold a sceptre shineth; No warring realm shall dim its lustre, No earth-storm veil its blaze to dimness. Can it be true that, centuries ended, God's endless realm, the Hebrew, quickens Lifting its horns--though not for always? Shines in the East the sun, like noonday? Shall Hagar's wandering sons be heartened After the Moslem's haughty baiting? Speed toward us, speed, O days so joyous! Even if blood your cost be reckoned; Speed as in Heaven's gracious favor, Bringing again Heaven's earthly kingdom. Yea, though through waters deep we struggle, Joining in fight with seas of troubles. Suffer we, bear we--hope--be silent! On us shall dawn a coming daybreak-- With it, the world of men be happy! Translated in the metre of the original, by E. Irenæus Stevenson, forthe (World's Best Literature) SLIGHTED LOVE AN ORIENTAL ROMANCE Splendid rose the star of evening, and the gray dusk was a-fading. O'er it with a hand of mildness, now the Night her veil was drawing: Abensaïd, valiant soldier, from Medina's ancient gateway, To the meadows, rich with blossoms, walked in darkest mood of musing-- Where the Guadalete's wild waves foaming wander through the flat lands, Where, within the harbor's safety, loves to wait the weary seaman. Neither hero's mood nor birth-pride eased his spirit of its suffering For his youth's betrothed, Zobeïde; she it was who caused him anguish. Faithless had she him forsaken, she sometime his best-beloved, Left him, though already parted by strange fate, from realm and heirship. Oh, that destiny he girds not--strength it gave him, hero-courage, Added to his lofty spirit, touches of nobler feeling-- 'Tis that she, ill-starred one, leaves him! takes the hand so wrinkled Of that old man, Seville's conqueror! Into the night, along the river, Abensaïd now forth rushes: Loudly to the rocky limits, Echo bears his lamentations. "Faithless maid, more faithless art thou than the sullen water! Harder thou than even the hardened bosom of yon rigid rockwall! Ah, bethinkest thou, Zobeïde, still upon our solemn love-oath? How thy heart, this hour so faithless, once belonged to me, me only? Canst thou yield thy heart, thy beauty, to that old man, dead to love-thoughts? Wilt thou try to love the tyrant lacking love despite his treasure? Dost thou deem the sands of desert higher than are virtue-- honor? Allah grant, then, that he hate thee! That thou lovest yet another! That thou soon thyself surrender to the scorned one's bitter feeling. Rest may night itself deny thee, and may day to thee be terror! Be thy face before thy husband as a thing of nameless loathing! May his eye avoid thee ever, flee the splendor of thy beauty! May he ne'er, in gladsome gathering, stretch his hand to thee for partner! Never gird himself with girdle which for him thy hand embroidered! Let his heart, thy love forsaking, in another love be fettered; The love-tokens of another may his scutcheon flame in battle, While behind thy grated windows year by year, away thou mournest! To thy rival may he offer prisoners that his hand has taken! May the trophies of his victory on his knees to _her_ be proffered! May he hate thee! and thy heart's faith to him be but thing accursed! These things, aye and more still! be thy cure for all my sting and sorrow!" Silent now goes Abensaïd, unto Xeres, in the midnight; Dazzling shone the palace, lighted, festal for the loathsome marriage, Richly-robed Moors were standing 'neath the shimmer of the tapers, On the jubilant procession of the marriage-part proceeded. In the path stands Abensaïd, frowning, as the bridegroom nears him; Strikes the lance into his bosom, with the rage of sharpest vengeance. 'Gainst the heaven rings a loud cry, those at hand their swords are baring-- But he rushes through the weapons, and in safety gains his own hearth. Translation through the German, in the metre of the original, by E. Irenæus Stevenson. THE VILLAGE SCHOOLMASTER[17] From "Country Life" There he sits; his figure and his rigid bearing Let us know most clearly what is his ideal:-- Confidence in self, in his lofty standing; Thereto add conceit in his own great value. Certain, he can read--yes, and write and cipher; In the almanac no star-group's a stranger. In the church he, faithful, leads the pious chorus; Drums the catechism into young ones' noddles. Disputation to him's half the joy of living; Even though he's beaten, he will not give over. Watch him, when he talks, in how learned fashion! Drags on every word, spares no play of muscle. Ah, what pains he takes to forget no syllable-- Consonants and vowels rightly weighed and measured. Often is he, too, of this and that a poet! Every case declines with precisest conscience; Knows the history of Church and State, together-- Every Churchly light, --of pedant-deeds the record. All the village world speechless stands before him. Asking "How can _one_ brain be so ruled by Wisdom?" Sharply, too, he looks down on one's transgressions. 'Gainst his judgment stern, tears and prayers avail not. He appears--one glance (from a god that glance comes!) At a flash decides what the youngster's fate is. At his will a crowd runs, at his beck it parteth. Doth he smile? all frolic; doth he frown--all cower. By a tone he threatens, gives rewards, metes justice. Absent though he be, every pupil dreads him, For he sees, hears, knows, everything that's doing. On the urchin's forehead he can see it written. He divines who laughs, idles, yawns, or chatters, Who plays tricks on others, or in prayer-time's lazy. With its shoots, the birch-rod lying there beside him Knows how all misdeeds in a trice are settled. Surely by these traits you've our dorf-Dionysius! [Footnote 17: Compare Goldsmith's famous portrait in "The Deserted Village". ] Translation through the German, in the meter of the original, by E. Irenætis Stevenson, for the "World's Best Literature". BION (275 B. C. ) Of Bion, the second of the Sicilian idyllists, of whom Theocritus wasthe first and Moschus the third and last, but little knowledge and fewremains exist. He was born near Smyrna, says Suidas; and from the elegyon his death, attributed to his pupil Moschus, we infer that he lived inSicily and died there of poison. "Say that Bion the herdsman is dead, "says the threnody, appealing to the Sicilian muses, "and that song hasdied with Bion, and the Dorian minstrelsy hath perished. .. . Poison came, Bion, to thy mouth. What mortal so cruel as to mix poison for thee!" AsTheocritus is also mentioned in the idyl, Bion is supposed to have beenhis contemporary, and to have flourished about 275 B. C. Compared with Theocritus, his poetry is inferior in simplicity andnaïveté, and declines from the type which Theocritus had established forthe out-door, open-field idyl. With Bion, bucolics first took on the airof the study. Although at first this art and affectation were rarelydiscernible, they finally led to the mold of brass in which forcenturies Italian and English pastorals were cast, and later to thecomplete devitalizing which marks English pastoral poetry in theeighteenth century, with the one exception of Allan Ramsay's "GentleShepherd". Theocritus had sung with genuine feeling of trees andwandering winds, of flowers and the swift mountain stream. His poetryhas atmosphere; it is vital with sunlight, color, and the beauty whichis cool and calm and true. Although Bion's poems possess elegance andsweetness, and abound in pleasing imagery, they lack the naturalness ofthe idyls of Theocritus. Reflection has crept into them; they are infact love-songs, with here and there a tinge of philosophy, The most famous as well as the most powerful and original of Bion'spoems remaining to us is the threnody upon Adonis. It was doubtlesscomposed in honor of the rites with which Greek women celebrated certainEastern festivals; for the worship of Adonis still lingered among them, mixed with certain Syrian customs. "Thammuz came next behind, Whose annual wound in Lebanon allured The Syrian damsels to lament his fate In amorous ditties all a summer's day, While smooth Adonis from his native rock Ran purple to the sea, supposed with blood Of Thammuz yearly wounded. " Thammuz is identified with Adonis. "We came to a fair large river, "writes an old English traveler, "doubtless the ancient river Adonis, which at certain seasons of the year, especially about the feast ofAdonis, is of a bloody color, which the heathens looked upon asproceeding from a kind of sympathy in the river for the death of Adonis, who was killed by a wild boar in the mountains out of which the streamissues. Something like this we saw actually come to pass; for the waterwas stained to a surprising redness, and, as we observed in traveling, had discolored the sea a great way into a reddish hue, occasioneddoubtless by a sort of minium, or red earth, washed into the river bythe violence of the rain. " The poem is colored by the Eastern nature of its subject, and itsrapidity, vehemence, warmth, and unrestraint are greater than the strictcanon of Greek art allows. It is noteworthy, aside from its variedbeauties, because of its fine abandonment to grief and its appeal forrecognition of the merits of the dead youth it celebrates. Bion'sthrenody has undoubtedly become a criterion and given the form to someof the more famous "songs of tears". The laudatory clegy of Moschus forhis master--we say of Moschus, although Ahrens, in his recension, includes the lament under 'Incertorum Idyllia' at the end of 'MoschiReliquiæ'--follows it faithfully. Milton in his great ode of 'Lycidas'does not depart from the Greek lines; and Shelley, lamenting Keats inhis 'Adonaïs, ' reverts still more closely to the first master, addingperhaps an element of artificiality one does not find in otherthrenodies. The broken and extended form of Tennyson's celebration ofArthur Hallam takes it out of a comparison with the Greek; but themonody of 'Thyrsis', Matthew Arnold's commemoration of Clough, approaches nearer the Greek. Yet no other lament has the energy andrapidity of Bion's; the refrain, the insistent repetition of the words"I wail for Adonis", --"Alas for Cypris!" full of pathos and unspokenirrepressible woe, is used only by his pupil Moschus, though hinted atby Milton. The peculiar rhythm, the passion and delicate finish of the song, haveattracted a number of translators, among whose versions Mrs. Browning's'The Lament for Adonis' is considered the best. The subjoined version inthe Spenserian stanza, by Anna C. Brackett, follows its model closely inits directness and fervor of expression, and has moreover in itselfgenuine poetic merit. The translation of a fragment of 'Hesperos' isthat of J. A. Symonds. Bion's fluent and elegant versification invitesstudy, and his few idyls and fragments have at various times been turnedinto English by Fawkes (to be found in Chalmers's 'Works of EnglishPoets'), Polwhele, Banks, Chapman, and others. THRENODY I weep for Adonaïs--he is dead! Dead Adonaïs lies, and mourning all, The Loves wail round his fair, low-lying head. O Cypris, sleep no more! Let from thee fall Thy purple vestments--hear'st thou not the call? Let fall thy purple vestments! Lay them by! Ah, smite thy bosom, and in sable pall Send shivering through the air thy bitter cry For Adonaïs dead, while all the Loves reply. I weep for Adonaïs--weep the Loves. Low on the mountains beauteous lies he there, And languid through his lips the faint breath moves, And black the blood creeps o'er his smooth thigh, where The boar's white tooth the whiter flesh must tear. Glazed grow his eyes beneath the eyelids wide; Fades from his lips the rose, and dies--Despair! The clinging kiss of Cypris at his side-- Alas, he knew not that she kissed him as he died! I wail--responsive wail the Loves with me. Ah, cruel, cruel is that wound of thine, But Cypris' heart-wound aches more bitterly. The Oreads weep; thy faithful hounds low whine; But Cytherea's unbound tresses fine Float on the wind; where thorns her white feet wound, Along the oaken glades drops blood divine. She calls her lover; he, all crimsoned round His fair white breast with blood, hears not the piteous sound. Alas! for Cytherea wail the Loves, With the beloved dies her beauty too. O fair was she, the goddess borne of doves, While Adonaïs lived; but now, so true Her love, no time her beauty can renew. Deep-voiced the mountains mourn; the oaks reply; And springs and rivers murmur sorrow through The passes where she goes, the cities high; And blossoms flush with grief as she goes desolate by. Alas for Cytherea! he hath died-- The beauteous Adonaïs, he is dead! And Echo sadly back "_is dead_" replied. Alas for Cypris! Stooping low her head, And opening wide her arms, she piteous said, "O stay a little, Adonaïs mine! Of all the kisses ours since we were wed, But one last kiss, oh, give me now, and twine Thine arms close, till I drink the latest breath of thine! "So will I keep the kiss thou givest me E'en as it were thyself, thou only best! Since thou, O Adonaïs, far dost flee-- Oh, stay a little--leave a little rest!-- And thou wilt leave me, and wilt be the guest Of proud Persephone, more strong than I? All beautiful obeys her dread behest-- And I a goddess am, and _cannot_ die! O thrice-beloved, listen!--mak'st thou no reply? "Then dies to idle air my longing wild, As dies a dream along the paths of night; And Cytherea widowed is, exiled From love itself; and now--an idle sight-- The Loves sit in my halls, and all delight My charmèd girdle moves, is all undone! Why wouldst thou, rash one, seek the maddening fight? Why, beauteous, wouldst thou not the combat shun?"-- Thus Cytherea--and the Loves weep, all as one. Alas for Cytherea!--he is dead. Her hopeless sorrow breaks in tears, that rain Down over all the fair, beloved head, -- Like summer showers, o'er wind-down-beaten grain; They flow as fast as flows the crimson stain From out the wound, deep in the stiffening thigh; And lo! in roses red the blood blooms fair, And where the tears divine have fallen close by, Spring up anemones, and stir all tremblingly. I weep for Adonaïs--he is dead! No more, O Cypris, weep thy wooer here! Behold a bed of leaves! Lay down his head As if he slept--as still, as fair, as dear, -- In softest garments let his limbs appear, As when on golden couch his sweetest sleep He slept the livelong night, thy heart anear; Oh, beautiful in death though sad he keep, No more to wake when Morning o'er the hills doth creep. And over him the freshest flowers fling-- Ah me! all flowers are withered quite away And drop their petals wan! yet, perfumes bring And sprinkle round, and sweetest balsams lay;-- Nay, perish perfumes since thine shall not stay! In purple mantle lies he, and around, The weeping Loves his weapons disarray, His sandals loose, with water bathe his wound, And fan him with soft wings that move without a sound. The Loves for Cytherea raise the wail. Hymen from quenched torch no light can shake. His shredded wreath lies withered all and pale; His joyous song, alas, harsh discords break! And saddest wail of all, the Graces wake; "The beauteous Adonaïs! He is dead!" And sigh the Muses, "Stay but for our sake!" Yet would he come, Persephone is dead;-- Cease, Cypris! Sad the days repeat their faithful tread! Paraphrase of Anna C. Brackett, in Journal of Speculative Philosophy. HESPER Hesper, thou golden light of happy love, Hesper, thou holy pride of purple eve, Moon among stars, but star beside the moon, Hail, friend! and since the young moon sets to-night Too soon below the mountains, lend thy lamp And guide me to the shepherd whom I love. No theft I purpose; no wayfaring man Belated would I watch and make my prey: Love is my goal; and Love how fair it is, When friend meets friend sole in the silent night, Thou knowest, Hesper! AUGUSTINE BIRRELL (1850-) Those to whom the discovery of a relishing new literary flavor means thepermanent annexation of a new tract of enjoyment have not forgotten whathappened in 1885. A slender 16mo volume entitled "Obiter Dicta", containing seven short literary and biographic essays, came out in thatyear, anonymous and unheralded, to make such way as it might among abook-whelmed generation. It had no novelty of subject to help it to ahearing; the themes were largely the most written-out, in all seeming, that could have been selected, --a few great orthodox names on whichopinion was closed and analysis exhausted. Browning, Carlyle, CharlesLamb, and John Henry Newman are indeed very beacons to warn off thesated bookman. A paper on Benvenuto Cellini, one on Actors, and one onFalstaff (by another hand) closed the list. Yet a few weeks made it theliterary event of the day. Among epicures of good reading the wordswiftly passed along that here was a new sensation of unusuallysatisfying charm and freshness. It was a _tour de force_ like the"Innocents Abroad", a journey full of new sights over the most staledand beaten of tracks. The triumph was all the author's own. [Illustration: AUGUSTINE BIRRELL] Two years later came another volume as a "Second Series", of the samegeneral character but superior to the first. Among the subjects of itseleven papers were Milton, Pope, Johnson, Burke, Lamb again, andEmerson; with some general essays, including that on "The Office ofLiterature", given below. In 1892 appeared "Res Judicatæ", really a third volume of the sameseries, and perhaps even richer in matter and more acute and original inthought. Its first two articles, prepared as lectures on SamuelRichardson and Edward Gibbon, are indeed his high-water, mark in bothsubstance and style. Cowper, George Borrow, Newman again, Lamb a thirdtime (and fresh as ever), Hazlitt, Matthew Arnold, and Sainte-Beuve arebrought in, and some excellent literary miscellanea. A companion volume called 'Men, Women, and Books' is disappointingbecause composed wholly of short newspaper articles: Mr. Birrell'sspecial quality needs space to make itself felt. He needs a little timeto get up steam, a little room to unpack his wares; he is no pastelwriter, who can say his say in a paragraph and runs dry in two. Hencethese snippy editorials do him no justice: he is obliged to stop everytime just as he is getting ready to say something worth while. They arehis, and therefore readable and judicious; but they give no idea of hisbest powers. He has also written a life of Charlotte Brontë. But he holds his placein the front rank of recent essayists by the three 'Obiter Dicta' and'Res Judicatæ' volumes of manly, luminous, penetrating essays, full ofracy humor and sudden wit; of a generous appreciativeness that seeksalways for the vital principle which gave the writer his hold on men;still more, of a warm humanity and a sure instinct for all the higherand finer things of the spirit which never fail to strike chords in theheart as well as the brain. No writer's work leaves a better taste inthe mouth; he makes us think better of the world, of righteousness, ofourselves. Yet no writer is less of a Puritan or a Philistine; nonewrites with less of pragmatic purpose or a less obtrusive load ofpositive fact. He scorns such overladen pedantry, and never loses achance to lash it. He tells us that he has "never been inside thereading-room of the British Museum, " and "expounds no theory save theunworthy one that literature ought to please. " He says the one questionabout a book which is to be part of _literature_ is, "Does it read?"that "no one is under any obligation to read any one else's book, " andtherefore it is a writer's business to make himself welcome to readers;that he does not care whether an author was happy or not, he wants theauthor to make him happy. He puts his theory in practice: he makeshimself welcome as a companion at once stimulating and restful, ofhumane spirit and elevated ideals, of digested knowledge and originalthought, of an insight which is rarely other than kindly and a deephumor which never lapses into cynicism. Mr. Birrell helps to justify Walter Bagehot's dictum that the only manwho can write books well is one who knows practical life well; but stillthere are congruities in all things, and one feels a certain shock ofincongruity in finding that this man of books and purveyor of lightgenial book-talk, who can hardly write a line without giving it aquality of real literary savor, is a prominent lawyer and member ofParliament, and has written a law book which ranks among recognizedlegal authorities. This is a series of lectures delivered in 1896, andcollected into a volume on 'The Duties and Liabilities of Trustees. ' Butsome of the surprise vanishes on reading the book: even as 'Alice inWonderland' shows on every page the work of a logician trained to usewords precisely and criticize their misuse, so in exactly the oppositeway this book is full of the shrewd judgment, the knowledge of life, andeven the delightful humor which form so much of Birrell's best equipmentfor a man of letters. Mr. Birrell's work is not merely good reading, but is a mental clarifierand tonic. We are much better critics of other writers through hiscriticisms on his selected subjects. After every reading of 'ObiterDicta' we feel ashamed of crass and petty prejudice, in the face of hislessons in disregarding surface mannerisms for the sake of vitalqualities. Only in one case does he lose his impartiality: he so objectsto treating Emerson with fairness that he even goes out of his way toberate his idol Matthew Arnold for setting Emerson aloft. But what hesays of George Borrow is vastly more true of himself: he is one of thewriters we cannot afford to be angry with. DR. JOHNSON "Criticism, " writes Johnson in the 60th Idler, "is a study by which mengrow important and formidable at a very small expense. The power ofinvention has been conferred by nature upon few, and the labor oflearning those sciences which may by mere labor be obtained, is toogreat to be willingly endured: but every man can exert such judgment ashe has upon the works of others; and he whom nature has made weak, andidleness keeps ignorant, may yet support his vanity by the name ofa critick. " To proceed with our task by the method of comparison is to pursue acourse open to grave objection; yet it is forced upon us when we find, as we lately did, a writer in the Times newspaper, in the course of anot very discriminating review of Mr. Froude's recent volumes, casuallyremarking, as if it admitted of no more doubt than the day's price ofconsols, that Carlyle was a greater man than Johnson. It is a good thingto be positive. To be positive in your opinions and selfish in yourhabits is the best recipe, if not for happiness, at all events for thatfar more attainable commodity, comfort, with which we are acquainted. "Anoisy man, " sang poor Cowper, who could not bear anything louder thanthe hissing of a tea-urn, "a noisy man is always in the right, " and apositive man can seldom be proved wrong. Still, in literature it is verydesirable to preserve a moderate measure of independence, and wetherefore make bold to ask whether it is as plain as the "old hill ofHowth" that Carlyle was a greater man than Johnson? Is not the precisecontrary the truth? No abuse of Carlyle need be looked for, here or fromme. When a man of genius and of letters happens to have any strikingvirtues, such as purity, temperance, honesty, the novel task of dwellingon them has such attraction for us that we are content to leave theelucidation of his faults to his personal friends, and to stern, unbending moralists like Mr. Edmund Yates and the World newspaper. Tolove Carlyle is, thanks to Mr. Froude's superhuman ideal of friendship, a task of much heroism, almost meriting a pension; still it is quitepossible for the candid and truth-loving soul. But a greater thanJohnson he most certainly was not. There is a story in Boswell of an ancient beggar-woman who, whilstasking an alms of the Doctor, described herself to him, in a luckymoment for her pocket, as "an old struggler. " Johnson, his biographertells us, was visibly affected. The phrase stuck to his memory, and wasfrequently applied to himself. "I too, " so he would say, "am an oldstruggler. " So too, in all conscience, was Carlyle. The struggles ofJohnson have long been historical; those of Carlyle have just become so. We are interested in both. To be indifferent would be inhuman. Both menhad great endowments, tempestuous natures, hard lots. They were notamongst Dame Fortune's favorites. They had to fight their way. What theytook they took by storm. But--and here is a difference indeed--Johnsoncame off victorious, Carlyle did not. Boswell's book is an arch of triumph, through which, as we read, we seehis hero passing into eternal fame, to take up his place with those-- "Dead but sceptred sovereigns who still rule Our spirits from their urns. " Froude's book is a tomb over which the lovers of Carlyle's genius willnever cease to shed tender but regretful tears. We doubt whether there is in English literature a more triumphant bookthan Boswell's. What materials for tragedy are wanting? Johnson was aman of strong passions, unbending spirit, violent temper, as poor as achurch-mouse, and as proud as the proudest of Church dignitaries;endowed with the strength of a coal-heaver, the courage of a lion, andthe tongue of Dean Swift, he could knock down booksellers and silencebargees; he was melancholy almost to madness, "radically wretched, "indolent, blinded, diseased. Poverty was long his portion; not thatgenteel poverty that is sometimes behindhand with its rent, but thathungry poverty that does not know where to look for its dinner. Againstall these things had this "old struggler" to contend; over all thesethings did this "old struggler" prevail. Over even the fear of death, the giving up of "this intellectual being, " which had haunted his gloomyfancy for a lifetime, he seems finally to have prevailed, and to havemet his end as a brave man should. Carlyle, writing to his wife, says, and truthfully enough, "The more thedevil worries me the more I wring him by the nose;" but then if thedevil's was the only nose that was wrung in the transaction, why needCarlyle cry out so loud? After buffeting one's way through thestorm-tossed pages of Froude's (Carlyle, )--in which the universe isstretched upon the rack because food disagrees with man and cockscrow, --with what thankfulness and reverence do we read once again theletter in which Johnson tells Mrs. Thrale how he has been called toendure, not dyspepsia or sleeplessness, but paralysis itself:-- "On Monday I sat for my picture, and walked a considerable way withlittle inconvenience. In the afternoon and evening I felt myself lightand easy, and began to plan schemes of life. Thus I went to bed, and ina short time waked and sat up, as has long been my custom; when I felt aconfusion in my head which lasted, I suppose, about half a minute; I wasalarmed, and prayed God that however much He might afflict my body Hewould spate my understanding. .. . Soon after I perceived that I hadsuffered a paralytic stroke, and that my speech was taken from me. I hadno pain, and so little dejection in this dreadful state that I wonderedat my own apathy, and considered that perhaps death itself, when itshould come, would excite less horror than seems now to attend it. Inorder to rouse the vocal organs I took two drams. .. . I then went to bed, and strange as it may seem I think slept. When I saw light it was time Ishould contrive what I should do. Though God stopped my speech, He leftme my hand. I enjoyed a mercy which was not granted to my dear friendLawrence, who now perhaps overlooks me as I am writing, and rejoicesthat I have what he wanted. My first note was necessarily to my servant, who came in talking, and could not immediately comprehend why he shouldread what I put into his hands. .. . How this will be received by you Iknow not. I hope you will sympathize with me; but perhaps "'My mistress, gracious, mild, and good, Cries--Is he dumb? 'Tis time he should. ' "I suppose you may wish to know how my disease is treated by thephysicians. They put a blister upon my back, and two from my ear to mythroat, one on a side. The blister on the back has done little, andthose on the throat have not risen. I bullied and bounced (it sticks toour last sand), and compelled the apothecary to make his salve accordingto the Edinburgh dispensatory, that it might adhere better. I have nowtwo on my own prescription. They likewise give me salt of hartshorn, which I take with no great confidence; but I am satisfied that what canbe done is done for me. I am almost ashamed of this querulous letter, but now it is written let it go. " This is indeed tonic and bark for the mind. If, irritated by a comparison that ought never to have been thrust uponus, we ask why it is that the reader of Boswell finds it as hard to helploving Johnson as the reader of Froude finds it hard to avoid dislikingCarlyle, the answer must be that whilst the elder man of letters wasfull to overflowing with the milk of human kindness, the younger one wasfull to overflowing with something not nearly so nice; and that whilstJohnson was pre-eminently a reasonable man, reasonable in all hisdemands and expectations, Carlyle was the most unreasonable mortal thatever exhausted the patience of nurse, mother, or wife. Of Dr. Johnson's affectionate nature nobody has written with noblerappreciation than Carlyle himself. "Perhaps it is this Divine feeling ofaffection, throughout manifested, that principally attracts us toJohnson. A true brother of men is he, and filial lover of the earth. " The day will come when it will be recognized that Carlyle, as a critic, is to be judged by what he himself corrected for the press, and not bysplenetic entries in diaries, or whimsical extravagances in privateconversation. Of Johnson's reasonableness nothing need be said, except that it ispatent everywhere. His wife's judgment was a sound one--"He is the mostsensible man I ever met. " As for his brutality, of which at one time we used to hear a greatdeal, we cannot say of it what Hookham Frere said of Lander'simmorality, that it was-- "Mere imaginary classicality Wholly devoid of criminal reality. " It was nothing of the sort. Dialectically the great Doctor was a greatbrute. The fact is, he had so accustomed himself to wordy warfare thathe lost all sense of moral responsibility, and cared as little for men'sfeelings as a Napoleon did for their lives. When the battle was over, the Doctor frequently did what no soldier ever did that I have heardtell of, --apologized to his victims and drank wine or lemonade withthem. It must also be remembered that for the most part his victimssought him out. They came to be tossed and gored. And after all, arethey so much to be pitied? They have our sympathy, and the Doctor hasour applause. I am not prepared to say, with the simpering fellow withweak legs whom David Copperfield met at Mr. Waterbrook's dinner-table, that I would sooner be knocked down by a man with blood than picked upby a man without any; but, argumentatively speaking, I think it would bebetter for a man's reputation to be knocked down by Dr. Johnson thanpicked up by Mr. Froude. Johnson's claim to be the best of our talkers cannot, on our presentmaterials, be contested. For the most part we have only talk about othertalkers. Johnson's is matter of record. Carlyle no doubt was a greattalker--no man talked against talk or broke silence to praise it moreeloquently than he, but unfortunately none of it is in evidence. Allthat is given us is a sort of Commination Service writ large. We soonweary of it. Man does not live by curses alone. An unhappier prediction of a boy's future was surely never made thanthat of Johnson's by his cousin, Mr. Cornelius Ford, who said to theinfant Samuel, "You will make your way the more easily in the world asyou are content to dispute no man's claim to conversation excellence, and they will, therefore, more willingly allow your pretensions as awriter. " Unfortunate Mr. Ford! The man never breathed whose claim toconversation excellence Dr. Johnson did not dispute on every possibleoccasion; whilst, just because he was admittedly so good a talker, hispretensions as a writer have been occasionally slighted. Johnson's personal character has generally been allowed to stand high. It, however, has not been submitted to recent tests. To be the first to"smell a fault" is the pride of the modern biographer. Boswell's artlesspages afford useful hints not lightly to be disregarded. During someportion of Johnson's married life he had lodgings, first at Greenwich, afterwards at Hampstead. But he did not always go home o' nights;sometimes preferring to roam the streets with that vulgar ruffianSavage, who was certainly no fit company for him. He once actuallyquarreled with Tetty, who, despite her ridiculous name, was a verysensible woman with a very sharp tongue, and for a season, like stars, they dwelt apart. Of the real merits of this dispute we must resignourselves to ignorance. The materials for its discussion do not exist;even Croker could not find them. Neither was our great moralist as soundas one would have liked to see him in the matter of the payment of smalldebts. When he came to die, he remembered several of these outstandingaccounts; but what assurance have we that he remembered them all? Onesum of £10 he sent across to the honest fellow from whom he had borrowedit, with an apology for his delay; which, since it had extended over aperiod of twenty years, was not superfluous. I wonder whether he everrepaid Mr. Dilly the guinea he once borrowed of him to give to a verysmall boy who had just been apprenticed to a printer. If he did not, itwas a great shame. That he was indebted to Sir Joshua in a small loan isapparent from the fact that it was one of his three dying requests tothat great man that he should release him from it, as, of course, themost amiable of painters did. The other two requests, it will beremembered, were to read his Bible, and not to use his brush on Sundays. The good Sir Joshua gave the desired promises with a full heart, forthese two great men loved one another; but subsequently discovered theSabbatical restriction not a little irksome, and after a while resumedhis former practice, arguing with himself that the Doctor really had nobusiness to extract any such promise. The point is a nice one, andperhaps ere this the two friends have met and discussed it in theElysian fields. If so, I hope the Doctor, grown "angelical, " kept histemper with the mild shade of Reynolds better than on the historicaloccasion when he discussed with him the question of "strong drinks. " Against Garrick, Johnson undoubtedly cherished a smoldering grudge, which, however, he never allowed any one but himself to fan into flame. His pique was natural. Garrick had been his pupil at Edial, nearLichfield; they had come up to town together with an easy united fortuneof fourpence--"current coin o' the realm. " Garrick soon had the world athis feet and garnered golden grain. Johnson became famous too, butremained poor and dingy. Garrick surrounded himself with what only moneycan buy, good pictures and rare books. Johnson cared nothing forpictures--how should he? he could not see them; but he did care a greatdeal about books, and the pernickety little player was chary aboutlending his splendidly bound rarities to his quondam preceptor. Oursympathies in this matter are entirely with Garrick; Johnson was one ofthe best men that ever lived, but not to lend books to. Like LadySlattern, he had a "most observant thumb. " But Garrick had no real causefor complaint. Johnson may have soiled his folios and sneered at histrade, but in life Johnson loved Garrick, and in death embalmed hismemory in a sentence which can only die with the English language:--"Iam disappointed by that stroke of death which has eclipsed the gayety ofnations, and impoverished the public stock of harmless pleasure. " Will it be believed that puny critics have been found to quarrel withthis colossal compliment on the poor pretext of its falsehood? Garrick'sdeath, urge these dullards, could not possibly have eclipsed the gayetyof nations, since he had retired from the stage months previous to hisdemise. When will mankind learn that literature is one thing, and sworntestimony another? . .. Johnson the author is not always fairly treated. Phrases are convenientthings to hand about, and it is as little the custom to inquire intotheir truth as it is to read the letterpress on bank-notes. We arecontent to count bank-notes and to repeat phrases. One of these phrasesis, that whilst everybody reads Boswell, nobody reads Johnson. The factsare otherwise. Everybody does not read Boswell, and a great many peopledo read Johnson. If it be asked, What do the general public know ofJohnson's nine volumes octavo? I reply, Beshrew the general public! Whatin the name of the Bodleian has the general public got to do withliterature? The general public subscribes to Mudie, and has itsintellectual, like its lacteal sustenance, sent round to it in carts. OnSaturdays these carts, laden with "recent works in circulation, "traverse the Uxbridge Road; on Wednesdays they toil up Highgate Hill, and if we may believe the reports of travelers, are occasionally seenrushing through the wilds of Camberwell and bumping over Blackheath. Itis not a question of the general public, but of the lover of letters. DoMr. Browning, Mr. Arnold, Mr. Lowell, Mr. Trevelyan, Mr. Stephen, Mr. Morley, know their Johnson? "To doubt would be disloyalty. " And whatthese big men know in their big way, hundreds of little men know intheir little way. We have no writer with a more genuine literary flavorabout him than the great Cham of literature. No man of letters lovedletters better than he. He knew literature in all its branches--he hadread books, he had written books, he had sold books, he had boughtbooks, and he had borrowed them. Sluggish and inert in all otherdirections, he pranced through libraries. He loved a catalogue; hedelighted in an index. He was, to employ a happy phrase of Dr. Holmes, at home amongst books as a stable-boy is amongst horses. He caredintensely about the future of literature and the fate of literary men. "I respect Millar, " he once exclaimed; "he has raised the price ofliterature. " Now Millar was a Scotchman. Even Horne Tooke was not tostand in the pillory: "No, no, the dog has too much literature forthat. " The only time the author of 'Rasselas' met the author of the'Wealth of Nations' witnessed a painful scene. The English moralist gavethe Scotch one the lie direct, and the Scotch moralist applied to theEnglish one a phrase which would have done discredit to the lips of acostermonger; but this notwithstanding, when Boswell reported that AdamSmith preferred rhyme to blank verse, Johnson hailed the news asenthusiastically as did Cedric the Saxon the English origin of thebravest knights in the retinue of the Norman king. "Did Adam say that?"he shouted: "I love him for it. I could hug him!" Johnson no doubthonestly believed he held George III. In reverence, but really he didnot care a pin's fee for all the crowned heads of Europe. All hisreverence was reserved for "poor scholars. " When a small boy in awherry, on whom had devolved the arduous task of rowing Johnson and hisbiographer across the Thames, said he would give all he had to knowabout the Argonauts, the Doctor was much pleased, and gave him, or gotBoswell to give him, a double fare. He was ever an advocate of thespread of knowledge amongst all classes and both sexes. His devotion toletters has received its fitting reward, the love and respect of all"lettered hearts. " THE OFFICE OF LITERATURE Dr. John Brown's pleasant story has become well known, of the countrymanwho, being asked to account for the gravity of his dog, replied, "Oh, sir! life is full of sairiousness to him--he can just never get eneugho' fechtin'. " Something of the spirit of this saddened dog seems latelyto have entered into the very people who ought to be freest fromit, --our men of letters. They are all very serious and very quarrelsome. To some of them it is dangerous even to allude. Many are wedded to atheory or period, and are the most uxorious of husbands--ever ready toresent an affront to their lady. This devotion makes them very grave, and possibly very happy after a pedantic fashion. One remembers whatHazlitt, who was neither happy nor pedantic, has said about pedantry:-- "The power of attaching an interest to the most trifling or painfulpursuits is one of the greatest happinesses of our nature. The commonsoldier mounts the breach with joy, the miser deliberately starveshimself to death, the mathematician sets about extracting the cube-rootwith a feeling of enthusiasm, and the lawyer sheds tears of delight over'Coke upon Lyttleton. ' He who is not in some measure a pedant, though hemay be a wise, cannot be a very happy man. " Possibly not; but then we are surely not content that our authors shouldbe pedants in order that they may be happy and devoted. As one of thegreat class for whose sole use and behalf literature exists, --the classof readers, --I protest that it is to me a matter of indifference whetheran author is happy or not. I want him to make me happy. That is hisoffice. Let him discharge it. I recognize in this connection the corresponding truth of what SydneySmith makes his Peter Plymley say about the private virtues of Mr. Perceval, the Prime Minister:-- "You spend a great deal of ink about the character of the present PrimeMinister. Grant all that you write--I say, I fear that he will ruinIreland, and pursue a line of policy destructive to the true interestsof his country; and then you tell me that he is faithful to Mrs. Perceval and kind to the Master Percevals. I should prefer that hewhipped his boys and saved his country. " We should never confuse functions or apply wrong tests. What can booksdo for us? Dr. Johnson, the least pedantic of men, put the whole matterinto a nut-shell (a cocoa-nut shell, if you will--Heaven forbid that Ishould seek to compress the great Doctor within any narrower limits thanmy metaphor requires) when he wrote that a book should teach us eitherto enjoy life or endure it. "Give us enjoyment!" "Teach us endurance!"Hearken to the ceaseless demand and the perpetual prayer of an everunsatisfied and always suffering humanity! How is a book to answer the ceaseless demand? Self-forgetfulness is the essence of enjoyment, and the author who wouldconfer pleasure must possess the art, or know the trick, of destroyingfor the time the reader's own personality. Undoubtedly the easiest wayof doing this is by the creation of a host of rival personalities--hencethe number and the popularity of novels. Whenever a novelist fails, hisbook is said to flag; that is, the reader suddenly (as in skating) comesbump down upon his own personality, and curses the unskillful author. Nolack of characters, and continual motion, is the easiest recipe for anovel, which like a beggar should always be kept "moving on. " Nobodyknew this better than Fielding, whose novels, like most good ones, arefull of inns. When those who are addicted to what is called "improving reading"inquire of you petulantly why you cannot find change of company andscene in books of travel, you should answer cautiously that when booksof travel are full of inns, atmosphere, and motion, they are as good asany novel; nor is there any reason in the nature of things why theyshould not always be so, though experience proves the contrary. The truth or falsehood of a book is immaterial. George Borrow's 'Biblein Spain' is, I suppose, true; though now that I come to think of it inwhat is to me a new light, one remembers that it contains some oddthings. But was not Borrow the accredited agent of the British andForeign Bible Society? Did he not travel (and he had a free hand) attheir charges? Was he not befriended by our minister at Madrid, Mr. Villiers, subsequently Earl of Clarendon in the peerage of England? Itmust be true: and yet at this moment I would as lief read a chapter ofthe 'Bible in Spain' as I would 'Gil Bias'; nay, I positively would givethe preference to Señor Giorgio. Nobody can sit down to read Borrow'sbooks without as completely forgetting himself as if he were a boy inthe forest with Gurth and Wamba. Borrow is provoking and has his full share of faults, and though theowner of a style, is capable of excruciating offences. His habitual useof the odious word "individual" as a noun-substantive (seven times inthree pages of 'The Romany Rye') elicits the frequent groan, and he iscertainly once guilty of calling fish the "finny tribe. " He believedhimself to be animated by an intense hatred of the Church of Rome, anddisfigures many of his pages by Lawrence-Boythorn-like tirades againstthat institution; but no Catholic of sense need on this account denyhimself the pleasure of reading Borrow, whose one dominating passion was_camaraderie_, and who hob-a-nobbed in the friendliest spirit withpriest and gipsy in a fashion as far beyond praise as it is beyonddescription by any pen other than his own. Hail to thee, George Borrow!Cervantes himself, 'Gil Bias, ' do not more effectually carry theirreaders into the land of the Cid than does this miraculous agent of theBible Society, by favor of whose pleasantness we can, any hour of theweek, enter Villafranca by night, or ride into Galicia on an Andalusianstallion (which proved to be a foolish thing to do), without costinganybody a _peseta_, and at no risk whatever to our necks--be theylong or short. Cooks, warriors, and authors must be judged by the effects they produce:toothsome dishes, glorious victories, pleasant books--these are ourdemands. We have nothing to do with ingredients, tactics, or methods. Wehave no desire to be admitted into the kitchen, the council, or thestudy. The cook may clean her saucepans how she pleases--the warriorplace his men as he likes--the author handle his material or weave hisplot as best he can--when the dish is served we only ask, Is it good?when the battle has been fought, Who won? when the book comes out, Does it read? Authors ought not to be above being reminded that it is their first dutyto write agreeably; some very disagreeable ones have succeeded in doingso, and there is therefore no need for any one to despair. Every author, be he grave or gay, should try to make his book as ingratiating aspossible. Reading is not a duty, and has consequently no business to bemade disagreeable. Nobody is under any obligation to read any otherman's book. Literature exists to please, --to lighten the burden of men's lives; tomake them for a short while forget their sorrows and their sins, theirsilenced hearths, their disappointed hopes, their grim futures--andthose men of letters are the best loved who have best performedliterature's truest office. Their name is happily legion, and I willconclude these disjointed remarks by quoting from one of them, as honesta parson as ever took tithe or voted for the Tory candidate, the Rev. George Crabbe. Hear him in 'The Frank Courtship':-- "I must be loved, " said Sybil; "I must see The man in terrors, who aspires to me: At my forbidding frown his heart must ache, His tongue must falter, and his frame must shake; And if I grant him at my feet to kneel, What trembling fearful pleasure must he feel! Nay, such the rapture that my smiles inspire That reason's self must for a time retire. " "Alas! for good Josiah, " said the dame, "These wicked thoughts would fill his soul with shame; He kneel and tremble at a thing of dust! He cannot, child:"--the child replied, "He must. " Were an office to be opened for the insurance of literary reputations, no critic at all likely to be in the society's service would refuse thelife of a poet who could write like Crabbe. Cardinal Newman, Mr. LeslieStephen, Mr. Swinburne, are not always of the same way of thinking, butall three hold the one true faith about Crabbe. But even were Crabbe now left unread, which is very far from being thecase, his would be an enviable fame--for was he not one of the favoredpoets of Walter Scott, and whenever the closing scene of the greatmagician's life is read in the pages of Lockhart, must not Crabbe's namebe brought upon the reader's quivering lip? To soothe the sorrow of the soothers of sorrow, to bring tears to theeyes and smiles to the cheeks of the lords of human smiles and tears, isno mean ministry, and it is Crabbe's. TRUTH-HUNTING Is truth-hunting one of those active mental habits which, as BishopButler tells us, intensify their effects by constant use; and are weakconvictions, paralyzed intellects, and laxity of opinions amongst theeffects of Truth-hunting on the majority of minds? These are notunimportant questions. Let us consider briefly the probable effects of speculative habits onconduct. The discussion of a question of conduct has the great charm ofjustifying, if indeed not requiring, personal illustration; and thisparticular question is well illustrated by instituting a comparisonbetween the life and character of Charles Lamb and those of some of hisdistinguished friends. Personal illustration, especially when it proceeds by way of comparison, is always dangerous, and the dangers are doubled when the subjectsillustrated and compared are favorite authors. It behoves us to proceedwarily in this matter. A dispute as to the respective merits of Gray andCollins has been known to result in a visit to an attorney and therevocation of a will. An avowed inability to see anything in MissAusten's novels is reported to have proved destructive of an otherwisegood chance of an Indian judgeship. I believe, however, I run no greatrisk in asserting that, of all English authors, Charles Lamb is the oneloved most warmly and emotionally by his admirers, amongst whom I reckononly those who are as familiar with the four volumes of his 'Life andLetters' as with 'Elia. ' But how does he illustrate the particular question now engaging ourattention? Speaking of his sister Mary, who, as every one knows, throughout 'Elia'is called his cousin Bridget, he says:-- "It has been the lot of my cousin, oftener perhaps than I could havewished, to have had for her associates and mine free-thinkers, leadersand disciples of novel philosophies and systems; but she neitherwrangles with nor accepts their opinions. " Nor did her brother. He lived his life cracking his little jokes andreading his great folios, neither wrangling with nor accepting theopinions of the friends he loved to see around him. To a contemporarystranger it might well have appeared as if his life were a frivolous anduseless one as compared with those of these philosophers and thinkers. _They_ discussed their great schemes and affected to prove deepmysteries, and were constantly asking, "What is truth?" _He_ sipped hisglass, shuffled his cards, and was content with the humbler inquiry, "What are trumps?" But to us, looking back upon that little group, andknowing what we now do about each member of it, no such mistake ispossible. To us it is plain beyond all question that, judged by whateverstandard of excellence it is possible for any reasonable human being totake, Lamb stands head and shoulders a better man than any of them. Noneed to stop to compare him with Godwin, or Hazlitt, or Lloyd; let usboldly put him in the scales with one whose fame is in all thechurches--with Samuel Taylor Coleridge, "logician, metaphysician, bard. " There are some men whom to abuse is pleasant. Coleridge is not one ofthem. How gladly we would love the author of 'Christabel' if we could!But the thing is flatly impossible. His was an unlovely character. Thesentence passed upon him by Mr. Matthew Arnold (parenthetically, in oneof the 'Essays in Criticism')--"Coleridge had no morals"--is no lessjust than pitiless. As we gather information about him from numerousquarters, we find it impossible to resist the conclusion that he was aman neglectful of restraint, irresponsive to the claims of those who hadevery claim upon him, willing to receive, slow to give. In early manhood Coleridge planned a Pantisocracy where all the virtueswere to thrive. Lamb did something far more difficult: he playedcribbage every night with his imbecile father, whose constant stream ofquerulous talk and fault-finding might well have goaded a far strongerman into practicing and justifying neglect. That Lamb, with all his admiration for Coleridge, was well aware ofdangerous tendencies in his character, is made apparent by many letters, notably by one written in 1796, in which he says:-- "O my friend, cultivate the filial feelings! and let no man thinkhimself released from the kind charities of relationship: these shallgive him peace at the last; these are the best foundation for everyspecies of benevolence. I rejoice to hear that you are reconciled withall your relations. " This surely is as valuable an "aid to reflection" as any supplied by theHighgate seer. Lamb gave but little thought to the wonderful difference between the"reason" and the "understanding. " He preferred old plays--an odd diet, some may think, on which to feed the virtues; but however that may be, the noble fact remains, that he, poor, frail boy! (for he was no more, when trouble first assailed him) stooped down, and without sigh or signtook upon his own shoulders the whole burden of a lifelong sorrow. Coleridge married. Lamb, at the bidding of duty, remained single, wedding himself to the sad fortunes of his father and sister. Shall wepity him? No; he had his reward--the surpassing reward that is onlywithin the power of literature to bestow. It was Lamb, and notColeridge, who wrote 'Dream-Children: a Reverie':-- "Then I told how for seven long years, in hope sometimes, sometimes indespair, yet persisting ever, I courted the fair Alice W---- n; and asmuch as children could understand, I explained to them what coyness anddifficulty and denial meant in maidens--when, suddenly turning to Alice, the soul of the first Alice looked out at her eyes with such a realityof representment that I became in doubt which of them stood before me, or whose that bright hair was; and while I stood gazing, both thechildren gradually grew fainter to my view, receding and still receding, till nothing at last but two mournful features were seen in theuttermost distance, which, without speech, strangely impressed upon methe effects of speech. 'We are not of Alice nor of thee, nor are wechildren at all. The children of Alice call Bartrum father. We arenothing, less than nothing, and dreams. We are only _what mighthave been_. '" Godwin! Hazlitt! Coleridge! Where now are their "novel philosophies andsystems"? Bottled moonshine, which does _not_ improve by keeping. "Only the actions of the just Smell sweet and blossom in the dust. " Were we disposed to admit that Lamb would in all probability have beenas good a man as every one agrees he was--as kind to his father, as fullof self-sacrifice for the sake of his sister, as loving and ready afriend--even though he had paid more heed to current speculations, it isyet not without use in a time like this, when so much stress is laidupon anxious inquiry into the mysteries of soul and body, to point outhow this man attained to a moral excellence denied to his speculativecontemporaries; performed duties from which they, good men as they were, would one and all have shrunk: how, in short, he contrived to achievewhat no one of his friends, not even the immaculate Wordsworth or theprecise Southey, achieved--the living of a life the records of which areinspiriting to read, and are indeed "the presence of a good diffused";and managed to do it all without either "wrangling with or accepting"the opinions that "hurtled in the air" about him. BENVENUTO CELLINI From 'Obiter Dicta' What a liar was Benvenuto Cellini!--who can believe a word he says? Tohang a dog on his oath would be a judicial murder. Yet when we lay downhis Memoirs and let our thoughts travel back to those far-off days hetells us of, there we see him standing, in bold relief, against theblack sky of the past, the very man he was. Not more surely did he, withthat rare skill of his, stamp the image of Clement VII. On the papalcurrency, than he did the impress of his own singular personality uponevery word he spoke and every sentence he wrote. We ought, of course, to hate him, but do we? A murderer he has writtenhimself down. A liar he stands self-convicted of being. Were any one inthe nether world bold enough to call him thief, it may be doubtedwhether Rhadamanthus would award him the damages for which we may becertain he would loudly clamor. Why do we not hate him? Listen to him:-- "Upon my uttering these words, there was a general outcry, the noblemenaffirming that I promised too much. But one of them, who was a greatphilosopher, said in my favor, 'From the admirable symmetry of shape andhappy physiognomy of this young man, I venture to engage that he willperform all he promises, and more. ' The Pope replied, 'I am of the sameopinion;' then calling Trajano, his gentleman of the bedchamber, heordered him to fetch me five hundred ducats. " And so it always ended: suspicions, aroused most reasonably, allayedmost unreasonably, and then--ducats. He deserved hanging, but he died inhis bed. He wrote his own memoirs after a fashion that ought to havebrought posthumous justice upon him, and made them a literary gibbet, on which he should swing, a creaking horror, for all time; but nothingof the sort has happened. The rascal is so symmetrical, and hisphysiognomy, as it gleams upon us through the centuries, so happy, thatwe cannot withhold our ducats, though we may accompany the gift with ashower of abuse. This only proves the profundity of an observation made by Mr. Bagehot--aman who carried away into the next world more originality of thoughtthan is now to be found in the Three Estates of the Realm. Whilstremarking upon the extraordinary reputation of the late Francis Hornerand the trifling cost he was put to in supporting it, Mr. Bagehot saidthat it proved the advantage of "keeping an atmosphere. " The common air of heaven sharpens men's judgments. Poor Horner, but forthat kept atmosphere of his always surrounding him, would have beenbluntly asked "what he had done since he was breeched, " and in reply hecould only have muttered something about the currency. As for ourspecial rogue Cellini, the question would probably have assumed thisshape: "Rascal, name the crime you have not committed, and account forthe omission. " But these awkward questions are not put to the lucky people who keeptheir own atmospheres. The critics, before they can get at them, have tostep out of the every-day air, where only achievements count and theDecalogue still goes for something, into the kept atmosphere, which theyhave no sooner breathed than they begin to see things differently, andto measure the object thus surrounded with a tape of its ownmanufacture. Horner--poor, ugly, a man neither of words nordeeds--becomes one of our great men; a nation mourns his loss and erectshis statue in the Abbey. Mr. Bagehot gives several instances of the samekind, but he does not mention Cellini, who is however in his own way anadmirable example. You open his book--a Pharisee of the Pharisees. Lying, indeed! Why, youhate prevarication. As for murder, your friends know you too well tomention the subject in your hearing, except in immediate connection withcapital punishment. You are of course willing to make some allowance forCellini's time and place--the first half of the sixteenth century andItaly! "Yes, " you remark, "Cellini shall have strict justice at myhands. " So you say as you settle yourself in your chair and begin toread. We seem to hear the rascal laughing in his grave. His spiritbreathes upon you from his book--peeps at you roguishly as you turn thepages. His atmosphere surrounds you; you smile when you ought to frown, chuckle when you should groan, and--oh, final triumph!--laugh aloudwhen, if you had a rag of principle left, you would fling the book intothe fire. Your poor moral sense turns away with a sigh, and patientlyawaits the conclusion of the second volume. How cautiously does he begin, how gently does he win your ear by hisseductive piety! I quote from Mr. Roscoe's translation:-- "It is a duty incumbent on upright and credible men of all ranks, whohave performed anything noble or praiseworthy, to record, in their ownwriting, the events of their lives; yet they should not commence thishonorable task before they have passed their fortieth year. Such atleast is my opinion now that I have completed my fifty-eighth year, andam settled in Florence, where, considering the numerous ills thatconstantly attend human life, I perceive that I have never before beenso free from vexations and calamities, or possessed of so great a shareof content and health as at this period. Looking back on some delightfuland happy events of my life, and on many misfortunes so trulyoverwhelming that the appalling retrospect makes me wonder how I havereached this age in vigor and prosperity, through God's goodness I haveresolved to publish an account of my life; and . .. I must, in commencingmy narrative, satisfy the public on some few points to which itscuriosity is usually directed; the first of which is to ascertainwhether a man is descended from a virtuous and ancient family. .. . Ishall therefore now proceed to inform the reader how it pleased God thatI should come into the world. " So you read on page i; what you read on page 191 is this:-- "Just after sunset, about eight o'clock, as this musqueteer stood at hisdoor with his sword in his hand, when he had done supper, I with greataddress came close up to him with a long dagger, and gave him a violentback-handed stroke, which I aimed at his neck. He instantly turnedround, and the blow, falling directly upon his left shoulder, broke thewhole bone of it; upon which he dropped his sword, quite overcome by thepain, and took to his heels. I pursued, and in four steps came up withhim, when, raising the dagger over his head, which he lowered down, Ihit him exactly upon the nape of the neck. The weapon penetrated sodeep that, though I made a great effort to recover it again, I found itimpossible. " So much for murder. Now for manslaughter, or rather Cellini's notion ofmanslaughter. "Pompeo entered an apothecary's shop at the corner of the Chiavica, about some business, and stayed there for some time. I was told he hadboasted of having bullied me, but it turned out a fatal adventure tohim. Just as I arrived at that quarter he was coming out of the shop, and his bravoes, having made an opening, formed a circle round him. Ithereupon clapped my hand to a sharp dagger, and having forced my waythrough the file of ruffians, laid hold of him by the throat, so quicklyand with such presence of mind that there was not one of his friendscould defend him. I pulled him towards me to give him a blow in front, but he turned his face about through excess of terror, so that I woundedhim exactly under the ear; and upon repeating my blow, he fell downdead. It had never been my intention to kill him, but blows are notalways under command. " We must all feel that it would never have done to have begun with thesepassages; but long before the 191st page has been reached, Cellini hasretreated into his own atmosphere, and the scales of justice have beenhopelessly tampered with. That such a man as this encountered suffering in the course of his lifeshould be matter for satisfaction to every well-regulated mind; butsomehow or other, you find yourself pitying the fellow as he narratesthe hardships he endured in the Castle of St. Angelo. He is sosymmetrical a rascal! Just hear him! listen to what he says well on inthe second volume, after the little incidents already quoted:-- "Having at length recovered my strength and vigor, after I had composedmyself and resumed my cheerfulness of mind, I continued to read myBible, and so accustomed my eyes to that darkness, that though I was atfirst able to read only an hour and a half, I could at length read threehours. I then reflected on the wonderful power of the Almighty upon thehearts of simple men, who had carried their enthusiasm so far as tobelieve firmly that God would indulge them in all they wished for; and Ipromised myself the assistance of the Most High, as well through Hismercy as on account of my innocence. Thus turning constantly to theSupreme Being, sometimes in prayer, sometimes in silent meditation onthe divine goodness, I was totally engrossed by these heavenlyreflections, and came to take such delight in pious meditations that Ino longer thought of past misfortunes. On the contrary, I was all daylong singing psalms and many other compositions of mine, in which Icelebrated and praised the Deity. " Thus torn from their context, these passages may seem to supply the bestpossible falsification of the previous statement that Cellini told thetruth about himself. Judged by these passages alone, he may appear ahypocrite of an unusually odious description. But it is only necessaryto read his book to dispel that notion. He tells lies about otherpeople; he repeats long conversations, sounding his own praises, duringwhich, as his own narrative shows, he was not present; he exaggerateshis own exploits, his sufferings--even, it may be, his crimes: but whenwe lay down his book, we feel we are saying good-by to a man whomwe know. He has introduced himself to us, and though doubtless we prefer saintsto sinners, we may be forgiven for liking the company of a live roguebetter than that of the lay-figures and empty clock-cases labeled withdistinguished names, who are to be found doing duty for men in the worksof our standard historians. What would we not give to know Julius Cæsarone-half as well as we know this outrageous rascal? The saints of theearth, too, how shadowy they are! Which of them do we really know?Excepting one or two ancient and modern Quietists, there is hardly oneamongst the whole number who being dead yet speaketh. Their memoirs fartoo often only reveal to us a hazy something, certainly not recognizableas a man. This is generally the fault of their editors, who, though menthemselves, confine their editorial duties to going up and down thediaries and papers of the departed saint, and obliterating all humantouches. This they do for the "better prevention of scandals"; and onecannot deny that they attain their end, though they pay dearly for it. I shall never forget the start I gave when, on reading some old bookabout India, I came across an after-dinner jest of Henry Martyn's. Thethought of Henry Martyn laughing over the walnuts and the wine wasalmost, as Robert Browning's unknown painter says, "too wildly dear;"and to this day I cannot help thinking that there must be a mistakesomewhere. To return to Cellini, and to conclude. On laying down his Memoirs, letus be careful to recall our banished moral sense, and make peace withher, by passing a final judgment on this desperate sinner; which perhapsafter all, we cannot do better than by employing language of his ownconcerning a monk, a fellow-prisoner of his, who never, so far asappears, murdered anybody, but of whom Cellini none the less felthimself entitled to say:-- "I admired his shining qualities, but his odious vices I freely censuredand held in abhorrence. " ON THE ALLEGED OBSCURITY OF MR. BROWNING'S POETRY From 'Obiter Dicta' In considering whether a poet is intelligible and lucid, we ought not togrope and grub about his work in search of obscurities and oddities, butshould, in the first instance at all events, attempt to regard his wholescope and range; to form some estimate, if we can, of his generalpurport and effect, asking ourselves for this purpose such questions asthese:--How are we the better for him? Has he quickened any passion, lightened any burden, purified any taste? Does he play any real part inour lives? When we are in love, do we whisper him in our lady's ear?When we sorrow, does he ease our pain? Can he calm the strife of mentalconflict? Has he had anything to say which wasn't twaddle on thosesubjects which, elude analysis as they may, and defy demonstration asthey do, are yet alone of perennial interest-- "On man, on nature, and on human life, " on the pathos of our situation, looking back on to the irrevocable andforward to the unknown? If a poet has said, or done, or been any ofthese things to an appreciable extent, to charge him with obscurity isboth folly and ingratitude. But the subject may be pursued further, and one may be called upon toinvestigate this charge with reference to particular books or poems. InBrowning's case this fairly may be done; and then another crop ofquestions arises, such as: What is the book about, i. E. , with whatsubject does it deal, and what method of dealing does it employ? Is itdidactical, analytical, or purely narrative? Is it content to describe, or does it aspire to explain? In common fairness these questions must beasked and answered, before we heave our critical half-bricks at strangepoets. One task is of necessity more difficult than another. Students ofgeometry who have pushed their researches into that fascinating scienceso far as the fifth proposition of the first book, commonly called the'Pons Asinorum' (though now that so many ladies read Euclid, it ought, in common justice to them, to be at least sometimes called the 'PonsAsinarum'), will agree that though it may be more difficult to provethat the angles at the base of an isosceles triangle are equal, and thatif the equal sides be produced, the angles on the other side of the baseshall be equal, than it was to describe an equilateral triangle on agiven finite straight line; yet no one but an ass would say that thefifth proposition was one whit less intelligible than the first. When weconsider Mr. Browning in his later writings, it will be useful to bearthis distinction in mind. Looking then at the first period, we find in its front eight plays:-- 1. 'Strafford, ' written in 1836, when its author was twenty-four yearsold, and put upon the boards of Covent Garden Theatre on the 1st of May, 1837; Macready playing Strafford, and Miss Helen Faucit Lady Carlisle. It was received with much enthusiasm, but the company was rebellious andthe manager bankrupt; and after running five nights, the man who playedPym threw up his part, and the theatre was closed. 2. 'Pippa Passes. ' 3. 'King Victor and King Charles. ' 4. 'The Return of the Druses. ' 5. 'A Blot in the 'Scutcheon. ' This beautiful and pathetic play was put on the stage of Drury Lane onthe 11th of February, 1843, with Phelps as Lord Tresham, Miss HelenFaucit as Mildred Tresham, and Mrs. Stirling, still known to us all, asGuendolen. It was a brilliant success. Mr. Browning was in thestage-box; and if it is any satisfaction for a poet to hear a crowdedhouse cry "Author, author!" that satisfaction has belonged to Mr. Browning. The play ran several nights; and was only stopped because oneof Mr. Macready's bankruptcies happened just then to intervene. It wasafterwards revived by Mr. Phelps, during his "memorable management" ofSadlers' Wells. 6. 'Colombe's Birthday. ' Miss Helen Faucit put this upon the stage in1852, when it was reckoned a success. 7. 'Luria. ' 8. 'A Soul's Tragedy. ' To call any of these plays unintelligible is ridiculous; and nobody whohas ever read them ever did, and why people who have not read themshould abuse them is hard to see. Were society put upon its oath, weshould be surprised to find how many people in high places have not read'All's Well that Ends Well, ' or 'Timon of Athens'; but they don't goabout saying these plays are unintelligible. Like wise folk, theypretend to have read them, and say nothing. In Browning's case they arespared the hypocrisy. No one need pretend to have read 'A Soul'sTragedy'; and it seems, therefore, inexcusable for any one to assertthat one of the plainest, most pointed and piquant bits of writing inthe language is unintelligible. But surely something more may betruthfully said of these plays than that they are comprehensible. Firstof all, they are _plays_, and not _works_--like the dropsical dramas ofSir Henry Taylor and Mr. Swinburne. Some of them have stood the ordealof actual representation; and though it would be absurd to pretend thatthey met with that overwhelming measure of success our critical age hasreserved for such dramatists as the late Lord Lytton, the author of'Money, ' the late Tom Taylor, the author of 'The Overland Route, ' thelate Mr. Robertson, the author of 'Caste, ' Mr. H. Byron, the author of'Our Boys, ' Mr. Wills, the author of 'Charles I. , ' Mr. Burnand, theauthor of 'The Colonel, ' and Mr. Gilbert, the author of so much that isgreat and glorious in our national drama; at all events they provedthemselves able to arrest and retain the attention of very ordinaryaudiences. But who can deny dignity and even grandeur to 'Luria, ' orwithhold the meed of a melodious tear from 'Mildred Tresham'? Whataction of what play is more happily conceived or better rendered thanthat of 'Pippa Passes'?--where innocence and its reverse, tender loveand violent passion, are presented with emphasis, and yet blended into adramatic unity and a poetic perfection, entitling the author to the veryfirst place amongst those dramatists of the century who have laboredunder the enormous disadvantage of being poets to start with. Passing from the plays, we are next attracted by a number of splendidpoems, on whose base the structure of Mr. Browning's fame perhaps restsmost surely, --his dramatic pieces; poems which give utterance to thethoughts and feelings of persons other than himself, or as he puts itwhen dedicating a number of them to his wife:-- "Love, you saw me gather men and women, Live or dead, or fashioned by my fancy, Enter each and all, and use their service, Speak from every mouth the speech--a poem;" or again in 'Sordello':-- "By making speak, myself kept out of view, The very man as he was wont to do. " At a rough calculation, there must be at least sixty of these pieces. Let me run over the names of a very few of them. 'Saul, ' a poem belovedby all true women; 'Caliban, ' which the men, not unnaturally perhaps, often prefer. The 'Two Bishops': the sixteenth-century one ordering histomb of jasper and basalt in St. Praxed's Church, and hisnineteenth-century successor rolling out his post-prandial _Apologia_. 'My Last Duchess, ' the 'Soliloquy in a Spanish Cloister, ' 'Andrea delSarto, ' 'Fra Lippo Lippi, ' 'Rabbi Ben Ezra, ' 'Cleon, ' 'A Death in theDesert, ' 'The Italian in England, ' and 'The Englishman in Italy. ' It is plain truth to say that no other English poet, living or dead, Shakespeare excepted, has so heaped up human interest for his readers ashas Robert Browning. .. . Against these dramatic pieces the charge of unintelligibility fails ascompletely as it does against the plays. They are all perfectlyintelligible; but--and here is the rub--they are not easy reading, likethe estimable writings of the late Mrs. Hemans. They require the samehonest attention as it is the fashion to give to a lecture of ProfessorHuxley's or a sermon of Canon Liddon's; and this is just what too manypersons will not give to poetry. They "Love to hear A soft pulsation in their easy ear; To turn the page, and let their senses drink A lay that shall not trouble them to think. " * * * * * Next to these dramatic pieces come what we may be content to callsimply poems: some lyrical, some narrative. The latter arestraightforward enough, and as a rule full of spirit and humor; but thisis more than can always be said of the lyrical pieces. Now, for thefirst time in dealing with this first period, excluding 'Sordello, ' westrike difficulty. The Chinese puzzle comes in. We wonder whether it allturns on the punctuation. And the awkward thing for Mr. Browning'sreputation is this, that these bewildering poems are for the most partvery short. We say awkward, for it is not more certain that Sarah Gampliked her beer drawn mild than it is that your Englishman likes hispoetry cut short; and so, accordingly, it often happens that someestimable paterfamilias takes up an odd volume of Browning his volatileson or moonstruck daughter has left lying about, pishes and pshaws! andthen, with an air of much condescension and amazing candor, remarks thathe will give the fellow another chance, and not condemn him unread. Sosaying, he opens the book, and carefully selects the very shortest poemhe can find; and in a moment, without sign or signal, note or warning, the unhappy man is floundering up to his neck in lines like these, whichare the third and final stanza of a poem called 'Another Way of Love':-- "And after, for pastime, If June be refulgent With flowers in completeness, All petals, no prickles, Delicious as trickles Of wine poured at mass-time, And choose One indulgent To redness and sweetness; Or if with experience of man and of spider, She use my June lightning, the strong insect-ridder To stop the fresh spinning, --why June will consider. " He comes up gasping, and more than ever persuaded that Browning's poetryis a mass of inconglomerate nonsense, which nobody understands--least ofall members of the Browning Society. We need be at no pains to find a meaning for everything Mr. Browning haswritten. But when all is said and done--when these few freaks of acrowded brain are thrown overboard to the sharks of verbal criticismwho feed on such things--Mr. Browning and his great poetical achievementremain behind to be dealt with and accounted for. We do not get rid ofthe Laureate by quoting:-- "O darling room, my heart's delight, Dear room, the apple of my sight, With thy two couches soft and white There is no room so exquisite-- No little room so warm and bright Wherein to read, wherein to write;" or of Wordsworth by quoting:-- "At this, my boy hung down his head: He blushed with shame, nor made reply, And five times to the child I said, "'Why, Edward? tell me why?'" or of Keats by remembering that he once addressed a young lady asfollows:-- "O come, Georgiana! the rose is full blown, The riches of Flora are lavishly strown: The air is all softness and crystal the streams, The west is resplendently clothèd in beams. " The strength of a rope may be but the strength of its weakest part; butpoets are to be judged in their happiest hours, and in theirgreatest works. The second period of Mr. Browning's poetry demands a different line ofargument; for it is, in my judgment, folly to deny that he has of lateyears written a great deal which makes very difficult reading indeed. Nodoubt you may meet people who tell you that they read 'The Ring and theBook' for the first time without much mental effort; but you will dowell not to believe them. These poems are difficult--they cannot helpbeing so. What is 'The Ring and the Book'? A huge novel in twentythousand lines--told after the method not of Scott but of Balzac; ittears the hearts out of a dozen characters; it tells the same story fromten different points of view. It is loaded with detail of every kind anddescription: you are let off nothing. As with a schoolboy's life at alarge school, if he is to enjoy it at all, he must fling himself intoit, and care intensely about everything--so the reader of 'The Ring andthe Book' must be interested in everybody and everything, down to thefact that the eldest daughter of the counsel for the prosecution ofGuido is eight years old on the very day he is writing his speech, andthat he is going to have fried liver and parsley for his supper. If you are prepared for this, you will have your reward; for the_style_, though rugged and involved, is throughout, with the exceptionof the speeches of counsel, eloquent and at times superb; and as for the_matter_, if your interest in human nature is keen, curious, almostprofessional--if nothing man, woman, or child has been, done, orsuffered, or conceivably can be, do, or suffer, is without interest foryou; if you are fond of analysis, and do not shrink from dissection--youwill prize 'The Ring and the Book' as the surgeon prizes the last greatcontribution to comparative anatomy or pathology. But this sort of work tells upon style. Browning has, I think, faredbetter than some writers. To me, at all events, the step from 'A Blot inthe 'Scutcheon' to 'The Ring and the Book' is not so marked as is the_mauvais pas_ that lies between 'Amos Barton' and 'Daniel Deronda. ' Butdifficulty is not obscurity. One task is more difficult than another. The angles at the base of the isosceles triangles are apt to get mixed, and to confuse us all--man and woman alike. 'Prince Hohenstiel'something or another is a very difficult poem, not only to pronounce butto read; but if a poet chooses as his subject Napoleon III. --in whom thecad, the coward, the idealist, and the sensualist were inextricablymixed--and purports to make him unbosom himself over a bottle ofGladstone claret in a tavern at Leicester Square, you cannot expect thatthe product should belong to the same class of poetry as Mr. CoventryPatmore's admirable 'Angel in the House. ' It is the method that is difficult. Take the husband in 'The Ring andthe Book. ' Mr. Browning remorselessly hunts him down, tracks him to thelast recesses of his mind, and there bids him stand and deliver. Hedescribes love, not only broken but breaking; hate in its germ; doubt atits birth. These are difficult things to do either in poetry or prose, and people with easy, flowing Addisonian or Tennysonian styles cannotdo them. I seem to overhear a still, small voice asking, But are they worthdoing? or at all events, is it the province of art to do them? Thequestion ought not to be asked. It is heretical, being contrary to thewhole direction of the latter half of this century. The chains bindingus to the rocks of realism are faster riveted every day; and the Perseuswho is destined to cut them is, I expect, some mischievous little boy ata Board-school. But as the question has been asked, I will own thatsometimes, even when deepest in works of this, the now orthodox school, I have been harassed by distressing doubts whether after all thisenormous labor is not in vain; and wearied by the effort, overloaded bythe detail, bewildered by the argument, and sickened by the pitilessdissection of character and motive, have been tempted to cry aloud, quoting--or rather, in the agony of the moment, misquoting--Coleridge:-- "Simplicity--thou better name Than all the family of Fame. " But this ebullition of feeling is childish and even sinful. We must takeour poets as we do our meals--as they are served up to us. Indeed, youmay, if full of courage, give a cook notice, but not the time-spirit whomakes our poets. We may be sure--to appropriate an idea of the late SirJames Stephen--that if Robert Browning had lived in the sixteenthcentury, he would not have written a poem like 'The Ring and the Book';and if Edmund Spenser had lived in the nineteenth century he would nothave written a poem like the 'Faerie Queene. ' It is therefore idle to arraign Mr. Browning's later method and stylefor possessing difficulties and intricacies which are inherent to it. The method at all events has an interest of its own, a strength of itsown, a grandeur of its own. If you do not like it you must leave italone. You are fond, you say, of romantic poetry; well, then, take downyour Spenser and qualify yourself to join "the small transfigured band"of those who are able to take their Bible-oaths they have read their'Faerie Queene' all through. The company, though small, is delightful, and you will have plenty to talk about without abusing Browning, whoprobably knows his Spenser better than you do. Realism will not for everdominate the world of letters and art--the fashion of all things passethaway--but it has already earned a great place: it has written books, composed poems, painted pictures, all stamped with that "greatness"which, despite fluctuations, nay, even reversals of taste and opinion, means immortality. But against Mr. Browning's later poems it is sometimes alleged thattheir meaning is obscure because their grammar is bad. A cynic was onceheard to observe with reference to that noble poem 'The Grammarian'sFuneral, ' that it was a pity the talented author had ever since allowedhimself to remain under the delusion that he had not only buried thegrammarian, but his grammar also. It is doubtless true that Mr. Browninghas some provoking ways, and is something too much of a verbal acrobat. Also, as his witty parodist, the pet poet of six generations ofCambridge undergraduates, reminds us:-- He loves to dock the smaller parts of speech, As we curtail the already cur-tailed cur. " It is perhaps permissible to weary a little of his _i_'s and _o_'s, butwe believe we cannot be corrected when we say that Browning is a poetwhose grammar will bear scholastic investigation better than that ofmost of Apollo's children. A word about 'Sordello. ' One half of 'Sordello, ' and that, with Mr. Browning's usual ill-luck, the first half, is undoubtedly obscure. It isas difficult to read as 'Endymion' or the 'Revolt of Islam, ' and for thesame reason--the author's lack of experience in the art of composition. We have all heard of the young architect who forgot to put a staircasein his house, which contained fine rooms, but no way of getting intothem. 'Sordello' is a poem without a staircase. The author, still in histwenties, essayed a high thing. For his subject-- "He singled out Sordello compassed murkily about With ravage of six long sad hundred years. '" He partially failed; and the British public, with its accustomedgenerosity, and in order, I suppose, to encourage the others, has neverceased girding at him because forty-two years ago he published at hisown charges a little book of two hundred and fifty pages, which evensuch of them as were then able to read could not understand. End of Volume IV.