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| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-14 19:57:23 -0700 |
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| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-14 19:57:23 -0700 |
| commit | 21549aac5abd3d4cfdb632bb2173ae073cf16d90 (patch) | |
| tree | 81ffa75519a18bbc4344fefbd24bdbe3dd1fded3 /32308-h | |
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margin-right: 8em;} + .salute {text-align: left; margin-left: 2em;} + + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Library of the World's Best literature, +Ancient and Modern, Vol. 12, by Various + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Library of the World's Best literature, Ancient and Modern, Vol. 12 + +Author: Various + +Editor: Charles Dudley Warner + +Release Date: May 9, 2010 [EBook #32308] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WORLD'S BEST LITERATURE *** + + + + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + + + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 640px;"> +<a name="JAVANESE_ILLUMINATED_MANUSCRIPT" id="JAVANESE_ILLUMINATED_MANUSCRIPT"></a> +<span class="caption"><i>JAVANESE ILLUMINATED MANUSCRIPT.</i></span> +<p>The origin of the Oceanic dialects, and of those of India beyond the +Ganges, more especially the civilized idioms of the Indian +Archipelago, is referred to a language which was that of an unknown +people inhabiting the island of Java. From this primitive language the +modern Javanese is supposed to be immediately derived. Javanese +literature consists of poems, dramas, songs, and historical and +religious writings. The accompanying facsimile is from a +mythological-religious tract written upon a vegetable paper of +native manufacture, and ornamented with grotesque drawings.</p> +<img src="images/frontis.jpg" width="420" height="655" alt="JAVANESE ILLUMINATED MANUSCRIPT." title="JAVANESE ILLUMINATED MANUSCRIPT." /> +</div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>LIBRARY OF THE</h2> +<h1>WORLD'S BEST LITERATURE</h1> +<h3>ANCIENT AND MODERN<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER</h3> +<h5>EDITOR</h5> + +<h4>HAMILTON WRIGHT MABIE<br /> +LUCIA GILBERT RUNKLE<br /> +GEORGE HENRY WARNER</h4> +<h5>ASSOCIATE EDITORS</h5> + +<h4>Connoisseur Edition<br /> +<span class="smcap">Vol. XII.</span></h4> + +<h4>NEW YORK<br /> +<big>THE INTERNATIONAL SOCIETY</big></h4> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3>Connoisseur Edition</h3> +<h5>LIMITED TO FIVE HUNDRED COPIES IN HALF RUSSIA<br /> +<br /> +<i>No</i>. ..........</h5> + +<h5>Copyright, 1896, by<br /> +R. S. PEALE AND J. A. HILL<br /> +<i>All rights reserved</i></h5> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>THE ADVISORY COUNCIL</h2> + + +<div class="blockquot"><p> +CRAWFORD H. TOY, A. M., LL. D.,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Professor of Hebrew, <span class="smcap">Harvard University</span>, Cambridge, Mass.</span><br /> +<br /> +THOMAS R. LOUNSBURY, LL. D., L. H. D.,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Professor of English in the Sheffield Scientific School of <span class="smcap">Yale University</span>, New Haven, Conn.</span><br /> +<br /> +WILLIAM M. SLOANE, <span class="smcap">Ph. D.</span>, L. H. D.,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Professor of History and Political Science, <span class="smcap">Princeton University</span>, Princeton, N. J.</span><br /> +<br /> +BRANDER MATTHEWS, A. M., LL. B.,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Professor of Literature, <span class="smcap">Columbia University</span>, New York City.</span><br /> +<br /> +JAMES B. ANGELL, LL. D.,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">President of the <span class="smcap">University of Michigan</span>, Ann Arbor, Mich.</span><br /> +<br /> +WILLARD FISKE, A. M., <span class="smcap">Ph. D.</span>,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Late Professor of the Germanic and Scandinavian Languages and Literatures, <span class="smcap">Cornell University</span>, Ithaca, N. Y.</span><br /> +<br /> +EDWARD S. HOLDEN, A. M., LL. D.,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Director of the Lick Observatory, and Astronomer, <span class="smcap">University of California</span>, Berkeley, Cal.</span><br /> +<br /> +ALCÉE FORTIER, LIT. D.,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Professor of the Romance Languages, <span class="smcap">Tulane University</span>, New Orleans, La.</span><br /> +<br /> +WILLIAM P. TRENT, M. A.,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Dean of the Department of Arts and Sciences, and Professor of English and History, <span class="smcap">University of the South</span>, Sewanee, Tenn.</span><br /> +<br /> +PAUL SHOREY, <span class="smcap">Ph. D.</span>,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Professor of Greek and Latin Literature, <span class="smcap">University of Chicago</span>, Chicago, Ill.</span><br /> +<br /> +WILLIAM T. HARRIS, LL. D.,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">United States Commissioner of Education, <span class="smcap">Bureau of Education</span>, Washington, D. C.</span><br /> +<br /> +MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN, A. M., LL. D.,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Professor of Literature in the <span class="smcap">Catholic University of America</span>, Washington, D. C.</span><br /> +</p></div> + + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_v" id="Page_v">[Pg v]</a></span></p> +<h2>TABLE OF CONTENTS</h2> + +<h3>VOL. XII</h3> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="0" summary="Table of Contents"> +<tr> + <td> </td> + <td><small>LIVED</small></td> + <td align="right"><small>PAGE</small></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td><big><a href="#DENIS_DIDEROT"><span class="smcap">Denis Diderot</span></a></big></td> + <td>1713-1784</td> + <td align="right"><a href="#Page_4689">4689</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#RAMEAU">From 'Rameau's Nephew'</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr><td colspan="3"> </td></tr> +<tr> + <td><big><a href="#FRANZ_VON_DINGELSTEDT"><span class="smcap">Franz von Dingelstedt</span></a></big></td> + <td>1814-1881</td> + <td align="right"><a href="#Page_4704">4704</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#BUSSMAN">A Man of Business ('The Amazon')</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#WATCHMAN">The Watchman (same)</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr><td colspan="3"> </td></tr> +<tr> + <td><big><a href="#DIOGENES_LAERTIUS"><span class="smcap">Diogenes Laertius</span></a></big></td> + <td>200-250 A. D.?</td> + <td align="right"><a href="#Page_4711">4711</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#SOCRATES">Life of Socrates ('Lives and Sayings of the Philosophers')</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#GREEK">Examples of Greek Wit and Wisdom</a>: + <a href="#Bias">Bias</a>; <a href="#Plato">Plato</a>; + <a href="#Aristippus">Aristippus</a>; <a href="#Aristotle">Aristotle</a>; + <a href="#Theophrastus">Theophrastus</a>; <a href="#Demetrius">Demetrius</a>; + <a href="#Antisthenes">Antisthenes</a>; <a href="#Diogenes">Diogenes</a>; + <a href="#Cleanthes">Cleanthes</a>; <a href="#Pythagoras">Pythagoras</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr><td colspan="3"> </td></tr> +<tr> + <td><big><a href="#ISAAC_DISRAELI"><span class="smcap">Isaac D'Israeli</span></a></big></td> + <td>1766-1848</td> + <td align="right"><a href="#Page_4725">4725</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#POETS_PHILOSOPHERS_AND_ARTISTS_MADE_BY_ACCIDENT">Poets, Philosophers, and Artists Made by Accident ('Curiosities of Literature')</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#MARTYRDOM">Martyrdom of Charles the First ('Commentaries on the Reign of Charles the First')</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr><td colspan="3"> </td></tr> +<tr> + <td><big><a href="#SYDNEY_DOBELL"><span class="smcap">Sydney Dobell</span></a></big></td> + <td>1824-1874</td> + <td align="right"><a href="#Page_4733">4733</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#EPIGRAM">Epigram on the Death of Edward Forbes</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#MYBOY">How's My Boy?</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#SAILOR">The Sailor's Return</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#AFLOAT">Afloat and Ashore</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#SOUL">The Soul ('Balder')</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#ENGLAND">England (same)</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#AMERICA">America</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#AMY">Amy's Song of the Willow ('Balder')</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr><td colspan="3"> </td></tr> +<tr> + <td><big><a href="#AUSTIN_DOBSON"><span class="smcap">Austin Dobson</span></a></big></td> + <td>1840-</td> + <td align="right"><a href="#Page_4741">4741</a><span class='pagenum'>[Pg vi]</span></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2" align="center">BY ESTHER SINGLETON</td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#NANKIN">On a Nankin Plate</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#SEDAN">The Old Sedan-Chair</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#BALLAD">Ballad of Prose and Rhyme</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#THE_CURES_PROGRESS">The Curé's Progress</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#GOOD-NIGHT_BABETTE">"Good-Night, Babbette"</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#THE_LADIES_OF_ST_JAMESS">The Ladies of St. James's</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#DORA_VERSUS_ROSE">Dora <i>versus</i> Rose</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#UNE_MARQUISE">Une Marquise</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#A_BALLAD_TO_QUEEN_ELIZABETH">A Ballad to Queen Elizabeth</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#THE_PRINCESS_DE_LAMBALLE">The Princess De Lamballe ('Four Frenchwomen')</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr><td colspan="3"> </td></tr> +<tr> + <td><big><a href="#MARY_MAPES_DODGE"><span class="smcap">Mary Mapes Dodge</span></a></big></td> + <td>1840?-</td> + <td align="right"><a href="#Page_4751">4751</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#THE_RACE">The Race ('Hans Brinker')</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr><td colspan="3"> </td></tr> +<tr> + <td><big><a href="#JOHN_DONNE"><span class="smcap">John Donne</span></a></big></td> + <td>1573-1631</td> + <td align="right"><a href="#Page_4771">4771</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#UNDERTAKING">The Undertaking</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#VALEDICTION">A Valediction Forbidding Mourning</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#SONG1">Song</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#LOVEGROWTH">Love's Growth</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#SONG2">Song</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr><td colspan="3"> </td></tr> +<tr> + <td><big><a href="#FEODOR_MIKHAILOVITCH_DOSTOEVSKY"><span class="smcap">Feodor Mikhailovitch Dostoévsky</span></a></big></td> + <td>1821-1881</td> + <td align="right"><a href="#Page_4779">4779</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2" align="center">BY ISABEL F. HAPGOOD</td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#FROM_POOR_PEOPLE">From 'Poor People'</a>: + <a href="#LetterI">Letter from Varvara Debrosyeloff to Makar Dyevushkin</a>; + <a href="#LetterII">Letter from Makar Dyevushkin to Varvara Alexievna Dobrosyeloff</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#BIBLE">The Bible Reading ('Crime and Punishment')</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr><td colspan="3"> </td></tr> +<tr> + <td><big><a href="#EDWARD_DOWDEN"><span class="smcap">Edward Dowden</span></a></big></td> + <td>1843-</td> + <td align="right"><a href="#Page_4806">4806</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#HUMOR">The Humor of Shakespeare ('Shakespeare; a Critical Study of His Mind and Art')</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#SHAKESPEARE">Shakespeare's Portraiture of Women ('Transcripts and Studies')</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#INTERPRETATION">The Interpretation of Literature (same)</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr><td colspan="3"> </td></tr> +<tr> + <td><big><a href="#A_CONAN_DOYLE"><span class="smcap">A. Conan Doyle</span></a></big></td> + <td>1859-</td> + <td align="right"><a href="#Page_4815">4815</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#HOLMES">The Red-Headed League ('The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes')</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#BOWMEN">Bowmen's Song ('The White Company')</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr><td colspan="3"> </td></tr> +<tr> + <td><big><a href="#HOLGER_DRACHMANN"><span class="smcap">Holger Drachmann</span></a></big></td> + <td>1846-</td> + <td align="right"><a href="#Page_4840">4840</a><span class='pagenum'>[Pg vii]</span></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#SKIPPER">The Skipper and His Ship ('Paul and Virginia of a Northern Zone')</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#PRINCE">The Prince's Song ('Once Upon a Time')</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr><td colspan="3"> </td></tr> +<tr> + <td><big><a href="#JOSEPH_RODMAN_DRAKE"><span class="smcap">Joseph Rodman Drake</span></a></big></td> + <td>1795-1820</td> + <td align="right"><a href="#Page_4851">4851</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#WINTER">A Winter's Tale ('The Croakers')</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#CULPRIT">The Culprit Fay</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#FLAG">The American Flag</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr><td colspan="3"> </td></tr> +<tr> + <td><big><a href="#JOHN_WILLIAM_DRAPER"><span class="smcap">John William Draper</span></a></big></td> + <td>1811-1882</td> + <td align="right"><a href="#Page_4865">4865</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#VEDAS">The Vedas and Their Theology ('The Intellectual Development of Europe')</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#BELIEFS">Primitive Beliefs Dismissed by Scientific Knowledge (same)</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#KORAN">The Koran (same)</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr><td colspan="3"> </td></tr> +<tr> + <td><big><a href="#MICHAEL_DRAYTON"><span class="smcap">Michael Drayton</span></a></big></td> + <td>1563-1631</td> + <td align="right"><a href="#Page_4877">4877</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#SONNET">Sonnet</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#AGINCOURT">The Ballad of Agincourt</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#MAB">Queen Mab's Excursion ('Nymphidia, the Court of Faery')</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr><td colspan="3"> </td></tr> +<tr> + <td><big><a href="#GUSTAVE_DROZ"><span class="smcap">Gustave Droz</span></a></big></td> + <td>1832-1895</td> + <td align="right"><a href="#Page_4885">4885</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#BABY">How the Baby Was Saved ('The Seamstress's Story')</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#FAMILY">A Family New-Year's ('Monsieur, Madame, and Bébé')</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#EXCURSION">Their Last Excursion ('Making an Omelette')</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr><td colspan="3"> </td></tr> +<tr> + <td><big><a href="#HENRY_DRUMMOND"><span class="smcap">Henry Drummond</span></a></big></td> + <td>1851-</td> + <td align="right"><a href="#Page_4897">4897</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#AFRICA">The Country and Its People ('Tropical Africa')</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#LAKE">The East-African Lake Country (same)</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#ANTS">White Ants (same)</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr><td colspan="3"> </td></tr> +<tr> + <td><big><a href="#WILLIAM_DRUMMOND_OF_HAWTHORNDEN"><span class="smcap">William Drummond of Hawthornden</span></a></big></td> + <td>1585-1649</td> + <td align="right"><a href="#Page_4913">4913</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#SEXTAIN">Sextain</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#MADRIGAL">Madrigal</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#REASON">Reason and Feeling</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#DEGENERACY">Degeneracy of the World</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#BRIEFNESS">Briefness of Life</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#UNIVERSE">The Universe</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#DEATH">On Death ('Cypress Grove')</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr><td colspan="3"> </td></tr> +<tr> + <td><big><a href="#JOHN_DRYDEN"><span class="smcap">John Dryden</span></a></big></td> + <td>1631-1700</td> + <td align="right"><a href="#Page_4919">4919</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2" align="center">BY THOMAS R. LOUNSBURY</td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#HIND">From 'The Hind and the Panther'</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#FRIEND">To My Dear Friend Mr. Congreve</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#ODE">Ode to the Pious Memory of Mrs. Anne Killigrew</a></span></td><td><span class='pagenum'>[Pg viii]</span></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#ASONG">A Song</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#LINES">Lines Printed under Milton's Portrait</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#ALEXANDER">Alexander's Feast; or, The Power of Music</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#ACHITOPHELA">Achitophel ('Absalom and Achitophel')</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr><td colspan="3"> </td></tr> +<tr> + <td><big><a href="#MAXIME_DU_CAMP"><span class="smcap">Maxime Du Camp</span></a></big></td> + <td>1822-</td> + <td align="right"><a href="#Page_4951">4951</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#STREET">Street Scene during the Commune ('The Convulsions of Paris')</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr><td colspan="3"> </td></tr> +<tr> + <td><big><a href="#ALEXANDRE_DUMAS_SENIOR"><span class="smcap">Alexandre Dumas, Senior</span></a></big></td> + <td>1802-1870</td> + <td align="right"><a href="#Page_4957">4957</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2" align="center">BY ANDREW LANG</td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#CURE">The Cure for Dormice that Eat Peaches ('The Count of Monte Cristo')</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#SHOULDER">The Shoulder of Athos, the Belt of Porthos, and the Handkerchief of Aramis ('The Three Musketeers')</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#DEFENSE">Defense of the Bastion St.-Gervais (same)</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#CONSULTATION">Consultation of the Musketeers (same)</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#IRONMASK">The Man in the Iron Mask ('The Viscount of Bragelonne')</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#TRICK">A Trick is Played on Henry III. by Aid of Chicot ('The Lady of Monsoreau')</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr><td colspan="3"> </td></tr> +<tr> + <td><big><a href="#ALEXANDRE_DUMAS_JUNIOR"><span class="smcap">Alexandre Dumas, Junior</span></a></big></td> + <td>1824-1895</td> + <td align="right"><a href="#Page_5001">5001</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2" align="center">BY FRANCISQUE SARCEY</td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#PLAYWRIGHT">The Playwright Is Born—and Made (Preface to 'The Prodigal Father')</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#TRUCE">An Armed Truce ('A Friend to the Sex')</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#MONEY">Two Views of Money ('The Money Question')</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#MARRIAGE">M. De Remonin's Philosophy of Marriage ('L'Étrangére')</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#FATHER">Reforming a Father ('The Prodigal Father')</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#CLARKSON">Mr. and Mrs. Clarkson ('L'Étrangére')</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr><td colspan="3"> </td></tr> +<tr> + <td><big><a href="#GEORGE_DU_MAURIER"><span class="smcap">George Du Maurier</span></a></big></td> + <td>1834-1896</td> + <td align="right"><a href="#Page_5041">5041</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#BOHEMIA">At the Heart of Bohemia ('Trilby')</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#CHRISTMAS">Christmas in the Latin Quarter (same)</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#DREAMING">"Dreaming True" ('Peter Ibbetson')</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#BARTY">Barty Josselin at School ('The Martian')</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr><td colspan="3"> </td></tr> +<tr> + <td><big><a href="#WILLIAM_DUNBAR"><span class="smcap">William Dunbar</span></a></big></td> + <td>1465?-1530?</td> + <td align="right"><a href="#Page_5064">5064</a><span class='pagenum'>[Pg ix]</span></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#THISTLE">The Thistle and the Rose</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#TARGE">From 'The Golden Targe'</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#GLADNESS">No Treasure Avails Without Gladness</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr><td colspan="3"> </td></tr> +<tr> + <td><big><a href="#JEAN_VICTOR_DURUY"><span class="smcap">Jean Victor Duruy</span></a></big></td> + <td>1811-1894</td> + <td align="right"><a href="#Page_5069">5069</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#POLICY">The National Policy ('History of Rome')</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td colspan="2"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#DOMINION">Results of the Roman Dominion (same)</a></span></td><td> </td> +</tr> +</table> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_x" id="Page_x">[Pg x]</a></span></p> +<h2>FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS</h2> + +<h3>VOLUME XII</h3> + + +<table border="0" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="0" summary="ILLUSTRATIONS" width="60%"> +<tr> + <td> </td> + <td align="right"><small>PAGE</small></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td><a href="#JAVANESE_ILLUMINATED_MANUSCRIPT">Javanese Manuscript (Colored Plate)</a></td> + <td align="right">Frontispiece</td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td><a href="#Illustration_CODEX_ALEXANDRINUS">The Alexandrine Manuscript (Fac-simile)</a></td> + <td align="right"><a href="#Page_xii">xii</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td><a href="#QUARTO">Old Black-Letter Quarto (Fac-simile)</a></td> + <td align="right"><a href="#Page_4726">4726</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td><a href="#CHARLES">"Charles I. Going to Execution" (Photogravure)</a></td> + <td align="right"><a href="#Page_4730">4730</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td><a href="#SKATER">"The Skater of the Zuyder Zee" (Photogravure)</a></td> + <td align="right"><a href="#Page_4758">4758</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td><a href="#MANUSCRIPT">African Arabic Manuscript (Fac-simile)</a></td> + <td align="right"><a href="#Page_4870">4870</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td><a href="#DRYDEN">John Dryden (Portrait)</a></td> + <td align="right"><a href="#Page_4920">4920</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td><a href="#SENIOR">Alexandre Dumas (Portrait)</a></td> + <td align="right"><a href="#Page_4958">4958</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td><a href="#JUNIOR">Alexandre Dumas, Fils (Portrait)</a></td> + <td align="right"><a href="#Page_5002">5002</a></td> +</tr> +</table> + + +<h3>VIGNETTE PORTRAITS</h3> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="0" summary="PORTRAITS" width="60%"> +<tr> + <td><a href="#DENIS_DIDEROT">Denis Diderot</a></td> + <td><a href="#JOSEPH_RODMAN_DRAKE">Joseph Rodman Drake</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td><a href="#FRANZ_VON_DINGELSTEDT">Franz von Dingelstedt</a></td> + <td><a href="#JOHN_WILLIAM_DRAPER">John William Draper</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td><a href="#ISAAC_DISRAELI">Isaac D'Israeli</a></td> + <td><a href="#MICHAEL_DRAYTON">Michael Drayton</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td><a href="#AUSTIN_DOBSON">Austin Dobson</a></td> + <td><a href="#GUSTAVE_DROZ">Gustav Droz</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td><a href="#MARY_MAPES_DODGE">Mary Mapes Dodge</a></td> + <td><a href="#HENRY_DRUMMOND">Henry Drummond</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td><a href="#JOHN_DONNE">John Donne</a></td> + <td><a href="#WILLIAM_DRUMMOND_OF_HAWTHORNDEN">William Drummond</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td><a href="#FEODOR_MIKHAILOVITCH_DOSTOEVSKY">Feodor Dostoévsky</a></td> + <td><a href="#MAXIME_DU_CAMP">Maxime Du Camp</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td><a href="#A_CONAN_DOYLE">A. Conan Doyle</a></td> + <td><a href="#GEORGE_DU_MAURIER">George du Maurier</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td><a href="#HOLGER_DRACHMANN">Holger Drachmann</a></td> + <td><a href="#JEAN_VICTOR_DURUY">Jean Victor Duruy</a></td> +</tr> +</table> + + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_xi" id="Page_xi">[Pg xi]</a></span></p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_xii" id="Page_xii">[Pg xii]</a></span></p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 640px;"> +<a name="Illustration_CODEX_ALEXANDRINUS" id="Illustration_CODEX_ALEXANDRINUS"></a> +<span class="caption"><i>CODEX ALEXANDRINUS.</i><br /><br /> +Fifth Century. + British Museum.</span> +<p>The Alexandrine Manuscript of the Christian Scriptures is almost +complete in both Testaments, the Septuagint version of the Old and the +original Greek of the New. It consists of 773 sheets, 12¾ by 10¾ +inches, of very thin gray goatskin vellum, written on both sides in +two columns of faint but clear characters. It was made in the early +part of the fifth century, under the supervision of Thecla, a noble +Christian lady of Alexandria, in the fifth century. It was brought +from Alexandria to Constantinople by Cyril Lucar, Patriarch of +Constantinople, who in 1624 gave it into the charge of the English +Ambassador for presentation to King James I.; but owing to James' +death before the presentation could be made, it was presented instead +to Charles I. It remained in the possession of the English sovereigns +until the Royal Library was presented to the nation by George II. in +1753. With the exception of the greater part of Matthew to Chapter +xxv., two leaves of John, and three of Second Corinthians, it contains +the whole Greek Bible, including the two Epistles of Clement of Rome, +which in early times ranked among the inspired books. Its table of +contents shows that it once included also the "Psalms of Solomon," +though, from their position and title in the index, it is evident that +they were regarded as standing apart from the other books. The Museum +has bound the leaves of this precious manuscript in four volumes, and +has had photographic copies made of each page for the use of students. +The accompanying reproduction is from the last chapter of the First +Epistle of John, from "His Son," in verse 9, to the end.</p> +<img src="images/Illus0420.jpg" width="420" height="815" alt="CODEX ALEXANDRINUS." title="CODEX ALEXANDRINUS." /> +</div> + + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4688" id="Page_4688">[Pg 4688]</a></span></p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4689" id="Page_4689">[Pg 4689]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="DENIS_DIDEROT" id="DENIS_DIDEROT"></a>DENIS DIDEROT</h2> + +<h4>(1713-1784)</h4> + + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 90px;"> +<img src="images/capa19.png" width="90" height="90" alt="A" title="A" /> +</div><p class="dropcap">mong the French Encyclopædists of the eighteenth century Denis +Diderot holds the place of leader. There were intellects of broader +scope and of much surer balance in that famous group, but none of such +versatility, brilliancy, and outbursting force. To his associates he +was a marvel and an inspiration.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 170px;"> +<img src="images/Illus19.png" width="170" height="220" alt="Denis Diderot" title="Denis Diderot" /> +<span class="caption"><span class="smcap">Denis Diderot</span></span> +</div> + +<p>He was born in October 1713, in Langres, Haute-Marne, France; and died +in Paris July 31st, 1784. After a classical education in Jesuit +schools, he utterly disgusted his father by turning to the Bohemian +life of a littérateur in Paris. Although very poor, he married at the +age of thirty. The whole story of his married life—the common +Parisian story in those days—reflects no credit on him; though his +<i>liaison</i> with Mademoiselle Voland presents the aspects of a +friendship abiding through life. Poverty spurred him to exertion. Four +days of work in 1746 are said to have produced 'Pensées +Philosophiques' (Philosophic Thoughts). This book, with a little essay +following it, 'Interprétation de la Nature,' was his first open attack +on revealed religion. Its argument, though only negative, and keeping +within the bounds of theism, foretokened a class of utterances which +were frequent in Diderot's later years, and whose assurance of his +materialistic atheism would be complete had they not been too +exclamatory for settled conviction. He contents himself with +glorifying the passions, to the annulling of all ethical standards. On +this point at least his convictions were stable, for long afterward he +writes thus to Mademoiselle Voland:—"The man of mediocre passion +lives and dies like the brute.... If we were bound to choose between +Racine, a bad husband, a bad father, a false friend, and a sublime +poet, and Racine, good father, good husband, good friend, and dull +worthy man, I hold to the first. Of Racine the bad man, what remains? +Nothing. Of Racine the man of genius? The work is eternal."</p> + +<p>About 1747 he produced an allegory, 'Promenade du Sceptique.' +This French 'Pilgrim's Progress' scoffs at the Church of Rome for +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4690" id="Page_4690">[Pg 4690]</a></span> +denying pleasure, then decries the pleasures of the world, and ends by +asserting the hopeless uncertainty of the philosophy which both scoffs +at the Church and decries worldly pleasure. At this period he was +evidently inclined to an irregular attack on the only forms of +Christianity familiar to him, asceticism and pietism.</p> + +<p>In 1749 Diderot first showed himself a thinker of original power, +in his Letter on the Blind. This work, 'Lettre sur les Avengles +à l'Usage de Ceux qui Voient' (Letter on the Blind for the Use of +Those who See) opened the eyes of the public to Diderot's peculiar +genius, and the eyes of the authorities to the menace in his principles. +The result was his imprisonment, and from that the spread of +his views. His offense was, that through his ingenious supposition of +the mind deprived of its use of one or more of the bodily senses, +he had shown the relativity of all man's conceptions, and had thence +deduced the relativity, the lack of absoluteness, of all man's ethical +standards—thus invalidating the foundations of civil and social order. +The broad assertion that Diderot and his philosophic group caused +the French Revolution has only this basis, that these men were +among the omens of its advance, feeling its stir afar but not recognizing +the coming earthquake. Yet it may be conceded that Diderot +anticipated things great and strange; for his mind, although neither +precise nor capable of sustained and systematic thought, was amazingly +original in conception and powerful in grasp. The mist, blank +to his brethren, seems to have wreathed itself into wonderful shapes +to his eye; he was the seer whose wild enthusiasm caught the oracles +from an inner shrine. A predictive power appears in his Letter on +the Blind, where he imagines the blind taught to read by touch; and +nineteenth-century hypotheses gleam dimly in his random guess at +variability in organisms, and at survival of those best adapted to +their environment.</p> + +<p>Diderot's monumental work, 'L'Encyclopédie,' dates from the middle +of the century. It was his own vast enlargement of Ephraim +Chambers's Cyclopædia of 1727, of which a bookseller had demanded +a revision in French. D'Alembert was secured as his colleague, and +in 1751 the first volume appeared. The list of contributors includes +most of the great contemporary names in French literature. From +these, Diderot and D'Alembert gathered the inner group known as +the French Encyclopædists, to whose writings has been ascribed a +general tendency to destroy religion and to reconstitute society. +The authorities interfered repeatedly, with threats and prohibitions +of the publication; but the science of government included the science +of connivance for an adequate consideration, and the great +work went forward. Its danger lurked in its principles; for Diderot +dealt but little in the cheap flattery which the modern demagogue +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4691" id="Page_4691">[Pg 4691]</a></span> +addresses to the populace. D'Alembert, wearied by ten years of persecution, +retired in 1759, leaving the indefatigable Diderot to struggle +alone through seven years, composing and revising hundreds of +articles, correcting proofs, supervising the unrivaled illustrations of +the mechanic arts, while quieting the opposition of the authorities.</p> + +<p>The Encyclopædia under Diderot followed no one philosophic path. +Indeed, there are no signs that he ever gave any consideration to +either the intellectual or the ethical force of consistency. His +writing indicates his utter carelessness both as to the direction and +as to the pace of his thought. He had an abiding conviction that +Christianity was partly delusion and largely priestcraft, and was +maintained chiefly for upholding iniquitous privilege. His antagonism +was developed primarily from his emotions and sympathies rather than +from his intellect; hence it sometimes swerved, drawing perilously +near to formal orthodoxy. Moreover, this vivacious philosopher +sometimes rambled into practical advice, and easily effervesced into +fervid moralizings of the sentimental and almost tearful sort. +His immense natural capacity for sentiment appears in his own +account of his meeting with Grimm after a few months' absence. His +sentimentalism, however, had its remarkable counterpoise in a most +practical tendency of mind. In the Encyclopædia the interests of +agriculture and of all branches of manufacture were treated with great +fullness; and the reform of feudal abuses lingering in the laws of +France was vigorously urged in a style more practical than cyclopædic.</p> + +<p>Diderot gave much attention to the drama, and his 'Paradoxe sur +le Comédien' (Paradox on the Actor) is a valuable discussion. He is +the father of the modern domestic drama. His influence upon the +dramatic literature of Germany was direct and immediate; it appeared +in the plays of Lessing and Schiller, and much of Lessing's criticism +was inspired by Diderot. His 'Père de Famille' (Family-Father) and +'Le Fils Naturel' (The Natural Son) marked the beginning of a new +era in the history of the stage, in the midst of which we are now +living. Breaking with the old traditions, Diderot abandoned the lofty +themes of classic tragedy and portrayed the life of the <i>bourgeoisie</i>. +The influence of England, frequently manifest in the work of the +Encyclopædists, is evident also here. Richardson was then the chief +force in fiction, and the sentimental element so characteristic in him +reappears in the dramas of Diderot.</p> + +<p>Goethe was strongly attracted by the genius of Diderot, and +thought it worth his while not only to translate but to supply with +a long and luminous commentary the latter's 'Essay on Painting.' +It was by a singular trick of fortune, too, that one of Diderot's +most powerful works should first have appeared in German garb, and +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4692" id="Page_4692">[Pg 4692]</a></span> +not in the original French until after the author's death. A manuscript +copy of the book chanced to fall into the hands of Goethe, +who so greatly admired it that he at once translated, annotated, +and published it. This was the famous dialogue 'Le Neveu de +Rameau' (Rameau's Nephew), a work which only Diderot's peculiar +genius could have produced. Depicting the typical parasite, shameless, +quick-witted for every species of villainy, at home in every possible +meanness, the dialogue is a probably unequaled compound of +satire, high æsthetics, gleaming humor, sentimental moralizing, fine +musical criticism, and scientific character analysis, with passages of +brutal indecency.</p> + +<p>Among literary critics of painting, Diderot has his place in the +highest rank. His nine 'Salons'—criticisms which in his good-nature +he wrote for the use of his friend Grimm, on the annual exhibitions +in the Paris Salon from 1759 onward—have never been surpassed +among non-technical criticisms for brilliancy, freshness, and philosophic +suggestiveness. They reveal the man's elemental strength; +which was not in his knowledge, for he was without technical training +in art and had seen scarcely any of the world's masterpieces, +but in his sensuously sympathetic nature, which gave him quickness +of insight and delicacy in interpretation.</p> + +<p>He had the faculty of making and keeping friends, being unaffected, +genial, amiable, enthusiastically generous and helpful to his +friends, and without vindictiveness to his foes. He needed these +qualities to counteract his almost utter lack of conscientiousness, his +gush of sentiment, his unregulated morals, his undisciplined genius, +his unbalanced thought. His style of writing, often vivid and strong, +is as often awkward and dull, and is frequently lacking in finish. +As a philosophic author and thinker his voluminous work is of little +enduring worth, for though plentiful in original power it totally lacks +organic unity; his thought rambles carelessly, his method is confused. +It has been said of him that he was a master who produced +no masterpiece. But as a talker, a converser, all witnesses testify +that he was wondrously inspiring and suggestive, speaking sometimes +as from mysterious heights of vision or out of unsearchable deeps of +thought.</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4693" id="Page_4693">[Pg 4693]</a></span></p> +<h3><a name="RAMEAU" id="RAMEAU"></a>FROM 'RAMEAU'S NEPHEW'</h3> + +<p>Be the weather fair or foul, it is my custom in any case at +five o'clock in the afternoon to stroll in the Palais Royal. +I am always to be seen alone and meditative, on the bench +D'Argenson. I hold converse with myself on politics or love, on +taste or philosophy, and yield up my soul entirely to its own +frivolity. It may follow the first idea that presents itself, be the +idea wise or foolish. In the Allée de Foi one sees our young +rakes following upon the heels of some courtesan who passes on +with shameless mien, laughing face, animated glance, and a pug +nose; but they soon leave her to follow another, teasing them +all, joining none of them. My thoughts are my courtesans.</p> + +<p>When it is really too cold or rainy, I take refuge in the Café +de la Régence and amuse myself by watching the chess-players. +Paris is the place of the world and the Café de la Régence the +place of Paris where the best chess is played. There one witnesses +the most carefully calculated moves; there one hears the +most vulgar conversation; for since it is possible to be at once +a man of intellect and a great chess-player, like Légal, so also +one may be at once a great chess-player and a very silly person, +like Foubert or Mayot.</p> + +<p>One afternoon I was there, observing much, speaking rarely, and +hearing as little as possible, when one of the most singular +personages came up to me that ever was produced by this land of ours, +where surely God has never caused a dearth of singular characters. +He is a combination of high-mindedness and baseness, of sound +understanding and folly; in his head the conceptions of honor and +dishonor must be strangely tangled, for the good qualities with which +nature has endowed him he displays without boastfulness, and the bad +qualities without shame. For the rest, he is firmly built, has an +extraordinary power of imagination, and possesses an uncommonly strong +pair of lungs. Should you ever meet him and succeed in escaping from +the charm of his originality, it must be by stopping both ears with +your fingers or by precipitate flight. Heavens, what terrible lungs!</p> + +<p>And nothing is less like him than he himself. Sometimes he +is thin and wasted, like a man in the last stages of consumption; +you could count his teeth through his cheeks; you would +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4694" id="Page_4694">[Pg 4694]</a></span> +think he had not tasted food for several days, or had come from +La Trappe.</p> + +<p>A month later he is fattened and filled out as if he had never +left the banquets of the rich or had been fed among the Bernardines. +To-day, with soiled linen, torn trousers, clad in rags, +and almost barefoot, he passes with bowed head, avoids those +whom he meets, till one is tempted to call him and bestow upon +him an alms. To-morrow, powdered, well groomed, well dressed, +and well shod, he carries his head high, lets himself be seen, and +you would take him almost for a respectable man.</p> + +<p>So he lives from day to day, sad or merry, according to the +circumstances. His first care, when he rises in the morning, is +to take thought where he is to dine. After dinner he bethinks +himself of some opportunity to procure supper, and with the night +come new cares. Sometimes he goes on foot to his little attic, +which is his home if the landlady, impatient at long arrears of +rent, has not taken the key away from him. Sometimes he goes +to one of the taverns in the suburbs, and there, between a bit of +bread and a mug of beer, awaits the day. If he lacks the six +sous necessary to procure him quarters for the night, which is +occasionally the case, he applies to some cabman among his +friends or to the coachman of some great lord, and a place on the +straw beside the horses is vouchsafed him. In the morning he +carries a part of his mattress in his hair. If the season is mild, +he spends the whole night strolling back and forth on the Cours +or in the Champs Élysées. With the day he appears again in +the city, dressed yesterday for to-day and to-day often for the +rest of the week.</p> + +<p>For such originals I cannot feel much esteem, but there are +others who make close acquaintances and even friends of them. +Once in the year perhaps they are able to put their spell upon +me, when I meet them, because their character is in such strong +contrast to that of every-day humanity, and they break the oppressive +monotony which our education, our social conventions, our +traditional proprieties have produced. When such a man enters +a company, he acts like a cake of yeast that raises the whole, and +restores to each a part of his natural individuality. He shakes +them up, brings things into motion, elicits praise or censure, +drives truth into the open, makes upright men recognizable, unmasks +the rogues, and there the wise man sits and listens and is +enabled to distinguish one class from another.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4695" id="Page_4695">[Pg 4695]</a></span> +This particular specimen I had long known; he frequented a +house into which his talents had secured him the entrée. These +people had an only daughter. He swore to the parents that he +would marry their daughter. They only shrugged their shoulders, +laughed in his face, and assured him that he was a fool. +But I saw the day come when the thing was accomplished. He +asked me for some money, which I gave him. He had, I know +not how, squirmed his way into a few houses, where a <i>couvert</i> +stood always ready for him, but it had been stipulated that he +should never speak without the consent of his hosts. So there he +sat and ate, filled the while with malice; it was fun to see him +under this restraint. The moment he ventured to break the +treaty and open his mouth, at the very first word the guests all +shouted "O Rameau!" Then his eyes flashed wrathfully, and he +fell upon his food again with renewed energy.</p> + +<p>You were curious to know the man's name; there it is. He +is the nephew of the famous composer who has saved us from +the church music of Lulli which we have been chanting for a +hundred years, ... and who, having buried the Florentine, +will himself be buried by Italian virtuosi; he dimly feels this, and +so has become morose and irritable, for no one can be in a worse +humor—not even a beautiful woman who in the morning finds +a pimple on her nose—than an author who sees himself threatened +with the fate of outliving his reputation, as Marivaux and +Crébillon <i>fils</i> prove.</p> + +<p>Rameau's nephew came up to me. "Ah, my philosopher, do +I meet you once again? What are you doing here among the +good-for-nothings? Are you wasting your time pushing bits of +wood about?"</p> + +<p><i>I</i>—No; but when I have nothing better to do, I take a +passing pleasure in watching those who push them about with +skill.</p> + +<p><i>He</i>—A rare pleasure, surely. Excepting Légal and Philidor, +there is no one here that understands it....</p> + +<p><i>I</i>—You are hard to please. I see that only the best finds +favor with you.</p> + +<p><i>He</i>—Yes, in chess, checkers, poetry, oratory, music, and such +other trumpery. Of what possible use is mediocrity in these +things?</p> + +<p><i>I</i>—I am almost ready to agree with you....</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4696" id="Page_4696">[Pg 4696]</a></span> +<i>He</i>—You have always shown some interest in me, because +I'm a poor devil whom you really despise, but who after all +amuses you.</p> + +<p><i>I</i>—That is true.</p> + +<p><i>He</i>—Then let me tell you. (Before beginning, he drew a +deep sigh, covered his forehead with both hands, then with calm +countenance continued:—) You know I am ignorant, foolish, +silly, shameless, rascally, gluttonous.</p> + +<p><i>I</i>—What a panegyric!</p> + +<p><i>He</i>—It is entirely true. Not a word to be abated; no contradiction, +I pray you. No one knows me better than I know myself, and I don't +tell all.</p> + +<p><i>I</i>—Rather than anger you, I will assent.</p> + +<p><i>He</i>—Now, just think, I lived with people who valued me precisely +because all these qualities were mine in a high degree.</p> + +<p><i>I</i>—That is most remarkable. I have hitherto believed that +people concealed these qualities even from themselves, or excused +them, but always despised them in others.</p> + +<p><i>He</i>—Conceal them? Is that possible? You may be sure that +when Palissot is alone and contemplates himself, he tells quite a +different story. You may be sure that he and his companion +make open confession to each other that they are a pair of arrant +rogues. Despise these qualities in others? My people were much +more reasonable, and I fared excellently well among them. +I was cock of the walk. When absent, I was instantly missed. I +was pampered. I was their little Rameau, their good Rameau, +the shameless, ignorant, lazy Rameau, the fool, the clown, the +gourmand. Each of these epithets was to me a smile, a caress, a +slap on the back, a box on the ears, a kick, a dainty morsel +thrown upon my plate at dinner, a liberty permitted me after +dinner as if it were of no account; for I am of no account. +People make of me and do before me and with me whatever +they please, and I never give it a thought....</p> + +<p><i>I</i>—You have been giving lessons, I understand, in accompaniment +and composition?</p> + +<p><i>He</i>—Yes.</p> + +<p><i>I</i>—And you knew absolutely nothing about it?</p> + +<p><i>He</i>—No, by Heaven; and for that very reason I was a much +better teacher than those who imagine they know something +about it. At all events, I didn't spoil the taste nor ruin the hands +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4697" id="Page_4697">[Pg 4697]</a></span> +of my young pupils. If when they left me they went to a competent +master, they had nothing to unlearn, for they had learned +nothing, and that was just so much time and money saved.</p> + +<p><i>I</i>—But how did you do it?</p> + +<p><i>He</i>—The way they all do it. I came, threw myself into a chair:—"How +bad the weather is! How tired the pavement makes one!" Then some +scraps of town gossip:... "At the last Amateur Concert there was an +Italian woman who sang like an angel.... Poor Dumênil doesn't know +what to say or do," etc., etc. ... "Come, mademoiselle, where is your +music-book?" And as mademoiselle displays no great haste, searches +every nook and corner for the book, which she has mislaid, and finally +calls the maid to help her, I continue:—"Little Clairon is an enigma. +There is talk of a perfectly absurd marriage of—what is her +name?"—"Nonsense, Rameau, it isn't possible."—"They say the affair +is all settled." ... "There is a rumor that Voltaire is dead,"—"All +the better."—"Why all the better?"—"Then he is sure to treat us to +some droll skit. That's a way he has, a fortnight before his death." +What more should I say? I told a few scandals about the families in +the houses where I am received, for we are all great scandal-mongers. +In short, I played the fool; they listened and laughed, and exclaimed, +"He is really too droll, isn't he?" Meanwhile the music-book had been +found under a chair, where a little dog or a little cat had worried +it, chewed it, and torn it. Then the pretty child sat down at the +piano and began to make a frightful noise upon it. I went up to her, +secretly making a sign of approbation to her mother. "Well, now, that +isn't so bad," said the mother; "one needs only to make up one's mind +to a thing; but the trouble is, one will not make up one's mind; one +would rather kill time by chattering, trifling, running about, and God +knows what. Scarcely do you turn your back but the book is closed, and +not until you are at her side again is it opened. Besides, I have +never heard you reprimand her." In the mean time, since something had +to be done, I took her hands and placed them differently. I pretended +to lose my patience; I shouted,—"Sol, sol, sol, mademoiselle, it's a +<i>sol</i>." The mother: "Mademoiselle, have you no ears? I'm not at the +piano, I'm not looking at your notes, but my own feeling tells me that +it ought to be a <i>sol</i>. You give the gentleman infinite trouble. +You remember nothing, and make no progress." To break the +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4698" id="Page_4698">[Pg 4698]</a></span> +force of this reproof a little, I tossed my head and said: "Pardon me, madame, +pardon me. It would be better if mademoiselle would only practice a +little, but after all it is not so bad."—"In your place I would keep +her a whole year at one piece."—"Rest assured, I shall not let her +off until she has mastered every difficulty; and that will not take so +long, perhaps, as mademoiselle thinks."—"Monsieur Rameau, you flatter +her; you are too good." And that is the only thing they would remember +of the whole lesson, and would upon occasion repeat to me. So the +lesson came to an end. My pupil handed me the fee, with a graceful +gesture and a courtesy which her dancing-master had taught her. I put +the money into my pocket, and the mother said, "That's very nice, +mademoiselle. If Favillier were here, he would praise you." For +appearance's sake I chattered for a minute or two more; then I +vanished; and that is what they called in those days a lesson in +accompaniment.</p> + +<p><i>I</i>—And is the case different now?</p> + +<p><i>He</i>—Heavens! I should think so. I come in, I am serious, +throw my muff aside, open the piano, try the keys, show signs +of great impatience, and if I am kept a moment waiting I shout +as if my purse had been stolen. In an hour I must be there or +there; in two hours with the Duchess So-and-so; at noon I must +go to the fair Marquise; and then there is to be a concert at +Baron de Bagge's, Rue Neuve des Petits Champs.</p> + +<p><i>I</i>—And meanwhile no one expects you at all.</p> + +<p><i>He</i>—Certainly not.... And precisely because I can further my fortune +through vices which come natural to me, which I acquired without labor +and practice without effort, which are in harmony with the customs of +my countrymen, which are quite to the taste of my patrons, and better +adapted to their special needs than inconvenient virtues would be, +which from morning to night would be standing accusations against +them, it would be strange indeed if I should torture myself like one +of the damned to twist and turn and make of myself something which I +am not, and hide myself beneath a character foreign to me, and assume +the most estimable qualities, whose worth I will not dispute, but +which I could acquire and live up to only by great exertions, and +which after all would lead to nothing,—perhaps to worse +than nothing. Moreover, ought a beggar like me, who lives upon +the wealthy, constantly to hold up to his patrons a mirror +of good conduct? People praise virtue but hate it; they +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4699" id="Page_4699">[Pg 4699]</a></span> +fly from it, let it freeze; and in this world a man has to keep his +feet warm. Besides, I should always be in the sourest humor: for why +is it that the pious and the devotional are so hard, so repellent, so +unsociable? It is because they have imposed upon themselves a task +contrary to their nature. They suffer, and when a man suffers he makes +others suffer. Now, that is no affair of mine or of my patrons'. I +must be in good spirits, easy, affable, full of sallies, drollery, and +folly. Virtue demands reverence, and reverence is inconvenient; virtue +challenges admiration, and admiration is not entertaining. I have to +do with people whose time hangs heavy on their hands; they want to +laugh. Now consider the folly: the ludicrous makes people laugh, and I +therefore must be a fool; I must be amusing, and if nature had not +made me so, then by hook or by crook I should have made myself seem +so. Fortunately I have no need to play the hypocrite. There are +hypocrites enough of all colors without me, and not counting those who +deceive themselves.... Should it ever occur to friend Rameau to play +Cato, to despise fortune, women, good living, idleness, what would he +be? A hypocrite. Let Rameau remain what he is, a happy robber among +wealthy robbers, and a man without either real or boasted virtue. In +short, your idea of happiness, the happiness of a few enthusiastic +dreamers like you, has no charm for me....</p> + +<p><i>I</i>—He earns his bread dearly, who in order to live must +assail virtue and knowledge.</p> + +<p><i>He</i>—I have already told you that we are of no consequence. +We slander all men and grieve none.</p> + +<p style='text-align:center;'>[The dialogue reverts to music.]</p> + +<p><i>I</i>—Every imitation has its original in nature. What is the +musician's model when he breaks into song?</p> + +<p><i>He</i>—Why do you not grasp the subject higher up? What is +song?</p> + +<p><i>I</i>—That, I confess, is a question beyond my powers. That's +the way with us all. The memory is stored with words only, +which we think we understand because we often use them and +even apply them correctly, but in the mind we have only indefinite +conceptions. When I use the word "song," I have no more +definite idea of it than you and the majority of your kind have +when you say reputation, disgrace, honor, vice, virtue, shame, +propriety, mortification, ridicule.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4700" id="Page_4700">[Pg 4700]</a></span> +<i>He</i>—Song is an imitation in tones, produced either by the voice or +by instruments, of a scale invented by art, or if you will, +established by nature; an imitation of physical sounds or passionate +utterances; and you see, with proper alterations this definition could +be made to fit painting, oratory, sculpture, and poetry. Now to come +to your question, What is the model of the musician or of song? It is +the declamation, when the model is alive or sensate; it is the tone, +when the model is insensate. The declamation must be regarded as a +line, and the music as another line which twines about it. The +stronger and the more genuine is this declamation, this model of song, +the more numerous the points at which the accompanying music +intersects it, the more beautiful will it be. And this our younger +composers have clearly perceived. When one hears "Je suis un pauvre +diable," one feels that it is a miser's complaint. If he didn't sing, +he would address the earth in the very same tones when he intrusts to +its keeping his gold: "O terre, reçois mon trésor." ... In such works +with the greatest variety of characters, there is a convincing truth +of declamation that is unsurpassed. I tell you, go, go, and hear the +aria where the young man who feels that he is dying, cries out, "Mon +cœur s'en va." Listen to the air, listen to the accompaniment, and +then tell me what difference there is between the true tones of a +dying man and the handling of this music. You will see that the line +of the melody exactly coincides with the line of declamation. I say +nothing of the time, which is one of the conditions of song; I confine +myself to the expression, and there is nothing truer than the +statement which I have somewhere read, "Musices seminarium +accentus,"—the accent is the seed-plot of the melody. And for that +reason, consider how difficult and important a matter it is to be able +to write a good recitative. There is no beautiful aria out of which a +beautiful recitative could not be made; no beautiful recitative out of +which a clever man could not produce a beautiful aria. I will not +assert that one who recites well will also be able to sing well, but I +should be much surprised if a good singer could not recite well. And +you may believe all that I tell you now, for it is true.</p> + +<p>(And then he walked up and down and began to hum a few arias +from the "Île des Fons," etc., exclaiming from time to time, +with upturned eyes and hands upraised:—) "Isn't that beautiful, +great heavens! isn't that beautiful? Is it possible to have a pair +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4701" id="Page_4701">[Pg 4701]</a></span> +of ears on one's head and question its beauty?" Then as his enthusiasm +rose he sang quite softly, then more loudly as he became more +impassioned, then with gestures, grimaces, contortions of body. +"Well," said I, "he is losing his mind, and I may expect a new scene." +And in fact, all at once he burst out singing.... He passed from one +aria to another, fully thirty of them,—Italian, French, tragic, +comic, of every sort. Now with a deep bass he descended into hell; +then, contracting his throat, he split the upper air with a falsetto, +and in gait, mien, and action he imitated the different singers, by +turns raving, commanding, mollified, scoffing. There was a little girl +that wept, and he hit off all her pretty little ways. Then he was a +priest, a king, a tyrant; he threatened, commanded, stormed; then he +was a slave and submissive. He despaired, he grew tender, he lamented, +he laughed, always in the tone, the time, the sense of the words, of +the character, of the situation.</p> + +<p>All the chess-players had left their boards and were gathered +around him; the windows of the café were crowded with passers-by, +attracted by the noise. There was laughter enough to bring +down the ceiling. He noticed nothing, but went on in such a +rapt state of mind, in an enthusiasm so close to madness, that I +was uncertain whether he would recover, or if he would be +thrown into a cab and taken straight to the mad-house; the while +he sang the Lamentations of Jomelli.</p> + +<p>With precision, fidelity, and incredible warmth, he rendered one of +the finest passages, the superb obligato recitative in which the +prophet paints the destruction of Jerusalem; he wept himself, and the +eyes of the listeners were moist. More could not be desired in +delicacy of vocalization, nor in the expression of overwhelming grief. +He dwelt especially on those parts in which the great composer has +shown his greatness most clearly. When he was not singing, he took the +part of the instruments; these he quickly dropped again, to return to +the vocal part, weaving one into the other so perfectly that the +connection, the unity of the whole, was preserved. He took possession +of our souls and held them in the strangest suspense I have ever +experienced. Did I admire him? Yes, I admired him. Was I moved and +melted? I was moved and melted, and yet something of the ludicrous +mingled itself with these feelings and modified their nature.</p> + +<p>But you would have burst out laughing at the way he imitated +the different instruments. With a rough muffled tone and +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4702" id="Page_4702">[Pg 4702]</a></span> +puffed-out cheeks he represented horns and bassoon; for the oboe he assumed a +rasping nasal tone; with incredible rapidity he made his voice run +over the string instruments, whose tones he endeavored to reproduce +with the greatest accuracy; the flute passages he whistled; he rumbled +out the sounds of the German flute; he shouted and sang with the +gestures of a madman, and so alone and unaided he impersonated the +entire ballet corps, the singers, the whole orchestra,—in short, a +complete performance,—dividing himself into twenty different +characters, running, stopping, with the mien of one entranced, with +glittering eyes and foaming mouth.... He was quite beside himself. +Exhausted by his exertions, like a man awakening from a deep sleep or +emerging from a long period of abstraction, he remained motionless, +stupefied, astonished. He looked about him in bewilderment, like one +trying to recognize the place in which he finds himself. He awaited +the return of his strength, of his consciousness; he dried his face +mechanically. Like one who upon awaking finds his bed surrounded by +groups of people, in complete oblivion and profound unconsciousness of +what he had been doing, he cried, "Well, gentlemen, what's the matter? +What are you laughing at? What are you wondering about? What's the +matter?"</p> + +<p><i>I</i>—My dear Rameau, let us talk again of music. Tell me +how it comes that with the facility you display for appreciating +the finest passages of the great masters, for retaining them in +your memory, and for rendering them to the delight of others +with all the enthusiasm with which the music inspires you,—how +comes it that you have produced nothing of value yourself?</p> + +<p>(Instead of answering me, he tossed his head, and raising his +finger towards heaven, cried:—)</p> + +<p>The stars, the stars! When nature made Leo, Vinci, Pergolese, Duni, +she wore a smile; her face was solemn and commanding when she created +my dear uncle Rameau, who for ten years has been called the great +Rameau, and who will soon be named no more. But when she scraped his +nephew together, she made a face and a face and a face.—(And as he +spoke he made grimaces, one of contempt, one of irony, one of scorn. +He went through the motions of kneading dough, and smiled at the +ludicrous forms he gave it. Then he threw the strange pagoda from +him.) So she made me and threw me down among other pagodas, +some with portly well-filled paunches, short necks, +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4703" id="Page_4703">[Pg 4703]</a></span> +protruding goggle eyes, and an apoplectic appearance; others with lank +and crooked necks and emaciated forms, with animated eyes and hawks' +noses. These all felt like laughing themselves to death when they saw +me, and when I saw them I set my arms akimbo and felt like laughing +myself to death, for fools and clowns take pleasure in one another; +seek one another out, attract one another. Had I not found upon my +arrival in this world the proverb ready-made, that the money of fools +is the inheritance of the clever, the world would have owed it to me. +I felt that nature had put my inheritance into the purse of the +pagodas, and I tried in a thousand ways to recover it.</p> + +<p><i>I</i>—I know these ways. You have told me of them. I have +admired them. But with so many capabilities, why do you not +try to accomplish something great?</p> + +<p><i>He</i>—That is exactly what a man of the world said to the Abbé Le +Blanc. The abbé replied:—"The Marquise de Pompadour takes me in hand +and brings me to the door of the Academy; then she withdraws her hand; +I fall and break both legs."—"You ought to pull yourself together," +rejoined the man of the world, "and break the door in with your +head."—"I have just tried that," answered the abbé, "and do you know +what I got for it? A bump on the head." ... (Then he drank a swallow +from what remained in the bottle and turned to his neighbor.) Sir, I +beg you for a pinch of snuff. That's a fine snuff-box you have there. +You are a musician? No! All the better for you. They are a lot of poor +deplorable wretches. Fate made me one of them, me! Meanwhile at +Montmartre there is a mill, and in the mill there is perhaps a miller +or a miller's lad, who will never hear anything but the roaring of the +mill, and who might have composed the most beautiful of songs. Rameau, +get you to the mill, to the mill; it's there you belong . . . But it +is half-past five. I hear the vesper bell which summons me too. +Farewell. It's true, is it not, philosopher, I am always the same +Rameau?</p> + +<p><i>I</i>—Yes, indeed. Unfortunately.</p> + +<p><i>He</i>—Let me enjoy my misfortune forty years longer. He +laughs best who laughs last.</p> + +<p class="trans">Translated for 'A Library of the World's Best Literature.'</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4704" id="Page_4704">[Pg 4704]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="FRANZ_VON_DINGELSTEDT" id="FRANZ_VON_DINGELSTEDT"></a>FRANZ VON DINGELSTEDT</h2> + +<h4>(1814-1881)</h4> + + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 90px;"> +<img src="images/capf34.png" width="90" height="90" alt="F" title="F" /> +</div><p class="dropcap">ranz von Dingelstedt was born at Halsdorf, Hessen, Germany, June +30th, 1814. He attained eminence as a poet and dramatist, but his best +powers were devoted to his principal calling as theatre director.</p> + +<p>His boyhood's education was received at Rinteln. At the University of +Marburg he applied himself to theology and philology, but more +especially to modern languages and literature. After leaving the +university he became instructor at Ricklingen, near Hanover. He was +characterized, even as a young man, by his political freedom and +independence of thought; and at Cassel, where in 1836 he was teacher +in the Lyceum, he was on this account looked upon so much askance that +it was found expedient to transfer him to the gymnasium at Fulda +(1838). He resigned this position, however, in order to devote himself +to writing. A collection of his poems appeared in 1838-45, and of +these, 'Lieder eines Kosmopolitischen Nachtwächters' (Songs of a +Cosmopolitan Night-Watchman: 1841) may be said to have produced a +genuine agitation. These were not only important as literature, but as +political promulgations, boldly embodying the radical sentiments of +freethinking Germany.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 178px;"> +<img src="images/Illus034.png" width="178" height="216" alt="Dingelstedt" title="Dingelstedt" /> +<span class="caption"><span class="smcap">Dingelstedt</span></span> +</div> + +<p>In 1841 he went to Augsburg, connected himself with the Allgemeine +Zeitung, and traveled as newspaper correspondent in France, +Holland, Belgium, and England. 'Das Wanderbuch' (The Wander-Book), +and 'Jusqu' à la Mer—Erinnerungen aus Holland' (As Far as +the Sea—Remembrances of Holland: 1847), were the fruits of these +journeys. He had in contemplation a voyage to the Orient, and preparatory +to this he settled for a short time in Vienna; but the journey +was not undertaken, for just at this time he was appointed +librarian of the Royal Library of Stuttgart, and reader to the king, +with the title of Court Councilor. Here in 1844 he married the celebrated +singer Jenny Lutzer. He returned to Vienna, where in 1850 +his drama 'Das Haus der Barneveldt' (The House of the Barneveldts) +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4705" id="Page_4705">[Pg 4705]</a></span> +was produced with such brilliant success that he was thereupon +appointed stage manager of the National Theatre at Munich. To +this for six years he devoted his best efforts, presenting in the +most admirable manner the finest of the German classics. The merit +of his work was recognized by the king, who ennobled him in 1857. +He was pre-eminently a theatrical manager, and served successively +at Weimar (1857) and at Vienna, where he was appointed director of +the Court Opera House in 1867, and of the Burg Theatre in 1870. +He brought the classic plays of other lands upon the stage, and +his revivals of Shakespeare's historical plays and the 'Winter's Tale,' +and of Molière's 'L'Avare' (The Miser), were brilliant events in the +theatrical annals of Vienna. He was made Imperial Councilor by the +Emperor, and raised in 1876 to the rank of baron. In 1875 he took +the position of general director of both court theatres of Vienna. He +died at Vienna, May 15th, 1881.</p> + +<p>The novels 'Licht und Schatten der Liebe' (The Light and +Shadow of Love: 1838); 'Heptameron,' 1841; and 'Novellenbuch,' +1855, were not wholly successful; but in contrast to these, 'Unter +der Erde' (Under the Earth: 1840); 'Sieben Friedliche Erzählungen' +(Seven Peaceful Tales: 1844), and 'Die Amazone' (The Amazon: +1868), are admirable.</p> + +<p>Regarded purely as literature, Dingelstedt's best productions are +his early poems, although his commentaries upon Shakespeare and +Goethe are wholly praiseworthy. He was successful chiefly as a +political poet, but his muse sings also the joys of domestic life. +'Hauslieder' (Household Songs: 1844), and his poems upon Chamisso +and Uhland, are among the most beautiful personal poems in German +literature.</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="BUSSMAN" id="BUSSMAN"></a>A MAN OF BUSINESS</h3> +<h4>From 'The Amazon': copyrighted by G.P. Putnam's Sons</h4> + +<p>Herr Krafft was about to reply, but was prevented by the hasty +appearance of Herr Heyboldt, the first procurist, who entered the +apartment; not an antiquated comedy figure in shoe-buckles, coarse +woolen socks, velvet pantaloons, and a long-tailed coat, his vest full +of tobacco, and a goose-quill back of his comically flexible ear; no, +but a fine-looking man, dressed in the latest style and in black, with +a medal in his button-hole, and having an earnest, expressive countenance. +He was house-holder, member of the City Council, and militia captain; +the gold medal and colored ribbon on his left breast told of his +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4706" id="Page_4706">[Pg 4706]</a></span> +having saved, at the risk of his own life, a Leander who +had been carried away by the current in the swimming-baths.</p> + +<p>His announcement, urgent as it was, was made without haste, deliberate +and cool, somewhat as the mate informs the captain that an ugly wind +has sprung up. "Herr Principal," he said, "the crowd has broken in the +barriers and one wing of the gateway; they are attacking the +counting-house." "Who breaks, pays," said Krafft, with a joke; "we +will charge the sport to their account."—"The police are not strong +enough; they have sent to the Royal Watch for military."—"That is +right, Heyboldt. No accident, no arms or legs broken?"—"Not that I +know of."—"Pity for Meyer Hirsch; he would have thundered +magnificently in the official Morning News against the excesses of the +rage for speculation. Nor any one wounded by the police?"—"Not any, +so far."—"Pity for Hirsch Meyer. The oppositional Evening Journal has +missed a capital opportunity of weeping over the barbarity of the +soldateska. At all events, the two papers must continue to write—one +for, the other against us. Keep Hirsch Meyer and Meyer Hirsch +going."—"All right, Herr Principal."—"Send each of them a polite +line, to the effect that we have taken the liberty of keeping a few +shares for him, to sell them at the most favorable moment, and pay him +over the difference."—"It shall be attended to, Herr Principal."—"So +our Southwestern Railway goes well, Heyboldt?"—"By steam, Herr +Principal." The sober man smiled at his daring joke, and Herr Krafft +smiled affably with him. "The amount that we have left to furnish will +be exhausted before one has time to turn around. The people throw +money, bank-notes, government bonds, at our cashiers, who cannot fill +up the receipts fast enough. On the Bourse they fought for the +blanks."—"For the next four weeks we will run the stock up, Heyboldt; +after that it can fall, but slowly, with decorum."—"I understand, +Herr Principal."</p> + +<p>A cashier came rushing in without knocking. "Herr Principal," he +stammered in his panic, "we have not another blank, and the people are +pouring in upon us more and more violently. Wild shouts call for you." +"To your place, sir," thundered Krafft at him. "I shall come when I +think it time. In no case," he added more quietly, "before the +military arrive. We need an interference, for the sake of the market." +The messenger disappeared; but pale, bewildered countenances were to +be seen in the doorways of the comptoir; the house called for +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4707" id="Page_4707">[Pg 4707]</a></span> +its master: the trembling daughter sent again and again for her father.</p> + +<p>"Let us bring the play to a close," said Herr Krafft, after brief +deliberation; he stepped into the middle office, flung open a window, +and raising his harsh voice to its loudest tones, cried to the throng +below, "You are looking for me, folks. Here I am. What do you want of +me?" "Shares, subscriptions," was the noisy answer.—"You claim +without any right or any manners. This is my house, a peaceable +citizen's house. You are breaking in as though it were a dungeon, an +arsenal, a tax-office,—as though we were in the midst of a +revolution. Are you not ashamed of yourselves?" A confused murmur rang +through the astonished ranks. "If you wish to do business with me," +continued the merchant, "you must first learn manners and discipline. +Have I invited your visit? Do I need your money, or do you need my +shares? Send up some deputies to convey your requests. I shall have +nothing to do with a turbulent mob." So saying, he closed the window +with such violence that the panes cracked, and the fragments fell down +on the heads of the assailants.</p> + +<p>"The Principal knows how to talk to the people," said Heyboldt with +pride to Roland, the mute witness of this strange scene. "He speaks +their own language. He replies to a broken door with a broken window."</p> + +<p>Meantime a company of soldiers had arrived on double-quick, with a +flourish of drums. The officer's word of command rang through the +crowd, now grown suddenly quiet: "Fix bayonets! form line! march!" +Yard and passages were cleared, the doors guarded; in the street the +low muttering tide, forced back, made a sort of dam. Three deputies, +abashed and confused, appeared at Krafft's door and craved audience. +The merchant received them like a prince surrounded by his court, in +the midst of his clerks, in the large counting-room. The spokesman +commenced: "We ask your pardon, Herr Krafft, for what has +happened."—"For shame, that you should drag in soldiers +as witnesses and peacemakers in a quiet little business affair +among order-loving citizens."—"It was reported that we +had been fooled with these subscriptions, and that the entire sum had +been already disposed of on the Bourse."—"And even if that were so, +am I to be blamed for it? The Southwestern Railway must raise thirty +millions. Double, treble that amount is offered it. Can I prevent +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4708" id="Page_4708">[Pg 4708]</a></span> +the necessity of reducing the subscriptions?"—"No; but they say +that we poor folks shall not get a cent's worth; the big men of the +Bourse have gobbled up the best bits right before our +noses."—"They say so? Who says so? Court Cooper Täubert, I +ask you who says so?"—"Gracious Herr Court Banker—" "Don't +Court or Gracious me. My name is Krafft, Herr Hans Heinrich Krafft. I +think we know each other, Master Täubert. It is not the first +time that we have done business together. You have a very snug little +share in my workingmen's bank. Grain-broker Wüst, you have bought +one of the houses in my street. Do I ever dun you for the installments +of purchase money?" "No indeed, Herr Krafft; you are a good man, a +public-spirited man, no money-maker, no leech, no Jew!" cried the +triumvirate of deputies in chorus.—"I am nothing more than you +are: a man of business, who works for his living, the son of a +peasant, a plain simple citizen. I began in a smaller way than any of +you; but I shall never forget that I am flesh of your flesh, blood of +your blood. Facts have proved it. I will give you a fresh proof +to-day. Go home and tell the people who have sent you, Hans Heinrich +Krafft will give up the share which his house has subscribed to the +Southwestern Railway, in favor of the less wealthy citizens of this +city. This sum of five hundred thousand thalers shall be divided up +<i>pro rata</i> among the subscriptions under five hundred dollars."</p> + +<p>"Heaven bless you, Herr Krafft!" stammered out the court cooper, and +the grain-broker essayed to shed a tear of gratitude; the confidential +clerk Herr Lange, the third of the group, caught at the hand of the +patron to kiss it, with emotion. Krafft drew it back angrily. "No +self-abasement, Herr Lange," he said. "We are men of the people; let +us behave as such. God bless you, gentlemen. You know my purpose. Make +it known to the good people waiting outside, and see that I am rid of +my billeting. Let the subscriptions be conducted quietly and in good +order. Adieu, children!" The deputation withdrew. A few minutes +afterwards there was heard a thundering hurrah:—"Hurrah for Herr +Krafft! Three cheers for Father Krafft!" He showed himself at the +window, nodded quickly and soberly, and motioned to them to disperse.</p> + +<p>While the tumult was subsiding, Krafft and Roland retired into the +private counting-room. "You have," the latter said, "spoken nobly, +acted nobly."—"I have made a bargain, nothing more, +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4709" id="Page_4709">[Pg 4709]</a></span> +nothing less; moreover, not a bad one."—"How so?"—"In three months +I shall buy at 70, perhaps still lower, what I am now to give up to them at +90."—"You know that beforehand?"—"With mathematical certainty. The +public expects an El Dorado in the Southwestern Railway, as it does in +every new enterprise. The undertaking is a good one, it is true, or I +should not have ventured upon it. But one must be able to wait until +the fruit is ripe. The small holders cannot do that; they sow today, +and tomorrow they wish to reap. At the first payment their heart and +their purse are all right. At the second or third, both are gone. Upon +the least rise they will throw the paper, for which they were ready to +break each other's necks, upon the market, and so depreciate their +property. But if some fortuitous circumstance should cause a pressure +upon the money market, then they drop all that they have, in a perfect +panic, for any price. I shall watch this moment, and buy. In a year or +so, when the road is finished and its communications complete, the +shares that were subscribed for at 90, and which I shall have bought +at 60 to 70, will touch 100, or higher."</p> + +<p>"That is to say," said Roland, thoughtfully, "you will gain at the +expense of those people whose confidence you have aroused, then +satisfied with objects of artificial value, and finally drained for +yourself." "Business is business," replied the familiar harsh voice. +"Unless I become a counterfeiter or a forger I can do nothing more +than to convert other persons' money into my own; of course, in an +honest way."—"And you do this, without fearing lest one day some one +mightier and luckier than you should do the same to you?"—"I must be +prepared for that; I am prepared."—"Also for the storm,—not one of +your own creating, but one sent by the wrath of God, that shall +scatter all this paper splendor of our times, and reduce this +appalling social inequality of ours to a universal zero?" "Let us +quietly abide this Last Day," laughed the banker, taking the artist +by the arm.</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4710" id="Page_4710">[Pg 4710]</a></span></p> +<h3><a name="WATCHMAN" id="WATCHMAN"></a>THE WATCHMAN</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The last faint twinkle now goes out<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Up in the poet's attic;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the roisterers, in merry rout,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Speed home with steps erratic.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Soft from the house-roofs showers the snow,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The vane creaks on the steeple,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The lanterns wag and glimmer low<br /></span> +<span class="i1">In the storm by the hurrying people.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The houses all stand black and still,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The churches and taverns deserted,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And a body may now wend at his will,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">With his own fancies diverted.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Not a squinting eye now looks this way,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Not a slanderous mouth is dissembling,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And a heart that has slept the livelong day<br /></span> +<span class="i1">May now love and hope with trembling.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Dear Night! thou foe to each base end,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">While the good still a blessing prove thee,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They say that thou art no man's friend,—<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Sweet Night! how I therefore love thee!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4711" id="Page_4711">[Pg 4711]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="DIOGENES_LAERTIUS" id="DIOGENES_LAERTIUS"></a>DIOGENES LAERTIUS</h2> + +<h4>(200-250 A. D.?)</h4> + + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 92px;"> +<img src="images/capi41.png" width="92" height="89" alt="I" title="I" /> +</div><p class="dropcap">t is curious how often we are dependent, for our knowledge of +some larger subject, upon a single ancient author, who would be hardly +worthy of notice but for the accidental loss of the books composed by +fitter and abler men. Thus, our only general description of Greece at +the close of the classical period is written by a man who describes +many objects that he certainly did not see, who leaves unmentioned +numberless things we wish explained, and who has a genius for so +misplacing an adverb as to bring confusion into the most commonplace +statement. But not even to Pausanias do we proffer such grudging +gratitude and such ungrateful objurgations as to Diogenes Laertius, +our chief—often our sole—authority for the 'Lives and Sayings of the +Philosophers.' His book is a fascinating one, and even amusing, if we +can forget what we so much wanted in its stead. At second or third +hand, from the compendiums of the schools rather than from the +original works of the great masters themselves, Diogenes does give us +a fairly intelligible sketch, as a rule, of the outward life lived by +each sage. This slight frame is crammed with anecdotes, evidently +culled with most eager and uncritical hand from miscellaneous +collections. Many of these stories are so fragmentary as to be +pointless. Others are unquestionably attached to the wrong person. +This method is at its maddest in the author's sketch of his namesake, +the Recluse of the Tub. (One of Ali Baba's <i>jars</i>, by the way, would +give a better notion of the real hermitage.) Since this "philosopher" +had himself little character and no doctrines, the loose string of +anecdotes, puns, and saucy answers suits all our needs. Throughout the +work are scattered, apocryphal letters, and feeble poetic epigrams +composed by the compiler himself. The leaning of our most +unphilosophic author was apparently toward Epicurus. The loss of that +teacher's own works causes us to prize doubly the extensive fragments +of them preserved in this relatively copious and serious study. The +lover of the great Epicurean poem of Lucretius on the 'Nature of Things' +will often be surprised to find here the source of many among the Roman +poet's most striking doctrines and images. The sketch of Zeno is also an +important authority on Stoicism. Instruction in these particular chapters, +then, and rich diversion elsewhere, await the reader of this most gossipy, +formless, and uncritical volume. The English reader, by the +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4712" id="Page_4712">[Pg 4712]</a></span> +way, ought to be provided with something better than the "Bohn" +version. This adds a goodly harvest of ludicrous misprints and other +errors of every kind to Diogenes's own mixture of borrowed wisdom and +native silliness. The classical student will prefer the <i>Didot</i> +edition by Cobet, with the Latin version in parallel columns.</p> + +<p>It has been thought desirable to offer here a version, slightly +abridged, of Diogenes's chapter on Socrates. The original sources, in +Plato's and Xenophon's extant works, will almost always explain, or +correct, the statements of Diogenes. Such wild shots as the assertion +that the plague repeatedly visited Athens, striking down <i>every +inhabitant</i> save the temperate Socrates, hardly need a serious +rejoinder. Diogenes cannot even speak with approximate accuracy of +Socrates's famous Dæmon or Inward Monitor. We know, on the best +authority, that it prophesied nothing, even proposed nothing, but only +vetoed the rasher impulses of its human companion. But to apply the +tests of mere accuracy to Diogenes would be like criticizing Uncle +Remus for his sins against English syntax.</p> + +<p>Of the author's life we know nothing. Our assignment of him to the +third century is based merely on the fact that he quotes writers of +the second, and is himself in turn cited by somewhat later authors.</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="SOCRATES" id="SOCRATES"></a>LIFE OF SOCRATES</h3> +<h4>From the 'Lives and Sayings of the Philosophers'</h4> + +<p>Socrates was the son of Sophroniscus a sculptor and Phænarete +a midwife [as Plato also states in the 'Theaetetus'], and +an Athenian, of the deme Alopeke. He was believed to aid +Euripides in composing his dramas. Hence Mnesimachus speaks +thus:—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"This is Euripides's new play, the 'Phrygians':<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And Socrates has furnished him the sticks."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>And again:—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Euripides, Socratically patched."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Callias also, in his 'Captives,' says:—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>A</i>—"Why art so solemn, putting on such airs?<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>B</i>—Indeed I may; the cause is Socrates."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Aristophanes, in the 'Clouds,' again, remarks:—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"And this is he who for Euripides<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Composed the talkative wise tragedies."<br /></span></div></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4713" id="Page_4713">[Pg 4713]</a></span> +He was a pupil of Anaxagoras, according to some authorities, but +also of Damon, as Alexander states in his 'Successions.' After +the former's condemnation he became a disciple of Archelaus the +natural philosopher. But Douris says he was a slave, and carried +stones. Some say, too, that the Graces on the Acropolis are his; +they are clothed figures. Hence, they say, Timon in his 'Silli' +declares:—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"From them proceeded the stone-polisher,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Prater on law, enchanter of the Greeks,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who taught the art of subtle argument,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The nose-in-air, mocker of orators,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Half Attic, the adept in irony."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>For he was also clever in discussion. But the Thirty Tyrants, +as Xenophon tells us, forbade him to teach the art of arguing. +Aristophanes also brings him on in comedy, making the Worse +Argument seem the better. He was moreover the first, with his +pupil Æschines, to teach oratory. He was likewise the first who +conversed about life, and the first of the philosophers who came +to his end by being condemned to death. We are also told that +he lent out money. At least, investing it, he would collect what +was due, and then after spending it invest again. But Demetrius +the Byzantine says it was Crito who, struck by the charm of his +character, took him out of the workshop and educated him.</p> + +<p>Realizing that natural philosophy was of no interest to men, +it is said, he discussed ethics, in the workshops and in the +agora, and used to say he was seeking</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Whatsoever is good in human dwellings, or evil."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>And very often, we are told, when in these discussions he conversed +too violently, he was beaten or had his hair pulled out, +and was usually laughed to scorn. So once when he was kicked, +and bore it patiently, some one expressed surprise; but he said, +"If an ass had kicked me, would I bring an action against him?"</p> + +<p>Foreign travel he did not require, as most men do, except when he had +to serve in the army. At other times, remaining in Athens, he disputed +in argumentative fashion with those who conversed with him, not so as +to deprive them of their belief, but to strive for the ascertainment +of truth. They say Euripides gave him the work of Heraclitus, and +asked him, "What do you think of it?" And he said, "What I understood +is fine; I suppose what I did not understand is, too; only it needs a Delian +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4714" id="Page_4714">[Pg 4714]</a></span> +diver!" He attended also to physical training, and was in +excellent condition. Moreover, he went on the expedition to +Amphipolis, and when Xenophon had fallen from his horse in the battle +of Delium he picked him up and saved him. Indeed, when all the other +Athenians were fleeing he retreated slowly, turning about calmly, and +on the lookout to defend himself if attacked. He also joined the +expedition to Potidæa—by sea, for the war prevented a march by land; +and it was there he was said once to have remained standing in one +position all night. There too, it is said, he was pre-eminent in +valor, but gave up the prize to Alcibiades, of whom he is stated to +have been very fond. Ion of Chios says moreover that when young he +visited Samos with Archelaus, and Aristotle states that he went to +Delphi. Favorinus again, in the first book of his 'Commentaries' says +he went to the Isthmus.</p> + +<p>He was also very firm in his convictions and devoted to the +democracy, as was evident from his not yielding to Critias and +his associates when they bade him bring Leon of Salamis, a +wealthy man, to them to be put to death. He was also the only +one who opposed the condemnation of the ten generals. When +he could have escaped from prison, too, he would not. The +friends who wept at his fate he reproved, and while in prison he +composed those beautiful discourses.</p> + +<p>He was also temperate and austere. Once, as Pamphila tells +us in the seventh book of her 'Commentaries,' Alcibiades offered +him a great estate, on which to build a house; and he said, "If +I needed sandals, and you offered me a hide from which to make +them for myself, I should be laughed at if I took it." Often, +too, beholding the multitude of things for sale, he would say to +himself, "How many things I do not need!" He used constantly +to repeat aloud these iambic verses:—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"But silver plate and garb of purple dye<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To actors are of use,—but not in life."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>He disdained the tyrants,—Archelaus of Macedon, Scopas of +Crannon, Eurylochus of Melissa,—not accepting gifts from them +nor visiting them. He was so regular in his way of living that +he was frequently the only one not ill when Athens was attacked +by the plague.</p> + +<p>Aristotle says he wedded two wives, the first Xanthippe, +who bore him Lamprocles, and the second Myrto, daughter of +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4715" id="Page_4715">[Pg 4715]</a></span> +Aristides the Just, whom he received without dowry and by +whom he had Sophroniscus and Menexenus. Some however say +he married Myrto first; and some again that he had them both +at once, as the Athenians on account of scarcity of men passed +a law to increase the population, permitting any one to marry +one Athenian woman and have children by another; so Socrates +did this.</p> + +<p>He was a man also able to disdain those who mocked him. +He prided himself on his simple manner of living, and never +exacted any pay. He used to say he who ate with best appetite +had least need of delicacies, and he who drank with best appetite +had least need to seek a draught not at hand; and that he who +had fewest needs was nearest the gods. This indeed we may +learn from the comic poets, who in their very ridicule covertly +praise him. Thus Aristophanes says:—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"O thou who hast righteously set thy heart on attaining to noble wisdom,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How happy the life thou wilt lead among the Athenians and the Hellenes!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shrewdness and memory both are thine, and energy unwearied<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of mind; and never art thou tired from standing or from walking.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By cold thou art not vexed at all, nor dost thou long for breakfast.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wine thou dost shun, and gluttony, and every other folly."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Ameipsias also, bringing him upon the stage in the philosopher's +cloak, says:—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"O Socrates, best among few men, most foolish of many, thou also<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Art come unto us; thou'rt a patient soul; but where didst get that doublet?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That wretched thing in mockery was presented by the cobblers!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet though so hungry, he never however has stooped to flatter a mortal."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>This disdain and arrogance in Socrates has also been exposed +by Aristophanes, who says:—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Along the streets you haughtily strut; your eyes roll hither and thither:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Barefooted, enduring discomforts, you go with countenance solemn among us."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>And yet sometimes, suiting himself to the occasion, he dressed +finely; as when for instance in Plato's 'Symposium' he goes to +Agathon's.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4716" id="Page_4716">[Pg 4716]</a></span> +He was a man able both to urge others to action, and to +dissuade them. Thus, when he conversed with Theætetus on +Knowledge, he sent him away inspired, as Plato says. Again, +when Euthyphron had indicted his own father for manslaughter, +by conversing with him on piety Socrates turned him from his +purpose. Lysis also by his exhortations he rendered a most +moral man. He was moreover skillful in fitting his arguments +to the circumstances. He changed the feeling of his son Lamprocles +when he was enraged with his mother, as Xenophon somewhere +relates. Plato's brother Glaucon, who wished to be active +in politics, he dissuaded because of his inexperience, as Xenophon +states; but Charmides on the other hand, who was well fitted, +he urged on. He roused the spirit of Iphicrates the general +also, pointing out to him the cocks of Midias the barber fighting +those of Callias. He said it was strange that every man could +tell easily how many sheep he had, but could not call by name +the friends whom he had acquired, so negligent were men in +that regard. Once seeing Euclid devoting great pains to captious +arguments, he said, "O Euclid, you will be able to manage +sophists—but men, never!" For he thought hair-splitting on +such matters useless, as Plato also says in his 'Euthydemus.'</p> + +<p>When Glaucon offered him some slaves, so that he might +make a profit on them, he did not take them.</p> + +<p>He praised leisure as the best of possessions, as Xenophon +also says in his 'Symposium.' He used to say, too, that there +was but one good—knowledge; and one evil—ignorance. Wealth +and birth, he said, had no value, but were on the contrary +wholly an evil. So when some one told him Antisthenes's mother +was a Thracian, "Did you think," quoth he, "so fine a man +must be the child of two Athenians?" When Phaedo had been +captured in war and shamefully enslaved, Socrates bade Crito +ransom him, and made him a philosopher.</p> + +<p>He also learned, when already an old man, to play the lyre, +saying there was no absurdity in learning what one did not +know. He used to dance frequently, too, thinking this exercise +helpful to health. This Xenophon tells us in the 'Symposium.'</p> + +<p>He used to say that his Dæmon foretold future events: and +that he knew nothing, except that very fact that he did know +nothing. Those who bought at a great price what was out of +season, he said, had no hope of living till the season came around. +Once being asked what was virtue in a young man, he said, +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4717" id="Page_4717">[Pg 4717]</a></span> +"To avoid excess in all things." He used to say one should study +geometry (surveying) just enough to be able to measure land in +buying and selling it.</p> + +<p>When Euripides in the 'Auge' said of virtue:—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"These things were better left to lie untouched,"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>he rose up and left the theatre, saying it was absurd to think it +proper to seek for a slave if he was not to be found, but to let +virtue perish unregarded. When his advice was asked whether +to marry or not, he said, "Whichever you do, you will regret it!" +He used to say that he marveled that those who made stone +statues took pains to make the stone as like the man as possible, +but took none with themselves, that they might not be like the +stone. He thought it proper for the young to look constantly in +the mirror, so that if they had beauty they might prove themselves +worthy of it, and if they were ugly, that they might conceal +their ugliness by their accomplishments.</p> + +<p>When he had invited rich friends to dinner, and Xanthippe was ashamed, +he said, "Do not be troubled. If they are sensible, they will bear +with us. If not, we shall care nothing for them." Most men, he said, +lived to eat; but he ate to live. As to those who showed regard for +the opinions of the ignoble multitude, he said it was as if a man +should reject one tetradrachm [coin] as worthless, but accept a heap +of such coins as good. When Æschines said, "I am poor and have nothing +else, but I give you myself," he said, "Do you then not realize you +are offering me the greatest of gifts?" To him who said, "The +Athenians have condemned you to death," he responded, "And nature has +condemned them also thereto:" though some ascribe this to Anaxagoras. +When his wife exclaimed, "You die innocent!" he answered, "Do you wish +I were guilty?"</p> + +<p>When a vision in sleep seemed to say:—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Three days hence thou'lt come to the fertile region of Phthia,"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>he said to Æschines, "On the third day I shall die." When he +was to drink the hemlock, Apollodorus gave him a fine garment +to die in: "But why," quoth he, "is this garment of mine good +enough to live in, but not to perish in?" To him who said, +"So-and-so speaks ill of you," he answered, "Yes, he has not +learned to speak well." When Antisthenes turned the ragged +side of his cloak to the light, he remarked, "I see your vanity +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4718" id="Page_4718">[Pg 4718]</a></span> +through your cloak." He declared we ought to put ourselves +expressly at the service of the comedy writers: "For if they say +anything about us that is true, they will correct us; and if what +they say be untrue, it does not concern us at all."</p> + +<p>When Xanthippe had first reviled him, then drenched him +with water, "Didn't I tell you," said he, "it was thundering and +would soon rain?" To Alcibiades, who said Xanthippe's scolding +was unbearable, he replied, "I am accustomed to it, as to a constantly +creaking pulley. And you," he added, "endure the cackling +of geese." Alcibiades said, "Yes, for they bring me eggs +and goslings." "And Xanthippe," retorted Socrates, "bears me +children." Once when she pulled off his cloak in the agora, his +friends advised him to defend himself with force. "Yes," said +he, "by Jove, so that as we fight, each of you may cry, 'Well +done, Socrates!' 'Good for you, Xanthippe!'" He used to say +he practiced on Xanthippe just as trainers do with spirited horses. +"Just as they if they master them are able to control any other +horse, so I who am accustomed to Xanthippe shall get on easily +with any one else."</p> + +<p>It was for such words and acts as this that the Delphic priestess +bore witness in his honor, giving to Chairephon that famous +response:—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Wisest of all mankind is Socrates."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>He became extremely unpopular on account of this oracle; +but also because he convicted of ignorance those who had a great +opinion of themselves, particularly Anytus, as Plato also says in +the 'Meno.' For Anytus, enraged at the ridicule Socrates brought +upon him, first urged Aristophanes and the rest on to attack +him, and then induced Meletus to join in indicting him for impiety +and for corrupting the young men. Plato in the 'Apology' +says there were three accusers,—Anytus, Lycon, and Meletus: +Anytus being incensed at him in behalf of the artisans and politicians, +Lycon for the orators, and Meletus for the poets, all of +whom Socrates pulled to pieces. The sworn statement of the +plaintiffs ran as follows; for it is still recorded, Favorinus says, +in the State archives:—"Socrates is guilty, not honoring the +gods whom the State honors, but introducing other strange divinities; +and he is further guilty of corrupting the young. Penalty, +death."</p> + +<p>When Lysias wrote a speech for his defense, he read it, and +said, "A fine speech, Lysias, but not suited to me;" for indeed +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4719" id="Page_4719">[Pg 4719]</a></span> +it was rather a lawyer's plea than a philosopher's. Lysias said, +"But why, if the speech is a fine one, should it not be suitable +for you?" Socrates replied, "Would not fine robes, then, and +sandals, be unfitting for me?"</p> + +<p>While he was on trial, it is stated that Plato ascended the +<i>bema</i> and began, "Being the youngest, O men of Athens, of all +who ever came upon the bema"—but at this point the judges +cried out, "Come down! come down!" So he was convicted by +two hundred and eighty-one votes more than were cast for his +acquittal. And when the judges considered what penalty or fine +he should receive, he said he would pay five-and-twenty drachmæ. +Euboulides says he agreed to pay a hundred, but when the +judges expressed their indignation aloud, he said, "For what I +have done, I consider the proper return to be support at the +public expense in the town hall." But they condemned him to +death, the vote being larger than before by eighty.</p> + +<p>Not many days later he drank the hemlock in the prison, +after uttering many noble words, recorded by Plato in the +'Phædo.' According to some, he wrote a poem beginning—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Greeting, Apollo of Delos, and Artemis, youthful and famous."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>He also versified, not very successfully, a fable of Æsop's +which began—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Æsop once to the people who dwell in the city of Corinth<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Said, 'Let virtue be judged not by the popular voice.'"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>So he passed from among men; but straightway the Athenians +repented of their action, so that they closed the gymnasia, and +exiling the other accusers, put Meletus to death. Socrates they +honored with a statue of bronze, the work of Lysippus, which +was set up in the Pompeion. Anytus in exile, entering Heraclea, +was warned out of town that very day.</p> + +<p>The Athenians have had the same experience not only in Socrates's +case, but with many others. Indeed, it is stated that they +fined Homer as a madman, and adjudged Tyrtæus to be crazy. +Euripides reproves them in the 'Palamedes,' saying:—</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"Ye have slain, ye have slain the all-wise, +the harmless nightingaleof the Muses."</p></div> + +<p>That is so. But Philochorus says Euripides died before Socrates.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4720" id="Page_4720">[Pg 4720]</a></span> +Socrates and Euripides were both disciples of Anaxagoras. +It appears to me, too, that Socrates did talk on natural philosophy. +In fact, Xenophon says so, though he states that Socrates +held discourse only upon moral questions. Plato indeed, in the +'Apology,' mentioning Anaxagoras and other natural philosophers, +himself says of them things whereof Socrates denies any knowledge; +yet it is all ascribed to Socrates.</p> + +<p>Aristotle states that a certain mage from Syria came to +Athens, and among other prophecies concerning Socrates foretold +that his death would be a violent one.</p> + +<p>The following verses upon him are our own:—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Drink, in the palace of Zeus, O Socrates, seeing that truly<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thou by a god wert called wise, who is wisdom itself.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Foolish Athenians, who to thee offered the potion of hemlock,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Through thy lips themselves draining the cup to the dregs!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="transc">Translated for 'A Library of the World's Best Literature,' by William +C. Lawton.</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="GREEK" id="GREEK"></a>EXAMPLES OF GREEK WIT AND WISDOM</h3> + +<h4><a name="Bias" id="Bias"></a><span class="smcap">Bias</span></h4> + +<p>Once he was on a voyage with some impious men. The vessel was +overtaken by a storm, and they began to call upon the gods for aid. +But Bias said, "Be silent, so they may not discover that you are +aboard our ship!"</p> + +<p>He declared it was pleasanter to decide a dispute between his enemies +than between friends. "For of two friends," he explained, "one is sure +to become my enemy; but of two enemies I make one friend."</p> + + +<h4><a name="Plato" id="Plato"></a><span class="smcap">Plato</span></h4> + +<p>It is said Socrates, in a dream, seemed to be holding on his +knees a cygnet, which suddenly grew wings and flew aloft, singing +sweetly. Next day Plato came to him; and Socrates said he +was the bird.</p> + +<p>It is told that Plato, once seeing a man playing at dice, +reproved him. "The stake is but a trifle," said the other. "Yes, +but," responded Plato, "the habit is no trifle."</p> + +<p>Once when Xenocrates came into Plato's house, the latter +bade him scourge his slave for him, explaining that he could not +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4721" id="Page_4721">[Pg 4721]</a></span> +do it himself, because he was angry. Again, he said to one +of his slaves, "You would have had a beating if I were not +angry."</p> + + +<h4><a name="Aristippus" id="Aristippus"></a><span class="smcap">Aristippus</span></h4> + +<p>Dionysius once asked him why it is that the philosophers are +seen at rich men's doors, not the rich men at the doors of the +sages. Aristippus replied, "Because the wise realize what they +lack, but the rich do not." On a repetition of the taunt on another +occasion he retorted, "Yes, and physicians are seen at sick +men's doors; yet none would choose to be the patient rather than +the leech!"</p> + +<p>Once when overtaken by a storm on a voyage to Corinth, he +was badly frightened. Somebody said to him, "We ordinary folk +are not afraid, but you philosophers play the coward." "Yes," +was his reply, "we are not risking the loss of any such wretched +life as yours."</p> + +<p>Some one reproached him for his extravagance in food. He +answered, "If you could buy these same things for threepence, +wouldn't you do it?"—"Oh yes."—"Why then, 'tis not I who +am too fond of the luxurious food, but you that are over-fond of +your money!"</p> + + +<h4><a name="Aristotle" id="Aristotle"></a><span class="smcap">Aristotle</span></h4> + +<p>When asked, "What is Hope?" he answered, "The dream of +a man awake." Asked what grows old quickest, he replied, +"Gratitude." When told that some one had slandered him in +his absence, he said, "He may beat me too—in my absence!" +Being asked how much advantage the educated have over the +ignorant, he replied, "As much as the living over the dead."</p> + +<p>Some one asked him why we spend much time in the society +of the beautiful. "That," he said, "is a proper question for a +blind man!" [<i>Cf.</i> Emerson's 'Rhodora.']</p> + +<p>Once being asked how we should treat our friends, he said, +"As we would wish them to treat us." Asked what a friend is, +he answered, "One soul abiding in two bodies."</p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4722" id="Page_4722">[Pg 4722]</a></span></p> + +<h4><a name="Theophrastus" id="Theophrastus"></a><span class="smcap">Theophrastus</span></h4> + +<p>To a man who at a feast was persistently silent, he remarked, +"If you are ignorant, you are acting wisely; if you are intelligent, +you are behaving foolishly."</p> + + +<h4><a name="Demetrius" id="Demetrius"></a><span class="smcap">Demetrius</span></h4> + +<p>It was a saying of his that to friends in prosperity we should +go when invited, but to those in misfortune unbidden.</p> + +<p>When told that the Athenians had thrown down his statues, +he answered, "But not my character, for which they erected +them."</p> + + +<h4><a name="Antisthenes" id="Antisthenes"></a><span class="smcap">Antisthenes</span></h4> + +<p>Some one asked him what he gained from philosophy. He +replied, "The power to converse with myself."</p> + +<p>He advised the Athenians to pass a vote that asses were +horses. When they thought that irrational, he said, "But certainly, +your generals are not such because they have learned anything, +but simply because you have elected them!"</p> + + +<h4><a name="Diogenes" id="Diogenes"></a><span class="smcap">Diogenes</span></h4> + +<p>He used to say that when in the course of his life he saw +pilots, and physicians, and philosophers, he thought man the most +sensible of animals; but when he saw interpreters of dreams, and +soothsayers, and those who paid attention to them, and those +puffed up by fame or wealth, he believed no creature was sillier +than man.</p> + +<p>Some said to him, "You are an old man. Take life easy +now." He replied, "And if I were running the long-distance +race, should I when nearing the goal slacken, and not rather +exert myself?"</p> + +<p>When he saw a child drink out of his hands, he took the cup +out of his wallet and flung it away, saying, "A child has beaten +me in simplicity."</p> + +<p>He used to argue thus, "All things belong to the gods. The +wise are the friends of the gods. The goods of friends are common +property. Therefore all things belong to the wise."</p> + +<p>To one who argued that <i>motion</i> was impossible, he made no +answer, but rose and walked away.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4723" id="Page_4723">[Pg 4723]</a></span> +When the Athenians urged him to be initiated into the Mysteries, +assuring him that in Hades those who were initiated have +the front seats, he replied, "It is ludicrous, if Agesilaus and +Epaminondas are to abide in the mud, and some ignoble wretches +who are initiated are to dwell in the Isles of the Blest!"</p> + +<p>Plato made the definition "Man is a two-footed featherless +animal," and was much praised for it. Diogenes plucked a fowl +and brought it into his school, saying "This is Plato's man!" +So the addition was made to the definition, "with broad nails."</p> + +<p>When a man asked him what was the proper hour for lunch, +he said, "If you are rich, when you please; if you are poor, +when you can get it."</p> + +<p>He used often to shout aloud that an easy life had been given +by the gods to men, but they had covered it from sight in their +search for honey-cakes and perfumes and such things.</p> + +<p>The musician who was always left alone by his hearers he +greeted with "Good morning, cock!" When the other asked +him the reason, he said, "Because your music starts everybody +up."</p> + +<p>When an exceedingly superstitious man said to him, "With +one blow I will break your head!" he retorted, "And with a +sneeze at your left side I will make you tremble."</p> + +<p>When asked what animal had the worst bite, he said, "Of +wild beasts, the sycophant; and of tame creatures, the flatterer."</p> + +<p>Being asked when was the proper time to marry, he responded, +"For young men, not yet; and for old men, not at all."</p> + +<p>When he was asked what sort of wine he enjoyed drinking, he answered, +"Another man's." [Of a different temper was Dante, who knew too well +"how salt the bread of others tastes!"]</p> + +<p>Some one advised him to hunt up his runaway slave. But +he replied, "It is ridiculous if Manes lives without Diogenes, but +Diogenes cannot without Manes."</p> + +<p>When asked why men give to beggars, but not to philosophers, +he said, "Because they expect themselves to become lame +and blind; but philosophers, never!"</p> + + +<h4><a name="Cleanthes" id="Cleanthes"></a><span class="smcap">Cleanthes</span></h4> + +<p>When a comic actor apologized for having ridiculed him from +the stage, he answered gently, "It would be preposterous, when +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4724" id="Page_4724">[Pg 4724]</a></span> +Bacchus and Hercules bear the raillery of the poets without +showing any anger, if I should be indignant when I chance to +be attacked."</p> + + +<h4><a name="Pythagoras" id="Pythagoras"></a><span class="smcap">Pythagoras</span><br /> + +<i>Precepts</i></h4> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Do not stir the fire with a sword.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Do not devour your heart.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Always have your bed packed up.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Do not walk in the main street.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Do not cherish birds with crooked talons.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Avoid a sharp sword.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When you travel abroad, look not back at your own borders.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">[Diogenes explains this: be resigned to death.]<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Consider nothing exclusively your own.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Destroy no cultivated tree, or harmless animal.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Modesty and decorum consist in never yielding to laughter, +and yet not looking stern. [<i>Cf.</i> Emerson on Manners.]<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="transc">Translated for 'A Library of the World's Best Literature,' by William C. +Lawton.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4725" id="Page_4725">[Pg 4725]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="ISAAC_DISRAELI" id="ISAAC_DISRAELI"></a>ISAAC D'ISRAELI</h2> + +<h4>(1766-1848)</h4> + + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 90px;"> +<img src="images/capa55.png" width="90" height="90" alt="A" title="A" /> +</div><p class="dropcap">mong the writers whose education and whose tastes were the outcome +of the classicism of the eighteenth century, yet whose literary life +lapped over into the Victorian epoch, was Isaac D'Israeli, born at +Enfield in May 1766. D'Israeli was of Jewish origin, his ancestors +having fled from the Spanish persecutions of the fifteenth century to +find a home in Venice, whence a younger branch migrated to England.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 178px;"> +<img src="images/Illus055.png" width="178" height="216" alt="Isaac D Israeli" title="Isaac D Israeli" /> +<span class="caption"><span class="smcap">Isaac D'Israeli</span></span> +</div> + +<p>At the time of his birth his family had stood for generations among +the foremost English Jews, his father having been made a citizen by +special legislation. The boy, however, did not inherit the commercial +spirit which had established his house. He was a lover of books and a +dreamer of dreams, and so early developed literary tendencies that his +frightened father sent him off to Amsterdam to school, in the hope of +curing proclivities so dangerous. Here he became familiar with the +works of the Encyclopædists, and adopted the theories of Rousseau. On +returning to England in his nineteenth year, he replied to his +father's proposition that he should enter a commercial house at +Bordeaux, by a long poem in which he passionately inveighed against +the commercial spirit, and avowed himself a student of philosophy and +letters. His father's reluctant acquiescence was obtained at last +through the good offices of the laureate Pye, to whom the youth had +already dedicated his first book, 'A Defence of Poetry.'</p> + +<p>At the outset of his career he found himself received with +consideration by the men whose acquaintance he most desired. Following +the fashion of the day, and inspired by the books of anecdotes so +successfully published by his friend Douce, D'Israeli in 1791 produced +anonymously a small volume entitled 'Curiosities of Literature,' the +copyright of which he magnanimously presented to his publisher. The +extraordinary success of this book can be accounted for only by the +curious taste of the time, which still reflected the more unworthy +traditions of the Addisonian era. It was an age of clubs and +tea-tables, of society scandal-mongering and fireside gossip; +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4726" id="Page_4726">[Pg 4726]</a></span> +and the reading public welcomed a contribution whose refined dilettantism +so well matched its own. The mysteries of Eleusis and the origin of wigs +received the same grave attention. This popularity induced D'Israeli +to buy back the copyright at a generous valuation; he enlarged the +work to five volumes, which passed through twelve in his own lifetime, +and still serves to illustrate a curious literary phase.</p> + +<p>Other compilations of similar nature met the same success: 'The +Calamities of Authors,' 'Quarrels of Authors,' and 'Literary +Recollections'; but the 'Amenities of Literature,' his last work, is +the most purely literary in form, and affords perhaps the best index +to D'Israeli's abilities as a writer. The reader of to-day, however, +is struck by the ephemeral nature of this criticism, which yet by a +curious literary experience is keeping a place among the permanent +productions of its age. The reader is everywhere impressed by the +human sympathy, by the wide if rather superficial knowledge, and by +innumerable felicities of expression and style, which betray the +cultivated mind. To lovers of the curious the books still appeal, and +they will continue to hold an honorable place among the bric-a-brac of +literature.</p> + +<p>The spirit of curiosity which characterized the mind of D'Israeli +assumed its most dignified concrete form in the 'Commentaries on +the Reign of Charles I.' D'Israeli had an artistic sense of the values +in a historical picture, with a keen perception of the importance of +side lights; and although the book is not a great contribution to the +literature of history, yet it became popular, and in July 1832 earned +for its author the degree of D.C.L. from Oxford.</p> + +<p>D'Israeli's romances were tedious tales, but his hold upon the public +was secure, and the vast amount of miscellaneous matter which +he published always found a delighted audience. 'The Genius of +Judaism,' a philosophical inquiry into the historical significance of +the permanence of the Jewish race, showed the author's psychic limitations. +He designed a history of English literature, for which he +had gathered much material, but increasing blindness forced him to +abandon it. Much of D'Israeli's popularity was unquestionably due +to his qualities of heart. His nature was fine; he was an affectionate +and devoted friend, and held an enviable position in the literary circles +of the day. Campbell, Byron, Rogers, and Scott alike admired +and loved him, while a host of lesser men eagerly sought his friendship.</p> + +<p>Although brought up in the Jewish faith, D'Israeli affiliated early +in life with the Church of England, in which his three sons and one +daughter were baptized. He died in 1848, and was buried at Brandenham. +Twenty years later his daughter-in-law, the Countess of +Beaconsfield, erected at Hughenden a monument to his memory.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 640px;"> +<a name="QUARTO" id="QUARTO"></a> +<span class="caption"><i>OLD BLACK-LETTER QUARTO.</i><br /><br /> +Slightly reduced facsimile of title-page of first edition of<br /> +"THE POSIES."<br /><br /> +London, about 1572. +Original, 4⅛ x 6⅜ inches.</span> +<p>An example of title-page, typography, and spelling a hundred years +after the introduction of printing into England. The Old English, +Gothic, or Black-letter type was being superseded by the modern +"Roman;" and on this title page both forms were used.</p> +<img src="images/Illus0058.jpg" width="420" height="645" alt="OLD BLACK-LETTER QUARTO" title="OLD BLACK-LETTER QUARTO" /> +</div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4727" id="Page_4727">[Pg 4727]</a></span></p> +<h3><a name="POETS_PHILOSOPHERS_AND_ARTISTS_MADE_BY_ACCIDENT" id="POETS_PHILOSOPHERS_AND_ARTISTS_MADE_BY_ACCIDENT"></a>POETS, PHILOSOPHERS, AND ARTISTS MADE BY ACCIDENT</h3> + +<h4>From 'Curiosities of Literature'</h4> + + +<p>Accident has frequently occasioned the most eminent geniuses to +display their powers. It was at Rome, says Gibbon, on the fifteenth of +October, 1764, as I sat musing amidst the ruins of the Capitol, while +the barefooted friars were singing vespers in the Temple of Jupiter, +that the idea of writing the decline and fall of the city first +started to my mind.</p> + +<p>Father Malebranche, having completed his studies in philosophy and +theology without any other intention than devoting himself to some +religious order, little expected the celebrity his works acquired for +him. Loitering in an idle hour in the shop of a bookseller, and +turning over a parcel of books, 'L'Homme de Descartes' fell into his +hands. Having dipt into some parts, he read with such delight that the +palpitations of his heart compelled him to lay the volume down. It was +this circumstance that produced those profound contemplations which +made him the Plato of his age.</p> + +<p>Cowley became a poet by accident. In his mother's apartment he found, +when very young, Spenser's 'Fairy Queen,' and by a continual study of +poetry he became so enchanted of the Muse that he grew irrecoverably a +poet.</p> + +<p>Dr. Johnson informs us that Sir Joshua Reynolds had the first fondness +of his art excited by the perusal of Richardson's Treatise.</p> + +<p>Vaucanson displayed an uncommon genius for mechanics. +His taste was first determined by an accident: when young, he +frequently attended his mother to the residence of her confessor; +and while she wept with repentance, he wept with weariness! In +this state of disagreeable vacation, says Helvetius, he was struck +with the uniform motion of the pendulum of the clock in the +hall. His curiosity was roused; he approached the clock-case, +and studied its mechanism; what he could not discover he +guessed at. He then projected a similar machine, and gradually +his genius produced a clock. Encouraged by this first success, he +proceeded in his various attempts; and the genius which thus +could form a clock, in time formed a fluting automaton.</p> + +<p>If Shakespeare's imprudence had not obliged him to quit his +wool trade and his town; if he had not engaged with a company +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4728" id="Page_4728">[Pg 4728]</a></span> +of actors, and at length, disgusted with being an indifferent performer, he had +not turned author, the prudent wool-seller had never been the celebrated poet.</p> + +<p>Accident determined the taste of Molière for the stage. His +grandfather loved the theatre, and frequently carried him there. The +young man lived in dissipation; the father, observing it, asked in +anger if his son was to be made an actor. "Would to God," replied the +grandfather, "he was as good an actor as Montrose." The words struck +young Molière; he took a disgust to his tapestry trade; and it is to +this circumstance France owes her greatest comic writer.</p> + +<p>Corneille loved; he made verses for his mistress, became a poet, +composed 'Mélite,' and afterwards his other celebrated works. The +discreet Corneille had remained a lawyer.</p> + +<p>Thus it is that the devotion of a mother, the death of Cromwell, +deer-stealing, the exclamation of an old man, and the beauty of a +woman, have given five illustrious characters to Europe.</p> + +<p>We owe the great discovery of Newton to a very trivial accident. When +a student at Cambridge, he had retired during the time of the plague +into the country. As he was reading under an apple-tree, one of the +fruit fell, and struck him a smart blow on the head. When he observed +the smallness of the apple, he was surprised at the force of the +stroke. This led him to consider the accelerating motion of falling +bodies; from whence he deduced the principle of gravity, and laid the +foundation of his philosophy.</p> + +<p>Ignatius Loyola was a Spanish gentleman who was dangerously wounded at +the siege of Pampeluna. Having heated his imagination by reading the +Lives of the Saints, which were brought to him in his illness instead +of a romance, he conceived a strong ambition to be the founder of a +religious order; whence originated the celebrated society of the +Jesuits.</p> + +<p>Rousseau found his eccentric powers first awakened by the +advertisement of the singular annual subject which the Academy of +Dijon proposed for that year, in which he wrote his celebrated +Declamation against the arts and sciences; a circumstance which +determined his future literary efforts.</p> + +<p>La Fontaine, at the age of twenty-two, had not taken any +profession or devoted himself to any pursuit. Having accidentally +heard some verses of Malherbe, he felt a sudden impulse, which +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4729" id="Page_4729">[Pg 4729]</a></span> +directed his future life. He immediately bought a Malherbe, and was so +exquisitely delighted with this poet that after passing the nights in +treasuring his verses in his memory, he would run in the daytime to the +woods, where, concealing himself, he would recite his verses to the +surrounding dryads.</p> + +<p>Flamsteed was an astronomer by accident. He was taken from school on +account of his illness, when Sacrobosco's book 'De Sphæra' having been +lent to him, he was so pleased with it that he immediately began a +course of astronomic studies. Pennant's first propensity to natural +history was the pleasure he received from an accidental perusal of +Willoughby's work on birds; the same accident, of finding on the table +of his professor Reaumur's 'History of Insects,'—of which he read +more than he attended to the lecture.—and having been refused the +loan, gave such an instant turn to the mind of Bonnet that he hastened +to obtain a copy, but found many difficulties in procuring this costly +work. Its possession gave an unalterable direction to his future life: +this naturalist indeed lost the use of his sight by his devotion to +the microscope.</p> + +<p>Dr. Franklin attributes the cast of his genius to a similar accident. +"I found a work of Defoe's, entitled an 'Essay on Projects,' from +which perhaps I derived impressions that have since influenced some of +the principal events of my life."</p> + +<p>I shall add the incident which occasioned Roger Ascham to write his +'Schoolmaster,' one of the most curious and useful treatises among our +elder writers.</p> + +<p>At a dinner given by Sir William Cecil during the plague in 1563, at +his apartments at Windsor, where the Queen had taken refuge, a number +of ingenious men were invited. Secretary Cecil communicated the news +of the morning, that several scholars at Eton had run away on account +of their master's severity, which he condemned as a great error in the +education of youth. Sir William Petre maintained the contrary; severe +in his own temper, he pleaded warmly in defense of hard flogging. Dr. +Wootton, in softer tones, sided with the Secretary. Sir John Mason, +adopting no side, bantered both. Mr. Haddon seconded the hard-hearted +Sir William Petre, and adduced as an evidence that the best schoolmaster +then in England was the hardest flogger. Then was it that Roger Ascham +indignantly exclaimed that if such a master had an able scholar it was owing +to the boy's genius and not the preceptor's rod. Secretary Cecil and +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4730" id="Page_4730">[Pg 4730]</a></span> +others were pleased with Ascham's notions. Sir Richard Sackville was +silent; but when Ascham after dinner went to the Queen to read one of +the orations of Demosthenes, he took him aside, and frankly told him +that though he had taken no part in the debate he would not have been +absent from that conversation for a great deal; that he knew to his +cost the truth Ascham had supported, for it was the perpetual flogging +of such a schoolmaster that had given him an unconquerable aversion to +study. And as he wished to remedy this defect in his own children, he +earnestly exhorted Ascham to write his observations on so interesting +a topic. Such was the circumstance which produced the admirable +treatise of Roger Ascham.</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="MARTYRDOM" id="MARTYRDOM"></a>THE MARTYRDOM OF CHARLES THE FIRST</h3> + +<h4>From the 'Commentaries on the Reign of Charles the First'</h4> + +<p>At Whitehall a repast had been prepared. The religious emotions of +Charles had consecrated the sacrament, which he refused to mingle with +human food. The Bishop, whose mind was unequal to conceive the +intrepid spirit of the King, dreading lest the magnanimous monarch, +overcome by the severity of the cold, might faint on the scaffold, +prevailed on him to eat half a manchet of bread and taste some claret. +But the more consolatory refreshment of Charles had been just imparted +to him in that singular testimony from his son, who had sent a <i>carte +blanche</i> to save the life of his father at any price. This was a +thought on which his affections could dwell in face of the scaffold +which he was now to ascend.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 640px;"> +<a name="CHARLES" id="CHARLES"></a> +<span class="caption"><i>CHARLES I. GOING TO EXECUTION.</i><br /> +Photogravure from a painting by E. Crofts.</span> +<img src="images/Illus0421.jpg" width="635" height="400" alt="CHARLES I. GOING TO EXECUTION." title="CHARLES I. GOING TO EXECUTION." /> +</div> + +<p>Charles had arrived at Whitehall about ten o'clock, and was not led to +the scaffold till past one. It was said that the scaffold was not +completed; it might have been more truly said that the conspirators +were not ready. There was a mystery in this delay. The fate of Charles +the First to the very last moment was in suspense. Fairfax, though at +the time in the palace, inquired of Herbert how the King was, when the +King was no more! and expressed his astonishment on hearing that the +execution had just taken place. This extraordinary simplicity and +abstraction from the present scene of affairs has been imputed to the +General as an act of refined dissimulation, yet this seems uncertain. +The Prince's <i>carte blanche</i> had been that morning confided to his +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4731" id="Page_4731">[Pg 4731]</a></span> +hands, and he surely must have laid it before the "Grandees of the +Army," as this new order of the rulers of England was called. Fairfax, +whose personal feelings respecting the King were congenial with those +his lady had so memorably evinced, labored to defer for a few days the +terrible catastrophe; not without the hope of being able, by his own +regiment and others in the army, to prevent the deed altogether. It is +probable—inexplicable as it may seem to us—that the execution of +Charles the First really took place unknown to the General. Fairfax +was not unaccustomed to discover that his colleagues first acted, and +afterwards trusted to his own discernment.</p> + +<p>Secret history has not revealed all that passed in those three +awful hours. We know, however, that the warrant for the execution +was not signed till within a few minutes before the King +was led to the scaffold. In an apartment in the Palace, Ireton and +Harrison were in bed together, and Cromwell, with four colonels, +assembled in it. Colonel Huncks refused to sign the warrant. +Cromwell would have no further delay, reproaching the Colonel +as "a peevish, cowardly fellow," and Colonel Axtell declared that +he was ashamed for his friend Huncks, remonstrating with him, +that "the ship is coming into the harbor, and now would he +strike sail before we come to anchor?" Cromwell stepped to a +table, and wrote what he had proposed to Huncks; Colonel +Hacker, supplying his place, signed it, and with the ink hardly +dry, carried the warrant in his hand and called for the King.</p> + +<p>At the fatal summons Charles rose with alacrity. The King +passed through the long gallery by a line of soldiers. Awe and +sorrow seem now to have mingled in their countenances. Their +barbarous commanders were intent on their own triumph, and +no farther required the forced cry of "Justice and Execution." +Charles stepped out of an enlarged window of the Banqueting +House, where a new opening leveled it with the scaffold. Charles +came forward with the same indifference as "he would have +entered Whitehall on a masque night," as an intelligent observer +described. The King looked towards St. James's and smiled. +Curious eyes were watchful of his slightest motions; and the +Commonwealth papers of the day express their surprise, perhaps +their vexation, at the unaltered aspect and the firm step of the +Monarch. These mean spirits had flattered themselves that he +who had been cradled in royalty, who had lived years in the +fields of honor, and was now, they presumed, a recreant in +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4732" id="Page_4732">[Pg 4732]</a></span> +imprisonment,—"the grand Delinquent of England,"—as they +called him, would start in horror at the block.</p> + +<p>This last triumph at least was not reserved for them,—it was +for the King. Charles, dauntless, strode "the floor of Death," to +use Fuller's peculiar but expressive phraseology. He looked on +the block with the axe lying upon it, with attention; his only +anxiety was that the block seemed not sufficiently raised, and +that the edge of the axe might be turned by being swept by the +flappings of cloaks, or blunted by the feet of some moving about +the scaffold. "Take care they do not put me to pain!—Take +heed of the axe! take heed of the axe!" exclaimed the King to +a gentleman passing by. "Hurt not the axe; that may hurt +me!" His continued anxiety concerning these <i>circumstances</i> +proves that he felt not the terror of death, solely anxious to +avoid the pain, for he had an idea of their cruelty. With that +sedate thoughtfulness which was in all his actions, he only looked +at the business of the hour. One circumstance Charles observed +with a smile. They had a notion that the King would resist the +executioner; on the suggestion of Hugh Peters, it is said, they +had driven iron staples and ropes into the scaffold, that their +victim, if necessary, might be bound down upon the block.</p> + +<p>The King's speech has many remarkable points, but certainly +nothing so remarkable as the place where it was delivered. This +was the first "King's Speech" spoken from a scaffold. Time +shall confirm, as history has demonstrated, his principle that +"They mistook the nature of government; for people are free +under a government, not by being sharers in it, but by the due +administration of the laws." "It was for this," said Charles, +"that now I am come here. If I could have given way to an +arbitrary sway, for to have all laws changed according to the +power of the sword, I need not have come here; and therefore +I tell you that I am <i>the Martyr of the People</i>!"</p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4733" id="Page_4733">[Pg 4733]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="SYDNEY_DOBELL" id="SYDNEY_DOBELL"></a>SYDNEY DOBELL</h2> + +<h4>(1824-1874)</h4> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 90px;"> +<img src="images/caps67.png" width="90" height="90" alt="S" title="S" /> +</div><p class="dropcap">ydney Dobell, the son of a wine merchant, was born at Cranbrook in +Kent. His parents, both persons of strong individuality, believed in +home training, and not one of their eight children went either to +school or to university. They belonged to the Broad Church Community +founded by Sydney's maternal grandfather, Samuel Thompson; a church +intended to recall in its principles the primitive Christian ages. The +parents looked upon Sydney, their eldest-born, as destined to become +the apostle of this creed. He grew up in a kind of religious fervor, +with his precocious mind unnaturally stimulated; a course of conduct +which materially weakened his constitution, and made him a chronic +invalid at the early age of thirty-three. He read whatever books came +to hand, many of them far beyond his years. At the age of eight he +filled his diary with theological discussions.</p> + +<p>Entering his father's counting-house as a mere lad, he remained to the +end of his life a business man of great energy. Notwithstanding his +rare poetic endowments, he never seems to have entertained a +single-minded purpose to be a poet and nothing more. On the contrary, +he thought the ideal and the practical life perfectly compatible, and +he strove to unite in himself the poet and the man of affairs. He +wrote habitually until 1856, when regular literary work was forbidden +by his physicians. With characteristic energy he now turned his +thoughts into other channels; identified himself with the affairs of +Gloucester, where he was living, looked after his business, and was +one of the first to adopt the system of industrial co-operation. The +last four years of his life, a period of suffering and helplessness, +he spent at Barton-End House, above the Stroud valley, where he died +in the spring of 1874.</p> + +<p>In the work of Dobell it is curious to find so few traces of the +influences under which he grew up. He had every encouragement to +become a writer of religious poetry; yet much of his work is +philosophic and recondite. His delicate health is in a measure +responsible for his failure to achieve the success which his natural +endowments promised. All his literary work was done between the ages +of twenty-three and thirty-three. 'The Roman,' his first long poem, +appeared in 1850. Dedicated to the Italian struggle for liberty, it +showed his breadth of sympathy. In 'Balder,' finished in 1853, +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4734" id="Page_4734">[Pg 4734]</a></span> +Dobell is at his best both as thinker and as poet. Yet its many fine +passages, its wealth of metaphor, and the exquisite songs of Amy, +hardly counterbalance the remoteness of its theme, and its over-subtle +analysis of morbid psychic states. It is a poem to be read in +fragments, and has aptly been called a mine for poets.</p> + +<p>With Alexander Smith he published in 1855 a series of sonnets inspired +by the Crimean War. This was followed in 1856 by 'England in War +Time,' a collection of Dobell's lyrical and descriptive poems, which +possess more general human interest than any other of his books.</p> + +<p>After continuous work was interdicted, he still contributed verse and +prose to the periodicals. His essays have been collected by Professor +Nichol, under the title 'Thoughts on Art, Philosophy, and Religion.' +As a poet Dobell belongs to the so-called "spasmodic school," a school +"characterized by an undercurrent of discontent with the mystery of +existence, by vain effort, unrewarded struggle, skeptical unrest, and +an uneasy striving after some incomprehensible end.... Poetry of this +kind is marked by an excess of metaphor which darkens rather than +illustrates, and by a general extravagance of language. On the other +hand, it manifests freshness and originality, and a rich natural +beauty." Dobell's descriptions of scenery are among the finest in +English literature. His senses were abnormally acute, like those of a +savage, a condition which intensified his appreciation of natural +beauty. Possessing a vivid imagination and wide sympathies, he was +often over-subtle and obscure. He strove to realize in himself his +ideal of a poet, and during his years of ill-health gave himself up to +promoting the welfare of his fellow-men; but of his seventeen years of +inactivity he says:—"The keen perception of all that should be done, +and that so bitterly cries for doing, accompanies the consciousness of +all that I might but cannot do."</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="EPIGRAM" id="EPIGRAM"></a>EPIGRAM ON THE DEATH OF EDWARD FORBES</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Nature, a jealous mistress, laid him low.<br /></span> +<span class="i1">He wooed and won her; and, by love made bold,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She showed him more than mortal man should know—<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Then slew him lest her secret should be told.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4735" id="Page_4735">[Pg 4735]</a></span></p> + +<h3><a name="MYBOY" id="MYBOY"></a>HOW'S MY BOY?</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">"Ho, <span class="smcap">sailor</span> of the sea!<br /></span> +<span class="i3">How's my boy—my boy?"—<br /></span> +<span class="i1">"What's your boy's name, good wife,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">And in what good ship sailed he?"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">"My boy John—<br /></span> +<span class="i3">He that went to sea—<br /></span> +<span class="i1">What care I for the ship, sailor?<br /></span> +<span class="i3">My boy's my boy to me.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i3">"You come back from the sea,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And not know my John?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I might as well have asked some landsman,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Yonder down in the town.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">There's not an ass in all the parish<br /></span> +<span class="i4">But knows my John.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i3">"How's my boy—my boy?<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And unless you let me know,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">I'll swear you are no sailor,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Blue jacket or no—<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Brass buttons or no, sailor,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Anchor and crown or no—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i1">"Sure, his ship was the Jolly Briton—"<br /></span> +<span class="i3">"Speak low, woman, speak low!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">"And why should I speak low, sailor,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">About my own boy John?<br /></span> +<span class="i3">If I was loud as I am proud<br /></span> +<span class="i4">I'd sing him over the town!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Why should I speak low, sailor?"—<br /></span> +<span class="i4">"That good ship went down."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i3">"How's my boy—my boy?<br /></span> +<span class="i2">What care I for the ship, sailor?<br /></span> +<span class="i4">I was never aboard her.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Be she afloat or be she aground,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Sinking or swimming, I'll be bound<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Her owners can afford her!<br /></span> +<span class="i3">I say, how's my John?"—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"Every man on board went down,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Every man aboard her."<br /></span> +</div><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4736" id="Page_4736">[Pg 4736]</a></span><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i3">"How's my boy—my boy?<br /></span> +<span class="i2">What care I for the men, sailor?<br /></span> +<span class="i4">I'm not their mother.<br /></span> +<span class="i3">How's my boy—my boy?<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Tell me of him and no other!<br /></span> +<span class="i3">How's my boy—my boy?"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="SAILOR" id="SAILOR"></a>THE SAILOR'S RETURN</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">This morn I lay a-dreaming,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">This morn, this merry morn;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When the cock crew shrill from over the hill,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I heard a bugle horn.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">And through the dream I was dreaming,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">There sighed the sigh of the sea,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And through the dream I was dreaming,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">This voice came singing to me:—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i5">"High over the breakers,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Low under the lee,<br /></span> +<span class="i8">Sing ho!<br /></span> +<span class="i8">The billow,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And the lash of the rolling sea!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i5">"Boat, boat, to the billow,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Boat, boat, to the lee!<br /></span> +<span class="i5">Love, on thy pillow,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Art thou dreaming of me?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i5">"Billow, billow, breaking,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Land us low on the lee!<br /></span> +<span class="i5">For sleeping or waking,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Sweet love, I am coming to thee!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">"High, high, o'er the breakers,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Low, low, on the lee,<br /></span> +<span class="i8">Sing ho!<br /></span> +<span class="i8">The billow<br /></span> +<span class="i4">That brings me back to thee!"<br /></span> +</div></div> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4737" id="Page_4737">[Pg 4737]</a></span></p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="AFLOAT" id="AFLOAT"></a>AFLOAT AND ASHORE</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">"Tumble and rumble, and grumble and snort,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Like a whale to starboard, a whale to port;<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Tumble and rumble, and grumble and snort,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the steamer steams thro' the sea, love!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i6">"I see the ship on the sea, love;<br /></span> +<span class="i11">I stand alone<br /></span> +<span class="i12">On this rock;<br /></span> +<span class="i9">The sea does not shock<br /></span> +<span class="i11">The stone;<br /></span> +<span class="i6">The waters around it are swirled,<br /></span> +<span class="i10">But under my feet<br /></span> +<span class="i10">I feel it go down<br /></span> +<span class="i7">To where the hemispheres meet<br /></span> +<span class="i6">At the adamant heart of the world.<br /></span> +<span class="i7">Oh that the rock would move!<br /></span> +<span class="i7">Oh that the rock would roll<br /></span> +<span class="i6">To meet thee over the sea, love!<br /></span> +<span class="i9">Surely my mighty love<br /></span> +<span class="i7">Should fill it like a soul,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">And it should bear me to thee, love;<br /></span> +<span class="i7">Like a ship on the sea, love,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Bear me, bear me, to thee, love!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i1">"Guns are thundering, seas are sundering, crowds are wondering,<br /></span> +<span class="i10">Low on our lee, love.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Over and over the cannon-clouds cover brother and lover, but over and over<br /></span> +<span class="i5">The whirl-wheels trundle the sea, love;<br /></span> +<span class="i3">And on through the loud pealing pomp of her cloud<br /></span> +<span class="i5">The great ship is going to thee, love,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Blind to her mark, like a world through the dark,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Thundering, sundering, to the crowds wondering,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Thundering over to thee, love."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i3">"I have come down to thee coming to me, love;<br /></span> +<span class="i10">I stand, I stand<br /></span> +<span class="i10">On the solid sand;<br /></span> +<span class="i6">I see thee coming to me, love;<br /></span> +<span class="i6">The sea runs up to me on the sand:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I start—'tis as if thou hadst stretched thine hand<br /></span> +<span class="i6">And touched me through the sea, love.<br /></span> +<span class="i5">I feel as if I must die,<br /></span> +<span class="i5">For there's something longs to fly,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Fly and fly, to thee, love.<br /></span> +</div><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4738" id="Page_4738">[Pg 4738]</a></span><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">As the blood of the flower ere she blows<br /></span> +<span class="i7">Is beating up to the sun,<br /></span> +<span class="i5">And her roots do hold her down,<br /></span> +<span class="i5">And it blushes and breaks undone<br /></span> +<span class="i11">In a rose,<br /></span> +<span class="i5">So my blood is beating in me, love!<br /></span> +<span class="i7">I see thee nigh and nigher;<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And my soul leaps up like sudden fire,<br /></span> +<span class="i9">My life's in the air<br /></span> +<span class="i9">To meet thee there,<br /></span> +<span class="i5">To meet thee coming to me, love!<br /></span> +<span class="i10">Over the sea,<br /></span> +<span class="i10">Coming to me,<br /></span> +<span class="i5">Coming, and coming to me, love!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">"The boats are lowered: I leap in first,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Pull, boys, pull! or my heart will burst!<br /></span> +<span class="i6">More! more!—lend me an oar!—<br /></span> +<span class="i4">I'm thro' the breakers! I'm on the shore!<br /></span> +<span class="i6">I see thee waiting for me, love!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i9">"A sudden storm<br /></span> +<span class="i10">Of sighs and tears,<br /></span> +<span class="i9">A clenching arm,<br /></span> +<span class="i10">A look of years.<br /></span> +<span class="i7">In my bosom a thousand cries,<br /></span> +<span class="i7">A flash like light before my eyes,<br /></span> +<span class="i7">And I am lost in thee, love!"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="SOUL" id="SOUL"></a>THE SOUL</h3> + +<h4>From 'Balder'</h4> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And as the mounting and descending bark,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Borne on exulting by the under deep,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Gains of the wild wave something not the wave,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Catches a joy of going and a will<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Resistless, and upon the last lee foam<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Leaps into air beyond it,—so the soul<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Upon the Alpine ocean mountain-tossed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Incessant carried up to heaven, and plunged<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To darkness, and, still wet with drops of death,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Held into light eternal, and again<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Cast down, to be again uplift in vast<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And infinite succession, cannot stay<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The mad momentum.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4739" id="Page_4739">[Pg 4739]</a></span></p> +<h3><a name="ENGLAND" id="ENGLAND"></a>ENGLAND</h3> + +<h4>From 'Balder'</h4> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">This dear English land!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This happy England, loud with brooks and birds,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shining with harvests, cool with dewy trees,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And bloomed from hill to dell: but whose best flowers<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Are daughters, and Ophelia still more fair<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Than any rose she weaves; whose noblest floods<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The pulsing torrent of a nation's heart;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whose forests stronger than her native oaks<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Are living men; and whose unfathomed lakes,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Forever calm, the unforgotten dead<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In quiet grave-yards willowed seemly round,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O'er which To-day bends sad, and sees his face.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whose rocks are rights, consolidate of old<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Through unremembered years, around whose base<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The ever-surging peoples roll and roar<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Perpetual, as around her cliffs the seas<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That only wash them whiter; and whose mountains,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Souls that from this mere footing of the earth<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lift their great virtues through all clouds of Fate<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Up to the very heavens, and make them rise<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To keep the gods above us!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="AMERICA" id="AMERICA"></a>AMERICA</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i1">Nor force nor fraud shall sunder us! O ye<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Who north or south, or east or western land,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Native to noble sounds, say truth for truth,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Freedom for freedom, love for love, and God<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For God; O ye who in eternal youth<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Speak with a living and creative flood<br /></span> +<span class="i1">This universal English, and do stand<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Its breathing book; live worthy of that grand<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Heroic utterance—parted, yet a whole,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Far, yet unsevered,—children brave and free<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of the great Mother tongue, and ye shall be<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Lords of an empire wide as Shakespeare's soul,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Sublime as Milton's immemorial theme,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And rich as Chaucer's speech, and fair as Spenser's dream.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4740" id="Page_4740">[Pg 4740]</a></span></p> +<h3><a name="AMY" id="AMY"></a>AMY'S SONG OF THE WILLOW</h3> + +<h4>From 'Balder'</h4> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The years they come, and the years they go,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Like winds that blow from sea to sea;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From dark to dark they come and go,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">All in the dew-fall and the rain.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Down by the stream there be two sweet willows,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">—Hush thee, babe, while the wild winds blow,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">One hale, one blighted, two wedded willows,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">All in the dew-fall and the rain.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">She is blighted, the fair young willow;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">—Hush thee, babe, while the wild winds blow,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She hears the spring-blood beat in the bark;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She hears the spring-leaf bud on the bough;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But she bends blighted, the wan weeping willow,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">All in the dew-fall and the rain.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The stream runs sparkling under the willow,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">—Hush thee, babe, while the wild winds blow,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The summer rose-leaves drop in the stream;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The winter oak-leaves drop in the stream;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But she bends blighted, the wan weeping willow,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">All in the dew-fall and the rain.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Sometimes the wind lifts the bright stream to her,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">—Hush thee, babe, while the wild winds blow,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The false stream sinks, and her tears fall faster;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Because she touched it her tears fall faster;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Over the stream her tears fall faster,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">All in the sunshine or the rain.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The years they come, and the years they go;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Sing well-away, sing well-away!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And under mine eyes shines the bright life-river;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Sing well-away, sing well-away!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sweet sounds the spring in the hale green willow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The goodly green willow, the green waving willow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sweet in the willow, the wind-whispering willow;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Sing well-away, sing well-away!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But I bend blighted, the wan weeping willow,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">All in the sun, and the dew, and the rain.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4741" id="Page_4741">[Pg 4741]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="AUSTIN_DOBSON" id="AUSTIN_DOBSON"></a>AUSTIN DOBSON</h2> + +<h4>(1840-)</h4> + +<h4>BY ESTHER SINGLETON</h4> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 90px;"> +<img src="images/capa75.png" width="90" height="90" alt="A" title="A" /> +</div><p class="dropcap">t first thought it seems difficult to consider Austin Dobson as +belonging to the Victorian period, so entirely is he saturated with +the spirit of the eighteenth century. A careful study of his verse +reveals the fact that the Georgian era, seen through the vista of his +poetic imagination, is divested of all that is coarse, dark, gross, +and prosaic. The mental atmosphere and the types and characters that +he gives, express only beauty and charm.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 180px;"> +<img src="images/Illus075.png" width="180" height="220" alt="Austin Dobson" title="Austin Dobson" /> +<span class="caption"><span class="smcap">Austin Dobson</span></span> +</div> + +<p>One approaches the poems of Austin Dobson +as one stands before a rare collection +of enamels, fan-mounts, jeweled snuff-boxes, +and delicate carvings in ivory and silver; and +after delighting in the beauty and finish of +these graceful curios, passes into a gallery of +paintings and water-colors, suggesting Watteau, +Fragonard, Boucher, Meissonier, and +Greuze. We also wander among trim box-hedges +and quaint gardens of roses and bright +hollyhocks; lean by sun-dials to watch the +shadow of Time; and enjoy the sight of gay +belles, patched and powdered and dressed in +brocaded gowns and gypsy hats. Gallant +beaux, such as are associated with Reynolds's +portraits, appear, and hand them into sedan-chairs or lead them +through stately minuets to the notes of Rameau, Couperin, and Arne.</p> + +<p>Just as the scent of rose-leaves, lavender, and musk rises from +antique Chinese jars, so Dobson's delicate verse reconstructs a life</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Of fashion gone, and half-forgotten ways."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>He is equally at home in France. Nothing could be more sympathetic +and exquisite than 'A Revolutionary Relic,' 'The Curé's +Progress,' 'Une Marquise,' and the 'Proverbs in Porcelain,' one of +which is cited below.</p> + +<p>In the 'Vers de Société,' as well as his other poetry, Dobson +fulfills all the requirements of light verse—charm, mockery, pathos, +banter, and, while apparently skimming the surface, often shows us +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4742" id="Page_4742">[Pg 4742]</a></span> +the strange depths of the human heart. He blends so many qualities +that he deserves the praise of T.B. Aldrich, who says, "Austin +Dobson has the grace of Suckling and the finish of Herrick, and is +easily master of both in metrical art."</p> + +<p>Henry Austin Dobson, the son of Mr. George Clarisse Dobson, a civil +engineer, was born in Plymouth, England, January 18th 1840. His early +years were spent in Anglesea, and after receiving his education in +Beaumaris, Coventry, and Strasburg, he returned to England to become a +civil engineer. In 1856 he entered the civil service of Great Britain, +and ever since that date he has held offices in the Board of Trade. +His leisure was devoted to literature, and when Anthony Trollope first +issued his magazine St. Paul's in 1868, he introduced to the public +the verse of Austin Dobson. In 1873 his fugitive poems were published +in a small volume entitled 'Vignettes in Rhyme' and 'Vers de Société.' +This was followed in 1877 by 'Proverbs in Porcelain,' and both books, +with additional poems, were printed again in two volumes: 'Old World +Idylls' (1883), and 'At the Sign of the Lyre' (1885). Mr. Dobson's +original essays are contained in three volumes: 'Four Frenchwomen,' +studies of Charlotte Corday, Madame Roland, the Princess de Lamballe, +and Madame de Genlis (1890), and 'Eighteenth-Century Vignettes' (first +series 1892, second series 1894), which touch upon a host of +picturesque and fascinating themes. He has written also several +biographies: of Hogarth, of Fielding, of Steele (1886), of Goldsmith +(1888), and a 'Memoir of Horace Walpole' (1890). He has also written +felicitous critical introductions to many new editions of the +eighteenth-century classics.</p> + +<p>Austin Dobson has been most happy in breathing English life into +the old poems of French verse, such as ballades, villanelles, roundels, +and rondeaux; and he has also written clever and satirical +fables, cast in the form and temper of Gay and Prior, with quaint +obsolete affectations, redolent of the classic age of Anne.</p> + +<p>So serious is his attitude towards art, and so large his audience, +that the hope expressed in the following rondeau will certainly be +realized:—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">In after days, when grasses high<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O'er-top the stone where I shall lie,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Though ill or well the world adjust<br /></span> +<span class="i1">My slender claim to honored dust,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I shall not question nor reply.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I shall not see the morning sky,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I shall not hear the night-wind sigh;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">I shall be mute, as all men must,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">In after days.<br /></span> +</div><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4743" id="Page_4743">[Pg 4743]</a></span><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But yet, now living, fain were I<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That some one then should testify,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Saying—<i>He held his pen in trust</i><br /></span> +<span class="i1"><i>To Art, not serving shame or lust.</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Will none?—Then let my memory die<br /></span> +<span class="i6">In after days!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 358px;"> +<img src="images/sign077.png" width="358" height="96" alt="Esther Singleton" title="Esther Singleton" /> +</div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="NANKIN" id="NANKIN"></a>ON A NANKIN PLATE</h3> + +<h4><span class="smcap">Villanelle</span></h4> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Ah me, but it might have been!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was there ever so dismal a fate?"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Quoth the little blue mandarin.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Such a maid as was never seen:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She passed, tho' I cried to her, 'Wait,'—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ah me, but it might have been!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"I cried, 'O my Flower, my Queen,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Be mine!'—'Twas precipitate,"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Quoth the little blue mandarin.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"But then ... she was just sixteen,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Long-eyed, as a lily straight,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ah me, but it might have been!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"As it was, from her palankeen<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She laughed—'You're a week too late!'"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(Quoth the little blue mandarin.)<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"That is why, in a mist of spleen<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I mourn on this Nankin Plate.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ah me, but it might have been!"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Quoth the little blue mandarin.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4744" id="Page_4744">[Pg 4744]</a></span></p> +<h3><a name="SEDAN" id="SEDAN"></a>THE OLD SEDAN-CHAIR</h3> + +<div class="blockquot"><div class="poem"> +<span class="i0">"What's not destroyed by Time's devouring Hand?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where's Troy,—and where's the May-Pole in the Strand?"<br /></span> +<span class="i16">—<span class="smcap">Bramston's 'Art of Politicks.'</span><br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">It stands in the stable-yard, under the eaves,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Propped up by a broomstick and covered with leaves;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It once was the pride of the gay and the fair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But now 'tis a ruin,—that old Sedan-chair!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">It is battered and tattered,—it little avails<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That once it was lacquered, and glistened with nails;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For its leather is cracked into lozenge and square<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like a canvas by Wilkie,—that old Sedan-chair.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">See, here come the bearing-straps; here were the holes<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For the poles of the bearers—when once there were poles;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It was cushioned with silk, it was wadded with hair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As the birds have discovered,—that old Sedan-chair.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Where's Troy?" says the poet! Look; under the seat<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is a nest with four eggs; 'tis a favored retreat<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of the Muscovy hen, who has hatched, I dare swear,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Quite an army of chicks in that old Sedan-chair.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And yet—Can't you fancy a face in the frame<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of the window,—some high-headed damsel or dame,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Be-patched and be-powdered, just set by the stair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While they raise up the lid of that old Sedan-chair?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Can't you fancy Sir Plume, as beside her he stands,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With his ruffles a-droop on his delicate hands,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With his cinnamon coat, with his laced solitaire,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As he lifts her out light from that old Sedan-chair?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then it swings away slowly. Ah, many a league<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It has trotted 'twixt sturdy-legged Terence and Teague;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Stout fellows!—but prone, on a question of fare,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To brandish the poles of that old Sedan-chair!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">It has waited by portals where Garrick has played;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It has waited by Heidegger's "Grand Masquerade";<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For my Lady Codille, for my Lady Bellair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It has waited—and waited, that old Sedan-chair!<br /></span> +</div><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4745" id="Page_4745">[Pg 4745]</a></span><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Oh, the scandals it knows! Oh, the tales it could tell<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of Drum and Ridotto, of Rake and of Belle,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of Cock-fight and Levee, and (scarcely more rare!)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of Fête-days at Tyburn, that old Sedan-chair!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"<i>Heu! quantum mutata</i>," I say as I go.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It deserves better fate than a stable-yard, though!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We must furbish it up, and dispatch it,—"With Care,"—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To a Fine-Art Museum—that old Sedan-chair.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="BALLAD" id="BALLAD"></a>THE BALLAD OF PROSE AND RHYME</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When the ways are heavy with mire and rut,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">In November fogs, in December snows,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When the North Wind howls, and the doors are shut,—<br /></span> +<span class="i1">There is place and enough for the pains of prose;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">But whenever a scent from the whitethorn blows,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the jasmine-stars at the casement climb,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And a Rosalind-face at the lattice shows,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then hey! for the ripple of laughing rhyme!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When the brain gets dry as an empty nut,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">When the reason stands on its squarest toes,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When the mind (like a beard) has a "formal cut,"—<br /></span> +<span class="i1">There is place and enough for the pains of prose;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">But whenever the May-blood stirs and glows,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the young year draws to the "golden prime,"<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And Sir Romeo sticks in his ear a rose,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then hey! for the ripple of laughing rhyme!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">In a theme where the thoughts have a pedant-strut,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">In a changing quarrel of "Ayes" and "Noes,"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In a starched procession of "If" and "But,"—<br /></span> +<span class="i1">There is place and enough for the pains of prose;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">But whenever a soft glance softer grows<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the light hours dance to the trysting-time,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And the secret is told "that no one knows,"—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then hey! for the ripple of laughing rhyme!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<h4><span class="smcap">Envoy</span></h4> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">In the work-a-day world,—for its needs and woes,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There is place and enough for the pains of prose;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But whenever the May-bells clash and chime,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then hey! for the ripple of laughing rhyme!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4746" id="Page_4746">[Pg 4746]</a></span></p> +<h3><a name="THE_CURES_PROGRESS" id="THE_CURES_PROGRESS"></a>THE CURÉ'S PROGRESS</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Monsieur The Curé down the street<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Comes with his kind old face,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With his coat worn bare, and his straggling hair,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And his green umbrella-case.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">You may see him pass by the little "<i>Grande Place</i>,"<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And the tiny "<i>Hôtel-de-Ville</i>";<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He smiles as he goes, to the <i>fleuriste</i> Rose,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And the <i>pompier</i> Théophile.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He turns as a rule through the "<i>Marché</i>" cool,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Where the noisy fishwives call;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And his compliment pays to the "<i>belle Thérèse</i>,"<br /></span> +<span class="i1">As she knits in her dusky stall.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There's a letter to drop at the locksmith's shop,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And Toto, the locksmith's niece,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Has jubilant hopes, for the Curé gropes<br /></span> +<span class="i1">In his tails for a <i>pain d'épice</i>.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There's a little dispute with a merchant of fruit<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Who is said to be heterodox,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That will ended be with a "<i>Ma foi, oui!</i>"<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And a pinch from the Curé's box.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There is also a word that no one heard<br /></span> +<span class="i1">To the furrier's daughter Lou;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And a pale cheek fed with a flickering red,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And a "<i>Bon Dieu garde M'sieu!</i>"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But a grander way for the <i>Sous-Préfet</i>,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And a bow for Ma'am'selle Anne;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And a mock "off-hat" to the Notary's cat,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And a nod to the Sacristan:—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">For ever through life the Curé goes<br /></span> +<span class="i1">With a smile on his kind old face—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With his coat worn bare, and his straggling hair.<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And his green umbrella-case.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4747" id="Page_4747">[Pg 4747]</a></span></p> +<h3><a name="GOOD-NIGHT_BABETTE" id="GOOD-NIGHT_BABETTE"></a>"GOOD-NIGHT, BABETTE"</h3> + +<h4>"Si vieillesse pouvait!"</h4> + + +<div class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Scene.</span>—<i>A small neat room. In a high Voltaire chair sits a white-haired +old gentleman.</i></p></div> + +<p class="char"><span class="smcap">M. VIEUXBOIS</span> [<i>turning querulously</i>]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Day of my life! Where <i>can</i> she get?<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Babette</span>! I Say! <span class="smcap">Babette!—Babette!</span><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="char"><span class="smcap">BABETTE</span> [<i>entering hurriedly</i>]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Coming, M'sieu'! If M'sieu' speaks<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So loud, he won't be well for weeks!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="char"><span class="smcap">M. VIEUXBOIS</span></p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Where have you been?</span> +</div></div> + +<p class="char"><span class="smcap">BABETTE</span></p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 12em;">Why, M'sieu' knows:—</span></p> +<p>April!... Ville-d' Avray!... Ma'm'selle <span class="smcap">Rose</span>!</p> + +<p class="char"><span class="smcap">M. VIEUXBOIS</span></p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Ah! I am old,—and I forget.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was the place growing green, <span class="smcap">Babette</span>?<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="char"><span class="smcap">BABETTE</span></p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But of a greenness!—Yes, M'sieu'!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And then the sky so blue!—so blue!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And when I dropped my <i>immortelle</i>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How the birds sang!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">[<i>Lifting her apron to her eyes.</i>]<br /></span> +<span class="i10">This poor Ma'm'selle!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="char"><span class="smcap">M. VIEUXBOIS</span></p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">You're a good girl, <span class="smcap">Babette</span>, but she,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She was an angel, verily.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sometimes I think I see her yet<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Stand smiling by the cabinet;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And once, I know, she peeped and laughed<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Betwixt the curtains....<br /></span> +<span class="i12">Where's the draught?<br /></span> +<span class="i2">[<i>She gives him a cup.</i>]<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Now I shall sleep, I think, <span class="smcap">Babette</span>;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sing me your Norman <i>chansonnette</i>.<br /></span> +</div></div> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4748" id="Page_4748">[Pg 4748]</a></span></p> + +<p class="char"><span class="smcap">BABETTE</span> [<i>sings</i>]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i3">"<i>Once at the Angelus</i><br /></span> +<span class="i4"><i>(Ere I was dead),</i><br /></span> +<span class="i3"><i>Angels all glorious</i><br /></span> +<span class="i4"><i>Came to my bed;—</i><br /></span> +<span class="i3"><i>Angels in blue and white,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i4"><i>Crowned on the head.</i>"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="char"><span class="smcap">M. VIEUXBOIS</span> [<i>drowsily</i>]</p> + +<p>"She was an Angel" ... "Once she laughed" ...</p> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">What! was I dreaming?<br /></span> +<span class="i12">Where's the draught?<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="char"><span class="smcap">BABETTE</span> [<i>showing the empty cup</i>]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The draught, M'sieu'?<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="char"><span class="smcap">M. VIEUXBOIS</span></p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i8">How I forget!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I am so old! But sing, <span class="smcap">Babette</span>!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="char"><span class="smcap">BABETTE</span> [<i>sings</i>]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i3">"<i>One was the Friend I left</i><br /></span> +<span class="i4"><i>Stark in the Snow;</i><br /></span> +<span class="i3"><i>One was the Wife that died</i><br /></span> +<span class="i4"><i>Long,—long ago;</i><br /></span> +<span class="i3"><i>One was the Love I lost—</i><br /></span> +<span class="i4"><i>How could she know?</i>"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="char"><span class="smcap">M. VIEUXBOIS</span> [<i>murmuring</i>]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Ah <span class="smcap">Paul</span>! ... old <span class="smcap">Paul</span>! ... <span class="smcap">Eulalie</span>, too!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And <span class="smcap">Rose</span> ... And O! "the sky so blue!"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="char"><span class="smcap">BABETTE</span> [<i>sings</i>]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i3">"<i>One had my Mother's eyes,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i4"><i>Wistful and mild;</i><br /></span> +<span class="i3"><i>One had my Father's face;</i><br /></span> +<span class="i4"><i>One was a Child:</i><br /></span> +<span class="i3"><i>All of them bent to me,—</i><br /></span> +<span class="i4"><i>Bent down and smiled!</i>"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">[He is asleep!]<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="char"><span class="smcap">M. VIEUXBOIS</span> [<i>almost inaudibly</i>]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i8">How I forget!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I am so old!... Good-night, <span class="smcap">Babette</span>!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4749" id="Page_4749">[Pg 4749]</a></span></p> +<h3><a name="THE_LADIES_OF_ST_JAMESS" id="THE_LADIES_OF_ST_JAMESS"></a>THE LADIES OF ST. JAMES'S</h3> + +<h4><span class="smcap">A Proper New Ballad of the Country and the Town</span></h4> + +<h4>"Phyllida amo ante alias."—<span class="smcap">Virgil</span>.</h4> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The ladies of St. James's<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Go swinging to the play;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Their footmen run before them<br /></span> +<span class="i1">With a "Stand by! Clear the way!"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But Phyllida, my Phyllida!<br /></span> +<span class="i1">She takes her buckled shoon,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When we go out a-courting<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Beneath the harvest moon.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The ladies of St. James's<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Wear satin on their backs;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They sit all night at <i>Ombre</i>,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">With candles all of wax:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But Phyllida, my Phyllida!<br /></span> +<span class="i1">She dons her russet gown,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And runs to gather May-dew<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Before the world is down.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The ladies of St. James's!<br /></span> +<span class="i1">They are so fine and fair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You'd think a box of essences<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Was broken in the air:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But Phyllida, my Phyllida!<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The breath of heath and furze,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When breezes blow at morning,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Is not so fresh as hers.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The ladies of St. James's!<br /></span> +<span class="i1">They're painted to the eyes;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Their white it stays forever,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Their red it never dies:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But Phyllida, my Phyllida!<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Her color comes and goes;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It trembles to a lily,—<br /></span> +<span class="i1">It wavers like a rose,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The ladies of St. James's!<br /></span> +<span class="i1">You scarce can understand<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The half of all their speeches,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Their phrases are so grand:<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4750" id="Page_4750">[Pg 4750]</a></span><span class="i0">But Phyllida, my Phyllida!<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Her shy and simple words<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Are clear as after rain-drops<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The music of the birds.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The ladies of St. James's!<br /></span> +<span class="i1">They have their fits and freaks;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They smile on you—for seconds;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">They frown on you—for weeks:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But Phyllida, my Phyllida!<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Come either storm or shine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From Shrove-tide unto Shrove-tide,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Is always true—and mine.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">My Phyllida! my Phyllida!<br /></span> +<span class="i1">I care not though they heap<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The hearts of all St. James's,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And give me all to keep;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I care not whose the beauties<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Of all the world may be,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For Phyllida, my Phyllida,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Is all the world to me.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="DORA_VERSUS_ROSE" id="DORA_VERSUS_ROSE"></a>DORA <i>VERSUS</i> ROSE</h3> + +<h4>"The Case is Proceeding"</h4> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">From the tragic-est novels at Mudie's—<br /></span> +<span class="i1">At least on a practical plan—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To the tales of mere Hodges and Judys,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">One love is enough for a man.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But no case that I ever yet met is<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Like mine: I am equally fond<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of Rose, who a charming brunette is,<br /></span> +<span class="i8">And Dora, a blonde.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Each rivals the other in powers—<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Each waltzes, each warbles, each paints—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Miss Rose, chiefly tumble-down towers;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Miss Do., perpendicular saints.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In short, to distinguish is folly;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">'Twixt the pair I am come to the pass<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of Macheath, between Lucy and Polly,—<br /></span> +<span class="i8">Or Buridan's ass.<br /></span> +</div><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4751" id="Page_4751">[Pg 4751]</a></span><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">If it happens that Rosa I've singled<br /></span> +<span class="i1">For a soft celebration in rhyme,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then the ringlets of Dora get mingled<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Somehow with the tune and the time;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or I painfully pen me a sonnet<br /></span> +<span class="i1">To an eyebrow intended for Do.'s,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And behold I am writing upon it<br /></span> +<span class="i8">The legend, "To Rose."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Or I try to draw Dora (my blotter<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Is all over scrawled with her head),<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If I fancy at last that I've got her,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">It turns to her rival instead;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or I find myself placidly adding<br /></span> +<span class="i1">To the rapturous tresses of Rose<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Miss Dora's bud-mouth, and her madding,<br /></span> +<span class="i8">Ineffable nose.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Was there ever so sad a dilemma?<br /></span> +<span class="i1">For Rose I would perish (<i>pro tem.</i>);<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For Dora I'd willingly stem a—<br /></span> +<span class="i1">(Whatever might offer to stem);<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But to make the invidious election,—<br /></span> +<span class="i1">To declare that on either one's side<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I've a scruple,—a grain,—more affection,<br /></span> +<span class="i8">I <i>cannot</i> decide.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And as either so hopelessly nice is,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">My sole and my final resource<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is to wait some indefinite crisis,—<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Some feat of molecular force,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To solve me this riddle conducive<br /></span> +<span class="i1">By no means to peace or repose,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Since the issue can scarce be inclusive<br /></span> +<span class="i8">Of Dora <i>and</i> Rose.<br /></span> +</div></div> +<h4>(<span class="smcap">After-thought</span>)</h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But perhaps if a third (say, a Norah),<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Not quite so delightful as Rose,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor wholly so charming as Dora,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Should appear, is it wrong to suppose,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As the claims of the others are equal,—<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And flight—in the main—is the best,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That I might ... But no matter,—the sequel<br /></span> +<span class="i8">Is easily guessed.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4752" id="Page_4752">[Pg 4752]</a></span></p> +<h3><a name="UNE_MARQUISE" id="UNE_MARQUISE"></a>UNE MARQUISE</h3> + +<h4><span class="smcap">A Rhymed Monologue in the Louvre</span></h4> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"Belle Marquise, vos beaux yeux me font mourir d'amour."</p></div> +<p style='text-align:right;'>—<span class="smcap">Molière.</span></p> + + +<h4>I</h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">As you sit there at your ease,<br /></span> +<span class="i8">O Marquise!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the men flock round your knees<br /></span> +<span class="i8">Thick as bees,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mute at every word you utter,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Servants to your least frill-flutter,<br /></span> +<span class="i8">"<i>Belle Marquise!</i>"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As you sit there, growing prouder,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And your ringed hands glance and go,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And your fan's <i>frou-frou</i> sounds louder,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And your "<i>beaux yeux</i>" flash and glow;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ah, you used them on the Painter,<br /></span> +<span class="i8">As you know,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For the Sieur Larose spoke fainter,<br /></span> +<span class="i8">Bowing low,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thanked Madame and Heaven for Mercy<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That each sitter was not Circe,—<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Or at least he told you so;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Growing proud, I say, and prouder<br /></span> +<span class="i1">To the crowd that come and go,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dainty Deity of Powder,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Fickle Queen of Fop and Beau,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As you sit where lustres strike you,<br /></span> +<span class="i8">Sure to please,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Do we love you most, or like you,<br /></span> +<span class="i8">"<i>Belle Marquise!</i>"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<h4>II</h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">You are fair; oh yes, we know it<br /></span> +<span class="i8">Well, Marquise;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For he swore it, your last poet,<br /></span> +<span class="i8">On his knees;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And he called all heaven to witness<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of his ballad and its fitness,<br /></span> +<span class="i8">"<i>Belle Marquise!</i>"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You were everything in <i>ère</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0">(With exception of <i>sévère</i>),—<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4753" id="Page_4753">[Pg 4753]</a></span><span class="i0">You were <i>cruelle</i> and <i>rebelle</i>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With the rest of rhymes as well;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You were "<i>Reine</i>" and "<i>Mère d' Amour</i>";<br /></span> +<span class="i1">You were "<i>Vénus à Cythère</i>";<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"<i>Sappho mise en Pompadour</i>,"<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And "<i>Minerve en Paravère</i>";<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You had every grace of heaven<br /></span> +<span class="i1">In your most angelic face,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With the nameless finer leaven<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Lent of blood and courtly race;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And he added, too, in duty,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ninon's wit and Boufflers's beauty;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And La Valliere's <i>yeux veloutés</i><br /></span> +<span class="i8">Followed these;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And you liked it, when he said it<br /></span> +<span class="i8">(On his knees),<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And you kept it, and you read it,<br /></span> +<span class="i8">"<i>Belle Marquise!</i>"<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<h4>III</h4> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Yet with us your toilet graces<br /></span> +<span class="i8">Fail to please,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the last of your last faces,<br /></span> +<span class="i8">And your <i>mise</i>;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For we hold you just as real,<br /></span> +<span class="i8">"<i>Belle Marquise!</i>"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As your <i>Bergers</i> and <i>Bergères</i>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Tes d' Amour</i> and <i>Batelières</i>;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As your <i>pares</i>, and your Versailles,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Gardens, grottoes, and <i>socailles</i>;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As your Naiads and your trees;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Just as near the old ideal<br /></span> +<span class="i8">Calm and ease,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As the Venus there by Coustou,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">That a fan would make quite flighty,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is to her the gods were used to,—<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Is to grand Greek Aphroditè,<br /></span> +<span class="i8">Sprung from seas.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You are just a porcelain trifle,<br /></span> +<span class="i8">"<i>Belle Marquise!</i>"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Just a thing of puffs and patches<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Made for madrigals and catches,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Not for heart wounds, but for scratches,<br /></span> +<span class="i8">O Marquise!<br /></span> +</div><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4754" id="Page_4754">[Pg 4754]</a></span><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Just a pinky porcelain trifle,<br /></span> +<span class="i8">"<i>Belle Marquise!</i>"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wrought in rarest <i>rose-Dubarry,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Quick at verbal point and parry,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Clever, doubtless;—but to marry,<br /></span> +<span class="i8">No, Marquise!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<h4>IV</h4> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">For your Cupid, you have clipped him,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rouged and patched him, nipped and snipped him,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And with <i>chapeau-bras</i> equipped him,<br /></span> +<span class="i8">"<i>Belle Marquise!</i>"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Just to arm you through your wife-time,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the languors of your lifetime,<br /></span> +<span class="i8">"<i>Belle Marquise!</i>"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Say, to trim your toilet tapers<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or—to twist your hair in papers,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or—to wean you from the vapors;—<br /></span> +<span class="i8">As for these,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You are worth the love they give you,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till a fairer face outlive you,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Or a younger grace shall please;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till the coming of the crows'-feet,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the backward turn of beaux' feet,<br /></span> +<span class="i8">"<i>Belle Marquise!</i>"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till your frothed-out life's commotion<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Settles down to Ennui's ocean,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or a dainty sham devotion,<br /></span> +<span class="i8">"<i>Belle Marquise!</i>"<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<h4>V</h4> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">No: we neither like nor love you,<br /></span> +<span class="i8">"<i>Belle Marquise!</i>"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lesser lights we place above you,—<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Milder merits better please.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We have passed from <i>Philosophe</i>-dom<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Into plainer modern days,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Grown contented in our oafdom,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Giving grace not all the praise;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And, <i>en partant, Arsinoé</i>,—<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Without malice whatsoever,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We shall counsel to our Chloë<br /></span> +<span class="i1">To be rather good than clever;<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4755" id="Page_4755">[Pg 4755]</a></span><span class="i0">For we find it hard to smother<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Just one little thought, Marquise!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wittier perhaps than any other,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You were neither Wife nor Mother.<br /></span> +<span class="i8">"<i>Belle Marquise!</i>"<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="A_BALLAD_TO_QUEEN_ELIZABETH" id="A_BALLAD_TO_QUEEN_ELIZABETH"></a>A BALLAD TO QUEEN ELIZABETH</h3> +<h4><span class="smcap">Of the Spanish Armada</span></h4> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">King Philip had vaunted his claims;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">He had sworn for a year he would sack us;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With an army of heathenish names<br /></span> +<span class="i1">He was coming to fagot and stack us;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Like the thieves of the sea he would track us,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And shatter our ships on the main;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">But we had bold Neptune to back us,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And where are the galleons of Spain?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">His carackes were christened of dames<br /></span> +<span class="i1">To the kirtles whereof he would tack us;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With his saints and his gilded stern-frames,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">He had thought like an egg-shell to crack us;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Now Howard may get to his Flaccus,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And Drake to his Devon again,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And Hawkins bowl rubbers to Bacchus,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For where are the galleons of Spain?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Let his Majesty hang to St. James<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The axe that he whetted to hack us:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He must play at some lustier games.<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Or at sea he can hope to out-thwack us;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">To his mines of Peru he would pack us<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To tug at his bullet and chain;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Alas! that his Greatness should lack us!—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But where are the galleons of Spain?<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<h4><span class="smcap">Envoy</span></h4> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i1"><span class="smcap">Gloriana!</span>—the Don may attack us<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whenever his stomach be fain;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">He must reach us before he can rack us,...<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And where are the galleons of Spain?<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4756" id="Page_4756">[Pg 4756]</a></span></p> +<h3><a name="THE_PRINCESS_DE_LAMBALLE" id="THE_PRINCESS_DE_LAMBALLE"></a>THE PRINCESS DE LAMBALLE</h3> + +<h4>From 'Four Frenchwomen'</h4> + + +<p>A tender wife, a loving daughter, and a loyal friend,—shall we not +here lay down upon the grave of Marie de Lamballe our reverential +tribute, our little chaplet of <i>immortelles</i>, in the name of all good +women, wives, and daughters?</p> + +<p>"<i>Elle était mieux femme que les autres.</i>"<a name="FNanchor_A_2" id="FNanchor_A_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_A_2" class="fnanchor">[A]</a> To us that apparently +indefinite, exquisitely definite sentence most fitly marks +the distinction between the subjects of the two preceding papers +and the subject of the present. It is a transition from the +stately figure of a marble Agrippina to the breathing, feeling +woman at your side; it is the transition from the statuesque +Rachelesque heroines of a David to the "small sweet idyl" of +a Greuze. And, we confess it, we were not wholly at ease +with those tragic, majestic figures. We shuddered at the dagger +and the bowl which suited them so well. We marveled at their +bloodless serenity, their superhuman self-sufficiency; inly we +questioned if they breathed and felt. Or was their circulation a +matter of machinery—a mere dead-beat escapement? We longed +for the <i>sexe prononcé</i> of Rivarol—we longed for the showman's +"female woman!" We respected and we studied, but we did +not love them. With Madame de Lamballe the case is otherwise. +Not grand like this one, not heroic like that one, "<i>elle est +mieux femme que les autres</i>."</p> + +<p>She at least is woman—after a fairer fashion—after a truer +type. Not intellectually strong like Manon Philipon, not Spartan-souled +like Marie de Corday, she has still a rare intelligence, +a courage of affection. She has that <i>clairvoyance</i> of the heart +which supersedes all the stimulants of mottoes from Reynel or +maxims from Rousseau; she has that "angel instinct" which is +a juster lawgiver than Justinian. It was thought praise to say +of the Girondist lady that she was a greater man than her husband; +it is praise to say of this queen's friend that she was +more woman than Madame Roland. Not so grand, not so great, +we like the princess best. <i>Elle est mieux femme que les autres.</i></p> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_A_2" id="Footnote_A_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor_A_2"><span class="label">[A]</span></a> She was more woman than the others.</p></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4757" id="Page_4757">[Pg 4757]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="MARY_MAPES_DODGE" id="MARY_MAPES_DODGE"></a>MARY MAPES DODGE</h2> + +<h4>(1840?-)</h4> + + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 90px;"> +<img src="images/capt091.png" width="90" height="90" alt="T" title="T" /> +</div><p class="dropcap">o write a story which in thirty years should pass through more than a +hundred editions, which should attain the apotheosis of an <i>edition de +luxe</i>, which should be translated into at least four foreign +languages, be allotted the Montyon prize of 1500 francs for moral as +well as literary excellence, and be crowned by the French +Academy—this is a piece of good fortune which falls to the lot of few +story-tellers. The book which has deserved so well is 'Hans Brinker, +or The Silver Skates,' a story of life in Holland. Its author, born in +New York, is a daughter of Professor James Jay Mapes, an eminent +chemist and inventor, an accomplished writer and brilliant talker.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 180px;"> +<img src="images/Illus091.png" width="180" height="220" alt="Mary Mapes Dodge" title="Mary Mapes Dodge" /> +<span class="caption"><span class="smcap">Mary Mapes Dodge</span></span> +</div> + +<p>In a household where music, art, and +literature were cultivated, and where the +most agreeable society came, talents were +not likely to be overlooked. Mrs. Dodge, +very early widowed, began writing before +she was twenty, publishing short stories, +sketches, and poems in various periodicals. +'Hans Brinker' appeared in 1864,—her delight +in Motley's histories and their appeal +to her own Dutch blood inspiring her to +write it. Of this book Mr. Frank R. Stockton +says:—</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"There are strong reasons why the fairest orange groves, the loftiest +mountain peaks, or the inspiriting waves of the rolling sea, could not +tempt average boys and girls from the level stretches of the Dutch +canals, until they had skated through the sparkling story, warmed with +a healthy glow.</p> + +<p>"This is not only a tale of vivid description, interesting and +instructive; it is a romance. There are adventures, startling and +surprising, there are mysteries of buried gold, there are the +machinations of the wicked, there is the heroism of the good, and the +gay humor of happy souls. More than these, there is love—that +sentiment which glides into a good story as naturally as into a human +life; and whether the story be for old or young, this element gives it +an ever-welcome charm. Strange fortune and good fortune come to Hans +and to Gretel, and to many other deserving characters in the tale, but +there is nothing selfish about these heroes and heroines. As soon as +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4758" id="Page_4758">[Pg 4758]</a></span> +a new generation of young people grows up to be old enough to enjoy +this perennial story, all these characters return to the days of their +youth, and are ready to act their parts again to the very end, and to +feel in their own souls, as everybody else feels, that their story is +just as new and interesting as when it was first told."</p></div> + +<p>Besides this book, Mrs. Dodge has published several volumes of +juvenile verse, such as 'Rhymes and Jingles,' and 'When Life was +Young'; a volume of serious verse, 'Along the Way'; a volume of +satirical and humorous sketches, 'Theophilus and Others'; a second +successful story for young people, 'Donald and Dorothy,' and a +number of other works. Her stories evince an unusual faculty of +construction and marked inventiveness,—inherited perhaps from +her father,—truthful characterization, literary feeling, a strong sense +of humor, and a high ethical standard. Her whimsical character +sketch, 'Miss Maloney on the Chinese Question,' which has been +reprinted thousands of times and repeated by every elocutionist in +the land, is in its way as searching a satire as Bret Harte's 'Heathen +Chinee.'</p> + +<p>Since its beginning in 1873, Mrs. Dodge has edited the St. Nicholas +Magazine, whose pages bear witness to her enormous industry.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="THE_RACE" id="THE_RACE"></a>THE RACE</h3> + +<h4>From 'Hans Brinker, or The Silver Skates,' Copyright 1896, by Charles +Scribner's Sons</h4> + + +<p>The 20th of December came at last, bringing with it the perfection of +winter weather. All over the level landscape lay the warm sunlight. +It tried its power on lake, canal, and river; but the ice flashed +defiance, and showed no sign of melting. The very weathercocks stood +still to enjoy the sight. This gave the windmills a holiday. Nearly +all the past week they had been whirling briskly; now, being rather +out of breath, they rocked lazily in the clear still air. Catch a +windmill working when the weathercocks have nothing to do!</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 541px;"> +<a name="SKATER" id="SKATER"></a> +<span class="caption"><i>THE SKATER OF THE ZUYDER ZEE.</i><br /> +Photogravure from a Painting by G. H. Boughton, A. R. A.</span> +<img src="images/Illus0422.jpg" width="541" height="1024" alt="THE SKATER OF THE ZUYDER ZEE." title="THE SKATER OF THE ZUYDER ZEE." /> +</div> + +<p>There was an end to grinding, crushing, and sawing for that +day. It was a good thing for the millers near Broek. Long +before noon, they concluded to take in their sails and go to +the race. Everybody would be there. Already the north side +of the frozen Y was bordered with eager spectators; the news +of the great skating-match had traveled far and wide. Men, +women, and children, in holiday attire, were flocking toward the +spot. Some wore furs and wintry cloaks or shawls; but many, +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4759" id="Page_4759">[Pg 4759]</a></span> +consulting their feelings rather than the almanac, were dressed +as for an October day.</p> + +<p>The site selected for the race was a faultless plain of ice near +Amsterdam, on that great <i>arm</i> of the Zuyder Zee, which Dutchmen of +course must call the Eye. The townspeople turned out in large numbers. +Strangers in the city deemed it a fine chance to see what was to be +seen. Many a peasant from the northward had wisely chosen the 20th as +the day for the next city-trading. It seemed that everybody, young and +old, who had wheels, skates, or feet at command, had hastened to the +scene.</p> + +<p>There were the gentry in their coaches, dressed like Parisians fresh +from the Boulevards; Amsterdam children in charity uniforms; girls +from the Roman Catholic Orphan House, in sable gowns and white +head-bands; boys from the Burgher Asylum, with their black tights and +short-skirted harlequin coats. There were old-fashioned gentlemen in +cocked hats and velvet knee-breeches; old-fashioned ladies too, in +stiff quilted skirts and bodices of dazzling brocade. These were +accompanied by servants bearing foot-stoves and cloaks. There were the +peasant folk, arrayed in every possible Dutch costume,—shy young +rustics in brazen buckles; simple village maidens concealing their +flaxen hair under fillets of gold; women whose long narrow aprons were +stiff with embroidery; women with short corkscrew curls hanging over +their foreheads; women with shaved heads and close-fitting caps, and +women in striped skirts and windmill bonnets; men in leather, in +homespun, in velvet and broadcloth; burghers in modern European +attire, and burghers in short jackets, wide trousers, and +steeple-crowned hats.</p> + +<p>There were beautiful Friesland girls in wooden shoes and coarse +petticoats, with solid gold crescents encircling their heads, finished +at each temple with a golden rosette, and hung with lace a century +old. Some wore necklaces, pendants, and earrings of the purest gold. +Many were content with gilt, or even with brass; but it is not an +uncommon thing for a Friesland woman to have all the family treasure +in her headgear. More than one rustic lass displayed the value of two +thousand guilders upon her head that day.</p> + +<p>Scattered throughout the crowd were peasants from the +Island of Marken, with sabots, black stockings, and the widest +of breeches; also women from Marken, with short blue petticoats, +and black jackets gayly figured in front. They wore red sleeves, +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4760" id="Page_4760">[Pg 4760]</a></span> +white aprons, and a cap like a bishop's mitre over their golden hair.</p> + +<p>The children often were as quaint and odd-looking as their elders. In +short, one-third of the crowd seemed to have stepped bodily from a +collection of Dutch paintings.</p> + +<p>Everywhere could be seen tall women and stumpy men, lively-faced +girls, and youths whose expressions never changed from sunrise to +sunset.</p> + +<p>There seemed to be at least one specimen from every known town in +Holland. There were Utrecht water-bearers, Gouda cheese-makers, Delft +pottery-men, Schiedam distillers, Amsterdam diamond-cutters, Rotterdam +merchants, dried-up herring-packers, and two sleepy-eyed shepherds +from Texel. Every man of them had his pipe and tobacco pouch. Some +carried what might be called the smoker's complete outfit,—a pipe, +tobacco, a pricker with which to clean the tube, a silver net for +protecting the bowl, and a box of the strongest of brimstone matches.</p> + +<p>A true Dutchman, you must remember, is rarely without his pipe on any +possible occasion. He may for a moment neglect to breathe; but when +the pipe is forgotten, he must be dying indeed. There were no such sad +cases here. Wreaths of smoke were rising from every possible quarter. +The more fantastic the smoke-wreath, the more placid and solemn the +smoker.</p> + +<p>Look at those boys and girls on stilts! That is a good idea. +They can look over the heads of the tallest. It is strange to see +those little bodies high in the air, carried about on mysterious +legs. They have such a resolute look on their round faces, what +wonder that nervous old gentlemen with tender feet wince and +tremble while the long-legged little monsters stride past them!</p> + +<p>You will read in certain books that the Dutch are a quiet +people. So they are, generally. But listen! did you ever hear +such a din? All made up of human voices—no, the horses are +helping somewhat, and the fiddles are squeaking pitifully; (how +it must pain fiddles to be tuned!) but the mass of the sound +comes from the great <i>vox humana</i> that belongs to a crowd.</p> + +<p>That queer little dwarf, going about with a heavy basket, +winding in and out among the people, helps not a little. You +can hear his shrill cry above all other sounds, "Pypen en tabac! +Pypen en tabac!"</p> + +<p>Another, his big brother, though evidently some years younger, +is selling doughnuts and bonbons. He is calling on all pretty +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4761" id="Page_4761">[Pg 4761]</a></span> +children, far and near, to come quickly or the cakes will be +gone.</p> + +<p>You know quite a number among the spectators. High up +in yonder pavilion, erected upon the border of the ice, are some +persons whom you have seen very lately. In the centre is +Madame Van Gleck. It is her birthday, you remember; she has +the post of honor. There is Mynheer Van Gleck, whose meerschaum +has not really grown fast to his lips; it only appears so. +There are Grandfather and Grandmother, whom you met at the +St. Nicholas fête. All the children are with them. It is so +mild, they have brought even the baby. The poor little creature +is swaddled very much after the manner of an Egyptian mummy; +but it can crow with delight, and when the band is playing, +open and shut its animated mittens in perfect time to the music.</p> + +<p>Grandfather, with his pipe and spectacles and fur cap, makes +quite a picture as he holds Baby upon his knee. Perched high +upon their canopied platforms, the party can see all that is going +on. No wonder the ladies look complacently at the glassy ice; +with a stove for a footstool, one might sit cosily beside the North +Pole.</p> + +<p>There is a gentleman with them, who somewhat resembles +St. Nicholas as he appeared to the young Van Glecks on the +fifth of December. But the Saint had a flowing white beard, and +this face is as smooth as a pippin. His Saintship was larger +round the body too, and (between ourselves) he had a pair of +thimbles in his mouth, which this gentleman certainly has not. +It cannot be St. Nicholas, after all.</p> + +<p>Near by in the next pavilion sit the Van Holps, with their son +and daughter (the Van Gends) from The Hague. Peter's sister +is not one to forget her promises. She has brought bouquets +of exquisite hot-house flowers for the winners.</p> + +<p>These pavilions,—and there are others beside,—have all been erected +since daylight. That semicircular one, containing Mynheer Korbes's +family, is very pretty, and proves that the Hollanders are quite +skilled at tentmaking; but I like the Van Glecks' best,—the centre +one, striped red and white, and hung with evergreens.</p> + +<p>The one with the blue flags contains the musicians. Those +pagoda-like affairs, decked with sea-shells and streamers of every +possible hue, are the judges' stands; and those columns and flagstaffs +upon the ice mark the limit of the race-course. The two +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4762" id="Page_4762">[Pg 4762]</a></span> +white columns twined with green, connected at the top by that +long floating strip of drapery, form the starting point. Those +flagstaffs, half a mile off, stand at each end of the boundary line, +cut sufficiently deep to be distinct to the skaters, though not +deep enough to trip them when they turn to come back to the +starting-point.</p> + +<p>The air is so clear, it seems scarcely possible that the columns and +flagstaffs are so far apart. Of course the judges' stands are but +little nearer together. Half a mile on the ice, when the atmosphere is +like this, is but a short distance after all, especially when fenced +with a living chain of spectators.</p> + +<p>The music has commenced. How melody seems to enjoy itself in the open +air! The fiddles have forgotten their agony, and everything is +harmonious. Until you look at the blue tent, it seems that the music +springs from the sunshine, it is so boundless, so joyous. Only the +musicians are solemn.</p> + +<p>Where are the racers? All assembled together near the white +columns. It is a beautiful sight,—forty boys and girls in picturesque +attire, darting with electric swiftness in and out among +each other, or sailing in pairs and triplets, beckoning, chatting, +whispering, in the fullness of youthful glee.</p> + +<p>A few careful ones are soberly tightening their straps; others, +halting on one leg, with flushed eager faces, suddenly cross +the suspected skate over their knee, give it an examining shake, +and dart off again. One and all are possessed with the spirit +of motion. They cannot stand still. Their skates are a part of +them, and every runner seems bewitched.</p> + +<p>Holland is the place for skaters, after all. Where else can +nearly every boy and girl perform feats on the ice that would +attract a crowd if seen on Central Park? Look at Ben! I did +not see him before. He is really astonishing the natives; no +easy thing to do in the Netherlands. Save your strength, Ben; +you will need it soon. Now other boys are trying! Ben is surpassed +already. Such jumping, such poising, such spinning, such +india-rubber exploits generally! That boy with a red cap is the +lion now; his back is a watch-spring, his body is cork—no, it is +iron, or it would snap at that. He is a bird, a top, a rabbit, a +corkscrew, a sprite, a flesh-ball, all in an instant. When you +think he is erect, he is down; and when you think he is down, +he is up. He drops his glove on the ice, and turns a somerset +as he picks it up. Without stopping, he snatches the cap from +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4763" id="Page_4763">[Pg 4763]</a></span> +Jacob Poot's astonished head, and claps it back again "hind side +before." Lookers-on hurrah and laugh. Foolish boy! It is +arctic weather under your feet, but more than temperate overhead. +Big drops already are rolling down your forehead. Superb +skater as you are, you may lose the race.</p> + +<p>A French traveler, standing with a notebook in his hand, sees +our English friend Ben buy a doughnut of the dwarf's brother, +and eat it. Thereupon he writes in his note-book that the Dutch +take enormous mouthfuls, and universally are fond of potatoes +boiled in molasses.</p> + +<p>There are some familiar faces near the white columns. Lambert, +Ludwig, Peter, and Carl are all there, cool, and in good +skating order. Hans is not far off. Evidently he is going to +join in the race, for his skates are on,—the very pair that he +sold for seven guilders. He had soon suspected that his fairy +godmother was the mysterious "friend" who bought them. This +settled, he had boldly charged her with the deed; and she, +knowing well that all her little savings had been spent in the +purchase, had not had the face to deny it. Through the fairy +god-mother, too, he had been rendered amply able to buy them +back again. Therefore Hans is to be in the race. Carl is more +indignant than ever about it; but as three other peasant boys +have entered, Hans is not alone.</p> + +<p>Twenty boys and twenty girls. The latter by this time are +standing in front, braced for the start; for they are to have the +first "run." Hilda, Rychie, and Katrinka are among them. Two +or three bend hastily to give a last pull at their skate-straps. It +is pretty to see them stamp, to be sure that all is firm. Hilda +is speaking pleasantly to a graceful little creature in a red jacket +and a new brown petticoat. Why, it is Gretel! What a difference +those pretty shoes make; and the skirt and the new cap! +Annie Bouman is there too. Even Janzoon Kolp's sister has been +admitted; but Janzoon himself has been voted out by the directors +because he killed the stork, and only last summer was caught +in the act of robbing a bird's nest,—a legal offense in Holland.</p> + +<p>This Janzoon Kolp, you see, was—There, I cannot tell the story just +now. The race is about to commence.</p> + +<p>Twenty girls are formed in a line. The music has ceased.</p> + +<p>A man whom we shall call the crier stands between the columns and the +first judges' stand. He reads the rules in a loud voice:—</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4764" id="Page_4764">[Pg 4764]</a></span></p> +<div class="blockquot"><p>"<i>The girls and boys are to race in turn, until one girl and +one boy have beaten twice. They are to start in a line from the +united columns, skate to the flagstaff line, turn, and then come +back to the starting-point; thus making a mile at each run.</i>"</p></div> + +<p>A flag is waved from the judges' stand. Madame Van Gleck rises in her +pavilion. She leans forward with a white handkerchief in her hand. +When she drops it, a bugler is to give the signal for them to start.</p> + +<p>The handkerchief is fluttering to the ground. Hark!</p> + +<p>They are off!</p> + +<p>No. Back again. Their line was not true in passing the judges' stand.</p> + +<p>The signal is repeated.</p> + +<p>Off again. No mistake this time. Whew! how fast they go!</p> + +<p>The multitude is quiet for an instant, absorbed in eager, +breathless watching.</p> + +<p>Cheers spring up along the line of spectators. Huzza! five +girls are ahead. Who comes flying back from the boundary +mark? We cannot tell. Something red, that is all. There is a +blue spot flitting near it, and a dash of yellow nearer still. +Spectators at this end of the line strain their eyes, and wish +they had taken their post nearer the flagstaff.</p> + +<p>The wave of cheers is coming back again. Now we can see. +Katrinka is ahead!</p> + +<p>She passes the Van Holp pavilion. The next is Madame Van +Gleck's. That leaning figure gazing from it is a magnet. Hilda +shoots past Katrinka, waving her hand to her mother as she +passes. Two others are close now, whizzing on like arrows. +What is that flash of red and gray? Hurrah, it is Gretel! She +too waves her hand, but toward no gay pavilion. The crowd is +cheering; but she hears only her father's voice, "Well done, +little Gretel!" Soon Katrinka, with a quick merry laugh, shoots +past Hilda. The girl in yellow is gaining now. She passes +them all,—all except Gretel. The judges lean forward without +seeming to lift their eyes from their watches. Cheer after cheer +fills the air; the very columns seem rocking. Gretel has passed +them. She has won.</p> + +<p>"<span class="smcap">Gretel Brinker, one mile!</span>" shouts the crier.</p> + +<p>The judges nod. They write something upon a tablet which +each holds in his hand.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4765" id="Page_4765">[Pg 4765]</a></span> +While the girls are resting,—some crowding eagerly around +our frightened little Gretel, some standing aside in high disdain,—the +boys form in a line.</p> + +<p>Mynheer Van Gleck drops the handkerchief this time. The +buglers give a vigorous blast. Off start the boys!</p> + +<p>Half-way already. Did ever you see the like!</p> + +<p>Three hundred legs flashing by in an instant. But there are +only twenty boys. No matter; there were hundreds of legs, I +am sure. Where are they now? There is such a noise one gets +bewildered. What are the people laughing at? Oh! at that fat +boy in the rear. See him go! See him! He'll be down in an +instant; no, he won't. I wonder if he knows he is all alone: the +other boys are nearly at the boundary line. Yes, he knows it. +He stops. He wipes his hot face. He takes off his cap, and +looks about him. Better to give up with a good grace. He has +made a hundred friends by that hearty, astonished laugh. Good +Jacob Poot!</p> + +<p>The fine fellow is already among the spectators, gazing as +eagerly as the rest.</p> + +<p>A cloud of feathery ice flies from the heels of the skaters as +they "bring to," and turn at the flagstaffs.</p> + +<p>Something black is coming now,—one of the boys: it is all we +know. He has touched the <i>vox humana</i> stop of the crowd; it +fairly roars. Now they come nearer; we can see the red cap. +There's Ben, there's Peter, there's Hans!</p> + +<p>Hans is ahead. Young Madame Van Gend almost crushes +the flowers in her hand: she had been quite sure that Peter +would be first. Carl Schummel is next, then Ben, and the youth +with the red cap. The others are pressing close. A tall figure +darts from among them. He passes the red cap, he passes Ben, +then Carl. Now it is an even race between him and Hans. +Madame Van Gend catches her breath.</p> + +<p>It is Peter! He is ahead! Hans shoots past him. Hilda's +eyes fill with tears: Peter <i>must</i> beat. Annie's eyes flash proudly. +Gretel gazes with clasped hands: four strokes more will take her +brother to the columns.</p> + +<p>He is there! Yes; but so was young Schummel just a second +before. At the last instant, Carl, gathering his powers, had +whizzed between them, and passed the goal.</p> + +<p>"<span class="smcap">Carl Schummel, one mile!</span>" shouts the crier.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4766" id="Page_4766">[Pg 4766]</a></span> +Soon Madame Van Gleck rises again. The falling handkerchief +starts the bugle, and the bugle, using its voice as a bowstring, +shoots off twenty girls like so many arrows.</p> + +<p>It is a beautiful sight; but one has not long to look: before +we can fairly distinguish them they are far in the distance. +This time they are close upon one another. It is hard to say, +as they come speeding back from the flagstaff, which will reach +the columns first. There are new faces among the foremost,—eager +glowing faces, unnoticed before. Katrinka is there, and +Hilda; but Gretel and Rychie are in the rear. Gretel is wavering, +but when Rychie passes her she starts forward afresh. Now +they are nearly beside Katrinka. Hilda is still in advance: she +is almost "home." She has not faltered since that bugle note +sent her flying: like an arrow, still she is speeding toward the +goal. Cheer after cheer rises in the air. Peter is silent, but +his eyes shine like stars. "Huzza! Huzza!"</p> + +<p>The crier's voice is heard again.</p> + +<p>"<span class="smcap">Hilda van Gleck, one mile!</span>"</p> + +<p>A loud murmur of approval runs through the crowd, catching +the music in its course, till all seems one sound, with a glad +rhythmic throbbing in its depths. When the flag waves all is +still.</p> + +<p>Once more the bugle blows a terrific blast. It sends off the +boys like chaff before the wind,—dark chaff, I admit, and in big +pieces.</p> + +<p>It is whisked around at the flagstaff, driven faster yet by the +cheers and shouts along the line. We begin to see what is coming. +There are three boys in advance this time, and all abreast,—Hans, +Peter, and Lambert. Carl soon breaks the ranks, rushing +through with a whiff. Fly, Hans; fly, Peter; don't let Carl +beat again!—Carl the bitter, Carl the insolent. Van Mounen is +flagging, but you are as strong as ever. Hans and Peter, Peter +and Hans; which is foremost? We love them both. We scarcely +care which is the fleeter.</p> + +<p>Hilda, Annie, and Gretel, seated upon the long crimson bench, can +remain quiet no longer. They spring to their feet, so different! and +yet one in eagerness. Hilda instantly reseats herself: none shall know +how interested she is; none shall know how anxious, how filled with +one hope. Shut your eyes then, Hilda, hide your face rippling with +joy. Peter has beaten.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4767" id="Page_4767">[Pg 4767]</a></span> +"<span class="smcap">Peter van Holp, one mile!</span>" calls the crier.</p> + +<p>The same buzz of excitement as before, while the judges take notes, +the same throbbing of music through the din; but something is +different. A little crowd presses close about some object near the +column. Carl has fallen. He is not hurt, though somewhat stunned. If +he were less sullen, he would find more sympathy in these warm young +hearts. As it is, they forget him as soon as he is fairly on his feet +again.</p> + +<p>The girls are to skate their third mile.</p> + +<p>How resolute the little maidens look, as they stand in a line! +Some are solemn with a sense of responsibility; some wear a +smile, half bashful, half provoked; but one air of determination +pervades them all.</p> + +<p>This third mile may decide the race. Still, if neither Gretel +nor Hilda win, there is yet a chance among the rest for the +silver skates.</p> + +<p>Each girl feels sure that this time she will accomplish the +distance in one-half the time. How they stamp to try their +runners! How nervously they examine each strap! How erect +they stand at last, every eye upon Madame Van Gleck!</p> + +<p>The bugle thrills through them again. With quivering eagerness +they spring forward, bending, but in perfect balance. Each +flashing stroke seems longer than the last.</p> + +<p>Now they are skimming off in the distance.</p> + +<p>Again the eager straining of eyes; again the shouts and +cheering; again the thrill of excitement, as after a few moments, +four or five in advance of the rest come speeding back, nearer, +nearer to the white columns.</p> + +<p>Who is first? Not Rychie, Katrinka, Annie, nor Hilda, nor +the girl in yellow, but Gretel,—Gretel, the fleetest sprite of a +girl that ever skated. She was but playing in the earlier race: +<i>now</i> she is in earnest, or rather, something within her has determined +to win. That blithe little form makes no effort; but it +cannot stop,—not until the goal is passed!</p> + +<p>In vain the crier lifts his voice: he cannot be heard. He has +no news to tell: it is already ringing through the crowd,—<i>Gretel +has won the silver skates!</i></p> + +<p>Like a bird she has flown over the ice; like a bird she looks +about her in a timid, startled way. She longs to dart to the +sheltered nook where her father and mother stand. But Hans is +beside her; the girls are crowding round. Hilda's kind, joyous +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4768" id="Page_4768">[Pg 4768]</a></span> +voice breathes in her ear. From that hour none will despise her. +Goose-girl or not, Gretel stands acknowledged Queen of the +Skaters.</p> + +<p>With natural pride, Hans turns to see if Peter Van Holp is +witnessing his sister's triumph. Peter is not looking toward +them at all. He is kneeling, bending his troubled face low, and +working hastily at his skate-strap. Hans is beside him at once.</p> + +<p>"Are you in trouble, mynheer?"</p> + +<p>"Ah, Hans! that you? Yes; my fun is over. I tried to +tighten my strap to make a new hole, and this botheration of a +knife has cut it nearly in two."</p> + +<p>"Mynheer," said Hans, at the same time pulling off a skate, +"you must use my strap!"</p> + +<p>"Not I, indeed, Hans Brinker!" cried Peter, looking up; +"though I thank you warmly. Go to your post, my friend: the +bugle will sound in a minute."</p> + +<p>"Mynheer," pleaded Hans in a husky voice, "you have called +me your friend. Take this strap—quick! There is not an +instant to lose. I shall not skate this time: indeed, I am out of +practice. Mynheer, you <i>must</i> take it;" and Hans, blind and +deaf to any remonstrance, slipped his strap into Peter's skate, +and implored him to put it on.</p> + +<p>"Come, Peter!" cried Lambert from the line: "we are waiting +for you."</p> + +<p>"For Madame's sake," pleaded Hans, "be quick! She is +motioning to you to join the racers. There, the skate is almost +on: quick, mynheer, fasten it. I could not possibly win. The +race lies between Master Schummel and yourself."</p> + +<p>"You are a noble fellow, Hans!" cried Peter, yielding at +last. He sprang to his post just as the handkerchief fell to +the ground. The bugle sends forth its blast, loud, clear, and +ringing.</p> + +<p>Off go the boys!</p> + +<p>"Mein Gott!" cries a tough old fellow from Delft. "They +beat everything, these Amsterdam youngsters. See them!"</p> + +<p>See them, indeed! They are winged Mercuries, every one of +them. What mad errand are they on? Ah, I know; they are +hunting Peter Van Holp. He is some fleet-footed runaway from +Olympus. Mercury and his troop of winged cousins are in full +chase. They will catch him! Now Carl is the runaway. The +pursuit grows furious. Ben is foremost!</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4769" id="Page_4769">[Pg 4769]</a></span> +The chase turns in a cloud of mist. It is coming this way. +Who is hunted now? Mercury himself. It is Peter, Peter Van +Holp! Fly, Peter! Hans is watching you. He is sending all +his fleetness, all his strength, into your feet. Your mother and +sister are pale with eagerness. Hilda is trembling, and dare not +look up, Fly, Peter! The crowd has not gone deranged; it is +only cheering. The pursuers are close upon you. Touch the +white column! It beckons; it is reeling before you—it—</p> + +<p>"Huzza! Huzza! Peter has won the silver skates!"</p> + +<p>"<span class="smcap">Peter van Holp!</span>" shouted the crier. But who heard him? +"Peter Van Holp!" shouted a hundred voices; for he was the +favorite boy of the place. "Huzza! Huzza!"</p> + +<p>Now the music was resolved to be heard. It struck up a +lively air, then a tremendous march. The spectators, thinking +something new was about to happen, deigned to listen and to +look.</p> + +<p>The racers formed in single file. Peter, being tallest, stood +first. Gretel, the smallest of all, took her place at the end. +Hans, who had borrowed a strap from the cake-boy, was near +the head.</p> + +<p>Three gayly twined arches were placed at intervals upon the +river, facing the Van Gleck pavilion.</p> + +<p>Skating slowly, and in perfect time to the music, the boys +and girls moved forward, led on by Peter, It was beautiful to +see the bright procession glide along like a living creature. It +curved and doubled, and drew its graceful length in and out +among the arches; whichever way Peter, the head, went, the +body was sure to follow. Sometimes it steered direct for the +centre arch; then, as if seized with a new impulse, turned away +and curled itself about the first one; then unwound slowly, and +bending low, with quick snake-like curvings, crossed the river, +passing at length through the farthest arch.</p> + +<p>When the music was slow, the procession seemed to crawl +like a thing afraid; it grew livelier, and the creature darted forward +with a spring, gliding rapidly among the arches, in and +out, curling, twisting, turning, never losing form, until at the +shrill call of the bugle rising above the music it suddenly +resolved itself into boys and girls, standing in double semicircle +before Madame Van Gleck's pavilion.</p> + +<p>Peter and Gretel stand in the centre, in advance of the others. +Madame Van Gleck rises majestically. Gretel trembles, but feels +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4770" id="Page_4770">[Pg 4770]</a></span> +that she must look at the beautiful lady. She cannot hear what +is said, there is such a buzzing all around her. She is thinking +that she ought to try and make a courtesy, such as her mother +makes to the <i>meester</i>, when suddenly something so dazzling is +placed in her hand that she gives a cry of joy.</p> + +<p>Then she ventures to look about her. Peter too has something in his +hands. "Oh, oh! how splendid!" she cries; and "Oh! how splendid!" is +echoed as far as people can see.</p> + +<p>Meantime the silver skates flash in the sunshine, throwing dashes of +light upon those two happy faces.</p> + +<p>"Mevrouw Van Gend sends a little messenger with her bouquets,—one for +Hilda, one for Carl, and others for Peter and Gretel."</p> + +<p>At sight of the flowers, the Queen of the Skaters becomes +uncontrollable. With a bright stare of gratitude, she gathers skates +and bouquet in her apron, hugs them to her bosom, and darts off to +search for her father and mother in the scattering crowd.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4771" id="Page_4771">[Pg 4771]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="JOHN_DONNE" id="JOHN_DONNE"></a>JOHN DONNE</h2> + +<h4>(1573-1631)</h4> + + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 90px;"> +<img src="images/capt107.png" width="90" height="90" alt="T" title="T" /> +</div><p class="dropcap">he memory of Dr. Donne must not, cannot die, as long as men speak +English," wrote Izaak Walton, "whilst his conversation made him and +others happy. His life ought to be the example of more than that age +in which he died."</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 180px;"> +<img src="images/Illus107.png" width="180" height="220" alt="John Donne" title="John Donne" /> +<span class="caption"><span class="smcap">John Donne</span></span> +</div> + +<p>Born in 1573, all the influences of the age in which Donne lived +nourished his large nature and genius. Shakespeare and Marlowe were +nine years older than he; Chapman fourteen; Spenser, Lyly, and Richard +Hooker each twenty; while Sir Philip Sidney counted one year less. +Lodge and Puttenham were grown men, and Greene and Nash riotous boys. +In the following year Ben Jonson "came forth to warm our ears," and +soon after we have his future co-worker Inigo Jones. It was the time +of a multitude of poets,—Drayton, the Fletchers, Beaumont, Wither, +Herrick, Carew, Suckling, and others. Imagination was foremost, and +was stimulated by vast discoveries. Debates upon ecclesiastical +reform, led by Wyclif, Tyndal, Knox, Foxe, Sternhold, Hopkins, and +others, had prepared the way; and the luminous literatures of Greece +and Italy, but recently brought into England, had made men's spirits +receptive and creative. It was a period of vast conceptions, when men +discovered themselves and the world afresh.</p> + +<p>Under such outward conditions Donne was born, in London, "of +good and virtuous parents," says Walton, being descended on his +mother's side from no less distinguished a personage than Sir Thomas +More. In 1584, when he was eleven years old, with a good command +both of French and Latin, he passed from the hands of tutors at +home to Hare Hall, a much frequented college at Oxford. Here he +formed a friendship with Henry Wotton, who, after the poet's death, +collected the material from which Walton wrote his tender and sincere +'Life of Donne.'</p> + +<p>After leaving Oxford he traveled for three years on the Continent, +and on his return in 1592 became a member of Lincoln's Inn, with +intent to study law; but his law never, says Walton, "served him +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4772" id="Page_4772">[Pg 4772]</a></span> +for other use than an ornament and self-satisfaction." While a member +of Lincoln's Inn he became one of the coterie of the poets of his +youth. To this time are to be referred those of his 'Divine Poems' +which show him a sincere Catholic. Stirred by the increasing differences +between the Romanist and the Anglican denominations, Donne +turned toward theological questions, and finally cast his lot with the +new doctrines. His large nature, impetuously reacting from the +asceticism to which he had been bred, turned to excess and overboldness +in action, and an occasional coarseness of phrasing in his poems.</p> + +<p>The first of his famous 'Satires' are dated 1593, and all were probably +written before 1601. During this time also he squandered his +father's legacy of £3000. In 1596, when the Earl of Essex defeated the +Spanish navy and pillaged Cadiz, Donne, now one of the first poets +of the time, was among his followers. "Not long after his return +into England ... the Lord Ellesmere, the Keeper of the Great +Seal,... taking notice of his learning, languages, and other +abilities, and much affecting his person and behavior, took him to be +his chief secretary, supposing and intending it to be an introduction to +some weighty employment in the State;... and did always use +him with much courtesy, appointing him a place at his own table." +Here he met the niece of Lady Ellesmere,—the daughter of Sir +George More, Lord Lieutenant of the Tower,—whom at Christmas, +1600, he married, despite the opposition of her father. Sir George, +transported with wrath, obtained Donne's imprisonment; but the poet +finally regained his liberty and his wife, Sir George in the end forgiving +the young couple. "Mr. Donne's estate was the greatest part +spent in many chargeable travels, books, and dear-bought experience, +he [being] out of all employment that might yield a support for himself +and wife." The depth and intensity of Donne's feeling for this +beautiful and accomplished woman are manifested, says Mr. Norton, +in all the poems known to be addressed to her, such as 'The Anniversary' +and 'The Token.'</p> + +<p>Of 'The Valediction Forbidding Mourning' Walton declares:—"I +beg leave to tell that I have heard some critics, learned both in languages +and poetry, say that none of the Greek or Latin poets did +ever equal them;" while from Lowell's unpublished 'Lecture on +Poetic Diction' Professor Norton quotes the opinion that "This poem +is a truly sacred one, and fuller of the soul of poetry than a whole +Alexandrian Library of common love verses."</p> + +<p>During this period of writing for court favors, Donne wrote many +of his sonnets and studied the civil and canon law. After the death +of his patron Sir Francis in 1606, Donne divided his time between +Mitcham, whither he had removed his family, and London, where he +frequented distinguished and fashionable drawing-rooms. At this +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4773" id="Page_4773">[Pg 4773]</a></span> +time he wrote his admirable epistles in verse, 'The Litany,' and +funeral elegies on Lady Markham and Mistress Bulstrode; but those +poems are merely "occasional," as he was not a poet by profession. +At the request of King James he wrote the 'Pseudo-Martyr,' published +in 1610. In 1611 appeared his funeral elegy 'An Anatomy of +the World,' and one year later another of like texture, 'On the Progress +of the Soul,' both poems being exalted and elaborate in thought +and fancy.</p> + +<p>The King, desiring Donne to enter into the ministry, denied all +requests for secular preferment, and the unwilling poet deferred his +decision for almost three years. All that time he studied textual +divinity, Greek, and Hebrew. He was ordained about the beginning +of 1615. The King made him his chaplain in ordinary, and promised +other preferments. "Now," says Walton, "the English Church had +gained a second St. Austin, for I think none was so like him before +his conversion, none so like St. Ambrose after it; and if his youth +had the infirmities of the one, his age had the excellences of the +other, the learning and holiness of both."</p> + +<p>In 1621 the King made him Dean of St. Paul's, and vicar of St. +Dunstan in the West. By these and other ecclesiastical emoluments +"he was enabled to become charitable to the poor and kind to his +friends, and to make such provision for his children that they were +not left scandalous, as relating to their or his profession or quality."</p> + +<p>His first printed sermons appeared in 1622. The epigrammatic +terseness and unexpected turns of imagination which characterize the +poems, are found also in his discourses. Three years later, during a +dangerous illness, he composed his 'Devotion.' He died on the 31st +of March, 1631.</p> + +<p>"Donne is full of salient verses," says Lowell in his 'Shakespeare +Once More,' "that would take the rudest March winds of criticism +with their beauty; of thoughts that first tease us like charades, and +then delight us with the felicity of their solution." There are few in +which an occasional loftiness is sustained throughout, but this occasional +excellence is original, condensed, witty, showing a firm and +strong mind, clear to a degree almost un-English. His poetry has +somewhat of the stability of the Greeks, though it may lack their +sweetness and art. His grossness was the heritage of his time. He +is classed among the "metaphysical poets," of whom Dr. Johnson +wrote:—"They were of very little care to clothe their notions with +elegance of dress, and therefore miss the notice and the praise which +are often gained by those who think less, but are more diligent to +adorn their thoughts." It was in obedience to such a dictum, and to +Dryden's suggestion, doubtless, that Pope and Parnell recast and +re-versified the 'Satires.'</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4774" id="Page_4774">[Pg 4774]</a></span> +The first edition of Donne's poems appeared two years after his death. +Several editions succeeded during the seventeenth century. In the more +artificial eighteenth century his harsh and abrupt versification and +remote theorems made him difficult to understand. The best editions +are 'The Complete Poems of John Donne,' edited by Dr. Alexander +Grosart (1872); and 'The Poems of John Donne,' from the text of the +edition of 1633, edited by Charles Eliot Norton (1895), from whose +work the citations in this volume are taken.</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="UNDERTAKING" id="UNDERTAKING"></a>THE UNDERTAKING</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I have done one braver thing<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Than all the Worthies did,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And yet a braver thence doth spring,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Which is, to keep that hid.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">It were but madness now t' impart<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The skill of specular stone,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When he which can have learned the art<br /></span> +<span class="i1">To cut it, can find none.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">So, if I now should utter this,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Others (because no more<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Such stuff to work upon there is)<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Would love but as before:<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But he who loveliness within<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Hath found, all outward loathes;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For he who color loves, and skin,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Loves but their oldest clothes.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">If, as I have, you also do<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Virtue attired in women see,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And dare love that and say so too,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And forget the He and She;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And if this love, though placed so,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">From profane men you hide,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which will no faith on this bestow,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Or, if they do, deride;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then you have done a braver thing<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Than all the Worthies did,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And a braver thence will spring,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Which is, to keep that hid.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4775" id="Page_4775">[Pg 4775]</a></span></p> +<h3><a name="VALEDICTION" id="VALEDICTION"></a>A VALEDICTION FORBIDDING MOURNING</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">As virtuous men pass mildly away,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And whisper to their souls to go,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whilst some of their sad friends do say,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">"The breath goes now," and some say "No";<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">So let us melt and make no noise,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">No tear-floods nor sigh-tempests move;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Twere profanation of our joys<br /></span> +<span class="i1">To tell the laity our love.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Men reckon what it did and meant;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But trepidation of the spheres,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Though greater far, is innocent.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Dull sublunary lovers' love<br /></span> +<span class="i1">(Whose soul is sense) cannot admit<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Absence, because it doth remove<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Those things which elemented it.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But we by a love so much refined<br /></span> +<span class="i1">That ourselves know not what it is,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Inter-assurèd of the mind,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Care less eyes, lips, hands to miss.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Our two souls, therefore, which are one,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Though I must go, endure not yet<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A breach, but an expansiòn,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Like gold to airy thinness beat.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">If they be two, they are two so<br /></span> +<span class="i1">As stiff twin compasses are two;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thy soul, the fixt foot, makes no show<br /></span> +<span class="i1">To move, but doth if the other do,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And though it in the centre sit,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Yet when the other far doth roam,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It leans and hearkens after it,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And grows erect as that comes home.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Such wilt thou be to me, who must,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Like th' other foot, obliquely run;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thy firmness makes my circle just,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And makes me end where I begun.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4776" id="Page_4776">[Pg 4776]</a></span></p> +<h3><a name="SONG1" id="SONG1"></a>SONG</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Go and catch a falling star,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Get with child a mandrake root,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tell me where all past years are,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Or who cleft the devil's foot,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Teach me to hear mermaids singing,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or to keep off envy's stinging,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">And find<br /></span> +<span class="i6">What wind<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Serves to advance an honest mind.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">If thou be'st born to strange sights,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Things invisible to see,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ride ten thousand days and nights,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Till age snow white hairs on thee,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then, when thou return'st, wilt tell me<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All strange wonders that befell thee,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">And swear,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Nowhere<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lives a woman true and fair.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">If thou find'st one, let me know;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Such a pilgrimage were sweet;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet do not: I would not go,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Though at next door we might meet;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Though she were true when you met her,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And last till you write your letter,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Yet she<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Will be<br /></span> +<span class="i0">False, ere I come, to two or three.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="LOVEGROWTH" id="LOVEGROWTH"></a>LOVE'S GROWTH</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I scarce believe my love to be so pure<br /></span> +<span class="i6">As I had thought it was,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Because it doth endure<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Vicissitude and season as the grass;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Methinks I lied all winter, when I swore<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My love was infinite, if spring make it more.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But if this medicine love, which cures all sorrow<br /></span> +<span class="i1">With more, not only be no quintessence<br /></span> +<span class="i1">But mixed of all stuffs paining soul or sense,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And of the sun his working vigor borrow,<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4777" id="Page_4777">[Pg 4777]</a></span><span class="i0">Love's not so pure and abstract as they use<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To say, which have no mistress but their muse,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But as all else, being elemented too,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Love sometimes would contemplate, sometimes do.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And yet no greater, but more eminent,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Love by the spring is grown;<br /></span> +<span class="i6">As in the firmament<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Stars by the sun are not enlarged, but shown,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Gentle love-deeds, as blossoms on a bough,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From love's awakened root do bud out now.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If, as in water stirred, more circles be<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Produced by one, love such additions take,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Thou, like so many spheres, but one heaven make,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For they are all concentric unto thee;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And though each spring do add to love new heat,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As princes do in times of action get<br /></span> +<span class="i0">New taxes and remit them not in peace,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No winter shall abate the spring's increase.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="SONG2" id="SONG2"></a>SONG</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Sweetest Love, I do not go<br /></span> +<span class="i1">For weariness of thee,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor in hope the world can show<br /></span> +<span class="i1">A fitter Love for me:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But since that I<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Must die at last, 'tis best<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To use myself in jest<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Thus by feigned deaths to die.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Yesternight the sun went hence,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And yet is here to-day;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He hath no desire nor sense,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Nor half so short a way.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Then fear not me,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But believe that I shall make<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Speedier journeys, since I take<br /></span> +<span class="i1">More wings and spurs than he.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Oh, how feeble is man's power,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">That, if good fortune fall,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Cannot add another hour,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Nor a lost hour recall!<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4778" id="Page_4778">[Pg 4778]</a></span><span class="i2">But come bad chance,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And we join to it our strength,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And we teach it art and length,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Itself o'er us to advance.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When thou sigh'st, thou sigh'st not wind,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">But sigh'st my soul away;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When thou weep'st, unkindly kind,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">My life's blood doth decay.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">It cannot be<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That thou lov'st me as thou say'st,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If in thine my life thou waste;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Thou art the best of me.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Let not thy divining heart<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Forethink me any ill;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Destiny may take thy part,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And may thy fears fulfill:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But think that we<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Are but turned aside to sleep:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They who one another keep<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Alive, ne'er parted be.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4779" id="Page_4779">[Pg 4779]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="FEODOR_MIKHAILOVITCH_DOSTOEVSKY" id="FEODOR_MIKHAILOVITCH_DOSTOEVSKY"></a>FEODOR MIKHAILOVITCH DOSTOÉVSKY</h2> + +<h4>(1821-1881)</h4> + +<h4>BY ISABEL F. HAPGOOD</h4> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 90px;"> +<img src="images/capi115.png" width="90" height="90" alt="I" title="I" /> +</div><p class="dropcap">n certain respects Dostoévsky is the most characteristically national +of Russian writers. Precisely for that reason, his work does not +appeal to so wide a circle outside of his own country as does the work +of Turgénieff and Count L.N. Tolstoy. This result flows not only from +the natural bent of his mind and temperament, but also from the +peculiar vicissitudes of his life as compared with the comparatively +even tenor of their existence, and the circumstances of the time in +which he lived. These circumstances, it is true, were felt by the +writers mentioned; but practically they affected him far more deeply +than they did the others, with their rather one-sided training; and +his fellow-countrymen—especially the young of both sexes—were not +slow to express their appreciation of the fact. His special domain was +the one which Turgénieff and Tolstoy did not understand, and have +touched not at all, or only incidentally,—the great middle class of +society, or what corresponds thereto in Russia.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 180px;"> +<img src="images/Illus115.png" width="180" height="220" alt="Feodor Dostoevsky" title="Feodor Dostoevsky" /> +<span class="caption"><span class="smcap">Feodor Dostoévsky</span></span> +</div> + +<p>Through his father, Mikhail Andréevitch Dostoévsky, +Feodor Mikhailovitch belonged to the class of "nobles,"—that is +to say, to the gentry; through his mother, to the respectable, +well-to-do merchant class, which is still distinct from the other, and +was even more so during the first half of the present century; and in +personal appearance he was a typical member of the peasant class. The +father was resident physician in the Marie Hospital for the Poor in +Moscow, having entered the civil service at the end of the war of +1812, during which he had served as a physician in the army. In the +very contracted apartment which he occupied in the hospital, Feodor +was born—one of a family of seven children, all of whom, with +the exception of the eldest and the youngest, were born there—on +October 30th (November 11th), 1821. The parents were very upright, +well-educated, devoutly religious people; and as Feodor expressed +it many years later to his elder brother, after their father +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4780" id="Page_4780">[Pg 4780]</a></span> +died, "Do you know, our parents were very superior people, and they +would have been superior even in these days." The children were +brought up at home as long as possible, and received their instruction +from tutors and their father. Even after the necessity of preparing +the two elder boys for a government institution forced the parents to +send them to a boarding-school during the week, they continued their +strict supervision over their associates, discouraged nearly all +friendships with their comrades, and never allowed them to go into the +street unaccompanied, after the national custom in good families, even +at the age of seventeen or more.</p> + +<p>Feodor, according to the account of his brothers and relatives, +was always a quiet, studious lad, and he with his elder brother +Mikhail spent their weekly holidays chiefly in reading, Walter Scott +and James Fenimore Cooper being among their favorite authors; +though Russian writers, especially Pushkin, were not neglected. During +many of these years the mother and children passed the summers +on a little estate in the country which the father bought, and +it was there that Feodor Mikhailovitch first made acquaintance with +the beauties of nature, to which he eloquently refers in after life, +and especially with the peasants, their feelings and temper, which +greatly helped him in his psychological studies and in his ability to +endure certain trials which came upon him. There can be no doubt +that his whole training contributed not only to the literary tastes +which the famous author and his brother cherished throughout their +lives, but to the formation of that friendship between them which +was stronger than all others, and to the sincere belief in religion and +the profound piety which permeated the spirit and the books of +Feodor Mikhailovitch.</p> + +<p>In 1837 the mother died, and the father took his two eldest sons to +St. Petersburg to enter them in the government School of Engineers. +But the healthy Mikhail was pronounced consumptive by the doctor, +while the sickly Feodor was given a certificate of perfect health. +Consequently Mikhail was rejected, and went to the Engineers' School +in Revel, while Feodor, always quiet and reserved, was left lonely in +the St. Petersburg school. Here he remained for three years, studying +well, but devoting a great deal of time to his passionately beloved +literary subjects, and developing a precocious and penetrating +critical judgment on such matters. It is even affirmed that he began +or wrote the first draft of his famous book 'Poor People,' by night, +during this period; though in another account he places its +composition later. After graduating well as ensign in 1841, he studied +for another year, and became an officer with the rank of +sub-lieutenant, and entered on active service, attached to the +draughting department of the Engineers' School, in August 1843.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4781" id="Page_4781">[Pg 4781]</a></span> +A little more than a year later he resigned from the service, in order +that he might devote himself wholly to literature. His father had died +in the mean time, and had he possessed any practical talent he might +have lived in comfort on the sums which his guardian sent him. But +throughout his life people seemed to fleece him at will; he lost large +sums at billiards with strangers, and otherwise; he was generous and +careless; in short, he was to the end nearly always in debt, anxiety, +and difficulties. Then came the first important crisis in his life. He +wrote (or re-wrote) 'Poor People'; and said of his state of mind, as +he reckoned up the possible pecuniary results, that he could not sleep +for nights together, and "If my undertaking does not succeed, perhaps +I shall hang myself." The history of that success is famous and +stirring. His only acquaintance in literary circles was his old +comrade D.V. Grigorovitch (also well known as a writer), and to him he +committed the manuscript. His friend took it to the poet and editor +Nekrásoff, in the hope that it might appear in the 'Collection' which +the latter was intending to publish. Dostoévsky was especially afraid +of the noted critic Byelinsky's judgment on it: "He will laugh at my +'Poor People,'" said he; "but I wrote it with passion, almost with +tears."</p> + +<p>He spent the evening with a friend, reading with him, as was the +fashion of the time, Gogol's 'Dead Souls,' and returned home at four +o'clock in the morning. It was one of the "white nights" of early +summer, and he sat down by his window. Suddenly the door-bell rang, +and in rushed Grigorovitch and Nekrásoff, who flung themselves upon +his neck. They had begun to read his story in the evening, remarking +that "ten pages would suffice to show its quality." But they had gone +on reading, relieving each other as their voices failed them with +fatigue and emotion, until the whole was finished. At the point where +Pokrovsky's old father runs after his coffin, Nekrásoff pounded the +table with the manuscript, deeply affected, and exclaimed, "Deuce take +him!" Then they decide to hasten to Dostoévsky: "No matter if he is +asleep—we will wake him up. <i>This</i> is above sleep."</p> + +<p>This sort of glory and success was exactly of that pure, unmixed +sort which Dostoévsky had longed for. When Nekrásoff went to +Byelinsky with the manuscript of 'Poor People,' and announced, "A +new Gogol has made his appearance!" the critic retorted with severity, +"Gogols spring up like mushrooms among us." But when he +had read the story he said, "Bring him hither, bring him quickly;" +and welcomed Dostoévsky when he came, with extreme dignity and +reserve, but exclaimed in a moment, "Do you understand yourself +what sort of a thing this is that you have written?" From that +moment the young author's fame was assured, and he became known +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4782" id="Page_4782">[Pg 4782]</a></span> +and popular even in advance of publication in a wide circle of literary +and other people, as was the fashion of those days in Russia. +When the story appeared, the public rapturously echoed the judgment +of the critics.</p> + +<p>The close friendship which sprang up between Byelinsky and Dostoévsky +was destined, however, to exert an extraordinary influence +upon Dostoévsky's career, quite apart from its critical aspect. Byelinsky +was an atheist and a socialist, and Dostoévsky was brought +into relations with persons who shared those views, although he himself +never wavered, apparently, in his religious faith, and was never +in harmony with any other aspirations of his associates except that +of freeing the serfs. Notwithstanding this, he became involved in the +catastrophe which overtook many visitors, occasional or constant, of +the "circles" at whose head stood Petrashevsky. The whole affair is +known as the Conspiracy of Petrashevsky. During the '40's the +students at the St. Petersburg University formed small gatherings +where sociological subjects were the objects of study, and read the +works of Stein, Haxthausen, Louis Blanc, Fourier, Proudhon, and +other similar writers. Gradually assemblies of this sort were formed +outside of the University. Petrashevsky, an employee of the Department +of Foreign Affairs, who had graduated from the Lyceum and +the University, and who was ambitious of winning power and a reputation +for eccentricity, learned of these little clubs and encouraged +their growth. He did not however encourage their close association +among themselves, but rather, entire dependence on himself, as the +centre of authority, the guide; and urged them to inaugurate a sort of +propaganda. Dostoévsky himself declared, about thirty years later, +that "the socialists sprang from the followers of Petrashevsky; they +sowed much seed." He has dealt with them and their methods in +his novel 'Demons'; though perhaps not with exact accuracy. But +they helped him to an elucidation of the contemporary situation, +which Turgénieff had treated in 'Virgin Soil.' The chief subject +of their political discussions was the emancipation of the serfs, and +many of Petrashevsky's followers reckoned upon a rising of the serfs +themselves, though it was proved that Dostoévsky maintained the +propriety and necessity of the reform proceeding from the government. +This was no new topic; the Emperor Nicholas I. had already +begun to plan the Emancipation, and it is probable that it would +have taken place long before it did, had it not been for this very +conspiracy. From the point of view of the government, the movement +was naturally dangerous, especially in view of what was taking +place in Europe at that epoch. Dostoévsky bore himself critically +toward the socialistic writings and doctrines, maintaining that in +their own Russian system of workingmen's guilds with reciprocal +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4783" id="Page_4783">[Pg 4783]</a></span> +bonds there existed surer and more normal foundations than in all +the dreams of Saint-Simon and all his school. He did not even visit +very frequently the circle to which he particularly belonged, and was +rarely at the house of Petrashevsky, whom many personally disliked.</p> + +<p>But on one occasion, as he was a good reader, he was asked to +read aloud Byelinsky's famous letter to Gogol, which was regarded +as a victorious manifest of "Western" (<i>i. e.</i>, of socialistic) views. +This, technically, was propagating revolution, and was the chief +charge against him when the catastrophe happened, and he, together +with over thirty other "Petrashevtzi," was arrested on April 23d +(May 5th), 1849. In the Peter-Paul Fortress prison, where he was +kept for eight months pending trial, Dostoévsky wrote 'The Little +Hero,' two or three unimportant works having appeared since 'Poor +People.' At last he, with several others, was condemned to death +and led out for execution. The history of that day, and the analysis +of his sensations and emotions, are to be found in several of his +books: 'Crime and Punishment,' 'The Idiot,' 'The Karamazoff Brothers.' +At the last moment it was announced to them that the Emperor +had commuted their sentence to exile in varying degrees, and +they were taken to Siberia. Alexei Pleshtcheeff, then twenty-three +years of age, the man who sent Byelinsky's letter to Dostoévsky, was +banished for a short term of years to the disciplinary brigade in +Orenburg; and when I saw him in St. Petersburg forty years later, +I was able to form a faint idea of what Dostoévsky's popularity must +have been, by the way in which he,—a man of much less talent, originality, +and personal power,—was surrounded, even in church, by +adoring throngs of young people. Dostoévsky's sentence was "four +years at forced labor in prison; after that, to serve as a common +soldier"; but he did not lose his nobility and his civil rights, being +the first noble to retain them under such circumstances.</p> + +<p>The story of what he did and suffered during his imprisonment is +to be found in his 'Notes from the House of the Dead,' where, +under the disguise of a man sentenced to ten years' labor for the +murder of his wife, he gives us a startling, faithful, but in some +respects a consoling picture of life in a Siberian prison. His own +judgment as to his exile was, "The government only defended itself;" +and when people said to him, "How unjust your exile was!" he +replied, even with irritation, "No, it was just. The people themselves +would have condemned us." Moreover, he did not like to give +benefit readings in later years from his 'Notes from the House of the +Dead,' lest he might be thought to complain. Besides, this catastrophe +was the making of him, by his own confession; he had become +a confirmed hypochondriac, with a host of imaginary afflictions +and ills, and had this affair not saved him from himself he said that +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4784" id="Page_4784">[Pg 4784]</a></span> +he "should have gone mad." It seems certain, from the testimony +of his friend and physician, that he was already subject to the epileptic +fits which he himself was wont to attribute to his imprisonment; +and which certainly increased in severity as the years went +on, until they occurred once a month or oftener, in consequence of +overwork and excessive nervous strain. In his novel 'The Idiot,' +whose hero is an epileptic, he has made a psychological study of his +sensations before and after such fits, and elsewhere he makes allusions +to them.</p> + +<p>After serving in the ranks and being promoted officer when he +had finished his term of imprisonment, he returned to Russia in 1859, +and lived first at Tver; afterward, when permitted, in St. Petersburg. +The history of his first marriage—which took place in Siberia, to +the widow of a friend—is told with tolerable accuracy in his 'Humbled +and Insulted,' which also contains a description of his early struggles +and the composition of 'Poor People,' the hero who narrates +the tale of his love and sacrifice being himself. Like that hero, he +tried to facilitate his future wife's marriage to another man. He +was married to his second wife, by whom he had four children, in +1867, and to her he owed much happiness and material comfort. It +will be seen that much is to be learned concerning our author from +his own novels, though it would hardly be safe to write a biography +from them alone. Even in 'Crime and Punishment,' his greatest +work in a general way, he reproduces events of his own life, meditations, +wonderfully accurate descriptions of the third-rate quarter of +the town in which he lived after his return from Siberia, while engaged +on some of his numerous newspaper and magazine enterprises.</p> + +<p>This journalistic turn of mind, combined in nearly equal measures +with the literary talent, produced several singular effects. It +rendered his periodical 'Diary of a Writer' the most enormously +popular publication of the day, and a success when previous ventures +had failed, though it consisted entirely of his own views on current +topics of interest, literary questions, and whatever came into his +head. On his novels it had a rather disintegrating effect. Most of +them are of great length, are full of digressions from the point, and +there is often a lack of finish about them which extends not only to +the minor characters but to the style in general. In fact, his style +is neither jewel-like in its brilliancy, as is Turgénieff's, +nor has it the elegance, broken by carelessness, of Tolstoy's. But it +was popular, remarkably well adapted to the class of society which it +was his province to depict, and though diffuse, it is not possible to +omit any of the long psychological analyses, or dreams, or series of ratiocinations, +without injuring the web of the story and the moral, as chain armor is +spoiled by the rupture of a link. This indeed is one of the great difficulties +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4785" id="Page_4785">[Pg 4785]</a></span> +which the foreigner encounters in an attempt to study +Dostoévsky: the translators have been daunted by his prolixity, +and have often cut his works down to a mere skeleton of the original. +Moreover, he deals with a sort of Russian society which it is hard for +non-Russians to grasp, and he has no skill whatever in presenting +aristocratic people or society, to which foreigners have become +accustomed in the works of his great contemporaries Turgénieff +and Tolstoy; while he never, despite all his genuine admiration for +the peasants and keen sympathy with them, attempts any purely peasant +tales like Turgénieff's 'Notes of a Sportsman' or Tolstoy's +'Tales for the People.' Naturally, this is but one reason the more why +he should be studied. His types of hero, and of feminine character, +are peculiar to himself. Perhaps the best way to arrive at his +ideal—and at his own character, <i>plus</i> a certain irritability +and tendency to suspicion of which his friends speak—is to +scrutinize the pictures of Prince Myshkin ('The Idiot'), Ivan +('Humbled and Insulted'), and Alyosha ('The Karamazoff Brothers'). +Pure, delicate both physically and morally, as Dostoévsky +himself is described by those who knew him best; devout, gentle, +intensely sympathetic, strongly masculine yet with a large admixture +of the feminine element—such are these three; such is also, in +his way, Raskolnikoff ('Crime and Punishment'). His feminine +characters are the precise counterparts of these in many respects, but +are often also quixotic even to boldness and wrong-headedness, like +Aglaya ('The Idiot'), or to shame, like Sonia ('Crime and +Punishment'), and the heroine of 'Humbled and Insulted.' But +Dostoévsky could not sympathize with and consequently could not +draw an aristocrat; his frequently recurring type of the dissolute +petty noble or rich merchant is frequently brutal; and his unclassed +women, though possibly quite as true to life as these men, are painful +in their callousness and recklessness. His earliest work, 'Poor +People,' written in the form of letters, is worthy of all the praises +which have been bestowed upon it, simple as is the story of the +poverty-stricken clerk who is almost too humble to draw his breath, +who pleads that one must wear a coat and boots which do not show the +bare feet, during the severe Russian winter, merely because public +opinion forces one thereto; and who shares his rare pence with a +distant but equally needy relative who is in a difficult position. As +a compact, subtle psychological study, his 'Crime and Punishment' +cannot be overrated, repulsive as it is in parts. The poor student who +kills the aged usurer with intent to rob, after prolonged argument +with himself that great geniuses, like Napoleon I. and the like, are +justified in committing any crime, and that he has a right to relieve +his poverty; and who eventually surrenders himself to the authorities +and accepts his exile as moral salvation,—is one of the +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4786" id="Page_4786">[Pg 4786]</a></span> +strongest in Russian literature, though wrong-headed and easily +swayed, like all the author's characters.</p> + +<p>In June 1880 Dostoévsky made a speech at the unveiling of +Pushkin's monument in Moscow, which completely overshadowed the +speeches of Turgénieff and Aksakoff, and gave rise to what was +probably the most extraordinary literary ovation ever seen in Russia. +By that time he had become the object of pilgrimages, on the part +of the young especially, to a degree which no other Russian author +has ever experienced, and the recipient of confidences, both personal +and written, which pressed heavily on his time and strength. That +ovation has never been surpassed, save by the astonishing concourse +at his funeral. He died of a lesion of the brain on January 28th +(February 8th), 1881. Thousands followed his coffin for miles, but +there was no "demonstration," as that word is understood in Russia. +Nevertheless it was a demonstration in an unexpected way, since all +classes of society, even those which had not seemed closely interested +or sympathetic, now joined in the tribute of respect, which amounted +to loving enthusiasm.</p> + +<p>The works which I have mentioned are the most important, though he +wrote also 'The Stripling' and numerous shorter stories. His own +characterization of his work, when reproached with its occasional lack +of continuity and finish, was that his aim was to make his point, and +the exigencies of money and time under which he labored were to blame +for the defects which, with his keen literary judgment, he perceived +quite as clearly as did his critics. If that point be borne in mind, +it will help the reader to appreciate his literary-journalistic style, +and to pardon shortcomings for the sake of the pearls of principle and +psychology which can be fished up from the profound depths of his +voluminous tomes, and of his analysis. The gospel which Dostoévsky +consistently preached, from the beginning of his career to the end, +was love, self-sacrifice even to self-effacement. That was and is the +secret of his power, even over those who did not follow his precepts.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 564px;"> +<img src="images/sign122.png" width="564" height="167" alt="Isabel F. Hapgood" title="Isabel F. Hapgood" /> +</div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4787" id="Page_4787">[Pg 4787]</a></span></p> +<h3><a name="FROM_POOR_PEOPLE" id="FROM_POOR_PEOPLE"></a>FROM 'POOR PEOPLE'</h3> +<h4><a name="LetterI" id="LetterI"></a><span class="smcap">Letter from Varvara Dobrosyeloff to Makar Dyevushkin</span></h4> + + +<p>Pokrovsky was a poor, very poor young man; his health did +not permit of his attending regularly to his studies, and so +it was only by way of custom that we called him a student. +He lived modestly, peaceably, quietly, so that we could not even +hear him from our room. He was very queer in appearance; +he walked so awkwardly, bowed so uncouthly, spoke in such a +peculiar manner, that at first I could not look at him without +laughing. Moreover, he was of an irritable character, was constantly +getting angry, flew into a rage at the slightest trifle, +shouted at us, complained of us, and often went off to his own +room in a fit of wrath without finishing our lesson. He had a +great many books, all of them expensive, rare books. He gave +lessons somewhere else also, received some remuneration, and +just as soon as he had a little money, he went off and bought +more books.</p> + +<p>In time I learned to understand him better. He was the +kindest, the most worthy man, the best man I ever met. My +mother respected him highly. Later on, he became my best +friend—after my mother, of course....</p> + +<p>From time to time a little old man made his appearance at +our house—a dirty, badly dressed, small, gray-haired, sluggish, +awkward old fellow; in short, he was peculiar to the last degree. +At first sight one would have thought that he felt ashamed of +something, that his conscience smote him for something. He +writhed and twisted constantly; he had such tricks of manner +and ways of shrugging his shoulders, that one would not have +been far wrong in assuming that he was a little crazy. He +would come and stand close to the glazed door in the vestibule, +and not dare to enter. As soon as one of us, Sasha or I or one +of the servants whom he knew to be kindly disposed toward +him, passed that way, he would begin to wave his hands, and +beckon us to him, and make signs; and only when we nodded to +him or called to him,—the signal agreed upon, that there was no +stranger in the house and that he might enter when he pleased,—only +then would the old man softly open the door, with a joyous +smile, rubbing his hands together with delight, and betake +himself to Pokrovsky's room. He was his father.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4788" id="Page_4788">[Pg 4788]</a></span> +Afterward I learned in detail the story of this poor old man. Once +upon a time he had been in the government service somewhere or other, +but he had not the slightest capacity, and his place in the service +was the lowest and most insignificant of all. When his first wife died +(the mother of the student Pokrovsky), he took it into his head to +marry again, and wedded a woman from the petty-merchant class. Under +the rule of this new wife, everything was at sixes and sevens in his +house; there was no living with her; she drew a tight rein over +everybody. Student Pokrovsky was a boy at that time, ten years of age. +His stepmother hated him. But fate was kind to little Pokrovsky. +Bykoff, a landed proprietor, who was acquainted with Pokrovsky the +father and had formerly been his benefactor, took the child under his +protection and placed him in a school. He took an interest in him +because he had known his dead mother, whom Anna Feodorovna had +befriended while she was still a girl, and who had married her off to +Pokrovsky. From school young Pokrovsky entered a gymnasium, and then +the University, but his impaired health prevented his continuing his +studies there. Mr. Bykoff introduced him to Anna Feodorovna, +recommended him to her, and in this way young Pokrovsky had been taken +into the house as a boarder, on condition that he should teach Sasha +all that was necessary.</p> + +<p>But old Pokrovsky fell into the lowest dissipation through grief at +his wife's harshness, and was almost always in a state of drunkenness. +His wife beat him, drove him into the kitchen to live, and brought +matters to such a point that at last he got used to being beaten and +ill-treated, and made no complaint. He was still far from being an old +man, but his evil habits had nearly destroyed his mind. The only sign +in him of noble human sentiments was his boundless love for his son. +It was said that young Pokrovsky was as like his dead mother as two +drops of water to each other. The old man could talk of nothing but +his son, and came to see him regularly twice a week. He dared not come +more frequently, because young Pokrovsky could not endure his father's +visits. Of all his failings, the first and greatest, without a doubt, +was his lack of respect for his father. However, the old man certainly +was at times the most intolerable creature in the world. In the first +place he was dreadfully inquisitive; in the second, by his chatter and +questions he interfered with his son's occupations; and lastly, he +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4789" id="Page_4789">[Pg 4789]</a></span> +sometimes presented himself in a state of intoxication. The son broke +the father, in a degree, of his faults,—of his inquisitiveness and +his chattering; and ultimately brought about such a condition of +affairs that the latter listened to all he said as to an oracle, and +dared not open his mouth without his permission.</p> + +<p>There were no bounds to the old man's admiration of and delight in his +Petinka, as he called his son. When he came to visit him he almost +always wore a rather anxious, timid expression, probably on account of +his uncertainty as to how his son would receive him, and generally +could not make up his mind for a long time to go in; and if I happened +to be present, he would question me for twenty minutes: How was +Petinka? Was he well? In what mood was he, and was not he occupied in +something important? What, precisely, was he doing? Was he writing, or +engaged in meditation? When I had sufficiently encouraged and soothed +him, the old man would at last make up his mind to enter, and would +open the door very, very softly, very, very cautiously, and stick his +head in first; and if he saw that his son was not angry, and nodded to +him, he would step gently into the room, take off his little coat, and +his hat, which was always crumpled, full of holes and with broken +rims, and hang them on a hook, doing everything very softly, and +inaudibly. Then he would seat himself cautiously on a chair and never +take his eyes from his son, but would watch his every movement in his +desire to divine the state of his Petinka's temper. If the son was not +exactly in the right mood, and the old man detected it, he instantly +rose from his seat and explained, "I only ran in for a minute, +Petinka. I have been walking a good ways, and happened to be passing +by, so I came in to rest myself." And then silently he took his poor +little coat and his wretched little hat, opened the door again very +softly, and went away, forcing a smile in order to suppress the grief +which was seething up in his soul, and not betray it to his son.</p> + +<p>But when the son received his father well, the old man was beside +himself with joy. His satisfaction shone forth in his face, in his +gestures, in his movements. If his son addressed a remark to him, the +old man always rose a little from his chair, and replied softly, +cringingly, almost reverently, and always made an effort to employ +the most select, that is to say, the most ridiculous expressions. +But he had not the gift of language; he always +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4790" id="Page_4790">[Pg 4790]</a></span> +became confused and frightened, so that he did not know what to do +with his hands, or what to do with his person, and went on, for a long +time afterward, whispering his answer to himself, as though desirous +of recovering his composure. But if he succeeded in making a good +answer, the old man gained courage, set his waistcoat to rights, and +his cravat and his coat, and assumed an air of personal dignity. +Sometimes his courage rose to such a point, his daring reached such a +height, that he rose gently from his chair, went up to the shelf of +books, took down a book. He did all this with an air of artificial +indifference and coolness, as though he could always handle his son's +books in this proprietary manner, as though his son's caresses were no +rarity to him. But I once happened to witness the old man's fright +when Pokrovsky asked him not to touch his books. He became confused, +hurriedly replaced the book upside down, then tried to put it right, +turned it round and set it wrong side to, leaves out, smiled, +reddened, and did not know how to expiate his crime.</p> + +<p>One day old Pokrovsky came in to see us. He chatted with us for a long +time, was unusually cheerful, alert, talkative; he laughed and joked +after his fashion, and at last revealed the secret of his raptures, +and announced to us that his Petinka's birthday fell precisely a week +later, and that it was his intention to call upon his son, without +fail, on that day; that he would don a new waistcoat, and that his +wife had promised to buy him some new boots. In short, the old man was +perfectly happy, and chattered about everything that came into his +head.</p> + +<p>His birthday! That birthday gave me no peace, either day or night. I +made up my mind faithfully to remind Pokrovsky of my friendship, and +to make him a present. But what? At last I hit upon the idea of giving +him some books. I knew that he wished to own the complete works of +Pushkin, in the latest edition. I had thirty rubles of my own, earned +by my handiwork. I had put this money aside for a new gown. I +immediately sent old Matryona, our cook, to inquire the price of a +complete set. Alas! The price of the eleven volumes, together with the +expenses of binding, would be sixty rubles at the very least. I +thought and thought, but could not tell what to do. I did not wish to +ask my mother. Of course she would have helped me; but, in that case +every one in the house would have known about our gift; moreover, the +gift would have been converted +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4791" id="Page_4791">[Pg 4791]</a></span> +into an expression of gratitude, a payment for Pokrovsky's labors for +the whole year. My desire was to make the present privately, unknown +to any one. And for his toilsome lessons to me I wished to remain +forever indebted to him, without any payment whatever. At last I +devised an escape from my predicament. I knew that one could often buy +at half price from the old booksellers in the Gostinny Dvor, if one +bargained well, little used and almost entirely new books. I made up +my mind to go to the Gostinny Dvor myself. So it came about; the very +next morning both Anna Feodorovna and we needed something. Mamma was +not feeling well, and Anna Feodorovna, quite opportunely, had a fit of +laziness, so all the errands were turned over to me, and I set out +with Matryona.</p> + +<p>To my delight I soon found a Pushkin, and in a very handsome binding. +I began to bargain for it. How I enjoyed it! But alas! My entire +capital consisted of thirty rubles in paper, and the merchant would +not consent to accept less than ten rubles in silver. At last I began +to entreat him, and I begged and begged, until eventually he yielded. +But he only took off two rubles and a half, and swore that he had done +so only for my sake, because I was such a nice young lady, and that he +would not have come down in his price for any one else. Two rubles and +a half were still lacking! I was ready to cry with vexation. But the +most unexpected circumstance came to my rescue in my grief. Not far +from me, at another stall, I caught sight of old Pokrovsky. Four or +five old booksellers were clustered about him; he had completely lost +his wits, and they had thoroughly bewildered him. Each one was +offering him his wares, and what stuff they were offering, and what +all was he not ready to buy! I stepped up to him and asked him what he +was doing there? The old man was very glad to see me; he loved me +unboundedly,—no less than his Petinka, perhaps. "Why, I am buying a +few little books, Varvara Alexievna," he replied; "I am buying some +books for Petinka." I asked him if he had much money? "See +here,"—and the poor old man took out all his money, which was +wrapped up in a dirty scrap of newspaper; "here's a half-ruble, and a +twenty-kopek piece, and twenty kopeks in copper coins." I immediately +dragged him off to my bookseller. "Here are eleven books, which cost +altogether thirty-two rubles and a half; I have thirty; put your two +rubles and a half with mine, and we will buy all these +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4792" id="Page_4792">[Pg 4792]</a></span> +books and give them to him in partnership." The old man was quite +beside himself with joy, and the bookseller loaded him down with our +common library.</p> + +<p>The next day the old man came to see his son, sat with him a little +while, then came to us and sat down beside me with a very comical air +of mystery. Every moment he grew more sad and uneasy; at last he could +hold out no longer.</p> + +<p>"Listen, Varvara Alexievna," he began timidly, in a low voice: "do you +know what, Varvara Alexievna?" The old man was dreadfully embarrassed. +"You see, when his birthday comes, do you take ten of those little +books and give them to him yourself, that is to say, from yourself, on +your own behalf; then I will take the eleventh and give it from +myself, for my share. So you see, you will have something to give, and +I shall have something to give; we shall both have something to give."</p> + +<p>I was awfully sorry for the old man. I did not take long to think it +over. The old man watched me anxiously. "Listen to me, Zakhar +Petrovitch," I said: "do you give him all."—"How all? Do you mean all +the books?"—"Yes, certainly, all the books."—"And from +myself?"—"From yourself."—"From myself alone—that is, in my own +name?"—"Yes, in your own name." I thought I was expressing myself +with sufficient clearness, but the old man could not understand me for +a long time.</p> + +<p>"You see," he explained to me at last, "I sometimes indulge myself, +Varvara Alexievna,—that is to say, I wish to state to you that I +nearly always indulge myself,—I do that which is not right,—that is, +you know, when it is cold out of doors, and when various unpleasant +things happen at times, or when I feel sad for any reason, or +something bad happens,—then sometimes, I do not restrain myself, and +I drink too much. This is very disagreeable to Petrushka, you see, +Varvara Alexievna; he gets angry, and he scolds me and reads me moral +lectures. So now I should like to show him by my gift that I have +reformed, and am beginning to conduct myself well; that I have been +saving up my money to buy a book, saving for a long time, because I +hardly ever have any money, except when it happens that Petrushka +gives me some now and then. He knows that. Consequently, he will see +what use I have made of my money, and he will know that I have done +this for his sake alone."...</p> + +<p>"Well, yes," he said, after thinking it over, "yes! That will +be very fine, that would be very fine indeed,—only, what are +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4793" id="Page_4793">[Pg 4793]</a></span> +you going to do, Varvara Alexievna?"—"Why, I shall not give +anything."—"What!" cried the old man almost in terror; "so you +will not give Petinka anything, so you do not wish to give him +anything?" He was alarmed. At that moment it seemed as though he were +ready to relinquish his own suggestions, so that I might have +something to give his son. He was a kind-hearted old man! I explained +that I would be glad to give something, only I did not wish to deprive +him of the pleasure.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>On the festive day he made his appearance at precisely eleven o'clock, +straight from the mass, in his dress coat, decently patched, and +actually in a new waistcoat and new boots. We were all sitting in the +hall with Anna Feodorovna, and drinking coffee (it was Sunday). The +old man began, I believe, by saying that Pushkin was a good poet; then +he lost the thread of his discourse and got confused, and suddenly +jumped to the assertion that a man must behave well, and that if he +does not behave himself well, then it simply means that he indulges +himself; he even cited several terrible examples of intemperance, and +wound up by stating that for some time past he had been entirely a +reformed character, and that he now behaved with perfect propriety. +That even earlier he had recognized the justice of his son's +exhortations, and had treasured them all in his heart, and had +actually begun to be sober. In proof of which he now presented these +books, which had been purchased with money which he had been hoarding +up for a long time.</p> + +<p>I could not refrain from tears and laughter, as I listened to the poor +old fellow; he knew well how to lie when the occasion demanded! The +books were taken to Pokrovsky's room and placed on the shelf. +Pokrovsky immediately divined the truth.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Pokrovsky fell ill, two months after the events which I have described +above. During those two months he had striven incessantly for the means +of existence, for up to that time he had never had a settled position. +Like all consumptives, he bade farewell only with his last breath to the +hope of a very long life.... Anna Feodorovna herself made all the +arrangements about the funeral. She bought the very plainest sort +of a coffin, and hired a truckman. In order to repay herself for her +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4794" id="Page_4794">[Pg 4794]</a></span> +expenditure, Anna Feodorovna took possession of all the dead man's +books and effects. The old man wrangled with her, raised an uproar, +snatched from her as many books as possible, stuffed all his pockets +with them, thrust them into his hat and wherever he could, carried +them about with him all the three days which preceded the funeral, and +did not even part with them when the time came to go to the church. +During all those days he was like a man stunned, who has lost his +memory, and he kept fussing about near the coffin with a certain +strange anxiety; now he adjusted the paper band upon the dead man's +brow, now he lighted and snuffed the candles. It was evident that he +could not fix his thoughts in orderly manner on anything. Neither my +mother nor Anna Feodorovna went to the funeral services in the church. +My mother was ill, but Anna Feodorovna quarreled with old Pokrovsky +just as she was all ready to start, and so stayed away. The old man +and I were the only persons present. A sort of fear came over me +during the services—like the presentiment of something which was +about to happen. I could hardly stand out the ceremony in church. At +last they put the lid on the coffin and nailed it down, placed it on +the cart and drove away. I accompanied it only to the end of the +street. The truckman drove at a trot. The old man ran after the cart, +weeping aloud; the sound of his crying was broken and shaken by his +running. The poor man lost his hat and did not stop to pick it up. His +head was wet with the rain; the sleet lashed and cut his face. The old +man did not appear to feel the bad weather, but ran weeping from one +side of the cart to the other. The skirts of his shabby old coat waved +in the wind like wings. Books protruded from every one of his pockets; +in his hands was a huge book, which he held tightly clutched. The +passers-by removed their hats and made the sign of the cross. Some +halted and stared in amazement at the poor old man. Every moment the +books kept falling out of his pockets into the mud, People stopped +him, and pointed out his losses to him; he picked them up, and set out +again in pursuit of the coffin. At the corner of the street an old +beggar woman joined herself to him to escort the coffin. At last the +cart turned the corner, and disappeared from my eyes. I went home, I +flung myself, in dreadful grief, on my mother's bosom.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4795" id="Page_4795">[Pg 4795]</a></span></p> +<h4><a name="LetterII" id="LetterII"></a><span class="smcap">Letter from Makar Dyevushkin to Varvara Alexievna Dobrosyeloff</span></h4> + +<p class="author"><span class="smcap">September 9th</span>.</p> +<p><i>My dear Varvara Alexievna!</i></p> + +<p>I am quite beside myself as I write this. I am utterly upset by a most +terrible occurrence. My head is whirling. I feel as though everything +were turning in dizzy circles round about me. Ah, my dearest, what a +thing I have to tell you now! We had not even a presentiment of such a +thing. No, I don't believe that I did not have a presentiment—I +foresaw it all. My heart forewarned me of this whole thing! I even +dreamed of something like it not long ago.</p> + +<p>This is what has happened! I will relate it to you without attempting +fine style, and as the Lord shall put it into my soul. I went to the +office to-day. When I arrived, I sat down and began to write. But you +must know, my dear, that I wrote yesterday also. Well, yesterday +Timofei Ivan'itch came to me, and was pleased to give me a personal +order. "Here's a document that is much needed," says he, "and we're in +a hurry for it. Copy it, Makar Alexievitch," says he, "as quickly and +as neatly and carefully as possible: it must be handed in for +signature to-day." I must explain to you, my angel, that I was not +quite myself yesterday, and didn't wish to look at anything; such +sadness and depression had fallen upon me! My heart was cold, my mind +was dark; you filled all my memory, and incessantly, my poor darling. +Well, so I set to work on the copy; I wrote clearly and well, only,—I +don't know exactly how to describe it to you, whether the Evil One +himself tangled me up, or whether it was decreed by some mysterious +fate, or simply whether it was bound to happen so, but I omitted a +whole line, and the sense was utterly ruined. The Lord only knows what +sense there was—simply none whatever. They were late with the papers +yesterday, so they only gave this document to his Excellency for +signature this morning. To-day I presented myself at the usual hour, +as though nothing at all were the matter, and set myself down +alongside Emelyan Ivanovitch.</p> + +<p>I must tell you, my dear, that lately I have become twice as +shamefaced as before, and more mortified. Of late I have ceased to +look at any one. As soon as any one's chair squeaks, I am more +dead than alive. So to-day I crept in, slipped humbly into +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4796" id="Page_4796">[Pg 4796]</a></span> +my seat, and sat there all doubled up, so that Efim Akimovitch (he's the +greatest tease in the world) remarked in such a way that all could hear him, +"Why do you sit so like a y-y-y, Makar Alexievitch?" Then he made such +a grimace that everybody round him and me split with laughter, and of +course at my expense. They kept it up interminably! I drooped my ears +and screwed up my eyes, and sat there motionless. That's my way; they +stop the quicker. All at once I heard a noise, a running and a tumult; +I heard—did my ears deceive me? They were calling for me, demanding +me, summoning Dyevushkin. My heart quivered in my breast, and I didn't +know myself what I feared, for nothing of the sort had ever happened +to me in the whole course of my life. I was rooted to my chair,—as +though nothing had occurred, as though it were not I. But then they +began again, nearer at hand, and nearer still. And here they were, +right in my very ear: "Dyevushkin! Dyevushkin!" they called; "where's +Dyevushkin?" I raise my eyes, and there before me stands Evstafiy +Ivanovitch; he says:—"Makar Alexievitch, hasten to his Excellency as +quickly as possible! You've made a nice mess with that document!"</p> + +<p>That was all he said, but it was enough, wasn't it, my dear,—quite +enough to say? I turned livid, and grew as cold as ice, and lost my +senses; I started, and I simply didn't know whether I was alive or +dead as I went. They led me through one room, and through another +room, and through a third room, to the private office, and I presented +myself! Positively, I cannot give you any account of what I was +thinking about. I saw his Excellency standing there, with all of them +around him. It appears that I did not make my salute; I forgot it +completely. I was so scared that my lips trembled and my legs shook. +And there was sufficient cause, my dear. In the first place, I was +ashamed of myself; I glanced to the right, at a mirror, and what I +beheld therein was enough to drive any man out of his senses. And in +the second place, I have always behaved as though there were no place +for me in the world. So that it is not likely that his Excellency was +even aware of my existence. It is possible that he may have heard it +cursorily mentioned that there was a person named Dyevushkin in the +department, but he had never come into any closer relations.</p> + +<p>He began angrily, "What's the meaning of this, sir? What are +you staring at? Here's an important paper, needed in haste, +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4797" id="Page_4797">[Pg 4797]</a></span> +and you go and spoil it. And how did you come to permit such a thing?" Here his +Excellency turned on Evstafiy Ivanovitch. I only listen, and the +sounds of the words reach me: "It's gross carelessness. Heedlessness! +You'll get yourself into trouble!" I tried to open my mouth for some +purpose or other. I seemed to want to ask forgiveness, but I couldn't; +to run away, but I didn't dare to make the attempt: and then—then, my +dearest, something so dreadful happened that I can hardly hold my pen +even now for the shame of it. My button—deuce take it—my button, +which was hanging by a thread, suddenly broke loose, jumped off, +skipped along (evidently I had struck it by accident), clattered and +rolled away, the cursed thing, straight to his Excellency's feet, and +that in the midst of universal silence. And that was the whole of my +justification, all my excuse, all my answer, everything which I was +preparing to say to his Excellency!</p> + +<p>The results were terrible! His Excellency immediately directed his +attention to my figure and my costume. I remembered what I had seen in +the mirror; I flew to catch the button! A fit of madness descended +upon me! I bent down and tried to grasp the button, but it rolled and +twisted, and I couldn't get hold of it, in short, and I also +distinguished myself in the matter of dexterity. Then I felt my last +strength fail me, and knew that all, all was lost! My whole reputation +was lost, the whole man ruined! And then, without rhyme or reason, +Teresa and Faldoni began to ring in both my ears. At last I succeeded +in seizing the button, rose upright, drew myself up in proper salute, +but like a fool, and stood calmly there with my hands lined down on +the seams of my trousers! No, I didn't, though. I began to try to fit +the button on the broken thread, just as though it would stick fast by +that means; and moreover, I began to smile and went on smiling.</p> + +<p>At first his Excellency turned away; then he scrutinized me again, and +I heard him say to Evstafiy Ivanovitch:—"How's this? See what a +condition he is in! What a looking man! What's the matter with him?" +Ah, my own dearest, think of that—"What a looking man!" and "What's +the matter with him!"—"He has distinguished himself!" I heard +Evstafiy say; "he has no bad marks, no bad marks on any score, and his +conduct is exemplary; his salary is adequate, in accordance with the +rates." "Well then, give him some sort of assistance," says his +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4798" id="Page_4798">[Pg 4798]</a></span> +Excellency; "make him an advance on his salary."—"But he has had it, +he has taken it already, for ever so long in advance. Probably +circumstances have compelled him to do so; but his conduct is good, +and he has received no reprimands, he has never been rebuked." My dear +little angel, I turned hot and burned as though in the fires of the +bad place! I was on the point of fainting. "Well," says his Excellency +in a loud voice, "the document must be copied again as quickly as +possible; come here, Dyevushkin, make a fresh copy without errors; and +listen to me;" here his Excellency turned to the others and gave them +divers orders, and sent them all away. As soon as they were all gone, +his Excellency hastily took out his pocket-book, and from it drew a +hundred-ruble bank-note. "Here," said he, "this is all I can afford, +and I am happy to help to that extent; reckon it as you please, take +it,"—and he thrust it into my hand. I trembled, my angel, my whole +soul was in a flutter; I didn't know what was the matter with me; I +tried to catch his hand and kiss it. But he turned very red in the +face, my darling, and—I am not deviating from the truth by so much as +a hair's-breadth—he took my unworthy hand, and shook it, indeed he +did; he took it and shook it as though it were of equal rank with his +own, as though it belonged to a General like himself. "Go," says he; +"I am glad to do what I can. Make no mistakes, but now do it as well +as you can."</p> + +<p>Now, my dear, this is what I have decided: I beg you and Feodor—and +if I had children I would lay my commands upon them—to pray to God +for him; though they should not pray for their own father, that they +should pray daily and forever, for his Excellency! One thing more I +will say, my dearest, and I say it solemnly,—heed me well, my +dear,—I swear that, no matter in what degree I may be reduced to +spiritual anguish in the cruel days of our adversity, as I look on you +and your poverty, on myself, on my humiliation and incapacity,—in +spite of all this, I swear to you that the hundred rubles are not so +precious to me as the fact that his Excellency himself deigned to +press my unworthy hand, the hand of a straw, a drunkard! Thereby he +restored my self-respect. By that deed he brought to life again my +spirit, he made my existence sweeter forevermore, and I am firmly +convinced that, however sinful I may be in the sight of the Almighty, +yet my prayer for the happiness and prosperity of his Excellency will +reach his throne!</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4799" id="Page_4799">[Pg 4799]</a></span> +My dearest, I am at present in the most terrible state of spiritual +prostration, in a horribly overwrought condition. My heart beats as +though it would burst out of my breast, and I seem to be weak all +over. I send you forty-five rubles, paper money. I shall give twenty +rubles to my landlady, and keep thirty-five for myself; with twenty I +will get proper clothes, and the other fifteen will go for my living +expenses. But just now all the impressions of this morning have shaken +my whole being to the foundations. I am going to lie down for a bit. +Nevertheless, I am calm, perfectly calm. Only, my soul aches, and down +there, in the depths, my soul is trembling and throbbing and +quivering. I shall go to see you; but just now I am simply intoxicated +with all these emotions. God sees all, my dearest, my own darling, my +precious one.</p> + +<p class="regards">Your worthy friend,</p> +<p class="author"><span class="smcap">Makar Dyevushkin</span>.</p> + +<p class="trans">Translation of Isabel F. Hapgood.</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="BIBLE" id="BIBLE"></a>THE BIBLE READING</h3> + +<h4>From 'Crime and Punishment'</h4> + + +<p>Raskolnikoff went straight to the water-side, where Sonia was living. +The three-storied house was an old building, painted green. The young +man had some difficulty in finding the dvornik, and got from him vague +information about the quarters of the tailor Kapernasumoff. After +having discovered in a corner of the yard the foot of a steep and +gloomy staircase, he ascended to the second floor, and followed the +gallery facing the court-yard. Whilst groping in the dark, and asking +himself how Kapernasumoff's lodgings could be reached, a door opened +close to him; he seized it mechanically.</p> + +<p>"Who is there?" asked a timid female voice.</p> + +<p>"It is I. I am coming to see you," replied Raskolnikoff, on entering a +small ante-room. There on a wretched table stood a candle, fixed in a +candlestick of twisted metal.</p> + +<p>"Is that you? Good heavens!" feebly replied Sonia, who seemed not to +have strength enough to move from the spot.</p> + +<p>"Where do you live? Is it here?" And Raskolnikoff passed quickly into +the room, trying not to look the girl in the face.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4800" id="Page_4800">[Pg 4800]</a></span> +A moment afterwards Sonia rejoined him with the candle, and remained +stock still before him, a prey to an indescribable agitation. This +unexpected visit had upset her—nay, even frightened her. All of a +sudden her pale face colored up, and tears came into her eyes. She +experienced extreme confusion, united with a certain gentle feeling. +Raskolnikoff turned aside with a rapid movement and sat down on a +chair, close to the table. In the twinkling of an eye he took stock of +everything in the room.</p> + +<p>This room was large, with a very low ceiling, and was the only one let +out by the Kapernasumoffs; in the wall, on the left-hand side, was a +door giving access to theirs. On the opposite side, in the wall on the +right, there was another door, which was always locked. That was +another lodging, having another number. Sonia's room was more like an +out-house, of irregular rectangular shape, which gave it an uncommon +character. The wall, with its three windows facing the canal, cut it +obliquely, forming thus an extremely acute angle, in the back portion +of which nothing could be seen, considering the feeble light of the +candle. On the other hand, the other angle was an extremely obtuse +one. This large room contained scarcely any furniture. In the +right-hand corner was the bed; between the bed and the door, a chair; +on the same side, facing the door of the next set, stood a deal table, +covered with a blue cloth; close to the table were two rush chairs. +Against the opposite wall, near the acute angle, was placed a small +chest of drawers of unvarnished wood, which seemed out of place in +this vacant spot. This was the whole of the furniture. The yellowish +and worn paper had everywhere assumed a darkish color, probably the +effect of the damp and coal smoke. Everything in the place denoted +poverty. Even the bed had no curtains. Sonia silently considered the +visitor, who examined her room so attentively and so unceremoniously.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>"Her lot is fixed," thought he,—"a watery grave, the mad-house, +or a brutish existence!" This latter contingency was especially repellent +to him, but skeptic as he was, he could not help believing it a possibility. +"Is it possible that such is really the case?" he asked himself. "Is it +possible that this creature, who still retains a pure mind, should end by +becoming deliberately mire-like? Has she not already become familiar with +it, and if up to the present she has been able to bear with such a +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4801" id="Page_4801">[Pg 4801]</a></span> +life, has it not been so because vice has already lost its hideousness +in her eyes? Impossible again!" cried he, on his part, in the same way +as Sonia had cried a moment ago. "No, that which up to the present has +prevented her from throwing herself into the canal has been the fear +of sin and its punishment. May she not be mad after all? Who says she +is not so? Is she in full possession of all her faculties? Is it +possible to speak as she does? Do people of sound judgment reason as +she reasons? Can people anticipate future destruction with such +tranquillity, turning a deaf ear to warnings and forebodings? Does she +expect a miracle? It must be so. And does not all this seem like signs +of mental derangement?"</p> + +<p>To this idea he clung obstinately. Sonia mad! Such a prospect +displeased him less than the other ones. Once more he examined the +girl attentively. "And you—you often pray to God, Sonia?" he asked +her.</p> + +<p>No answer. Standing by her side, he waited for a reply. "What could I +be, what should I be without God?" cried she in a low-toned but +energetic voice, and whilst casting on Raskolnikoff a rapid glance of +her brilliant eyes, she gripped his hand.</p> + +<p>"Come, I was not mistaken!" he muttered to himself.—"And what does +God do for you?" asked he, anxious to clear his doubts yet more.</p> + +<p>For a long time the girl remained silent, as if incapable of reply. +Emotion made her bosom heave. "Stay! Do not question me! You have no +such right!" exclaimed she, all of a sudden, with looks of anger.</p> + +<p>"I expected as much!" was the man's thought.</p> + +<p>"God does everything for me!" murmured the girl rapidly, and her eyes +sank.</p> + +<p>"At last I have the explanation!" he finished mentally, whilst eagerly +looking at her.</p> + +<p>He experienced a new, strange, almost unhealthy feeling on watching +this pale, thin, hard-featured face, these blue and soft eyes which +could yet dart such lights and give utterance to such passion; in a +word, this feeble frame, yet trembling with indignation and anger, +struck him as weird,—nay, almost fantastic. "Mad! she must be mad!" +he muttered once more. A book was lying on the chest of drawers. +Raskolnikoff had noticed it more than once whilst moving about the +room. He took it and examined it. It was a Russian translation of the +Gospels, a well-thumbed leather-bound book.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4802" id="Page_4802">[Pg 4802]</a></span> +"Where does that come from?" asked he of Sonia, from the other end of +the room.</p> + +<p>The girl still held the same position, a pace or two from the table. +"It was lent me," replied Sonia, somewhat loth, without looking at +Raskolnikoff.</p> + +<p>"Who lent it you?"</p> + +<p>"Elizabeth—I asked her to!"</p> + +<p>"Elizabeth. How strange!" he thought. Everything with Sonia assumed to +his mind an increasingly extraordinary aspect. He took the book to the +light, and turned it over. "Where is mention made of Lazarus?" asked +he abruptly.</p> + +<p>Sonia, looking hard on the ground, preserved silence, whilst moving +somewhat from the table.</p> + +<p>"Where is mention made of the resurrection of Lazarus? Find me the +passage, Sonia."</p> + +<p>The latter looked askance at her interlocutor. "That is not the +place—it is the Fourth Gospel," said she dryly, without moving from +the spot.</p> + +<p>"Find me the passage and read it out!" he repeated, and sitting down +again rested his elbow on the table, his head on his hand, and +glancing sideways with gloomy look, prepared to listen.</p> + +<p>Sonia at first hesitated to draw nearer to the table. The singular +wish uttered by Raskolnikoff scarcely seemed sincere. Nevertheless she +took the book. "Have you ever read the passage?" she asked him, +looking at him from out the corners of her eyes. Her voice was getting +harder and harder.</p> + +<p>"Once upon a time. In my childhood. Read!"</p> + +<p>"Have you never heard it in church?"</p> + +<p>"I—I never go there. Do you go often yourself?"</p> + +<p>"No," stammered Sonia.</p> + +<p>Raskolnikoff smiled. "I understand, then, you won't go tomorrow to +your father's funeral service?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes! I was at church last week. I was present at a requiem mass."</p> + +<p>"Whose was that?"</p> + +<p>"Elizabeth's. She was assassinated by means of an axe."</p> + +<p>Raskolnikoff's nervous system became more and more irritated. He was +getting giddy. "Were you friends with her?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. She was straightforward. She used to come and see me—but not +often. She was not able. We used to read and chat. She sees God."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4803" id="Page_4803">[Pg 4803]</a></span> +Raskolnikoff became thoughtful. "What," asked he himself, "could be +the meaning of the mysterious interviews of two such idiots as Sonia +and Elizabeth? Why, I should go mad here myself!" thought he. "Madness +seems to be in the atmosphere of the place!—Read!" he cried all of a +sudden, irritably.</p> + +<p>Sonia kept hesitating. Her heart beat loud. She seemed afraid to read. +He considered "this poor demented creature" with an almost sad +expression. "How can that interest you, since you do not believe?" she +muttered in a choking voice.</p> + +<p>"Read! I insist upon it! Used you not to read to Elizabeth?"</p> + +<p>Sonia opened the book and looked for the passage. Her hands trembled. +The words stuck in her throat. Twice did she try to read without being +able to utter the first syllable.</p> + +<p>"Now a certain man was sick, named Lazarus, of Bethany," she read, at +last, with an effort; but suddenly, at the third word, her voice grew +wheezy, and gave way like an overstretched chord. Breath was deficient +in her oppressed bosom. Raskolnikoff partly explained to himself +Sonia's hesitation to obey him; and in proportion as he understood her +better, he insisted still more imperiously on her reading. He felt +what it must cost the girl to lay bare to him, to some extent, her +heart of hearts. She evidently could not, without difficulty, make up +her mind to confide to a stranger the sentiments which probably since +her teens had been her support, her <i>viaticum</i>—when, what with a +sottish father and a stepmother demented by misfortune, to say nothing +of starving children, she heard nothing but reproach and offensive +clamor. He saw all this, but he likewise saw that notwithstanding this +repugnance, she was most anxious to read,—to read to him, and that +now,—let the consequences be what they may! The girl's look, the +agitation to which she was a prey, told him as much, and by a violent +effort over herself Sonia conquered the spasm which parched her +throat, and continued to read the eleventh chapter of the Gospel +according to St. John. She thus reached the nineteenth verse:—</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"And many of the Jews came to Martha and Mary, to comfort +them concerning their brother. Then Martha, as soon as she heard +that Jesus was coming, went and met him; but Mary sat still in the +house. Then said Martha unto Jesus, Lord, if thou hadst been here, +my brother had not died. But I know that even now, whatsoever +thou wilt ask of God, God will give it thee."</p></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4804" id="Page_4804">[Pg 4804]</a></span> +Here she paused, to overcome the emotion which once more +caused her voice to tremble.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"Jesus saith unto her, Thy brother shall rise again. Martha saith +unto him, I know that he shall rise again in the resurrection at the +last day. Jesus said unto her, I am the Resurrection and the Life; +he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; +and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die. Believest +thou this? She saith unto him,"—</p></div> + +<p>and although she had difficulty in breathing, Sonia raised her +voice, as if in reading the words of Martha she was making her +own confession of faith:—</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"Yea, Lord: I believe that thou art the Christ, the Son of God, +which should come into the world."</p></div> + +<p>She stopped, raised her eyes rapidly on him, but cast them +down on her book, and continued to read. Raskolnikoff listened +without stirring, without turning toward her, his elbows resting +on the table, looking aside. Thus the reading continued till the +thirty-second verse.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"Then when Mary was come where Jesus was, and saw him, she +fell down at his feet, saying unto him, Lord, if thou hadst been here, +my brother had not died. When Jesus therefore saw her weeping, +and the Jews also weeping which came with her, he groaned in the +spirit and was troubled, and said, Where have ye laid him? They +said unto him, Lord, come and see. Jesus wept. Then said the +Jews, Behold how he loved him. And some of them said, Could not +this man, which opened the eyes of the blind, have caused that even +this man should not have died?"</p></div> + +<p>Raskolnikoff turned towards her and looked at her with agitation. His +suspicion was a correct one. She was trembling in all her limbs, a +prey to fever. He had expected this. She was getting to the miraculous +story, and a feeling of triumph was taking possession of her. Her +voice, strengthened by joy, had a metallic ring. The lines became +misty to her troubled eyes, but fortunately she knew the passage by +heart. At the last line, "Could not this man, which opened the eyes of +the blind—" she lowered her voice, emphasizing passionately the +doubt, the blame, the reproach of these unbelieving and blind Jews, +who a moment after fell as if struck by lightning on their knees, to +sob and to believe. "Yes," thought she, deeply affected by this +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4805" id="Page_4805">[Pg 4805]</a></span> +joyful hope, "yes, he—he who is blind, who dares not believe—he also +will hear—will believe in an instant, immediately, now, this very +moment!"</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"Jesus therefore, again groaning in himself, cometh to the grave. +It was a cave, and a stone lay upon it. Jesus said, Take ye away +the stone. Martha, the sister of him that was dead, saith unto him, +Lord, by this time he stinketh: for he hath been dead four days."</p></div> + +<p>She strongly emphasized the word <i>four</i>.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"Jesus saith unto her. Said I not unto thee, that if thou wouldst +believe, thou shouldst see the glory of God? Then they took away +the stone from the place where the dead was laid. And Jesus lifted +up his eyes, and said, Father, I thank thee that thou hast heard me. +And I knew that thou hearest me always; but because of the people +which stand by I said it, that they may believe that thou hast sent +me. And when he thus had spoken, he cried with a loud voice, +Lazarus, come forth. <i>And he that was dead came forth,</i>"—</p></div> + +<p>(on reading these words Sonia shuddered, as if she herself had +been witness to the miracle)</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"bound hand and foot with grave-clothes; and his face was bound +about with a napkin. Jesus saith unto them, Loose him, and let him +go. <i>Then many of the Jews which came to Mary, and had seen the +things which Jesus did, believed on him.</i>"</p></div> + +<p>She read no more,—such a thing would have been impossible +to her,—closed the book, and briskly rising, said in a low-toned +and choking voice, without turning toward the man she was +talking to, "So much for the resurrection of Lazarus." She +seemed afraid to raise her eyes on Raskolnikoff, whilst her feverish +trembling continued. The dying piece of candle dimly lit up +this low-ceiled room, in which an assassin and a harlot had just +read the Book of books.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4806" id="Page_4806">[Pg 4806]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="EDWARD_DOWDEN" id="EDWARD_DOWDEN"></a>EDWARD DOWDEN</h2> + +<h4>(1843-)</h4> + + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 90px;"> +<img src="images/capw142.png" width="90" height="90" alt="W" title="W" /> +</div><p class="dropcap">e are all hunters, skillful or skilless, in literature—hunters for +our spiritual good or for our pleasure," says Edward Dowden; and to +his earnest research and careful exposition many readers owe a more +thorough appreciation of literature. He was educated at Queen's +College, Cork (his birthplace), and then at Trinity College, Dublin, +where he received the Vice-Chancellor's prize in both English verse +and English prose, and also the first English Moderatorship in logic +and ethics. For two years he studied divinity. Then he obtained by +examination a professorship of oratory at the University of Dublin, +where he was afterwards elected professor of English literature. The +scholarship of his literary work has won him many honors. In 1888 he +was chosen president of the English Goethe Society, to succeed +Professor Müller. The following year he was appointed first Taylorian +lecturer in the Taylor Institute, Oxford. The Royal Irish Academy has +bestowed the Cunningham gold medal upon him, and he has also received +the honorary degree LL. D. of the University of Edinburgh, and from +Princeton University.</p> + +<p>Very early in life Professor Dowden began to express his feeling for +literature, and the instinct which leads him to account for a work by +study of its author's personality. For more than twenty years English +readers have known him as a frequent contributor of critical essays to +the leading reviews. These have been collected into the delightful +volumes 'Studies in Literature' and 'Transcripts and Studies.' His has +been called "an honest method, wholesome as sweet." He would offer +more than a mere résumé of what his author expresses. He would be one +of the interpreters and transmitters of new forms of thought to the +masses of readers who lack time or ability to discover values for +themselves. Very widely read himself, he is fitted for just +comparisons and comprehensive views. As has been pointed out, he is +fond of working from a general consideration of a period with its +formative influences, to the particular care of the author with whom +he is dealing. Saintsbury tells us that Mr. Dowden's procedure is to +ask his author a series of questions which seem to him of vital +importance, and find out how he would answer them.</p> + +<p>Dowden's style is careful, clear, and thorough, showing his +scholarship and incisive thought. His form of expression is strongly +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4807" id="Page_4807">[Pg 4807]</a></span> +picturesque. It is nowhere more so than in 'Shakespeare: a Study of +His Mind and Art.' This, his most noteworthy work, has been very +widely read and admired. His intimate acquaintance with German +criticism upon the great Elizabethan especially fitted him to present +fresh considerations to the public.</p> + +<p>He has also written a brilliant 'Life of Shelley' (bitterly criticized +by Mark Twain in the North American Review, 'A Defense of Harriet +Shelley'), and a 'Life of Southey' in the English Men of Letters +Series; and edited most capably 'Southey's Correspondence with +Caroline Bowles,' 'The Correspondence of Sir Henry Taylor,' +'Shakespeare's Sonnets,' 'The Passionate Pilgrim,' and a collection of +'Lyrical Ballads.'</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="HUMOR" id="HUMOR"></a>THE HUMOR OF SHAKESPEARE</h3> + +<h4>From 'Shakespeare: a Critical Study of His Mind and Art'</h4> + +<p>A study of Shakespeare which fails to take account of Shakespeare's +humor must remain essentially incomplete. The character and spiritual +history of a man who is endowed with a capacity for humorous +appreciation of the world must differ throughout, and in every +particular, from that of the man whose moral nature has never rippled +over with genial laughter. At whatever final issue Shakespeare arrived +after long spiritual travail as to the attainment of his life, that +precise issue, rather than another, was arrived at in part by virtue +of the fact of Shakespeare's humor. In the composition of forces which +determined the orbit traversed by the mind of the poet, this must be +allowed for as a force among others, in importance not the least, and +efficient at all times even when little apparent. A man whose visage +"holds one stern intent" from day to day, and whose joy becomes at +times almost a supernatural rapture, may descend through circles of +hell to the narrowest and the lowest; he may mount from sphere to +sphere of Paradise until he stands within the light of the Divine +Majesty; but he will hardly succeed in presenting us with an adequate +image of life as it is on this earth of ours, in its oceanic amplitude +and variety. A few men of genius there have been, who with vision +penetrative as lightning have gazed as it were <i>through</i> life, at some +eternal significances of which life is the symbol. Intent upon its +sacred meaning, they have had no eye to note the forms of the +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4808" id="Page_4808">[Pg 4808]</a></span> +grotesque hieroglyph of human existence. Such men are not framed for +laughter. To this little group the creator of Falstaff, of Bottom, and +of Touchstone does not belong.</p> + +<p>Shakespeare, who saw life more widely and wisely than any other of the +seers, could laugh. That is a comfortable fact to bear in mind; a fact +which serves to rescue us from the domination of intense and narrow +natures, who claim authority by virtue of their grasp of one-half of +the realities of our existence and their denial of the rest. +Shakespeare could laugh. But we must go on to ask, "What did he laugh +at? and what was the manner of his laughter?" There are as many modes +of laughter as there are facets of the common soul of humanity, to +reflect the humorous appearances of the world. Hogarth, in one of his +pieces of coarse yet subtile engraving, has presented a group of +occupants of the pit of a theatre, sketched during the performance of +some broad comedy or farce. What proceeds upon the stage is invisible +and undiscoverable, save as we catch its reflection on the faces of +the spectators, in the same way that we infer a sunset from the +evening flame upon windows that front the west. Each laughing face in +Hogarth's print exhibits a different mode or a different stage of the +risible paroxysm. There is the habitual enjoyer of the broad comic, +abandoned to his mirth, which is open and unashamed; mirth which he is +evidently a match for, and able to sustain. By his side is a companion +female portrait—a woman with head thrown back to ease the violence of +the guffaw; all her loose redundant flesh is tickled into an orgasm of +merriment; she is fairly overcome. On the other side sits the +spectator who has passed the climax of his laughter; he wipes the +tears from his eyes, and is on the way to regain an insecure and +temporary composure. Below appears a girl of eighteen or twenty, whose +vacancy of intellect is captured and occupied by the innocuous folly +still in progress; she gazes on expectantly, assured that a new +blossom of the wonder of absurdity is about to display itself. Her +father, a man who does not often surrender himself to an indecent +convulsion, leans his face upon his hand, and with the other steadies +himself by grasping one of the iron spikes that inclose the orchestra. +In the right corner sits the humorist, whose eyes, around which the +wrinkles gather, are half closed, while he already goes over the jest +a second time in his imagination. At the opposite side an elderly +woman is seen, past the period when animal violences are +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4809" id="Page_4809">[Pg 4809]</a></span> +possible, laughing because she knows there is something to laugh at, though she +is too dull-witted to know precisely what. One spectator, as we guess +from his introverted air, is laughing to think what somebody else +would think of this. Finally, the thin-lipped, perk-nosed person of +refinement looks aside, and by his critical indifference condemns the +broad, injudicious mirth of the company.</p> + +<p>All these laughers of Hogarth are very commonplace, and some are very +vulgar persons; one trivial, ludicrous spectacle is the occasion of +their mirth. When from such laughter as this we turn to the laughter +of men of genius, who gaze at the total play of the world's life; and +when we listen to this, as with the ages it goes on gathering and +swelling, our sense of hearing is enveloped and almost annihilated by +the chorus of mock and jest, of antic and buffoonery, of tender mirth +and indignant satire, of monstrous burlesque and sly absurdity, of +desperate misanthropic derision and genial affectionate caressing of +human imperfection and human folly. We hear from behind the mask the +enormous laughter of Aristophanes, ascending peal above peal until it +passes into jubilant ecstasy, or from the uproar springs some +exquisite lyric strain. We hear laughter of passionate indignation +from Juvenal, the indignation of "the ancient and free soul of the +dead republics." And there is Rabelais, with his huge buffoonery, and +the earnest eyes intent on freedom, which look out at us in the midst +of the zany's tumblings and indecencies. And Cervantes, with his +refined Castilian air and deep melancholy mirth, at odds with the +enthusiasm which is dearest to his soul. And Molière, with his +laughter of unerring good sense, undeluded by fashion or vanity or +folly or hypocrisy, and brightly mocking these into modesty. And +Milton, with his fierce objurgatory laughter,—Elijah-like insult +against the enemies of freedom and of England. And Voltaire, with his +quick intellectual scorn and eager malice of the brain. And there is +the urbane and amiable play of Addison's invention, not capable of +large achievement, but stirring the corners of the mouth with a humane +smile,—gracious gayety for the breakfast-tables of England. And +Fielding's careless mastery of the whole broad common field of mirth. +And Sterne's exquisite curiosity of oddness, his subtile extravagances +and humors prepense. And there is the tragic laughter of Swift, which announces +the extinction of reason, and loss beyond recovery of human faith and charity +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4810" id="Page_4810">[Pg 4810]</a></span> +and hope. How in this chorus of laughters, joyous and terrible, +is the laughter of Shakespeare distinguishable?</p> + +<p>In the first place, the humor of Shakespeare, like his total +genius, is many-sided. He does not pledge himself as dramatist +to any one view of human life. If we open a novel by Charles +Dickens, we feel assured beforehand that we are condemned to +an exuberance of philanthropy; we know how the writer will +insist that we must all be good friends, all be men and brothers, +intoxicated with the delight of one another's presence; we expect +him to hold out the right hand of fellowship to man, woman, and +child; we are prepared for the bacchanalia of benevolence. The +lesson we have to learn from this teacher is, that with the +exception of a few inevitable and incredible monsters of cruelty, +every man naturally engendered of the offspring of Adam is of +his own nature inclined to every amiable virtue, Shakespeare +abounds in kindly mirth: he receives an exquisite pleasure from +the alert wit and bright good sense of a Rosalind; he can dandle +a fool as tenderly as any nurse qualified to take a baby from the +birth can deal with her charge. But Shakespeare is not pledged +to deep-dyed ultra-amiability. With Jacques, he can rail at the +world while remaining curiously aloof from all deep concern +about its interests, this way or that. With Timon he can turn +upon the world with a rage no less than that of Swift, and discover +in man and woman a creature as abominable as the Yahoo. +In other words, the humor of Shakespeare, like his total genius, +is dramatic.</p> + +<p>Then again, although Shakespeare laughs incomparably, mere laughter +wearies him. The only play of Shakespeare's, out of nearly forty, +which is farcical,—'The Comedy of Errors,'—was written in +the poet's earliest period of authorship, and was formed upon the +suggestion of a preceding piece. It has been observed with truth by +Gervinus that the farcical incidents of this play have been connected +by Shakespeare with a tragic background, which is probably his own +invention. With beauty, or with pathos, or with thought, Shakespeare +can mingle his mirth; and then he is happy, and knows how to deal with +play of wit or humorous characterization; but an entirely comic +subject somewhat disconcerts the poet. On this ground, if no other +were forthcoming, it might be suspected that 'The Taming of the Shrew' +was not altogether the work of Shakespeare's hand. The secondary +intrigues and minor incidents were of little interest to +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4811" id="Page_4811">[Pg 4811]</a></span> +the poet. But in the buoyant force of Petruchio's character, in his +subduing tempest of high spirits, and in the person of the foiled +revoltress against the law of sex, who carries into her wifely loyalty +the same energy which she had shown in her virgin <i>sauvagerie</i>, there +were elements of human character in which the imagination of the poet +took delight.</p> + +<p>Unless it be its own excess, however, Shakespeare's laughter +seems to fear nothing. It does not, when it has once arrived at +its full development, fear enthusiasm, or passion, or tragic +intensity; nor do these fear it. The traditions of the English +drama had favored the juxtaposition of the serious and comic: +but it was reserved for Shakespeare to make each a part of the +other; to interpenetrate tragedy with comedy, and comedy with +tragic earnestness.</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="SHAKESPEARE" id="SHAKESPEARE"></a>SHAKESPEARE'S PORTRAITURE OF WOMEN</h3> +<h4>From 'Transcripts and Studies'</h4> + +<p>Of all the daughters of his imagination, which did Shakespeare love +the best? Perhaps we shall not err if we say one of the latest born of +them all,—our English Imogen. And what most clearly shows us how +Shakespeare loved Imogen is this—he has given her faults, and has +made them exquisite, so that we love her better for their sake. No one +has so quick and keen a sensibility to whatever pains and to whatever +gladdens as she. To her a word is a blow; and as she is quick in her +sensibility, so she is quick in her perceptions, piercing at once +through the Queen's false show of friendship; quick in her contempt +for what is unworthy, as for all professions of love from the +clown-prince, Cloten; quick in her resentment, as when she discovers +the unjust suspicions of Posthumus. Wronged she is indeed by her +husband, but in her haste she too grows unjust; yet she is dearer to +us for the sake of this injustice, proceeding as it does from the +sensitiveness of her love. It is she, to whom a word is a blow, who +actually receives a buffet from her husband's hand; but for Imogen it +is a blessed stroke, since it is the evidence of his loyalty and zeal +on her behalf. In a moment he is forgiven, and her arms are round his +neck.</p> + +<p>Shakespeare made so many perfect women unhappy that he +owed us some <i>amende</i>. And he has made that <i>amende</i> by letting +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4812" id="Page_4812">[Pg 4812]</a></span> +us see one perfect woman supremely happy. Shall our last +glance at Shakespeare's plays show us Florizel at the rustic +merry-making, receiving blossoms from the hands of Perdita? or +Ferdinand and Miranda playing chess in Prospero's cave, and +winning one a king and one a queen, while the happy fathers +gaze in from the entrance of the cave? We can see a more +delightful sight than these—Imogen with her arms around the +neck of Posthumus, while she puts an edge upon her joy by the +playful challenge and mock reproach—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Why did you throw your wedded lady from you?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Think that you are upon a rock, and now<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Throw me again;"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>and he responds—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i6">"Hang there like a fruit, my soul,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till the tree die."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>We shall find in all Shakespeare no more blissful creatures +than these two.</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="INTERPRETATION" id="INTERPRETATION"></a>THE INTERPRETATION OF LITERATURE</h3> +<h4>From 'Transcripts and Studies'</h4> + +<p>The happiest moment in a critic's hours of study is when, seemingly by +some divination, but really as the result of patient observation and +thought, he lights upon the central motive of a great work. Then, of a +sudden, order begins to form itself from the crowd and chaos of his +impressions and ideas. There is a moving hither and thither, a +grouping or coordinating of all his recent experiences, which goes on +of its own accord; and every instant his vision becomes clearer, and +new meanings disclose themselves in what had been lifeless and +unilluminated. It seems as if he could even stand by the artist's side +and co-operate with him in the process of creating. With such a sense +of joy upon him, the critic will think it no hard task to follow the +artist to the sources from whence he drew his material,—it may be +some dull chapter in an ancient chronicle, or some gross tale of +passion by an Italian novelist,—and he will stand by and +watch with exquisite pleasure the artist handling that crude +material, and refashioning and refining it, and breathing +into it the breath of a higher life. Even the minutest +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4813" id="Page_4813">[Pg 4813]</a></span> +difference of text between an author's earlier and later draft, or a +first and second edition, has now become a point not for dull +commentatorship, but a point of life, at which he may touch with his +finger the pulse of the creator in his fervor of creation.</p> + +<p>From each single work of a great author we advance to his total work, +and thence to the man himself,—to the heart and brain from which +all this manifold world of wisdom and wit and passion and beauty has +proceeded. Here again, before we address ourselves to the +interpretation of the author's mind, we patiently submit ourselves to +a vast series of impressions. And in accordance with Bacon's maxim +that a prudent interrogation is the half of knowledge, it is right to +provide ourselves with a number of well-considered questions which we +may address to our author. Let us cross-examine him as students of +mental and moral science, and find replies in his written words. Are +his senses vigorous and fine? Does he see color as well as form? Does +he delight in all that appeals to the sense of hearing—the +voices of nature, and the melody and harmonies of the art of man? Thus +Wordsworth, exquisitely organized for enjoying and interpreting all +natural, and if we may so say, homeless and primitive sounds, had but +little feeling for the delights of music. Can he enrich his poetry by +gifts from the sense of smell, as did Keats; or is his nose like +Wordsworth's, an idle promontory projecting into a desert air? Has he +like Browning a vigorous pleasure in all strenuous muscular movements; +or does he like Shelley live rapturously in the finest nervous +thrills? How does he experience and interpret the feeling of sex, and +in what parts of his entire nature does that feeling find its +elevating connections and associations? What are his special +intellectual powers? Is his intellect combative or contemplative? What +are the laws which chiefly preside over the associations of his ideas? +What are the emotions which he feels most strongly? and how do his +emotions coalesce with one another? Wonder, terror, awe, love, grief, +hope, despondency, the benevolent affections, admiration, the +religious sentiment, the moral sentiment, the emotion of power, +irascible emotion, ideal emotion—how do these make themselves +felt in and through his writings? What is his feeling for the +beautiful, the sublime, the ludicrous? Is he of weak or vigorous will? +In the conflict of motives, which class of motives with him is likely +to predominate? Is he framed to believe or framed to doubt? +Is he prudent, just, temperate, or the reverse of +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4814" id="Page_4814">[Pg 4814]</a></span> +these? These and such-like questions are not to be crudely and formally proposed, +but are to be used with tact; nor should the critic press for hard and +definite answers, but know how skillfully to glean its meaning from an +evasion. He is a dull cross-examiner who will invariably follow the +scheme which he has thought out and prepared beforehand, and who +cannot vary his questions to surprise or beguile the truth from an +unwilling witness. But the tact which comes from natural gift and from +experience may be well supported by something of method,—method well +hidden away from the surface and from sight.</p> + +<p>This may be termed the psychological method of study. But we may also +follow a more objective method. Taking the chief themes with which +literature and art are conversant—God, external nature, humanity—we +may inquire how our author has dealt with each of these. What is his +theology, or his philosophy of the universe? By which we mean no +abstract creed or doctrine, but the tides and currents of feeling and +of faith, as well as the tendencies and conclusions of the intellect. +Under what aspect has this goodly frame of things, in whose midst we +are, revealed itself to him? How has he regarded and interpreted the +life of man? Under each of these great themes a multitude of +subordinate topics are included. And alike in this and in what we have +termed the psychological method of study, we shall gain double results +if we examine a writer's works in the order of their chronology, and +thus become acquainted with the growth and development of his powers, +and the widening and deepening of his relations with man, with +external nature, and with that Supreme Power, unknown yet well known, +of which nature and man are the manifestation. As to the study of an +artist's technical qualities, this, by virtue of the fact that he is +an artist, is of capital importance; and it may often be associated +with the study of that which his technique is employed to express and +render—the characteristics of his mind, and of the vision which he +has attained of the external universe, of humanity, and of God. Of all +our study, the last end and aim should be to ascertain how a great +writer or artist has served the life of man; to ascertain this, to +bring home to ourselves as large a portion as may be of the gain +wherewith he has enriched human life, and to render access to that +store of wisdom, passion, and power, easier and surer for others.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4815" id="Page_4815">[Pg 4815]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="A_CONAN_DOYLE" id="A_CONAN_DOYLE"></a>A. CONAN DOYLE</h2> + +<h4>(1859-)</h4> + + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 90px;"> +<img src="images/capt151.png" width="90" height="90" alt="T" title="T" /> +</div><p class="dropcap">he author of 'The White Company,' 'The Great Shadow,' and 'Micah +Clarke' has been heard to lament the fact that his introduction to +American readers came chiefly through the good offices of his +accomplished friend "Sherlock Holmes." Dr. Doyle would prefer to be +judged by his more serious and laborious work, as it appears in his +historic romances. But he has found it useless to protest. 'The +Adventures of Sherlock Holmes' delighted a public which enjoys +incident, mystery, and above all that matching of the wits of a clever +man against the dumb resistance of the secrecy of inanimate things, +which results in the triumph of the human intelligence. Moreover, in +Sherlock Holmes himself the reader perceived a new character in +fiction. The inventors of the French detective story,—that ingenious +Chinese puzzle of literature,—have no such wizard as he to show. Even +Poe, past master of mystery-making, is more or less empirical in his +methods of mystery-solving.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 180px;"> +<img src="images/Illus151.png" width="180" height="220" alt="A. Conan Doyle" title="A. Conan Doyle" /> +<span class="caption"><span class="smcap">A. Conan Doyle</span></span> +</div> + +<p>But Sherlock Holmes is a true product of his time. He is an embodiment +of the scientific spirit seeing microscopically and applying itself to +construct, from material vestiges and psychologic remainders, an +unknown body of proof. From the smallest fragments he deduces the +whole structure, precisely as the great naturalists do; and so +flawless are his reasonings that a course of 'The Adventures of +Sherlock Holmes' would not be bad training in a high-school class in +logic.</p> + +<p>The creator of this eminent personage was born in Edinburgh in +1859, of a line of artists; his grandfather, John Doyle, having been +a famous political caricaturist, whose works, under the signature +"H. B.," were purchased at a high price by the British Museum. The +quaint signature of his father—a capital D, with a little bird +perched on top, gained him the affectionate sobriquet of "Dicky +Doyle"; and Dicky Doyle's house was the gathering-place of artists +and authors, whose talk served to decide the destiny of the lad +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4816" id="Page_4816">[Pg 4816]</a></span> +Conan. For though he was intended for the medical profession, and +after studying in Germany had kept his terms at the Medical College +of Edinburgh University, the love of letters drove him forth in +his early twenties to try his fortunes in the literary world of London.</p> + +<p>Inheriting from his artist ancestry a sense of form and color, a +faculty of constructiveness, and a vivid imagination, his studiousness +and his industry have turned his capacities into abilities. For his +romance of 'The White Company' he read more than two hundred +books, and spent on it more than two years of labor. 'Micah +Clarke' and 'The Great Shadow' involved equal wit and conscience. +In his historic fiction he has described the England of Edward III., +of James II., and of to-day, the Scotland of George III., the France +of Edward III., of Louis XIV., and of Napoleon, and the America of +Frontenac; while, in securing this correctness of historic detail, he +has not neglected the first duty of a story-teller, which is to be +interesting.</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="HOLMES" id="HOLMES"></a>THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE</h3> + +<h4>From 'The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.' Copyright 1892, by Harper & +Brothers</h4> + +<p>I had called upon my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes one day in +the autumn of last year, and found him in deep conversation +with a very stout, florid-faced elderly gentleman, with fiery +red hair. With an apology for my intrusion I was about to withdraw, +when Holmes pulled me abruptly into the room and closed +the door behind me.</p> + +<p>"You could not possibly have come at a better time, my dear +Watson," he said, cordially.</p> + +<p>"I was afraid that you were engaged."</p> + +<p>"So I am. Very much so."</p> + +<p>"Then I can wait in the next room."</p> + +<p>"Not at all. This gentleman, Mr. Wilson, has been my partner +and helper in many of my most successful cases, and I have +no doubt that he will be of the utmost use to me in yours also."</p> + +<p>The stout gentleman half rose from his chair and gave a bob +of greeting, with a quick little questioning glance from his small, +fat-encircled eyes.</p> + +<p>"Try the settee," said Holmes, relapsing into his arm-chair +and putting his finger-tips together, as was his custom when in +judicial moods. "I know, my dear Watson, that you share my +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4817" id="Page_4817">[Pg 4817]</a></span> +love of all that is bizarre and outside the conventions and humdrum +routine of every-day life. You have shown your relish for +it by the enthusiasm which has prompted you to chronicle, and +if you will excuse my saying so, somewhat to embellish so many +of my own little adventures."</p> + +<p>"Your cases have indeed been of the greatest interest to me," +I observed.</p> + +<p>"You will remember that I remarked the other day, just +before we went into the very simple problem presented by Miss +Mary Sutherland, that for strange effects and extraordinary combinations +we must go to life itself, which is always far more daring +than any effort of the imagination."</p> + +<p>"A proposition which I took the liberty of doubting."</p> + +<p>"You did, doctor; but none the less you must come round to +my view, for otherwise I shall keep on piling fact upon fact on +you, until your reason breaks down under them and acknowledges +me to be right. Now, Mr. Jabez Wilson here has been good enough +to call upon me this morning, and to begin a narrative which +promises to be one of the most singular which I have listened to +for some time. You have heard me remark that the strangest +and most unique things are very often connected not with the +larger but with the smaller crimes; and occasionally, indeed, +where there is room for doubt whether any positive crime has +been committed. As far as I have heard, it is impossible for me +to say whether the present case is an instance of crime or not; +but the course of events is certainly among the most singular +that I have ever listened to. Perhaps, Mr. Wilson, you would +have the great kindness to recommence your narrative. I ask +you, not merely because my friend Dr. Watson has not heard the +opening part, but also because the peculiar nature of the story +makes me anxious to have every possible detail from your lips. +As a rule, when I have heard some slight indication of the course +of events, I am able to guide myself by the thousands of other +similar cases which occur to my memory. In the present instance +I am forced to admit that the facts are, to the best of my belief, +unique."</p> + +<p>The portly client puffed out his chest with an appearance of +some little pride, and pulled a dirty and wrinkled newspaper +from the inside pocket of his great-coat. As he glanced down +the advertisement column, with his head thrust forward, and the +paper flattened out upon his knee, I took a good look at the man, +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4818" id="Page_4818">[Pg 4818]</a></span> +and endeavored, after the fashion of my companion, to read the +indications which might be presented by his dress or appearance. +I did not gain very much, however, by my inspection. Our +visitor bore every mark of being an average commonplace British +tradesman, obese, pompous, and slow. He wore rather baggy +gray shepherd's-check trousers, a not over clean black frock-coat +unbuttoned in the front, and a drab waistcoat, with a heavy +brassy Albert chain and a square pierced bit of metal dangling +down as an ornament. A frayed top-hat and a faded brown +overcoat with a wrinkled velvet collar lay upon a chair beside +him. Altogether, look as I would, there was nothing remarkable +about the man save his blazing red head, and the expression of +extreme chagrin and discontent upon his features.</p> + +<p>Sherlock Holmes's quick eye took in my occupation, and he +shook his head with a smile as he noticed my questioning +glances. "Beyond the obvious facts that he has at some time +done manual labor, that he takes snuff, that he is a Freemason, +that he has been in China, and that he has done a considerable +amount of writing lately, I can deduce nothing else."</p> + +<p>Mr. Jabez Wilson started up in his chair, with his forefinger +upon the paper, but his eyes upon my companion.</p> + +<p>"How in the name of good fortune did you know all that, +Mr. Holmes?" he asked. "How did you know, for example, +that I did manual labor? It's as true as gospel, for I began as +a ship's carpenter."</p> + +<p>"Your hands, my dear sir. Your right hand is quite a size +larger than your left. You have worked with it, and the +muscles are more developed."</p> + +<p>"Well, the snuff, then, and the Freemasonry?"</p> + +<p>"I won't insult your intelligence by telling you how I read +that; especially as, rather against the strict rules of your order, +you use an arc-and-compass breastpin."</p> + +<p>"Ah, of course, I forgot that. But the writing?"</p> + +<p>"What else can be indicated by that right cuff so very shiny +for five inches, and the left one with the smooth patch near the +elbow where you rest it upon the desk?"</p> + +<p>"Well, but China?"</p> + +<p>"The fish that you have tattooed immediately above your +right wrist could only have been done in China. I have made a +small study of tattoo marks, and have even contributed to the +literature of the subject. That trick of staining the fishes' scales +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4819" id="Page_4819">[Pg 4819]</a></span> +of a delicate pink is quite peculiar to China. When in addition +I see a Chinese coin hanging from your watch-chain, the matter +becomes even more simple."</p> + +<p>Mr. Jabez Wilson laughed heavily. "Well, I never!" said he. +"I thought at first that you had done something clever, but I see +that there was nothing in it, after all."</p> + +<p>"I begin to think, Watson," said Holmes, "that I make a +mistake in explaining. 'Omne ignotum pro magnifico,' you +know, and my poor little reputation, such as it is, will suffer +shipwreck if I am so candid. Can you not find the advertisement, +Mr. Wilson?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, I have got it now," he answered, with his thick red +finger planted half-way down the column. "Here it is. This is +what began it all. You just read it for yourself, sir."</p> + +<p>I took the paper from him, and read as follows:—</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"<span class="smcap">To the Red-Headed League</span>:—On account of the bequest of +the late Ezekiah Hopkins, of Lebanon, Pa., U.S.A., there is now +another vacancy open, which entitles a member of the League to a +salary of £4 a week for purely nominal services. All red-headed +men who are sound in body and mind, and above the age of twenty-one +years, are eligible. Apply in person on Monday, at eleven o'clock, +to Duncan Ross, at the offices of the League, 7 Pope's Court, Fleet +Street."</p></div> + +<p>"What on earth does this mean?" I ejaculated, after I had +twice read over the extraordinary announcement.</p> + +<p>Holmes chuckled, and wriggled in his chair, as was his habit +when in high spirits. "It is a little off the beaten track, isn't +it?" said he. "And now, Mr. Wilson, off you go at scratch, and +tell us all about yourself, your household, and the effect which +this advertisement had upon your fortunes. You will first make +a note, doctor, of the paper and the date."</p> + +<p>"It is the Morning Chronicle of April 27th, 1890. Just two +months ago."</p> + +<p>"Very good. Now, Mr. Wilson?"</p> + +<p>"Well, it is just as I have been telling you, Mr. Sherlock +Holmes," said Jabez Wilson, mopping his forehead: "I have a +small pawnbroker's business at Coburg Square, near the city. +It's not a very large affair, and of late years it has not done +more than just give me a living. I used to be able to keep two +assistants, but now I only keep one; and I would have a job to +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4820" id="Page_4820">[Pg 4820]</a></span> +pay him, but that he is willing to come for half wages, so as to +learn the business."</p> + +<p>"What is the name of this obliging youth?" asked Sherlock +Holmes.</p> + +<p>"His name is Vincent Spaulding, and he's not such a youth, +either. It's hard to say his age. I should not wish a smarter +assistant, Mr. Holmes; and I know very well that he could better +himself, and earn twice what I am able to give him. But +after all, if he is satisfied, why should I put ideas in his head?"</p> + +<p>"Why, indeed? You seem most fortunate in having an <i>employé</i> +who comes under the full market price. It is not a common +experience among employers in this age. I don't know that +your assistant is not as remarkable as your advertisement."</p> + +<p>"Oh, he has his faults, too," said Mr. Wilson. "Never was +such a fellow for photography. Snapping away with a camera +when he ought to be improving his mind, and then diving down +into the cellar like a rabbit into its hole to develop his pictures. +That is his main fault; but on the whole, he's a good worker. +There's no vice in him."</p> + +<p>"He is still with you, I presume?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir. He and a girl of fourteen, who does a bit of simple +cooking, and keeps the place clean—that's all I have in the +house, for I am a widower, and never had any family. We live +very quietly, sir, the three of us; and we keep a roof over our +heads, and pay our debts, if we do nothing more.</p> + +<p>"The first thing that put us out was that advertisement. +Spaulding, he came down into the office just this day eight weeks, +with this very paper in his hand, and he says:—</p> + +<p>"'I wish to the Lord, Mr. Wilson, that I was a red-headed man.'</p> + +<p>"'Why that?' I asks.</p> + +<p>"'Why,' says he, 'here's another vacancy on the League of +the Red-Headed Men. It's worth quite a little fortune to any +man who gets it, and I understand that there are more vacancies +than there are men, so that the trustees are at their wits' end +what to do with the money. If my hair would only change +color, here's a nice little crib all ready for me to step into.'</p> + +<p>"'Why, what is it, then?' I asked. You see, Mr. Holmes, I +am a very stay-at-home man, and as my business came to me +instead of my having to go to it, I was often weeks on end without +putting my foot over the door-mat. In that way I didn't +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4821" id="Page_4821">[Pg 4821]</a></span> +know much of what was going on outside, and I was always glad +of a bit of news.</p> + +<p>"'Have you never heard of the League of the Red-Headed +Men?' he asked, with his eyes open.</p> + +<p>"'Never.'</p> + +<p>"'Why, I wonder at that, for you are eligible yourself for +one of the vacancies.'</p> + +<p>"'And what are they worth?' I asked.</p> + +<p>"'Oh, merely a couple of hundred a year; but the work is +slight, and it need not interfere very much with one's other +occupations.'</p> + +<p>"Well, you can easily think that that made me prick up my +ears, for the business has not been over good for some years, +and an extra couple of hundred would have been very handy.</p> + +<p>"'Tell me all about it,' said I.</p> + +<p>"'Well,' said he, showing me the advertisement, 'you can see for +yourself that the League has a vacancy, and there is the address where +you should apply for particulars. As far as I can make out, the League +was founded by an American millionaire, Ezekiah Hopkins, who was very +peculiar in his ways. He was himself red-headed, and he had a great +sympathy for all red-headed men; so when he died it was found that he +had left his enormous fortune in the hands of trustees, with +instructions to apply the interest to the providing of easy berths to +men whose hair is of that color. From all I hear, it is splendid pay +and very little to do.'</p> + +<p>"'But,' said I, 'there would be millions of red-headed men +who would apply.'</p> + +<p>"'Not so many as you might think,' he answered. 'You see +it is really confined to Londoners, and to grown men. This +American had started from London when he was young, and he +wanted to do the old town a good turn. Then again, I have +heard it is no use your applying if your hair is light red, or +dark red, or anything but real bright, blazing, fiery red. Now +if you care to apply, Mr. Wilson, you would just walk in; but +perhaps it would hardly be worth your while to put yourself out +of the way for the sake of a few hundred pounds.'</p> + +<p>"Now, it is a fact, gentlemen, as you may see for yourselves, +that my hair is of a very full and rich tint, so that it +seemed to me that if there was to be any competition in the +matter, I stood as good a chance as any man that I had ever +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4822" id="Page_4822">[Pg 4822]</a></span> +met. Vincent Spaulding seemed to know so much about it that +I thought he might prove useful, so I just ordered him to put +up the shutters for the day, and to come right away with me. +He was very willing to have a holiday; so we shut the business +up, and started off for the address that was given us in the +advertisement.</p> + +<p>"I never hope to see such a sight as that again, Mr. Holmes. From +north, south, east, and west, every man who had a shade of red in his +hair had tramped into the city to answer the advertisement. Fleet +Street was choked with red-headed folk, and Pope's Court looked like a +coster's orange-barrow. I should not have thought there were so many +in the whole country as were brought together by that single +advertisement. Every shade of color they were—straw, lemon, orange, +brick, Irish-setter, liver, clay; but as Spaulding said, there were +not many who had the real vivid flame-colored tint. When I saw how +many were waiting, I would have given it up in despair; but Spaulding +would not hear of it. How he did it I could not imagine, but he pushed +and pulled and butted until he got me through the crowd, and right up +to the steps which led to the office. There was a double stream upon +the stair, some going up in hope, and some coming back dejected; but +we wedged in as well as we could, and soon found ourselves in the +office."</p> + +<p>"Your experience has been a most entertaining one," remarked +Holmes, as his client paused and refreshed his memory with a +huge pinch of snuff. "Pray continue your very interesting statement."</p> + +<p>"There was nothing in the office but a couple of wooden +chairs and a deal table, behind which sat a small man, with a +head that was even redder than mine. He said a few words to +each candidate as he came up, and then he always managed to +find some fault in them which would disqualify them. Getting a +vacancy did not seem to be such a very easy matter, after all. +However, when our turn came, the little man was much more +favorable to me than to any of the others, and he closed the +door as we entered, so that he might have a private word with us.</p> + +<p>"'This is Mr. Jabez Wilson,' said my assistant, 'and he is +willing to fill a vacancy in the League.'</p> + +<p>"'And he is admirably suited for it,' the other answered. +'He has every requirement. I cannot recall when I have seen +anything so fine.' He took a step backward, cocked his head on +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4823" id="Page_4823">[Pg 4823]</a></span> +one side, and gazed at my hair until I felt quite bashful. Then +suddenly he plunged forward, wrung my hand, and congratulated +me warmly on my success.</p> + +<p>"'It would be injustice to hesitate,' said he. 'You will, however, +I am sure, excuse me for taking an obvious precaution.' +With that he seized my hair in both his hands, and tugged until +I yelled with the pain. 'There is water in your eyes,' said he, +as he released me. 'I perceive that all is as it should be. But +we have to be careful, for we have twice been deceived by wigs +and once by paint. I could tell you tales of cobbler's wax which +would disgust you with human nature.' He stepped over to the +window, and shouted through it at the top of his voice that the +vacancy was filled. A groan of disappointment came up from +below, and the folk all trooped away in different directions, until +there was not a red head to be seen except my own and that of +the manager.</p> + +<p>"'My name,' said he, 'is Mr. Duncan Ross, and I am myself +one of the pensioners upon the fund left by our noble benefactor. +Are you a married man, Mr. Wilson? Have you a family?'</p> + +<p>"I answered that I had not.</p> + +<p>"His face fell immediately.</p> + +<p>"'Dear me,' he said, gravely, 'that is very serious indeed! I +am sorry to hear you say that. The fund was of course for the +propagation and spread of the red-heads, as well as for their +maintenance. It is exceedingly unfortunate that you should be a +bachelor.'</p> + +<p>"My face lengthened at this, Mr. Holmes, for I thought that +I was not to have the vacancy after all; but after thinking it +over for a few minutes, he said that it would be all right.</p> + +<p>"'In the case of another,' said he, 'the objection might be +fatal, but we must stretch a point in favor of a man with such a +head of hair as yours. When shall you be able to enter upon +your new duties?'</p> + +<p>"'Well, it is a little awkward, for I have a business already,' +said I.</p> + +<p>"'Oh, never mind about that, Mr. Wilson!' said Vincent +Spaulding. 'I shall be able to look after that for you.'</p> + +<p>"'What would be the hours?' I asked.</p> + +<p>"'Ten to two.'</p> + +<p>"Now a pawnbroker's business is mostly done of an evening, +Mr. Holmes, especially Thursday and Friday evening, which is +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4824" id="Page_4824">[Pg 4824]</a></span> +just before pay-day; so it would suit me very well to earn a +little in the mornings. Besides, I knew that my assistant was a +good man, and that he would see to anything that turned up.</p> + +<p>"'That would suit me very well,' said I. 'And the pay?'</p> + +<p>"'Is £4 a week.'</p> + +<p>"'And the work?'</p> + +<p>"'Is purely nominal.'</p> + +<p>"'What do you call purely nominal?'</p> + +<p>"'Well, you have to be in the office, or at least in the building, +the whole time. If you leave, you forfeit your whole position +forever. The will is very clear upon that point. You don't +comply with the conditions if you budge from the office during +that time.'</p> + +<p>"'It's only four hours a day, and I should not think of leaving,' +said I.</p> + +<p>"'No excuse will avail,' said Mr. Duncan Ross, 'neither sickness +nor business nor anything else. There you must stay, or +you lose your billet.'</p> + +<p>"'And the work?'</p> + +<p>"'Is to copy out the Encyclopædia Britannica. There is the +first volume of it in that press. You must find your own ink, +pens, and blotting-paper, but we provide this table and chair. +Will you be ready to-morrow?'</p> + +<p>"'Certainly,' I answered.</p> + +<p>"'Then good-by, Mr. Jabez Wilson; and let me congratulate +you once more on the important position which you have been +fortunate enough to gain.' He bowed me out of the room, and +I went home with my assistant, hardly knowing what to say or +do, I was so pleased at my own good fortune.</p> + +<p>"Well, I thought over the matter all day, and by evening I +was in low spirits again; for I had quite persuaded myself that +the whole affair must be some great hoax or fraud, though what +its object might be I could not imagine. It seemed altogether +past belief that any one could make such a will, or that they +would pay such a sum for doing anything so simple as copying +out the 'Encyclopædia Britannica.' Vincent Spaulding did what +he could to cheer me up, but by bedtime I had reasoned myself +out of the whole thing. However, in the morning I determined +to have a look at it anyhow, so I bought a penny bottle of ink, +and with a quill pen and seven sheets of foolscap paper I started +off for Pope's Court.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4825" id="Page_4825">[Pg 4825]</a></span> +"Well, to my surprise and delight, everything was as right as +possible. The table was set out ready for me, and Mr. Duncan +Ross was there to see that I got fairly to work. He started me +off upon the letter A, and then he left me; but he would drop +in from time to time to see that all was right with me. At two +o'clock he bade me good-by, complimented me upon the amount +that I had written, and locked the door of the office after me.</p> + +<p>"This went on day after day, Mr. Holmes, and on Saturday +the manager came in and planked down four golden sovereigns +for my week's work. It was the same next week, and the same +the week after. Every morning I was there at ten, and every +afternoon I left at two. By degrees Mr. Duncan Ross took to +coming in only once of a morning, and then after a time he +did not come in at all. Still, of course, I never dared to leave +the room for an instant, for I was not sure when he might come, +and the billet was such a good one, and suited me so well, that +I would not risk the loss of it.</p> + +<p>"Eight weeks passed away like this, and I had written about +Abbots and Archery and Armor and Architecture and Attica, and +hoped with diligence that I might get on to the B's before very +long. It cost me something in foolscap, and I had pretty nearly +filled a shelf with my writings. And then suddenly the whole +business came to an end."</p> + +<p>"To an end?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir. And no later than this morning. I went to my +work as usual at ten o'clock, but the door was shut and locked +with a little square of card-board hammered on to the middle of +the panel with a tack. Here it is, and you can read for yourself."</p> + +<p>He held up a piece of white cardboard about the size of a +sheet of note-paper. It read in this fashion:—</p> + +<p class="char"> +<span class="smcap">The Red-Headed League</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">is</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">Dissolved</span>.</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 50%;"><i>October 9th, 1890.</i></span></p> + +<p>Sherlock Holmes and I surveyed this curt announcement and +the rueful face behind it, until the comical side of the affair so +completely overtopped every other consideration that we both +burst out into a roar of laughter.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4826" id="Page_4826">[Pg 4826]</a></span> +"I cannot see that there is anything very funny," cried our +client, flushing up to the roots of his flaming head. "If you can +do nothing better than laugh at me, I can go elsewhere."</p> + +<p>"No, no," cried Holmes, shoving him back into the chair from +which he had half risen. "I really wouldn't miss your case for +the world. It is most refreshingly unusual. But there is, if you +will excuse my saying so, something just a little funny about it. +Pray, what steps did you take when you found the card upon the +door?"</p> + +<p>"I was staggered, sir. I did not know what to do. Then I called at the +offices round, but none of them seemed to know anything about it. +Finally I went to the landlord, who is an accountant living on the +ground-floor, and I asked him if he could tell me what had become of +the Red-Headed League. He said that he had never heard of any such +body. Then I asked him who Mr. Duncan Ross was. He answered that the +name was new to him.</p> + +<p>"'Well,' said I, 'the gentleman at No. 4.'</p> + +<p>"'What, the red-headed man?'</p> + +<p>"'Yes.'</p> + +<p>"'Oh,' said he, 'his name was William Morris. He was a +solicitor, and was using my room as a temporary convenience +until his new premises were ready. He moved out yesterday.'</p> + +<p>"'Where could I find him?'</p> + +<p>"'Oh, at his new offices. He did tell me the address. Yes, +17 King Edward Street, near St. Paul's.'</p> + +<p>"I started off, Mr. Holmes, but when I got to that address it +was a manufactory of artificial knee caps, and no one in it had +ever heard of either Mr. William Morris or Mr. Duncan Ross."</p> + +<p>"And what did you do then?" asked Holmes.</p> + +<p>"I went home to Saxe-Coburg Square, and I took the advice +of my assistant. But he could not help me in any way. He +could only say that if I waited I should hear by post. But that +was not quite good enough, Mr. Holmes. I did not wish to lose +such a place without a struggle; so as I had heard that you +were good enough to give advice to poor folk who were in need +of it, I came right away to you."</p> + +<p>"And you did very wisely." said Holmes. "Your case is an +exceedingly remarkable one, and I shall be happy to look into it. +From what you have told me, I think that it is possible that +graver issues hang from it than might at first sight appear."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4827" id="Page_4827">[Pg 4827]</a></span> +"Grave enough!" said Mr. Jabez Wilson. "Why, I have lost +four pound a week."</p> + +<p>"As far as you are personally concerned," remarked Holmes, +"I do not see that you have any grievance against this extraordinary +league. On the contrary, you are, as I understand, richer +by some £30, to say nothing of the minute knowledge which you +have gained on every subject which comes under the letter A. +You have lost nothing by them."</p> + +<p>"No, sir. But I want to find out about them, and who they +are, and what their object was in playing this prank—if it was +a prank—upon me. It was a pretty expensive joke for them, +for it cost them two-and-thirty pounds."</p> + +<p>"We shall endeavor to clear up these points for you. And +first one or two questions, Mr. Wilson. This assistant of yours +who first called your attention to the advertisement—how long +had he been with you?"</p> + +<p>"About a month then."</p> + +<p>"How did he come?"</p> + +<p>"In answer to an advertisement."</p> + +<p>"Was he the only applicant?"</p> + +<p>"No; I had a dozen."</p> + +<p>"Why did you pick him?"</p> + +<p>"Because he was handy, and would come cheap."</p> + +<p>"At half wages, in fact."</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"What is he like, this Vincent Spaulding?"</p> + +<p>"Small, stout-built, very quick in his ways, no hair on his +face, though he's not short of thirty. Has a white splash of acid +upon his forehead."</p> + +<p>Holmes sat up in his chair in considerable excitement. "I +thought as much," said he. "Have you ever observed that his +ears are pierced for earrings?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir. He told me that a gipsy had done it for him +when he was a lad."</p> + +<p>"Hum!" said Holmes, sinking back in deep thought. "He is +still with you?"</p> + +<p>"Oh yes, sir; I have only just left him."</p> + +<p>"And has your business been attended to in your absence?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing to complain of, sir. There's never very much to do +of a morning."</p> + +<p>"That will do, Mr. Wilson. I shall be happy to give you an +opinion upon the subject in the course of a day or two. To-day +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4828" id="Page_4828">[Pg 4828]</a></span> +is Saturday, and I hope that by Monday we may come to a conclusion."</p> + +<p>"Well, Watson," said Holmes, when our visitor had left us, +"what do you make of it all?"</p> + +<p>"I make nothing of it," I answered, frankly. "It is a most +mysterious business."</p> + +<p>"As a rule," said Holmes, "the more bizarre a thing is, the +less mysterious it proves to be. It is your commonplace, featureless +crimes which are really puzzling, just as a commonplace face +is the most difficult to identify. But I must be prompt over this +matter."</p> + +<p>"What are you going to do, then?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"To smoke," he answered. "It is quite a three-pipe problem, +and I beg that you won't speak to me for fifty minutes." He +curled himself up in his chair, with his thin knees drawn up to +his hawk-like nose, and there he sat with his eyes closed and his +black clay pipe thrusting out like the bill of some strange bird. +I had come to the conclusion that he had dropped asleep, and +indeed was nodding myself, when he suddenly sprang out of his +chair with the gesture of a man who has made up his mind, and +put his pipe down upon the mantel-piece.</p> + +<p>"Sarasate plays at the St. James's Hall this afternoon," he +remarked. "What do you think, Watson? Could your patients +spare you for a few hours?"</p> + +<p>"I have nothing to do to-day. My practice is never very +absorbing."</p> + +<p>"Then put on your hat and come. I am going through the +city first, and we can have some lunch on the way. I observe +that there is a good deal of German music on the programme, +which is rather more to my taste than Italian or French. It is +introspective, and I want to introspect. Come along!"</p> + +<p>We traveled by the Underground as far as Aldersgate; and a +short walk took us to Saxe-Coburg Square, the scene of the +singular story which we had listened to in the morning. It was +a poky little shabby-genteel place, where four lines of dingy two-storied +brick houses looked out into a small railed-in inclosure, +where a lawn of weedy grass and a few clumps of faded laurel-bushes +made a hard fight against a smoke-laden and uncongenial +atmosphere. Three gilt balls, and a brown board with +"<span class="smcap">Jabez Wilson</span>" in white letters, upon a corner house, announced +the place where our red-headed client carried on his business. +Sherlock Holmes stopped in front of it, with his head on one +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4829" id="Page_4829">[Pg 4829]</a></span> +side, and looked it all over, with his eyes shining brightly between +puckered lids. Then he walked slowly up the street, and +then down again to the corner, still looking keenly at the houses. +Finally he returned to the pawnbroker's, and having thumped +vigorously upon the pavement with his stick two or three times +he went up to the door and knocked. It was instantly opened +by a bright-looking, clean-shaven young fellow, who asked him +to step in.</p> + +<p>"Thank you," said Holmes, "I only wish to ask you how you +would go from here to the Strand."</p> + +<p>"Third right, fourth left," answered the assistant, promptly, +closing the door.</p> + +<p>"Smart fellow, that," observed Holmes, as we walked away. +"He is, in my judgment, the fourth smartest man in London, +and for daring I am not sure that he has not a claim to be +third. I have known something of him before."</p> + +<p>"Evidently," said I, "Mr. Wilson's assistant counts for a good +deal in this mystery of the Red-Headed League. I am sure that +you inquired your way merely in order that you might see him."</p> + +<p>"Not him."</p> + +<p>"What then?"</p> + +<p>"The knees of his trousers."</p> + +<p>"And what did you see?"</p> + +<p>"What I expected to see."</p> + +<p>"Why did you beat the pavement?"</p> + +<p>"My dear doctor, this is a time for observation, not for talk. +We are spies in an enemy's country. We know something of +Saxe-Coburg Square. Let us now explore the parts which lie +behind it."</p> + +<p>The road in which we found ourselves as we turned round the +corner from the retired Saxe-Coburg Square presented as great a +contrast to it as the front of a picture does to the back. It was +one of the main arteries which convey the traffic of the city to +the north and west. The roadway was blocked with the immense +stream of commerce, flowing in a double tide inward and +outward, while the foot-paths were black with the hurrying +swarm of pedestrians. It was difficult to realize, as we looked at +the line of fine shops and stately business premises, that they +really abutted on the other side upon the faded and stagnant +square which we had just quitted.</p> + +<p>"Let me see," said Holmes, standing at the corner and glancing +along the line, "I should like just to remember the order +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4830" id="Page_4830">[Pg 4830]</a></span> +of the houses here. It is a hobby of mine to have an exact knowledge of London. +There is Mortimer's, the tobacconist, the little newspaper shop, the +Coburg branch of the City and Suburban Bank, the Vegetarian +Restaurant, and McFarlane's carriage-building depot. That carries us +right on to the other block. And now, doctor, we've done our work, so +it's time we had some play. A sandwich and a cup of coffee, and then +off to violin-land, where all is sweetness and delicacy and harmony, +and there are no red-headed clients to vex us with their conundrums."</p> + +<p>My friend was an enthusiastic musician, being himself not +only a very capable performer, but a composer of no ordinary +merit. All the afternoon he sat in the stalls wrapped in the +most perfect happiness, gently waving his long thin fingers in +time to the music, while his gently smiling face and his languid, +dreamy eyes were as unlike those of Holmes the sleuth-hound, +Holmes the relentless, keen-witted, ready-handed criminal agent, +as it was possible to conceive. In his singular character the dual +nature alternately asserted itself, and his extreme exactness and +astuteness represented, as I have often thought, the reaction +against the poetic and contemplative mood which occasionally +predominated in him. The swing of his nature took him from +extreme languor to devouring energy; and as I knew well, he +was never so truly formidable as when for days on end he had +been lounging in his arm-chair, amid his improvisations and his +black-letter editions. Then it was that the lust of the chase +would suddenly come upon him, and that his brilliant reasoning +power would rise to the level of intuition, until those who were +unacquainted with his methods would look askance at him as on +a man whose knowledge was not that of other mortals. When I +saw him that afternoon so enwrapped in the music at St. James's +Hall, I felt that an evil time might be coming upon those whom +he had set himself to hunt down.</p> + +<p>"You want to go home, no doubt, doctor," he remarked as +we emerged.</p> + +<p>"Yes, it would be as well."</p> + +<p>"And I have some business to do which will take some hours. +This business at Coburg Square is serious."</p> + +<p>"Why serious?"</p> + +<p>"A considerable crime is in contemplation. I have every reason +to believe that we shall be in time to stop it. But to-day +being Saturday rather complicates matters. I shall want your +help to-night."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4831" id="Page_4831">[Pg 4831]</a></span> +"At what time?"</p> + +<p>"Ten will be early enough."</p> + +<p>"I shall be at Baker Street at ten."</p> + +<p>"Very well. And I say, doctor, there may be some little +danger, so kindly put your army revolver in your pocket." He +waved his hand, turned on his heel, and disappeared in an instant +among the crowd.</p> + +<p>I trust that I am not more dense than my neighbors, but I +was always oppressed with a sense of my own stupidity in my +dealings with Sherlock Holmes. Here I had heard what he had +heard, I had seen what he had seen, and yet from his words it +was evident that he saw clearly not only what had happened, +but what was about to happen, while to me the whole business +was still confused and grotesque. As I drove home to my house +in Kensington I thought over it all, from the extraordinary story +of the red-headed copier of the 'Encyclopædia' down to the +visit to Saxe-Coburg Square, and the ominous words with which +he had parted from me. What was this nocturnal expedition, and +why should I go armed? Where were we going, and what were +we to do? I had the hint from Holmes that this smooth-faced +pawnbroker's assistant was a formidable man—a man who might +play a deep game. I tried to puzzle it out, but gave it up in +despair, and set the matter aside until night should bring an +explanation.</p> + +<p>It was a quarter past nine when I started from home and +made my way across the Park, and so through Oxford Street to +Baker Street. Two hansoms were standing at the door, and as +I entered the passage I heard the sound of voices from above. +On entering his room I found Holmes in animated conversation +with two men, one of whom I recognized as Peter Jones, the +official police agent, while the other was a long thin sad-faced +man, with a very shiny hat and oppressively respectable frock-coat.</p> + +<p>"Ha! our party is complete," said Holmes, buttoning up his +pea-jacket, and taking his heavy hunting crop from the rack. +"Watson, I think you know Mr. Jones, of Scotland Yard? Let +me introduce you to Mr. Merryweather, who is to be our companion +in to-night's adventure."</p> + +<p>"We're hunting in couples again, doctor, you see," said Jones, +in his consequential way. "Our friend here is a wonderful man +for starting a chase. All he wants is an old dog to help him to +do the running down."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4832" id="Page_4832">[Pg 4832]</a></span> +"I hope a wild goose may not prove to be the end of our +chase," observed Mr. Merryweather, gloomily.</p> + +<p>"You may place considerable confidence in Mr. Holmes, sir," +said the police agent, loftily. "He has his own little methods, +which are, if he won't mind my saying so, just a little too theoretical +and fantastic, but he has the makings of a detective in +him. It is not too much to say that once or twice, as in that +business of the Sholto murder and the Agra treasure, he has +been more nearly correct than the official force."</p> + +<p>"Oh, if you say so, Mr. Jones, it is all right," said the +stranger, with deference, "Still, I confess that I miss my rubber. +It is the first Saturday night for seven-and-twenty years +that I have not had my rubber."</p> + +<p>"I think you will find," said Sherlock Holmes, "that you will play for +a higher stake to-night than you have ever done yet, and that the play +will be more exciting. For you, Mr. Merryweather, the stake will be +some £30,000; and for you, Jones, it will be the man upon whom you +wish to lay your hands."</p> + +<p>"John Clay, the murderer, thief, smasher, and forger. He's a young +man, Mr. Merryweather, but he is at the head of his profession, and I +would rather have my bracelets on him than on any criminal in London. +He's a remarkable man, is young John Clay. His grandfather was a royal +duke, and he himself has been to Eton and Oxford. His brain is as +cunning as his fingers, and though we meet signs of him at every turn, +we never know where to find the man himself. He'll crack a crib in +Scotland one week, and be raising money to build an orphanage in +Cornwall the next. I've been on his track for years, and have never +set eyes on him yet."</p> + +<p>"I hope that I may have the pleasure of introducing you to-night. I've +had one or two little turns also with Mr. John Clay, and I agree with +you that he is at the head of his profession. It is past ten, however, +and quite time that we started. If you two will take the first hansom, +Watson and I will follow in the second."</p> + +<p>Sherlock Holmes was not very communicative during the long drive, and +lay back in the cab humming the tunes which he had heard in the +afternoon. We rattled through an endless labyrinth of gas-lit streets +until we emerged into Farringdon Street.</p> + +<p>"We are close there now," my friend remarked. "This fellow +Merryweather is a bank director, and personally interested in the +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4833" id="Page_4833">[Pg 4833]</a></span> +matter. I thought it as well to have Jones with us also. He is not a +bad fellow, though an absolute imbecile in his profession. He has one +positive virtue. He is as brave as a bull-dog, and as tenacious as a +lobster if he gets his claws upon any one. Here we are, and they are +waiting for us."</p> + +<p>We had reached the same crowded thoroughfare in which we had found +ourselves in the morning. Our cabs were dismissed, and following the +guidance of Mr. Merryweather, we passed down a narrow passage and +through a side door, which he opened for us. Within, there was a small +corridor, which ended in a very massive iron gate. This also was +opened, and led down a flight of winding stone steps, which terminated +at another formidable gate. Mr. Merryweather stopped to light a +lantern, and then conducted us down a dark, earth-smelling passage, +and so, after opening a third door, into a huge vault or cellar, which +was piled all around with crates and massive boxes.</p> + +<p>"You are not very vulnerable from above," Holmes remarked, as he held +up the lantern and gazed about him.</p> + +<p>"Nor from below," said Mr. Merryweather, striking his stick upon the +flags which lined the floor. "Why, dear me, it sounds quite hollow!" +he remarked, looking up in surprise.</p> + +<p>"I must really ask you to be a little more quiet," said Holmes, +severely. "You have already imperiled the whole success of our +expedition. Might I beg that you would have the goodness to sit down +upon one of those boxes, and not to interfere?"</p> + +<p>The solemn Mr. Merryweather perched himself upon a crate, with a very +injured expression upon his face, while Holmes fell upon his knees +upon the floor, and with the lantern and a magnifying lens began to +examine minutely the cracks between the stones. A few seconds sufficed +to satisfy him, for he sprang to his feet again, and put his glass in +his pocket.</p> + +<p>"We have at least an hour before us," he remarked; "for they can +hardly take any steps until the good pawnbroker is safely in bed. Then +they will not lose a minute, for the sooner they do their work the +longer time they will have for their escape. We are at present, +doctor—as no doubt you have divined—in the cellar at the City branch +of one of the principal London banks. Mr. Merryweather is the chairman +of directors, and he will explain to you that there are reasons why +the more daring criminals of London should take a considerable +interest in this cellar at present."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4834" id="Page_4834">[Pg 4834]</a></span> +"It is our French gold," whispered the director. "We have had several +warnings that an attempt might be made upon it."</p> + +<p>"Your French gold?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. We had occasion some months ago to strengthen our +resources, and borrowed for that purpose 30,000 napoleons from +the Bank of France. It has become known that we have never +had occasion to unpack the money, and that it is still lying in +our cellar. The crate upon which I sit contains 2,000 napoleons +packed between layers of lead foil. Our reserve of bullion is +much larger at present than is usually kept in a single branch +office, and the directors have had misgivings upon the subject."</p> + +<p>"Which were very well justified," observed Holmes. "And +now it is time that we arranged our little plans. I expect that +within an hour matters will come to a head. In the mean time, +Mr. Merryweather, we must put the screen over that dark +lantern."</p> + +<p>"And sit in the dark?"</p> + +<p>"I am afraid so. I had brought a pack of cards in my pocket, +and I thought that, as we were a <i>partie carrée</i>, you might have +your rubber after all. But I see that the enemy's preparations +have gone so far that we cannot risk the presence of a light. +And first of all, we must choose our positions. These are daring +men, and though we shall take them at a disadvantage, they +may do us some harm unless we are careful. I shall stand +behind this crate, and do you conceal yourselves behind those. +Then when I flash a light upon them, close in swiftly. If they +fire, Watson, have no compunction about shooting them down."</p> + +<p>I placed my revolver, cocked, upon the top of the wooden case behind +which I crouched. Holmes shot the slide across the front of his +lantern, and left us in pitch darkness—such an absolute darkness as I +had never before experienced. The smell of hot metal remained to +assure us that the light was still there, ready to flash out at a +moment's notice. To me, with my nerves worked up to a pitch of +expectancy, there was something depressing and subduing in the sudden +gloom, and in the cold dank air of the vault.</p> + +<p>"They have but one retreat," whispered Holmes. "That is back through +the house into Saxe-Coburg Square. I hope that you have done what I +asked you, Jones?"</p> + +<p>"I have an inspector and two officers waiting at the front door."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4835" id="Page_4835">[Pg 4835]</a></span> +"Then we have stopped all the holes. And now we must be +silent and wait."</p> + +<p>What a time it seemed! From comparing notes afterwards it +was but an hour and a quarter, yet it appeared to me that the +night must have almost gone, and the dawn be breaking above +us. My limbs were weary and stiff, for I feared to change my +position; yet my nerves were worked up to the highest pitch of +tension, and my hearing was so acute that I could not only hear +the gentle breathing of my companions, but I could distinguish +the deeper, heavier in-breath of the bulky Jones from the thin, +sighing note of the bank director. From my position I could +look over the case in the direction of the floor. Suddenly my +eyes caught the glint of a light.</p> + +<p>At first it was but a lurid spark upon the stone pavement. +Then it lengthened out until it became a yellow line, and then, +without any warning or sound, a gash seemed to open and a +hand appeared; a white, almost womanly hand, which felt about +in the centre of the little area of light. For a minute or more +the hand, with its writhing fingers, protruded out of the floor. +Then it was withdrawn as suddenly as it appeared, and all was +dark again save the single lurid spark which marked a chink +between the stones.</p> + +<p>Its disappearance, however, was but momentary. With a +rending, tearing sound, one of the broad white stones turned +over upon its side, and left a square gaping hole, through which +streamed the light of a lantern. Over the edge there peeped a +clean-cut, boyish face, which looked keenly about it, and then, +with a hand on either side of the aperture, drew itself shoulder-high +and waist-high, until one knee rested upon the edge. In +another instant he stood at the side of the hole, and was hauling +after him a companion, lithe and small like himself, with a pale +face and a shock of very red hair.</p> + +<p>"It's all clear," he whispered. "Have you the chisel and +the bags?—Great Scott! Jump, Archie, jump, and I'll swing +for it!"</p> + +<p>Sherlock Holmes had sprung out and seized the intruder by +the collar. The other dived down the hole, and I heard the +sound of rending cloth as Jones clutched at his skirts. The light +flashed upon the barrel of a revolver, but Holmes's hunting crop +came down on the man's wrist and the pistol clinked upon the +stone floor.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4836" id="Page_4836">[Pg 4836]</a></span> +"It's no use, John Clay," said Holmes, blandly, "You have +no chance at all."</p> + +<p>"So I see," the other answered, with the utmost coolness. +"I fancy that my pal is all right, though I see you have got his +coat-tails."</p> + +<p>"There are three men waiting for him at the door," said +Holmes.</p> + +<p>"Oh, indeed! You seem to have done the thing very completely. +I must compliment you."</p> + +<p>"And I you," Holmes answered. "Your red-headed idea was +very new and effective."</p> + +<p>"You'll see your pal again presently," said Jones. "He's +quicker at climbing down holes than I am. Just hold out, while +I fix the derbies."</p> + +<p>"I beg that you will not touch me with your filthy hands," +remarked our prisoner, as the handcuffs clattered upon his wrists. +"You may not be aware that I have royal blood in my veins. +Have the goodness, also, when you address me always to say +'sir' and 'please.'"</p> + +<p>"All right," said Jones, with a stare and a snigger. "Well, +would you please, sir, march upstairs, where we can get a cab +to carry your Highness to the police station?"</p> + +<p>"That is better," said John Clay, serenely. He made a +sweeping bow to the three of us, and walked quietly off in the +custody of the detective.</p> + +<p>"Really, Mr. Holmes," said Mr. Merryweather, as we followed them from +the cellar, "I do not know how the bank can thank you or repay you. +There is no doubt that you have detected and defeated in the most +complete manner one of the most determined attempts at bank robbery +that have ever come within my experience."</p> + +<p>"I have had one or two little scores of my own to settle with Mr. John +Clay," said Holmes. "I have been at some small expense over this +matter, which I shall expect the bank to refund; but beyond that I am +amply repaid by having had an experience which is in many ways unique, +and by hearing the very remarkable narrative of the Red-Headed +League."</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>"You see, Watson," he explained, in the early hours of the +morning, as we sat over a glass of whisky and soda in Baker +Street, "it was perfectly obvious from the first that the only +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4837" id="Page_4837">[Pg 4837]</a></span> +possible object of this rather fantastic business of the advertisement of the League, +and the copying of the 'Encyclopædia,' must be to get this not over bright +pawnbroker out of the way for a number of hours every day. It was a +curious way of managing it, but really, it would be difficult to +suggest a better. The method was no doubt suggested to Clay's +ingenious mind by the color of his accomplice's hair. The £4 a week +was a lure which must draw him,—and what was it to them, who were +playing for thousands? They put in the advertisement, one rogue has +the temporary office, the other rogue incites the man to apply for it, +and together they manage to secure his absence every morning in the +week. From the time that I heard of the assistant having come for half +wages, it was obvious to me that he had some strong motive for +securing the situation."</p> + +<p>"But how could you guess what the motive was?"</p> + +<p>"Had there been women in the house, I should have suspected a mere +vulgar intrigue. That however was out of the question. The man's +business was a small one, and there was nothing in his house which +could account for such elaborate preparations and such an expenditure +as they were at. It must then be something out of the house. What +could it be? I thought of the assistant's fondness for photography, +and his trick of vanishing into the cellar. The cellar! There was the +end of this tangled clue. Then I made inquiries as to this mysterious +assistant, and found that I had to deal with one of the coolest and +most daring criminals in London. He was doing something in the +cellar—something which took many hours a day for months on end. What +could it be, once more? I could think of nothing save that he was +running a tunnel to some other building.</p> + +<p>"So, far I had got when we went to visit the scene of action. +I surprised you by beating upon the pavement with my stick. I +was ascertaining whether the cellar stretched out in front or +behind. It was not in front. Then I rang the bell, and as I +hoped, the assistant answered it. We have had some skirmishes, +but we had never set eyes upon each other before. I hardly +looked at his face. His knees were what I wished to see. You +must yourself have remarked how worn, wrinkled, and stained +they were. They spoke of those hours of burrowing. The only +remaining point was what they were burrowing for. I walked +round the corner, saw that the City and Suburban Bank abutted +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4838" id="Page_4838">[Pg 4838]</a></span> +on our friend's premises, and felt that I had solved my problem. +When you drove home after the concert I called upon Scotland +Yard, and upon the chairman of the bank directors, with the +result that you have seen."</p> + +<p>"And how could you tell that they would make their attempt +to-night?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"Well, when they closed their League offices, that was a sign that +they cared no longer about Mr. Jabez Wilson's presence—in other +words, that they had completed their tunnel. But it was essential that +they should use it soon, as it might be discovered, or the bullion +might be removed. Saturday would suit them better than any other day, +as it would give them two days for their escape. For all these reasons +I expected them to come to-night."</p> + +<p>"You reasoned it out beautifully," I exclaimed, in unfeigned +admiration. "It is so long a chain, and yet every link rings +true."</p> + +<p>"It saved me from ennui," he answered, yawning. "Alas! I +already feel it closing in upon me. My life is spent in one long +effort to escape from the commonplaces of existence. These little +problems help me to do so."</p> + +<p>"And you are a benefactor of the race," said I.</p> + +<p>He shrugged his shoulders. "Well, perhaps after all it is of +some little use," he remarked. "'L'homme c'est rien—l'œuvre +c'est tout,' as Gustave Flaubert wrote to George Sand."</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="BOWMEN" id="BOWMEN"></a>THE BOWMEN'S SONG</h3> + +<h4>From 'The White Company'</h4> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">What of the bow?<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The bow was made in England:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of true wood, of yew wood,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The wood of English bows;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">So men who are free<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Love the old yew-tree<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the land where the yew-tree grows.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">What of the cord?<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The cord was made in England:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A rough cord, a tough cord,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">A cord that bowmen love;<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4839" id="Page_4839">[Pg 4839]</a></span><span class="i2">So we'll drain our jacks<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To the English flax<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the land where the hemp was wove.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">What of the shaft?<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The shaft was cut in England:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A long shaft, a strong shaft,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Barbed and trim and true;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">So we'll drink all together<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To the gray goose feather,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the land where the gray goose flew.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">What of the men?<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The men were bred in England:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The bowman—the yeoman—<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The lads of dale and fell.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Here's to you—and to you!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To the hearts that are true<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the land where the true hearts dwell.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="transc">Reprinted by permission of the American Publishers' Corporation, +Publishers.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4840" id="Page_4840">[Pg 4840]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="HOLGER_DRACHMANN" id="HOLGER_DRACHMANN"></a>HOLGER DRACHMANN</h2> + +<h4>(1846-)</h4> + + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 90px;"> +<img src="images/caph176.png" width="90" height="90" alt="H" title="H" /> +</div><p class="dropcap">olger Drachmann, born in Copenhagen October 9th, 1846, +belongs to the writers characterized by Georg Brandes as +"the men of the new era."</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 180px;"> +<img src="images/Illus176.png" width="180" height="220" alt="Holger Drachmann" title="Holger Drachmann" /> +<span class="caption"><span class="smcap">Holger Drachmann</span></span> +</div> + +<p>Danish literature had stood high during the first half of the nineteenth +century. In 1850 Oehlenschläger died. In 1870 there was practically +no Danish literature. The reason for this may have been that +after the new political life of 1848-9 and the granting of the Danish +Constitution, politics absorbed all young talent, and men of literary +tastes put themselves at the service of the daily press.</p> + +<p>In 1872 Georg Brandes gave his lectures on 'Main Currents in the +Literature of the Nineteenth Century' at the University of Copenhagen. +That same year Drachmann published his first collection of 'Poems,' +and so began his extraordinary productivity of poems, dramas, and +novels. Of these, his lyric poems are undoubtedly of the greatest +value. His is a distinctly lyric temperament. The new school had +chosen for its guide Brandes's teaching that "Literature, to be of +significance, should discuss problems." In view of this fact it is +somewhat hard to understand why Drachmann should be called a man of +the new era. He never discusses problems. He always gives himself up +unreservedly to the subject which at that special moment claims his +sympathy. Taken as a whole, therefore, his writings present a certain +inconsistency. He has shown himself alternately as socialist and +royalist, realist and romanticist, freethinker and believer, +cosmopolitan and national, according to the lyric enthusiasm of the +moment. Independent of these changes, the one thing to be admired and +enjoyed is his lyric feeling and the often exquisite form in which he +presents it. His larger compositions, novels, and dramas do not show +the same power over his subject.</p> + +<p>If Drachmann discusses any problem, it is the problem Drachmann. +He does this sometimes with what Brandes calls "a light and joking +self-irony," in a most sympathetic way. Brandes quotes one of Drachmann's +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4841" id="Page_4841">[Pg 4841]</a></span> +early stories, where it is said of the hero:—"His name was +really Palnatoke Olsen; a continually repeated discord of two tones, +as he used to say." Olsen is one of the most commonplace Danish +names. Palnatoke is the name of one of the fiercest warriors of +heathen antiquity, who, like a veritable Valhalla god, dared to oppose +the terrible Danish king Harald Blaatand. When Olsen's parents +gave him this name they unwittingly described their son, "forever +drawn by two poles: one the plain Olsen, the other the hot-headed +fiery Viking." With this in mind, and considering Drachmann's literary +works as a whole, one is irresistibly reminded of his friend and +contemporary in Norway, Björnsterne Björnson. There is this difference +between them, however, that if the irony of Palnatoke Olsen +may be applied to both, one might for Drachmann use the abbreviation +P. Olsen and for Björnson undoubtedly Palnatoke O.</p> + +<p>It might be said of Drachmann, as Sauer said of the Italian poet +Monti:—"Like a master in the art of appreciation, he knew how to +give himself up to great time-stirring ideas; somewhat as a gifted +actor throws himself into his part, with the full strength of his art, +with an enthusiasm carrying all before it, and in the most expressive +way; then when the part is played, lays it quietly aside and takes +hold of something else."</p> + +<p>When a young man, Drachmann studied at the Academy of Arts in +Copenhagen, and met with considerable success as a marine painter. +His love for the Northern seas shows itself in his poetry and prose, +and his descriptions of the sea and the life of the sailor and fisherman +are of the truest and best yielded by his pen. He is the author +of no less than forty-six volumes of poems, dramas, novels, short +stories, and sketches, and of two unpublished dramas. His most important +work is 'Forskrevet' (Condemned), which is largely autobiographical; +his most attractive though not his strongest production is +the opera 'Der Var Engang' (Once Upon a Time), founded on +Andersen's 'The Swineherd,' with music by Sange Müller; his best +poems and tales are those dealing with the sea.</p> + +<p>At present he lives in Hamburg, where on October 10th, 1896, he +celebrated his fiftieth birthday and his twenty-fifth "Author-Jubilee," +as the Danes call it. Among the features of the celebration were +the sending of an enormous number of telegrams from Drachmann's +admirers in Europe and America, and the performance of two of his +plays,—one at the Royal Theatre in Copenhagen, the other at the +Stadt Theatre in Altona.</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4842" id="Page_4842">[Pg 4842]</a></span></p> +<h3><a name="SKIPPER" id="SKIPPER"></a>THE SKIPPER AND HIS SHIP</h3> + +<h4>From 'Paul and Virginia of a Northern Zone': copyright 1895, by Way and +Williams, Chicago</h4> + + +<p>The Anna Dorothea, in the North Sea, was pounding along +under shortened sail. The weather was thick, the air dense; +there was a falling barometer.</p> + +<p>It had been a short trip this time. Leroy and Sons, wine merchants of +Havre, had made better offers than the old houses in Bordeaux. At each +one of his later trips, Captain Spang had said it should be his last. +He would "lay up" at home; he was growing too stout and clumsy for the +sea, and now he must trust fully to Tönnes, his first mate. The +captain's big broad face was flushed as usual; he always looked as if +he were illuminated by a setting October sun; there was no change +here—rather, the sunset tint was stronger. But Tönnes noted how the +features, which he knew best in moments of simple good-nature and of +sullen tumult, had gradually relaxed. He thought that it would indeed +soon be time for his old skipper to "lay up"; yet perhaps a few trips +might still be made.</p> + +<p>"Holloa, Tönnes! let her go about before the next squall +strikes her. She lies too dead on this bow."</p> + +<p>The skipper had raised his head above the cabin stairs. As +usual, he was in his shirt-sleeves, and his scanty hair fluttered in +the wind. When he had warned his mate, he again disappeared +in the cabin.</p> + +<p>Tönnes gave the order to the man at the helm, and hurried +to help at the main-braces. The double-reefed main-topsail swung +about, the Anna Dorothea caught the wind somewhat sluggishly, +and not without getting considerable water over her; then followed +the fore-topsail, the reefed foresail, and the trysail. When +the tacking was finished and the sails had again caught the +wind, the trysail was torn from the boltropes with a loud crack.</p> + +<p>The captain's head appeared again,</p> + +<p>"We must close-reef!" said he.</p> + +<p>The last reef was taken in; the storm came down and lashed +the sea; the sky grew more and more threatening; the waves +dashed over the deck at each plunge of the old bark in the sea. +The old vessel, which had carried her captain for a generation, +lay heavily on the water—Tönnes thought too heavily.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4843" id="Page_4843">[Pg 4843]</a></span> +The second mate—the same who had played the accordion at +the inn—came over to Tönnes.</p> + +<p>"It was wrong to stow the china-clay at the bottom and the +casks on top; she lies horribly dead, and I'm afraid we shall have +to use the pumps."</p> + +<p>"Yes, I said so to the old man, but he would have it that +way," answered Tönnes. "We shall have a wet night."</p> + +<p>"We shall, surely," said the second mate.</p> + +<p>Tönnes crawled up to the helm and looked at the compass. +Two men were at the helm—lashed fast. Tönnes looked up +into the rigging and out to windward; then suddenly he cried, +with the full force of his lungs:—</p> + +<p>"Look out for breakers!"</p> + +<p>Tönnes himself helped at the wheel; but the vessel only half +answered the helm. The greater portion of the sea struck the +bow, the quarter, and the bulwarks and stanchions amidship, so +that they creaked and groaned. One of the men at the helm had +grasped Tönnes, who would otherwise have been swept into the +lee scupper. When the ship had righted from the terrible blow, +the captain stood on the deck in his oilcloth suit.</p> + +<p>"Are any men missing?" cried he, through the howling of +the wind and the roaring of the water streaming fore and aft, +unable to escape quickly enough through the scuppers.</p> + +<p>The storm raged with undiminished fury. The crew—and amongst them +Prussian, who had been promoted to be ship's-dog—by-and-by dived +forward through the seething salt water and the fragments of wreck +that covered the deck.</p> + +<p>Now it was that the second mate was missing.</p> + +<p>The captain looked at Tönnes, and then out on the wild sea. +He scarcely glanced at the crushed long-boat; even if a boat +could have been launched, it would have been too late. Tönnes +and his skipper were fearless men, who took things as they were. +If any help could have been given, they would have given it. +But their eyes sought vainly for any dark speck amidst the +foaming waves—and it was necessary to care for themselves, +the vessel and the crew.</p> + +<p>"God save his soul!" murmured Captain Spang.</p> + +<p>Tönnes passed his hand across his brow, and went to his duty. +Evening set in; the wind increased rather than decreased.</p> + +<p>"She is taking in water," said the captain, who had sounded +the pumps.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4844" id="Page_4844">[Pg 4844]</a></span> +Tönnes assented.</p> + +<p>"We must change her course," said the captain. "She +pitches too heavily in this sea."</p> + +<p>The bark was held up to the wind as closely as possible. +The pumps were worked steadily, but often got out of order on +account of the china-clay, which mixed with the water down in +the hold.</p> + +<p>It was plain that the vessel grew heavier and heavier; her +movements in climbing a wave were more and more dead.</p> + +<p>During the night a cry arose: again one of the crew was +washed overboard.</p> + +<p>It was a long night and a wet one, as Tönnes had predicted. +Several times the skipper dived clown into the cabin—Tonnes +knew perfectly well what for, but he said nothing. Few words +were spoken on board the Anna Dorothea that night.</p> + +<p>In the morning the captain, returning from one of his excursions +down below, declared that the cabin was half full of water.</p> + +<p>"We must watch for a sail," he said, abruptly and somewhat +huskily.</p> + +<p>Tönnes passed the word round amongst the crew. One might +read on their faces that they were prepared for this, and that +they had ceased to hope, although they had not stopped work at +the pumps.</p> + +<p>The whole of the weather bulwark, the cook's cabin and the +long-boat, were crushed or washed away; the water could be +heard below the hatches. While keeping a sharp lookout for +sails, many an eye glanced at the yawl as the last resort. But +on board Captain Spang's vessel the words were not yet spoken +which carried with them the doom of the ship: "We are sinking!"</p> + +<p>In the gray-white of the dawn a signal was to be hoisted; the +bunting was tied together at the middle and raised half-mast high.</p> + +<p>Both the captain and Tönnes had lashed themselves aft; for +now the bark was but little better than a wreck, over which the +billows broke incessantly, as the vessel, reeling like a drunken +man, exposed herself to the violent attacks of the sea instead of +parrying them.</p> + +<p>"A sail to windward, captain!" cried Tönnes.</p> + +<p>Captain Spang only nodded.</p> + +<p>"She holds her course!" cried one of the crew excitedly. +"No," said Tönnes, quietly. "She has seen us, and is bearing +down upon us!"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4845" id="Page_4845">[Pg 4845]</a></span> +The captain again nodded.</p> + +<p>"Tis a brig!" cried one of the crew.</p> + +<p>"A schooner-brig!" Tönnes corrected. "She carries her sails +finely. I am sure she is a fruit-trader."</p> + +<p>At last the strange vessel was so near that they could see her +deck each time she was thrown upon her side in the violent +seething sea.</p> + +<p>"Yes, 'tis the schooner-brig!" exclaimed Tönnes. "Do you +remember, captain, the time when—"</p> + +<p>Again Captain Spang nodded. He acted strangely. Tönnes +looked sharply at him, and shook his head.</p> + +<p>Now Tönnes hailed the vessel:—</p> + +<p>"Help us!—We are sinking!"</p> + +<p>At this moment two or three of the bark's crew rushed toward +the yawl, although Tönnes warned them back.</p> + +<p>Captain Spang seemed changed. Evidently some opposing +feelings contended within him. Seeing the insubordination of the +men, he only shrugged his shoulders, and let Tönnes take full +charge.</p> + +<p>The men were in the yawl, still hanging under the iron +davits. Now they cut the ropes; the yawl touched the water. +The crew of the other vessel gestured warningly; but it was too +late. A sea seized the yawl with its small crew, and the next +moment crushed it against the main chains of the bark. Their +shipmates raised a cry, and rushed to help them; but help was +impossible. Boat and crew had disappeared.</p> + +<p>"Didn't I say so?" cried Tönnes, with flaming eyes.</p> + +<p>Over there in the schooner-brig all was activity. From the Anna +Dorothea they could plainly see how the captain gave his orders. He +manoeuvred his vessel like a true sailor. To board the wreck in such a +sea would be madness. Therefore they unreeved two long lines and +attached them to the long-boat, one on each side. Then they laid +breeching under the boat, and hauled it up amidships by means of +tackle. Taking advantage of a moment when their vessel was athwart the +seas, they unloosed the tackle, and the boat swung out over the side; +then they cut the breeching, the boat fell on the water aft, and now +both lines were eased off quickly; while the brig caught the wind, the +boat drifted toward the stern-sheets of the bark.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4846" id="Page_4846">[Pg 4846]</a></span></p><p>Tönnes was ready with a boat-hook, and connections were quickly made +between the boat and the wreck.</p> + +<p>"Quick now!" cried Tönnes. "Every man in the boat. No +one takes his clothes with him! We may be thankful if we save +our lives."</p> + +<p>The men were quickly over the stern-sheets and down in the +boat. Prussian whined, and kept close to Captain Spang, who +had not moved one step on the deck.</p> + +<p>"Come, captain!" cried Tönnes, taking the skipper by the +arm.</p> + +<p>"What's the matter?" asked the old man angrily.</p> + +<p>Tönnes looked at him. Prussian barked.</p> + +<p>"We must get into the boat, captain. The vessel may sink +at any moment. Come!"</p> + +<p>The captain pressed his sou'wester down over his forehead, +and glanced around his deck.</p> + +<p>The men in the boat cried out to them to come.</p> + +<p>"Well!" said Captain Spang, but with an air so absent-minded and a +bearing so irresolute that Tönnes at last took a firm hold on him.</p> + +<p>Prussian showed his teeth at his former master.</p> + +<p>"You go first!" exclaimed Tönnes, snatching the dog and +throwing him down to the men, who were having hard work to +keep the boat from wrecking.</p> + +<p>When the dog was no longer on the deck, it seemed as if +Captain Spang's resistance was broken. Tönnes did not let go +his hold on him; but the young mate had to use almost superhuman +strength to get the heavy old man down over the vessel's +side and placed on a seat in the boat.</p> + +<p>As soon as they had observed from the brig that this had +been done, they hauled in both lines. The boat moved back +again; but it was a dangerous voyage, and all were obliged to +lash themselves fast to the thwarts with ropes placed there for +that purpose.</p> + +<p>Captain Spang was like a child. Tönnes had to lash him to +the seat. The old man sat with his face hidden in his hands, +his back turned toward his ship, inactive, and seemingly unconscious +of what took place around him.</p> + +<p>At last, when after a hard struggle all were on the deck of +the schooner-brig, her captain came forward, placed his hand on +his old friend's shoulder, and said:—</p> + +<p>"It is the second time, you see! Well, we all cling to life, +and the vessel over there is pretty old."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4847" id="Page_4847">[Pg 4847]</a></span> +Captain Spang started. He scarcely returned his friend's +hand-shaking.</p> + +<p>"My vessel, I say! My papers! All that I have is in the +vessel. I must go aboard, do you hear? I must go aboard. +How could I forget?"</p> + +<p>The other skipper and Tönnes looked at each other.</p> + +<p>Captain Spang wrung his hands and stamped on the deck, his +eyes fixed on his sinking vessel. She was still afloat; what did +he care for the gale and the heavy sea? He belonged to the old +school of skippers; he was bound to his vessel by ties longer +than any life-line, heavier than any hawser: he had left his ship +in a bewildered state, and had taken nothing with him that +might serve to prove what he possessed and how long he had +possessed it. His good old vessel was still floating on the water. +He must, he would go there; if nobody would go with him, he +would go alone.</p> + +<p>All remonstrances were in vain.</p> + +<p>Tönnes pressed the other skipper's hand.</p> + +<p>"There is nothing else to be done. I know him," said he.</p> + +<p>"So do I," was the answer.</p> + +<p>Captain Spang and his mate were again in the boat. As they +were on the point of starting, a loud whine and violent barking +sounded from the deck, and Prussian showed his one eye over +the railing.</p> + +<p>"Stay where you are!" cried Tönnes. "We shall be back +soon."</p> + +<p>But the dog did not understand him. Perhaps he had his +doubts; no one can say. He sprang overboard; Tönnes seized +him by the ear, and hauled him into the boat.</p> + +<p>And then the two men and the dog ventured back to the +abandoned vessel.</p> + +<p>This time the old man climbed on board without assistance.</p> + +<p>Prussian whined in the boat.</p> + +<p>"Throw that dog up to me!" cried the master.</p> + +<p>Tönnes did so.</p> + +<p>"Shall I come up and help you?" he called out.</p> + +<p>"No, I can find my own way."</p> + +<p>"But hurry, captain! do you understand?" said Tönnes, who +anxiously noticed that the motions of the vessel were becoming +more and more dangerous, while he needed all his strength to +keep the boat clear of the wreck.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4848" id="Page_4848">[Pg 4848]</a></span> +An answer came from the bark, but he could not catch it. +In this moment Tönnes recalled the day when he rowed the +captain out on the bay to the brig. His next thought was of +Nanna. Oh, if she knew where they were!</p> + +<p>And at this thought the mate's breast was filled with conflicting +emotions. The dear blessed girl! Oh, if her father would +only come!</p> + +<p>"Captain!" cried Tönnes; "Captain Spang! for God's sake, +come! Leave those papers alone. The vessel is sinking. We +may at any moment—"</p> + +<p>He paused.</p> + +<p>The captain stood at the stern-sheets. At his side was Prussian, +squinting down into the boat. There was an entirely strange expression +in Andreas Spang's face; a double expression—one moment hard and +defiant, the next almost solemn.</p> + +<p>The sou'wester had fallen from his old head. His scanty hairs +fluttered in the wind. He held in his hand a parcel of papers and a +coil of rope. He pointed toward the brig.</p> + +<p>"There!" he cried, throwing the package and the rope down to Tonnes. +"Give the skipper this new line for his trouble. He has used plenty of +rope for us. You go back. I stay here. Give—my—love—to the girl at +home.—You and she—You two—God bless you!"</p> + +<p>"Captain!" cried Tönnes in affright; "you are sick; come, let me—"</p> + +<p>He prepared to climb on board.</p> + +<p>Captain Spang lifted his hand threateningly, and Prussian +barked furiously.</p> + +<p>"Stay down there, boy, I say! The vessel and I, we belong +together. You shall take care of the girl. Good-by!"</p> + +<p>The Anna Dorothea rolled heavily over on one side, righted +again, and then began to plunge her head downwards, like a +whale that, tired of the surface, seeks rest at the bottom. The +crew of the brig hauled in the lines of the boat. Tossed on the +turbid sea, Tönnes saw his old skipper leaning against the helm, +the dog at his side. His gray hairs fluttered in the wind as +if they wafted a last farewell; and down with vessel and dog +went the old skipper—down into the wild sea that so long had +borne him on its waves.</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4849" id="Page_4849">[Pg 4849]</a></span></p> + +<h3><a name="PRINCE" id="PRINCE"></a>THE PRINCE'S SONG</h3> + +<h4>From 'Once Upon a Time'</h4> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Princess, I come from out a land that lieth—<br /></span> +<span class="i1">I know not in what arctic latitude:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Though high in the bleak north, it never sigheth<br /></span> +<span class="i1">For sunny smiles; they wait not to be wooed.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Our privilege we know: the bright half-year<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Illumines sea and shore with sunlit glory;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In twilight then our fertile fields we ear,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And round our brows we twine a wreath of story.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When winter decks with frost the bearded oak,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">In songs and sagas we our youth recover;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Around the hearthstone crowd the listening folk,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">While on the wall mysterious shadows hover.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The summer night, suffused with loving glow,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The future, dawning in a golden chalice,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Enkindles hope in hearts of high and low,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">From peasant's cottage to the royal palace.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The snow of winter spreads o'er hill and valley<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Its soft and silken blue-white veil of sleep;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The springtime bids the green-clad earth to rally,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">When through the budding leaves the sunbeams peep,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The autumn brings fresh breezes from the ocean<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And paints the lad's fair cheeks a rosy red;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The maiden's heart is stirred with new emotion,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">When summer's fragrance o'er the world is spread.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">To roam in our fair land is like a dream,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Through these still woods, renowned in ancient story,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Along the shores, deep-mirrored in the gleam<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Of fjords that shine beneath the sky's blue glory.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Upon the meadows where the flowers bloom<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The elfin maidens hide themselves in slumbers,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But soon along the lakes where shadows gloom<br /></span> +<span class="i1">In every bosky nook they'll dance their numbers.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There are no frowning crags on our green mountains,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">No dark, forbidding cliffs where gorges yawn;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The streams flow gently seaward from their fountains,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">As through the silent valley steals the dawn.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4850" id="Page_4850">[Pg 4850]</a></span><span class="i0">Here nature smoothes the rugged, tames the savage.<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And men born here in victory are kind,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Forbearing still the foeman's land to ravage,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And in defeat they bear a steadfast mind.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I'm proud of land, of kindred, and of nation,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">I'm proud my home is where the waters flow;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Afar I see in golden radiation<br /></span> +<span class="i1">My native land like sun through amber glow.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Its warmth revives my heart, however lonely:<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Forgive me, Princess, if my soul's aflame,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But rather be at home, a beggar only,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Than, exiled thence, have universal fame.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="trans">Translation of Charles Harvey Genung.</p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4851" id="Page_4851">[Pg 4851]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="JOSEPH_RODMAN_DRAKE" id="JOSEPH_RODMAN_DRAKE"></a>JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE</h2> +<h4>(1795-1820)</h4> + + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 90px;"> +<img src="images/capc187.png" width="90" height="90" alt="C" title="C" /> +</div><p class="dropcap">onspicuous among the young poets, essayists, and journalists, who +made up literary New York in the early part of the century, was Joseph +Rodman Drake, the friend of Halleck, and the best beloved perhaps of +all that brilliant group. Hardly known to this generation save by +'The Culprit Fay' and 'The American Flag,' Drake was essentially a +true poet and a man of letters. His work was characteristic of his +day. He had a certain amount of classical knowledge, a certain +eighteenth-century grace and style, yet withal, an instinctive +Americanism which flowered out into our first true national +literature. The group of writers among whom were found Irving, +Halleck, Willis, Dana, Hoffman, Verplanck, Brockden Brown, and a +score of others, reflected that age in which they sought their +literary models. With the exception of Poe, who belonged to a somewhat +later time and whose genius was purely subjective, much of the +production of these Americans followed the lines of their English +predecessors,—Johnson, Goldsmith, Addison, and Steele. It is only in +their deeper moments of thought and feeling that there sounds that +note of love of country, of genuine Americanism, which gives their +work individuality, and which will keep their memory green.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 180px;"> +<img src="images/Illus187.png" width="180" height="220" alt="Joseph Rodman Drake" title="Joseph Rodman Drake" /> +<span class="caption"><span class="smcap">Joseph Rodman Drake</span></span> +</div> + +<p>Drake was born in New York, in August 1795. He was descended +from the same family as the great admiral of Elizabethan days, the +American branch of which had served their country honorably both +in colonial and Revolutionary times. The scenes of his boyhood +were the same as those that formed the environment of Irving, +memories of which are scattered thick through the literature of the +day. New York was still a picturesque, hospitable, rural capital, the +centre of the present town being miles distant in the country. The +best families were all intimately associated in a social life that was +cultivated and refined at the same time that it was gay and unconventional; +and in this society Drake occupied a place which his lovable +qualities and fine talents must have won, even had it been +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4852" id="Page_4852">[Pg 4852]</a></span> +denied him by birth. He was a precocious boy, for whom a career +was anticipated by his friends while he was yet a mere child; and +when he met Halleck, in his eighteenth year, he had already won +some reputation.</p> + +<p>The friendship of Drake and Halleck was destined to prove infinitely +valuable to both. A discussion between Cooper, Halleck, and +Drake, upon the poetic inspiration of American scenery, prompted +Drake to write 'The Culprit Fay'—a poem without any human +character. This he completed in three days, and offered it as the +argument on his side. The scene of the poem is laid in the Highlands +of the Hudson, but Drake added many pictures suggested by +memories of Long Island Sound, whose waters he haunted with boat +and rod. He apologized for this by saying that the purposes of poetry +alone could explain the presence so far up the Hudson of so many +salt-water emigrants. 'The Culprit Fay' is a creation of pure fancy, +full of delicate imagery, and handled with an ethereal lightness of +touch. Its exquisite grace, its delicate coloring, its prodigality of +charm, explain its immediate popularity and its lasting fame. But +the Rip Van Winkle legend is a far more genuine product of fancy.</p> + +<p>Drake's few shorter lyrics throb with genuine poetic feeling, and +show the loss sustained by literature in the author's early death. +Best known of these is 'The American Flag,' which appeared in the +Evening Post as one of a series of <i>jeux d'esprit</i>, the joint productions +of Halleck and Drake, who either alternated in the composition of +the numbers or wrote them together. The last four lines only of +'The American Flag' are Halleck's. The entire series appeared between +March and July, 1819, under the signature of "The Croakers." +Literary New York was mystified as to the authorship of these skits, +which hit off the popular fads, follies, and enthusiasms of the day +with so easy and graceful a touch. Politics, music, the drama, and +domestic life alike furnished inspiration for the numbers; some of +whose titles, as 'A Sketch of a Debate in Tammany' and 'The +Battery War,' suggest the local political issues of the present day. +There is now in existence a handsome edition of these verses, with +the names of the authors of the several pieces appended, and in the +case of the joint ownership with the initials D. and H. subscribed.</p> + +<p>Drake's complete poems were not published during his lifetime. +Sixteen years after his death by consumption in his twenty-sixth +year, his daughter issued a volume dedicated to Halleck, in which +were included the best specimens of her father's work. Many of the +lesser known verses indicate his true place as a poet. In the touching +poem 'Abelard to Eloise,' in the third stanza of 'The American +Flag,' and in innumerable beautiful lines scattered throughout his +work, appears a genuine inspiration.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4853" id="Page_4853">[Pg 4853]</a></span> +In his own day, Drake filled a place which his death left forever +vacant. His rare and winning personality, his generous friendships, +his joy in life, and his courage in the contemplation of his inevitable +fate, still appeal to a generation to whom they are but traditions. +The exquisite monody in which Halleck celebrated his loss, links their +names and decorates their friendship with imperishable garlands.</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="WINTER" id="WINTER"></a>A WINTER'S TALE</h3> + +<h4>From 'The Croakers'</h4> + +<div class="blockquot"><div class="poem"> +<span class="i0">"<i>A merry heart goes all the way,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i2"><i>A sad one tires in a mile-a.</i>"<br /></span> +<span class="i12">—<span class="smcap">Winter's Tale.</span><br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The man who frets at worldly strife<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Grows sallow, sour, and thin;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Give us the lad whose happy life<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Is one perpetual grin:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He, Midas-like, turns all to gold;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">He smiles when others sigh;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Enjoys alike the hot and cold,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And laughs through wet and dry.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There's fun in everything we meet;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The greatest, worst, and best<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Existence is a merry treat,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And every speech a jest:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Be 't ours to watch the crowds that pass<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Where mirth's gay banner waves;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To show fools through a quizzing glass,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And bastinade the knaves.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The serious world will scold and ban,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In clamor loud and hard,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To hear Meigs<a name="FNanchor_A_3" id="FNanchor_A_3"></a><a href="#Footnote_A_3" class="fnanchor">[A]</a> called a Congressman,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And Paulding called a bard:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But come what may, the man's in luck<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Who turns it all to glee,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And laughing, cries with honest Puck,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"Good Lord! what fools ye be!"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_A_3" id="Footnote_A_3"></a><a href="#FNanchor_A_3"><span class="label">[A]</span></a> Henry Meigs of New York, a Congressman from 1819 to 1821 +in the Sixteenth Congress.</p></div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4854" id="Page_4854">[Pg 4854]</a></span></p> +<h3><a name="CULPRIT" id="CULPRIT"></a>THE CULPRIT FAY</h3> + +<div class="blockquot"><div class="poem"> +<span class="i0">My visual orbs are purged from film, and lo!<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Instead of Anster's turnip-bearing vales,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I see old Fairyland's miraculous show!<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Her trees of tinsel kissed by freakish gales,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her ouphs that, cloaked in leaf-gold, skim the breeze,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And fairies, swarming....<br /></span> +<span class="i12">—<span class="smcap">Tennant's 'Anster Fair'</span><br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'Tis the middle watch of a summer's night—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The earth is dark, but the heavens are bright;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Naught is seen in the vault on high<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But the moon, and the stars, and the cloudless sky,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the flood which rolls its milky hue,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A river of light on the welkin blue.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The moon looks down on old Cronest;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She mellows the shades on his shaggy breast,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And seems his huge gray form to throw<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In a silver cone on the wave below;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His sides are broken by spots of shade,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By the walnut bough and the cedar made,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And through their clustering branches dark<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Glimmers and dies the firefly's spark—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like starry twinkles that momently break<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Through the rifts of the gathering tempest's rack.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The stars are on the moving stream,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And fling, as its ripples gently flow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A burnished length of wavy beam<br /></span> +<span class="i1">In an eel-like, spiral line below;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The winds are whist, and the owl is still;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The bat in the shelvy rock is hid;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And naught is heard on the lonely hill<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But the cricket's chirp, and the answer shrill<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of the gauze-winged katydid;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the plaint of the wailing whippoorwill,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who moans unseen, and ceaseless sings.<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Ever a note of wail and woe,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till morning spreads her rosy wings,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And earth and sky in her glances glow.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'Tis the hour of fairy ban and spell:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The wood-tick has kept the minutes well;<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4855" id="Page_4855">[Pg 4855]</a></span><span class="i0">He has counted them all with click and stroke<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Deep in the heart of the mountain oak,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And he has awakened the sentry elve<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Who sleeps with him in the haunted tree,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To bid him ring the hour of twelve,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And call the fays to their revelry;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Twelve small strokes on his tinkling bell—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">('Twas made of the white snail's pearly shell)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Midnight comes, and all is well!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hither, hither, wing your way!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Tis the dawn of the fairy day."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">They come from beds of lichen green,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They creep from the mullein's velvet screen;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Some on the backs of beetles fly<br /></span> +<span class="i1">From the silver tops of moon-touched trees,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where they swung in their cobweb hammocks high,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And rocked about in the evening breeze;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Some from the hum-bird's downy nest—<br /></span> +<span class="i1">They had driven him out by elfin power,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And pillowed on plumes of his rainbow breast,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Had slumbered there till the charmèd hour;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Some had lain in the scoop of the rock,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">With glittering ising-stars inlaid;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And some had opened the four-o'clock,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And stole within its purple shade.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And now they throng the moonlight glade,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Above, below, on every side,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Their little minim forms arrayed<br /></span> +<span class="i1">In the tricksy pomp of fairy pride!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">They come not now to print the lea,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In freak and dance around the tree,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or at the mushroom board to sup,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And drink the dew from the buttercup;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A scene of sorrow waits them now,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For an ouphe has broken his vestal vow;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He has loved an earthly maid,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And left for her his woodland shade;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He has lain upon her lip of dew,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And sunned him in her eye of blue,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fanned her cheek with his wing of air,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Played in the ringlets of her hair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And nestling on her snowy breast,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Forgot the lily-king's behest.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4856" id="Page_4856">[Pg 4856]</a></span><span class="i0">For this the shadowy tribes of air<br /></span> +<span class="i1">To the elfin court must haste away:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And now they stand expectant there,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">To hear the doom of the culprit fay.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The throne was reared upon the grass,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of spice-wood and of sassafras;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On pillars of mottled tortoise-shell<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Hung the burnished canopy—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And o'er it gorgeous curtains fell<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Of the tulip's crimson drapery.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The monarch sat on his judgment seat;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">On his brow the crown imperial shone;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The prisoner fay was at his feet,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And his peers were ranged around the throne.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He waved his sceptre in the air,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">He looked around and calmly spoke;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His brow was grave and his eye severe,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">But his voice in a softened accent broke:—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Fairy! Fairy! list and mark:<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Thou hast broke thine elfin chain;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thy flame-wood lamp is quenched and dark,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And thy wings are dyed with a deadly stain—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thou hast sullied thine elfin purity<br /></span> +<span class="i1">In the glance of a mortal maiden's eye;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thou hast scorned our dread decree,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And thou shouldst pay the forfeit high.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But well I know her sinless mind<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Is pure as the angel forms above,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Gentle and meek, and chaste and kind,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Such as a spirit well might love;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fairy! had she spot or taint,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bitter had been thy punishment:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tied to the hornet's shardy wings;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tossed on the pricks of nettles' stings;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or seven long ages doomed to dwell<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With the lazy worm in the walnut-shell;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or every night to writhe and bleed<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Beneath the tread of the centipede;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or bound in a cobweb dungeon dim,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Your jailer a spider, huge and grim,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Amid the carrion bodies to lie<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of the worm, and the bug, and the murdered fly:<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4857" id="Page_4857">[Pg 4857]</a></span><span class="i0">These it had been your lot to bear,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Had a stain been found on the earthly fair.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Now list, and mark our mild decree—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fairy, this your doom must be:—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Thou shalt seek the beach of sand<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where the water bounds the elfin land;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thou shalt watch the oozy brine<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till the sturgeon leaps in the bright moonshine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then dart the glistening arch below,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And catch a drop from his silver bow.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The water-sprites will wield their arms<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And dash around, with roar and rave,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And vain are the woodland spirits' charms;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">They are the imps that rule the wave.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet trust thee in thy single might:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If thy heart be pure and thy spirit right,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thou shalt win the warlock fight.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"If the spray-bead gem be won,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The stain of thy wing is washed away;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But another errand must be done<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Ere thy crime be lost for aye:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thy flame-wood lamp is quenched and dark,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thou must re-illume its spark.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mount thy steed and spur him high<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To the heaven's blue canopy;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And when thou seest a shooting star,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Follow it fast, and follow it far—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The last faint spark of its burning train<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shall light the elfin lamp again.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thou hast heard our sentence, fay;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hence! to the water-side, away!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The goblin marked his monarch well;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">He spake not, but he bowed him low,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then plucked a crimson colen-bell,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And turned him round in act to go.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The way is long; he cannot fly;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">His soilèd wing has lost its power,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And he winds adown the mountain high<br /></span> +<span class="i1">For many a sore and weary hour.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Through dreary beds of tangled fern,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Through groves of nightshade dark and dern,<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4858" id="Page_4858">[Pg 4858]</a></span><span class="i0">Over the grass and through the brake,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where toils the ant and sleeps the snake;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Now o'er the violet's azure flush<br /></span> +<span class="i1">He skips along in lightsome mood;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And now he thrids the bramble-bush,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Till its points are dyed in fairy blood.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He has leaped the bog, he has pierced the brier,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He has swum the brook and waded the mire,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till his spirits sank and his limbs grew weak,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the red waxed fainter in his cheek.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He had fallen to the ground outright,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">For rugged and dim was his onward track,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But there came a spotted toad in sight,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And he laughed as he jumped upon her back;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He bridled her mouth with a silkweed twist,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">He lashed her sides with an osier thong.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And now, through evening's dewy mist,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">With leap and spring they bound along,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till the mountain's magic verge is past,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the beach of sand is reached at last.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Up, fairy! quit thy chickweed bower,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The cricket has called the second hour,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Twice again, and the lark will rise<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To kiss the streaking of the skies—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Up! thy charmèd armor don;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thou'lt need it ere the night be gone.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He put his acorn helmet on:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It was plumed of the silk of the thistle-down;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The corselet plate that guarded his breast<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was once the wild bee's golden vest;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His cloak, of a thousand mingled dyes,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was formed of the wings of butterflies;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His shield was the shell of a lady-bug queen,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Studs of gold on a ground of green;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the quivering lance which he brandished bright<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was the sting of a wasp he had slain in fight.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Swift he bestrode his firefly steed;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">He bared his blade of the bent-grass blue;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He drove his spurs of the cockle-seed,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And away like a glance of thought he flew,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To skim the heavens, and follow far<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The fiery trail of the rocket-star.<br /></span> +</div><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4859" id="Page_4859">[Pg 4859]</a></span><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The moth-fly, as he shot in air,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Crept under the leaf and hid her there;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The katydid forgot its lay,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The prowling gnat fled fast away,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The fell mosquito checked his drone<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And folded his wings till the fay was gone.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the wily beetle dropped his head,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And fell on the ground as if he were dead;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They crouched them close in the darksome shade,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">They quaked all o'er with awe and fear,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For they had felt the blue-bent blade,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And writhed at the prick of the elfin spear;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Many a time, on a summer's night,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When the sky was clear, and the moon was bright,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They had been roused from the haunted ground<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By the yelp and bay of the fairy hound;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They had heard the tiny bugle-horn,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">They had heard the twang of the maize-silk string,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When the vine-twig bows were tightly drawn,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the needle-shaft through air was borne,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Feathered with down of the hum-bird's wing.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And now they deemed the courier ouphe<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Some hunter-sprite of the elfin ground;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And they watched till they saw him mount the roof<br /></span> +<span class="i1">That canopies the world around;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then glad they left their covert lair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And freaked about in the midnight air.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Up to the vaulted firmament<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His path the firefly courser bent,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And at every gallop on the wind,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He flung a glittering spark behind;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He flies like a feather in the blast<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till the first light cloud in heaven is past.<br /></span> +<span class="i1">But the shapes of air have begun their work,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And a drizzly mist is round him cast;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">He cannot see through the mantle murk;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He shivers with cold, but he urges fast;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Through storm and darkness, sleet and shade,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He lashes his steed, and spurs amain—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For shadowy hands have twitched the rein,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And flame-shot tongues around him played,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And near him many a fiendish eye<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Glared with a fell malignity,<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4860" id="Page_4860">[Pg 4860]</a></span><span class="i0">And yells of rage, and shrieks of fear,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Came screaming on his startled ear.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">His wings are wet around his breast,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The plume hangs dripping from his crest,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His eyes are blurred with the lightning's glare,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And his ears are stunned with the thunder's blare.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But he gave a shout, and his blade he drew;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">He thrust before and he struck behind,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till he pierced their cloudy bodies through,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And gashed their shadowy limbs of wind;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Howling the misty spectres flew;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">They rend the air with frightful cries;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For he has gained the welkin blue,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And the land of clouds beneath him lies.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Up to the cope careering swift,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">In breathless motion fast,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fleet as the swallow cuts the drift,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Or the sea-roc rides the blast,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The sapphire sheet of eve is shot,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The sphered moon is past,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The earth but seems a tiny blot<br /></span> +<span class="i1">On a sheet of azure cast.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Oh! it was sweet, in the clear moonlight,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">To tread the starry plain of even!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To meet the thousand eyes of night,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And feel the cooling breath of heaven!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But the elfin made no stop or stay<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till he came to the bank of the Milky Way;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then he checked his courser's foot,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And watched for the glimpse of the planet-shoot.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Sudden along the snowy tide<br /></span> +<span class="i1">That swelled to meet their footsteps' fall,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The sylphs of heaven were seen to glide,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Attired in sunset's crimson pall;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Around the fay they weave the dance,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">They skip before him on the plain.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And one has taken his wasp-sting lance,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And one upholds his bridle rein;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With warblings wild they lead him on<br /></span> +<span class="i1">To where, through clouds of amber seen,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Studded with stars, resplendent shone<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The palace of the sylphid queen.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4861" id="Page_4861">[Pg 4861]</a></span><span class="i0">Its spiral columns, gleaming bright,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Were streamers of the northern light;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Its curtain's light and lovely flush<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was of the morning's rosy blush;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the ceiling fair that rose aboon,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The white and feathery fleece of noon.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Borne afar on the wings of the blast,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Northward away he speeds him fast,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And his courser follows the cloudy wain<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till the hoof-strokes fall like pattering rain.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The clouds roll backward as he flies.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Each flickering star behind him lies,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And he has reached the northern plain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And backed his firefly steed again,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ready to follow in its flight<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The streaming of the rocket-light.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The star is yet in the vault of heaven,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">But it rocks in the summer gale,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And now 'tis fitful and uneven,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And now 'tis deadly pale;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And now 'tis wrapped in sulphur-smoke,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And quenched is its rayless beam;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And now with a rattling thunder-stroke<br /></span> +<span class="i1">It bursts in flash and flame.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As swift as the glance of the arrowy lance<br /></span> +<span class="i1">That the storm spirit flings from high,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The star-shot flew o'er the welkin blue,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">As it fell from the sheeted sky.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As swift as the wind in its train behind<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The elfin gallops along:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The fiends of the clouds are bellowing loud.<br /></span> +<span class="i1">But the sylphid charm is strong;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He gallops unhurt in the shower of fire,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">While the cloud-fiends fly from the blaze;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He watches each flake till its sparks expire,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And rides in the light of its rays.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But he drove his steed to the lightning's speed,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And caught a glimmering spark;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then wheeled around to the fairy ground,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And sped through the midnight dark.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4862" id="Page_4862">[Pg 4862]</a></span><span class="i0">Ouphe and goblin! imp and sprite!<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Elf of eve! and starry fay!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ye that love the moon's soft light,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Hither, hither, wend your way;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Twine ye in a jocund ring,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Sing and trip it merrily,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hand to hand, and wing to wing,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Round the wild witch-hazel tree.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Hail the wanderer again<br /></span> +<span class="i1">With dance and song, and lute and lyre;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Pure his wing and strong his chain,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And doubly bright his fairy fire.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Twine ye in an airy round,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Brush the dew and print the lea;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Skip and gambol, hop and bound,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Round the wild witch-hazel tree.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The beetle guards our holy ground,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">He flies about the haunted place,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And if mortal there be found,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">He hums in his ears and flaps his face;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The leaf-harp sounds our roundelay,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The owlet's eyes our lanterns be;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thus we sing and dance and play,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Round the wild witch-hazel tree.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But hark! from tower on tree-top high,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The sentry elf his call has made;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A streak is in the eastern sky;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Shapes of moonlight! flit and fade!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The hill-tops gleam in Morning's spring,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The skylark shakes his dappled wing,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The day-glimpse glimmers on the lawn,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The cock has crowed, and the fays are gone.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4863" id="Page_4863">[Pg 4863]</a></span></p> +<h3><a name="FLAG" id="FLAG"></a>THE AMERICAN FLAG</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When Freedom from her mountain height<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Unfurled her standard to the air,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She tore the azure robe of night,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And set the stars of glory there;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She mingled with its gorgeous dyes<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The milky baldric of the skies,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And striped its pure celestial white<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With streakings of the morning light;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then from his mansion in the sun<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She called her eagle-bearer down,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And gave unto his mighty hand<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The symbol of her chosen land.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Majestic monarch of the cloud!<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Who rear'st aloft thy regal form,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To hear the tempest-trumpings loud,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And see the lightning lances driven,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">When strive the warriors of the storm,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Child of the sun! to thee 'tis given<br /></span> +<span class="i1">To guard the banner of the free,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To hover in the sulphur-smoke,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To ward away the battle-stroke,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And bid its blendings shine afar,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like rainbows on the cloud of war,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The harbingers of victory!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Flag of the brave! thy folds shall fly,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The sign of hope and triumph high,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When speaks the signal trumpet-tone,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the long line comes gleaming on:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Has dimmed the glistening bayonet,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Each soldier eye shall brightly turn<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To where the sky-born glories burn,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And as his springing steps advance,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Catch war and vengeance from the glance;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And when the cannon-mouthings loud<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Heave in wild wreaths the battle-shroud,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And gory sabres rise and fall,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall;—<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4864" id="Page_4864">[Pg 4864]</a></span><span class="i0">Then shall thy meteor-glances glow,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And cowering foes shall sink beneath<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Each gallant arm that strikes below<br /></span> +<span class="i1">That lovely messenger of death.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Flag of the seas! on ocean wave<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When death, careering on the gale,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And frighted waves rush wildly back<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Before the broadside's reeling rack,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Each dying wanderer of the sea<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shall look at once to heaven and thee,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And smile to see thy splendors fly<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In triumph o'er his closing eye.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Flag of the free heart's hope and home!<br /></span> +<span class="i1">By angel hands to valor given;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thy stars have lit the welkin dome,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And all thy hues were born in heaven.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Forever float that standard sheet!<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Where breathes the foe but falls before us,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With Freedom's soil beneath our feet,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4865" id="Page_4865">[Pg 4865]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="JOHN_WILLIAM_DRAPER" id="JOHN_WILLIAM_DRAPER"></a>JOHN WILLIAM DRAPER</h2> +<h4>(1811-1882)</h4> + + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 90px;"> +<img src="images/capt201.png" width="90" height="90" alt="T" title="T" /> +</div><p class="dropcap">he subject of this sketch was born at St. Helen's, near Liverpool, +England, on the 5th of May, 1811. His earliest education was obtained +at a Wesleyan Methodist school, but after a time he came under private +teachers, with whose help he made rapid progress in the physical +sciences, thus showing in his boyhood the natural bent of his mind and +the real strength of his intellect. He afterwards studied for a time +at the University of London, but in 1833 came to the United States, +and three years later graduated at the University of Pennsylvania with +the degree of M. D. In 1839 he was elected to the chair of chemistry +in the University of New York, a position which he held until his +death in 1882.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 180px;"> +<img src="images/Illus201.png" width="180" height="220" alt="John William Draper" title="John William Draper" /> +<span class="caption"><span class="smcap">John William Draper</span></span> +</div> + +<p>Draper's contributions to science were of a high order. He discovered +some of the facts that lie at the basis of spectrum analysis; he was +one of the first successful experimenters in the art of photography; +and he made researches in radiant energy and other scientific +phenomena. He published in 1858 a treatise on 'Human Physiology,' +which is a highly esteemed and widely used text-book. He died on the +4th of January, 1882.</p> + +<p>Draper's chief contributions to literature are three works: 'History +of the Intellectual Development of Europe' (1863), a 'History of the +American Civil War' (1867-1870), and 'The History of the Conflict +between Religion and Science,' which appeared in the International +Scientific Series in 1873. Of these works, the one on the intellectual +development of Europe is the ablest, and takes a place beside the +works of Lecky and Buckle as a contribution to the history of +civilization. The history of the Civil War was written too soon after +the events described to have permanent historical value. 'The History +of the Conflict between Religion and Science' is a judicial +presentation of the perennial controversy from the standpoint of the +scientist.</p> + +<p>Draper's claims to attention as a philosophic historian rest mainly +on his theory of the influence of climate on human character and +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4866" id="Page_4866">[Pg 4866]</a></span> +development. He maintains that "For every climate, and indeed for +every geographical locality, there is an answering type of humanity"; +and in his history of the American Civil War, as well as in his work +on the intellectual development of Europe, he endeavored to prove +that doctrine. Another theory which is prominent in his principal +work is, that the intellectual development of every people passes +through five stages; namely, 1, the Age of Credulity; 2, the Age of +Inquiry; 3, the Age of Faith; 4, the Age of Reason; 5, the Age of +Decrepitude. Ancient Greece, he thinks, passed through all those +stages, the age of reason beginning with the advent of physical +science. Europe as a whole has now also entered the age of reason, +which as before he identifies with the age of physical science; so that +everywhere in his historical works, physical influences and the scientific +knowledge of physical phenomena are credited with most of the +progress that mankind has made. Draper has left a distinct mark +upon the scientific thought of his generation, and made a distinct and +valuable contribution to the literature of his adopted country.</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="VEDAS" id="VEDAS"></a>THE VEDAS AND THEIR THEOLOGY</h3> + +<h4>From 'History of the Intellectual Development of Europe.' Copyright 1876, +by Harper & Brothers</h4> + +<p>The Vedas, which are the Hindu Scriptures, and of which there are +four,—the Rig, Yagust, Saman, and Atharvan,—are asserted +to have been revealed by Brahma. The fourth is however rejected by +some authorities, and bears internal evidence of a later composition, +at a time when hierarchical power had become greatly consolidated. +These works are written in an obsolete Sanskrit, the parent of the +more recent idiom. They constitute the basis of an extensive +literature, Upavedas, Angas, etc., of connected works and +commentaries. For the most part they consist of hymns suitable for +public and private occasions, prayers, precepts, legends, and dogmas. +The Rig, which is the oldest, is composed chiefly of hymns; the other +three of liturgical formulas. They are of different periods and of +various authorship, internal evidence seeming to indicate that if the +later were composed by priests, the earlier were the production of +military chieftains. They answer to a state of society advanced from +the nomad to the municipal condition. They are based upon an +acknowledgment of a universal Spirit, pervading all things. +Of this God they therefore necessarily acknowledge the +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4867" id="Page_4867">[Pg 4867]</a></span> +unity: "There is in truth but one Deity, the Supreme Spirit, the Lord +of the universe, whose work is the universe." "The God above all gods, +who created the earth, the heavens, and waters." The world, thus +considered as an emanation of God, is therefore a part of him; it is +kept in a visible state by his energy, and would instantly disappear +if that energy were for a moment withdrawn. Even as it is, it is +undergoing unceasing transformations, everything being in a transitory +condition. The moment a given phase is reached, it is departed from, +or ceases. In these perpetual movements the present can scarcely be +said to have any existence, for as the Past is ending, the Future has +begun.</p> + +<p>In such a never-ceasing career all material things are urged, their +forms continually changing, and returning as it were through revolving +cycles to similar states. For this reason it is that we may regard our +earth and the various celestial bodies as having had a moment of +birth, as having a time of continuance, in which they are passing +onward to an inevitable destruction; and that after the lapse of +countless ages similar progresses will be made, and similar series of +events will occur again and again.</p> + +<p>But in this doctrine of universal transformation there is something +more than appears at first. The theology of India is underlaid with +Pantheism. "God is One because he is All." The Vedas, in speaking of +the relation of nature to God, make use of the expression that he is +the material as well as the cause of the universe, "the clay as well +as the Potter." They convey the idea that while there is a pervading +spirit existing everywhere, of the same nature as the soul of man, +though differing from it infinitely in degree, visible nature is +essentially and inseparably connected therewith; that as in man the +body is perpetually undergoing changes, perpetually decaying and being +renewed,—or as in the case of the whole human species, nations come +into existence and pass away,—yet still there continues to exist what +may be termed the universal human mind, so forever associated and +forever connected are the material and the spiritual. And under this +aspect we must contemplate the Supreme Being, not merely as a +presiding intellect, but as illustrated by the parallel case of man, +whose mental principle shows no tokens except through its connection +with the body: so matter, or nature, or the visible universe, is to be +looked upon as the corporeal manifestation of God.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4868" id="Page_4868">[Pg 4868]</a></span></p> +<h3><a name="BELIEFS" id="BELIEFS"></a>PRIMITIVE BELIEFS DISMISSED BY SCIENTIFIC KNOWLEDGE</h3> + +<h4>From 'History of the Intellectual Development of Europe.' Copyright +1876, by Harper & Brothers</h4> + +<p>As man advances in knowledge, he discovers that of his primitive +conclusions some are doubtless erroneous, and many require better +evidence to establish their truth incontestably. A more prolonged and +attentive examination gives him reason, in some of the most important +particulars, to change his mind. He finds that the earth on which he +lives is not a floor covered over with a starry dome, as he once +supposed, but a globe self-balanced in space. The crystalline vault, +or sky, is recognized to be an optical deception. It rests upon the +earth nowhere, and is no boundary at all; there is no kingdom of +happiness above it, but a limitless space adorned with planets and +suns. Instead of a realm of darkness and woe in the depths on the +other side of the earth, men like ourselves are found there, pursuing, +in Australia and New Zealand, the innocent pleasures and encountering +the ordinary labors of life. By the aid of such lights as knowledge +gradually supplies, he comes at last to discover that this our +terrestrial habitation, instead of being a chosen, a sacred spot, is +only one of similar myriads, more numerous than the sands of the sea, +and prodigally scattered through space.</p> + +<p>Never, perhaps, was a more important truth discovered. All the visible +evidence was in direct opposition to it. The earth, which had hitherto +seemed to be the very emblem of immobility, was demonstrated to be +carried with a double motion, with prodigious velocity, through the +heavens; the rising and setting of the stars were proved to be an +illusion; and as respects the size of the globe, it was shown to be +altogether insignificant when compared with multitudes of other +neighboring ones—insignificant doubly by reason of its actual +dimensions, and by the countless numbers of others like it in form, +and doubtless like it the abodes of many orders of life.</p> + +<p>And so it turns out that our earth is a globe of about twenty-five +thousand miles in circumference. The voyager who circumnavigates it +spends no inconsiderable portion of his life in accomplishing his +task. It moves round the sun in a year, but at so great a distance +from that luminary that if seen from him, it would look like a little +spark traversing the sky. It is thus +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4869" id="Page_4869">[Pg 4869]</a></span> +recognized as one of the members of the solar system. Other similar +bodies, some of which are of larger, some of smaller dimensions, +perform similar revolutions round the sun in appropriate periods of +time.</p> + +<p>If the magnitude of the earth be too great for us to attach to it any +definite conception, what shall we say of the compass of the solar +system? There is a defect in the human intellect, which incapacitates +us for comprehending distances and periods that are either too +colossal or too minute. We gain no clearer insight into the matter, +when we are told that a comet which does not pass beyond the bounds of +the system may perhaps be absent on its journey for more than a +thousand years. Distances and periods such as these are beyond our +grasp. They prove to us how far human reason excels imagination; the +one measuring and comparing things of which the other can form no +conception, but in the attempt is utterly bewildered and lost.</p> + +<p>But as there are other globes like our earth, so too there are other +worlds like our solar system. There are self-luminous suns, exceeding +in number all computation. The dimensions of this earth pass into +nothingness in comparison with the dimensions of the solar system, and +that system in its turn is only an invisible point if placed in +relation with the countless hosts of other systems, which form with it +clusters of stars. Our solar system, far from being alone in the +universe, is only one of an extensive brotherhood, bound by common +laws and subject to like influences. Even on the very verge of +creation, where imagination might lay the beginning of the realms of +chaos, we see unbounded proofs of order, a regularity in the +arrangement of inanimate things, suggesting to us that there are other +intellectual creatures like us, the tenants of those islands in the +abysses of space.</p> + +<p>Though it may take a beam of light a million years to bring to our +view those distant worlds, the end is not yet. Far away in the depths +of space we catch the faint gleams of other groups of stars like our +own. The finger of a man can hide them in their remoteness. Their vast +distances from one another have dwindled into nothing. They and their +movements have lost all individuality; the innumerable suns of which +they are composed blend all their collected light into one pale milky +glow.</p> + +<p>Thus extending our view from the earth to the solar system, +from the solar system to the expanse of the group of stars to +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4870" id="Page_4870">[Pg 4870]</a></span> +which we belong, we behold a series of gigantic nebular creations rising up +one after another, and forming greater and greater colonies of worlds. No +numbers can express them, for they make the firmament a haze of stars. +Uniformity, even though it be the uniformity of magnificence, tires at +last, and we abandon the survey; for our eyes can only behold a +boundless prospect, and conscience tells us our own unspeakable +insignificance.</p> + +<p>But what has become of the time-honored doctrine of the human destiny +of the universe?—that doctrine for the sake of which the controversy +I have described in this chapter was raised? It has disappeared. In +vain was Bruno burnt and Galileo imprisoned; the truth forced its way, +in spite of all opposition, at last. The end of the conflict was a +total rejection of authority and tradition, and the adoption of +scientific truth.</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="KORAN" id="KORAN"></a>THE KORAN</h3> + +<h4>From 'History of the Intellectual Development of Europe.' Copyright +1876, by Harper & Brothers</h4> + +<p>Arabian influence, thus imposing itself on Africa and Asia by military +successes, and threatening even Constantinople, rested essentially on +an intellectual basis, the value of which it is needful for us to +consider. The Koran, which is that basis, has exercised a great +control over the destinies of mankind, and still serves as a rule of +life to a very large portion of our race. Considering the asserted +origin of this book,—indirectly from God himself,—we might justly +expect that it would bear to be tried by any standard that man can +apply, and vindicate its truth and excellence in the ordeal of human +criticism. In our estimate of it, we must constantly bear in mind that +it does not profess to be successive revelations made at intervals of +ages and on various occasions, but a complete production delivered to +one man. We ought therefore to look for universality, completeness, +perfection. We might expect that it would present us with just views +of the nature and position of this world in which we live, and that +whether dealing with the spiritual or the material, it would put to +shame the most celebrated productions of human genius, as the magnificent +mechanism of the heavens and the beautiful living forms of the earth are +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4871" id="Page_4871">[Pg 4871]</a></span> +superior to the vain contrivances of man. Far in advance +of all that has been written by the sages of India, or the +philosophers of Greece, on points connected with the origin, nature, +and destiny of the universe, its dignity of conception and excellence +of expression should be in harmony with the greatness of the subject +with which it is concerned.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 490px;"> +<a name="MANUSCRIPT" id="MANUSCRIPT"></a> +<span class="caption"><i>AFRICAN ARABIC MANUSCRIPT.</i><br /><br /> +Thirteenth Century. + National Library, Paris.<br /><br /> +Reduced fac-simile of part of a page of an Arabic Koran, in the +African character, captured at Tunis by Charles V.</span> +<p>The scribes of the East are distinguished by their efforts to acquire +a perfect style of execution; and their success merits the greater +praise, since they generally stand while writing, resting only on the +left arm; and notwithstanding the inferiority of the reed to the +modern pen, the Arabs have succeeded in producing the most excellent +specimens of calligraphy.</p> +<img src="images/Illus208.jpg" width="490" height="768" alt="THE SKATER OF THE ZUYDER ZEE." title="THE SKATER OF THE ZUYDER ZEE." /> +</div> + +<p>We might expect that it should propound with authority, and +definitively settle, those all-important problems which have exercised +the mental powers of the ablest men of Asia and Europe for so many +centuries, and which are at the foundation of all faith and all +philosophy; that it should distinctly tell us in unmistakable language +what is God, what is the world, what is the soul, and whether man has +any criterion of truth; that it should explain to us how evil can +exist in a world the Maker of which is omnipotent and altogether good; +that it should reveal to us in what the affairs of men are fixed by +Destiny, in what by free-will; that it should teach us whence we came, +what is the object of our continuing here, what is to become of us +hereafter. And since a written work claiming a divine origin must +necessarily accredit itself even to those most reluctant to receive +it, its internal evidences becoming stronger and not weaker with the +strictness of the examination to which they are submitted, it ought to +deal with those things that may be demonstrated by the increasing +knowledge and genius of man; anticipating therein his conclusions.</p> + +<p>Such a work, noble as may be its origin, must not refuse but court the +test of natural philosophy, regarding it not as an antagonist but as +its best support. As years pass on, and human science becomes more +exact and more comprehensive, its conclusions must be found in unison +therewith. When occasion arises, it should furnish us at least the +foreshadowings of the great truths discovered by astronomy and +geology, not offering for them the wild fictions of earlier ages, +inventions of the infancy of man. It should tell us how suns and +worlds are distributed in infinite space, and how in their successions +they come forth in limitless time. It should say how far the dominion +of God is carried out by law, and what is the point at which it is his +pleasure to resort to his own good providence or his arbitrary will. +How grand the description of this magnificent universe, written +by the Omnipotent hand! Of man it should set forth his relations +to other living beings, his place among them, his +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4872" id="Page_4872">[Pg 4872]</a></span> +privileges and responsibilities. It should not leave him to grope his way +through the vestiges of Greek philosophy, and to miss the truth at last; +but it should teach him wherein true knowledge consists, anticipating the +physical science, physical power, and physical well-being of our own +times, nay, even unfolding for our benefit things that we are still +ignorant of. The discussion of subjects so many and so high is not +outside the scope of a work of such pretensions. Its manner of dealing +with them is the only criterion it can offer of its authenticity to +succeeding times.</p> + +<p>Tried by such a standard, the Koran altogether fails. In its +philosophy it is incomparably inferior to the writings of Chakia +Mouni, the founder of Buddhism; in its science it is absolutely +worthless. On speculative or doubtful things it is copious enough; but +in the exact, where a test can be applied to it, it totally fails. Its +astronomy, cosmogony, physiology, are so puerile as to invite our +mirth, if the occasion did not forbid. They belong to the old times of +the world, the morning of human knowledge. The earth is firmly +balanced in its seat by the weight of the mountains; the sky is +supported over it like a dome, and we are instructed in the wisdom and +power of God by being told to find a crack in it if we can. Ranged in +stories, seven in number, are the heavens, the highest being the +habitation of God, whose throne—for the Koran does not reject +Assyrian ideas—is sustained by winged animal forms. The shooting +stars are pieces of red-hot stone, thrown by angels at impure spirits +when they approach too closely. Of God the Koran is full of praise, +setting forth, often in not unworthy imagery, his majesty. Though it +bitterly denounces those who give him any equals, and assures them +that their sin will never be forgiven; that in the Judgment Day they +must answer the fearful question, "Where are my companions about whom +ye disputed?"—though it inculcates an absolute dependence on the +mercy of God, and denounces as criminals all those who make a +merchandise of religion,—its ideas of the Deity are altogether +anthropomorphic. He is only a gigantic man, living in a paradise. In +this respect, though exceptional passages might be cited, the reader +rises from a perusal of the one hundred and fourteen chapters of the +Koran with a final impression that they have given him low and +unworthy thoughts; nor is it surprising that one of the Mohammedan +sects reads it in such a way as to find no difficulty in asserting that "from +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4873" id="Page_4873">[Pg 4873]</a></span> +the crown of the head to the breast God is hollow, and +from the breast downward he is solid;" that he "has curled black hair, +and roars like a lion at every watch of the night." The unity asserted +by Mohammed is a unity in special contradistinction to the Trinity of +the Christians, and the doctrine of a Divine generation. Our Savior is +never called the Son of God, but always the Son of Mary. Throughout +there is a perpetual acceptance of the delusion of the human destiny +of the universe. As to man, Mohammed is diffuse enough respecting a +future state, speaking with clearness of a resurrection, the Judgment +Day, Paradise, the torment of hell, the worm that never dies, the +pains that never end; but with all this precise description of the +future, there are many errors as to the past. If modesty did not +render it unsuitable to speak of such topics here, it might be shown +how feeble is his physiology when he has occasion to allude to the +origin or generation of man. He is hardly advanced beyond the ideas of +Thales. One who is so untrustworthy a guide as to things that are past +cannot be very trustworthy as to events that are to come.</p> + +<p>Of the literary execution of his work, it is perhaps scarcely possible +to judge fairly from a translation. It is said to be the oldest prose +composition among the Arabs, by whom Mohammed's boast of the +unapproachable excellence of his work is almost universally sustained; +but it must not be concealed that there have been among them very +learned men who have held it in light esteem. Its most celebrated +passages, as those on the nature of God, in Chapters ii., xxiv., will +bear no comparison with parallel ones in the Psalms and Book of Job. +In the narrative style, the story of Joseph in Chapter xii., compared +with the same incidents related in Genesis, shows a like inferiority. +Mohammed also adulterates his work with many Christian legends, +derived probably from the apocryphal gospel of St. Barnabas; he mixes +with many of his own inventions the Scripture account of the +temptation of Adam, the Deluge, Jonah and the whale, enriching the +whole with stories like the later Night Entertainments of his country, +the seven sleepers, Gog and Magog, and all the wonders of genii, +sorcery, and charms.</p> + +<p>An impartial reader of the Koran may doubtless be surprised that so +feeble a production should serve its purpose so well. But the theory +of religion is one thing, the practice another. The Koran abounds in +excellent moral suggestions and precepts; its composition is so +fragmentary that we cannot turn to a single +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4874" id="Page_4874">[Pg 4874]</a></span> +page without finding maxims of which all men must approve. This fragmentary +construction yields texts and mottoes and rules complete in themselves, +suitable for common men in any of the incidents of life. There is a +perpetual insisting on the necessity of prayer, an inculcation of mercy, +almsgiving, justice, fasting, pilgrimage, and other good works; +institutions respecting conduct, both social and domestic, debts, +witnesses, marriage, children, wine, and the like; above all, a +constant stimulation to do battle with the infidel and blasphemer. For +life as it passes in Asia, there is hardly a condition in which +passages from the Koran cannot be recalled suitable for instruction, +admonition, consolation, encouragement. To the Asiatic and to the +African, such devotional fragments are of far more use than any +sustained theological doctrine. The mental constitution of Mohammed +did not enable him to handle important philosophical questions with +the well-balanced ability of the great Greek and Indian writers; but +he has never been surpassed in adaptation to the spiritual wants of +humble life, making even his fearful fatalism administer thereto. A +pitiless destiny is awaiting us; yet the prophet is uncertain what it +may be. "Unto every nation a fixed time is decreed. Death will +overtake us even in lofty towers, but God only knoweth the place in +which a man shall die." After many an admonition of the resurrection +and the Judgment Day, many a promise of Paradise and threat of hell, +he plaintively confesses, "I do not know what will be done with you or +me hereafter."</p> + +<p>The Koran thus betrays a human and not a very noble intellectual +origin. It does not however follow that its author was, as is so often +asserted, a mere impostor. He reiterates again and again, "I am +nothing more than a public preacher." He defends, not always without +acerbity, his work from those who even in his own life stigmatized it +as a confused heap of dreams, or what is worse, a forgery. He is not +the only man who has supposed himself to be the subject of +supernatural and divine communications, for this is a condition of +disease to which any one, by fasting and mental anxiety, may be +reduced.</p> + +<p>In what I have thus said respecting a work held by so many millions of +men as a revelation from God, I have endeavored to speak with respect +and yet with freedom, constantly bearing in mind how deeply to this +book Asia and Africa are indebted for daily guidance, how deeply +Europe and America for the light of science.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4875" id="Page_4875">[Pg 4875]</a></span> +As might be expected, the doctrines of the Koran have received many +fictitious additions and sectarian interpretations in the course of +ages. In the popular superstition angels and genii largely figure. The +latter, being of a grosser fabric, eat, drink, propagate their kind, +are of two sorts, good and bad, and existed long before men, having +occupied the earth before Adam. Immediately after death, two greenish +livid angels, Monkir and Nekkar, examine every corpse as to its faith +in God and Mohammed; but the soul, having been separated from the body +by the angel of death, enters upon an intermediate state, awaiting the +resurrection. There is however much diversity of opinion as to its +precise disposal before the Judgment Day: some think that it hovers +near the grave; some, that it sinks into the well Zemzem; some, that +it retires into the trumpet of the angel of the resurrection; the +difficulty apparently being that any final disposal before the Day of +Judgment would be anticipatory of that great event, if indeed it would +not render it needless. As to the resurrection, some believe it to be +merely spiritual, others corporeal; the latter asserting that the <i>os +coccygis</i>, or last bone of the spinal column, will serve as it were as +a germ; and that, vivified by a rain of forty days, the body will +sprout from it. Among the signs of the approaching resurrection will +be the rising of the sun in the west. It will be ushered in by three +blasts of a trumpet: the first, known as the blast of consternation, +will shake the earth to its centre, and extinguish the sun and stars; +the second, the blast of extermination, will annihilate all material +things except Paradise, hell, and the throne of God. Forty years +subsequently, the angel Israfil will sound the blast of resurrection. +From his trumpet there will be blown forth the countless myriads of +souls who have taken refuge therein, or lain concealed. The Day of +Judgment has now come. The Koran contradicts itself as to the length +of this day; in one place making it a thousand, in another fifty +thousand years. Most Mohammedans incline to adopt the longer period, +since angels, genii, men, and animals have to be tried.</p> + +<p>As to men, they will rise in their natural state, but naked; +white-winged camels, with saddles of gold, awaiting the saved. +When the partition is made, the wicked will be oppressed with +an intolerable heat, caused by the sun, which, having been called +into existence again, will approach within a mile, provoking a +sweat to issue from them; and this, according to their demerits, +will immerse them from the ankles to the mouth; but the +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4876" id="Page_4876">[Pg 4876]</a></span> +righteous will be screened by the shadow of the throne of God. +The Judge will be seated in the clouds, the books open before +him, and everything in its turn called on to account for its deeds. +For greater dispatch, the angel Gabriel will hold forth his balance, +one scale of which hangs over Paradise and one over hell. +In these all works are weighed. As soon as the sentence is delivered, +the assembly, in a long file, will pass over the bridge +Al-Sirat. It is as sharp as the edge of a sword, and laid over +the mouth of hell. Mohammed and his followers will successfully +pass the perilous ordeal; but the sinners, giddy with terror, will +drop into the place of torment. The blessed will receive their +first taste of happiness at a pond which is supplied by silver +pipes from the river Al-Cawthor. The soil of Paradise is of +musk. Its rivers tranquilly flow over pebbles of rubies and +emeralds. From tents of hollow pearls the Houris, or girls of +Paradise, will come forth, attended by troops of beautiful boys. +Each saint will have eighty thousand servants and seventy-two +girls. To these, some of the more merciful Mussulmans add the +wives they have had upon earth; but the grimly orthodox assert +that hell is already nearly filled with women. How can it be +otherwise, since they are not permitted to pray in a mosque upon +earth?</p> + +<p>I have not space to describe the silk brocades, the green +clothing, the soft carpets, the banquets, the perpetual music and +songs. From the glorified body all impurities will escape, not as +they did during life, but in a fragrant perspiration of camphor +and musk. No one will complain, "I am weary;" no one will +say, "I am sick.".</p> + +<p>From the contradictions, puerilities, and impossibilities indicated +in the preceding paragraphs, it may be anticipated that the +faith of Mohammed has been broken into many sects. Of such +it is said that not less than seventy-three may be numbered. +Some, as the Sonnites, are guided by traditions; some occupy +themselves with philosophical difficulties,—the existence of evil +in the world, the attributes of God, absolute predestination and +eternal damnation, the invisibility and non-corporeality of God, +his capability of local motion.... But the great Mohammedan +philosophers, simply accepting the doctrine of the oneness +of God as the only thing of which man can be certain, look upon +all the rest as idle fables—having however this political use: that +they furnish contention and therefore occupation to disputatious +sectarians, and consolation to illiterate minds.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4877" id="Page_4877">[Pg 4877]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="MICHAEL_DRAYTON" id="MICHAEL_DRAYTON"></a>MICHAEL DRAYTON</h2> + +<h4>(1563-1631)</h4> + + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 90px;"> +<img src="images/capw215.png" width="90" height="90" alt="W" title="W" /> +</div><p class="dropcap">hile London still crowded to the new "Theatre" in Shoreditch, the +first built in England; while Ben Jonson was still soldiering in the +Low Countries; while Marlowe was working out the tragedy that was to +revolutionize all stage traditions, and Shakespeare was yet but a +"looker-on at greatness,"—there came up from Warwickshire a young man +of good family who had served as page in a noble house, who had +studied possibly at Oxford, and who in the first flush of manhood +aspired to a place among those prodigies who made the later +Elizabethan period immortal. This was Michael Drayton, whose gentle +birth and breeding, education and talents, knowledge of the world and +of men, together with a most sweet and lovable disposition, made him +at once welcome in the literary Bohemia of the day. He became the +"deare and bosom friend" of Beaumont and Fletcher, and his work +received unquestioned honor from his illustrious contemporaries.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 180px;"> +<img src="images/Illus215.png" width="180" height="220" alt="Michael Drayton" title="Michael Drayton" /> +<span class="caption"><span class="smcap">Michael Drayton</span></span> +</div> + +<p>As a child he had demanded of his +elders to know what kind of beings poets +were, had spent many hours in writing +childishly fantastic verses, and had begged +of his tutor to make a poet of him. And although he seems to have +been poor and to have lived by the gifts of wealthy patrons, he +cast in his lot with literature, and cherished no other ambition than +that of writing well. His first book, a volume of spiritual poems, or +metrical renderings of the Bible, was published in 1590 under the +title 'The Harmony of the Church.' It is difficult to see why this +commonplace and orthodox performance should have given such +umbrage that the Archbishop of Canterbury condemned the entire +edition to destruction. Yet this was its fate, with the exception of +forty copies which Archbishop Whitgift ordered to be reserved for +the ecclesiastical library at Lambeth Palace. Undiscouraged, the +poet next produced a cycle of sixty-four sonnets and a collection of +pastorals entitled 'Idea: the Shepherd's Garland,' in which under the +name "Rowland" he celebrated an early love. It is strange that +the intrinsic merit of these verses, and their undoubted popularity, +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4878" id="Page_4878">[Pg 4878]</a></span> +should not have urged Drayton to continue in the same vein. Instead, +however, he set about the composition of a series of historical +poems which extended over the next twenty-four years, and to which +he gave the best energies of his life. Beginning with the epic +'Matilda,' studied from English history, the series was continued by +a poem on the 'Wars of the Roses,' afterward enlarged into 'The +Barons' Wars.' This was followed by the epic 'Robert, Duke of +Normandy.' Destitute of imagination, prolix and tedious, these verses +were yet so popular in Drayton's day that in 1612 he began the +publication of a poem in thirty books, meant to include the entire +chronology and topography of Great Britain, from the earliest times. +This was the famous 'Poly-Olbion,' in which, in spite of the inspiring +work of his contemporaries, Drayton harked back in spirit to the +dreary monotony of the Saxon Chronicle; the detail is so minute, +the matter so unimportant, and the absence of discrimination so apparent, +that notwithstanding many noticeable beauties of thought +and style, it is hard to realize that this poem was a favorite with +that brilliant group which had known Shakespeare, and still delighted +in Ben Jonson. After issuing eighteen books of 'Poly-Olbion,' his +publishers—with whom he was always quarreling, and whom he +declared that he "despised and kicked at"—refused to undertake the +remaining twelve books of the second part. His friends, however, +loyal in their love and praise of him, secured a more complaisant +tradesman to bring out the rest of the already famous poem.</p> + +<p>Fortunately for his fame, Drayton had in the mean time produced +two other volumes of verse, which displayed the real grace and fancifulness +of his charming muse. The first of these, 'Poems Lyrical +and Pastoral,' included the satire 'The Man in the Moon'; while in +the second were printed the 'Ballad of Agincourt,' the most spirited +of English martial lyrics, and that delightful fantasy 'Nymphidia, or +the Court of Faery,' in which the touch is so light, the fancy so +dainty, and the conceit so delicate, that the poem remains immortally +fresh and young. Because everybody wrote plays, Drayton turned +playwright, and is said to have collaborated with Massinger and Ford. +Of his long works, the 'Heroicall Episodes' is perhaps the most +readable. His last effort was 'The Muses' Elizium,' published in 1630. +A year later he died, and was buried in Westminster, where a monument +was erected to him by the Countess of Dorset.</p> + +<p>Drayton's place in English literature is with that considerable and +not unimportant band who have done somewhat, but whose repute is much +more for what they were in their friends' eyes than for what they did. +In an age of great intellectual achievement, he yet managed, in spite +of the stimulus of kindred minds and his own undoubted gift, to +produce little that has sustained the reputation accorded him +by his acquaintances. Most of his work lives chiefly +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4879" id="Page_4879">[Pg 4879]</a></span> +to afford pleasing studies for the literary antiquary, to whom the tide of +time brings nothing uninteresting. Yet in the art of living, in the unselfish +devotion of his powers to his chosen calling, in the graces of +affection and the offices of noble friendship, he was so excellent and +exemplary that he won and kept the undying regard of the most able men +of the most brilliant period of English literature—men who felt a +personal and unrequitable loss when he passed away, and who spoke of +him always with admiring tenderness.</p> + +<p>In person he seems to have been small and dark. He describes +himself as of "swart and melancholy face." Yet his talk was most +delightful, and a strong proof of his wide popularity appears in the +fact that he is quoted not less than one hundred and fifty times in +'England's Parnassus,' published as early as 1600. The tributes of +his friends are innumerable, from the "good Rowland" of Barnfield +to the "golden-mouthed Drayton, musicall," of Fitz-Geoffrey, the +"man of vertuous disposition, honest conversation, and well-preserved +carriage" of Meres, or the tender lines of his friend Ben Jonson:—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Do, pious marble, let thy readers know<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What they and what their children owe<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To Drayton's name; whose sacred dust<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We recommend unto thy trust.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Protect his memory, and preserve his story,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Remain a lasting monument of his glory.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And when thy ruins shall disclaim<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To be the treasurer of his name,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His name, that cannot die, shall be<br /></span> +<span class="i0">An everlasting monument to thee."<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="SONNET" id="SONNET"></a>SONNET</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Since there's no help, come, let us kiss and part,—<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Nay, I have done, you get no more of me;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">That thus so clearly I myself can free:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shake hands forever, cancel all our vows,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And when we meet at any time again,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Be it not seen in either of our brows<br /></span> +<span class="i1">That we one jot of former love retain.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Now, at the last gasp of Love's latest breath.<br /></span> +<span class="i1">When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And Innocence is closing up his eyes,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Now, if thou wouldst, when all have given him over,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From death to life thou mightst him yet recover!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4880" id="Page_4880">[Pg 4880]</a></span></p> +<h3><a name="AGINCOURT" id="AGINCOURT"></a>THE BALLAD OF AGINCOURT</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Fair stood the wind for France,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When we our sails advance,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor now to prove our chance<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Longer will tarry;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But putting to the main,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At Kaux, the mouth of Seine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With all his martial train,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Landed King Harry.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And taking many a fort,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Furnished in warlike sort,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Marched towards Agincourt<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In happy hour—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Skirmishing day by day<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With those that stopped his way,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where the French gen'ral lay<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With all his power.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Which in his height of pride,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">King Henry to deride,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His ransom to provide<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To the King sending;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which he neglects the while,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As from a nation vile,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet, with an angry smile,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Their fall portending.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And turning to his men,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Quoth our brave Henry then:—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Though they to one be ten,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Be not amazed;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet have we well begun—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Battles so bravely won<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Have ever to the sun<br /></span> +<span class="i2">By fame been raised.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"And for myself," quoth he,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"This my full rest shall be;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">England ne'er mourn for me,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Nor more esteem me;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Victor I will remain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or on this earth lie slain;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Never shall she sustain<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Loss to redeem me.<br /></span> +</div><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4881" id="Page_4881">[Pg 4881]</a></span><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Poitiers and Cressy tell,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When most their pride did swell,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Under our swords they fell;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">No less our skill is<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Than when our grandsire great,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Claiming the regal seat,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By many a warlike feat<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Lopped the French lilies."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The Duke of York so dread<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The eager vaward led;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With the main Henry sped,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Amongst his henchmen.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Excester had the rear—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A braver man not there:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O Lord! how hot they were<br /></span> +<span class="i2">On the false Frenchmen!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">They now to fight are gone;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Armor on armor shone;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Drum now to drum did groan—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To hear was wonder;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That with the cries they make<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The very earth did shake;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Trumpet to trumpet spake,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Thunder to thunder.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Well it thine age became,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O noble Erpingham!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which did the signal aim<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To our hid forces;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">When from a meadow by,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like a storm suddenly,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The English archery<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Struck the French horses,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">With Spanish yew so strong,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Arrows a cloth-yard long,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That like to serpents stung,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Piercing the weather;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">None from his fellow starts,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But playing manly parts,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And like true English hearts,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Stuck close together.<br /></span> +</div><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4882" id="Page_4882">[Pg 4882]</a></span><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When down their bows they threw,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And forth their bilbows drew,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And on the French they flew,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Not one was tardy;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Arms were from shoulders sent;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Scalps to the teeth were rent;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Down the French peasants went;—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Our men were hardy.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">This while our noble king,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His broadsword brandishing,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Down the French host did ding,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">As to o'erwhelm it;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And many a deep wound lent,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His arm with blood besprent,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And many a cruel dent<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Bruisèd his helmet.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Glo'ster, that duke so good,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Next of the royal blood,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For famous England stood,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With his brave brother—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Clarence, in steel so bright,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Though but a maiden knight,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet in that furious fight<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Scarce such another.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Warwick in blood did wade;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Oxford the foe invade,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And cruel slaughter made,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Still as they ran up.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Suffolk his axe did ply;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Beaumont and Willoughby<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bare them right doughtily,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Ferrers and Fanhope.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Upon Saint Crispin's day<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fought was this noble fray,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which fame did not delay<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To England to carry;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Oh, when shall Englishmen<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With such acts fill a pen,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or England breed again<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Such a King Harry?<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4883" id="Page_4883">[Pg 4883]</a></span></p> +<h3><a name="MAB" id="MAB"></a>QUEEN MAB'S EXCURSION</h3> +<h4>From 'Nymphidia, the Court of Faery'</h4> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Her chariot ready straight is made;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Each thing therein is fitting laid,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That she by nothing might be stay'd,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For naught must her be letting:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Four nimble gnats the horses were,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The harnesses of gossamer,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fly Cranion, her charioteer,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Upon the coach-box getting.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Her chariot of a snail's fine shell,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which for the colors did excel,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The fair Queen Mab becoming well,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">So lively was the limning;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The seat the soft wool of the bee.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The cover (gallantly to see)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The wing of a py'd butterflee,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I trow, 'twas simple trimming.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The wheels composed of crickets' bones,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And daintily made for the nonce;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For fear of rattling on the stones,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With thistle-down they shod it:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For all her maidens much did fear,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If Oberon had chanced to hear<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That Mab his queen should have been there,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">He would not have abode it.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">She mounts her chariot with a trice,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor would she stay for no advice,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Until her maids, that were so nice,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To wait on her were fitted,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But ran away herself alone;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which when they heard, there was not one<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But hasted after to be gone,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">As she had been diswitted.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Hop, and Mop, and Drap so clear,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Pip, and Trip, and Skip, that were<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To Mab their sovereign dear,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Her special maids of honor;<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4884" id="Page_4884">[Pg 4884]</a></span><span class="i0">Fib, and Tib, and Pinck, and Pin,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tick, and Quick, and Jill, and Jin,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tit, and Nit, and Wap, and Win,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The train that wait upon her.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Upon a grasshopper they got,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And what with amble and with trot,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For hedge nor ditch they sparèd not,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But after her they hie them.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A cobweb over them they throw,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To shield the wind if it should blow;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Themselves they wisely could bestow,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Lest any should espy them.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4885" id="Page_4885">[Pg 4885]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="GUSTAVE_DROZ" id="GUSTAVE_DROZ"></a>GUSTAVE DROZ</h2> + +<h4>(1832-1895)</h4> + + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 90px;"> +<img src="images/capg223.png" width="90" height="90" alt="G" title="G" /> +</div><p class="dropcap">ustave Droz enjoyed for a time the distinction of being the most +popular writer of light literature in France, and his fame extended +throughout Europe and to America, several of his books having been +translated into English. Essentially a Parisian of the day,—gay, +droll, adroit,—he not only caught and reflected the humor of his +countrymen, but with a new, fresh touch, reached below the surface of +their volatile emotions. Occasionally striking the note of deeper +feeling, he avoided as a rule the more serious sides of life, as well +as the sensational tendencies of most of his contemporaries. His +friends claimed for him a distinctive <i>genre</i>, and on that account +presented him as a candidate for the Academy; but he failed of +election.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 180px;"> +<img src="images/Illus223.png" width="180" height="220" alt="Gustave Droz" title="Gustave Droz" /> +<span class="caption"><span class="smcap">Gustave Droz</span></span> +</div> + +<p>The son of a well-known sculptor, he was born in Paris, and followed +the traditions of his family in entering the École des Beaux-Arts, +where he developed some aptitude with his brush; but a preference for +writing beguiled him from the studio, and an acquaintance with +Marcellin the illustrator, founder of La Vie Parisienne, led him to +follow literature. At first he was timid, dreading the test of +publication, but presently he gave himself up unreservedly to his pen. +Within a year he was established as a favorite of the people, and his +friend's journal was on the highway to success. For this he wrote a +series of sketches of every-day life that were subsequently collected +and published in book form, under the titles 'Monsieur, Madame, et +Bébé,' 'Entre Nous,' and 'La Cahier Bleu de Mlle. Cibot.' +Within two years these books had reached their twentieth edition, and of the +first, nearly one hundred and fifty editions have been demanded since +it was issued. He has written several novels, the best known of which +are 'Babolein,' 'Les Étangs' (The Ponds), and 'Autour d'une Source' +(Around a Spring), but they did not fully sustain the reputation gained by +his short sketches; a fact which induced him in 1884 to return to his +earlier form in 'Tristesses et Sourires' (Sorrows and Smiles), a volume of light +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4886" id="Page_4886">[Pg 4886]</a></span> +dissertations on things grave and gay that at once revived his popularity.</p> + +<p>The peculiarity of the work of Gustave Droz is its delicacy both +in humor and pathos. He surprised the French by making them all +laugh without making any of them wince; the sharp wits of his day +were forgotten in the unalloyed enjoyment of his simple quaintness, +in which there was neither affectation nor sarcasm. Yet as has been +said, he was a Parisian of the Parisians, quick to perceive the ludicrous, +ready to weep with the afflicted, and to laugh again with the +happy. His studies of children are among his best, on account +of their extreme naturalness, and are never uninteresting, despite +the simplicity of the incidents and observations on which they are +founded. In 'Le Cahier Bleu de Mlle. Cibot' he has used striking +colors to paint the petty afflictions that beset most lives; but lest +these pictures should leave an unpleasant impression, they are set off +by others of a happier sort, making a collection that constitutes a +most effective lesson in practical philosophy.</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="BABY" id="BABY"></a>HOW THE BABY WAS SAVED</h3> +<h4>From 'The Seamstress's Story'</h4> + +<p>"Yes, Ma'm'selle Adèle," said the seamstress, "the real happiness of +this world is not so unevenly distributed after all." Louise, as she +said this, took from the reserve in the bosom of her dress a lot of +pins, and applied them deftly to the trimming of a skirt which I was +holding for her.</p> + +<p>"A sufficiently comfortable doctrine," I answered; "but it +does seem to me as if some people were born to live and to die +unhappy."</p> + +<p>"It is only folks who never find anybody to love enough; and +I think it's nobody's fault but their own."</p> + +<p>"But my good Louise, wouldn't you have suffered much less +last year, when you came so near losing your boy, if you hadn't +cared so much for him?"</p> + +<p>I was only drawing her on, you see; Louise's chat was the +greatest resource to me at that time.</p> + +<p>"Why, Ma'm'selle Adèle, you are surely joking. You'd as +well tell me to cut off my feet to save my shoes. You'll know +one of these days—and not so far off neither, maybe—how +mighty easy and sensible it would be not to love your children. +They <i>are</i> a worry, too; but oh the delight of 'em! I'd like to +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4887" id="Page_4887">[Pg 4887]</a></span> +have had anybody tell me not to love my darling because it +might grieve me, when he lay there in his mother's lap, with +blue lips, gasping for his breath, and well-nigh dead, his face +blackish, and his hands like this piece of wax. You could see +that everything was going against him; and with his great big +eyes he was staring in my face, until I felt as if the child was +tugging at my very heart-strings. I kept smiling at him, though, +through the tears that blinded me, hard as I tried to hide them. +Oh! such tears are bitter salt indeed, Ma'm'selle! And there +was my poor husband on his knees, making paper figures to +amuse him, and singing a funny song he used to laugh at. Now +and then the corners of his mouth would pucker, and his cheeks +would wrinkle a little bit under the eyes. You could tell he was +still amused, but in such a dreamy way. Oh! our child seemed +no longer with us, but behind a veil, like. Wait a minute. +You must excuse me, for I can't help crying when I think of it."</p> + +<p>And the poor creature drew out her handkerchief and fairly +sobbed aloud. In the midst of it however she smiled and said: +"Well, that's over now; 'twas nothing, and I'm too silly. And +Ma'm'selle, here I've gone and cried upon your mother's dress, +and that's a pretty business."</p> + +<p>I took her hand in mine and pressed it.</p> + +<p>"Aren't you afraid you'll stick yourself, Ma'm'selle? I've got +my needle in that hand," she said playfully. "But you did not +mean what you said just now, did you?"</p> + +<p>"What did I say?"</p> + +<p>"That it would be better not to love your children with all +your heart, on account of the great anxiety. Don't you know +such thoughts are wicked? When they come into your head +your mind wants purifying. But I'm sure I beg your pardon +for saying so."</p> + +<p>"You are entirely right, Louise," I returned.</p> + +<p>"Ah! so I thought. And now let me see. Let's fix this +ruche; pull it to the left a little, please."</p> + +<p>"But about the sick boy. Tell me about his recovery."</p> + +<p>"That was a miracle—I ought to say two miracles. It was +a miracle that God restored him to us, and a miracle to find +anybody with so much knowledge and feeling,—such talent, such +a tender heart, and so much, so much—! I'm speaking of +the doctor. A famous one he was, too, you must know; for it +was no less than Doctor Faron. Heaven knows how he is run +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4888" id="Page_4888">[Pg 4888]</a></span> +after, and how rich and celebrated he is! Aren't you surprised +to hear that it was he who attended <i>our</i> little boy? Indeed, the +wonders begin with that. You may imagine my husband was at +his wits' end when he saw how it was with the child; and all of +a sudden I saw him jump up, get out his best coat and hat, and +put them on.</p> + +<p>"'Where are you going' I asked.</p> + +<p>"'To bring Doctor Faron.'</p> + +<p>"Why, if he had said, 'To bring the Prime Minister,' it +would have seemed as likely.</p> + +<p>"'Don't you believe Doctor Faron is going to trouble himself +about such as we. They will turn you out of doors.'</p> + +<p>"But 'twas no use talking, my dear. He was already on the +stairs, and I heard him running away as if the house was on fire. +Fire, indeed; worse, far worse than any fire!</p> + +<p>"And there I was, left alone with the child upon my knees. +He wouldn't stay in bed, and was quieter so, wrapped up in his +little blanket. 'Here will he die,' I thought. 'Soon will his +eyes close, and then it will be all over;' and I held my own +breath to listen to his feeble and oppressed pantings.</p> + +<p>"About an hour had passed, when I heard a rapid step upon +the stairs (we are poor, and live in attic rooms). The door +opened, and my husband came in, wet with perspiration and out +of breath. If I live a century, I'll not forget his look when he +said:—</p> + +<p>"'Well?'</p> + +<p>"I answered, 'No worse. But the doctor?'</p> + +<p>"'He's coming.'</p> + +<p>"Oh, those blessed words! It actually seemed as if my child +were saved already. If you but knew how folks love their little +ones! I kissed the darling, I kissed his father, I laughed, I +cried, and I no longer felt the faintest doubt. It is by God's +mercy that such gleams of hope are sent to strengthen us in our +trials. It was very foolish, too; for something might easily have +prevented the doctor's coming, after all.</p> + +<p>"'You found him at home, then?' I asked my husband.</p> + +<p>"Then he told me in an undertone what he had done, stopping +every now and then to wipe his face and gather breath.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>"My husband had scarcely uttered these words," continued +Louise, "when I heard a step on the stairs. It was he! it was +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4889" id="Page_4889">[Pg 4889]</a></span> +that blessed angel of a doctor, come to help us in our sore distress.</p> + +<p>"And what do you think he said in his deep voice when he +got into the room?</p> + +<p>"God bless you, my friends, but I nearly broke my neck on +those stairs. Where's that child?"</p> + +<p>"'Here he is, my dear, darling doctor.' I knew no better +way to speak to him, with his dress cravat showing over his +greatcoat, and his decorations dangling like a little bunch of keys +at his buttonhole.</p> + +<p>"He took off his wrappings, stooped over the child, turned +him over, more gently even than his mother could have done, +and laid his own head first against his back, then against his +breast. How I tried to read his eyes! but they know how to +hide their thoughts.</p> + +<p>"'We must perform an operation here,' says he; 'and it is +high time.'</p> + +<p>"Just at this moment the hospital doctor came in, and whispered +to him, 'I'm afraid you didn't want to be disturbed, sir.'</p> + +<p>"'Oh, never mind. I am sorry it wasn't sooner, though. Get +everything ready now.'</p> + +<p>"But Ma'm'selle Adèle, why should I tell you all this? I'd +better mind my work."</p> + +<p>"Oh, go on, Louise, go on!"</p> + +<p>"Well then, Ma'm'selle, if you believe me, those two doctors—neither +of 'em kin, or even friends till then—went to work and made all the +preparations, while my husband went off to borrow lights. The biggest +one tied a mattress on the table, and the assistant spread out the +bright little knives.</p> + +<p>"You who have not been through it all, Ma'm'selle, can't +know what it is to have your own little one in your lap, to +know that those things are to be used upon him to pierce his +tender flesh, and if the hand that guides them be not sure, that +they may kill him.</p> + +<p>"When all was ready, Doctor Faron took off his cravat, then +lifted my child from my arms and laid him on the mattress, in +the midst of the lamps, and said to my poor man:—</p> + +<p>"'You will hold his head, and your wife his feet. Joseph +will pass me the instruments. You've brought a breathing-tube +with you, my son?'</p> + +<p>"'Yes, sir.'</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4890" id="Page_4890">[Pg 4890]</a></span> +"My husband was as white as a sheet by this; and when I +saw him about to take his place with his hands shaking so much, +it scared me, so I said:—</p> + +<p>"'Doctor, please let me hold his head!"</p> + +<p>"'But my poor woman, if you should tremble?'</p> + +<p>"'Please let me do it, doctor!'</p> + +<p>"'Be it so, then;' and then added with a bright look at me, +and a cheering smile, 'we shall save him for you, my dear; you +are a brave little woman and you deserve it.'</p> + +<p>"Yes, and save him he did! God bless him! saved him as +truly as if he had snatched him from the depths of the river."</p> + +<p>"And you didn't tremble, Louise?"</p> + +<p>"You may depend on that. If I had, it would have been the +last of my child."</p> + +<p>"How in the world did you keep yourself steady?"</p> + +<p>"The Lord knows; but I was like a rock. When you must, +you must, I suppose."</p> + +<p>"And you had to behold every detail of that operation?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, indeed; and often have I dreamed it over since. His +poor little neck laid open, and the veins, which the doctor pushed +aside with his fingers, and the little silver tube which he inserted, +and all that; and then the face of the child, changing as +the air passed into his lungs. You've seen a lamp almost out, +when you pour in oil? It was like that. They had laid him +there but half alive, with his eyes all but set; and they gave +him back to me, pale and with bloodless lips, it is true, but with +life in his looks, and breathing—breathing the free, fresh air.</p> + +<p>"'Kiss him, mother,' says the doctor, 'and put him to bed. +Cover the place with some light thing or other, and Joseph must +stay with you to-night; won't you, Joseph? Ah, well, that's all +arranged.'</p> + +<p>"He put on his things and wrapped himself up to go. He +was shaking hands with my husband, when I seized one hand, +and kissed it—like a fool, as I was; but I didn't stop to think. +He laughed heartily, and said to my husband, 'Are you not +jealous, friend? Your wife is making great advances to me. +But I must be off now. Good night, good people.'</p> + +<p>"And from that night he always talks so friendly and familiarly +to us, not a bit contemptuously either, but as if he liked +us, and was glad to be of service to us."</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4891" id="Page_4891">[Pg 4891]</a></span></p> +<h3><a name="FAMILY" id="FAMILY"></a>A FAMILY NEW-YEAR'S</h3> +<h4>From 'Monsieur, Madame, and Baby'</h4> + + +<p>It is barely seven o'clock. A pale ray of wan light filters +through the double curtains, and some one is already at the +door. In the next room I hear the stifled laughs and silvery +voice of my little child, who trembles with impatience and begs +to come.</p> + +<p>"But father dear," he cries, "it's Baby. It's your own little +boy—to wish you 'Happy New Year.'"</p> + +<p>"Come in, darling; come quick and give me a kiss," I cry.</p> + +<p>The door opens, and my boy, with shining eyes and his arms +in the air, rushes toward the bed. Long curls, escaping from +the nightcap which imprisons his blond head, fall over his forehead. +His loose night-shirt, embarrassing his little feet, adds to +his impatience and makes him trip at every step. He has +crossed the room at last, and stretching his hands toward mine, +"Baby wishes you a happy New Year," he says earnestly.</p> + +<p>"Poor darling, with his bare feet! Come, dear! Come and +get warm under the covers; come and hide in the quilt."</p> + +<p>I draw him to me; but at this movement my wife wakes up +suddenly.... "How you frightened me! I was dreaming +that there was a fire, and these voices in the midst of it! You +are indiscreet with your cries!"</p> + +<p>"<i>Our</i> cries! So you forget, dear mamma, that this is New-Year's +day. Baby is waiting for you to wake up, and so am I."</p> + +<p>I wrap up my little man in the soft quilt, I bury him in the +eiderdown, and warm his frozen feet with my hands.</p> + +<p>"Mother dear, this is New Year," he cries. He draws our +two heads together with his arms, and kisses us anywhere at +random, with his fresh lips. I feel his dimpled hand wandering +about my neck; his little fingers are entangled in my beard. My +mustache pricks the end of his nose. He bursts out laughing, +and throws his head back.</p> + +<p>His mother, who has recovered from her fright, draws him +into her arms. She pulls the bell.</p> + +<p>"The year begins well, my dears," she says, "but we need a +little light."</p> + +<p>"Tell me, mamma, do naughty children have presents at New-Year's?" +says the young dissembler, with an eye on the mountain of boxes and +packages visible in the corner, in spite of the gloom.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4892" id="Page_4892">[Pg 4892]</a></span> +The curtains are drawn apart, the blinds are opened, there is +a flood of daylight, the fire crackles gayly on the hearth, and two +large packages, carefully wrapped up, are placed on the bed. One +is for my wife; the other for the boy.</p> + +<p>What is it? What will it be? I have heaped up knots, and +tripled the wrappings; and I watch with delight their nervous +fingers, lost in the strings.</p> + +<p>My wife gets impatient, smiles, is vexed, kisses me, and asks +for scissors. Baby on his side bites his lips, pulls with all his +might, and at last asks me to help him. He longs to see through +the paper. Desire and expectation are painted on his face. The +convulsive movement of his hand in the folds of the quilt rustles +the silk, and he makes a sound with his lips as though a savory +fruit were approaching them.</p> + +<p>The last paper is off, finally the cover is lifted, there is an +outcry of joy.</p> + +<p>"My tippet!"</p> + +<p>"My menagerie!"</p> + +<p>"Like my muff,—my dear husband!"</p> + +<p>"With a real shepherd, on wheels, dear papa, <i>how</i> I love you!"</p> + +<p>They hug me, four arms at once wind round and press me +close. I am stirred—a tear comes to my eyes; two come to +those of my wife; and Baby, who loses his head, utters a sob as +he kisses my hand.</p> + +<p>How absurd! you will say. I don't know whether it is absurd +or not, but it is charming, I promise you. After all, does not +sorrow wring tears enough from us to make up for the solitary +one which joy may call forth? Life is less happy when one +chances it alone; and when the heart is empty, the way seems +long. It is so good to feel one's self loved; to hear the regular +steps of one's fellow travelers beside one; and to think, "They +are there, our three hearts beat together;" and once a year, +when the great clock strikes the first of January, to sit down beside +the way with hands clasped together and eyes fixed upon +the dusty unknown road stretching on to the horizon, and to +embrace and say:—"We will always love each other, my dear +ones; you depend upon me and I on you. Let us trust and keep +straight on."</p> + +<p>And that is how I explain that we weep a little in looking at +a tippet and opening a menagerie.</p> + +<p class="trans">Translated by Jane G. Cooke, for 'A Library of The World's Best +Literature.'</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4893" id="Page_4893">[Pg 4893]</a></span></p> +<h3><a name="EXCURSION" id="EXCURSION"></a>THEIR LAST EXCURSION</h3> +<h4>From 'Making an Omelette': from Lippincott's Magazine, 1871, copyrighted</h4> + + +<p>In this strange, rude interior, how refined and delicate Louise +looked, with all her dainty appointments of long undressed +kid gloves, jaunty boots, and looped-up petticoat! While I +talked to the wood-cutters she shielded her face from the fire +with her hands, and kept her eye on the butter beginning to +sing in the pan.</p> + +<p>Suddenly she rose, and taking the pan-handle from the old +woman, said, "Let me help you make the omelette, will you?" +The good woman let go with a smile, and Louise found herself +alone, in the attitude of a fisherman who has just had a nibble. +She stood in the full light of the fire, her eyes fixed on the +melted butter, her arms tense with effort; she was biting her +lips, probably in order to increase her strength.</p> + +<p>"It's rather hard on madame's little hands," said the old +man. "I bet it's the first time you ever made an omelette in a +wood-cutter's hut—isn't it, my young lady?"</p> + +<p>Louise nodded yes, without turning her eyes from the omelette.</p> + +<p>"The eggs! the eggs!" she suddenly exclaimed, with such a +look of uneasiness that we all burst out laughing—"hurry with +the eggs! The butter is all puffing up! Be quick—or I can't +answer for the consequences."</p> + +<p>The old woman beat the eggs energetically.</p> + +<p>"The herbs!" cried the old man. "The lard and salt!" cried the young +ones. And they all set to work chopping, cutting, piling up, while +Louise, stamping with excitement, called out, "Make haste! make +haste!" Then there was a tremendous bubbling in the pan, and the great +work began. We were all round the fire, gazing with an anxious +interest inspired by our all having had a finger in the pie.</p> + +<p>The old woman, on her knees beside a large dish, slipped a knife under +the edge of the omelette, which was turning a fine brown. "Now, +madame, you've only got to turn it over," she said.</p> + +<p>"Just one little quick blow," suggested the old man.</p> + +<p>"Mustn't be violent," counseled the young one.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4894" id="Page_4894">[Pg 4894]</a></span> +"All at once; tip with it, dear!" I said.</p> + +<p>"If you all talk at once—"</p> + +<p>"Make haste, madame!"</p> + +<p>"If you all talk at once I never shall manage it. It is too awfully +heavy."</p> + +<p>"One quick little blow."</p> + +<p>"But I can't; it's going over. Oh gracious!"</p> + +<p>In the heat of action, her hood had fallen off. Her cheeks were like a +peach, her eyes shone, and though she lamented her fate, she burst +into peals of laughter. At last by a supreme effort the pan moved, and +the omelette rolled over, somewhat heavily, I confess, into the large +dish which the old woman was holding. Never did an omelette look +better!</p> + +<p>"I am sure the young lady's arms must be tired," said the old man, as +he began cutting a round loaf into enormous slices.</p> + +<p>"Oh no, not so very," my wife answered with a merry laugh; "only I am +crazy to taste my—our omelette."</p> + +<p>We had seated ourselves round the table. When we had eaten and drunk +with the good souls, we rose and made ready to go home. The sun had +set, and the whole family came out of the cabin to see us off and say +good-night.</p> + +<p>"Don't you want my son to go with you?" the old woman called after us.</p> + +<p>It was growing dark and chilly under the trees, and we gradually +quickened our pace. "Those are happy people," said Louise. "We will +come some morning and breakfast with them,—shan't we? We can put the +baby in one of the donkey panniers, and in the other a large pasty and +a bottle of wine.—You are not afraid of losing your way, George?"</p> + +<p>"No, dear; no fear of that."</p> + +<p>"A pasty and a bottle of wine—What is that?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing; the stump of a tree."</p> + +<p>"The stump of a tree—the stump of a tree," she muttered. "Don't you +hear something behind us?"</p> + +<p>"It is only the wind in the leaves, or the breaking of a dead branch."</p> + +<p>He is fortunate who at night, in the heart of a forest, feels as calm +as at his own fireside. You do not tremble, but you feel the silence. +Involuntarily you look for eyes peering out of the darkness, and you +try to define the confused forms appearing and changing every minute. +Something breaks and sounds beneath +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4895" id="Page_4895">[Pg 4895]</a></span> +your tread, and if you stop you hear the distant melancholy howl of +your watch-dog, the scream of an owl, and other noises, far and near, +not so easily explained. A sense of strangeness surrounds you and +weighs you down. If you are alone, you walk faster; if there are two +of you, you draw close to your companion. My wife clung to my arm.</p> + +<p>"Let us turn wood-cutters. We could build a pretty little hut, simple, +but nice enough. I would have curtains to the windows, and a carpet, +and put my piano in one corner." She spoke very low, and occasionally +I felt my hand tremble on her arm.</p> + +<p>"You would soon get enough of that, dearest."</p> + +<p>"It isn't fair to say so." And in another minute she went on:—"You +think I don't love you, you and our boy? Oh yes, dear, I love you. +Yes, yes, yes! The happiness that comes every day can't be expressed: +we live on it, so we don't think of it. Like our daily bread—who +thinks of that? But when you are thinking of yourself, when you put +your head down, and really think, then you say, 'I am ungrateful, for +I am happy, and I give no thanks for it.' Or when we are alone +together, and walking arm-in-arm, now, at this very moment,—not that +I mean only this moment,—I love you, I love you." She put her head +down on my arm and pressed it earnestly. "Oh," she said, "if I were to +lose you!" She spoke very low, as if afraid. What had frightened her? +The darkness and the forest, or her own words?</p> + +<p>She went on:—"I have often and often dreamed that I was saying +good-by to you. You both cried, and I pressed you so close to my heart +that there was only one of us. It was a nightmare, you know, but I +don't mind it, for it showed me that my life was in your lives, dear. +What is that cracking noise? Didn't you see something just in front of +us?"</p> + +<p>I answered her by taking her in my arms and folding her to my heart. +We walked on, but it was impossible to go on talking. Every now and +then she would stop and say, "Hush! hark! No, it is nothing."</p> + +<p>At last we saw ahead of us a little light, now visible, now hidden by +a tree. It was the lamp set for us in our parlor window. We crossed +the stile and were at home. It was high time, for we were wet through.</p> + +<p>I brought a huge log, and when the fire had blazed up +we sat down in the great chimney-place. The poor girl was +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4896" id="Page_4896">[Pg 4896]</a></span> +shivering. I took off her boots and held her feet to the fire, screening them with my hands.</p> + +<p>"Thanks, dear George, thanks!" she said, leaning on my shoulder and +looking at me so tenderly that I felt almost ready to cry.</p> + +<p>"What were you saying to me in that horrid wood, my darling?" I asked +her, when she was better.</p> + +<p>"You are thinking about that? I was frightened, that is all, and when +you are frightened you see ghosts."</p> + +<p>"We shall be wood-cutters, shan't we?"</p> + +<p>And kissing me, with a laugh, she replied: "It is bedtime, Jean of the +Woods."</p> + +<p>I well remember that walk, for it was our last. Often and often since, +at sunset on a dark day, I have been over the same ground; often and +often I have stopped where she stood, and stooped and pulled aside the +fern, seeking to find, poor fool that I am! the traces of her vanished +footsteps. And I have often halted in the clearing under the birches +which rained down on us, and there in the shadow I have fancied I +caught the flutter of her dress; I have thought I heard her startled +note of fright. And on my way home at night, at every step I have +found a recollection of her in the distant barking and the breaking +branches, as in the trembling of her hand on my arm and the kiss which +I gave her.</p> + +<p>Once I went into the wood-hut. I saw it all as before,—the family, +the smoky interior, the little bench on which we sat,—and I asked for +something to drink, that I might see the glass her lips had touched.</p> + +<p>"The little lady who makes such good omelettes, she isn't sick, for +sure?" asked the old woman.</p> + +<p>Probably she saw the tears in my eyes, for she said no more, and I +came away.</p> + +<p>And so it is that except in my heart, where she lives and is, all that +was my darling grows faint and dark and dim.</p> + +<p>It is the law of life, but it is a cruel law. Even my poor child is +learning to forget, and when I say to him most unwillingly, "Baby +dear, do you remember how your mother did this or that?" he answers +"Yes"; but I see, alas! that he too is ceasing to remember.</p> + +<p class="trans">Translation of Agnes Irwin.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4897" id="Page_4897">[Pg 4897]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="HENRY_DRUMMOND" id="HENRY_DRUMMOND"></a>HENRY DRUMMOND</h2> + +<h4>(1851-)</h4> + + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 90px;"> +<img src="images/capo235.png" width="90" height="90" alt="O" title="O" /> +</div><p class="dropcap">ne of the most widely read of modern essayists, Henry Drummond, was +born at Stirling, Scotland, in 1851. Educated for the ministry, he +passed through the Universities of Edinburgh and Tübingen, and the +Free Church Divinity Hall, and after ordination was appointed to a +mission chapel at Malta. The beauty and the historic interest of the +famous island roused in him a desire for travel, and in the intervals +of his professional work he has made semi-scientific pilgrimages to +the Rocky Mountains and to South Africa, as well as lecturing tours to +Canada, Australia, and the United States, where his addresses on +scientific, religious, and sociological subjects have attracted large +audiences.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 180px;"> +<img src="images/Illus235.png" width="180" height="220" alt="Henry Drummond" title="Henry Drummond" /> +<span class="caption"><span class="smcap">Henry Drummond</span></span> +</div> + +<p>A man of indefatigable industry, he has published many books, the most +widely read of these being 'Natural Law in the Spiritual World' a +study of psychological conditions from the point of view of the +Evolutionist. This work has passed through a large number of editions, +and been translated into French, German, Dutch, and Norwegian. +Scarcely less popular were 'The Greatest Thing in the World' (love), +and 'Pax Vobiscum.' In 1894 he published a volume called 'The Ascent +of Man,' in which he insists that certain altruistic factors modify +the process of Natural Selection. This doctrine elicited much critical +commentary from the stricter sects of the scientists, but the new view +commended itself at once to the general reader.</p> + +<p>The citations here given are selected from Mr. Drummond's book of +travels, 'Tropical Africa,' a book whose simplicity and vividness +enable the reader to see the Dark Continent exactly as it is.</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4898" id="Page_4898">[Pg 4898]</a></span></p> +<h3><a name="AFRICA" id="AFRICA"></a>THE COUNTRY AND ITS PEOPLE</h3> + +<h4>From 'Tropical Africa'</h4> + +<p>Nothing could more wildly misrepresent the reality than the idea of +one's school days that the heart of Africa is a desert. Africa rises +from its three environing oceans in three great tiers, and the general +physical geography of these has been already sketched:—first, a coast +line, low and deadly; farther in, a plateau the height of the Scottish +Grampians; farther in still, a higher plateau, covering the country +for thousands of miles with mountain and valley. Now fill in this +sketch, and you have Africa before you. Cover the coast belt with rank +yellow grass; dot here and there a palm; scatter through it a few +demoralized villages; and stock it with the leopard, the hyena, the +crocodile, and the hippopotamus. Clothe the mountainous plateaux next, +both of them, with endless forests; not grand umbrageous forest like +the forests of South America, nor matted jungle like the forests of +India, but with thin, rather weak forest,—with forest of low trees, +whose half-grown trunks and scanty leaves offer no shade from the +tropical sun. Nor is there anything in these trees to the casual eye +to remind you that you are in the tropics. Here and there one comes +upon a borassus or fan-palm, a candelabra-like euphorbia, a mimosa +aflame with color, or a sepulchral baobab. A close inspection also +will discover curious creepers and climbers; and among the branches +strange orchids hide their eccentric flowers. But the outward type of +tree is the same as we have at home—trees resembling the ash, the +beech, and the elm, only seldom so large except by the streams, and +never so beautiful. Day after day you may wander through these +forests, with nothing except the climate to remind you where you are. +The beasts to be sure are different, but unless you watch for them you +will seldom see any; the birds are different, but you rarely hear +them; and as for the rocks, they are our own familiar gneisses and +granites, with honest basalt dikes boring through them, and +leopard-skin lichens staining their weathered sides. Thousands and +thousands of miles, then, of vast thin forest, shadeless, trackless, +voiceless,—forest in mountain and forest in plain,—this is East +Central Africa.</p> + +<p>The indiscriminate praise, formerly lavished on tropical +vegetation, has received many shocks from recent travelers. In +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4899" id="Page_4899">[Pg 4899]</a></span> +Kaffir-land, South Africa, I have seen one or two forests fine enough to justify +the enthusiasm of arm-chair word-painters of the tropics; but so far as +the central plateau is concerned, the careful judgment of Mr. Alfred +Russell Wallace respecting the equatorial belt in general (a judgment +which has at once sobered all modern descriptions of tropical lands +and made imaginative people more content to stay at home) applies +almost to this whole area. The fairy labyrinth of ferns and palms, the +festoons of climbing plants blocking the paths and scenting the +forests with their resplendent flowers, the gorgeous clouds of +insects, the gayly plumaged birds, the paroquets, the monkey swinging +from his trapeze in the shaded bowers—these are unknown to Africa. +Once a week you will see a palm; once in three months the monkey will +cross your path; the flowers on the whole are few; the trees are poor; +and to be honest, though the endless forest-clad mountains have a +sublimity of their own, and though there are tropical bits along some +of the mountain streams of exquisite beauty, nowhere is there anything +in grace and sweetness and strength to compare with a Highland glen. +For the most part of the year these forests are jaded and +sun-stricken, carpeted with no moss or alchemylla or scented woodruff, +the bare trunks frescoed with few lichens, their motionless and +unrefreshed leaves drooping sullenly from their sapless boughs. +Flowers there are, small and great, in endless variety; but there is +no display of flowers, no gorgeous show of blossom in the mass, as +when the blazing gorse and heather bloom at home. The dazzling glare +of the sun in the torrid zone has perhaps something to do with this +want of color effect in tropical nature; for there is always about ten +minutes just after sunset when the whole tone of the landscape changes +like magic, and a singular beauty steals over the scene. This is the +sweetest moment of the African day, and night hides only too swiftly +the homelike softness and repose so strangely grateful to the +over-stimulated eye.</p> + +<p>Hidden away in these endless forests, like birds' nests in a wood, in +terror of one another and of their common foe the slaver, are small +native villages; and here in his virgin simplicity dwells primeval +man, without clothes, without civilization, without learning, without +religion—the genuine child of nature, thoughtless, careless, and +contented. This man is apparently quite happy; he has practically no wants. +One stick, pointed, makes him a spear; two sticks rubbed together make him a fire; fifty +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4900" id="Page_4900">[Pg 4900]</a></span> +sticks tied together make him a house. The bark he peels from them +makes his clothes; the fruits which hang on them form his food. It is +perfectly astonishing, when one thinks of it, what nature can do for +the animal man, to see with what small capital after all a human being +can get through the world. I once saw an African buried. According to +the custom of his tribe, his entire earthly possessions—and he +was an average commoner—were buried with him. Into the grave, +after the body, was lowered the dead man's pipe, then a rough knife, +then a mud bowl, and last his bow and arrows—the bowstring cut +through the middle, a touching symbol that its work was done. This was +all. Four items, as an auctioneer would say, were the whole belongings +for half a century of this human being. No man knows what a man is +till he has seen what a man can be without, and be withal a man. That +is to say, no man knows how great man is till he has seen how small he +has been once.</p> + +<p>The African is often blamed for being lazy, but it is a misuse of +words. He does not need to work; with so bountiful a Nature round him +it would be gratuitous to work. And his indolence, therefore, as it is +called, is just as much a part of himself as his flat nose, and as +little blameworthy as slowness in a tortoise. The fact is, Africa is a +nation of the unemployed.</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="LAKE" id="LAKE"></a>THE EAST-AFRICAN LAKE COUNTRY</h3> +<h4>From 'Tropical Africa'</h4> + +<p>Somewhere in the Shiré Highlands, in 1859, Livingstone saw a large +lake—Lake Shirwa—which is still almost unknown. It lies away to the +east, and is bounded by a range of mountains whose lofty summits are +visible from the hills round Blantyre. Thinking it might be a useful +initiation to African travel if I devoted a short time to its exploration, +I set off one morning, accompanied by two members of the Blantyre +staff and a small retinue of natives. Steering across country in the +direction in which it lay, we found, two days before seeing the actual +water, that we were already on the ancient bed of the lake. Though now +clothed with forest, the whole district has obviously been under water +at a comparatively recent period, and the shores of Lake Shirwa probably +reached at one time to within a few miles of Blantyre itself. On reaching the lake a +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4901" id="Page_4901">[Pg 4901]</a></span> +very aged female chief came to see us, and told us how, long, long +ago, a white man came to her village and gave her a present of cloth. +Of the white man, who must have been Livingstone, she spoke very +kindly; and indeed, wherever David Livingstone's footsteps are crossed +in Africa, the fragrance of his memory seems to remain.</p> + +<p>The waters of Shirwa are brackish to the taste, and undrinkable; but +the saltness must have a peculiar charm for game, for nowhere else in +Africa did I see such splendid herds of the larger animals as here. +The zebra was especially abundant; and so unaccustomed to be disturbed +are these creatures, that with a little care one could watch their +movements safely within a very few yards. It may seem unorthodox to +say so, but I do not know if among the larger animals there is +anything handsomer in creation than the zebra. At close quarters his +striped coat is all but as fine as the tiger's, while the form and +movement of his body are in every way nobler. The gait, certainly, is +not to be compared for gracefulness with that of the many species of +antelope and deer who nibble the grass beside him, and one can never +quite forget that scientifically he is an ass; but taking him all in +all, this fleet and beautiful animal ought to have a higher place in +the regard of man than he has yet received.</p> + +<p>We were much surprised, considering that this region is almost +uninhabited, to discover near the lake shore a native path so beaten, +and so recently beaten, by multitudes of human feet, that it could +only represent some trunk route through the continent. Following it +for a few miles, we soon discovered its function. It was one of the +great slave routes through Africa. Signs of the horrid traffic became +visible on every side; and from symmetrical arrangements of small +piles of stones and freshly cut twigs, planted semaphore-wise upon the +path, our native guides made out that a slave caravan was actually +passing at the time. We were in fact between two portions of it, the +stones and twigs being telegraphic signals between front and rear. Our +natives seemed much alarmed at this discovery, and refused to proceed +unless we promised not to interfere—a proceeding which, had we +attempted it, would simply have meant murder for ourselves and slavery +for them. Next day from a hill-top we saw the slave encampment far +below, and the ghastly procession marshaling for its march to the +distant coast, which many of the hundreds who composed it would never +reach alive.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4902" id="Page_4902">[Pg 4902]</a></span> +Talking of native foot-paths leads me to turn aside for a moment, to +explain to the uninitiated the true mode of African travel. In spite +of all the books that have been lavished upon us by our great +explorers, few people seem to have any accurate understanding of this +most simple process. Some have the impression that everything is done +in bullock wagons; an idea borrowed from the Cape, but hopelessly +inapplicable to Central Africa, where a wheel at present would be as +great a novelty as a polar bear. Others, at the opposite extreme, +suppose that the explorer works along solely by compass, making a +bee-line for his destination, and steering his caravan through the +trackless wilderness like a ship at sea. Now, it may be a surprise to +the unenlightened to learn that probably no explorer in forcing his +passage through Africa has ever, for more than a few days at a time, +been off some beaten track. Probably no country in the world, +civilized or uncivilized, is better supplied with paths than this +unmapped continent. Every village is connected with some other +village, every tribe with the next tribe, every State with its +neighbor, and therefore with all the rest. The explorer's business is +simply to select from this network of tracks, keep a general +direction, and hold on his way. Let him begin at Zanzibar, plant his +foot on a native foot-path, and set his face towards Tanganyika. In +eight months he will be there. He has simply to persevere. From +village to village he will be handed on, zig-zagging it may be, +sometimes, to avoid the impassable barriers of nature or the rarer +perils of hostile tribes; but never taking to the woods, never guided +solely by the stars, never in fact leaving a beaten track, till +hundreds and hundreds of miles are between him and the sea, and his +interminable foot-path ends with a canoe on the shores of Tanganyika. +Crossing the lake, landing near some native village, he picks up the +thread once more. Again he plods on and on, now on foot, now by canoe, +but always keeping his line of villages, until one day suddenly he +sniffs the sea-breeze again, and his faithful foot-wide guide lands +him on the Atlantic seaboard.</p> + +<p>Nor is there any art in finding out these successive villages with +their intercommunicating links. He <i>must</i> find them out. A whole army +of guides, servants, carriers, soldiers, and camp-followers accompany him +in his march, and this nondescript regiment must be fed. Indian corn, cassava, +mawere, beans, and bananas—these do not grow wild even in Africa. Every meal +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4903" id="Page_4903">[Pg 4903]</a></span> +has to be bought and paid for in cloth and +beads; and scarcely three days can pass without a call having to be +made at some village where the necessary supplies can be obtained. A +caravan, as a rule, must live from hand to mouth, and its march +becomes simply a regulated procession through a chain of markets. Not +however that there are any real markets—there are neither bazaars nor +stores in native Africa. Thousands of the villages through which the +traveler eats his way may never have victualed a caravan before. But +with the chief's consent, which is usually easily purchased for a +showy present, the villagers unlock their larders, the women flock to +the grinding-stones, and basketfuls of food are swiftly exchanged for +unknown equivalents in beads and calico.</p> + +<p>The native tracks which I have just described are the same in +character all over Africa. They are veritable foot-paths, never over a +foot in breadth, beaten as hard as adamant, and rutted beneath the +level of the forest bed by centuries of native traffic. As a rule +these foot-paths are marvelously direct. Like the roads of the old +Romans, they run straight on through everything, ridge and mountain +and valley, never shying at obstacles, nor anywhere turning aside to +breathe. Yet within this general straightforwardness there is a +singular eccentricity and indirectness in detail. Although the African +foot-path is on the whole a bee-line, no fifty yards of it are ever +straight. And the reason is not far to seek. If a stone is +encountered, no native will ever think of removing it. Why should he? +It is easier to walk round it. The next man who comes that way will do +the same. He knows that a hundred men are following him; he looks at +the stone; a moment, and it might be unearthed and tossed aside, but +no—he also holds on his way. It is not that he resents the trouble, +it is the idea that is wanting. It would no more occur to him that +that stone was a displaceable object, and that for the general weal he +might displace it, than that its feldspar was of the orthoclase +variety. Generations and generations of men have passed that stone, +and it still waits for a man with an altruistic idea. But it would be +a very stony country indeed—and Africa is far from stony—that would +wholly account for the aggravating obliqueness and indecision of the +African foot-path. Probably each four miles, on an average path, is +spun out, by an infinite series of minor sinuosities, to five or six. +Now, these deflections are not meaningless. Each has some history—a +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4904" id="Page_4904">[Pg 4904]</a></span> +history dating back perhaps a thousand years, but to which all clue +has centuries ago been lost. The leading cause probably is fallen +trees. When a tree falls across a path no man ever removes it. As in +the case of the stone, the native goes round it. It is too green to +burn in his hut; before it is dry and the white ants have eaten it, +the new detour has become part and parcel of the path. The smaller +irregularities, on the other hand, represent the trees and stumps of +the primeval forest where the track was made at first. But whatever +the cause, it is certain that for persistent straightforwardness in +the general, and utter vacillation and irresolution in the particular, +the African roads are unique in engineering.</p> + +<p>Though one of the smaller African lakes, Shirwa is probably larger +than all the lakes of Great Britain put together. With the splendid +environment of mountains on three of its sides, softened and distanced +by perpetual summer haze, it reminds one somewhat of the Great Salt +Lake simmering in the July sun. We pitched our tent for a day or two +on its western shore, among a harmless and surprised people who had +never gazed on the pallid countenances of Englishmen before. Owing to +the ravages of the slaver, the people of Shirwa are few, scattered, +and poor, and live in abiding terror. The densest population is to be +found on the small island, heavily timbered with baobabs, which forms +a picturesque feature of the northern end. These Wa-Nyassa, or people +of the lake, as they call themselves, have been driven away by fear, +and they rarely leave their lake dwelling unless under cover of night. +Even then they are liable to capture by any man of a stronger tribe +who happens to meet them, and numbers who have been kidnapped in this +way are to be found in the villages of neighboring chiefs. This is an +amenity of existence in Africa that strikes one as very terrible. It +is impossible for those at home to understand how literally savage man +is a chattel, and how much his life is spent in the mere safeguarding +of his main asset, <i>i. e.</i>, himself. There are actually districts in +Africa where <i>three</i> natives cannot be sent on a message, in case two +should combine and sell the third before they return.</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4905" id="Page_4905">[Pg 4905]</a></span></p> +<h3><a name="ANTS" id="ANTS"></a>WHITE ANTS</h3> + +<h4>From 'Tropical Africa'</h4> + +<p>The termite or white ant is a small insect, with a bloated, +yellowish-white body, and a somewhat large thorax, oblong-shaped, and +colored a disagreeable oily brown. The flabby, tallow-like body makes +this insect sufficiently repulsive, but it is for quite another reason +that the white ant is the worst abused of all living vermin in warm +countries. The termite lives almost exclusively upon wood; and the +moment a tree is cut or a log sawn for any economical purpose, this +insect is upon its track. One may never see the insect, possibly, in +the flesh, for it lives underground; but its ravages confront one at +every turn. You build your house perhaps, and for a few months fancy +you have pitched upon the one solitary site in the country where there +are no white ants. But one day suddenly the door-post totters, and +lintel and rafters come down together with a crash. You look at a +section of the wrecked timbers, and discover that the whole inside is +eaten clean away. The apparently solid logs of which the rest of the +house is built are now mere cylinders of bark, and through the +thickest of them you could push your little finger. Furniture, tables, +chairs, chests of drawers, everything made of wood, is inevitably +attacked, and in a single night a strong trunk is often riddled +through and through, and turned into matchwood. There is no limit, in +fact, to the depredation by these insects, and they will eat books, or +leather, or cloth, or anything; and in many parts of Africa I believe +if a man lay down to sleep with a wooden leg, it would be a heap of +sawdust in the morning. So much feared is this insect now, that no one +in certain parts of India and Africa ever attempts to travel with such +a thing as a wooden trunk. On the Tanganyika plateau I have camped on +ground which was as hard as adamant, and as innocent of white ants +apparently as the pavement of St. Paul's; and wakened next morning to +find a stout wooden box almost gnawed to pieces. Leather portmanteaus +share the same fate, and the only substances which seem to defy the +marauders are iron and tin.</p> + +<p>But what has this to do with earth or with agriculture? The most +important point in the work of the white ant remains to be +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4906" id="Page_4906">[Pg 4906]</a></span> +noted. I have already said that the white ant is never seen. Why he +should have such a repugnance to being looked at is at first sight a +mystery, seeing that he himself is stone blind. But his coyness is +really due to the desire for self-protection; for the moment his juicy +body shows itself above ground there are a dozen enemies waiting to +devour it. And yet the white ant can never procure any food until it +comes above ground. Nor will it meet the case for the insect to come +to the surface under the shadow of night. Night in the tropics, so far +as animal life is concerned, is as the day. It is the great +feeding-time, the great fighting-time, the carnival of the carnivores, +and of all beasts, birds, and insects of prey, from the least to the +greatest. It is clear then that darkness is no protection to the white +ant; and yet without coming out of the ground it cannot live. How does +it solve the difficulty? It takes the ground out along with it. I have +seen white ants working on the top of a high tree, and yet they were +underground. They took up some of the ground with them to the +tree-top; just as the Esquimaux heap up snow, building it into the low +tunnel-huts in which they live, so the white ants collect earth, only +in this case not from the surface, but from some depth underneath the +ground, and plaster it into tunneled ways. Occasionally these run +along the ground, but more often mount in endless ramifications to the +top of trees, meandering along every branch and twig, and here and +there debouching into large covered chambers which occupy half the +girth of the trunk. Millions of trees in some districts are thus +fantastically plastered over with tubes, galleries, and chambers of +earth, and many pounds' weight of subsoil must be brought up for the +mining of even a single tree. The building material is conveyed by the +insects up a central pipe with which all the galleries communicate, +and which at the downward end connects with a series of subterranean +passages leading deep into the earth. The method of building the +tunnels and covered ways is as follows: At the foot of a tree the +tiniest hole cautiously opens in the ground close to the bark. A small +head appears, with a grain of earth clasped in its jaws. Against the +tree trunk this earth-grain is deposited, and the head is withdrawn. +Presently it reappears with another grain of earth; this is laid +beside the first, rammed tight against it, and again the builder +descends underground for more. The third grain is not placed against +the tree, but against the former grain; a fourth, a fifth, +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4907" id="Page_4907">[Pg 4907]</a></span> +and a sixth follow, and the plan of the foundation begins to suggest +itself as soon as these are in position. The stones or grains or +pellets of earth are arranged in a semicircular wall; the termite, now +assisted by three or four others, standing in the middle between the +sheltering wall and the tree, and working briskly with head and +mandible to strengthen the position. The wall in fact forms a small +moon-rampart, and as it grows higher and higher it soon becomes +evident that it is going to grow from a low battlement into a long +perpendicular tunnel running up the side of the tree. The workers, +safely ensconced inside, are now carrying up the structure with great +rapidity, disappearing in turn as soon as they have laid their stone, +and rushing off to bring up another. The way in which the building is +done is extremely curious, and one could watch the movement of these +wonderful little masons by the hour. Each stone as it is brought to +the top is first of all covered with mortar. Of course, without this +the whole tunnel would crumble into dust before reaching the height of +half an inch; but the termite pours over the stone a moist sticky +secretion, turning the grain round and round with its mandibles until +the whole is covered with slime. Then it places the stone with great +care upon the top of the wall, works it about vigorously for a moment +or two till it is well jammed into its place, and then starts off +instantly for another load.</p> + +<p>Peering over the growing wall, one soon discovers one, two, or more +termites of a somewhat larger build, considerably longer, and with a +very different arrangement of the parts of the head, and especially of +the mandibles. These important-looking individuals saunter about the +rampart in the most leisurely way, but yet with a certain air of +business, as if perhaps the one was the master of works and the other +the architect. But closer observation suggests that they are in no +wise superintending operations, nor in any immediate way contributing +to the structure, for they take not the slightest notice either of the +workers or the works. They are posted there in fact as sentries; and +there they stand, or promenade about, at the mouth of every tunnel, +like Sister Anne, to see if anybody is coming. Sometimes somebody does +come, in the shape of another ant; the real ant this time, not the +defenseless <i>Neuropteron</i>, but some valiant and belted knight +from the warlike <i>Formicidæ</i>. Singly or in troops, this +rapacious little insect, fearless in its chitinous coat of mail, +charges down the tree trunk, its antennæ waving defiance +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4908" id="Page_4908">[Pg 4908]</a></span> +to the enemy and its cruel mandibles thirsting for termite blood. The +worker white ant is a poor defenseless creature, and blind and +unarmed, would fall an immediate prey to these well-drilled banditti, +who forage about in every tropical forest in unnumbered legion. But at +the critical moment, like Goliath from the Philistines, the soldier +termite advances to the fight. With a few sweeps of its scythe-like +jaws it clears the ground, and while the attacking party is carrying +off its dead, the builders, unconscious of the fray, quietly continue +their work. To every hundred workers in a white-ant colony, which +numbers many thousands of individuals, there are perhaps two of these +fighting men. The division of labor here is very wonderful; and the +fact that besides these two specialized forms there are in every nest +two other kinds of the same insect, the kings and queens, shows the +remarkable height to which civilization in these communities has +attained.</p> + +<p>But where is this tunnel going to, and what object have the insects in +view in ascending this lofty tree? Thirty feet from the ground, across +innumerable forks, at the end of a long branch, are a few feet of dead +wood. How the ants know it is there, how they know its sap has dried +up, and that it is now fit for the termites' food, is a mystery. +Possibly they do not know, and are only prospecting on the chance. The +fact that they sometimes make straight for the decaying limb argues in +these instances a kind of definite instinct; but on the other hand, +the fact that in most cases the whole tree, in every branch and limb, +is covered with termite tunnels, would show perhaps that they work +most commonly on speculation, while the number of abandoned tunnels, +ending on a sound branch in a <i>cul de sac</i>, proves how often they must +suffer the usual disappointments of all such adventurers. The extent +to which these insects carry on their tunneling is quite incredible, +until one has seen it in nature with his own eyes. The tunnels are +perhaps about the thickness of a small-sized gas-pipe, but there are +junctions here and there of large dimensions, and occasionally patches +of earthwork are found, embracing nearly the whole trunk for some +feet. The outside of these tunnels, which are never quite straight, +but wander irregularly along stem and branch, resembles in texture a +coarse sandpaper; and the color, although this naturally varies with +the soil, is usually a reddish brown. The quantity of earth +and mud plastered over a single tree is often enormous; and +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4909" id="Page_4909">[Pg 4909]</a></span> +when one thinks that it is not only an isolated specimen here and there that is +frescoed in this way, but often all the trees of a forest, some idea +will be formed of the magnitude of the operations of these insects, +and the extent of their influence upon the soil which they are thus +ceaselessly transporting from underneath the ground.</p> + +<p>In traveling through the great forests of the Rocky Mountains or of +the Western States, the broken branches and fallen trunks, strewing +the ground breast-high with all sorts of decaying litter, frequently +make locomotion impossible. To attempt to ride through these Western +forests, with their meshwork of interlocked branches and decaying +trunks, is often out of the question, and one has to dismount and drag +his horse after him as if he were clambering through a wood-yard. But +in an African forest not a fallen branch is seen. One is struck at +first at a certain clean look about the great forests of the interior, +a novel and unaccountable cleanness, as if the forest bed was +carefully swept and dusted daily by unseen elves. And so indeed it is. +Scavengers of a hundred kinds remove decaying animal matter, from the +carcass of a fallen elephant to the broken wing of a gnat; eating it, +or carrying it out of sight and burying it in the deodorizing earth. +And these countless millions of termites perform a similar function +for the vegetable world, making away with all plants and trees, all +stems, twigs, and tissues, the moment the finger of decay strikes the +signal. Constantly in these woods one comes across what appear to be +sticks and branches and bundles of fagots, but when closely examined +they are seen to be mere casts in mud. From these hollow tubes, which +preserve the original form of the branch down to the minutest knot or +fork, the ligneous tissue is often entirely removed, while others are +met with in all stages of demolition. There is the section of an +actual specimen, which is not yet completely destroyed, and from which +the mode of attack may be easily seen. The insects start apparently +from two centres. One company attacks the inner bark, which is the +favorite morsel, leaving the coarse outer bark untouched, or more +usually replacing it with grains of earth, atom by atom, as they eat +it away. The inner bark is gnawed off likewise as they go along, but +the woody tissue beneath is allowed to remain, to form a protective +sheath for the second company, who begin work at the centre. This +second contingent eats its way outward and +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4910" id="Page_4910">[Pg 4910]</a></span> +onward, leaving a thin tube of the outer wood to the last, as props to +the mine, till they have finished the main excavation. When a fallen +trunk lying upon the ground is the object of attack, the outer +cylinder is frequently left quite intact, and it is only when one +tries to drag it off to his camp-fire that he finds to his disgust +that he is dealing with a mere hollow tube, a few lines in thickness, +filled up with mud.</p> + +<p>But the works above ground represent only a part of the labors of +these slow-moving but most industrious of creatures. The arboreal +tubes are only the prolongation of a much more elaborate system of +subterranean tunnels, which extend over large areas and mine the earth +sometimes to a depth of many feet or even yards.</p> + +<p>The material excavated from these underground galleries and from the +succession of domed chambers—used as nurseries or granaries—to which +they lead, has to be thrown out upon the surface. And it is from these +materials that the huge ant-hills are reared, which form so +distinctive a feature of the African landscape. These heaps and mounds +are so conspicuous that they may be seen for miles, and so numerous +are they and so useful as cover to the sportsman, that without them in +certain districts hunting would be impossible. The first things, +indeed, to strike the traveler in entering the interior are the mounds +of the white ant, now dotting the plain in groups like a small +cemetery, now rising into mounds, singly or in clusters, each thirty +or forty feet in diameter and ten or fifteen in height; or again, +standing out against the sky like obelisks, their bare sides carved +and fluted into all sorts of fantastic shapes. In India these +ant-heaps seldom attain a height of more than a couple of feet, but in +Central Africa they form veritable hills, and contain many tons of +earth. The brick houses of the Scotch mission-station on Lake Nyassa +have all been built out of a single ants' nest, and the quarry from +which the material has been derived forms a pit beside the settlement +some dozen feet in depth. A supply of bricks as large again could +probably still be taken from this convenient depot; and the +missionaries on Lake Tanganyika and onwards to Victoria Nyanza have +been similarly indebted to the labors of the termites. In South Africa +the Zulus and Kaffirs pave all their huts with white-ant earth; and +during the Boer war our troops in Pretoria, by scooping out the +interior from the smaller beehive-shaped ant-heaps and covering +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4911" id="Page_4911">[Pg 4911]</a></span> +the top with clay, constantly used them as ovens. These ant-heaps may be +said to abound over the whole interior of Africa, and there are +several distinct species. The most peculiar, as well as the most +ornate, is a small variety from one to two feet in height, which +occurs in myriads along the shores of Lake Tanganyika. It is built in +symmetrical tiers, and resembles a pile of small rounded hats, one +above another, the rims depending like eaves, and sheltering the body +of the hill from rain. To estimate the amount of earth per acre raised +from the waterline of the subsoil by white ants, would not in some +districts be an impossible task; and it would be found probably that +the quantity at least equaled that manipulated annually in temperate +regions by the earthworm.</p> + +<p>These mounds, however, are more than mere waste-heaps. Like the +corresponding region underground, they are built into a meshwork of +tunnels, galleries, and chambers, where the social interests of the +community are attended to. The most spacious of these chambers, +usually far underground, is very properly allocated to the head of the +society, the queen. The queen termite is a very rare insect, and as +there are seldom more than one or at most two to a colony, and as the +royal apartments are hidden far in the earth, few persons have ever +seen a queen; and indeed most, if they did happen to come across it, +from its very singular appearance would refuse to believe that it had +any connection with white ants. It possesses indeed the true termite +head, but there the resemblance to the other members of the family +stops; for the size of the head bears about the same proportion to the +rest of the body as does the tuft on his Glengarry bonnet to a +six-foot Highlander. The phenomenal corpulence of the royal body in +the case of the queen termite is possibly due in part to want of +exercise; for once seated upon her throne, she never stirs to the end +of her days. She lies there, a large, loathsome, cylindrical package, +two or three inches long, in shape like a sausage, and as white as a +bolster. Her one duty in life is to lay eggs; and it must be confessed +she discharges her function with complete success, for in a single day +her progeny often amounts to many thousands, and for months this +enormous fecundity never slackens. The body increases slowly in size, +and through the transparent skin the long folded ovary may be seen, +with the eggs, impelled by a peristaltic motion, passing onward for +delivery to the workers, who are waiting to carry them to the nurseries, where they +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4912" id="Page_4912">[Pg 4912]</a></span> +are hatched. Assiduous attention meantime is paid to the queen by +other workers, who feed her diligently, with much self-denial stuffing +her with morsel after morsel from their own jaws. A guard of honor in +the shape of a few of the larger soldier ants is also in attendance, +as a last and almost unnecessary precaution. In addition finally to +the soldiers, workers, and queen, the royal chamber has also one other +inmate—the king. He is a very ordinary-looking insect, about the +same size as the soldiers, but the arrangement of the parts of the +head and body is widely different, and like the queen he is furnished +with eyes.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4913" id="Page_4913">[Pg 4913]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="WILLIAM_DRUMMOND_OF_HAWTHORNDEN" id="WILLIAM_DRUMMOND_OF_HAWTHORNDEN"></a>WILLIAM DRUMMOND OF HAWTHORNDEN</h2> + +<h4>(1585-1649)</h4> + + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 90px;"> +<img src="images/capi251.png" width="90" height="90" alt="I" title="I" /> +</div><p class="dropcap">t seems to be the mission of many writers to illuminate contemporary +literature and so to light the way for future students, rather than to +make any vital contribution to the achievement of their time. Such +writers reflect the culture of their own day and represent its ideals; +and although their creative work may be slight, their loss to +literature would be serious. Among these lesser men stands that +sincere poet, Drummond of Hawthornden. In Scotland under the Stuarts, +when the vital energy of the land was concentrated upon politics and +theology, native literature was reduced to a mere reflection of the +pre-Spenserian classicism of England. Into this waste of correct +mediocrity entered the poetry of William Drummond, an avowed and +enthusiastic follower of the Elizabethan school, a finished scholar, +one of the typical Scottish gentlemen who were then making Scottish +history. Courtier and trifler though he was, however, he showed +himself so true a poet of nature that his felicities of phrase seem to +anticipate the sensuous realism of Keats and his successors.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 180px;"> +<img src="images/Illus251.png" width="180" height="220" alt="William Drummond" title="William Drummond" /> +<span class="caption"><span class="smcap">William Drummond</span></span> +</div> + +<p>William Drummond, born in 1585, was a cadet of the historic house +which in 1357 gave in marriage to King Robert III. the beautiful +Annabella Drummond, who was destined to become the ancestress of the +royal Stuarts of Scotland and England. In his own day the family, +whose head was the Earl of Perth, was powerful in Scottish affairs, +and the history of the clan Drummond would be largely a history of the +events which led to the Protectorate. Throughout the storm and stress +that preceded the civil war Drummond was a loyalist, though at one +time he appeared to be identified with the Covenanters. His literary +influence, which was considerable, was always thrown on the side of +the King, while the term "Drummondism" was a popular synonym for the +conservative policy. Throughout the struggle, however, Drummond seems +to have been forced into activity by circumstances rather than by choice. +He had the instincts of a recluse and a scholar. He delighted in the society +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4914" id="Page_4914">[Pg 4914]</a></span> +of literary men, and he was much engrossed in philosophical speculations.</p> + +<p>In spite of the difficulties of distance, he managed to keep abreast +of the thought of literary London, the London of Drayton and Webster, +of Beaumont, Fletcher, Massinger, and Ford. His chief satisfaction was +to know that his own work was not unacceptable to this brilliant +group, and one of the great pleasures of his life was a visit from Ben +Jonson, who, making a walking tour to Scotland, found at Hawthornden +that congenial hospitality in which his soul delighted. Of this famous +visit, as of other important events, Drummond kept a record, in which +he set down his guest's behavior, opinions, and confidential sayings. +Warmly as he admired Jonson's genius, he found his personality +oppressive, and intrusted his criticisms to his diary. When this was +published, more than a century later, the gentle Scot was accused of +bad taste, breach of confidence, and disloyalty to friendship. But his +defense lies in the fact that the book was meant for no eyes but his +own, and that the intimacy and candor of its revelations were intended +to preserve his recollections of a memorable experience.</p> + +<p>If his environment was not entirely favorable to literary excellences, +it is yet very likely that Drummond developed the full measure +of his gift. He expressed the spirit of the more imaginative +generation which succeeded a hard and fettered predecessor, and it +is for this that literature owes him its peculiar debt.</p> + +<p>His career began in his twenty-ninth year with the publication of +an elegy on the death of Henry, Prince of Wales, eldest son of James I. +This poem, under the title 'Tears on the Death of Moeliades,' appeared +in 1613, and reached a third edition within a twelvemonth. +Its two hundred lines show the finished versification of the scholar, +with much poetic grace. It was a product of the Spenserian school, +and emphasized the fact that the representative literature of the land +had abandoned the Scottish dialect for English forms. Drummond's +second volume of poems commemorated the death of his wife and his +love of her. It is in this work that the ultimate mood of the poet +appears. Much beauty of form, a delightful sensitiveness to nature, a +luxuriance of color, and a finely tempered thoughtfulness pervade the +poems. His next production, celebrating the visit of James I. to his +native land, was entitled 'Forth Feasting,' and represented the +Forth and all its borders as rejoicing in the presence of their King. +To the reader of to-day the panegyric sounds fulsome and the poetry +stilted, and the once famous book has now merely an archaic interest.</p> + +<p>Drummond's reputation is based upon the 'Poems,' and upon the +Jeremy-Taylor-like 'Cypress Grove,' published in 1623 in connection +with the religious verses called 'Flowers of Sion.' 'Cypress Grove' +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4915" id="Page_4915">[Pg 4915]</a></span> +is an essay on death, akin in spirit to the religious temper of the +Middle Ages, and in philosophic breadth to the diviner mood of Plato. +Only a mind of a high order would have conceived so beautiful and +lofty a meditation on the Final Mystery. This brief essay marks the +utmost reach of Drummond's mind, and shows the strength of that serene +spirituality, which could thus hold its way undisturbed by the +sectarian bitterness that fixed a great gulf between England and +Scotland. 'The History of the Five Jameses,' which Drummond was ten +years in compiling and which was not published until six years after +his death, added nothing to his reputation. It lacked alike the +diligent minuteness of the chronicler and the broader view of the +historian. Many minor papers on the state of religion and politics, +chief of which is the political tract 'Irene,' show Drummond's +aggressive interest in contemporary affairs. It is not generally known +that this gentle scholar was also an inventor of military engines. In +1626 Charles I. engaged him to produce sixteen machines and "not a few +inventions besides." The biographers have remained curiously ignorant +of this phase of his activity, but the State papers show that the King +named him "our faithful subject, William Drummond of Hawthornden." He +died in 1649, his death being hastened, it was said, by his passion of +grief over the martyrdom of King Charles.</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="SEXTAIN" id="SEXTAIN"></a>SEXTAIN</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The heaven doth not contain so many stars,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">So many leaves not prostrate lie in woods<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When autumn's old and Boreas sounds his wars,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">So many waves have not the ocean floods,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As my rent mind hath torments all the night,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And heart spends sighs when Phoebus brings the light.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Why should I have been partner of the light,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Who, crost in birth by bad aspéct of stars,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Have never since had happy day or night?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Why was not I a liver in the woods,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or citizen of Thetis's crystal floods,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Than made a man, for love and fortune's wars?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I look each day when death should end the wars,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Uncivil wars, 'twixt sense and reason's light;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">My pains I count to mountains, meads, and floods,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And of my sorrow partners make the stars;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">All desolate I haunt the fearful woods,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">When I should give myself to rest at night.<br /></span> +</div><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4916" id="Page_4916">[Pg 4916]</a></span><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">With watchful eyes I ne'er behold the night,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Mother of peace, but ah! to me of wars,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And Cynthia, queen-like, shining through the woods,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When straight those lamps come in my thought, whose light<br /></span> +<span class="i1">My judgment dazzled, passing brightest stars,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And then mine eyes en-isle themselves with floods.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Turn to their springs again first shall the floods,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Clear shall the sun the sad and gloomy night,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To dance about the pole cease shall the stars,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The elements renew their ancient wars<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Shall first, and be deprived of place and light,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">E'er I find rest in city, fields, or woods.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">End these my days, indwellers of the woods,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Take this my life, ye deep and raging floods;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sun, never rise to clear me with thy light,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Horror and darkness, keep a lasting night;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Consume me, care, with thy intestine wars,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And stay your influence o'er me, bright stars!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">In vain the stars, indwellers of the woods,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Care, horror, wars, I call, and raging floods,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">For all have sworn no night shall dim my sight.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="MADRIGAL" id="MADRIGAL"></a>MADRIGAL</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i6">This world a-hunting is,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The prey poor man, the Nimrod fierce is Death;<br /></span> +<span class="i6">His speedy greyhounds are<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Lust, sickness, envy, care,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Strife that ne'er falls amiss,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With all those ills which haunt us while we breathe.<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Now if by chance we fly<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Of these the eager chase,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Old age with stealing pace<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Casts up his nets, and there we panting die.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4917" id="Page_4917">[Pg 4917]</a></span></p> +<h3><a name="REASON" id="REASON"></a>REASON AND FEELING</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I know that all beneath the moon decays,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And what by mortals in this world is brought,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">In Time's great periods shall return to naught;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That fairest States have fatal nights and days.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I know that all the Muse's heavenly lays,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">With toil of spirit, which are so dearly bought,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">As idle sounds, of few or none are sought,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That there is nothing lighter than vain praise.<br /></span> +<span class="i1">I know frail beauty like the purple flower,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To which one morn oft birth and death affords;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That love a jarring is of minds' accords,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Where sense and will envassal Reason's power:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Know what I list, all this cannot me move,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But that, alas! I both must write and love.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="DEGENERACY" id="DEGENERACY"></a>DEGENERACY OF THE WORLD</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">What hapless hap had I for to be born<br /></span> +<span class="i1">In these unhappy times, and dying days<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Of this now doting World, when Good decays,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Love's quite extinct, and Virtue's held a-scorn!<br /></span> +<span class="i1">When such are only prized, by wretched ways,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who with a golden fleece them can adorn;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">When avarice and lust are counted praise,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And bravest minds live orphan-like forlorn!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Why was not I born in that golden age<br /></span> +<span class="i1">When gold was not yet known? and those black arts.<br /></span> +<span class="i1">By which base worldlings vilely play their parts,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With horrid acts staining Earth's stately stage?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To have been then, O Heaven! 't had been my bliss;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But bless me now, and take me soon from this.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="BRIEFNESS" id="BRIEFNESS"></a>THE BRIEFNESS OF LIFE</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Look, how the flower which ling'ringly doth fade,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The morning's darling late, the summer's queen,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Spoiled of that juice which kept it fresh and green,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As high as it did raise, bows low the head:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Right so my life, contentment being dead,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Or in their contraries but only seen,<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4918" id="Page_4918">[Pg 4918]</a></span><span class="i0">With swifter speed declines than erst it spread,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And, blasted, scarce now shows what it hath been.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As doth the pilgrim, therefore, whom the night<br /></span> +<span class="i1">By darkness would imprison on his way,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Think on thy home, my soul, and think aright,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Of what's yet left thee of life's wasting day;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thy sun posts westward, passèd is thy morn,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And twice it is not given thee to be born.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="UNIVERSE" id="UNIVERSE"></a>THE UNIVERSE</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Of this fair volume which we World do name,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">If we the leaves and sheets could turn with care—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of Him who it corrects and did it frame<br /></span> +<span class="i1">We clear might read the art and wisdom rare,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Find out his power, which wildest powers doth tame,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">His providence, extending everywhere,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">His justice, which proud rebels doth not spare,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In every page and period of the same.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But silly we, like foolish children, rest<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Well pleased with colored vellum, leaves of gold,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fair dangling ribands, leaving what is best;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">On the great Writer's sense ne'er taking hold;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or if by chance we stay our minds on aught,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It is some picture on the margin wrought.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="DEATH" id="DEATH"></a>ON DEATH</h3> + +<h4>From 'Cypress Grove'</h4> + +<p>Death is a piece of the order of this all, a part of the life of this +world; for while the world is the world, some creatures must die and +others take life. Eternal things are raised far above this orb of +generation and corruption where the First Matter, like a still flowing +and ebbing sea, with diverse waves but the same water, keepeth a +restless and never tiring current; what is below in the universality +of its kind doth not in itself abide.... If thou dost complain there +shall be a time in the which thou shalt not be, why dost thou not too +grieve that there was a time in which thou wast not, and so that thou +art not as old as the enlivening planet of Time?... The excellent +fabric of the universe itself shall one day suffer ruin, or change +like ruin, and poor earthlings, thus to be handled, complain!</p> + + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4919" id="Page_4919">[Pg 4919]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="JOHN_DRYDEN" id="JOHN_DRYDEN"></a>JOHN DRYDEN</h2> + +<h4>(1631-1700)</h4> + +<h4>BY THOMAS R. LOUNSBURY</h4> + + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 89px;"> +<img src="images/capj257.png" width="89" height="91" alt="J" title="J" /> +</div><p class="dropcap">ohn Dryden, the foremost man of letters of the period following the +Restoration, was born at Aldwinkle, a village of Northamptonshire, on +August 9th, 1631. He died May 1st, 1700. His life was therefore coeval +with the closing period of the fierce controversies which culminated +in the civil war and the triumph of the Parliamentary party; that, in +turn, to be followed successively by the iron rule of Cromwell, by the +restoration of the exiled Stuarts, and the reactionary tendencies in +politics that accompanied that event; and finally with the effectual +exclusion from the throne of this same family by the revolution of +1688, leaving behind, however, to their successors a smoldering +Jacobite hostility that perpetually plotted the overthrow of the new +government and later broke out twice into open revolt. All these +changes of fortune, with their changes of opinion, are faithfully +reflected in the productions of Dryden. To understand him thoroughly +requires therefore an intimate familiarity with the civil and +religious movements which characterize the whole period. Equally also +do his writings, both creative and critical, represent the revolution +of literary taste that took place in the latter half of the +seventeenth century. It was while he was in the midst of his +intellectual activity that French canons of criticism became largely +the accepted rules, by which the value of English productions was +tested. This was especially true of the drama. The study of Dryden is +accordingly a study of the political and literary history of his times +to an extent that is correspondingly true of no other English author +before or since.</p> + +<p>His family, both on the father's and the mother's side, was in full +sympathy with the party opposed to the court. The son was educated +at Westminster, then under the mastership of Richard Busby, +whose relentless use of the rod has made his name famous in that +long line of flagellants who have been at the head of the great English +public schools. From Westminster he went to Trinity College, +Cambridge. There he received the degree of A. B. in January 1654. +Later in that same decade—the precise date is not known—he took +up his residence in London; and in London the rest of his life was +almost entirely spent.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4920" id="Page_4920">[Pg 4920]</a></span> +Dryden's first published literary effort appeared in a little volume +made up of thirty-three elegies, by various authors, on the death of +a youth of great promise who had been educated at Westminster. +This was Lord Hastings, the eldest son of the Earl of Huntingdon. +He had died of the small-pox. Dryden's contribution was written in +1649, and consisted of but little over a hundred lines. No one expects +great verse from a boy of eighteen; but the most extravagant +anticipations of sorry performance will fail to come up to the reality +of the wretchedness which was here attained. It was in words like +these that the future laureate bewailed the death of the young nobleman +and depicted the disease of which he died:—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">"Was there no milder way but the small-pox,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">The very filthiness of Pandora's box?<br /></span> +<span class="i4">So many spots, like naeves, our Venus soil?<br /></span> +<span class="i4">One jewel set off with so many a foil?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Blisters with pride swelled, which through his flesh did sprout<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Like rosebuds, stuck in the lily-skin about.<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Each little pimple had a tear in it,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">To wail the fault its rising did commit;<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Which, rebel-like, with its own lord at strife,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Thus made an insurrection 'gainst his life.<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Or were these gems sent to adorn his skin,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">The cabinet of a richer soul within?<br /></span> +<span class="i4">No comet need foretell his change drew on,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Whose corps might seem a constellation."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Criticism cannot be rendered sufficiently vituperative to characterize +properly such a passage. It is fuller of conceits than ever Cowley +crowded into the same space; and lines more crabbed and inharmonious +Donne never succeeded in perpetrating. Its production upsets +all principles of prophecy. The wretchedest of poetasters can +take courage, when he contemplates the profundity of the depth out +of which uprose the greatest poet of his time.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 670px;"> +<a name="DRYDEN" id="DRYDEN"></a> +<img src="images/Illus0423.jpg" width="670" height="1024" alt="JOHN DRYDEN" title="JOHN DRYDEN" /> +<span class="caption">JOHN DRYDEN.</span> +</div> + +<p>Dryden is, in fact, an example of that somewhat rare class of +writers who steadily improve with advancing years. Most poets write +their best verse before middle life. Many of them after that time go +through a period of decline, and sometimes of rapid decline; and if +they live to reach old age, they add to the quantity of their production +without sensibly increasing its value. This general truth is conspicuously +untrue of Dryden. His first work gave no promise of his +future excellence, and it was by very slow degrees that he attained +to the mastery of his art. But the older he grew, the better he +wrote; and the volume published a few months before his death, and +largely composed almost under its shadow, so far from showing the +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4921" id="Page_4921">[Pg 4921]</a></span> +slightest sign of failing power, contains a great deal of the best +poetry he ever produced.</p> + +<p>As Dryden's relatives were Puritans, and some of them held place +under the government, it was natural that upon coming to London +he should attach himself to that party. Accordingly it is no surprise +to find him duly mourning the death of the great Protector in certain +'Heroic Stanzas Consecrated to the Memory of Oliver Cromwell.' +The first edition bears the date of 1659, and so far as we know, the +production was Dryden's second venture in poetry. It was written +in the measure of Davenant's 'Gondibert,' and is by no means a poor +piece of work, though it has been sometimes so styled. It certainly +pays not simply a high but a discerning tribute to the genius of +Cromwell. Before two years had gone by, we find its author greeting +the return of Charles with effusive loyalty, and with predictions +of prosperity and honor to attend his reign, which events were soon +woefully to belie. The poet has been severely censured for this +change of attitude. It is a censure which might be bestowed with as +much propriety upon the whole population of England. The joyful +expectations to which he gave utterance were almost universal; and +no other charge can well be brought against him than that he had +the ability and took the occasion to express sentiments which were +felt by nearly the entire nation.</p> + +<p>From this time on, Dryden appears more and more in the public eye, and +slowly but steadily forged his way to the front as the representative +man of letters of his time. In 1670 he was appointed to the two +distinct offices of poet laureate and historiographer royal. +Thenceforward his relations with the court became close, and so they +did not cease to be until the expulsion of James II. In 1683 he +received a further mark of royal favor, in being made collector of +customs of the port of London. In the political controversies which +subsequently arose, Dryden's writings faithfully represented the +sentiments of the side he had chosen, and expressed their prejudices +and aversions not merely with force but also with virulence. His first +literary activity, however, was on neutral ground. After eighteen +years of compulsory closing, the Restoration opened wide once more the +doors of the theatre. Dryden, like every one else possessed of +literary ability, began to write for the stage. His first play, a +comedy entitled 'The Wild Gallant,' was brought out in February 1663; +and for the eighteen years following, it was compositions of such +nature that occupied the main portion of his literary life. During +that time he produced wholly or in part twenty-two comedies and +tragedies. His pieces must from the outset have met with a fair degree +of success, otherwise the King's Company would not have entered into a +contract with him, as it did in 1667, to furnish for +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4922" id="Page_4922">[Pg 4922]</a></span> +them each year a fixed number of plays, in consideration of his receiving +a certain share of the profits of the theatre.</p> + +<p>Yet it cannot be said that Dryden was in any respect a dramatist +of a high order. As a writer of comedy he was not only inferior to +contemporaries and immediate successors like Wycherley, Congreve, +Vanbrugh, and Farquhar, but in certain ways he was surpassed by +Shadwell, the very man whom he himself has consigned to a disagreeable +immortality as the hero of the 'MacFlecknoe.' His comedies +are not merely full of obscenity,—which seems to have been a necessary +ingredient to suit them to the taste of the age,—but they are +full of a peculiarly disagreeable obscenity. One of his worst offenses in +this direction, and altogether his most impudent one, was his adaptation +for the stage of Shakespeare's 'Tempest.' The two plays are +worth reading together for the sake of seeing how easily a pure and +perfect creation of genius can be vulgarized in language and spirit +almost beyond the possibility of recognition. In his tragedies, +however, Dryden was much more successful. Yet even these, in spite +of the excellence of occasional passages, do not attain to a high rank. +Indeed, thought and expression are at times extravagant, not to say +stilted, to an extent which afterward led him himself to make them +the subject of ridicule. It was in them, however, during these years +that he perfected by degrees his mastery of heroic verse, of which +later he was to display the capabilities in a way that had never previously +been seen and has never since been surpassed.</p> + +<p>A controversy in regard to the proper method of composing plays +brought forward Dryden, at an early period in his literary career, as +a writer of prose. In this he at once attained unusual eminence. In +him appear for the first time united the two characters of poet and +of critic. Ben Jonson had in a measure preceded him in this respect; +but Jonson's criticism was not so much devoted to the examination +of general principles as to the exposure of the hopeless, helpless +obtuseness of the men who had a different opinion of his works from +what he himself entertained. The questions discussed by Dryden were +of a more general nature. With the Stuarts had come in French +literary tastes and French literary methods. The age was supposed +to be too refined to be pleased with what had satisfied the coarse +palates of preceding generations. In stage-writing in particular, the +doctrine of the unities, almost uniformly violated by Shakespeare and +most of the Elizabethans, was now held up as the only correct +method of composition that could be employed by any writer who +sought to conform to the true principles of art. Along with this +came the substitution in the drama of rhyme for blank verse. Upon +the comparative merits of these two as employed in tragedy, arose +the first controversy in which Dryden was engaged. This one was +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4923" id="Page_4923">[Pg 4923]</a></span> +with his brother-in-law, Sir Robert Howard; for in 1663 Dryden had +become the husband of the daughter of the Earl of Berkshire, thus +marrying, as Pope expressed it, "misery in a noble wife." Dryden +was an advocate of rhyme; and the controversy on this point began +with the publication in 1668 of his 'Essay of Dramatic Poesy.' It +was afterward carried on by both parties, in prefaces to the plays +they successively published. The prefaces to these productions regularly +became later the place where Dryden laid down his critical +doctrines on all points that engaged his attention; and whether we +agree with his views or not, we are always sure to be charmed with +the manner in which they are expressed.</p> + +<p>In 1667 Dryden published a long poem entitled 'Annus Mirabilis.' +It was in the same measure as the stanzas on Oliver Cromwell. It +gave him a good deal of reputation at the time; but though it is far +from being a despicable performance, few there are now who read it +and still fewer who re-read it. Far different has been the fate of +his next work. It was not until 1681, when England was beginning +to emerge slowly from the excitement and agitation growing out of +the alleged Popish plot, that he brought out his 'Absalom and Achitophel,' +without question the greatest combined poetical and political +satire to be found in our tongue. Here it was that for the first time +he fully displayed his mastery over heroic verse. The notion once +so widely prevalent—for the vogue of which, indeed, Dryden himself +is mainly responsible—that Waller and Denham brought this +verse to perfection, it now requires both extensive and special ignorance +of our earlier authors to entertain; but on the other hand, +there is no question that he himself imparted to the line a variety, +vigor, and sustained majesty of movement such as the verse in its +modern form had never previously received. There is therefore a +fairly full measure of truth in the lines in which he was characterized +by Pope:—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Waller was smooth; but Dryden taught to join<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The varying verse, the full resounding line,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The long majestic march and energy divine."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>These lines of Pope, it may be added, exemplify purposely two peculiarities +of Dryden's versification,—the occasional use of the triplet +instead of the regular couplet, and of the Alexandrine, or line of six +feet, in place of the usual line of five.</p> + +<p>The poem is largely an attack upon the Earl of Shaftesbury, +who in it bears the title of Achitophel. The portrayal of this statesman, +which is given in this volume, is ample evidence of that skill of +the poet in characterization which has made the pictures he drew +immortal. Perhaps even more effective was the description of the +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4924" id="Page_4924">[Pg 4924]</a></span> +Duke of Buckingham, under the designation of Zimri. For attacking +that nobleman Dryden had both political and personal reasons. Buckingham +had now joined the opponents of the court. Ten years previously +the poet himself had been brought by him on the stage, with +the aid of others, in the play called "The Rehearsal." His usual +actions had been mimicked, his usual expressions had been put into +the mouth of the character created to represent him, who was styled +Bayes. This title had been given him because Dryden figuratively +wore the bays, or laurel, as poet laureate. The name henceforward +stuck. Dryden's turn had now come; and it was in these following +lines that he drew the unfaded and fadeless picture of this nobleman, +whose reputation even then was notorious rather than famous, +and whose intellect was motley-minded rather than versatile:—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Some of their chiefs were princes of the land;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In the front rank of these did Zimri stand,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A man so various that he seemed to be<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Not one, but all mankind's epitome.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was everything by starts and nothing long,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But in the course of one revolving moon<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was chymist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then all for women, painting, rhyming, drinking,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Besides ten thousand freaks that died in thinking.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Blest madman, who could every hour employ<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With something new to wish or to enjoy!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Railing and praising were his usual themes,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And both, to show his judgment, in extremes:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So over-violent or over-civil<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That every man with him was God or Devil.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In squandering wealth was his peculiar art:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nothing went unrewarded but desert.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Beggared by fools whom still he found too late,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He had his jest, and they had his estate."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>As an example of the loftier and more majestic style occasionally +found in this poem, is the powerful appeal of Achitophel to Absalom. +The latter, it is to be said, stands for the Duke of Monmouth, the +eldest of the illegitimate sons of Charles II. Him many of the +so-called country party, now beginning to be styled Whigs, were +endeavoring to have recognized as the next successor to the throne, in +place of the Roman Catholic brother of the king, James, Duke of York. +As a favorite son of the monarch, he, though then in opposition, is +treated tenderly by Dryden throughout; and this feeling is plainly +visible in the opening of the address to him put into the mouth of +Achitophel, in these words:—</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4925" id="Page_4925">[Pg 4925]</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Auspicious prince, at whose nativity<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Some royal planet ruled the southern sky,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thy longing country's darling and desire,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Their cloudy pillar and their guardian fire,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Their second Moses, whose extended wand<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Divides the seas and shows the promised land,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whose dawning day in every distant age<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Has exercised the sacred prophet's rage,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The people's prayer, the glad diviner's theme,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The young men's vision and the old men's dream,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thee savior, thee the nation's vows confess,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And never satisfied with seeing, bless."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Dryden followed up the attack upon Shaftesbury with a poem entitled +'The Medal.' This satire, which appeared in March 1682, was called +forth by the action of the partisans of the Whig leader in having a +medal struck commemorating his release from the Tower, after the grand +jury had thrown out the charge of treason which had been brought +against him. Both of these pieces were followed by a host of replies. +Some of them did not refrain from personal attack, which indeed had a +certain justification in the poet's own violence of denunciation. The +most abusive of these was a poem by Thomas Shadwell, entitled 'The +Medal of John Bayes.' Such persons as fancy Dryden's subsequent +punishment of that dramatist unwarranted in its severity should in +justice read this ferociously scurrilous diatribe, in which every +charge against the poet that malice or envy had concocted and rumor +had set afloat, was here industriously raked together; and to the +muck-heap thus collected, the intimacy of previous acquaintance was +doubtless enabled to contribute its due quota of malignant assertion +and more malignant insinuation. Shadwell was soon supplied, however, +with ample reason to regret his action. Dryden's first and best known +rejoinder is 'MacFlecknoe, or a Satire on the True Blue Protestant +Poet T. S.' This production has always had the reputation in +literature of being the severest personal satire in the language; but +it requires now for its appreciation an intimate acquaintance with +Shadwell's plays, which very few possess. It is further disfigured in +places by a coarseness from which, indeed, none of the poet's writings +were certain to be free. Its general spirit can be indicated by a +brief extract from its opening paragraph. Flecknoe, it is to be said, +was a feeble poet who had died a few years before. He is here +represented as having long reigned over the kingdom of dullness, but +knowing that his end was close at hand, determines to settle the +succession to the State. Accordingly he fixes upon his son Shadwell as +the one best fitted to take his place in ruling over the realm of +nonsense, and in continuing the war with wit and sense. The +announcement of his intention he begins in the following words:—</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4926" id="Page_4926">[Pg 4926]</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i1">"—Tis resolved, for Nature pleads that he<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Should only rule who most resembles me.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shadwell alone my perfect image bears,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mature in dullness from his tender years;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shadwell alone of all my sons is he<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who stands confirmed in full stupidity.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The rest to some faint meaning make pretense,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But Shadwell never deviates into sense."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Far more bitter, however, was the renewed attack which a month +later Dryden inserted in the two hundred lines he contributed to the +continuation of 'Absalom and Achitophel' that was written by Nahum +Tate. In this second part, which came out in November 1682, he devoted +himself in particular to two of his opponents, Settle and Shadwell, +under the names respectively of Doeg and Og—"two fools," he +says, in his energetic way,—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">"That crutch their feeble sense on verse;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who by my Muse to all succeeding times<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shall live in spite of their own doggerel rhymes."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Of Settle, whose poetry was possessed of much smoothness but +little sense, he spoke in a tone of contemptuous good-nature, though +the object of the attack must certainly have deemed the tender mercies +of Dryden to be cruel. It was in this way he was described, to +quote a few lines:—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Spiteful he is not, though he wrote a satire,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For still there goes some thinking to ill-nature.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Let him be gallows-free by my consent,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And nothing suffer, since he nothing meant;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hanging supposes human soul and reason,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This animal's below committing treason:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shall he be hanged who never could rebel?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That's a preferment for Achitophel.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Let him rail on; let his invective Muse<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Have four-and-twenty letters to abuse,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which if he jumbles to one line of sense,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Indict him of a capital offense."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>But it was not till he came to the portraiture of Shadwell that he +gave full vent to the ferocity of his satire. He taunted him with the +unwieldiness of his bulk, the grossness of his habits, with his want +of wealth, and finally closed up with some lines into which he concentrated +all the venom of his previous attacks:—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"But though Heaven made him poor, with reverence speaking,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He never was a poet of God's making<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4927" id="Page_4927">[Pg 4927]</a></span><span class="i0">The midwife laid her hand on his thick skull,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With this prophetic blessing—<i>Be thou dull</i>;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Drink, swear, and roar, forbear no lewd delight<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fit for thy bulk; do anything but write.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thou art of lasting make, like thoughtless men;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A strong nativity—but for the pen;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Eat opium, mingle arsenic in thy drink,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Still thou mayest live, avoiding pen and ink.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I see, I see, 'tis counsel given in vain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For treason, botched in rhyme, will be thy bane;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rhyme is the rock on which thou art to wreck;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Tis fatal to thy fame and to thy neck.<br /></span> +</div></div> +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"A double noose thou on thy neck dost pull,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For writing treason and for writing dull;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To die for faction is a common evil,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But to be hanged for nonsense is the devil.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hadst thou the glories of thy King exprest,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thy praises had been satires at the best;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But thou in clumsy verse, unlicked, unpointed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hast shamefully defied the Lord's anointed.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I will not rake the dunghill of thy crimes,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For who would read thy life that reads thy rhymes?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But of King David's foes be this the doom,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">May all be like the young man Absalom;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And for my foes may this their blessing be,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To talk like Doeg and to write like thee."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Refinement of tone is not the distinguishing characteristic of satire +of this sort. It does not attack its object by delicate insinuation or +remote suggestion. It operates by heavy downright blows which +crush by the mere weight and power of the stroke. There was in +truth in those days a certain brutality not only permitted but expected +in the way men spoke of each other, and Dryden conformed +in this as in other respects to the manners and methods of his age. +But of its kind the attack is perfect. The blows of a bludgeon which +make of the victim a shapeless mass kill as effectively as the steel +or poison which leaves every feature undisturbed, and to the common +apprehension it serves to render the killing more manifest. At any +rate, so long as a person has been done to death, it makes comparatively +little difference how the death was brought about; and the +object in this instance of Dryden's attack, though a man of no mean +abilities, has never recovered from the demolition which his reputation +then underwent.</p> + +<p>In 1685 Charles II. died, and his brother James ascended the throne. +In the following year Dryden went over to the Roman Catholic +Church. No act of his life has met with severer censure. Nor can +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4928" id="Page_4928">[Pg 4928]</a></span> +there be any doubt that the time he took to change his religion +afforded ground for distrusting the sincerity of his motives. A king +was on the throne who was straining every nerve to bring the Church +of England once more under the sway of the Church of Rome. Obviously +the adoption of the latter faith would recommend the poet to +the favor of the bigoted monarch, and tend to advance his personal +interests. There is no wonder, therefore, that he should at the time +have been accused of being actuated by the unworthiest of reasons, +and that the charge should continue to be repeated to our day. Yet +a close study of Dryden's life and writings indicates that the step he +took was a natural if not an inevitable outcome of the processes +through which his opinions had been passing. He had been early +trained in the strict tenets of the Puritan party. From these he had +been carried over to the loose beliefs and looser life that followed +everywhere hard upon the Restoration. By the sentiments then prevailing +he was profoundly affected. Nothing in the writings of the +first half of his literary life is more marked—not even his flings at +matrimony—than the scoffing way in which he usually spoke of the +clergy. His tone towards them is almost always contemptuous, where +it is not positively vituperative. His famous political satire began +with this line—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"In pious times, ere priestcraft did begin;"—<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>and a little later in the course of the same poem he observed that—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Fraud was used, the sacrificer's trade,"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>the "sacrificer" here denoting the priest. This feeling toward the +clergy never in truth deserted him entirely. But no one who reads +carefully his 'Religio Laici,' a poem published in 1682, can fail to +perceive that even then he had not only drifted far away from the +faith of his childhood, but had begun to be tormented and perplexed +by the insoluble problems connected with the life and destiny of +man, and with his relations to his Creator. The subject was not +likely to weigh less heavily upon him in the years that followed. +To Dryden, as to many before and since, it may have seemed the +easiest method of deliverance from the difficulties in which he found +himself involved, to cast the burden of doubts which disquieted the +mind and depressed the heart, upon a Church that undertakes to +assume the whole responsibility for the man's future on condition of +his yielding to it an unquestioning faith in the present.</p> + +<p>An immediate result of his conversion was the production in 1687 of +one of his most deservedly famous poems, 'The Hind and the Panther.' +He began it with the idea of assisting in bringing about the +reconciliation between the Panther, typifying the Church of England, +and the Hind, typifying the Church of Rome. It is apparent +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4929" id="Page_4929">[Pg 4929]</a></span> +that before he finished it he saw that the project was hopeless. It is a +poem of over twenty-five hundred lines, of which the opening up to +line 150 is printed in this volume. Part of the passage here cited +contains, without professing it as an object, and probably without +intending it, the best defense that could be made for his change of +religion. The production in its entirety is remarkable for the skill +which its author displayed in carrying on an argument in verse. In +this he certainly had no superior among poets, perhaps no equal. The +work naturally created a great sensation in those days of fierce +political and religious controversy. Both it and its writer were made +the object of constant attack. A criticism, in particular, appeared +upon it in the shape of a dialogue in prose with snatches of verse +interspersed. It is usually known by the title of 'The Town Mouse and +the Country Mouse,' and was exalted at the time by unreasoning +partisanship into a wonderful performance. Even to the present day, +this dreary specimen of polemics is described as a very witty work by +those who have never struggled to read it. It was the production of +Charles Montagu, the future Earl of Halifax, and of Matthew Prior. A +story too is still constantly repeated that Dryden was much hurt by +the attacks of these two young men, to whom he had been kind, and wept +over their ingratitude. If he shed any tears at all upon the occasion, +they must have been due to the mortification he felt that any two +persons who had been admitted to his friendship should have been +guilty of twaddle so desperately tedious.</p> + +<p>The flight of James and the accession of William and Mary threw +Dryden at once out of the favor of the court, upon which to a large +extent he had long depended for support. As a Jacobite he could +not take the oath of allegiance; but there is hardly any doubt that +under any circumstances he would have been deprived of the offices +of place and profit he held. In the laureateship he was succeeded by +his old antagonist Shadwell; and within a few years he saw the +dignity of the position still further degraded by the appointment to +it of Nahum Tate, one of the worst of the long procession of poetasters +who have filled it. Dryden henceforth belonged to the party out +of power. His feelings about his changed relations are shown plainly +in the fine epistle with which he consoled Congreve for the failure +of his comedy of the 'Double Dealer.' Yet displaced and unpensioned, +and sometimes the object of hostile attack, his literary supremacy +was more absolute than ever. All young authors, whether +Whigs or Tories, sought his society and courted his favor; and his +seat at Will's coffee-house was the throne from which he swayed the +literary sceptre of England.</p> + +<p>After the revolution of 1688 Dryden gave himself entirely up to +authorship. He first turned to the stage; and between 1690 and 1694 +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4930" id="Page_4930">[Pg 4930]</a></span> +he produced five plays. With the failure in the last-mentioned year +of his tragi-comedy called 'Love Triumphant,' he abandoned writing +for the theatre. The period immediately following he devoted mainly +to his translation of Virgil, which was published in 1697. It was +highly successful; but far more reputation came to him from a large +folio volume that was brought out in November 1699, under the title +of 'Fables.' Its contents consisted mainly of poetical narratives +founded upon certain stories of the 'Decameron,' and of the modernization +of some of the 'Canterbury Tales.' In certain ways these have +been his most successful pieces, and have made his name familiar to +successive generations of readers. Of the tales from Boccaccio, that +of 'Cymon and Iphigenia' is on the whole the most pleasing. The +modernizations of Chaucer were long regarded as superior to the +original; and though superior knowledge of the original has effectually +banished that belief, there is on the other hand no justification +for the derogatory terms which are now sometimes applied to Dryden's +versions.</p> + +<p>The verse in this volume was preceded by a long critical essay in +prose. Many of its views, especially those about the language of +Chaucer, have been long discarded; but the criticism will always be +read with pleasure for the genial spirit and sound sense which pervade +it, and the unstudied ease with which it is written. Cowley +and Dryden are in fact the founders of modern English prose; and +the influence of the latter has been much greater than that of the +former, inasmuch as he touched upon a far wider variety of topics, +and for that reason obtained a far larger circle of readers in the +century following his death. There was also the same steady improvement +in Dryden's critical taste that there was in his poetical +expression. His admiration for Shakespeare constantly improved during +his whole life; and it is to be noticed that in what is generally +regarded as the best of his plays—'All for Love,' brought out in the +winter of 1677-78—he of his own accord abandoned rhyme for blank +verse.</p> + +<p>The publication of the 'Fables' was Dryden's last appearance +before the public. In the following year he died, and was buried in +Westminster Abbey by the side of Chaucer and Cowley. After his +death his fame steadily increased instead of diminishing. For a long +period his superiority in his particular line was ungrudgingly conceded +by all, or if contested, was contested by Pope alone. His +poetry indeed is not of the highest kind, though usually infinitely +superior to that of his detractors. Still his excellences were those of +the intellect and not of the spirit. On the higher planes of thought +and feeling he rarely moves; to the highest he never aspires. The +nearest he ever approaches to the former is in his later work, where +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4931" id="Page_4931">[Pg 4931]</a></span> +religious emotion or religious zeal has lent to expression the aid of +its intensity. There is a striking example of this in the personal +references to his own experiences in the lines cited below from 'The +Hind and the Panther.' Something too of the same spirit can be +found, expressed in lofty language, in the following passage from the +same poem, descriptive of the unity of the Church of Rome as contrasted +with the numerous warring sects into which the Protestant +body is divided:—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"One in herself, not rent by schism, but sound,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Entire, one solid shining diamond,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Not sparkles shattered into sects like you:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">One is the Church, and must be to be true,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">One central principle of unity.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As undivided, so from errors free;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As one in faith, so one in sanctity.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thus she, and none but she, the insulting rage<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of heretics opposed from age to age;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Still when the giant brood invades her throne,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She stoops from heaven and meets them half-way down,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And with paternal thunders vindicates her crown.<br /></span> +</div></div> +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Thus one, thus pure, behold her largely spread,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like the fair ocean from her mother-bed;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From east to west triumphantly she rides,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All shores are watered by her wealthy tides.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The gospel sound diffused from Pole to Pole,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where winds can carry and where waves can roll,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The selfsame doctrine of the sacred page<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Conveyed to every clime, in every age."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>But though Dryden's poetry is not of the highest class, it is of the +very highest kind in its class. Wherever the pure intellect comes into +play, there he is invariably excellent. There is never any weakness; +there is never any vagueness; there is never any deviation from the +true path into aimless digression. His words invariably go straight to +the mark, and not unfrequently with a directness and force that fully +merit the epithet of "burning" applied to them by the poet Gray. +His thoughts always rise naturally out of the matter in hand; and in +the treatment of the meanest subjects he is not only never mean, but +often falls without apparent effort into a felicity of phrase which +holds the attention and implants itself in the memory. The benefit +of exercise, for instance, is not a topic that can be deemed highly +poetical; but in his epistle on country life addressed to his cousin +John Driden, the moment he comes to speak of hunting and its salutary +results his expression at once leaves the commonplace, and embodies +the thought in these pointed lines:—</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4932" id="Page_4932">[Pg 4932]</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"So lived our sires, ere doctors learned to kill,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And multiply with theirs the weekly bill.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The first physicians by debauch were made;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Excess began, and sloth sustains the trade.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By chase our long-lived fathers earned their food;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Toil strung the nerves and purified the blood:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But we their sons, a pampered race of men,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Are dwindled down to threescore years and ten.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Better to hunt in fields for health unbought<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Than fee the doctor for a nauseous draught.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The wise for cure on exercise depend;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">God never made his work for man to mend."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>In a similar way in 'Cymon and Iphigenia' the contempt which +Dryden, in common with the Tories of his time, felt for the English +militia force, found vent in the following vigorous passage, really +descriptive of them and their conduct though the scene is laid in +Rhodes:—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"The country rings around with loud alarms,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And raw in fields the rude militia swarms;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mouths without hands; maintained at vast expense,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In peace a charge, in war a weak defense;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Stout once a month they march, a blustering band,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And ever, but in times of need, at hand:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This was the morn when, issuing on the guard,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Drawn up in rank and file they stood prepared<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of seeming arms to make a short essay,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then hasten to be drunk, the business of the day."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>In a world where what is feeble in expression is so often supposed +to indicate peculiar delicacy; where what is vague is so often deemed +peculiarly poetical; and where what is involved and crabbed and +hard to comprehend is thought to denote peculiar profundity,—it is +a pleasure to turn to a writer with a rank settled by the consensus +of successive generations, who thought clearly and wrote forcibly, +who knew always what he had to say and then said it with directness +and power. There are greater poets than he; but so long as men +continue to delight in vividness of expression, in majesty of numbers, +in masculine strength and all-abounding vigor, so long will Dryden +continue to hold his present high place among English authors.</p> + +<p>The writings of Dryden constitute of themselves a literature. +They treat of a vast variety of topics in many different departments +of intellectual activity. The completest edition of his works was first +published in 1808 under the editorship of Walter Scott. It fills twenty-one +volumes, the first of which however is devoted to a biography. +The notes to this edition are generally excellent; the text is very +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4933" id="Page_4933">[Pg 4933]</a></span> +indifferent. A revised edition of it has been recently published under +the editorship of George Saintsbury. But easily accessible is +a single-volume edition of the poems alone, edited by W. D. Christie, +which furnishes a superior text, and is amply supplied with all +necessary annotations.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 513px;"> +<img src="images/sign273.png" width="513" height="92" alt="Thomas R. Lounsbury" title="Thomas R. Lounsbury" /> +</div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="HIND" id="HIND"></a>FROM 'THE HIND AND THE PANTHER'</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A milk-white Hind, immortal and unchanged,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fed on the lawns and in the forest ranged;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Without unspotted, innocent within,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She feared no danger, for she knew no sin.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet had she oft been chased with horns and hounds,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And Scythian shafts, and many winged wounds<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Aimed at her heart; was often forced to fly,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And doomed to death, though fated not to die.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Not so her young; for their unequal line<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was hero's make, half human, half divine.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Their earthly mold obnoxious was to fate,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The immortal part assumed immortal state.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of these a slaughtered army lay in blood,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Extended o'er the Caledonian wood,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Their native walk; whose vocal blood arose<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And cried for pardon on their perjured foes.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Their fate was fruitful, and the sanguine seed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Endued with souls, increased the sacred breed.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So captive Israel multiplied in chains,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A numerous exile, and enjoyed her pains.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With grief and gladness mixed, their mother viewed<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her martyred offspring and their race renewed;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Their corps to perish, but their kind to last,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So much the deathless plant the dying fruit surpassed.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Panting and pensive now she ranged alone,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And wandered in the kingdoms once her own.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The common hunt, though from their rage restrained<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By sovereign power, her company disdained,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Grinned as they passed, and with a glaring eye<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Gave gloomy signs of secret enmity.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Tis true she bounded by and tripped so light,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They had not time to take a steady sight;<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4934" id="Page_4934">[Pg 4934]</a></span><span class="i0">For truth has such a face and such a mien<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As to be loved needs only to be seen.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The bloody Bear, an independent beast,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Unlicked to form, in groans her hate expressed.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Among the timorous kind the quaking Hare<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Professed neutrality, but would not swear.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Next her the buffoon Ape, as atheists use,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mimicked all sects and had his own to chuse;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Still when the Lion looked, his knees he bent,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And paid at church a courtier's compliment.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The bristled baptist Boar, impure as he,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But whitened with the foam of sanctity,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With fat pollutions filled the sacred place,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And mountains leveled in his furious race;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So first rebellion founded was in grace.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But since the mighty ravage which he made<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In German forests had his guilt betrayed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With broken tusks and with a borrowed name,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He shunned the vengeance and concealed the shame,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So lurked in sects unseen. With greater guile<br /></span> +<span class="i0">False Reynard fed on consecrated spoil;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The graceless beast by Athanasius first<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was chased from Nice, then by Socinus nursed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His impious race their blasphemy renewed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And Nature's King through Nature's optics viewed;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Reversed they viewed him lessened to their eye,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor in an infant could a God descry.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">New swarming sects to this obliquely tend,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hence they began, and here they all will end.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">What weight of ancient witness can prevail,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If private reason hold the public scale?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But gracious God, how well dost thou provide<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For erring judgments an unerring guide!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thy throne is darkness in the abyss of light,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A blaze of glory that forbids the sight.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O teach me to believe thee thus concealed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And search no farther than thy self revealed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But her alone for my director take,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whom thou hast promised never to forsake!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My thoughtless youth was winged with vain desires;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My manhood, long misled by wandering fires,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Followed false lights; and when their glimpse was gone,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My pride struck out new sparkles of her own.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Such was I, such by nature still I am;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Be thine the glory and be mine the shame!<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4935" id="Page_4935">[Pg 4935]</a></span><span class="i0">Good life be now my task; my doubts are done;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What more could fright my faith than Three in One?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Can I believe eternal God could lie<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Disguised in mortal mold and infancy,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That the great Maker of the world could die?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And after that, trust my imperfect sense<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which calls in question his omnipotence?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Can I my reason to my faith compel,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And shall my sight and touch and taste rebel?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Superior faculties are set aside;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shall their subservient organs be my guide?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then let the moon usurp the rule of day,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And winking tapers show the sun his way;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For what my senses can themselves perceive<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I need no revelation to believe.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Can they, who say the Host should be descried<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By sense, define a body glorified,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Impassible, and penetrating parts?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Let them declare by what mysterious arts<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He shot that body through the opposing might<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of bolts and bars impervious to the light,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And stood before his train confessed in open sight.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For since thus wondrously he passed, 'tis plain<br /></span> +<span class="i0">One single place two bodies did contain;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And sure the same omnipotence as well<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Can make one body in more places dwell.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Let Reason then at her own quarry fly;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But how can finite grasp infinity?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'Tis urged again, that faith did first commence<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By miracles, which are appeals to sense,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And thence concluded, that our sense must be<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The motive still of credibility.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For latter ages must on former wait,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And what began belief must propagate.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But winnow well this thought, and you shall find<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Tis light as chaff that flies before the wind.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Were all those wonders wrought by power Divine<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As means or ends of some more deep design?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Most sure as means, whose end was this alone,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To prove the Godhead of the Eternal Son.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">God thus asserted: Man is to believe<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Beyond what Sense and Reason can conceive,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And for mysterious things of faith rely<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On the proponent Heaven's authority.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4936" id="Page_4936">[Pg 4936]</a></span><span class="i0">If then our faith we for our guide admit,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Vain is the farther search of human wit;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As when the building gains a surer stay,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We take the unuseful scaffolding away.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Reason by sense no more can understand;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The game is played into another hand.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Why choose we then like bilanders to creep<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Along the coast, and land in view to keep,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When safely we may launch into the deep?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In the same vessel which our Savior bore,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Himself the pilot, let us leave the shore,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And with a better guide a better world explore.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Could he his Godhead veil with flesh and blood<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And not veil these again to be our food?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His grace in both is equal in extent;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The first affords us life, the second nourishment.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And if he can, why all this frantic pain<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To construe what his clearest words contain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And make a riddle what he made so plain?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To take up half on trust and half to try,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Name it not faith, but bungling bigotry.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Both knave and fool the merchant we may call,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To pay great sums and to compound the small,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For who would break with Heaven, and would not break for all?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Rest then, my soul, from endless anguish freed:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor sciences thy guide, nor sense thy creed.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Faith is the best insurer of thy bliss;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The bank above must fail before the venture miss.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="FRIEND" id="FRIEND"></a>TO MY DEAR FRIEND MR. CONGREVE</h3> + +<h4><span class="smcap">On His Comedy Called 'The Double Dealer'</span></h4> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Well then, the promised hour is come at last;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The present age of wit obscures the past:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Strong were our sires, and as they fought they writ;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Conquering with force of arms and dint of wit:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Theirs was the giant race before the flood;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And thus, when Charles returned, our empire stood.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like Janus, he the stubborn soil manured,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With rules of husbandry the rankness cured;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tamed us to manners, when the stage was rude,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And boisterous English wit with art endued.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4937" id="Page_4937">[Pg 4937]</a></span><span class="i0">Our age was cultivated thus at length,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But what we gained in skill we lost in strength.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Our builders were with want of genius curst;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The second temple was not like the first;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till you, the best Vitruvius, come at length,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Our beauties equal, but excel our strength.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Firm Doric pillars found your solid base,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The fair Corinthian crowns the higher space;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thus all below is strength, and all above is grace.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In easy dialogue is Fletcher's praise;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He moved the mind, but had not power to raise.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Great Jonson did by strength of judgment please,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet, doubling Fletcher's force, he wants his ease.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In differing talents both adorned their age,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">One for the study, t'other for the stage.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But both to Congreve justly shall submit,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">One matched in judgment, both o'ermatched in wit.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In him all beauties of this age we see:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Etherege his courtship, Southern's purity,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The satire, wit, and strength of manly Wycherley.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All this in blooming youth you have achieved;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor are your foiled contemporaries grieved.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So much the sweetness of your manners move,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We cannot envy you, because we love.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fabius might joy in Scipio, when he saw<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A beardless Consul made against the law,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And join his suffrage to the votes of Rome,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Though he with Hannibal was overcome.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thus old Romano bowed to Raphael's fame,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And scholar to the youth he taught became.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">O that your brows my laurel had sustained!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Well had I been deposed, if you had reigned:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The father had descended for the son,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For only you are lineal to the throne.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thus, when the State one Edward did depose,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A greater Edward in his room arose:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But now, not I, but poetry, is curst;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For Tom the second reigns like Tom the first.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But let them not mistake my patron's part,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor call his charity their own desert.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet this I prophesy: Thou shalt be seen,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Though with some short parenthesis between,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">High on the throne of wit, and seated there,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Not mine—that's little—but thy laurel wear.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4938" id="Page_4938">[Pg 4938]</a></span><span class="i0">Thy first attempt an early promise made;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That early promise this has more than paid.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So bold, yet so judiciously you dare,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That your least praise is to be regular.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Time, place, and action may with pains be wrought,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But genius must be born, and never can be taught.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This is your portion, this your native store:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Heaven, that but once was prodigal before,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To Shakespeare gave as much; she could not give him more.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Maintain your post: that's all the fame you need;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For 'tis impossible you should proceed.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Already I am worn with cares and age,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And just abandoning the ungrateful stage:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Unprofitably kept at Heaven's expense,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I live a rent-charge on His providence:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But you, whom every Muse and grace adorn,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whom I foresee to better fortune born,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Be kind to my remains; and oh, defend,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Against your judgment, your departed friend!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Let not the insulting foe my fame pursue,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But shade those laurels which descend to you:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And take for tribute what these lines express;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You merit more, nor could my love do less.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="ODE" id="ODE"></a>ODE</h3> + +<h4>TO THE PIOUS MEMORY OF THE ACCOMPLISHED YOUNG LADY</h4> + +<h3>MRS. ANNE KILLIGREW,</h3> + +<h4>EXCELLENT IN THE TWO SISTER ARTS OF POESY AND PAINTING.</h4> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i3">Thou youngest virgin daughter of the skies,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Made in the last promotion of the blest;<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Whose palms, new-plucked from Paradise,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In spreading branches more sublimely rise,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Rich with immortal green above the rest:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Whether, adopted to some neighboring star,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Thou roll'st above us in thy wandering race,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Or in procession fixed and regular<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Moved with the heaven's majestic pace,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Or called to more superior bliss,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Thou tread'st with seraphims the vast abyss:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Whatever happy region be thy place,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Cease thy celestial song a little space;<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4939" id="Page_4939">[Pg 4939]</a></span><span class="i2">Thou wilt have time enough for hymns divine,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Since Heaven's eternal year is thine.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Hear then a mortal Muse thy praise rehearse<br /></span> +<span class="i6">In no ignoble verse,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But such as thy own voice did practice here,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">When thy first fruits of poesy were given,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To make thyself a welcome inmate there;<br /></span> +<span class="i4">While yet a young probationer,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">And candidate of Heaven.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">If by traduction came thy mind,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Our wonder is the less to find<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A soul so charming from a stock so good;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Thy father was transfused into thy blood:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">So wert thou born into the tuneful strain<br /></span> +<span class="i2">(An early, rich, and inexhausted vein).<br /></span> +<span class="i3">But if thy pre-existing soul<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Was formed at first with myriads more,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">It did through all the mighty poets roll<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Who Greek or Latin laurels wore,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And was that Sappho last, which once it was before.<br /></span> +<span class="i1">If so, then cease thy flight, O heaven-born mind!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Thou hast no dross to purge from thy rich ore:<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Nor can thy soul a fairer mansion find<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Than was the beauteous frame she left behind:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Return, to fill or mend the quire of thy celestial kind.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">May we presume to say that at thy birth<br /></span> +<span class="i0">New joy was sprung in heaven, as well as here on earth?<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For sure the milder planets did combine<br /></span> +<span class="i2">On thy auspicious horoscope to shine,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And even the most malicious were in trine.<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Thy brother angels at thy birth<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Strung each his lyre, and tuned it high,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">That all the people of the sky<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Might know a poetess was born on earth;<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And then, if ever, mortal ears<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Had heard the music of the spheres.<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And if no clustering swarm of bees<br /></span> +<span class="i2">On thy sweet mouth distilled their golden dew,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">'Twas that such vulgar miracles<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Heaven had not leisure to renew:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For all the blest fraternity of love<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Solemnized there thy birth, and kept thy holiday above.<br /></span> +</div><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4940" id="Page_4940">[Pg 4940]</a></span><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i3">O gracious God! how far have we<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Profaned thy heavenly gift of Poesy!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Made prostitute and profligate the Muse,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Debased to each obscene and impious use,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Whose harmony was first ordained above,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For tongues of angels and for hymns of love!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Oh wretched we! why were we hurried down<br /></span> +<span class="i3">This lubric and adulterate age,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">(Nay, added fat pollutions of our own,)<br /></span> +<span class="i3">To increase the steaming ordures of the stage?<br /></span> +<span class="i2">What can we say to excuse our second fall?<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Let this thy Vestal, Heaven, atone for all:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Her Arethusian stream remains unsoiled,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Unmixed with foreign filth and undefiled;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her wit was more than man, her innocence a child.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i3">Art she had none, yet wanted none,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">For Nature did that want supply:<br /></span> +<span class="i3">So rich in treasures of her own,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">She might our boasted stores defy:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Such noble vigor did her verse adorn<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That it seemed borrowed, where 'twas only born.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Her morals too were in her bosom bred,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">By great examples daily fed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What in the best of books, her father's life, she read.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And to be read herself she need not fear;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Each test and every light her Muse will bear,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Though Epictetus with his lamp were there.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Even love (for love sometimes her Muse exprest)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was but a lambent flame which played about her breast;<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Light as the vapors of a morning dream,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">So cold herself, whilst she such warmth exprest,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">'Twas Cupid bathing in Diana's stream.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i3">Born to the spacious empire of the Nine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">One would have thought she should have been content<br /></span> +<span class="i4">To manage well that mighty government;<br /></span> +<span class="i3">But what can young ambitious souls confine?<br /></span> +<span class="i4">To the next realm she stretched her sway,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">For Painture near adjoining lay,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">A plenteous province and alluring prey.<br /></span> +<span class="i3">A Chamber of Dependences was framed,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">As conquerors will never want pretense,<br /></span> +<span class="i5">(When armed to justify the offense,)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the whole fief in right of Poetry she claimed.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4941" id="Page_4941">[Pg 4941]</a></span><span class="i2">The country open lay without defense;<br /></span> +<span class="i3">For poets frequent inroads there had made,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And perfectly could represent<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The shape, the face, with every lineament,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And all the large demains which the dumb Sister swayed;<br /></span> +<span class="i4">All bowed beneath her government.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Received in triumph wheresoe'er she went.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Her pencil drew whate'er her soul designed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And oft the happy draught surpassed the image in her mind;<br /></span> +<span class="i3">The sylvan scenes of herds and flocks<br /></span> +<span class="i3">And fruitful plains and barren rocks;<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Of shallow brooks that flowed so clear,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">The bottom did the top appear;<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Of deeper too and ampler floods<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Which, as in mirrors, showed the woods;<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Of lofty trees, with sacred shades<br /></span> +<span class="i3">And perspectives of pleasant glades,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Where nymphs of brightest form appear,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">And shaggy satyrs standing near,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Which them at once admire and fear.<br /></span> +<span class="i3">The ruins too of some majestic piece,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Boasting the power of ancient Rome or Greece,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Whose statues, friezes, columns, broken lie,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And, though defaced, the wonder of the eye;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">What nature, art, bold fiction, e'er durst frame,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Her forming hand gave feature to the name.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">So strange a concourse ne'er was seen before,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">But when the peopled Ark the whole creation bore.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">The scene then changed; with bold erected look<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Our martial King the sight with reverence strook:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For, not content to express his outward part,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Her hand called out the image of his heart:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">His warlike mind, his soul devoid of fear,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">His high-designing thoughts were figured there,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">As when by magic ghosts are made appear.<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Our phœnix Queen was portrayed too so bright<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Beauty alone could beauty take so right:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Her dress, her shape, her matchless grace,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Were all observed, as well as heavenly face.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With such a peerless majesty she stands,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">As in that day she took the crown from sacred hands;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Before a train of heroines was seen,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In beauty foremost, as in rank the Queen.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4942" id="Page_4942">[Pg 4942]</a></span><span class="i2">Thus nothing to her genius was denied,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">But like a ball of fire, the farther thrown,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Still with a greater blaze she shone,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And her bright soul broke out on every side.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">What next she had designed, Heaven only knows:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To such immoderate growth her conquest rose<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That Fate alone its progress could oppose.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">Now all those charms, that blooming grace,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The well-proportioned shape and beauteous face,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Shall never more be seen by mortal eyes;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In earth the much-lamented virgin lies.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Not wit nor piety could Fate prevent;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Nor was the cruel Destiny content<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To finish all the murder at a blow,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To sweep at once her life and beauty too;<br /></span> +<span class="i3">But, like a hardened felon, took a pride<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To work more mischievously slow,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">And plundered first, and then destroyed.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">O double sacrilege on things divine,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To rob the relic, and deface the shrine!<br /></span> +<span class="i8">But thus Orinda died:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Heaven by the same disease did both translate;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">As equal were their souls, so equal was their fate.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">Meantime, her warlike brother on the seas<br /></span> +<span class="i2">His waving streamers to the winds displays,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And vows for his return with vain devotion pays.<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Ah, generous youth! that wish forbear,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">The winds too soon will waft thee here!<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Slack all thy sails, and fear to come;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Alas! thou knowest not, thou art wrecked at home,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">No more shalt thou behold thy sister's face;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Thou hast already had her last embrace.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But look aloft, and if thou ken'st from far,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Among the Pleiads, a new-kindled star,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">If any sparkles than the rest more bright,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">'Tis she that shines in that propitious light.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">When in mid-air the golden trump shall sound<br /></span> +<span class="i3">To raise the nations under ground;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">When in the Valley of Jehoshaphat<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The judging God shall close the book of Fate,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">And there the last assizes keep<br /></span> +<span class="i3">For those who wake and those who sleep;<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4943" id="Page_4943">[Pg 4943]</a></span><span class="i3">When rattling bones together fly<br /></span> +<span class="i3">From the four corners of the sky;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">When sinews o'er the skeletons are spread,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Those clothed with flesh, and life inspires the dead;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The sacred poets first shall hear the sound,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And foremost from the tomb shall bound,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For they are covered with the lightest ground;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And straight, with inborn vigor, on the wing,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Like mounting larks, to the new morning sing.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">There thou, sweet saint, before the quire shalt go,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">As harbinger of Heaven, the way to show,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The way which thou so well hast learned below.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="ASONG" id="ASONG"></a>A SONG</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i1">Fair, sweet, and young, receive a prize<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Reserved for your victorious eyes:<br /></span> +<span class="i1">From crowds whom at your feet you see,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Oh pity and distinguish me!<br /></span> +<span class="i1">As I from thousand beauties more<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Distinguish you, and only you adore.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i1">Your face for conquest was designed,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Your every motion charms my mind;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Angels, when you your silence break,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Forget their hymns to hear you speak;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">But when at once they hear and view,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Are loth to mount, and long to stay with you.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i1">No graces can your form improve,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">But all are lost, unless you love;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">While that sweet passion you disdain,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Your veil and beauty are in vain:<br /></span> +<span class="i1">In pity then prevent my fate,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For after dying all reprieve's too late.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="LINES" id="LINES"></a>LINES PRINTED UNDER MILTON'S PORTRAIT</h3> + +<h4><span class="smcap">In Tonson's Folio Edition of the 'Paradise Lost</span>,' 1688</h4> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Three poets, in three distant ages born,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Greece, Italy, and England did adorn.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The first in loftiness of thought surpassed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The next in majesty, in both the last:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The force of Nature could no farther go;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To make a third she joined the former two.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4944" id="Page_4944">[Pg 4944]</a></span></p> + +<h3><a name="ALEXANDER" id="ALEXANDER"></a>ALEXANDER'S FEAST; OR, THE POWER OF MUSIC</h3> + +<h4>A SONG IN HONOR OF ST. CECILIA'S DAY: 1697</h4> + + +<h4>I</h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i6">'Twas at the royal feast for Persia won<br /></span> +<span class="i8">By Philip's warlike son:<br /></span> +<span class="i7">Aloft in awful state<br /></span> +<span class="i7">The godlike hero sate<br /></span> +<span class="i8">On his imperial throne;<br /></span> +<span class="i6">His valiant peers were placed around;<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound:<br /></span> +<span class="i6">(So should desert in arms be crowned.)<br /></span> +<span class="i6">The lovely Thais, by his side,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Sate like a blooming Eastern bride,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">In flower of youth and beauty's pride,<br /></span> +<span class="i7">Happy, happy, happy pair!<br /></span> +<span class="i8">None but the brave,<br /></span> +<span class="i8">None but the brave,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">None but the brave deserves the fair.<br /></span> +</div></div> +<h4>CHORUS</h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i7">Happy, happy, happy pair!<br /></span> +<span class="i8">None but the brave,<br /></span> +<span class="i8">None but the brave,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">None but the brave deserves the fair.<br /></span> +</div></div> +<h4>II</h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i9">Timotheus, placed on high<br /></span> +<span class="i10">Amid the tuneful quire,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">With flying fingers touched the lyre:<br /></span> +<span class="i7">The trembling notes ascend the sky,<br /></span> +<span class="i9">And heavenly joys inspire.<br /></span> +<span class="i9">The song began from Jove,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Who left his blissful seats above,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">(Such is the power of mighty love.)<br /></span> +<span class="i6">A dragon's fiery form belied the god:<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Sublime on radiant spires he rode,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">When he to fair Olympia pressed:<br /></span> +<span class="i6">And while he sought her snowy breast,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Then round her slender waist he curled,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And stamped an image of himself, a sovereign of the world.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4945" id="Page_4945">[Pg 4945]</a></span><span class="i2">The listening crowd admire the lofty sound<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A present deity, they shout around;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A present deity, the vaulted roofs rebound:<br /></span> +<span class="i10">With ravished ears<br /></span> +<span class="i10">The monarch hears,<br /></span> +<span class="i10">Assumes the god,<br /></span> +<span class="i10">Affects to nod,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">And seems to shake the spheres.<br /></span> +</div></div> +<h4>CHORUS</h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10">With ravished ears<br /></span> +<span class="i10">The monarch hears,<br /></span> +<span class="i10">Assumes the god,<br /></span> +<span class="i10">Affects to nod,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">And seems to shake the spheres.<br /></span> +</div></div> +<h4>III</h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Of Bacchus ever fair, and ever young.<br /></span> +<span class="i6">The jolly god in triumph comes;<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Sound the trumpets, beat the drums;<br /></span> +<span class="i9">Flushed with a purple grace<br /></span> +<span class="i9">He shows his honest face:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Now give the hautboys breath; he comes, he comes.<br /></span> +<span class="i9">Bacchus, ever fair and young,<br /></span> +<span class="i10">Drinking joys did first ordain;<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Bacchus's blessings are a treasure,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Drinking is the soldier's pleasure;<br /></span> +<span class="i9">Rich the treasure,<br /></span> +<span class="i9">Sweet the pleasure,<br /></span> +<span class="i10">Sweet is pleasure after pain.<br /></span> +</div></div> +<h4>CHORUS</h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i6">Bacchus's blessings are a treasure,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Drinking is the soldier's pleasure;<br /></span> +<span class="i9">Rich the treasure,<br /></span> +<span class="i9">Sweet the pleasure,<br /></span> +<span class="i10">Sweet is pleasure after pain.<br /></span> +</div></div> +<h4>IV</h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">Soothed with the sound, the king grew vain;<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Fought all his battles o'er again;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4946" id="Page_4946">[Pg 4946]</a></span><span class="i3">The master saw the madness rise,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes;<br /></span> +<span class="i3">And while he heaven and earth defied,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Changed his hand, and checked his pride.<br /></span> +<span class="i6">He chose a mournful Muse,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Soft pity to infuse;<br /></span> +<span class="i3">He sung Darius great and good,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">By too severe a fate,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Fallen from his high estate,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">And weltering in his blood;<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Deserted at his utmost need<br /></span> +<span class="i3">By those his former bounty fed;<br /></span> +<span class="i3">On the bare earth exposed he lies,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">With not a friend to close his eyes.<br /></span> +<span class="i1">With downcast looks the joyless victor sate,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Revolving in his altered soul<br /></span> +<span class="i4">The various turn of chance below;<br /></span> +<span class="i3">And now and then a sigh he stole,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And tears began to flow.<br /></span> +</div></div> +<h4>CHORUS</h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i3">Revolving in his altered soul<br /></span> +<span class="i4">The various turns of chance below;<br /></span> +<span class="i3">And now and then a sigh he stole,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And tears began to flow.<br /></span> +</div></div> +<h4>V</h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i3">The mighty master smiled to see<br /></span> +<span class="i3">That love was in the next degree;<br /></span> +<span class="i3">'Twas but a kindred sound to move,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">For pity melts the mind to love.<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Softly sweet, in Lydian measures,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures.<br /></span> +<span class="i3">War, he sung, is toil and trouble;<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Honor but an empty bubble,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Never ending, still beginning,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Fighting still, and still destroying:<br /></span> +<span class="i3">If the world be worth thy winning,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Think, oh think it worth enjoying:<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Lovely Thais sits beside thee;<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Take the good the gods provide thee;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The many rend the skies with loud applause;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So Love was crowned, but Music won the cause.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4947" id="Page_4947">[Pg 4947]</a></span><span class="i0">The prince, unable to conceal his pain,<br /></span> +<span class="i7">Gazed on the fair<br /></span> +<span class="i7">Who caused his care,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">And sighed and looked, sighed and looked,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Sighed and looked, and sighed again;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At length, with love and wine at once oppressed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast.<br /></span> +</div></div> +<h4>CHORUS</h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The prince, unable to conceal his pain,<br /></span> +<span class="i7">Gazed on the fair<br /></span> +<span class="i7">Who caused his care,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">And sighed and looked, sighed and looked,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Sighed and looked, and sighed again;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At length, with love and wine at once oppressed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast.<br /></span> +</div></div> +<h4>VI</h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i3">Now strike the golden lyre again;<br /></span> +<span class="i3">A louder yet, and yet a louder strain.<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Break his bands of sleep asunder,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder.<br /></span> +<span class="i5">Hark, hark, the horrid sound<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Has raised up his head;<br /></span> +<span class="i6">As awaked from the dead,<br /></span> +<span class="i5">And amazed, he stares around.<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">See the Furies arise;<br /></span> +<span class="i6">See the snakes that they rear,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">How they hiss in their hair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the sparkles that flash from their eyes!<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Behold a ghastly band,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Each a torch in his hand!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">And unburied remain<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Inglorious on the plain:<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Give the vengeance due<br /></span> +<span class="i6">To the valiant crew.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Behold how they toss their torches on high,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">How they point to the Persian abodes,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And glittering temples of their hostile gods!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The princes applaud with a furious joy;<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4948" id="Page_4948">[Pg 4948]</a></span><span class="i0">And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy;<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Thais led the way,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">To light him to his prey,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And like another Helen, fired another Troy.<br /></span> +</div></div> +<h4>CHORUS</h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy;<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Thais led the way,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">To light him to his prey,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And like another Helen, fired another Troy.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<h4>VII</h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i9">Thus long ago,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Ere heaving bellows learned to blow,<br /></span> +<span class="i5">While organs yet were mute,<br /></span> +<span class="i5">Timotheus, to his breathing flute<br /></span> +<span class="i8">And sounding lyre,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire.<br /></span> +<span class="i4">At last divine Cecilia came,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Inventress of the vocal frame;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Enlarged the former narrow bounds,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And added length to solemn sounds,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With Nature's mother wit, and arts unknown before.<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Let old Timotheus yield the prize,<br /></span> +<span class="i5">Or both divide the crown:<br /></span> +<span class="i4">He raised a mortal to the skies;<br /></span> +<span class="i5">She drew an angel down.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<h4>GRAND CHORUS</h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">At last divine Cecilia came,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Inventress of the vocal frame;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Enlarged the former narrow bounds,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And added length to solemn sounds,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With Nature's mother wit, and arts unknown before.<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Let old Timotheus yield the prize,<br /></span> +<span class="i5">Or both divide the crown:<br /></span> +<span class="i4">He raised a mortal to the skies;<br /></span> +<span class="i5">She drew an angel down.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4949" id="Page_4949">[Pg 4949]</a></span></p> +<h3><a name="ACHITOPHELA" id="ACHITOPHELA"></a>ACHITOPHEL<a name="FNanchor_A_4" id="FNanchor_A_4"></a><a href="#Footnote_A_4" class="fnanchor">[A]</a></h3> +<h4>From 'Absalom and Achitophel'</h4> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">This plot, which failed for want of common-sense,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Had yet a deep and dangerous consequence:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For as when raging fevers boil the blood,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The standing lake soon floats into a flood,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And every hostile humor, which before<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Slept quiet in its channels, bubbles o'er;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So several factions from this first ferment<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Work up to foam, and threat the government.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Some by their friends, more by themselves thought wise,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Opposed the power to which they could not rise.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Some had in courts been great, and thrown from thence,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like fiends were hardened in impenitence.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Some, by their monarch's fatal mercy, grown<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From pardoned rebels kinsmen to the throne,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Were raised in power and public office high;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Strong bands, if bands ungrateful men could tie.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Of these the false Achitophel was first;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A name to all succeeding ages curst:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For close designs and crooked councils fit;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sagacious, bold, and turbulent of wit;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Restless, unfixed in principles and place;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In power unpleased, impatient of disgrace:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A fiery soul, which, working out its way,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fretted the pigmy body to decay,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And o'er-informed the tenement of clay.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A daring pilot in extremity;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Pleased with the danger, when the waves went high<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He sought the storms; but for a calm unfit,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Would steer too nigh the sands to boast his wit.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Great wits are sure to madness near allied,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And thin partitions do their bounds divide;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Else why should he, with wealth and honor blest,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Refuse his age the needful hours of rest?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Punish a body which he could not please;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bankrupt of life, yet prodigal of ease?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And all to leave what with his toil he won,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To that unfeathered two-legged thing, a son;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Got while his soul did huddled notions try,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And born a shapeless lump, like anarchy.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4950" id="Page_4950">[Pg 4950]</a></span><span class="i0">In friendship false, implacable in hate;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Resolved to ruin or to rule the State.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To compass this the triple bond he broke,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The pillars of the public safety shook,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And fitted Israel for a foreign yoke:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then, seized with fear yet still affecting fame,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Usurped a patriot's all-atoning name.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So easy still it proves in factious times,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With public zeal to cancel private crimes.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How safe is treason, and how sacred ill,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where none can sin against the people's will!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where crowds can wink, and no offense be known,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Since in another's guilt they find their own!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet fame deserved no enemy can grudge;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The statesman we abhor, but praise the judge.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In Israel's courts ne'er sat an Abethdin<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With more discerning eyes, or hands more clean,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Unbribed, unsought, the wretched to redress;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Swift of dispatch, and easy of access.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Oh! had he been content to serve the Crown,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With virtues only proper to the gown;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or had the rankness of the soil been freed<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From cockle that oppressed the noble seed;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">David for him his tuneful harp had strung,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And heaven had wanted one immortal song.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But wild Ambition loves to slide, not stand,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And Fortune's ice prefers to Virtue's land.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Achitophel, grown weary to possess<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A lawful fame, and lazy happiness,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Disdained the golden fruit to gather free,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And lent the crowd his arm to shake the tree.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Now, manifest of crimes contrived long since,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He stood at bold defiance with his prince;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Held up the buckler of the people's cause<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Against the Crown, and skulked behind the laws.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The wished occasion of the plot he takes;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Some circumstances finds, but more he makes.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By buzzing emissaries fills the ears<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of listening crowds with jealousies and fears<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of arbitrary counsels brought to light,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And proves the king himself a Jebusite.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_A_4" id="Footnote_A_4"></a><a href="#FNanchor_A_4"><span class="label">[A]</span></a> Lord Shaftesbury.</p></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4951" id="Page_4951">[Pg 4951]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="MAXIME_DU_CAMP" id="MAXIME_DU_CAMP"></a>MAXIME DU CAMP</h2> + +<h4>(1822-1894)</h4> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 90px;"> +<img src="images/capw291.png" width="90" height="91" alt="W" title="W" /> +</div><p class="dropcap">hy have I always felt happy, filled with the spirit of content and +of infinite independence, whenever I have slept in the tent or in the +ruins of foreign lands?" The love of change and adventure has been the +spring of Du Camp's life, a life whose events are blended so +intimately with his literary achievement, that to know the one is to +know the other. This practical man of the world has an imaginative, +beauty-loving side to his nature, which craves stimulus from tropical +unfamiliar nature and exotic ways.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 178px;"> +<img src="images/Illus291.png" width="178" height="222" alt="Maxime Du Camp" title="Maxime Du Camp" /> +<span class="caption"><span class="smcap">Maxime Du Camp</span></span> +</div> + +<p>So, after the usual training of French boys in lycée and college,—"in +those hideous houses where they wearied our childhood," as he +says,—the just-emancipated youth of twenty-two left his home in Paris +for an eighteen-months' trip in the far East. The color and variety of +the experience whetted his love of travel, and very soon after his +return he began a serious study of photography in view of future +plans.</p> + +<p>Then came the revolution of 1848, the overthrow of Louis Philippe; and +Du Camp had an opportunity to prove his courage and patriotism in the +ranks of the National Guard. In his 'Souvenirs de l'Année +1848,' he tells the story with color and interest, and with the +forceful logic of an eye-witness.</p> + +<p>His bravery and a serious wound won him the red ribbon of the +Legion of Honor, bestowed by General Cavaignac. This drew attention +to him, and led the minister of public instruction to intrust him +a few months later with a mission of exploration to Egypt, Nubia, +Palestine, and Asia Minor; a result of which trip was his first literary +success. Utilizing his photographic knowledge, he collected a great +many negatives for future development. Upon his return he published +a volume of descriptive sketches, 'Le Nil, Egypte, et Nubie,' +generously illustrated with printed reproductions of these pictures. +This first combination of photography and typography was popular, +and was speedily imitated, initiative of many illustrated books.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4952" id="Page_4952">[Pg 4952]</a></span> +Later, Du Camp's warlike and exploring instincts led him at his own +expense into Sicily with Garibaldi, where he collected matter and +photographs for 'Les Deux Siciles', another successful volume. In 1851 +he associated with others to found the Revue de Paris, for which he +wrote regularly until its suspension in 1858. He has also written a +great deal for the Revue des Deux Mondes, in which for several years +he continued a series of historical studies upon the government of +Paris. The six volumes upon 'Paris: its Organs, its Functions, its +Life, during the Second Half of the Nineteenth Century,' form one of +his chief achievements. His personal knowledge on the subject, and his +access to valuable unpublished documents, give it authoritative value.</p> + +<p>In 'Les Ancêtres de la Commune,' and 'Les Convulsions de Paris,' +he has accomplished much more in the same line. The latter, a brilliant +circumstantial exposition of the Commune, a logical condemnation +of its folly and ignorance, brought him gratitude from the French +Academy, and aided his election to that body in 1880. For this extensive +work on contemporary politics, for his illustrated travels, and his +artistic and literary criticism, he is better known than for his two or +three novels and volumes of poetry.</p> + +<p>Du Camp's may be characterized as a soldierly style, strong, direct, +and personal. He loves to retrace old scenes with the later visible +sequence of cause and effect. Always straightforward, sometimes +bluntly self-assertive, he is sometimes eloquent. Perhaps his great +charm is spontaneity.</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="STREET" id="STREET"></a>A STREET SCENE DURING THE COMMUNE</h3> + +<h4>From 'The Convulsions of Paris'</h4> + +<p>There were strange episodes during this terrible evening. At half-past +eight, M. Rouville, a Protestant minister, was at home in a house he +owns on the Rue de Lille. He heard an alarm, the cry, "Everything is +burning! Escape!" Then he went down, saw the street in flames, and the +poor people weeping as they escaped. Just as he was returning to +rescue a few valuables, some federates rushed into the court, crying, +"Hurry! They are setting the place on fire!" He took some money and +the manuscript of the sermons he had preached. Mechanically he seized +his hat and cane. Then, throwing a last look around the apartment +where he had long lived, invoking the memory of the great Biblical +destructions familiar to him in Holy Writ, +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4953" id="Page_4953">[Pg 4953]</a></span> +weak and trembling with emotion, he descended the staircase from his home.</p> + +<p>There was indescribable tumult in the street, dominated by the cry of +women; a shrill wordless involuntary cry of terror, vibrating above +the uproar like a desperate appeal to which no supernatural power +replied. Pastor Rouville stopped. The house next his own was in +flames. They were setting fire to the one opposite. The houses between +the Rue de Beaune and the Rue du Bac, red from cellar to garret, were +vomiting flame from all the broken windows.</p> + +<p>The pastor's family were not at Paris. He was alone with a faithful +maid, who did not leave him for a moment. This doubtless determined +his resolution, and gave him courage to brave all to save his house. +If he had felt his wife and daughter near, he would have thought only +of their safety, and would have hastened to get them away from the +place, where, he said, "One could die of horror."</p> + +<p>Pastor Rouville is a small man, whose great activity keeps him young +and remarkably energetic. He belongs to the strong race of Southern +Protestants, which has resisted everything to guard its faith. I +should not be surprised if he has had some nimble Cévennole, companion +of Jean Cavalier, among his ancestors. Chaplain in the prisons of the +Seine, accustomed to sound doubtful spirits, to seek in vicious hearts +some intact fibres which could re-attach them to virtue; fervent in +faith, eloquent, with a high voice which could rise above the tumult, +knowing by experience that there is no obscurity so profound that +light cannot be made to penetrate it,—he had remained on duty at his +post during the Commune; for the prisoners had more need of spiritual +aid, now that the regular administration no longer watched over them. +He had been indignant at the incarceration of Catholic priests, and +had signed the fine protest demanding the liberty of the archbishop, +which the ministers had carried to the Hôtel de Ville.</p> + +<p>Alone in the presence of the great disaster which threatened him, he +commended his spirit to God, remembering that the little stone of +David had killed the giant Philistine, and he decided to fight for his +home. He encamped energetically before the door, to forbid access; and +using the weapons bestowed upon him by Providence and study, he spoke. +The federates stopped before this man, whose simplicity rendered him +heroic. One may guess what he said to them:—</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4954" id="Page_4954">[Pg 4954]</a></span> +"Why strike the innocent and tender, as if they were execrable? Why be +enraged with a Protestant, a minister, whose religion, founded on the +dogma of free examination, is naturally allied to republican ideas? +The faith he teaches is that promulgated by Christ: Christ said to +Peter, 'Sheathe thy sword;' he said to men,'Love one another!' No, the +people of Paris, this people whose sufferings have been shared, whose +unfortunates have been succored during the siege; this people, so good +when not led astray by the wicked; this people will not burn the house +of a poor minister, whose whole life has been passed in the exercise +of charity."</p> + +<p>The pastor must have been eloquent and have spoken with profound +conviction, for the federates who were listening to him began to weep, +then seized and embraced him. Meantime the tenants of the shops in his +house had lowered the iron curtains, which at least was an obstacle +against the first throwing of petroleum. This lasted an hour. The +federates, evidently softened and touched by the pastor's despair, +remained near him and had pity upon him. An old sergeant of the +National Guard stayed beside him, as if to bring him help in case of +need, and to maintain a little order among his subordinates. Some hope +revived in M. Rouville's heart, and he was saying to himself that +perhaps his house would be spared, when some young men, wearing the +braided caps of officers, arrived as if to inspect the fires. Seeing +one house intact, emerging like a little island from an ocean of +flames, they exclaimed. The pastor sprang forward and wanted to argue +with them. It was trouble wasted. One of these young scamps said to +him, "You are an old reactionist: you bore us with your talking. If +you don't like it, we will pin you to the wall." Then, turning toward +the federates and pointing to the houses on the Rue de Lille, he +cried, "All that belongs to the people. The people have the right to +burn every thing."</p> + +<p>This had perhaps decided the fate of the pastor's house, when +the sergeant of federates interfered, and addressing the officer +said to him, "I have received orders to stop the fire just here." +"Show me your order," answered the officer. The sergeant replied, +"It is a verbal order." Then there was a lively quarrel +between the two men. The sergeant was firm. The officer insisted, +and according to the custom of the moment, threatened to +have the rebel shot.</p> + +<p>The situation was becoming grave, when an incident resolved +it. A mounted officer galloped up and ordered all the federates +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4955" id="Page_4955">[Pg 4955]</a></span> +to retreat, because they were about to be surrounded by the +troops from Versailles.</p> + +<p>Nearly all the National Guards hurried away. The sergeant +who had remained near the pastor said, "Get away, scurry, +father! You will get yourself killed, and that will not save your +camp."</p> + +<p>The other officers passed, commanded everything to be +burned, and when the sergeant resisted, compelled him to leave. +For half an hour the unhappy pastor remained alone, holding +back the incendiaries, passing from supplications to threats, and +gaining time by every possible artifice. The sergeant returned +with tearful eyes, and showed the dismayed pastor a written +order to burn the house, sent by his chiefs. Not yet discouraged, +the pastor roused the compassion of the old sergeant, and so +moved him that the rebel cried, "Ah, well! so much the worse! +I'll disobey. No, I won't let your house be burned. They'll +shoot me. It's all the same. I deserve to be." Then raising +his hand toward the sky, where the stars shone like sparks +through the veil of wind-driven smoke, he cried "O my father, I +believe in God! Fear nothing; I will stay here. They shan't +touch your house. I shall know how to keep off plunderers!"</p> + +<p>O strange deceiving people; ready for all crimes, ready for all +good actions, according to the voice which speaks to thee and +the emotion which carries thee away! This sergeant was indeed +thy likeness, and one need not despair of thee, although thou +dishearten those who love thee best!</p> + +<p>The brandy at the wine merchants'; the ether at the druggists'; +the powder and shot forgotten in stations, or secreted in +cellars, burst with terrible explosions and scattered flaming coals. +The pastor looked at his house, still miraculously intact. He +gave it a last look, and departed sobbing. It was eleven o'clock. +For three hours in the midst of this furnace he had resisted the +incendiaries. His strength was exhausted. The faithful servant, +who went back again and again to rescue one thing more from +the burning, dragged him away. In the Rue des Saints-Pères +they plunged into darkness, all the deeper for the brazier of +sparkling lights behind them. They groped their way over the +barricades through a shower of bullets. More than once they +fell down. Finally, safe and sound despite the dangers braved, +they reached the Rue de Seine, near the Rue de Bucy, where +they found refuge in a lodging-house.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4956" id="Page_4956">[Pg 4956]</a></span> +Next day Pastor Rouville ran towards the Rue de Lille. His +house was standing intact. The old sergeant had kept his word. +What became of this brave man, who at the risk of his life +saved the property of a man whose speech had touched him? +Perhaps he perished. Perhaps he received his due reward. Perhaps +he drags out a wretched life in some workshop of a penitentiary. +I know not his fate, nor even his name.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4957" id="Page_4957">[Pg 4957]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="ALEXANDRE_DUMAS_SENIOR" id="ALEXANDRE_DUMAS_SENIOR"></a>ALEXANDRE DUMAS, SENIOR</h2> + +<h4>(1803?-1870)</h4> + +<h4>BY ANDREW LANG</h4> + + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 89px;"> +<img src="images/capn297.png" width="89" height="95" alt="N" title="N" /> +</div><p class="dropcap">o author is less capable of being illustrated by extracts than +Alexandre Dumas. Writers like Prosper Mérimée or Mr. Robert Louis +Stevenson can be not inadequately represented by a short story or a +brief scene. Even from Scott's work we can detach 'Wandering Willie's +Tale,' or 'The Tapestried Chamber,' or the study of Effie Deans in +prison, or of Jeanie Deans before the Queen. But Dumas is invariably +diffuse; though, unlike other diffuse talkers and writers, he is +seldom tedious. He is long without <i>longueurs</i>. A single example will +explain this better than a page of disquisition. The present selector +had meant to extract Dumas's first meeting with Charles Nodier at the +theatre. In memory, that amusing scene appeared to occupy some six +pages. In fact, it covers nearly a hundred and thirty pages of the +Brussels edition of the 'Memoirs' of Dumas. One reads it with such +pleasure that looked back upon, it seems short, while it is infinitely +too long to be extracted. In dialogue Dumas is both excellent and +copious, so that he cannot well be abbreviated. He is the Porthos of +novelists, gigantic, yet (at his best) muscular and not overgrown. For +these reasons, extracts out of his romances do no justice to Dumas. To +read one of his novels, say 'The Three Musketeers,' even in a slovenly +translation, is to know more of him than a world of critics and +essayists can teach. It is also to forget the world, and to dwell in a +careless Paradise. Our object therefore is not to give an "essence of +Dumas," but to make readers peruse him in his own books, and to save +them trouble by indicating, among these books, the best.</p> + +<p>It is notorious that Dumas was at the head of a "Company" like that +which Scott laughingly proposed to form "for writing and publishing +the class of books called Waverley Novels." In legal phrase, Dumas +"deviled" his work; he had assistants, "researchers," collaborators. +He would briefly sketch a plot, indicate the authorities to be +consulted, hand his notes to Maquet or Fiorentino, receive their +draught, and expand that into a romance. Work thus executed cannot be +equal to itself. Many books signed by Dumas may be neglected without +loss. Even to his best works, one or other of his assistants was apt +to assert a claim. The answer is convincing. Not one of +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4958" id="Page_4958">[Pg 4958]</a></span> +these ingenious men ever produced, by himself, anything that could be +mistaken for the work of the master. All his good things have the same +stamp and the same spirit, which we find nowhere else. Again, nobody +contests his authorship of his own 'Memoirs,' or of his book about his +dogs, birds, and other beasts—'The Story of My Pets.' Now, the merit +of these productions is, in kind, identical with many of the merits of +his best novels. There is the same good-humor, gayety, and fullness of +life. We may therefore read Dumas's central romances without much fear +of being grateful to the wrong person. Against the modern theory that +the Iliad and Odyssey are the work of many hands in many ages, we can +urge that these supposed "hands" never did anything nearly so good for +themselves; and the same argument applies in the case of Alexandre +Dumas.</p> + +<p>A brief sketch of his life must now be given. "No man has had +so many of his possessions disputed as myself," says Dumas. Not +only his right to his novels, but his right to his name and to legitimate +birth, was contested. Here we shall follow his own account of +himself in his 'Memoirs,' which do not cover nearly the whole of his +life. Alexandre Dumas was born at Villers-Cotterets-sur-Aisne, on +July 24th, 1803(?). He lived to almost exactly the threescore and ten +years of the Psalmist. He saw the fall of Napoleon, the restoration +of the rightful king, the expulsion of the Legitimate monarch in +1830, the Orleans rule, its overthrow in 1848, the Republic, the +Empire, and the Terrible Year, 1870-1871. Then he died, in the +hour of the sorrow of his</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Immortal and indomitable France."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 610px;"> +<a name="SENIOR" id="SENIOR"></a> +<img src="images/Illus0424.jpg" width="610" height="1024" alt="ALEXANDRE DUMAS" title="ALEXANDRE DUMAS" /> +<span class="caption">ALEXANDRE DUMAS.</span> +</div> + +<p>Dumas's full name was noble: he was Alexandre Dumas-Davy de la +Pailleterie. His family estate, La Pailleterie, was made a marquisate +by Louis XIV. in 1707. About 1760 the grandfather of Dumas sold his +lands in France, and went to Hayti. There in 1762 was born his father, +son of Louise Cossette Dumas and of the Marquis de la Pailleterie. The +mother must have been a woman of color; Dumas talks of his father's +"mulatto hue," and he himself had undoubted traces of African blood. +Yet it appears that the grandparents were duly married. In 1772, his +wife having died, the old marquis returned to France. The Revolution +broke out, and the father of Alexandre Dumas fought in the armies of +the Republic. The cruel mob called him by way of mockery, "Monsieur +Humanity," because he endeavored to rescue the victims of their +ferocity. He was a man of great courage and enormous physical strength. +Napoleon, in honor of one of his feats of arms, called him in a dispatch +"The Horatius Cocles of the Republic." He was with Napoleon in +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4959" id="Page_4959">[Pg 4959]</a></span> +Egypt, where a quarrel arose, as he suspected and opposed +the ambition of the future emperor. Though Dumas found a treasure in a +bey's house, he honorably presented it to his government. He died in +France, a poor man, in 1806.</p> + +<p>Dumas was not at home when his father died. He was staying, a +child of four, with his cousin Marianne.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"At midnight I was awakened, or rather my cousin and I were awakened, +by a great blow struck on the door of our room. By the light of a night +lamp I saw my cousin start up, much alarmed. No mortal could have +knocked at our chamber door, for the outer doors were locked. [He gives a +plan of the house.] I got out of bed to open the door. 'Where are you +going, Alexandre?' cried my cousin.</p> + +<p>"'To let in papa, who is coming to say adieu.'</p> + +<p>"The girl dragged me back to bed; I cried, 'Adieu, papa, adieu!' Something +like a sighing breath passed over my face.... My father had died +at the hour when we heard the knock!"</p></div> + +<p>This anecdote may remind the reader of what occurred at Abbotsford +on the night when Mr. Bullock died in London. Dumas tells +another tale of the same kind ('Memoirs,' Vol. xi., page 255: Brussels, +1852). On the night of his mother's death he in vain sought a +similar experience. These things "come not by observation"; but +Dumas, like Scott, had a mind not untuned to such themes, though +not superstitious.</p> + +<p>Young Dumas, like most men of literary genius, taught himself to +read. A Buffon with plates was the treasure of the child, already a +lover of animals. To know more about the beasts he learned to read +for his own pleasure. Of mythology he was as fond as Keats. His +intellectual life began (like the imaginative life of our race) in legends +of beasts and gods. For Dumas was born <i>un primitif</i>, as the French +say; his taste was the old immortal human taste for romance, for +tales of adventure, love, and war. This predilection is now of course +often scouted by critics who are over-civilized and under-educated. +Superior persons will never share the love of Dumas which was common +to Thackeray and Mr. Robert Louis Stevenson. From Buffon he +went on to the 'Letters to Émil' (letters on mythology), and to the +'Arabian Nights.' An imaginative child, he knew the "pains of +sleep" as Coleridge did, and the terrors of vain imagination. Many +children whose manhood is not marked by genius are visionaries. A +visionary too was little Dumas, like Scott, Coleridge, and George +Sand in childhood. To the material world he ever showed a bold +face. "I have never known doubt or despair," he says; his faith in +God was always unshaken; the doctrine of immortality he regarded +rather with hope than absolute belief. Yet surely it is a corollary to +the main article of his creed.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4960" id="Page_4960">[Pg 4960]</a></span> +At ten, Dumas went to a private school kept by an Abbé Grégoire. +At the Restoration, a boy of twelve, he made and he adhered to an +important resolution. He chose to keep his grandmaternal name of +Dumas, like his father, and to drop the name and arms of De la +Pailleterie, with all the hopes of boons from the restored Royalists. +Dumas remained a man of the popular party, though he had certain +relations of friendship with the house of Orléans. But he entertained +no posthumous hatred of the old monarchy and the old times. His +kings are nearly as good, in his romances, as Sir Walter's own, and +his Henri III. and Henri IV. may be named with Scott's Gentle King +Jamie and Louis XI.</p> + +<p>Madame Dumas, marquise as she was by marriage, kept a tobacconist's +shop; and in education, Dumas was mainly noted for his calligraphy. +Poaching was now the boy's favorite amusement; all through his life he +was very fond of sport. Napoleon returned from Elba; Dumas saw him +drive through Villers-Cotterets on his way to Waterloo. Soon +afterwards came in stragglers; the English, they said, had been +defeated at five o'clock on June 18th, but the Prussians arrived at +six o'clock and won the battle. What the English were doing between +five and six does not appear; it hardly seems that they quitted the +field. The theory of that British defeat at Waterloo was never +abandoned by Dumas. He saw Napoleon return through Villers-Cotterets. +"Wellington, Bülow, Blücher, were but masks of men; really they were +spirits sent by the Most High to defeat Napoleon." It is a pious +opinion!</p> + +<p>At the age of fifteen Dumas, like Scott, became a notary's clerk. +About this time he saw 'Hamlet' played, in the version of Ducis. +Corneille and Racine had always been disliked by this born romanticist. +'Hamlet' carried him off his feet. Soon afterwards he read +Bürger's 'Lenore,' the ballad which Scott translated at the very +beginning of his career as an author.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Tramp! tramp! along the land they rode,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Splash! splash! along the sea;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The scourge is red, the spur drops blood,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The flashing pebbles flee."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>This German ballad, says Scott, "struck him as the kind of thing +he could do himself." And Dumas found that the refrain</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Hurrah, fantôme, les morts vont vite,"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>was more to his taste than the French poetry of the eighteenth century. +He tried to translate 'Lenore.' Scott finished it in a night; +Dumas gave up in despair. But this, he says, was the beginning of +his authorship. He had not yet opened a volume of Scott or Cooper, +"ces deux grands romanciers." With a friend named Leuven he +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4961" id="Page_4961">[Pg 4961]</a></span> +began to try to write plays (1820-1821). He now poached his way to +Paris, defraying his expenses with the game he shot on the road. +Shakespeare too was a poacher; let us excuse the eccentricities of +genius. He made Talma's acquaintance; he went to the play; he +resigned his clerkship: "Paris was my future." Thither he went; his +father's name served him with General Foy, and he obtained a little +post in the household of the Duc D'Orléans—a supernumerary secretaryship +at £60 a year. At the play he met Charles Nodier, reading +the rarest of Elzevirs, and at intervals (like Charles Lamb) hissing +his own piece! This delightful scene, with its consequences, occupies +one hundred and thirty pages!</p> + +<p>Dumas now made the acquaintance of Frederic Soulié, and became +a pillar of theatres. He began to read with a purpose: first he read +Scott; "The clouds lifted, and I beheld new horizons." Then he +turned to Cooper; then to Byron. One day he entered his office, crying +aloud, "Byron is dead!" "Who is Byron?" said one of his chiefs. +Here Dumas breaks off in his 'Memoirs' to give a life of Byron! He +fought his first duel in the snow, and won an easy, almost a bloodless +victory. For years he and Leuven wrote plays together,—plays +which were never accepted.</p> + +<p>At last he, Rousseau (not Jean Jacques!), and Leuven composed a +piece together. Refused at one house, it was accepted at another: +'La Chasse et l'Amour' (The Chase and Love) was presented on +September 22d, 1823. It succeeded. A volume of three short stories +sold to the extent of four copies. Dumas saw that he must "make a +name" before he could make a livelihood. "I do not believe in neglected +talent and unappreciated genius," says he. Like Mr. Arthur +Pendennis, he wrote verses "up to" pictures. Thackeray did the +same. "Lady Blessington once sent him an album print of a boy and +girl fishing, with a request that he would make some verses for it. +'And,' he said, 'I liked the idea, and set about it at once. I was +two entire days at it,—was so occupied with it, so engrossed by it, +that I did not shave during the whole time.'" So says Mr. Locker-Lampson.</p> + +<p>We cannot all be Dumas or Thackeray. But if any literary beginner +reads these lines, let him take Dumas's advice; let him disbelieve +in neglected genius, and do the work that comes in his way, as best +he can. Dumas had a little anonymous success in 1826, a vaudeville +at the Porte-Saint-Martin. At last he achieved a serious tragedy, or +melodrama, in verse, 'Christine.' He wrote to Nodier, reminding him +of their meeting at the play. The author of 'Trilby' introduced him +to Taylor; Taylor took him to the Théâtre Français; 'Christine' was +read and accepted unanimously.</p> + +<p>Dumas now struck the vein of his fortune. By chance he opened +a volume of Anquetil, and read an anecdote of the court of Henri III. +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4962" id="Page_4962">[Pg 4962]</a></span> +This led him to study the history of Saint Megrin, in the Memoirs +of L'Estoile, where he met Quelus, and Maugiron, and Bussy d'Amboise, +with the stirring tale of his last fight against twelve men. +Out of these facts he made his play 'Henri III.,' and the same +studies inspired that trilogy of romances 'La Reine Margot' (Queen +Margot), 'La Dame de Monsoreau' (The Lady of Monsoreau), and +'Les Quarante-Cinq' (The Forty-Five). These are, with the trilogy +of the 'Mousquetaires,' his central works as a romancer, and he was +twenty-five when he began to deal with the romance of history. His +habit was to narrate his play or novel, to his friends, to invent as he +talked, and so to arrive at his general plan. The mere writing gave +him no trouble. We shall later show his method in the composition +of 'The Three Musketeers.'</p> + +<p>'Christine' had been wrecked among the cross-currents of theatrical +life. 'Henri III.' was more fortunate. Dumas was indeed +obliged to choose between his little office and the stage; he abandoned +his secretaryship. In 1829 occurred this "duel between his +past and his future." Just before the first night of the drama, +Dumas's mother, whom he tenderly loved, was stricken down by +paralysis. He tended her, he watched over his piece, he almost +dragged the Duc d'Orléans to the theatre. On that night he made +the acquaintance of Hugo and Alfred de Vigny. Dumas passed the +evening between the theatre and his mother's bedside. When the +curtain fell, he was "called on"; the audience stood up uncovered, +the Duc d'Orléans and all!</p> + +<p>Next morning Dumas, like Byron, "woke to find himself famous." He had +"made his name" in the only legitimate way,—by his work. Troubles +followed, difficulties with the Censorship, duels and rumors of duels, +and the whole romantic upheaval which accompanied the Revolution of +1830. Dumas was attached again to the Orléans household. He dabbled in +animal magnetism, which had been called mesmerism, and now is known as +hypnotism. The phenomena are the same; only the explanations vary. +About 1830 there was a mania for animal magnetism in Paris; Lady +Louisa Stuart recounted some of the marvels to Sir Walter Scott, who +treated the reports with disdain. When writing his romance 'Joseph +Balsamo' (a tale of the French Revolution), Dumas made studies of +animal magnetism, and was, or believed himself to be, an adept. The +orthodox party of modern hypnotists merely hold that by certain +physical means, a state of somnambulism can be produced in certain +people. Once in that state, the patients are subject, to "suggestion," +and are obedient to the will of the hypnotizer. He for his part exerts +no "magnetic current," no novel unexplained force or fluid. Some recent +French and English experiments are not easily to be reconciled with this +hypothesis. Dumas himself believed that he exerted a magnetic force, and +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4963" id="Page_4963">[Pg 4963]</a></span> +without any "passes" or other mechanical means, could hypnotize persons who +did not know what he was about, and so were not influenced by "suggestion." +In a few cases he held that his patients became clairvoyant; one of +them made many political prophecies,—all unfulfilled. Another, +in trance, improved vastly as a singer; "her normal voice stopped at +<i>contre-si</i>. I bade her rise to <i>contre-re</i>, which she did; though +incapable of it when awake." So far, this justifies the plot of Mr. Du +Maurier's novel 'Trilby.' Dumas offers no theory; he states facts, as +he says, including "post-hypnotic suggestion."</p> + +<p>These experiments were made by Dumas merely as part of his studies for +'Joseph Balsamo' (Cagliostro); his conclusion was that hypnotism is +not yet reduced to a scientific formula. In fiction it is already +overworked. Dumas got his 'Christine' acted at last. Then broke out +the Revolution of 1830. Dumas's description of his activity is "as +good as a novel," but too long and varied for condensation. It seems +better to give this extract about his life of poverty before his +mother died, before fame visited him. (I quote Miss Cheape's +translation of the passage included in her 'Stories of Beasts,' +published by Longmans, Green and Company.)</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>He had, in later years, named a cat Mysouff II.</p> + +<p>"If you won't think me impertinent, sir," said Madame Lamarque, "I should +so like to know what Mysouff means."</p> + +<p>"Mysouff just means Mysouff, Madame Lamarque."</p> + +<p>"It is a cat's name, then?"</p> + +<p>"Certainly, since Mysouff the First was so-called. It is true, Madame +Lamarque, you never knew Mysouff." And I became so thoughtful that +Madame Lamarque was kind enough to withdraw quietly, without asking +any questions about Mysouff the First.</p> + +<p>That name had taken me back to fifteen years ago, when my mother was +still living. I had then the great happiness of having a mother to +scold me sometimes. At the time I speak of, I held a situation in the +service of the Duc d'Orléans, with a salary of 1500 francs. My work +occupied me from ten in the morning until five in the afternoon. We +had a cat in those days, whose name was Mysouff. This cat had missed +his vocation; he ought to have been a dog. Every morning I started for +my office at half-past nine, and came back every evening at half-past +five. Every morning Mysouff followed me to the corner of a particular +street, and every evening I found him in the same street, at the same +corner, waiting for me. Now the curious thing was that on the days +when I had found some amusement elsewhere, and was not coming home to +dinner, it was of no use to open the door for Mysouff to go and meet +me. Mysouff, in the attitude of the serpent with its tail in its +mouth, refused to stir from his cushion. On the other hand, on the +days I did come, Mysouff would scratch at the door until some one +opened it for him. My mother was very fond of Mysouff; she used to +call him her barometer.</p></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4964" id="Page_4964">[Pg 4964]</a></span></p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"Mysouff marks my good and my bad weather," my dear mother would +say: "the days you come in are my days of sunshine; my rainy days are +when you stay away."</p> + +<p>When I came home I used to see Mysouff at the street corner, sitting +quite still and gazing into the distance. As soon as he caught sight +of me, he began to move his tail; then as I drew nearer, he rose and +walked backward and forward across the pavement with his back arched +and his tail in the air. When I reached him, he jumped up upon me as a +dog would have done, and bounded and played round me as I walked +towards the house; but when I was close to it he dashed in at full +speed. Two seconds after, I used to see my mother at the door.</p> + +<p>Never again in this world, but perhaps in the next, I shall see her +standing waiting for me at the door.</p> + +<p>That is what I was thinking of, dear readers, when the name of Mysouff +brought back all these recollections; so you understand why I did not +answer Madame Lamarque's question.</p></div> + +<p>The life of Dumas after 1830 need not be followed step by step; +indeed, for lack of memoirs, to follow it is by no means easy.</p> + +<p>Dumas, by dint of successful plays, and later of successful novels, +earned large sums of money—£40,000 in one year, it is said. He +traveled far and wide, and compiled books of travel. In the forties, +before the Revolution of 1848, he built a kind of Abbotsford of his +own, named "Monte Cristo," near St. Germains, and joyously ruined +himself. "Monte Cristo," like Abbotsford, has been described as a +palace. Now, Abbotsford is so far from being a palace that Mr. +Hope Scott, when his wife, Scott's granddaughter, inherited the place, +was obliged to build an additional wing.</p> + +<p>At Monte Cristo Dumas kept but one man-servant, Michel (his "Tom +Purdie"), who was groom, keeper, porter, gardener, and everything. Nor +did Dumas ruin himself by paying exorbitant prices for poor lands, as +Scott did. His collection of books and curios was no rival for that of +Abbotsford. But like Scott, he gave away money to right and left, and +he kept open house. He was eaten up by parasites,—beggars, poor +greedy hangers-on of letters, secretaries, above all by tribes of +musical people. On every side money flowed from him; hard as he +worked, largely as he earned, he spent more. His very dog brought in +thirteen other dogs to bed and board. He kept monkeys, cats, eagles, a +vulture, a perfect menagerie. His own account of these guests may be +read in "My Pets"; perhaps the most humorous, good-humored, and +amusing of all his works.</p> + +<p>The Revolution of 1848 impoverished him and drove him from +Monte Cristo; not out of debt to his neighbors. Dumas was a cheerful +giver, but did not love to "fritter away his money in paying +bills." He started newspapers, such as The Musketeer, and rather +lost than gained by a careless editorship. A successful play would +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4965" id="Page_4965">[Pg 4965]</a></span> +enrich him, and he would throw away his gains. He went with +Garibaldi on his expedition against the King of Naples, and was +received with ingratitude by the Neapolitans.</p> + +<p>A friend of Daniel Dunglas Home, the "medium," he accompanied +him to Russia, where Home married a lady of a noble and wealthy +family. Returned to France, Dumas found his popularity waning. +His plays often failed; he had outlived his success and his generation; +he had saved nothing; he had to turn in need to his son +Alexandre, the famous dramatist. Finally he died, doubting the +security of his own fame, in the year of the sorrows of France.</p> + +<p>Dumas is described by Michelet as "a force of nature." Never +was there in modern literature a force more puissant, more capricious, +or more genial. His quantity of mind was out of all proportion +to its quality. He could learn everything with ease; he was a +skilled cook, a fencer; he knew almost as if by intuition the technique +and terminology of all arts and crafts. Ignorant of Greek, he +criticized and appreciated Homer with an unmatched zest and appreciation. +Into the dry bones of history he breathed life, mere names +becoming full-blooded fellow-creatures under his spell. His inspiration +was derived from Scott, a man far more learned than he, but +scarcely better gifted with creative energy. Like Scott he is long, +perhaps prolix; like him he is indifferent to niceties of style, does +not linger over the choice of words, but serves himself with the first +that comes to hand. Scott's wide science of human nature is not his; +but his heroes, often rather ruffianly, are seldom mere exemplary +young men of no particular mark. More brilliantly and rapidly than +Scott, he indicates action in dialogue. He does not aim at the construction +of rounded plots; his novels are chronicles which need never +stop while his heroes are alive. His plan is to take a canvas of fact, +in memoir or history, and to embroider his fantasies on that. Occasionally +the canvas (as Mr. Saintsbury says) shows through, and we +have blocks of actual history. His 'Joan of Arc' begins as a romance, +and ends with a comparatively plain statement of facts too +great for any art but Shakespeare's. But as a rule it is not historical +facts, it is the fictitious adventures of characters living in an +historical atmosphere, that entertain us in Dumas.</p> + +<p>The minute inquirer may now compare the sixteenth-century 'Memoirs of +Monsieur D'Artagnan' (fictitious memoirs, no doubt) with the use made +of them by Dumas in 'The Three Musketeers' and 'Twenty Years After.' +The 'Memoirs' (reprinted by the Librairie Illustrée, Paris) gave Dumas +his opening scenes; gave him young D'Artagnan, Porthos, Athos, Aramis, Rosnay, +De Treville, Milady, the whole complicated intrigue of Milady, D'Artagnan, +and De Vardes. They gave him several incidents, duels, and "local color." By +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4966" id="Page_4966">[Pg 4966]</a></span> +making Milady the wife of Athos, Dumas knotted his plot; +he added the journey to England, after the Queen's diamonds; +from a subordinate character he borrowed the clerical character +of Aramis; a mere hint in the 'Memoirs' suggested the Bastion +Saint-Gervais. The discrimination of character, the dialogue, and many +adventures, are Dumas's own; he was aided by Maquet in the actual +writing. In a similar way, Brantôme and L'Estoile, in their 'Memoirs,' +supply the canvas of the tales of the Valois cycle.</p> + +<p>The beginner in Dumas will assuredly find the following his best +works. For the Valois period, 'The Horoscope' (a good deal neglected), +'Queen Margot,' 'The Lady of Monsoreau,' 'The Forty-Five.' +'Isabeau of Bavière,' an early novel, deals with the anarchy and +misery before the coming of Jeanne d'Arc. For Henri II., 'The Two +Dianas' is indicated. For the times of Richelieu, Mazarin, Louis +XIV., we have 'The Three Musketeers,' 'Twenty Years After,' and +'The Viscount of Bragelonne.' These deal with the youth, middle +age, old age, and death of D'Artagnan, Porthos, Athos, and Aramis. +The Revolutionary novels, 'Joseph Balsamo,' 'The Queen's Necklace,' +and others, are much less excellent. The Regency is not ill done in +'The Regent's Daughter'; and 'The Chevalier of Harmenthal,' with +'Olympe of Cleves,' has many admirers. Quite apart from these is +the immense modern fantasy of 'The Count of Monte Cristo'; the +opening part alone is worthy of the master. 'The Black Tulip,' so +warmly praised by Thackeray, is an innocent little romance of the +days of Dutch William. <i>Les jeunes filles</i> may read 'The Black Tulip': +indeed, Dumas does not sacrifice at all to "the Goddess of Lubricity," +even when he describes very lax moralities.</p> + +<p>With a knowledge of these books, and of 'My Pets' and the +'Memoirs,' any student will find himself at home in Dumas, and can +make wider ranges in that great wilderness of fancy. Some autobiographical +details will be found in the novel called 'Ange Pithou.' +'Isaac Laquedem' was meant to be a romance of the Wandering +Jew; only two volumes are published. Philosophy a reader will not +find, nor delicate analysis, nor "chiseled style"; but he will be in +touch with a great sunny life, rejoicing in all the accidents of existence.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 190px;"> +<img src="images/sign308.png" width="190" height="74" alt="A. Lang" title="A. Lang" /> +</div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4967" id="Page_4967">[Pg 4967]</a></span></p> +<h3><a name="CURE" id="CURE"></a>THE CURE FOR DORMICE THAT EAT PEACHES</h3> + +<h4>From 'The Count of Monte Cristo'</h4> + +<p>Not on the same night he had intended, but the next morning, the Count +of Monte Cristo went out on the road to Orléans. Leaving the village +of Linas, without stopping at the telegraph, which at the moment the +count passed threw out its long bony arms, he reached the tower of +Montlhéry, situated, as every one knows, upon the highest point of the +plain of that name. At the foot of the hill the count dismounted, and +began to ascend the mountain by a little winding path about eighteen +inches wide; when he reached the summit he found himself stopped by a +hedge, upon which green fruit had succeeded to red and white flowers.</p> + +<p>Monte Cristo looked for the door of the inclosure, and was +not long in finding it. It was a little wooden gate, working on +willow hinges, and fastened with a nail and string. The count +soon understood its mechanism, and the door opened. He then +found himself in a little marvelously well-kept garden, about +twenty feet long by twelve wide, bounded on one side by part +of the hedge, in which was formed the ingenious machine we +have named a door; and on the other by the old tower, covered +with ivy and studded with wild flowers. Monte Cristo stopped, +after having closed the door and fastened the string to the nail, +and cast a look around.</p> + +<p>"The man at the telegraph," said he, "must either keep a gardener +or devote himself passionately to horticulture." Suddenly +he struck himself against something crouching behind a wheelbarrow +filled with leaves; the something rose, uttered an exclamation +of astonishment, and Monte Cristo found himself facing a +man about fifty years old, who was plucking strawberries, which +he was placing upon vine-leaves. He had twelve leaves and +about as many strawberries, which, on rising suddenly, he let +fall from his hand. "You are gathering your crop, sir?" said +Monte Cristo, smiling.</p> + +<p>"Excuse me, sir," replied the man, raising his hand to his +cap; "I am not up there, I know, but I have only just come +down."</p> + +<p>"Do not let me interfere with you in anything, my friend," +said the count; "gather your strawberries, if indeed there are +any left."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4968" id="Page_4968">[Pg 4968]</a></span> +"I have ten left," said the man, "for here are eleven, and I +had twenty-one, five more than last year. But I am not surprised; +the spring has been warm this year, and strawberries require +heat, sir. This is the reason that, instead of the sixteen I +had last year, I have this year, you see, eleven already plucked—twelve, +thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen. +Ah, I miss three! they were here last night, sir—I am sure +they were here—I counted them. It must be the son of Mother +Simon who has stolen them; I saw him strolling about here this +morning. Ah! the young rascal! stealing in a garden; he does +not know where that may lead him to."</p> + +<p>"Certainly, it is wrong," said Monte Cristo, "but you should +take into consideration the youth and greediness of the delinquent."</p> + +<p>"Of course," said the gardener, "but that does not make it +the less unpleasant. But, sir, once more I beg pardon; perhaps +you are an official that I am detaining here?" And he glanced +timidly at the count's blue coat.</p> + +<p>"Calm yourself, my friend," said the count, with that smile +which at his will became so terrible or benevolent, and which +this time beamed only with the latter expression; "I am not an +inspector, but a traveler, conducted here by curiosity he half repents +of, since he causes you to lose your time."</p> + +<p>"Ah! my time is not valuable," replied the man, with a melancholy +smile. "Still, it belongs to the government, and I ought not to +waste it; but having received the signal that I might rest for an +hour" (here he glanced at a sun-dial, for there was everything in +the inclosure of Montlhéry, even a sun-dial), "and having ten +minutes before me, and my strawberries being ripe, when a day +longer—by-the-by, sir, do you think dormice eat them?"</p> + +<p>"Indeed, I should think not," replied Monte Cristo: "dormice +are bad neighbors for us who do not eat them preserved, as the +Romans did."</p> + +<p>"What! did the Romans eat them?" said the gardener; "eat +dormice?"</p> + +<p>"I have read so," said the count.</p> + +<p>"Really! They can't be nice, though they do say 'as fat as +a dormouse.' It is not a wonder they are fat, sleeping all day, +and only waking to eat all night. Listen: last year I had four +apricots—they stole one; I had one nectarine, only one—well, +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4969" id="Page_4969">[Pg 4969]</a></span> +sir, they ate half of it on the wall; a splendid nectarine—I +never ate a better."</p> + +<p>"You ate it?"</p> + +<p>"That is to say, the half that was left—you understand; it was +exquisite, sir. Ah, those gentlemen never choose the worst morsels; +like Mother Simon's son, who has not chosen the worst strawberries. +But this year," continued the horticulturist, "I'll take care it shall +not happen, even if I should be forced to sit up the whole night to +watch when the strawberries are ripe." Monte Cristo had seen enough. +Every man has a devouring passion in his heart, as every fruit has its +worm; that of the man at the telegraph was horticulture. He began +gathering the vine-leaves which screened the sun from the grapes, and +won the heart of the gardener. "Did you come here, sir, to see the +telegraph?" he said.</p> + +<p>"Yes, if not contrary to the rules."</p> + +<p>"Oh no," said the gardener; "there are no orders against +doing so, providing there is nothing dangerous, and that no one +knows what we are saying."</p> + +<p>"I have been told," said the count, "that you do not always +yourselves understand the signals you repeat."</p> + +<p>"Certainly, sir; and that is what I like best," said the man, +smiling.</p> + +<p>"Why do you like that best?"</p> + +<p>"Because then I have no responsibility. I am a machine +then, and nothing else; and so long as I work, nothing more is +required of me."</p> + +<p>"Is it possible," said Monte Cristo to himself, "that I can +have met with a man that has no ambition? That would spoil +my plans."</p> + +<p>"Sir," said the gardener, glancing at the sun-dial, "the ten +minutes are nearly expired; I must return to my post. Will you +go up with me?"</p> + +<p>"I follow you." Monte Cristo entered the tower, which was divided into +three stages. The lowest contained gardening implements, such as +spades, rakes, watering-pots, hung against the wall; this was all the +furniture. The second was the usual dwelling or rather sleeping-place +of the man; it contained a few poor articles of household furniture, a +bed, a table, two chairs, a stone pitcher, and some dry herbs hung up +to the ceiling, which the count recognized as sweet-peas, and of which the good +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4970" id="Page_4970">[Pg 4970]</a></span> +man was preserving the seeds, having labeled them with as much care as if he had been a botanist.</p> + +<p>"Does it require much study to learn the art of telegraphing, +sir?" asked Monte Cristo.</p> + +<p>"The study does not take long; it was acting as a supernumerary +that was so tedious."</p> + +<p>"And what is the pay?"</p> + +<p>"A thousand francs, sir."</p> + +<p>"It is nothing."</p> + +<p>"No; but then we are lodged, as you perceive."</p> + +<p>Monte Cristo looked at the room. They passed on to the +third stage; it was the room of the telegraph. Monte Cristo +looked in turns at the two iron handles by which the machine +was worked. "It is very interesting," he said; "but it must be +very tedious for a lifetime."</p> + +<p>"Yes. At first my neck was cramped with looking at it, but +at the end of a year I became used to it; and then we have our +hours of recreation, and our holidays when we have a fog."</p> + +<p>"Ah, to be sure."</p> + +<p>"Those are indeed holidays to me; I go into the garden, I +plant, prune, trim, and kill the insects all day long."</p> + +<p>"How long have you been here?"</p> + +<p>"Ten years, and five as a supernumerary make fifteen."</p> + +<p>"You are—"</p> + +<p>"Fifty-five years old."</p> + +<p>"How long must you serve to claim the pension?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, sir, twenty-five years."</p> + +<p>"And how much is the pension?"</p> + +<p>"A hundred crowns."</p> + +<p>"Poor humanity!" murmured Monte Cristo.</p> + +<p>"What did you say, sir?" asked the man.</p> + +<p>"I was saying it was very interesting."</p> + +<p>"What was?"</p> + +<p>"All you were showing me. And you really understand none +of these signals?"</p> + +<p>"None at all."</p> + +<p>"And have you never tried to understand them?"</p> + +<p>"Never. Why should I?"</p> + +<p>"But still there are some signals only addressed to you."</p> + +<p>"Certainly."</p> + +<p>"And do you understand them?"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4971" id="Page_4971">[Pg 4971]</a></span> +"They are always the same."</p> + +<p>"And they mean—"</p> + +<p>"<i>Nothing new</i>; <i>You have an hour</i>; or <i>To-morrow</i>."</p> + +<p>"This is simple enough," said the count; "but look! is not +your correspondent putting himself in motion?"</p> + +<p>"Ah yes; thank you, sir."</p> + +<p>"And what is it saying—anything you understand?"</p> + +<p>"Yes; it asks if I am ready."</p> + +<p>"And you reply?"</p> + +<p>"By the same sign, which at the same time tells my right-hand +correspondent that I am ready, while it gives notice to my +left-hand correspondent to prepare in his turn."</p> + +<p>"It is very ingenious," said the count.</p> + +<p>"You will see," said the man, proudly; "in five minutes he +will speak."</p> + +<p>"I have then five minutes," said Monte Cristo to himself; +"it is more time than I require. My dear sir, will you allow me +to ask you a question?"</p> + +<p>"What is it, sir?"</p> + +<p>"You are fond of gardening?"</p> + +<p>"Passionately."</p> + +<p>"And you would be pleased to have, instead of this terrace +of twenty feet, an inclosure of two acres?"</p> + +<p>"Sir, I should make a terrestrial paradise of it."</p> + +<p>"You live badly on your thousand francs?"</p> + +<p>"Badly enough; but yet I do live."</p> + +<p>"Yes; but you have only a small garden."</p> + +<p>"True, the garden is not large."</p> + +<p>"And then, such as it is, it is filled with dormice, who eat +everything."</p> + +<p>"Ah! they are my scourges."</p> + +<p>"Tell me, should you have the misfortune to turn your head +while your right-hand correspondent was telegraphing—"</p> + +<p>"I should not see him."</p> + +<p>"Then what would happen?"</p> + +<p>"I could not repeat the signals."</p> + +<p>"And then?"</p> + +<p>"Not having repeated them, through negligence, I should be +fined."</p> + +<p>"How much?"</p> + +<p>"A hundred francs."</p> + +<p>"The tenth of your income—that would be fine work."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4972" id="Page_4972">[Pg 4972]</a></span> +"Ah!" said the man.</p> + +<p>"Has it ever happened to you?" said Monte Cristo.</p> + +<p>"Once, sir, when I was grafting a rose-tree."</p> + +<p>"Well, suppose you were to alter a signal, and substitute +another?"</p> + +<p>"Ah, that is another case; I should be turned off, and lose +my pension."</p> + +<p>"Three hundred francs."</p> + +<p>"A hundred crowns; yes, sir; so you see that I am not likely +to do any of these things."</p> + +<p>"Not even for fifteen years' wages? Come, it is worth thinking +about?"</p> + +<p>"For fifteen thousand francs!"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"Sir, you alarm me."</p> + +<p>"Nonsense!"</p> + +<p>"Sir, you are tempting me?"</p> + +<p>"Just so; fifteen thousand francs, do you understand?"</p> + +<p>"Sir, let me see my right-hand correspondent!"</p> + +<p>"On the contrary, do not look at him, but on this."</p> + +<p>"What is it?"</p> + +<p>"What! do you not know these little papers?"</p> + +<p>"Bank-notes!"</p> + +<p>"Exactly; there are fifteen of them."</p> + +<p>"And whose are they?"</p> + +<p>"Yours, if you like."</p> + +<p>"Mine!" exclaimed the man, half suffocated.</p> + +<p>"Yes; yours—your own property."</p> + +<p>"Sir, my right-hand correspondent is signaling."</p> + +<p>"Let him."</p> + +<p>"Sir, you have distracted me; I shall be fined."</p> + +<p>"That will cost you a hundred francs; you see it is your +interest to take my bank-notes."</p> + +<p>"Sir, my right-hand correspondent redoubles his signals; he is +impatient."</p> + +<p>"Never mind—take these;" and the count placed the packet +in the hands of the man. "Now, this is not all," he said; "you +cannot live upon your fifteen thousand francs."</p> + +<p>"I shall still have my place."</p> + +<p>"No! you will lose it, for you are going to alter the sign of +your correspondent."</p> + +<p>"Oh, sir, what are you proposing?"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4973" id="Page_4973">[Pg 4973]</a></span> +"A jest!"</p> + +<p>"Sir, unless you force me—"</p> + +<p>"I think I can effectually force you;" and Monte Cristo drew +another packet from his pocket. "Here are ten thousand more +francs," he said; "with the fifteen thousand already in your +pocket, they will make twenty-five thousand. With five thousand +you can buy a pretty little house with two acres of land; +the remaining twenty thousand will bring you in a thousand +francs a year."</p> + +<p>"A garden with two acres of land!"</p> + +<p>"And a thousand francs a year."</p> + +<p>"Oh heavens!"</p> + +<p>"Come, take them!" and Monte Cristo forced the bank-notes +into his hand.</p> + +<p>"What am I to do?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing very difficult."</p> + +<p>"But what is it?"</p> + +<p>"To repeat these signs;" Monte Cristo took a paper from his +pocket, upon which were drawn three signs, with numbers to +indicate the order in which they were to be worked.</p> + +<p>"There, you see it will not take long."</p> + +<p>"Yes; but—"</p> + +<p>"Do this, and you will have nectarines and all the rest." +The mark was hit: red with fever, while the large drops fell +from his brow, the man executed, one after the other, the three +signs given by the count; notwithstanding the frightful contortions +of the right-hand correspondent, who, not understanding the +change, began to think the gardener had become mad. As to +the left-hand one, he conscientiously repeated the same signals, +which were definitively carried to the Minister of the Interior. +"Now you are rich," said Monte Cristo.</p> + +<p>"Yes," replied the man, "but at what a price!"</p> + +<p>"Listen, friend," said Monte Cristo. "I do not wish to cause +you any remorse; believe me, then, when I swear to you that +you have wronged no man, but on the contrary have benefited +mankind." The man looked at the bank-notes, felt them, counted +them; he turned pale, then red; then rushed into his room to +drink a glass of water, but he had no time to reach the water-jug, +and fainted in the midst of his dried herbs. Five minutes +after the new telegram reached the minister, Debray had the +horses put to his carriage, and drove to Danglars's.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4974" id="Page_4974">[Pg 4974]</a></span> +"Has your husband any Spanish bonds?" he asked of the baroness.</p> + +<p>"I think so, indeed! He has six millions' worth."</p> + +<p>"He must sell them at whatever price."</p> + +<p>"Why?"</p> + +<p>"Because Don Carlos has fled from Bourges, and has returned +to Spain."</p> + +<p>"How do you know?"—Debray shrugged his shoulders. "The idea of asking +how I hear the news!" he said. The baroness did not wait for a +repetition; she ran to her husband, who immediately hastened to his +agent and ordered him to sell at any price. When it was seen that +Danglars sold, the Spanish funds fell directly. Danglars lost five +hundred thousand francs; but he rid himself of all his Spanish shares. +The same evening the following was read in Le Messager:—</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"Telegraphic dispatch. The King, Don Carlos, has escaped the +vigilance exercised over him at Bourges, and has returned to Spain +by the Catalonian frontier. Barcelona has risen in his favor."</p></div> + +<p>All that evening nothing was spoken of but the foresight of Danglars, +who had sold his shares, and of the luck of the stock-jobber, who only +lost five hundred thousand francs by such a blow. Those who had kept +their shares, or bought those of Danglars, looked upon themselves as +ruined, and passed a very bad night. Next morning Le Moniteur +contained the following:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"It was without any foundation that Le Messager yesterday announced +the flight of Don Carlos and the revolt of Barcelona. The +King (Don Carlos) has not left Bourges, and the peninsula is in the +enjoyment of profound peace. A telegraphic signal, improperly interpreted +owing to the fog, was the cause of this error."</p></div> + +<p>The funds rose one per cent, higher than before they had +fallen. This, reckoning his loss, and what he had missed gaining, +made the difference of a million to Danglars. "Good!" said +Monte Cristo to Morrel, who was at his house when the news +arrived of the strange reverse of fortune of which Danglars had +been the victim. "I have just made a discovery for twenty-five +thousand francs, for which I would have paid a hundred thousand."</p> + +<p>"What have you discovered?" asked Morrel.</p> + +<p>"I have just discovered the method of ridding a gardener of +the dormice that eat his peaches."</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4975" id="Page_4975">[Pg 4975]</a></span></p> +<h3><a name="SHOULDER" id="SHOULDER"></a>THE SHOULDER OF ATHOS, THE BELT OF PORTHOS, AND THE +HANDKERCHIEF OF ARAMIS</h3> + +<h4>From 'The Three Musketeers'</h4> + +<p>Furious with rage, D'Artagnan crossed the ante-room in three +strides, and began to descend the stairs four steps at a +time, without looking where he was going; when suddenly +he was brought up short by knocking violently against the +shoulder of a musketeer who was leaving the apartments of +M. De Treville. The young man staggered backwards from the +shock, uttering a cry, or rather a yell.</p> + +<p>"Excuse me," said D'Artagnan, trying to pass him, "but I +am in a great hurry."</p> + +<p>He had hardly placed his foot on the next step, when he was +stopped by the grasp of an iron wrist on his sash.</p> + +<p>"You are in a great hurry!" cried the musketeer, whose face +was the color of a shroud; "and you think that is enough apology +for nearly knocking me down? Not so fast, my young man. I +suppose you imagine that because you heard M. De Treville +speaking to us rather brusquely to-day, that everybody may treat +us in the same way? But you are mistaken, and it is as well +you should learn that you are not M. De Treville."</p> + +<p>"Upon my honor," replied D'Artagnan, recognizing Athos, who was +returning to his room after having his wound dressed, "upon my honor, +it was an accident, and therefore I begged your pardon. I should have +thought that was all that was necessary. I repeat that I am in a very +great hurry, and I should be much obliged if you would let me go my +way."</p> + +<p>"Monsieur," said Athos, loosening his hold, "you are sadly lacking in +courtesy, and one sees that you must have had a rustic upbringing."</p> + +<p>D'Artagnan was by this time half-way down another flight; but on +hearing Athos's remark he stopped short.</p> + +<p>"My faith, monsieur!" exclaimed he, "however rustic I may be, I shall +not come to you to teach me manners."</p> + +<p>"I am not so sure of that," replied Athos.</p> + +<p>"Oh, if I was only not in such haste," cried D'Artagnan; "if only I +was not pursuing somebody—"</p> + +<p>"Monsieur, you will find me without running after me. Do you +understand?"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4976" id="Page_4976">[Pg 4976]</a></span> +"And where, if you please?"</p> + +<p>"Near Carmes-Deschaux."</p> + +<p>"At what hour?"</p> + +<p>"Twelve o'clock."</p> + +<p>"Very good. At twelve I will be there."</p> + +<p>"And don't be late, for at a quarter past twelve I will cut off your +ears for you."</p> + +<p>"All right," called out D'Artagnan, dashing on down-stairs after his +man; "you may expect me at ten minutes before the hour."</p> + +<p>But he was not to escape so easily. At the street door stood Porthos, +talking to a sentry, and between the two men there was barely space +for a man to pass. D'Artagnan took it for granted that he could get +through, and darted on, swift as an arrow, but he had not reckoned on +the gale that was blowing. As he passed, a sudden gust wrapped +Porthos's mantle tight round him; and though the owner of the garment +could easily have freed him had he so chosen, for reasons of his own +he preferred to draw the folds still closer.</p> + +<p>D'Artagnan, hearing the volley of oaths let fall by the musketeers, +feared he might have damaged the splendor of the belt, and struggled +to unwind himself; but when he at length freed his head, he found that +like most things in this world the belt had two sides, and while the +front bristled with gold, the back was mere leather; which explains +why Porthos always had a cold and could not part from his mantle.</p> + +<p>"Confound you!" cried Porthos, struggling in his turn, "have you gone +mad, that you tumble over people like this?"</p> + +<p>"Excuse me," answered D'Artagnan, "but I am in a great hurry. I am +pursuing some one, and—"</p> + +<p>"And I suppose that on such occasions you leave your eyes behind you?" +asked Porthos.</p> + +<p>"No," replied D'Artagnan, rather nettled; "and thanks to my eyes, I +often see things that other people don't."</p> + +<p>Possibly Porthos might have understood this allusion, but in any case +he did not attempt to control his anger, and said sharply:—</p> + +<p>"Monsieur, we shall have to give you a lesson if you take to tumbling +against the musketeers like this!"</p> + +<p>"A lesson, monsieur!" replied D'Artagnan; "that is rather a severe +expression."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4977" id="Page_4977">[Pg 4977]</a></span> +"It is the expression of a man who is always accustomed to look his +enemies in the face."</p> + +<p>"Oh, if that is all, there is no fear of <i>your</i> turning your back on +anybody," and enchanted at his own wit, the young man walked away in +fits of laughter.</p> + +<p>Porthos foamed with rage, and rushed after D'Artagnan.</p> + +<p>"By-and-by, by-and-by," cried the latter; "when you have not got your +mantle on."</p> + +<p>"At one o'clock then, behind the Luxembourg."</p> + +<p>"All right; at one o'clock," replied D'Artagnan as he vanished around +the corner.</p> + +<p>But he could see no one either in the street he had passed through, or +in the one his eager gaze was searching; however slowly the stranger +might have walked, he had gone his way, or perhaps into some house. +D'Artagnan inquired of everybody he met, but could find nothing at all +about him. This chase however did him good in one way; for in +proportion as the sweat started out on his forehead, his heart began +to cool.</p> + +<p>He began to think over the many unlucky things which had happened. It +was scarcely eleven in the morning, and yet this morning had already +brought him into disgrace with M. Treville, who must think the way +D'Artagnan had left him was rather boorish.</p> + +<p>Moreover, he had gotten himself into two fierce duels with two men, +each able to kill three D'Artagnans; in a word, with two +musketeers,—beings he set so high that he placed them above all other +men.</p> + +<p>It was a sad lookout. To be sure, as the youth was certain to be +killed by Athos, he was not much disturbed about Porthos. As hope is +the last thing to die in a man's heart, however, he ended by hoping +that he might come out alive from both duels, even if dreadfully +injured; and on that supposition he scored himself in this way for his +conduct:—</p> + +<p>"What a rattle-headed dunce I am! That brave and unfortunate Athos was +wounded right on that shoulder I ran against head-foremost, like a +ram. The only thing that surprises me is that he didn't strike me dead +on the spot; he had provocation enough, for I must have hurt him +savagely. As to Porthos—oh! as to Porthos—that's a funny affair!"</p> + +<p>And the youth began to laugh aloud in spite of himself; looking round +carefully, however, to see if his laughing alone in public without +apparent cause aroused any suspicion.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4978" id="Page_4978">[Pg 4978]</a></span> +"As to Porthos, it is funny enough, to be sure, but I am a crazy +blockhead all the same. Are people to be run into without warning? No! +And have I any right to peep under their cloaks to see what they +haven't got? He would have forgiven me, I am sure, if I had said +nothing to him about that cursed cloak,—with a double meaning, it is +true, but too broad a joke in one of them! Ah! cursed Gascon that I +am, I believe I should crack a joke if I was being roasted over a slow +fire. Friend D'Artagnan," he went on, speaking to himself with the +gentleness he thought fair, "if you get away, which there is not much +chance of, I would advise you to practice entire politeness for the +future. You must henceforth be admired and quoted as a model of it. To +be obliging and civil does not necessarily make a man a coward. Look +at Aramis, now: mildness and grace embodied; and did anybody ever +dream of calling Aramis a coward? No indeed, and from this instant I +will try to model myself after him. And luckily, here he is."</p> + +<p>D'Artagnan, walking and soliloquizing, had come within a few steps of +the Aiguillon House, and in front of it saw Aramis chatting gayly with +three of the King's Guards. Aramis also saw D'Artagnan; but not having +forgotten that it was in his presence M. de Treville had got so angry +in the morning, and as a witness of the rebuke was not at all +pleasant, he pretended not to see him. D'Artagnan, on the other hand, +full of his plans of conciliation and politeness, approached the young +man with a profound bow accompanied by a most gracious smile. Aramis +bowed slightly but did not smile. Moreover, all four immediately broke +off their conversation.</p> + +<p>D'Artagnan was not so dull as not to see he was not wanted; but he was +not yet used enough to social customs to know how to extricate himself +dexterously from his false position, which his generally is who +accosts people he is little acquainted with, and mingles in a +conversation which does not concern him. He was mentally casting about +for the least awkward manner of retreat, when he noticed that Aramis +had let his handkerchief fall, and (doubtless by mistake) put his foot +on it. This seemed a favorable chance to repair his mistake of +intrusion: he stooped down, and with the most gracious air he could +assume, drew the handkerchief from under the foot in spite of the +efforts made to detain it, and holding it out to Aramis, said:—</p> + +<p>"I believe, sir, this is a handkerchief you would be sorry to lose?"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4979" id="Page_4979">[Pg 4979]</a></span> +The handkerchief was in truth richly embroidered, and had a cornet and +a coat of arms at one corner. Aramis blushed excessively, and snatched +rather than took the handkerchief.</p> + +<p>"Ha! ha!" exclaimed one of the guards, "will you go on saying now, +most discreet Aramis, that you are not on good terms with Madame de +Bois-Tracy, when that gracious lady does you the favor of lending you +her handkerchief!"</p> + +<p>Aramis darted at D'Artagnan one of those looks which tell a man that +he has made a mortal enemy; then assuming his mild air he said:—</p> + +<p>"You are mistaken, gentlemen: this handkerchief is not mine, and I +cannot understand why this gentleman has taken it into his head to +offer it to me rather than to one of you. And as a proof of what I +say, here is mine in my pocket."</p> + +<p>So saying, he pulled out his handkerchief, which was also not only a +very dainty one, and of fine linen (though linen was then costly), but +was embroidered and without arms, bearing only a single cipher, the +owner's.</p> + +<p>This time D'Artagnan saw his mistake; but Aramis's friends were by no +means convinced, and one of them, addressing the young musketeer with +pretended gravity, said:—</p> + +<p>"If things were as you make out, I should feel obliged, my dear +Aramis, to reclaim it myself; for as you very well know, Bois-Tracy is +an intimate friend of mine, and I cannot allow one of his wife's +belongings to be exhibited as a trophy."</p> + +<p>"You make the demand clumsily," replied Aramis; "and while I +acknowledge the justice of your reclamation, I refuse it on account of +the form."</p> + +<p>"The fact is," D'Artagnan put in hesitatingly, "I did not actually see +the handkerchief fall from M. Aramis's pocket. He had his foot on it, +that's all, and I thought it was his."</p> + +<p>"And you were deceived, my dear sir," replied Aramis coldly, very +little obliged for the explanation; then turning to the guard who had +professed himself Bois-Tracy's friend—"Besides," he went on, "I have +reflected, my dear intimate friend of Bois-Tracy, that I am not less +devotedly his friend than you can possibly be, so that this +handkerchief is quite as likely to have fallen from your pocket as +from mine!"</p> + +<p>"On my honor, no!"</p> + +<p>"You are about to swear on your honor, and I on my word; and +then it will be pretty evident that one of us will have lied. +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4980" id="Page_4980">[Pg 4980]</a></span> +Now here, Montaran, we will do better than that: let each take a half."</p> + +<p>"Perfectly fair," cried the other two guardsmen; "the judgment of +Solomon! Aramis, you are certainly full of wisdom!"</p> + +<p>They burst into a loud laugh, and as may be supposed, the incident +bore no other fruit. In a minute or two the conversation stopped, and +the three guards and the musketeer, after heartily shaking hands, +separated, the guards going one way and Aramis another.</p> + +<p>"Now is the time to make my peace with this gentleman," said +D'Artagnan to himself, having stood on one side during all the latter +part of the conversation; and in this good spirit drawing near to +Aramis, who was going off without paying any attention to him, he +said:—</p> + +<p>"You will excuse me, I hope."</p> + +<p>"Ah!" interrupted Aramis, "permit me to observe to you, sir, that you +have not acted in this affair as a man of good breeding ought."</p> + +<p>"What!" cried D'Artagnan, "do you suppose—"</p> + +<p>"I suppose that you are not a fool, and that you knew very well, even +though you come from Gascony, that people do not stand on +handkerchiefs for nothing. What the devil! Paris is not paved with +linen!"</p> + +<p>"Sir, you do wrong in trying to humiliate me," said D'Artagnan, in +whom his native pugnacity began to speak louder than his peaceful +resolutions. "I come from Gascony, it is true; and since you know it, +there is no need to tell you that Gascons are not very patient, so +that when they have asked pardon once, even for a folly, they think +they have done at least as much again as they ought to have done."</p> + +<p>"Sir, what I say to you about this matter," said Aramis, "is not for +the sake of hunting a quarrel. Thank Heaven, I am not a swashbuckler, +and being a musketeer only for a while, I only fight when I am forced +to do so, and always with great reluctance; but this time the affair +is serious, for here is a lady compromised by you."</p> + +<p>"By us, you mean," cried D'Artagnan.</p> + +<p>"Why did you give me back the handkerchief so awkwardly?"</p> + +<p>"Why did you let it fall so awkwardly?"</p> + +<p>"I have said that the handkerchief did not fall from my pocket."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4981" id="Page_4981">[Pg 4981]</a></span> +"Well, by saying that you have told two lies, sir; for I saw it fall."</p> + +<p>"Oh ho! you take it up that way, do you, Master Gascon? Well, I will +teach you how to behave yourself."</p> + +<p>"And I will send you back to your pulpit, Master Priest. Draw, if you +please, and instantly—"</p> + +<p>"Not so, if you please, my good friend; not here, at least. Do you not +see that we are opposite Aiguillon House, full of the Cardinal's +creatures? How do I know that it is not his Eminence who has honored +you with the commission to bring him in my head? Now, I entertain an +absurd partiality for my head, it seems to suit my shoulders so +finely. I have no objection to killing you, you may be sure, but +quietly, in a snug, distant spot, where you will not be able to boast +of your death to anybody."</p> + +<p>"I agree, but don't be too confident; and take away your +handkerchief—whether it belongs to you or somebody else, perhaps you +may stand in need of it to bandage up a wound. As a Gascon, I don't +put off engagements for prudence's sake."</p> + +<p>"Prudence is a virtue useless enough to musketeers, I know, but +indispensable to churchmen; and as I am only a temporary musketeer, I +hold it best to be prudent. At two o'clock I shall have the honor of +expecting you at Treville's. There I will point out the best place and +time to you."</p> + +<p>The two bowed and separated. Aramis went up the street which led to +the Luxembourg; while D'Artagnan, seeing that the appointed hour was +coming near, took the road to the Carmes-Deschaux, saying to himself, +"I certainly cannot hope to come out of these scrapes alive; but if I +am doomed to be killed, it will be by a royal musketeer."</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="DEFENSE" id="DEFENSE"></a>THE DEFENSE OF THE BASTION SAINT-GERVAIS</h3> + +<h4>From 'The Three Musketeers'</h4> + +<p>When D'Artagnan arrived, he found his three friends all together. +Athos was thinking deeply, Porthos was twirling his mustache, and +Aramis was reading his prayers out of a beautiful little book bound in +blue velvet.</p> + +<p>"My faith, gentlemen!" exclaimed he, "I hope that what you +have to tell me is very important, or I shall owe you a grudge +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4982" id="Page_4982">[Pg 4982]</a></span> +for dragging me here, out of my bed, after a whole night passed in taking and +dismantling a bastion! Ah, it is a thousand pities you were not there! +It was warm work!"</p> + +<p>"We were somewhere else, where it was not very cold either," replied +Porthos, giving his mustache another twist....</p> + +<p>"Aramis," said Athos, "didn't you breakfast the other day at +Parpaillot's?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"Were you comfortable there?"</p> + +<p>"No, I did not like it at all. It was a fast day, and they had nothing +but meat."</p> + +<p>"What, no fish to be had in a seaport town?"</p> + +<p>"They say," replied Aramis, taking up his book, "that they have all +taken to the deep sea, since the Cardinal built that dike."</p> + +<p>"That is not what I was asking," replied Athos. "Were you quite free +and at your ease, or did any one pay attention to you?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, nobody paid any attention to me. And if <i>that</i> is your object, +Athos, Parpaillot's will suit us very well."</p> + +<p>"Let us go at once then," said Athos, "for these walls are like +paper."</p> + +<p>On the way they met Grimaud [the valet of Athos], whom Athos beckoned +silently to follow them. Grimaud, according to his custom, obeyed +without a word. The poor fellow had almost forgotten how to speak!</p> + +<p>It did not take them long to reach Parpaillot's, but unluckily the +hour was ill chosen for a private conference. The <i>réveille</i> had just +been sounded, and the sleepy soldiers were all pouring into the inn. +This state of matters delighted the landlord, but was hardly so +agreeable to the four friends, who merely nodded sulkily at the +salutations of the crowd.</p> + +<p>"If we are not careful," said Athos, rousing himself, "we shall find +ourselves landed in some quarrel, which would be highly inconvenient +at this moment. D'Artagnan, tell us about your night's work, and then +we will tell you about ours."</p> + +<p>"Ah yes," said a light-horse soldier, who was slowly sipping a glass +of brandy, "you were down at the trenches last night, I think, and I +believe you had a brush with the Rochellois."</p> + +<p>D'Artagnan looked at Athos, to see if he ought to answer or not.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4983" id="Page_4983">[Pg 4983]</a></span> +"My dear fellow," replied Athos, "I don't think you are aware that M. +De Busigny did you the honor to address you! Since these gentlemen are +interested in last night's affair, tell them about it."</p> + +<p>"Is it true that you captured a bastion?" asked a Swiss, who +had filled his beer up with rum.</p> + +<p>"Yes, monsieur," replied D'Artagnan, "we had that honor. +We also introduced a barrel of powder into a corner, which in +exploding opened a really beautiful breach; and as the bastion +was not built yesterday, the whole building was severely shaken."</p> + +<p>"What bastion was it?" said a dragoon, who was holding a +goose on the point of his sword, and cooking it at the fire.</p> + +<p>"The Bastion Saint-Gervais," replied D'Artagnan; "the Rochellois +behind it were always annoying our men."</p> + +<p>"And there was a good deal of sharp-shooting?"</p> + +<p>"A good deal. We lost five men, and the Rochellois eight or +ten."</p> + +<p>"But this morning," went on the light-horseman, "they will +probably send down some pioneers to rebuild the bastion."</p> + +<p>"Yes, probably," answered D'Artagnan.</p> + +<p>"Gentlemen," broke in Athos, "I want to propose a bet."</p> + +<p>"What bet?" asked the light-horseman.</p> + +<p>"I bet you, M. De Busigny, that I and my three friends +Porthos, Aramis, and D'Artagnan, will breakfast in the Bastion +Saint-Gervais, and will hold it an hour by the clock, against all +comers."</p> + +<p>Porthos and Aramis looked at each other. They were beginning +to understand what Athos had in his head.</p> + +<p>"But," objected D'Artagnan, leaning over to whisper to +Athos, "we shall be killed without a chance of escape."</p> + +<p>"We shall be killed a great deal more certainly if we don't +go," replied Athos.</p> + +<p>"Ah!" ejaculated Porthos, twirling his mustache, "that is a +grand bet."</p> + +<p>"I take it," said M. De Busigny; "let us fix the stakes."</p> + +<p>"That is easily done," replied Athos. "We are four and you +are four. The loser shall give the whole eight a dinner."</p> + +<p>"Very well, let us agree to that," said M. De Busigny and the +dragoon.</p> + +<p>"Your breakfast is ready, gentlemen," broke in the landlord +at this instant.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4984" id="Page_4984">[Pg 4984]</a></span> +"Then bring it here," answered Athos.</p> + +<p>The landlord obeyed, and Athos, making a sign to Grimaud, +pointed out a large basket standing in a corner, which he was to +fill with wine and food.</p> + +<p>"But where are you going to eat it?" asked the landlord.</p> + +<p>"What does that matter to you as long as you are paid?" +replied Athos, throwing two pistoles on the table. Then, turning +to M. De Busigny, he observed:—</p> + +<p>"Will you have the kindness, monsieur, to set your watch by +mine, or let me set mine by yours?"</p> + +<p>"Certainly, monsieur," said the light-horseman, drawing out +a beautiful watch incrusted with diamonds; "half-past seven."</p> + +<p>"Five-and-twenty minutes to eight. So I am five minutes +faster than you;" and bowing to the rest of the company, the +four young men took the road to the Bastion Saint-Gervais, +followed by Grimaud carrying the basket. He had not the faintest +idea where they were going, or what they were to do, but +Athos had given his orders, and he always obeyed without questioning.</p> + +<p>As long as they were within the camp, the four friends remained +silent; but once they had passed the wall of circumvallation, +D'Artagnan, who was completely in the dark, thought it was time to ask +for an explanation.</p> + +<p>"And now, my dear Athos," said he, "will you be good +enough to tell me where we are bound for?"</p> + +<p>"Why, for the bastion, of course."</p> + +<p>"And what are we to do when we get there?"</p> + +<p>"I told you before. We are going to breakfast."</p> + +<p>"But why didn't we do that at Parpaillot's?"</p> + +<p>"Because we had some important matters to discuss, and it +was impossible to talk for five minutes at that inn, with all those +people coming and going, and perpetually bowing and speaking +to you. Here at least," continued Athos, pointing to the bastion, +"we shall not be interrupted."</p> + +<p>"It seems to me," said D'Artagnan, with the caution which +was as much his characteristic as his foolhardy courage, "it seems +to me that we might have found some secluded place among the +sand-hills on the sea-shore."</p> + +<p>"Oh, somebody would have seen, and in a quarter of an hour +spies would have informed the Cardinal that we were holding +council."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4985" id="Page_4985">[Pg 4985]</a></span> +"Yes," said Aramis. "Athos is right. <i>Animadvertuntur in desertis.</i>"</p> + +<p>"A desert would have done very well," replied Porthos; "but +first we should have to find it."</p> + +<p>"There is no desert where a bird cannot fly overhead, or a +fish jump out of the water, or a rabbit run out of his hole; and +bird, fish, and rabbit have all become spies of the Cardinal. +Much better to go on with our adventure, which we cannot now +give up without dishonor. We have made a bet, and a bet on the +spur of the moment; a bet of which I defy any one to guess +the true meaning. To win it, we must hold the bastion for an +hour. Either they will attack us, or they won't. If we are left +unmolested, we shall have plenty of time to talk without any +one overhearing us, for I will answer for the walls of this bastion +having no ears. If they try to dislodge us, we can talk all +the same, and in defending our position shall cover ourselves +with glory. You see that from every point of view we have the +whip hand."</p> + +<p>"Yes," said D'Artagnan, "but most certainly we shall attract +some stray bullet."</p> + +<p>"My good fellow," remarked Athos, "do you really think that +the enemy's bullets are those we have most cause to fear?"</p> + +<p>"But surely, if we were embarking on such an expedition, we +ought to have brought our muskets?"</p> + +<p>"Porthos, you are a goose! What would be the good of burdening +ourselves with anything so useless?"</p> + +<p>"I should hardly think that a heavy musket, a dozen cartridges, and +a powder flask would be useless when one is in the presence of an +enemy."</p> + +<p>"Dear me!" said Athos, "didn't you hear what D'Artagnan +was saying?"</p> + +<p>"What did D'Artagnan say?" asked Porthos.</p> + +<p>"He said that during last night's attack eight or ten Frenchmen +were killed, and as many Rochellois."</p> + +<p>"Well?"</p> + +<p>"Well, hasn't everybody been too busy ever since to think of +stripping the dead bodies?"</p> + +<p>"What then?"</p> + +<p>"What then? Why, we shall find their muskets, their flasks, +and their cartridges, all waiting for us; and instead of four muskets +and twelve charges, there will be fifteen pieces and a hundred bullets."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4986" id="Page_4986">[Pg 4986]</a></span> +"O Athos," exclaimed Aramis, "you are a great man!"</p> + +<p>Porthos nodded approval; only D'Artagnan did not seem to +be convinced; and Grimaud appeared to have his doubts, for +seeing they were still making for the bastion (which up to that +moment he had declined to believe), he plucked his master by +the coat.</p> + +<p>"Where are we going?" he asked by a sign.</p> + +<p>Athos pointed out the bastion.</p> + +<p>"But," objected Grimaud, speaking always in pantomime, +"we shall leave our bodies there."</p> + +<p>Athos raised his hands and eyes to heaven. Grimaud placed +his basket on the ground and sat down, shaking his head.</p> + +<p>Athos took a pistol from his belt, looked to see if it was well +primed, cocked it, and approached the barrel to Grimaud's ear. +Grimaud was on his legs again, as if by magic. Athos then +signed to him to take up the basket and go on.</p> + +<p>Grimaud obeyed.</p> + +<p>When they reached the bastion, the four friends turned round +and beheld over three hundred soldiers assembled at the gate of +the camp; M. De Busigny, the dragoon, the Swiss, and their +silent companion forming a group apart.</p> + +<p>Athos removed his hat, put it on the edge of his sword, and +waved it in the air.</p> + +<p>The spectators returned his salute and gave a great hurrah, +which penetrated to their ears even at that distance. Then all +four disappeared inside the bastion, where Grimaud had preceded +them.</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="CONSULTATION" id="CONSULTATION"></a>THE CONSULTATION OF THE MUSKETEERS</h3> +<h4>From 'The Three Musketeers'</h4> + +<p>As Athos had assumed, the bastion was only occupied by a +dozen dead men, French and Rochellois.</p> + +<p>"Gentlemen," said Athos, to whom the command of the +expedition naturally fell, "while Grimaud lays out breakfast, we +will begin by picking up the muskets and cartridges, and of +course there is nothing in this employment to prevent our talking. +Our friends here," he added, pointing to the dead, "will pay no +attention to us."</p> + +<p>"But after we have made sure they have nothing in their +pockets, we had better throw them into the trench," said Porthos.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4987" id="Page_4987">[Pg 4987]</a></span> +"Yes," replied Athos, "that is Grimaud's business."</p> + +<p>"Well then," said D'Artagnan, "let Grimaud search them, +and after he has done so, throw them over the wall."</p> + +<p>"He shall do nothing of the sort," replied Athos; "we may +find them useful yet."</p> + +<p>"You are going mad, my good fellow! Of what use can +these dead men be?"</p> + +<p>"Don't judge hastily, say the gospel and the Cardinal," replied +Athos. "How many guns have we got?"</p> + +<p>"Twelve," said Aramis.</p> + +<p>"How many charges?"</p> + +<p>"A hundred."</p> + +<p>"That will do. Now let us load."</p> + +<p>They set to work; and as they finished loading the last gun, +Grimaud made a sign that breakfast was ready.</p> + +<p>By a gesture Athos replied that they were ready also, and +then pointed out a pepper-box turret, where Grimaud was to +keep watch. To help him pass the time Athos allowed him to +take some bread, two cutlets, and a bottle of wine....</p> + +<p>"Now," said D'Artagnan, "that there is no chance of our +being overheard, I hope you will tell us your secret."</p> + +<p>"I trust, gentlemen, to give you both pleasure and glory at +once," replied Athos. "I have made you take a charming walk, +and now here is an excellent breakfast; while below, as you may +see through the loop-holes, are five hundred persons, who consider +us to be either lunatics or heroes,—two classes of idiots +who have much in common...."</p> + +<p>"What is the matter, Grimaud? As the circumstances are +grave, I will allow you to speak, but be short, I beg. What +is it?"</p> + +<p>"A troop."</p> + +<p>"How many?"</p> + +<p>"Twenty?"</p> + +<p>"What are they?"</p> + +<p>"Sixteen pioneers, four soldiers."</p> + +<p>"How far off?"</p> + +<p>"Five hundred paces."</p> + +<p>"Then we have just time to finish this fowl and drink your +health, D'Artagnan."</p> + +<p>A few minutes later the troop hove in sight, marching along +a narrow trench that connected the bastion and the town.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4988" id="Page_4988">[Pg 4988]</a></span> +"Bah!" said Athos. "It was scarcely worth while disturbing +ourselves for a mere handful of rascals armed with pickaxes, +hoes, and shovels. Grimaud had only got to make them a sign +to return whence they came, and I am sure they would have left +us in peace."</p> + +<p>"I doubt it," said D'Artagnan, "for they are advancing steadily. +And besides the sappers, there are four soldiers and a brigadier, +all armed with muskets."</p> + +<p>"It is only because they have not seen us," replied Athos.</p> + +<p>"Upon my honor," cried Aramis, "I feel quite ashamed to +fire on poor devils like that."</p> + +<p>"False priest!" exclaimed Porthos, "to have pity on heretics."</p> + +<p>"Aramis is right," said Athos. "I will warn them."</p> + +<p>"What on earth are you doing?" said D'Artagnan. "You will +get yourself shot, my good fellow."</p> + +<p>But Athos paid no attention to this remark, and mounting the breach, +his hat in one hand and his musket in the other, he addressed the +troop, who were so astonished at this unexpected apparition that they +halted about fifty paces distant. "Gentlemen," he said, bowing +courteously as he spoke, "I am at this moment breakfasting with some +friends in the shelter of this bastion. As you know, there is nothing +so unpleasant as to be disturbed during your meals; therefore we +should be greatly obliged if you would postpone any business you may +have here, till we have finished, or else call again. Unless, indeed, +you have the happy inspiration to quit the side of rebellion, and to +drink, with us, to the health of the King of France."</p> + +<p>"Do take care, Athos!" exclaimed D'Artagnan; "don't you see +they are aiming at you?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes, of course," said Athos; "but they are only civilians, +who don't know how to shoot; and they will never touch me."</p> + +<p>He had scarcely uttered the words when four muskets fired +simultaneously. The balls fell round Athos, but not one grazed +him.</p> + +<p>Four muskets immediately answered, but these were better +directed than the others. Three of the soldiers fell dead, and +one of the sappers was wounded.</p> + +<p>"Grimaud, another musket," said Athos, who was still on +the breach. Grimaud obeyed; a second volley was fired; the +brigadier and two pioneers fell dead, and the rest of the troop +took flight.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4989" id="Page_4989">[Pg 4989]</a></span> +"Now we must make a sortie," cried Athos; and the four +comrades dashed out of the fort, picked up the muskets belonging +to the dead soldiers, and retreated to the bastion, carrying +the trophies of their victory....</p> + +<p>"To arms!" called Grimaud.</p> + +<p>The young men jumped up and ran for their muskets.</p> + +<p>This time the advancing troop was composed of twenty or +twenty-five men, but they were no longer sappers, but soldiers +of the garrison.</p> + +<p>"Hadn't we better return to the camp?" said Porthos. "The +fight is not equal at all."</p> + +<p>"Impossible, for three reasons," said Athos. "First, because +we haven't finished breakfast; second, because we have several +important things to discuss; and third, because there are still ten +minutes before the hour is up."</p> + +<p>"Well, anyway," remarked Aramis, "we had better have some +plan of campaign."</p> + +<p>"It is very simple," replied Athos. "The moment the enemy +is within reach, we fire. If they still come on, we fire again, +and go on firing as long as our guns are loaded. If any of +them are left, and they try to carry the place by assault, we +will let them get well into the ditch, and then drop on their +heads a piece of the wall, that only keeps poised by a kind of +miracle."</p> + +<p>"Bravo," cried Porthos. "Athos, you were born to be a general; +and the Cardinal, who thinks himself a great commander, +is not to be compared to you."</p> + +<p>"Gentlemen," replied Athos, "remember, one thing at a time. +Cover your man well."</p> + +<p>"I have mine," said D'Artagnan.</p> + +<p>"And I," said Porthos and Aramis.</p> + +<p>"Then fire;" and as Athos gave the word, the muskets rang +out and four men fell. Then the drum beat, and the little army +advanced to the charge, while all the while the fire was kept up, +irregularly, but with a sure aim. The Rochellois however did +not flinch, but came on steadily.</p> + +<p>When they reached the foot of the bastion, the enemy still +numbered twelve or fifteen. A sharp fire received them, but +they never faltered, and leaping the trench, prepared to scale the +breach.</p> + +<p>"Now, comrades!" cried Athos. "Let us make an end of +them. To the wall!"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4990" id="Page_4990">[Pg 4990]</a></span> +And all four, aided by Grimaud, began to push with their +guns a huge block of wall, which swayed as if with the wind, +and then rolled slowly down into the trench. A horrible cry +was heard, a cloud of dust mounted upwards; and all was silent.</p> + +<p>"Have we crushed them all, do you think?" asked Athos.</p> + +<p>"It looks like it," answered D'Artagnan.</p> + +<p>"No," said Porthos, "for two or three are limping off."</p> + +<p>Athos looked at his watch.</p> + +<p>"Gentlemen," he said, "an hour has elapsed since we came +here, and we have won our bet." ...</p> + +<p>"What is going on in the town?" asked Athos.</p> + +<p>"It is a call to arms."</p> + +<p>They listened, and the sound of a drum reached their ears.</p> + +<p>"They must be sending us an entire regiment," said Athos.</p> + +<p>"You don't mean to fight a whole regiment?" said Porthos.</p> + +<p>"Why not?" asked the musketeer. "If we had only had the +sense to bring another dozen bottles, I could make head against +an army!"</p> + +<p>"As I live, the drum is coming nearer," said D'Artagnan.</p> + +<p>"Let it," replied Athos. "It takes a quarter of an hour to get from +here to the town, so it takes a quarter of an hour to get from the +town here. That is more than enough time for us to arrange our plans. +If we leave this, we shall never find such a good position.... But I +must first give Grimaud his orders;" and Athos made a sign to his +servant.</p> + +<p>"Grimaud," said he, pointing to the dead who were lying on +the bastion, "you will take these gentlemen and prop them up +against the wall, and put their hats on their heads and their guns +in their hands."</p> + +<p>"Great man!" ejaculated D'Artagnan; "I begin to see."</p> + +<p>"You do?" asked Porthos.</p> + +<p>"Do <i>you</i> understand, Grimaud?" said Aramis.</p> + +<p>Grimaud nodded.</p> + +<p>"Then we are all right," said Athos....</p> + +<p>"On guard!" cried D'Artagnan. "Look at those red and +black points moving down there! A regiment, did you call it, +Athos?—it is a perfect army!"</p> + +<p>"My word, yes!" said Athos, "there they come! How cunning +to beat neither drums nor trumpets. Are you ready, Grimaud?"</p> + +<p>Grimaud silently nodded, and showed them a dozen dead men, +arranged skillfully in various attitudes, some porting arms, some +taking aim, others drawing their swords.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4991" id="Page_4991">[Pg 4991]</a></span> +"Well done!" exclaimed Athos, "it does honor to your imagination."</p> + +<p>"If it is all the same to you," said Porthos, "I should like to +understand what is going on."</p> + +<p>"Let us get away first," replied D'Artagnan, "and you will +understand after."</p> + +<p>"One moment, please! Give Grimaud time to clear away the +breakfast."</p> + +<p>"Ah!" said Aramis; "the red and black specks are becoming +more distinct, and I agree with D'Artagnan that we have no time +to lose before we regain the camp."</p> + +<p>"Very well," rejoined Athos, "I have nothing to say against +retreating. The wager was for an hour, and we have been here +an hour and a half. Let us be off at once."</p> + +<p>The four comrades went out at the back, following Grimaud, +who had already departed with the basket.</p> + +<p>"Oh!" cried Athos, stopping suddenly, "what the devil is to +be done?"</p> + +<p>"Has anything been forgotten?" asked Aramis.</p> + +<p>"Our flag, man, our flag! We can't leave our flag in the +enemy's hands, if it is nothing but a napkin." And Athos dashed +again into the bastion, and bore away the flag unhurt, amid a +volley of balls from the Rochellois.</p> + +<p>He waved his flag, while turning his back on the troops of +the town, and saluting those of the camp. From both sides arose +great cries, of anger on the one hand and enthusiasm on the +other, and the napkin, pierced with three bullet-holes, was in +truth transformed into a flag. "Come down, come down!" they +shouted from the camp.</p> + +<p>Athos came down, and his friends, who had awaited him +anxiously, received him with joy.</p> + +<p>"Be quick, Athos," said D'Artagnan; "now that we have got +everything but money, it would be stupid to get killed."</p> + +<p>But Athos would not hurry himself, and they had to keep +pace with him.</p> + +<p>By this time Grimaud and his basket were well beyond bullet +range, while in the distance the sounds of rapid firing might be +heard.</p> + +<p>"What are they doing?" asked Porthos; "what are they +firing at?"</p> + +<p>"At our dead men," replied Athos.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4992" id="Page_4992">[Pg 4992]</a></span> +"But they don't fire back."</p> + +<p>"Exactly so; therefore the enemy will come to the conclusion +that there is an ambuscade. They will hold a council, and send +an envoy with a flag of truce, and when they at last find out the +joke, we shall be out of reach. So it is no use getting apoplexy +by racing."</p> + +<p>"Oh, I understand," said Porthos, full of astonishment.</p> + +<p>"That is a mercy!" replied Athos, shrugging his shoulders, as +they approached the camp, which was watching their progress in +a ferment of admiration.</p> + +<p>This time a new fusillade was begun, and the balls whistled +close to the heads of the four victors and fell about their ears. +The Rochellois had entered the bastion.</p> + +<p>"What bad shooting!" said D'Artagnan. "How many was it +we killed? Twelve?"</p> + +<p>"Twelve or fifteen."</p> + +<p>"And how many did we crush?"</p> + +<p>"Eight or ten."</p> + +<p>"And not a scratch to show for it."</p> + +<p>"Ah, what is that on your hand, D'Artagnan? It looks to me +like blood."</p> + +<p>"It's nothing," replied D'Artagnan.</p> + +<p>"A spent ball?"</p> + +<p>"Not even that."</p> + +<p>"But what is it, then?" As we have said, the silent and resolute +Athos loved D'Artagnan like his own son, and showed every +now and then all the anxiety of a father.</p> + +<p>"The skin is rubbed off, that is all," said D'Artagnan. "My +fingers were caught between two stones—the stone of the wall +and the stone of my ring."</p> + +<p>"That is what comes of having diamonds," remarked Athos +disdainfully....</p> + +<p>"Here we are at the camp, and they are coming to meet us +and bring us in triumphantly."</p> + +<p>And he only spoke the truth, for the whole camp was in a +turmoil. More than two thousand people had gazed, as at a play, +at the lucky bit of braggadocio of the four friends,—braggadocio +of which they were far from suspecting the real motive. The +cry of "Long live the musketeers," resounded on all sides, and +M. De Busigny was the first to hold out his hand to Athos and +to declare that he had lost his wager. The dragoon and the +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4993" id="Page_4993">[Pg 4993]</a></span> +Swiss had followed him, and all the others had followed the +dragoon and the Swiss. There was nothing but congratulations, +hand-shakings, embraces; and the tumult became so great that +the Cardinal thought there must be a revolt, and sent La Houdinière, +his captain of guards, to find out what was the matter.</p> + +<p>"Well?" asked the Cardinal, as his messenger returned.</p> + +<p>"Well, monseigneur," replied La Houdinière, "it is about +three musketeers and a guardsman who made a bet with M. De +Busigny to go and breakfast at the Bastion Saint-Gervais, and +while breakfasting, held it for two hours against the enemy, and +killed I don't know how many Rochellois."</p> + +<p>"You asked the names of these gentlemen?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, monseigneur."</p> + +<p>"What are they?"</p> + +<p>"Athos, Porthos, and Aramis."</p> + +<p>"Always my three heroes," murmured the Cardinal. "And +the guardsman?"</p> + +<p>"M. D'Artagnan."</p> + +<p>"Always my young rogue! I must gain over these men."</p> + +<p>And the same evening, the Cardinal had a conversation with +M. De Treville about the morning's exploit, with which the whole +camp was still ringing. M. De Treville, who had heard it all +at first hand, gave his Eminence all the details, not forgetting +the episode of the napkin.</p> + +<p>"Very good, M. De Treville," said the Cardinal; "but you +must get me that napkin, and I will have three golden lilies embroidered +on it, and give as a banner to your company."</p> + +<p>"Monseigneur," replied M. De Treville, "that would be an +injustice to the guards. M. D'Artagnan does not belong to me, +but to M. Des Essarts."</p> + +<p>"Then you must take him," said the Cardinal. "As these +four brave soldiers love each other so much, they ought certainly +to be in the same regiment."</p> + +<p>That evening M. De Treville announced the good news to the +three musketeers and to D'Artagnan, and invited them all to +breakfast the following day.</p> + +<p>D'Artagnan was nearly beside himself with joy. As we know, +it had been the dream of his life to be a musketeer.</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4994" id="Page_4994">[Pg 4994]</a></span></p> +<h3><a name="IRONMASK" id="IRONMASK"></a>THE MAN IN THE IRON MASK</h3> +<h4>From 'The Viscount of Bragelonne'</h4> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>[Dumas adopts the theory that the Man in the Iron Mask was the suppressed +twin brother of Louis XIV.]</p></div> + +<p>"What is all this noise?" asked Philippe, turning towards the door of +the concealed staircase. And as he spoke a voice was heard saying, +"This way, this way. Still a few steps, sire."</p> + +<p>"It is M. Fouquet's voice," said D'Artagnan, who was standing +near the Queen Mother.</p> + +<p>"Then M. D'Herblay will not be far off," added Philippe; +but little did he expect to see the person who actually entered.</p> + +<p>All eyes were riveted on the door, from which the voice of +M. Fouquet proceeded; but it was not he who came through.</p> + +<p>A cry of anguish rang through the room, breaking forth +simultaneously from the King and the spectators, and surely +never had been seen a stranger sight.</p> + +<p>The shutters were half closed, and only a feeble light struggled +through the velvet curtains, with their thick silk linings, +and the eyes of the courtiers had to get accustomed to the darkness +before they could distinguish between the surrounding objects. +But once discerned, they stood out as clear as day.</p> + +<p>So, looking up, they saw Louis XIV. in the doorway of the +private stair, his face pale and his brows bent; and behind him +stood Fouquet.</p> + +<p>The Queen Mother, whose hand held that of Philippe, uttered +a shriek at the sight, thinking that she beheld a ghost.</p> + +<p>Monsieur staggered for a moment and turned away his head, +looking from the King who was facing him to the King who was +by his side.</p> + +<p>Madame on the contrary stepped forward, thinking it must +be her brother-in-law reflected in a mirror. And indeed, this +seemed the only rational explanation of the double image.</p> + +<p>Both young men, agitated and trembling, clenching their +hands, darting flames of fury from their eyes, dumb, breathless, +ready to spring at each other's throats, resembled each other so +exactly in feature, figure, and even, by pure accident, in dress, +that Anne of Austria herself stood confounded. For as yet the +truth had not dawned on her. There are some torments that we +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4995" id="Page_4995">[Pg 4995]</a></span> +all instinctively reject. It is easier far to accept the supernatural, +the impossible.</p> + +<p>That he should encounter such obstacles had never for one +moment occurred to Louis. He imagined he had only to show +himself, for the world to fall at his feet. The Sun-king could +have no rival; and where his rays did not fall, there must be +darkness—</p> + +<p>As to Fouquet, who could describe his bewilderment at the +sight of the living portrait of his master? Then he thought +that Aramis was right, and that the new-comer was every whit +as much a king as his double, and that after all, perhaps he +had made a mistake when he had declined to share in the <i>coup +d'état</i> so cleverly plotted by the General of the Jesuits.</p> + +<p>And then, it was equally the blood royal of Louis XIII. that +Fouquet had determined to sacrifice to blood in all respects identical; +a noble ambition, to one that was selfish. And it was the +mere aspect of the pretender which showed him all these things.</p> + +<p>D'Artagnan, leaning against the wall and facing Fouquet, was +debating in his own mind the key to this wonderful riddle. He +felt instinctively, though he could not have told why, that in +the meeting of the two Louis XIV's lay the explanation of all +that had seemed suspicious in the conduct of Aramis during the +last few days.</p> + +<p>Suddenly Louis XIV., by nature the most impatient of the +two young men, and with the habit of command that was the +result of training, strode across the room and flung open one of +the shutters. The flood of light that streamed through the window +caused Philippe involuntarily to recoil, and to step back +into the shelter of an alcove.</p> + +<p>The movement struck Louis, and turning to the Queen he said:</p> + +<p>"Mother, do you not know your own son, although every one +else has denied his King?"</p> + +<p>Anne trembled at his voice and raised her arms to heaven, +but could not utter a single word.</p> + +<p>"Mother," retorted Philippe in his quietest tones, "do you +not know your own son?"</p> + +<p>And this time it was Louis who stepped back.</p> + +<p>As for Anne, pierced to the heart with grief and remorse, +she could bear it no longer. She staggered where she stood, and +unaided by her attendants, who seemed turned into stone, she +sank down on a sofa with a sigh.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4996" id="Page_4996">[Pg 4996]</a></span> +This spectacle was too much for Louis. He rushed to D'Artagnan, whose +brain was going round with bewilderment, and who clung to the door as +his last hope.</p> + +<p>"To me, musketeer! Look us both in the face, and see +which is the paler, he or I."</p> + +<p>The cry awoke D'Artagnan from his stupor, and struck the +chord of obedience strong in the bosom of every soldier. He +lifted his head, and striding straight up to Philippe laid his hand +on his shoulder, saying quietly:—</p> + +<p>"Monsieur, you are my prisoner."</p> + +<p>Philippe remained absolutely still, as if nailed to the floor, +his eyes fixed despairingly on the King who was his brother. +His silence reproached him as no words could have done, with +the bitterness of the past and the tortures of the future.</p> + +<p>And the King understood, and his soul sank within him. His +eyes fell, and drawing his brother and sister-in-law with him, he +hastily quitted the room; forgetting in his agitation even his +mother, lying motionless on the couch beside him, not three +paces from the son whom for the second time she was allowing +to be condemned to a death in life.</p> + +<p>Philippe drew near to her, and said softly:—</p> + +<p>"If you had not been my mother, madame, I must have +cursed you for the misery you have caused me."</p> + +<p>D'Artagnan overheard, and a shiver of pity passed through +him. He bowed respectfully to the young prince, and said:—</p> + +<p>"Forgive me, monseigneur; I am only a soldier, and my faith +is due to him who has left us."</p> + +<p>"Thank you, M. D'Artagnan. But what has become of M. +D'Herblay?"</p> + +<p>"M. D'Herblay is safe, monseigneur," answered a voice behind +them; "and while I am alive and free, not a hair of his head +shall be hurt."</p> + +<p>"M. Fouquet!" said the prince, smiling sadly.</p> + +<p>"Forgive me, monseigneur," cried Fouquet, falling on his +knees; "but he who has left the room was my guest."</p> + +<p>"Ah!" murmured Philippe to himself with a sigh, "you are +loyal friends and true hearts. You make me regret the world I +am leaving. M. D'Artagnan, I will follow you."</p> + +<p>As he spoke, Colbert entered and handed to the captain of +the musketeers an order from the King; then bowed, and went +out.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4997" id="Page_4997">[Pg 4997]</a></span> +D'Artagnan glanced at the paper, and in a sudden burst of +wrath crumpled it in his hand.</p> + +<p>"What is the matter?" asked the prince.</p> + +<p>"Read it, monseigneur," answered the musketeer.</p> + +<p>And Philippe read these words, written hastily by the King +himself:—</p> + +<p>"M. D'Artagnan will conduct the prisoner to the Îles +Sainte-Marguerite. He will see that his face is covered with an iron +mask, which must never be lifted on pain of death."</p> + +<p>"It is just," said Philippe; "I am ready."</p> + +<p>"Aramis was right," whispered Fouquet to D'Artagnan, "this +is as good a king as the other."</p> + +<p>"Better," replied D'Artagnan; "he only needed you and me."</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="TRICK" id="TRICK"></a>A TRICK IS PLAYED ON HENRY III. BY AID OF CHICOT</h3> +<h4>From 'The Lady of Monsoreau'</h4> + +<p>The King and Chicot remained quiet and silent for the next ten +minutes. Then suddenly the King sat up, and the noise he made roused +Chicot, who was just dropping off to sleep.</p> + +<p>The two looked at each other with sparkling eyes.</p> + +<p>"What is it?" asked Chicot in a low voice.</p> + +<p>"Do you hear that sighing sound?" replied the King in a +lower voice still. "Listen!"</p> + +<p>As he spoke, one of the wax candles in the hand of the +golden satyr went out; then a second, then a third. After a +moment, the fourth went out also.</p> + +<p>"Oh, oh!" cried Chicot, "that is more than a sighing sound." +But he had hardly uttered the last word when in its turn the +lamp was extinguished, and the room was in darkness, save for +the flickering glow of the dying embers.</p> + +<p>"Look out!" exclaimed Chicot, jumping up.</p> + +<p>"He is going to speak," said the King, shrinking back into +his bed.</p> + +<p>"Then listen and let us hear what he says," replied Chicot, +and at the same instant a voice which sounded at once both +piercing and hollow, proceeded from the space between the bed +and the wall.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4998" id="Page_4998">[Pg 4998]</a></span> +"Hardened sinner, are you there?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes, Lord." gasped Henri with chattering teeth.</p> + +<p>"Dear me!" remarked Chicot, "that is a very hoarse voice +to have come from heaven! I feel dreadfully frightened; but +never mind!"</p> + +<p>"Do you hear me?" asked the voice.</p> + +<p>"Yes, Lord," stammered Henri; "and I bow before your +anger."</p> + +<p>"Do you think you are carrying out my will by performing +all the mummeries you have taken part in to-day, while your +heart is full of the things of this world?"</p> + +<p>"Well said!" cried Chicot; "you touched him there!"</p> + +<p>The King's hands shook as he clasped them, and Chicot went +up to him.</p> + +<p>"Well," murmured Henri, "are you convinced now?"</p> + +<p>"Wait a bit," answered Chicot.</p> + +<p>"What do you want more?"</p> + +<p>"Hush! listen to me. Creep softly out of bed, and let me +take your place."</p> + +<p>"Why?"</p> + +<p>"Because then the anger of the Lord will fall first upon me."</p> + +<p>"And do you think I shall escape?"</p> + +<p>"We will try, anyway;" and with affectionate persistence he +pushed the King out of bed, and took his place.</p> + +<p>"Now, Henri," he said, "go and lie on my sofa, and leave all +to me."</p> + +<p>Henri obeyed; he began to understand Chicot's plan.</p> + +<p>"You are silent," continued the voice, "which proves that +your heart is hardened."</p> + +<p>"Oh, pardon, pardon, Lord!" exclaimed Chicot, imitating the +King's nasal twang. Then, stretching himself out of bed, he +whispered to the King, "It is very odd, but the heavenly voice +does not seem to know that it is Chicot who is speaking."</p> + +<p>"Oh!" replied Henri, "what do you suppose is the meaning +of that?"</p> + +<p>"Don't be in a hurry; plenty of strange things will happen +yet!"</p> + +<p>"Miserable creature that you are!" went on the voice.</p> + +<p>"Yes, Lord, yes!" answered Chicot. "I am a horrible sinner, +hardened in crime."</p> + +<p>"Then confess your sins, and repent."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4999" id="Page_4999">[Pg 4999]</a></span> +"I acknowledge," said Chicot, "that I dealt wickedly by my +cousin Condé, whose wife I betrayed; and I repent bitterly."</p> + +<p>"What is that you are saying?" cried the King. "There +is no good in mentioning that. It has all been forgotten long +ago."</p> + +<p>"Oh, has it?" replied Chicot; "then we will pass on to something +else."</p> + +<p>"Answer," said the voice.</p> + +<p>"I acknowledge," said the false Henri, "that I behaved like a +thief toward the Poles, who had elected me their king, in stealing +away to France one fine night, carrying with me all the +crown jewels; and I repent bitterly."</p> + +<p>"Idiot!" exclaimed Henri, "what are you talking about now? +Nobody remembers anything about that."</p> + +<p>"Let me alone," answered Chicot, "I must go on pretending +to be the King."</p> + +<p>"Speak," said the voice.</p> + +<p>"I acknowledge," continued Chicot, "that I snatched the +throne from my brother D'Alençon, who was the rightful heir, +since I had formally renounced my claims when I was elected +King of Poland; I repent bitterly."</p> + +<p>"Rascal!" cried the King.</p> + +<p>"There is yet something more," said the voice.</p> + +<p>"I acknowledge to have plotted with my excellent mother, +Catherine de' Medicis, to hunt from France my brother-in-law +the King of Navarre, after first destroying all his friends, and +my sister Queen Marguerite, after first destroying all her lovers; +and I repent bitterly."</p> + +<p>"Scoundrel! Cease!" muttered the King, his teeth clenched +in anger.</p> + +<p>"Sire, it is no use trying to hide what Providence knows as +well as we do."</p> + +<p>"There is a crime unconfessed that has nothing to do with +politics," said the voice.</p> + +<p>"Ah, now we are getting to it," observed Chicot dolefully; "it +is about my conduct, I suppose?"</p> + +<p>"It is," answered the voice.</p> + +<p>"I cannot deny," continued Chicot, always speaking in the +name of the King, "that I am very effeminate, very lazy; a +hopeless trifler, an incorrigible hypocrite."</p> + +<p>"It is true," said the voice.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5000" id="Page_5000">[Pg 5000]</a></span> +"I have behaved ill to all women, to my own wife in particular; +and such a good wife too."</p> + +<p>"A man should love his wife as himself, and above all the +world," cried the voice angrily.</p> + +<p>"Oh dear!" wailed Chicot in despairing tones; "then I certainly +have sinned terribly."</p> + +<p>"And by your example you have caused others to sin."</p> + +<p>"That is true, sadly true."</p> + +<p>"You very nearly sent that poor Saint-Luc to perdition."</p> + +<p>"Bah!" said Chicot, "are you sure I did not send him there +quite?"</p> + +<p>"No; but such a fate may befall both of you if you do not +let him go back to his family at break of day."</p> + +<p>"Dear me!" said Chicot to the King, "the voice seems to +take a great interest in the house of Cossé."</p> + +<p>"If you disobey me, you will suffer the same torments as +Sardanapalus, Nabuchodnosor, and the Marshal De Retz."</p> + +<p>Henry III. gave a loud groan; at this threat he became more +frightened than ever.</p> + +<p>"I am lost," he ejaculated wildly; "I am lost. That voice +from on high will be my death-warrant."</p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5001" id="Page_5001">[Pg 5001]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="ALEXANDRE_DUMAS_JUNIOR" id="ALEXANDRE_DUMAS_JUNIOR"></a>ALEXANDRE DUMAS, JUNIOR</h2> + +<h4>(1824-1895)</h4> + +<h4>BY FRANCISQUE SARCEY</h4> + + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 90px;"> +<img src="images/capw343.png" width="90" height="90" alt="W" title="W" /> +</div><p class="dropcap">e shall not say much about the life of Alexandre Dumas the +younger. The history of a great writer is the history of his +works. He was born in Paris, on July 27th, 1824. His name +on the register of births appears as "Alexandre, son of Marie Catherine +Lebay, seamstress." He was not acknowledged by his father +until he had reached his sixth year, March 7th, 1830. I emphasize +this particular because it had great influence on the bent of his +genius. During all his life Dumas was haunted by a desire of rehabilitating +illegitimate children, of creating a reaction against their +treatment by the Civil Code and the prejudice which makes of them +something little better than outcasts in society.</p> + +<p>"When seven years old," he himself says, "I entered as a boarder +the school of Monsieur Vauthier, on Rue Montagne Saint-Geneviève. +Thence I passed, about two years later, to the Saint-Victor School; +the principal was Monsieur Goubaux, a friend of my father, with +whom he collaborated under the <i>nom de plume</i> of Dinaux. This +school, which numbered two hundred and fifty boarding pupils, and +with the rather strange habits which I tried to depict in 'The Clémenceau +Case,' occupied all the ground covered to-day by the Casino +de Paris and the 'Pôle-Nord' establishment. When about fifteen I left +the Saint-Victor School for Monsieur Hénon's school, which was situated +in the Rue de Courcelles and has now disappeared. It is in the +Collêge Bourbon (now the Lycée Condorcet) that I received all my +instruction, as the pupils of the two schools where I lived attended +the college classes. I never belonged to any of the higher State +schools,—I have not even the degree of bachelor."</p> + +<p>At the end of his years of study he returned to his father. He +did not stay there more than six months. The rather tumultuous life +which he saw in the house disturbed his proud mind, already filled +with serious yearnings.</p> + +<p>"You have debts," his father said to him. "Do as I do: work, +and you will pay them."</p> + +<p>Such was indeed the young man's intention. His first work was a +one-act play in verse, 'The Queen's Jewel,' which no one, assuredly, +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5002" id="Page_5002">[Pg 5002]</a></span> +would mention to-day but for his signature. The date was 1845, and +the author was then twenty-one. Other works by him were published +at various times in the Journal des Demoiselles.</p> + +<p>"I was," he has said, "the careless, lazy, and spoilt child of all +my father's friends. I believed in the eternity of youth, of strength, +of joy. I spent the whole day laughing, the whole night sleeping, +unless I had some reason for writing verses."</p> + +<p>About 1846 he set resolutely to work. He turned to novel-writing, +which seemed to him to offer greater facilities for reaching the +public and greater chances of immediate income than dramatic +composition. Only two of his novels have survived: 'La Dame aux +Camélias' ('Camille': 1848), because from this book came the immortal +drama by the same title; and 'The Clémenceau Case,' because the author +wrote it when he was in complete possession of his talent, and because +moreover it is a first-rate work.</p> + +<p>It was in 1852 that the Vaudeville Theatre gave the first performance +of 'Camille,' the fortune of which was to be so extraordinary. +For two or three years the play had been tossed from theatre to +theatre. Nobody wanted it. To the ideas of the time it seemed +simply shocking, and the play was still forbidden in London after its +performances in France were numbered by the hundreds.</p> + +<p>There is this special trait in 'Camille'—it was a work all instinct +with the spirit of youth. Dumas twenty years later sadly said: +"I might perhaps make another 'Demi-Monde'; I could not make +another 'Camille.'" There existed, indeed, other works which have +all the fire and charm of the twentieth year. 'Polyeucte' is Corneille's +masterpiece; his 'Cid' breathes the spirit of youth: Corneille +at forty could not have written the 'Cid.' Racine's first play is +'Andromaque': Beaumarchais's is the 'Barber of Seville'; Rossini, +when young, enlivened it with his light and sparkling airs. Fifteen +years later he himself wrote his 'William Tell,' a higher work, but a +work which was not young.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 610px;"> +<a name="JUNIOR" id="JUNIOR"></a> +<img src="images/Illus0425.jpg" width="610" height="1024" alt="ALEXANDRE DUMAS JUNIOR" title="ALEXANDRE DUMAS JUNIOR" /> +<span class="caption">ALEXANDRE DUMAS, JUNIOR.</span> +</div> + +<p>If the theatrical managers had recoiled from 'Camille' in spite of +the great names that recommended it, it is because it was cut after +a pattern to which neither they nor the public were accustomed; it +is because it contained the germ of a whole dramatic revolution. +Now, the author was not a theatrical revolutionist. He had not said +to himself, "I am going to throw down the old fabric of the drama, +and erect a new one on its ruins." To tell the truth, he had no +idea of what he was doing. He had witnessed a love drama. He +had thrown it still throbbing upon the stage, without any regard for +the dramatic conventions which were then imposed upon playwrights, +and which were almost accepted as laws. He had simply depicted +what he had seen. All the managers, attached as they were to the +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5003" id="Page_5003">[Pg 5003]</a></span> +old customs, and respectful of the traditions, had trembled with horror +when they saw moving around Camille the ignoble Prudence, the +idiotic Due de Varville, the silly Saint-Gaudens. But the public—though +the fact was suspected neither by them nor by the public +itself—yearned for more truth upon the boards. When 'Camille' +was presented to them, the play-goers uttered a cry of astonishment +and joy: that was the thing! that was just what they wanted! +From that day, which will remain as a date in the history of the +French stage, the part of Camille has been performed by all the +celebrated actresses. The part has two sides: one may see in it a +degraded woman who has fallen profoundly in love, rather late in +life; one may also see in it a woman, already poetical in her own +nature, suddenly carried away by a great passion into the sacred +regions of the Ideal.</p> + +<p>Almost any young man in Dumas's place would have lost his head +after so astounding a success, and might not have resisted the temptation +of at once working out the vein. For on coming out of the +theatre after the first performance, the author had all the managers +at his feet, and the smallest trifle was sure to be accepted if it only +had his signature. But he had learned, by the side of "a prodigal +father," the art of husbanding his talent. He declined to front the +footlights again, save with a work upon which he had been able to +bestow all the care and labor it deserved: he waited a year before +he gave, at the Gymnase theatre, 'Diane de Lys.'</p> + +<p>'Diane de Lys' undoubtedly pleased the public, but its success was not +exactly brilliant. It is full of great qualities, it is strongly +conceived, constructed with rare power and logic, but it added nothing +to his reputation. The play as a whole seemed long and melancholy. It +is a curious subject for critical study, as one of the stages in which +the genius of the author stopped awhile, on its way to higher works. +It will leave no great trace in his career.</p> + +<p>Two years later he gave at the Gymnase theatre—I do not dare +to say his masterpiece, but certainly the best constructed and most +enjoyable play he ever wrote, 'Le Demi-Monde' (The Other Half-World). +In this play he discovered and defined the very peculiar +world of those women who live on the margin of regular "society," +and try to preserve its tone and demeanor. What scientific and +strong construction are here! What an admirable disposition of the +scenes, both flexible and logical! And through the action, which +moves on with wonderful straightforwardness and breadth, how many +portraits, drawn with a steady hand, each one bearing such distinctive +features that you would know them if you met them on the street! +Olivier de Jalin, the refined Parisian, the dialectician of the play, +who is no other than Dumas himself; Raymond de Nanjac, handsome +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5004" id="Page_5004">[Pg 5004]</a></span> +and honest, but not keen or Parisian; and that giddy Valentine de +Sanctis, whose head turns with the wind, whose tongue cannot rest +one moment; and especially Suzanne d'Ange, so witty, so complex, so +devious in her motions, so <i>roublarde</i>, as a Parisian of to-day would say.</p> + +<p>Between 'The Demi-Monde,' and 'La Question d'Argent' (The +Money Question), which followed, Dumas spent two years at work. +'La Question d'Argent' is a favorite play with the connoisseurs; but +its reception by the public was of the coldest. It is a noteworthy +fact that plays turning upon money have never been successful. +Le Sage's 'Turcaret' is a dramatic masterpiece: it never had the +luck to please the crowd. Dumas's Jean Giraud is, however, a very +curiously studied character. The author has represented in him the +commonest type of the shady money-man, the unconscious rascal. +And very skillfully he made an individual out of that general type, +by giving to Jean Giraud a certain rough good-nature; the appearance +of a good fellow, with a certain degree of fineness; a mixture +of humility and self-conceit, of awkwardness and impudence, and +even some ideas as to the power of money that do not lack dignity, +and some real liberality of sentiment and act,—for wealth alone, +though acquired by ignominious means, suggests and dictates to the +great robbers some advantageous movements which the small rascal +cannot indulge in: and around this Turcaret of the Second Empire +how many pictures of honest people, every one of whom, in his or +her way, is good and fine!</p> + +<p>One year later Dumas carried to the Gymnase, his favorite theatre, +'Le Fils Naturel' (The Natural Son); and the next year 'Un Père +Prodigue' (A Prodigal Father; known also in English through a free +adaptation as 'My Awful Dad').</p> + +<p>In 'Le Fils Naturel' Dumas for the first time wrote a theme-play, +a kind of work in which he was to become a master. Hitherto we +have seen him drawing pictures of manners. To be sure, philosophical +considerations on the period depicted are not wanting, but the +play has not the form and does not assume the movement of a thesis. +It does not take up one special trait of our social order, one of our +worldly prejudices, in order to show its strong and weak sides. 'Le +Fils Naturel' is the work of a moralist as well as of a playwright; or +rather, it is the work of a playwright who was a born moralist.</p> + +<p>'Un Père Prodigue' originally excited great curiosity. It escaped +no one that in his Count Fernand de la Rivonnière, Dumas had shown +us some traits of his illustrious father, who <i>had</i> been a prodigal father; +and that he had depicted himself in Viscount André. Every one made +comparisons; some, of course, accused the author of filial disrespect. +The accusation was ridiculous, and he did not even answer it. He +had so well disguised the persons, he had transported them into such +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5005" id="Page_5005">[Pg 5005]</a></span> +different surroundings, that no one could recognize in them their +true prototypes. Then—and this is no small praise—if Count de la +Rivonnière is guilty of one fault, that of throwing to the wind his +fortune, he is a most amiable nobleman, full of broad ideas and generous +sentiments,—has a warm heart. The fourth act, in which the +father sacrifices himself in order to save his son's life, is pathetic in +the extreme. But nothing equals the first act, which is a model of +animated and picturesque composition. No one ever painted in more +vivid colors the pillage of a household, and a family without so much +as a shadow of discipline. It is an accumulation of small details, not +one of which is of an indifferent nature, and which, taken together, +drive into our minds the idea that this nobleman, so well-mannered, +so charming in conversation, so sober for himself, is running to ruin +as gayly as he can.</p> + +<p>For four years after the production of 'Un Père Prodigue' Dumas wrote +nothing. But in 1864 he reappeared at the Gymnase with a strange play, +'L'Ami des Femmes' (A Friend of the Sex), which completely failed. +After 'L'Ami des Femmes' there was another interruption, not of +Dumas's labors but of his dramatic production. Perhaps he was sick of +an art which had caused him a cruel disappointment. He turned again to +novel-writing, and published (1866) 'L'Affaire Clémenceau' (The +Clémenceau Case), the success of which was not as great as he had +hoped. In France, when a man is superior in one specialty people will +not let him leave it. He is not allowed to be at once an unequaled +novelist and a first-rate dramatist.</p> + +<p>At that time Dumas hesitated which road to follow. An incident +which created a great deal of comment threw him back towards the +stage, and towards a new form of comedy.</p> + +<p>M. Émile de Girardin, one of the best known publicists of the Second +Empire, had bethought himself, when over fifty years of age, and +knowing nothing of this kind of work, to write a play. He had been +a great friend of Dumas père, and had kept up the most affectionate +intercourse with his son. He had asked him to fit his play for the +stage. It possessed one really dramatic idea. Dumas, in order to +oblige his father's friend, made out of it 'Le Supplice d'une Femme' +(A Woman's Torture). Émile de Girardin, who was self-conceited and +somewhat despotic, refused to recognize his offspring in the bear that +Dumas had licked. He declined to sign the play: "Neither shall I," +Dumas retorted.</p> + +<p>'A Woman's Torture' was acted at the Comédie Française with +extraordinary success. This success was for Dumas a warning and a +lesson. 'A Woman's Torture' was a three-act play, short, concise, +panting, which hurried to the <i>coup de théâtre</i> of the second act, upon +which the drama revolved, and rushed to its conclusion. The time +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5006" id="Page_5006">[Pg 5006]</a></span> +of five-act comedies, with ample expositions, copious developments, +philosophical disquisitions, curious and fanciful episodes, was gone. +Henceforth the dramatist had to deal with a hurried and <i>blasé</i> public, +which, taking dinner at eight, could give to the theatre but a short +time, and an attention disturbed by the labor of digestion. 'A Woman's +Torture,' which lasted only an hour and a half, and proceeded +only by rapid strokes, was exactly what that public wanted. After +that time Dumas wrote only three-act and one-act plays; using four +acts only for 'Les Idées de Madame Aubray' (Madame Aubray's +Ideas); and these four acts are very short. In 1867 this play announced +Dumas's return to the stage; and Dumas is here more paradoxical +than he had ever been. His theme looked like a wager not +simply against bourgeois prejudices, but even against good sense, and, +I dare to say, against justice. This wager was won by Dumas, thanks +to an incredible display of skill. He took up the thesis a second +time in 'Denise,' and won his wager again, but with less difficulty. +In 'Denise' the lover struggles only against social prejudices, and +allows himself to be carried away by one of those emotional fits +which disturb and confound human reason. In 'Madame Aubray's +Ideas' the triumph is one of pure logic.</p> + +<p>'Une Visite de Noces' (A Wedding Call) and 'La Princesse +Georges' followed rather closely on 'Madame Aubray's Ideas.' 'A +Wedding Call'!—what a thunderbolt then! It was of but one act, +<i>but</i> one act the effect of which was prodigious, the echo of which is +still heard. Time and familiarity have now softened for us the too +sharp outlines of this bitter play. It has been acknowledged a +masterpiece. It is certainly one of the boldest works of this extraordinary +magician, who, thanks to his unerring skill and to the dazzling +wit of his dialogue, brought the public to listen to whatever he +chose to put upon the stage. It seemed that, like a lion tamer in +the arena, Dumas took pleasure in belaboring and exasperating this +many-headed monster, in order to prove to his own satisfaction that +he could subdue its revolts.</p> + +<p>'La Princesse Georges' is a work of violent and furious passion. +We find in it Madame de Terremonde, the good woman who adores +her husband, but who adores him with fury, who wants him all to +herself, and who, when sure that she is betrayed, passes from the +most exasperated rage to tears and despair. There is in the first +act a scene of exposition which has become celebrated. No one ever +so rapidly mastered the public; no one ever from the first stroke so +painfully twisted the heart of the spectators.</p> + +<p>Let us pass rapidly over 'La Femme de Claude' (Claude's Wife: +1873). Of all his plays it is the one Dumas said he liked best, the +one he most passionately defended with all sorts of commentaries, +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5007" id="Page_5007">[Pg 5007]</a></span> +letters, prefaces, etc.; the one which he insisted on having revived, a +long time after it had failed. To my mind that play was a mistake; +and the public, in spite of Dumas's arguments, in spite of the protests +of the critics, who are often very glad to distinguish themselves +by not yielding to the common voice,—the public insisted on agreeing +with me.</p> + +<p>Only a few months later, Dumas brilliantly retrieved himself with +'Monsieur Alphonse.' His Madame Guichard is the most cheerfully +vulgar type of the <i>parvenue</i> which any one ever dared to put upon +the stage. She can hardly read and write; she is no longer young, +and she is "to boot" very proud of her money; she has no tact and +no taste; but at heart she is a good sort of woman. Her morality is +as primitive as her education. But deceit disgusts her; she hates but +one thing, she says,—lying. She is not troubled by conventionalities; +and her speech has all the color and energy of popular speech. But +see! Dumas in depicting this woman preserved exquisite measure. +Madame Guichard says many pert and droll things; she never utters +a coarse word. Her language is picturesque; it is free from slang. +Hers is a vulgar nature, but she does not offend delicate ears by the +grossness of her utterance. Dumas never drew a more living picture; +she is the joy of this rather sad play.</p> + +<p>All that remain to be reviewed are 'L'Étrangère,' 'La Princesse +de Bagdad,' and 'Françillon'; all of which were given at the Comédie +Française. 'L'Étrangère' is indeed a melodrama, with an admixture +of comedy. Had he gone further in that direction, Dumas might have +made a new sort of play, which would perhaps have reigned a long +time on the stage. But after this trial, successful though it was, he +stopped. 'La Princesse de Bagdad' entirely failed. 'Françillon' +was Dumas's last success at the Comédie Française.</p> + +<p>After 1887 Dumas gave nothing to the stage. He had completed +a great five-act play, 'The Road to Thebes,' which the manager of +the Comédie Française hoped every year to put on the boards. +Dumas kept promising it; but either from distrust of himself or of +the public, or from fatigue, or fear of meeting with failure, he asked +for new delays, until the day when he declared that not only the +play would not be acted during his life, but that he would not even +allow it to be acted after his death.</p> + +<p>This death he saw coming, with sad but calm eyes. It was a +sorrow for us to see this man, whom we had known so quick and +alert, grow weaker every day, showing the progress of disease in his +shriveled features and body. The complexion had lost all color, the +cheeks had become flaccid, the eye had no life left.</p> + +<p>On October 1st, 1895, he wrote to his friend Jules Claretie:—"Do +not depend upon me any more; I am vanquished. There are +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5008" id="Page_5008">[Pg 5008]</a></span> +moments when I mourn my loss, as Madame D'Houdetot said when +dying." He was at Puys, by the seaside, when he wrote that despairing +letter. He returned to Marly, there to die, surrounded by his +family, on November 28th, 1895, in a house which he loved and +which had been bequeathed to him years before by an intimate +friend.</p> + +<p>His loss threw into mourning the world of letters, and the whole +of Paris. People discovered then—for death loosens every tongue +and every pen—how kind and generous in reality was Dumas, who +had often been accused of avarice by those who contrasted him with +his father; how many services he had discreetly rendered, how open +his hand always was. His constant cheerfulness and good-nature +had finally caused him to be forgiven for his wit, which was sarcastic +and cutting, and for his success, which had thrown so many rivals +into the shade. This witty man, who was always obliging and even +tender-hearted, had no envy, and gave his applause without a shadow +of reserve to the successes of others. Every young author found in +him advice and support; he did not expect gratitude, and therefore +was soured by no disappointment. He was a good man, partly from +nature, partly from determination; for he deemed that, after all, the +best way to live happy in this world is to make happy as many +people as possible.</p> + +<p>If in this long essay I have not spoken of Dumas as a moralist, it +is because, in my opinion, in spite of all that has been said, Dumas +was a dramatist a great deal more than a philosopher. In his comedies +he discussed a great many moral and social questions, without +giving a solution for any; or rather, the solutions that he gave were +due not to any set of fixed principles, but to the conclusion which he +was preparing for this play or that. He said, indifferently, "Kill her" +or "Forgive her," according to the requirements of the subject which +he had selected; and he would afterwards write a sensational preface +with a view to demonstrate that the solution this time given by him +was the only legitimate one. These prefaces are very amusing reading; +for he wrote them with all the fire of his nature, and he had +the gift of movement. But they were a strange medley of incongruous +and contradictory statements. Every idea that he expresses can +be grasped and understood; but it is impossible to see how it agrees +with those that precede and follow. It is a chaos of clear ideas.</p> + +<p>Dumas was not a philosopher, but an agitator. He stirred up a +great many questions; he drew upon them our distracted attention; +he compelled us to think of them. Therein he did his duty as a +dramatist.</p> + +<p>He gave much thought to the fate of woman in our civilization. +We may say, however, that though loving her much, he still more +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5009" id="Page_5009">[Pg 5009]</a></span> +feared her, and I shall even add, despised her. All his characters +who have the mission of defending morality and good sense are very +attentive to her, but keep her at arm's-length. They are affectionate +counselors, not lovers. They hold her to be a frail being, who must +be controlled and guided. Some one has said that there was in +Dumas something of the Catholic priest. It is true. He was to +women a lay director of conscience.</p> + +<p>He was a great connoisseur of pictures and a great art lover. +Music, I think, is the only art that did not affect him much. He was +a dazzling talker; his plays teem with bright sayings; his conversation +sparkled with them. I did not know him in his prime, when he +delighted his friends and companions by his unceasing flow of spirits. +I became intimate with him only later. If you knew how to start +him, he simply coruscated. I never knew any one, save Edmond +About, who was as witty, and who, like About, always paid you back +in good sounding coin.</p> + +<p>Dumas was a member of the French Academy. He had not +wished for that honor, because it had been denied to his father. He +desired, in his reception speech, to call up the great spirit of this +illustrious father and make it share his academician's chair. He had +this joy; the two Dumas were received on the same day. Their two +names will never perish.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 199px;"> +<img src="images/sign353.png" width="199" height="56" alt="Francisque Sarcey" title="Francisque Sarcey" /> +</div> + +<p>[The editors have been compelled, for lack of space, to leave out +that part of M. Sarcey's valuable essay which is a professional analysis +of several of Dumas's plays, and which would be of interest, +chiefly, to special students of the French drama and stage.]</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="PLAYWRIGHT" id="PLAYWRIGHT"></a>THE PLAYWRIGHT IS BORN—AND MADE</h3> +<h4>From the Preface to 'A Prodigal Father'</h4> + +<p>Of all the various forms of thought, the stage is that which nearest +approaches the plastic arts—inasmuch as we cannot work in it unless +we know its material processes; but with this difference: that in the +other arts one learns these processes, while in play-writing one +guesses them; or to speak more accurately, they are in us to begin +with.</p> + +<p>One can become a painter, a sculptor, a musician, by sheer +study: one does not become a dramatic author in this fashion. A +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5010" id="Page_5010">[Pg 5010]</a></span> +caprice of nature makes your eye in such a way that you can +see a thing after a particular manner, not absolutely correct, but +which must nevertheless appear, to any other persons that you +wish to have so think, the only correct point of view. The man +really called to write for the stage reveals what is an extremely +rare faculty, in his very first attempts,—say in a farce in school, +or a drawing-room charade. There is a sort of science of optics +and of perspective that enables one to draw a personage, a character, +a passion, an impulse of the soul, with a single stroke of +the pen. Dramatic <i>cheating of the eye</i> is so complete that often +the spectator, when he is a mere reader of the play, desiring to +give himself once more the same emotion that he has felt as one +of the audience, not only cannot recapture that emotion in the +written words before him, but often cannot even distinguish the +passage where the emotion lies hid. It was a word, a look, a +silence, a gesture, a purely atmospheric combination, that held +him spellbound. So comes in the genius of the playwright's +trade, if those two words can be associated. One may compare +writing for the stage in relation to other phases of literature, as +we compare ceiling painters with [painters of] pictures for the +wall or the easel. Woe to the painter if he forget that his composition +is to be looked at from a distance, with a light below it!</p> + +<p>A man without merit as a thinker, a moralist, a philosopher, +an author, may turn out to be a dramatic author of the first +class; that is to say, in the work of setting in motion before you +the purely external movements of mankind; and on the other +hand, to become in the theatre the thinker, the moralist, the +philosopher, or the author to whom one listens, one must indispensably +be furnished with the particular and natural qualities of +a man of much lower grade. In short, to be a master in the art +of writing for the stage, you must be a poor hand in the superior +art....</p> + +<p>That dramatic author who shall know mankind like Balzac, +and who shall know the theatre like Scribe, will be the greatest +dramatic author that has ever existed.</p> + +<p class="transc">Translated for 'A Library of the World's Best Literature,' by E. Irenæus +Stevenson</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5011" id="Page_5011">[Pg 5011]</a></span></p> +<h3><a name="TRUCE" id="TRUCE"></a>AN ARMED TRUCE</h3> +<h4>From 'A Friend of the Sex'</h4> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>[The following conversation in the first act of the play takes place +in the pleasant morning-room of a country-house near Paris, the home +of M. and Madame Leverdet. M. Leverdet is asleep in his chair. The +speakers are Madame Leverdet, a coquettish, sprightly lady approaching +middle age, and young M. De Ryons, a friend and neighbor. Madame +Leverdet is determined to marry off De Ryons advantageously, and as +soon as possible. Unfortunately he is a confirmed bachelor, not to say +woman-hater, whose cynicism is the result of severely disappointing +experiences. Under that cynicism there is however genuine respect and +even chivalry as to the right sort of woman,—the superior and sincere +type, which he does not happen often to encounter.]</p></div> + +<p><span class="smcap">Madame Leverdet</span>—Let us come to serious topics while we +are alone, my friend.</p> + +<p><i>De Ryons</i>—And apropos of them?</p> + +<p><i>Madame Leverdet</i>—Are you willing to be married off yet?</p> + +<p><i>De Ryons</i> [<i>with a start of terror</i>]—Pardon me, my dear lady! +At what hour can I take the first train for Paris?</p> + +<p><i>Madame Leverdet</i>—Now listen to me, at least.</p> + +<p><i>De Ryons</i>—What! Here it is two years since I have called +on you; I come to make you a little visit of a morning, in all +good friendship, with the thermometer forty, centigrade; I am +totally unsuspecting; all I ask is to have a little lively chat with +a clever woman—and see how you receive me.</p> + +<p><i>Madame Leverdet</i> [<i>continuing</i>]—A simple, charming young +girl—</p> + +<p><i>De Ryons</i> [<i>interrupting her, and in the same tone</i>]— —musical, +speaks English, draws nicely, sings agreeably, a society +woman, a domestic woman,—all at the choice of the applicant.</p> + +<p><i>Madame Leverdet</i> [<i>laughing</i>]—Yes, and pretty and graceful +and rich; and, by-the-by, one who finds you a charming fellow.</p> + +<p><i>De Ryons</i>—She is quite right there. I shall make a charming +husband—I shall; I know it. Only thirty-two years old; +all my teeth, all my hair (no such very common detail, the way +young men are nowadays); lively, sixty thousand livres income +as a landed proprietor—oh, I am an excellent match: only unfortunately +I am not a marrying man.</p> + +<p><i>Madame Leverdet</i>—And why not, if you please?</p> + +<p><i>De Ryons</i> [<i>smiling</i>]—It would interfere severely with my +studies.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5012" id="Page_5012">[Pg 5012]</a></span> +<i>Madame Leverdet</i>—What sort of studies?</p> + +<p><i>De Ryons</i>—My studies of—woman.</p> + +<p><i>Madame Leverdet</i>—Really! I don't understand you.</p> + +<p><i>De Ryons</i>—What! Do you not know that I am making women my +particular, my incessant study, and that I am reckoning on leaving +some new and very interesting documents dealing with that branch of +natural history?—a branch very little understood just at present, in +spite of all that has been written on the topic. My friend, I cannot +sacrifice the species to the individual; I belong to science. It is +quite impossible for me to give myself wholly and completely—as one +certainly should do when he marries—to one of those charming and +terrible little carnivora for whose sake men dishonor themselves, ruin +themselves, kill themselves; whose sole preoccupation, in the midst of +the universal carnage that they make, is to dress themselves now like +umbrellas and now like table bells.</p> + +<p><i>Madame Leverdet</i> [<i>scornfully</i>]—So you really think you understand +women, do you?</p> + +<p><i>De Ryons</i>—I rather think I do. Why, just as you see me this +instant, at the end of five minutes' study or conversation I can +tell you to what class a woman belongs,—whether to the middle +class, to women of rank, artists, or whatever you please; what +are her tastes, her characteristics, her antecedents, the state of her +heart,—in a word, everything that concerns my special science.</p> + +<p><i>Madame Leverdet</i>—Really! Will you have a glass of water?</p> + +<p><i>De Ryons</i>—Not yet, thank you.</p> + +<p><i>Madame Leverdet</i>—I suppose, then, you are under the impression +that you know me too.</p> + +<p><i>De Ryons</i>—As if I did not!</p> + +<p><i>Madame Leverdet</i>—Well, and I am—what?</p> + +<p><i>De Ryons</i>—Oh, you are a clever woman. It is for that reason +that I call on you [<i>aside:</i> every two years].</p> + +<p><i>Madame Leverdet</i>—Will you kindly give me the sum of your +observations in general? You can tell me so much, since I am +a clever woman.</p> + +<p><i>De Ryons</i>—The true, the true, the true sum?</p> + +<p><i>Madame Leverdet</i>—Yes.</p> + +<p><i>De Ryons</i>—Simply that woman of our day is an illogical, subordinate, +and mischief-making creature. [<i>In saying this De Ryons draws back and +crouches down as if expecting to be struck.</i>]</p> + +<p><i>Madame Leverdet</i>—So then, you detest women?</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5013" id="Page_5013">[Pg 5013]</a></span> +<i>De Ryons</i>—I? I detest women? On the contrary, I adore them; but I +hold myself in such a position toward them that they cannot bite me. I +keep on the outside of the cage.</p> + +<p><i>Madame Leverdet</i>—Meaning by that—what?</p> + +<p><i>De Ryons</i>—Meaning by that, that I am a friend of the sex; for I have +long perceived that just as truly as women are dangerous in love, just +so much are they adorable in friendship, with men;—that is to say, +with no obligations, and therefore no treasons; no rights, and in +consequence no tyrannies. One assists, too, as a spectator, often as a +collaborator, in the comedy of love. A man under such conditions sees +before his nose the stage tricks, the machinery, the changes of +scenes, all that stage mounting so dazzling at a distance and so +simple when one is near by. As a friend of the sex and on a basis of +friendship, one estimates the causes, the contradictions, the +incoherences, of that phantasmagoric changeableness that belongs to +the heart of a woman. So you have something that is interesting and +instructive. Under such circumstances a man is the consoler, and gives +his advice; he wipes away tears; he brings quarrelsome lovers +together; he asks for the letters that must be returned; he hands back +the photographs (for you know that in love affairs photographs are +taken only in order to be returned, and it is nearly always the same +photograph that serves as many times as may be necessary. I know one +photograph that I have had handed back by three different men, and it +ended its usefulness by being given for good and all to a fourth one, +who was—not single).... In short, you see, my dear madam, I am above +all the friend of those women—who have known what it is to be in +love. And moreover inasmuch, just as Rochefoucauld says, as women do +not think a great deal of their first experience,—why, one fine day +or another—</p> + +<p><i>Madame Leverdet</i>—You prove to be the second one.</p> + +<p><i>De Ryons</i>—No, no; I have no number, I! A well-brought-up woman never +goes from one experience of the heart to another one, without a decent +interval of time, more or less long. Two railroad accidents never come +together on the same railway. During the <i>intervals</i> a woman really +needs a friend, a good confidant; and it is then that I turn up. I let +her tell me all the melancholy affairs in question; I see the unhappy +victim in tears after the traitor has called; I lament with her, I +weep with her, I make her laugh with me: and little by little I +replace the delinquent without her seeing that I am doing so. But then I +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5014" id="Page_5014">[Pg 5014]</a></span> +know very well that I am without importance, that I am a mere +politician of the moment, a cabinet minister without a portfolio, a +sentimental distraction without any consequences; and some fine day, +after having been the confidential friend as to past events, I become +the confidential friend as to future ones,—for the lady falls in love +for the second time with somebody who knows nothing of the first +experience, who will never know anything about it, and who of course +must be made to suppose he represents the first one. Then I go away +for a little time and leave them to themselves, and then I come back +like a new friend to the family. By-and-by, when the dear creature is +reckoning up the balance-sheet of her past, when her conscience pours +into her ear the names that she would rather not remember, and my name +comes with the others, she reflects an instant,—and then she says +resolutely and sincerely to herself, "Oh, <i>he</i> does not count!" My +friend, I am always the one that does not count, and I like it +extremely.</p> + +<p><i>Madame Leverdet</i> [<i>indignantly</i>]—You are simply a monster!</p> + +<p><i>De Ryons</i>—Oh no, oh no, oh no, I am not!</p> + +<p><i>Madame Leverdet</i>—According to your own account, you have no faith in +women.... Wretch! Ungrateful creature! And yet it is woman who +inspires all the great things in this life.</p> + +<p><i>De Ryons</i>—But somehow forbids us to accomplish them.</p> + +<p><i>Madame Leverdet</i>—Go out from here, my dear De Ryons, and never let +me see you again.</p> + +<p><i>De Ryons</i> [<i>rising promptly and making a mocking bow</i>]—My dear +lady—</p> + +<p><i>Madame Leverdet</i>—No, I will <i>not</i> shake hands with you.</p> + +<p><i>De Ryons</i>—Then I shall die of chagrin—that's all about it.</p> + +<p><i>Madame Leverdet</i>—Do you know how you will end, you incorrigible +creature? When you are fifty years old you will have rheumatism.</p> + +<p><i>De Ryons</i>—Yes, or sciatica. But I shall find some one who will +embroider me warm slippers.</p> + +<p><i>Madame Leverdet</i>—Indeed you will not! You will marry your cook.</p> + +<p><i>De Ryons</i>—That depends on how well she cooks. Again farewell, dear +madam.</p> + +<p><i>Madame Leverdet</i>—No, stay one moment.</p> + +<p><i>De Ryons</i>—It is you who are keeping me; so look out.</p> + +<p><i>Madame Leverdet</i>—Let me have really your last word on the whole +matter.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5015" id="Page_5015">[Pg 5015]</a></span> +<i>De Ryons</i>—It is very easily given. There are just two kinds of +women: those who are good women, and those who are not.</p> + +<p><i>Madame Leverdet</i>—Without fine distinctions?</p> + +<p><i>De Ryons</i>—Without fine distinctions.</p> + +<p><i>Madame Leverdet</i>—What is one to do in the case of those who are +not—good women?</p> + +<p><i>De Ryons</i>—They must be consoled.</p> + +<p><i>Madame Leverdet</i>—And those who are?</p> + +<p><i>De Ryons</i>—They must be guaranteed against being anything else; and +as to that process of guarantee I have taken a patent.</p> + +<p><i>Madame Leverdet</i>—Come now, if you are playing in parlor theatricals, +say so. What are you trying to be,—Lovelace or Don Quixote?</p> + +<p><i>De Ryons</i>—I am neither the one nor the other. I am a man who, having +nothing else to do, took to studying women just as another man studies +beetles and minerals, only I am under the impression that my +scientific study is more interesting and more useful than that of the +other savant—because we meet your sex everywhere. We meet the mother, +the sister, the daughter, the wife, the woman who is in love; and it +is important to be well informed upon such an eternal associate in our +lives. Now I am a man of my time, exercised over one theory or +another, hardly knowing what he must believe, good or bad, but +inclined to believe in good when occasion presents itself. I respect +women who respect themselves.... It is not I who created the world; I +take it as I find it.... And as to marriage, the day when I shall find +a young girl with the four qualities of goodness of heart, sound +health, thorough self-respect, and cheerfulness,—the squaring of the +conjugal hypothenuse,—then I count for nothing all my long term of +waiting; like the great Doctor Faust, I become young again, and such +as I am, I give myself to her. My friend, if this same young girl of +whom you have been speaking (and by the way, I know her just as well +as you do) really unites these conditions,—I do not believe she does +so, though I shall see very soon,—why then, I will marry her +to-morrow—I will marry her to-night. But in the mean time, as I have +positively nothing to do,—if you happen to know a self-respecting +woman who needs to be kept from a bit of folly ... why, I am wholly at +your service.</p> + +<p class="transc">Translated for 'A Library of the World's Best Literature,' by E. Irenæus +Stevenson</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5016" id="Page_5016">[Pg 5016]</a></span></p> +<h3><a name="MONEY" id="MONEY"></a>TWO VIEWS OF MONEY</h3> +<h4>From 'The Money Question'</h4> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>[The following passage occurs in the first act of Dumas's play. The +characters include the young parvenu Jean Giraud, the aristocratic M. +De Cayolle, and several others, all guests in the drawing-room of the +country-house of Madame Durieu. In course of the conversation Giraud +refers to his father, at one time a gardener on the estate of M. De +Charzay.]</p></div> + +<p><i>Jean Giraud</i>—Oh, yes, yes, I have got along in the world, +as people say. There are people who blush for their fathers; +I make a brag of mine—that's the difference.</p> + +<p><i>René de Charsay</i>—And what is Father Giraud nowadays? +Oh, I beg your pardon—</p> + +<p><i>Jean</i>—Don't be embarrassed—we keep on calling him Father +Giraud all the same. He is a gardener still, only he gardens on +his own account. He owns the house that your father was +obliged to sell a while ago. My father has never had but one +idea,—our Father Giraud,—and that is to be a land-owner; I +bought that piece of property for him, and so he is as happy as +a fish in the water. If you like, we will go and take breakfast +with him to-morrow morning. He will be delighted to see you. +How things change, eh? There, where a while ago we were the +servants, now we are the masters; though we are not so very +proud, for all that.</p> + +<p><i>Countess Savelli</i> [<i>aside</i>]—He has passed the Rubicon of parvenus! +He has confessed his father! Now nothing can stop his way!</p> + +<p><i>Jean</i> [<i>to De Charsay</i>]—I have wanted to see you for a +long time, but I have not been sure how you would meet me.</p> + +<p><i>René</i>—I would have met you with pleasure, as my uncle would have met +you. One cannot utter reproaches to a man who has made his own +fortune, except when he has made it by dishonest means; a man who owes +it to his intelligence and his probity, who uses it worthily, +everybody is ready to meet kindly, as you are met here.</p> + +<p><i>Jean</i>—Sir, it is not necessary that a man should use his fortune +nobly, provided it is made—that is the main thing!</p> + +<p><i>Madame Durieu</i>—Oh, oh, M. Giraud! there you spoil everything +that you have said.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5017" id="Page_5017">[Pg 5017]</a></span> +<i>Jean</i>—I don't say that of my own case, madam, but I say just what I +say,—money is money, whatever may be the kind of hands where it +sticks. It is the sole power that one never disputes. You may dispute +virtue, beauty, courage, genius; but you can't dispute money. There is +not one civilized being, rising in the morning, who does not recognize +the sovereignty of money, without which he would have neither the roof +which shelters, him, nor the bed in which he sleeps, nor the bread +that he eats. Whither are bound these masses of people crowding in the +streets?—from the employé sweating under his too heavy burden, to the +millionaire hurrying down to the Bourse behind his two trotters? The +one is running after fifteen sous, the other after one hundred +thousand francs. Why do we all have these shops, these railroads, +these factories, these theatres, these museums, these lawsuits between +brothers and sisters, between fathers and sons, these revelations, +these divisions in families, these murders? All for pieces, more or +less numerous, of that white or yellow metal which people call silver +or gold. And pray who will be the most thought of at the end of this +grand race after money? The man who brings back the most of it. Ah, +nowadays a man has no business to have more than one object in +life—and that is to become as rich as possible! For my part, that has +always been my idea; I have carried it out: I congratulate myself on +it. Once upon a time everybody found me homely, stupid, a bore; to-day +everybody finds me handsome, witty, amiable,—and the Lord knows if +<i>I</i> am witty, amiable, handsome! On the day when I might be stupid +enough to let myself be ruined, to become plain "Jean" as before, +there would not be enough stones in the Montmartre quarries to throw +at my head. But there, that day is a good way off, and meantime many +of my business acquaintances have been ruined for the sake of keeping +me from ruin. The last word, too, the greatest praise that I could +give to wealth, certainly is, that such a circle as I find myself in +at present has had the patience to listen so long to the son of a +gardener, who has no other right to their attention than the poor +little millions that he has made.</p> + +<p><i>Durieu</i> [<i>aside</i>]—It is all absolutely true, every word that he has +been saying—gardener's son that he is! He sees our epoch just as it +really is.</p> + +<p><i>Madame Durieu</i>—Come now, my dear M. De Cayolle, what +do you think of what M. Giraud has been telling us?</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5018" id="Page_5018">[Pg 5018]</a></span> +<i>Cayolle</i>—I think, madam, that the theories of M. Giraud are sound, +but sound only as to that society in which M. Giraud has lived until +now: a world of speculation, whose one object naturally ought to be to +make money. As to wealth itself, it brings about infamous things, but +it also brings about great and noble things. In that respect it is +like human speech: a bad thing for some people, a good thing for +others, according to the use they make of it. This obligation of our +state of society that makes a man wake up each morning with taking +thought of the necessary sum for his personal wants, lest he take what +does not belong to him, has created the finest intelligence of all the +ages! It is simply to this need of money every day that we owe +Franklin, who began the world by being a printer's apprentice; +Shakespeare, who used to hold horses at the door of the theatre which +later he was going to immortalize; Machiavelli, who was secretary to +the Florentine republic at fifteen crowns a month; Raphael, the son of +a mere dauber; Jean Jacques Rousseau, a notary's clerk and an +engraver,—one who did not have a dinner every day; Fulton, once upon +a time a mechanic, who gave us steam: and so many others. Had these +same people been born with an income of half a million livres apiece, +there would have been a good many chances that not one of them would +ever have become what he did become. [<i>To M. Giraud.</i>] This race after +wealth, of which you speak, M. Giraud, has good in it: even if it +enriches some silly people or some rascals, if it procures for them +the consideration of those in a humble station of life,—of the lower +classes, of those who have cash relations with society, on the other +hand there is a great deal of good in the spur given to faculties +which would otherwise remain stationary; enough good to pardon some +errors in the distribution of wealth. Just in proportion as you enter +into the true world of society—a world which is almost unknown to +you, M. Giraud—you will find that a man who is received there is +received only in proportion to his personal value. Look around here +where we are, without taking the trouble to go any further, and you +will see that money has not the influence you ascribe to it. For +proof, here is Countess Savelli, with half a million francs income, +who in place of dining out with millionaires besieging her house +every day, comes quietly here to dine with our friends the Durieus, +people without title, poor people measured by her fortune; and +she comes here for the pleasure of meeting M. De Charzay, +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5019" id="Page_5019">[Pg 5019]</a></span> +who has not more than a thousand crowns income, but who, for all the millionaires +in the world, would never do a thing a man ought not to do; and she meets +here M. De Roncourt, who has a business of fifteen hundred francs +because he gave up his fortune to creditors who were not his own +creditors. There is Mademoiselle De Roncourt, who sacrificed her dowry +to the same sentiment of honor; yonder is Mademoiselle Durieu, who +would never be willing to become the wife of any other than an honest +man, even if he had for his rivals all the Croesuses present and to +come; and last of all, one meets me here,—a man who has for money (in +the acceptation that you give the word) the most profound contempt. +Now, M. Giraud, if we listened to you for so long a time, it is +because we are well-bred people, and besides, you talk very well; but +there has been no flattery for your millions in our attention, and the +proof is that everybody has been listening to me a longer time than to +you,—listening to me, who have not like you a thousand-franc note to +put along with every one of my phrases!</p> + +<p><i>Jean</i>—Who is that gentleman who has just been speaking?</p> + +<p><i>Durieu</i>—That is M. De Cayolle.</p> + +<p><i>Jean</i>—The railway director?</p> + +<p><i>Durieu</i>—Yes.</p> + +<p><i>Jean</i> [<i>going to M. De Cayolle</i>]—M. De Cayolle, I hope you +will believe that I am very glad to meet you.</p> + +<p><i>Cayolle</i>—I dare say you are, monsieur. [<i>M. De Cayolle as he +utters the words turns his back upon Giraud and steps aside</i>.]</p> + +<p class="transc">Translated for 'A Library of the World's Best Literature,' by E. Irenæus +Stevenson</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="MARRIAGE" id="MARRIAGE"></a>M. DE RÉMONIN'S PHILOSOPHY OF MARRIAGE</h3> +<h4>From 'L'Étrangère'</h4> + +<p><i>Madame de Rumières</i>—See here, now, Rémonin, you who claim to explain +everything as a learned man—can you solve this proposition? Why is it +that with all the quantity of love in this world, there are so many +unhappy marriages?</p> + +<p><i>M. Rémonin</i>—I could give you a perfect explanation, my +dear lady, if you were not a woman.</p> + +<p><i>Madame de Rumières</i>—You mean that the explanation is not +decent?</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5020" id="Page_5020">[Pg 5020]</a></span> +<i>M. Rémonin</i>—No, I mean that it is a matter based on the +abstract.... It is this. The reason why marriages are +rarely happy, in spite of the "quantity of love" in question, is +because love and marriage, scientifically considered, have no relationship. +They belong to two sorts of things, completely differing. +Love is of the physical. Marriage is a matter of chemistry.</p> + +<p><i>Madame de Rumières</i>—Explain yourself.</p> + +<p><i>Rémonin</i>—Certainly. Love is an element of the natural evolution of +our being; it comes to us of itself in course of our life, at one time +or another, independent of all our will, and even without a definite +object. The human creature can wish to be in love before really loving +any one!... But marriage is a social combination, an adjustment, that +refers itself to chemistry, as I have said; since chemistry concerns +itself with the action of one element on another and the phenomena +resulting: ... to the end of bringing about family life, morality, and +labor, and in consequence the welfare of man, as involved in all +three. Now, so often as you really can conform to the theory of such a +blending of things, so long as you happen to have effected in marriage +such a combination of the physical <i>and</i> chemical, all goes well; the +experiment is happy, it results well. But if you are ignorant or +maladroit enough to seek and to make a combination of two refractory +chemical forces in the matrimonial experiment, then in the place of a +fusion you will find you have only inert forces; and the two elements +remain there, together but unfused, eternally opposed to each other, +never able to be united!... Or else there is not merely inertia—there +are shocks, explosions, catastrophes, accidents, dramas....</p> + +<p><i>Madame de Rumières</i>—Have you ever been in love?</p> + +<p><i>M. Rémonin</i>—I? My dear marquise, I am a scientist—I +have never had time! And you?</p> + +<p><i>Madame de Rumières</i>—I have loved my children. M. de Rumières was a +charming man all his life; but he didn't expect me really to love him. +My son tells me his affairs of the heart; ... my daughter has already +made me a grandmother ... I have little to reproach myself as to my +past life, and now I look on at the lives of others, sometimes much +interested. I am like the subscribers to the Opéra, who know the whole +repertory by heart, but who can always hear some passages with +pleasure and who encourage the débutants.</p> + +<p class="transc">Condensed and translated for 'A Library of the World's Best Literature,' by +E. Irenæus Stevenson.</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5021" id="Page_5021">[Pg 5021]</a></span></p> +<h3><a name="FATHER" id="FATHER"></a>REFORMING A FATHER</h3> +<h4>From 'A Prodigal Father'</h4> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>[The ensuing dialogue occurs in the first act of the play. The Count +de Ravonnieres and his son Andre reside together in their comfortable +bachelor's establishment in Paris, and are devotedly attached to one +another. The count, unfortunately, has only grown more careless of +money, more a gay man of the world, as he has grown older; and blessed +with a youthfulness of physique and temperament that nothing impairs, +he is as thriftless as he is fascinating. His son, accordingly, has +had to be the economist of their resources, which are at a dangerous +ebb. As the scene opens, the count is preparing to take luncheon, with +Joseph, the confidential servant of the house, in attendance.]</p></div> + +<p><i>Joseph</i>—Monsieur is served.</p> + +<p><i>Count de Ravonnieres</i>—Very well. You will please go +to my florist Lemoine, the Opera florist,—you know who I +mean,—and tell him to send, to-day, with my card,—he has a +lot of cards of mine in advance,—to Mademoiselle Albertine de +la Borde, 26 or 28 Rue de la Paix—I don't exactly remember +the number that the lady gave me—</p> + +<p><i>Joseph</i>—No. 26.</p> + +<p><i>Count</i>—Ah! You know her address, do you?</p> + +<p><i>Joseph</i>—Yes, sir.</p> + +<p><i>Count</i>—To send her a bouquet of white lilacs and roses. +And I don't need you any more: go at once. [<i>Joseph bows, and +hands the Count a large envelope.</i>] What's all this?</p> + +<p><i>Joseph</i>—Some law papers that have come in your absence, sir, +which I did not think ought to be forwarded to Dieppe.</p> + +<p><i>Count</i> [<i>without taking the papers</i>]—Quite right. Has my son +seen them?</p> + +<p><i>Joseph</i>—No, sir.</p> + +<p><i>Count</i>—Very well; don't let him see them. Put them away +with the others.</p> + +<p><i>Joseph</i>—May I beg monsieur to say a good word for me to +his son?</p> + +<p><i>Count</i>—As to what, Joseph?</p> + +<p><i>Joseph</i>—Your son, sir, has just told me to look out for another +situation; and I am so attached to the family—</p> + +<p><i>Count</i>—Oh, I will straighten all that out; if my son sends +you away I will take you into our service again. Come now, +get off to my florist; be quick about it.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5022" id="Page_5022">[Pg 5022]</a></span></p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p><i>As</i> Joseph <i>goes out,</i> André <i>enters. He does not at first perceive his +father, but on turning toward the table discovers him.</i></p></div> + +<p><i>André</i>—Ah! you are here, are you?</p> + +<p><i>Count</i>—Yes, I have been here during an hour; and moreover, +a very agreeable person has been doing the honors of your establishment +on my behalf.</p> + +<p><i>André</i>—It is a fine time to talk about agreeable persons! +You are a very agreeable person—</p> + +<p><i>Count</i>—What in the world is the matter with you?</p> + +<p><i>André</i>—I am perfectly furious.</p> + +<p><i>Count</i>—Against whom?</p> + +<p><i>André</i>—Against you.</p> + +<p><i>Count</i>—Why? What have I been doing?</p> + +<p><i>André</i>—You have drawn on me at sight this draft here.</p> + +<p><i>Count</i>—Oh yes, I know very well what that means. It comes +from London; it is to pay for the boat, you know.</p> + +<p><i>André</i>—Oh yes, it comes from London, and it is to pay for +the boat! That is no excuse for it. And what about the boat, +if you please?</p> + +<p><i>Count</i>—But my dear fellow, they had no business to present +it until the 15th.</p> + +<p><i>André</i>—Well?</p> + +<p><i>Count</i>—Why, to-day <i>is</i> the 15th!</p> + +<p><i>André</i>—You ought to know it.</p> + +<p><i>Count</i>—I thought that to-day was only the 14th! Have you +paid it?</p> + +<p><i>André</i>—Of course.</p> + +<p><i>Count</i>—Ah! then I owe you six thousand francs. That's all +there is to the matter.</p> + +<p><i>André</i>—Yes, that's all! But you never said a word to me +about it; I had no money in the house: I had to send to our +man of business. May I beg of you in the future to be so good +as to—</p> + +<p><i>Count</i>—Poor boy! poor boy! Really, between ourselves, you would have +done a great deal better (as it is a month since you have seen me, and +since you are really very fond of me) to embrace me in meeting me +again, rather than to say all these things to me that you have been +saying!</p> + +<p><i>André</i> [<i>embracing his father heartily</i>]—Oh, of course they +make no difference, when it comes to <i>that</i>!</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5023" id="Page_5023">[Pg 5023]</a></span> +<i>Count</i>—Your second impulse is a very good one; but you +ought to have begun with it. All the same, I do not in the less +ask pardon for the inconvenience that I have caused you, my boy. +[<i>Takes some bank-notes from his pocket.</i>] Here are your six thousand +francs, and [<i>holding out the remainder of the notes to André</i>] +since you need money, help yourself.</p> + +<p><i>André</i>—Where in the world does that money come from?</p> + +<p><i>Count</i>—Oh, it is some money that I have received.</p> + +<p><i>André</i>—There was none coming to you from anywhere!</p> + +<p><i>Count</i>—There is always something to come to one, if he looks +around carefully. And now let us speak of serious things.</p> + +<p><i>André</i>—Yes, by all means. Father, are you not disposed to +settle down?</p> + +<p><i>Count</i>—What do you mean by "settle down"?</p> + +<p><i>André</i>—To save money, for one thing.</p> + +<p><i>Count</i>—Save money! I should be charmed to do so; but I really do not +see how we can do it. We certainly live as modestly as possible. This +house belongs to us; we have only four saddle horses, four carriage +horses, a couple of extra horses for evening service (we could not get +along with less), two coachmen, two valets, two grooms, one cook. Why, +we haven't even a housekeeper.</p> + +<p><i>André</i>—No, we only want that!</p> + +<p><i>Count</i>—We never receive any except masculine society; we +certainly are not extravagant as to the table. Look at me here: +I am breakfasting this minute on two eggs and a glass of water. +It seems to me that with our fortune—</p> + +<p><i>André</i>—Our fortune? Would you like to know in what condition +our fortune is?</p> + +<p><i>Count</i>—You ought to know better than I, since it is you who +have had the running of affairs since your majority.</p> + +<p><i>André</i>—Well then, I <i>do</i> know the expenses; and let me tell +you that you have counted up only those that are part of our life +in Paris, and you have not said a syllable of those that belong +to our country one.</p> + +<p><i>Count</i>—Those that belong to our country one! Those are all +just so much economy.</p> + +<p><i>André</i>—So then the place at Vilsac is just so much economy?</p> + +<p><i>Count</i>—Of course. We get everything from it, from eggs up +to oxen.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5024" id="Page_5024">[Pg 5024]</a></span> +<i>André</i>—Yes, and even to wild boars, when it suits you to +shoot one. Now be so good as to consider the place at Vilsac, +which you call a matter of economy. First of all, it brings us +in absolutely nothing.</p> + +<p><i>Count</i>—It never has brought us in anything.</p> + +<p><i>André</i>—It is mortgaged for two hundred thousand francs.</p> + +<p><i>Count</i>—That happened when I was young.</p> + +<p><i>André</i>—Are you under the impression that there comes a +time when mortgages wear themselves out? I wish they did. +But I am afraid that you deceive yourself; and in the mean +time, you are paying every year a mortgagor's interest. Furthermore, +at Vilsac—</p> + +<p><i>Count</i>—Where, remember, we spend September, October, +November, all of which is positively an economy—</p> + +<p><i>André</i>—Furthermore, as to Vilsac, this summer place where +we pass September, October, and November,—all of which is +positively an economy,—the proof of its being an economy is +that here we are in the middle of September, and we are just +setting out for Dieppe.</p> + +<p><i>Count</i>—For one time only, by chance! And moreover, we +will have to go down to Vilsac by the end of the month, for I +have asked those fellows to come down there for the shooting.</p> + +<p><i>André</i>—Yes, in this economical country place, where you +have asked all those gentlemen to come down for the shooting, +at the end of the month—</p> + +<p><i>Count</i>—Really, one would be bored to death without that!</p> + +<p><i>André</i>—In this same economical establishment, I say, you +have twelve keepers.</p> + +<p><i>Count</i>—Quite true; but it is one of the best preserves in +France, and really, there are so many poachers—</p> + +<p><i>André</i>—You have two masters of hounds, you have ten horses,—in +short, a whole hunting equipage; and I don't speak of the +indemnities that you pay year by year, if only for the rabbits +that you kill.</p> + +<p><i>Count</i>—The fact is, there <i>are</i> thousands of rabbits; but shooting +rabbits is such fun!</p> + +<p><i>André</i>—Add to that the entertainments that it occurs to you +to give every now and then, with fireworks and so on, during +the evening.</p> + +<p><i>Count</i>—Oh, yes, but that pleases all the peasants of the +neighborhood, who adore me; between ourselves it <i>is</i> rather—Oh, +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5025" id="Page_5025">[Pg 5025]</a></span> +my dear boy! if I had only been rich, what fine things I +would have done! In France, people do not know how to spend +money. In Russia it is quite another matter! Now, there you +have people who understand how to give an entertainment. But +then what can anybody do with two hundred thousand livres for +an income?</p> + +<p><i>André</i>—Father, one can do exactly what you have done,—one +can ruin himself.</p> + +<p><i>Count</i>—What! ruin himself?</p> + +<p><i>André</i>—Yes. When my mother died your personal fortune +brought you, as you say, an income of two hundred thousand +livres; and the money which my mother left to me, of which you +have had the use until I came of age, amounted to a hundred +and twenty thousand livres.</p> + +<p><i>Count</i>—I certainly have made an accounting to you in the +matter.</p> + +<p><i>André</i>—A perfectly exact one, only—</p> + +<p><i>Count</i>—Only—?</p> + +<p><i>André</i>—Only in doing so you have seriously impaired your +own capital.</p> + +<p><i>Count</i>—Why did you not say that to me at the time?</p> + +<p><i>André</i>—Because I too—I was thinking of nothing but spending +money.</p> + +<p><i>Count</i>—You ought to have warned me about this before now.</p> + +<p><i>André</i>—But I—I was doing then just what I see you doing; +I was taking life exactly as you had taught me to take it.</p> + +<p><i>Count</i>—André, I hope that is not a reproach.</p> + +<p><i>André</i>—God bless me, no. I am only saying to you why I +have not looked after your interests better than you have ever +done so yourself.</p> + +<p><i>Count</i>—Very good, Then I am going to explain to you why +I brought you up—</p> + +<p><i>André</i>—Not worth while, my dear father. There is no good +in going back to that, and I know quite well—</p> + +<p><i>Count</i>—On the contrary, you know nothing at all about the matter, +and you will please allow me to speak. It will be a consolation. You +are perfectly right as to things that have no common-sense in them; +and if I have brought you up after a certain manner, it is just because I +myself suffer from a different kind of education. <i>I</i> was brought up +very severely; at twenty-two years I knew nothing of life. I was born, I was kept +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5026" id="Page_5026">[Pg 5026]</a></span> +hanging on at Vilsac, with my father and my mother, who were saints on +earth, with my great-uncle, who had the gout, and with my tutor, who +was an abbé. I was born with a constitution like iron. I went +hunting day by day for whole months, on foot or on horseback. I ate my +meals like an ogre. I rode every sort of a horse, and I was a +swordsman like St. George himself. As for other things, my dear +fellow, there was no use dreaming about them: I had not a crown in my +pocket. The other sex—well, I had heard it said that there was a +world of women somewhere, but I certainly did not know where it was. +One day my father asked me if I was willing to marry, and I cried out, +"Oh yes, yes!" with such an explosion that my father himself could not +help laughing—he who never laughed. I was presented to a young +girl, virtuous and beautiful; and I fell in love with her with a +passion which at first fairly frightened the delicate and timid +creature. Such was your mother, my dear André, and to her I owe +the two happiest years of my life; it is true that I owe to her also +my greatest grief, for at the end of those two years she died. But it +must be said, either to the blame or to the praise of nature, that +organizations such as mine are proof against the severest shocks. At +twenty-four years I found myself rich, a widower, free to do what I +pleased, and thrown—with a child a year old—into the midst +of this world called Paris, of which I knew nothing whatever. Ought I +to have condemned you to this sort of life that I had led at Vilsac, +and which had been for me so often an intolerable bore? No, I obeyed +my real nature. I gave you my qualities and my shortcomings, without +reckoning closely in the matter; I have sought in your case your +affection rather than your obedience or your respect. I have never +taught you economy, it is true, but then I did not know anything about +that myself; and besides, I had not a business and a business name to +leave you. To have everything in common between us, one heart and one +purse, to be able to give each other everything and say everything to +each other,—that has been our motto. The puritans will think +that they have a right to blame this intimacy as too close: let them +say so if they choose. We have lost, it seems, some hundreds of +thousands of francs; but we have gained this,—that we can always +count upon each other, you upon me and I upon you. Either of us will +be ready at any moment to kill himself for the other, and that is the +most important matter between a father and a son; +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5027" id="Page_5027">[Pg 5027]</a></span> +all the rest is not worth the trouble that one takes to reason about +it. Don't you think I am right?</p> + +<p><i>André</i>—All that is true, my dear father! and I am just as +much attached to you as you are to me. Far be it from me to +reproach you; but now in my turn I want to make a confession +to you. You are an exception in our society; your fettered +youth, your precocious widowerhood, are your excuses, if you +need any. You were born at a time when all France was in a +fever, and when the individual, as well as the great mass of +people, seemed to be striving to spend by every possible means +a superabundance of vitality. Urged toward active life by nature, +by curiosity, by temperament, you have cared for things that +were worth caring for,—for them only; for entertaining yourself, +for hunting, for fine horses, for the artist world, for people of +rank and distinction. In such an environment as this you have +paid your tribute to your country, you have paid the debt of your +rank in life and of your name. But I, on the other hand, like +almost all my generation, brought in contact with a fashionable +world from the time that I began life,—I, born in an epoch of +lassitude and transition,—I led for a while this life by mere +imitation in laziness.... It is a kind of existence that no +longer amuses me; and moreover, I can tell you that it never +did amuse me. To sit up all night turning over cards; to get +up at two o'clock in the afternoon, to have horses put to the +carriage and go for the drive around the Lake, or to ride horseback; +to live by day with idlers and to pass my evenings with +such parasites as your friend M. De Tournas—all that seems to +me the height of foolishness. And at the bottom of your own +thoughts you think just as I do. So now, now that you really +have got to a serious explanation of affairs, let us reach a real +irrevocable determination of them. Are you willing to let me +arrange your life for you in the future exactly as I would wish +to arrange my own life? Are you willing to have confidence in +me, and after having brought me up in your way, are you willing +that in turn, while there is still time for it, I should—bring you +up in mine?</p> + +<p><i>Count</i>—Yes, go on.</p> + +<p><i>André</i>—Very well,—to severe diseases strong remedies. You +think a great deal of our Vilsac estate?</p> + +<p><i>Count</i>—I was born there. I should not be sorry to end my +days there.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5028" id="Page_5028">[Pg 5028]</a></span> +<i>André</i>—Very well. We will keep Vilsac for you, and find +money in some other way to pay off the mortgage.</p> + +<p><i>Count</i>—How?</p> + +<p><i>André</i>—That's my business; only you must send away the +two piqueurs, and six of the keepers.</p> + +<p><i>Count</i>—Poor fellows!</p> + +<p><i>André</i>—And only four horses are to be kept. No more entertainments +are to be given, no more fireworks. You will entertain only two or +three intimate friends now and then,—if we find as many friends as +that among all those that are about us nowadays here.—and you will +stay at Vilsac seven or eight months of the year.</p> + +<p><i>Count</i>—Alone!</p> + +<p><i>André</i>—Wait a little. I have not finished yet. This house +where we are must be sold. We must put out of doors these +servants, who are just so many thieves; and we will keep at +Paris only a very modest stopping-place.</p> + +<p><i>Count</i>—Will you kindly allow me to get my breath?</p> + +<p><i>André</i>—Don't stir, or my surgical operation will not be successful. +Now that your debts are paid there will be left to you—</p> + +<p><i>Count</i>—There will be left to me—</p> + +<p><i>André</i>—Forty thousand livres income, and as much for me,—no +more; and with all that, during three or four years you will +not have the capital at your disposition.</p> + +<p><i>Count</i>—Heavens, what a smash!</p> + +<p><i>André</i>—Are you willing to accept my scheme?</p> + +<p><i>Count</i>—I must.</p> + +<p><i>André</i>—Very well, then: sign these papers!</p> + +<p><i>Count</i>—What are they?</p> + +<p><i>André</i>—They are papers which I have just got from the +notary, and which I have been expecting to make you sign while +at Dieppe and send to me; but since you are here—</p> + +<p><i>Count</i> [<i>signs</i>]—Since I am here, I may as well sign at once: +you are quite right,—there you are.</p> + +<p><i>André</i>—Very well; now as, according to my notions, just as +much as you are left to yourself you will slip back into the same +errors as in the past—</p> + +<p><i>Count</i>—What are you going to do further?</p> + +<p><i>André</i>—Guess.</p> + +<p><i>Count</i>—You are going to forbid—</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5029" id="Page_5029">[Pg 5029]</a></span> +<i>André</i>—Are you out of your senses? I am going to marry +you off.</p> + +<p><i>Count</i>—Marry me off!</p> + +<p><i>André</i>—Without permission.</p> + +<p><i>Count</i>—And how about yourself?</p> + +<p><i>André</i>—I am going to marry myself off—afterwards. You +must begin as an example.</p> + +<p><i>Count</i>—André, do you know something?</p> + +<p><i>André</i>—What?</p> + +<p><i>Count</i>—Some one has told you the very thing I have had in +mind.</p> + +<p><i>André</i>—Nobody has told me anything.</p> + +<p><i>Count</i>—Your word on it?</p> + +<p><i>André</i>—My word on it.</p> + +<p><i>Count</i>—Explain yourself. You, all by yourself, have had this +idea of marriage?</p> + +<p><i>André</i>—I myself.</p> + +<p><i>Count</i>—Deny now the sympathy between us!</p> + +<p><i>André</i>—Well?</p> + +<p><i>Count</i>—It exists [<i>putting his arms around his son</i>]. There, +embrace me!</p> + +<p><i>André</i>—And you accept?</p> + +<p><i>Count</i>—As if I would do anything else!</p> + +<p class="transc">Translated for 'A Library of the World's Best Literature,' by E. Irenæus +Stevenson</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="CLARKSON" id="CLARKSON"></a>MR. AND MRS. CLARKSON</h3> +<h4>From 'L'Étrangère'</h4> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>[These scenes, the final ones of the drama, occur in the private +drawing-room of Catherine, the young Duchess of Septmonts. Mr. +Clarkson, a wealthy American man of business, a Californian, has just +received a note from the Duke of Septmonts, a blasé young roué of high +family, requesting him to call at once. He has come, in some +bewilderment, to find the duke. Mr. Clarkson has only a formal +acquaintance with the duke, but Mrs. Clarkson, who resides much of the +time in Paris, acting as Mr. Clarkson's business representative, knows +the duke confidentially. The Duchess of Septmonts receives Clarkson.]</p></div> + +<p><i>Mr. Clarkson</i>—I beg your pardon, madam, for having insisted on +making my way in here; but a few moments ago I found on returning to my house, +a letter from your husband. It asked me for a rendezvous as soon as possible, +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5030" id="Page_5030">[Pg 5030]</a></span> +without giving me a reason for it. I find M. de Septmonts not at home. +May I ask you if you know how I can be of service to him?</p> + +<p><i>Catherine</i>—I was under the impression that in his letter, M. +de Septmonts explained to you the matter in which he wishes +your assistance.</p> + +<p><i>Clarkson</i>—No.</p> + +<p><i>Catherine</i>—Did not his letter contain another letter, sealed, +which he purposed leaving in your hands?</p> + +<p><i>Clarkson</i>—No.</p> + +<p><i>Catherine</i>—Are you really telling me the truth?</p> + +<p><i>Clarkson</i>—I never lie, madam: I have too much business on +my hands; it would mix me up quite too much in my affairs.</p> + +<p><i>Catherine</i>—Then perhaps it is to Mrs. Clarkson that my husband +has intrusted that letter.</p> + +<p><i>Clarkson</i>—No. She would have mentioned it; for I told her +that I had received a line from the Duke, and was on my way +to this house.</p> + +<p><i>Catherine</i>—Perhaps your wife did not tell you—all.</p> + +<p><i>Clarkson</i>—She has no earthly reason to conceal anything from +me!</p> + +<p><i>Catherine</i>—True! I know very well that she is your wife +only in name; she told me as much when I was at her house +yesterday.</p> + +<p><i>Clarkson</i>—Really! She must be very much pleased with you, +for she does not talk readily about her personal affairs.</p> + +<p><i>Catherine</i>—Unfortunately, it is quite otherwise as far as I am +concerned; she has not hidden from me the fact that she detests +me, and that she will do me all the injury she possibly can.</p> + +<p><i>Clarkson</i>—You? Injury? For what reason? Pray, what have +you done to her?</p> + +<p><i>Catherine</i>—Nothing! I have known her only two days. +Nevertheless—</p> + +<p><i>Clarkson</i>—Nevertheless—</p> + +<p><i>Catherine</i>—What I was going to say is not my secret, sir, it +is hers, and she alone has the right to tell it to you. But as to +this letter that my husband has told my father he has sent to you—it +is I who wrote that letter. You may as well know, too, that +it was abstracted from my possession; and moreover, that with +that letter any one can indeed do me all the mischief with which +your wife, Mrs. Clarkson, has threatened me.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5031" id="Page_5031">[Pg 5031]</a></span> +<i>Clarkson</i> [<i>very gravely</i>]—Then we must know at once if my wife has +that letter. I will write her to come here immediately and join +us—that I have something very important to communicate to her—here. +Are you willing to have her come? [<i>He writes while he speaks.</i>]</p> + +<p><i>Catherine</i>—Certainly.</p> + +<p><i>Clarkson</i>—Then we can have a general explanation. You may be sure, +madam, that I shall never lend my hand to anything that means harm to +you, or to any woman: I come from the country where we respect women.</p> + +<p><i>Catherine</i> [<i>rings the bell, and says to a servant who answers +it</i>]—See that this letter is sent immediately. Be careful that it +does not go astray. It is not my letter. This gentleman has +written it. [<i>Exit servant.</i>]</p> + +<p><i>Clarkson</i>—And now, madam, do you know why M. de Septmonts +wishes to have an interview with me?</p> + +<p><i>Catherine</i>—Yes, I can guess. It concerns me, perhaps; but I +have no right to discuss the matter. It is something which belongs +to the Duke, and he alone has the right to impart it to +you. All I can do is to beg of you to have all details thoroughly +explained to you, and to look into them very carefully.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p><i>A</i> Servant <i>enters</i></p></div> + +<p><i>Servant</i>—M. le Duc has come in; he will be glad to have +Mr. Clarkson come to him.</p> + +<p><i>Clarkson</i>—Very good. [<i>Going</i>.] I bid you good evening, +madam.</p> + +<p><i>Catherine</i> [<i>to the servant</i>]—Wait a moment. [<i>Going to Clarkson +and speaking in a low voice.</i>] Suppose I were to ask you a +very great service.</p> + +<p><i>Clarkson</i>—Ask it, madam.</p> + +<p><i>Catherine</i>—Suppose I were to ask you to say to my husband +that you are waiting for him here in this drawing-room—that +you will be glad to speak with him <i>here</i>.</p> + +<p><i>Clarkson</i>—Nothing but that? With great pleasure. [<i>To the +servant.</i>] Say to M. de Septmonts that I shall be obliged if he +will join me—here. [<i>Servant goes out.</i>]</p> + +<p><i>Catherine</i>—I shall leave you; for if I know what is going to +be discussed in this interview, I neither could nor should take +part in it; but whatever may come of it, I shall never forget +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5032" id="Page_5032">[Pg 5032]</a></span> +that you have done everything that you could do as a courtesy +to me,—and that you are a gentleman. [<i>Exit Catherine.</i>]</p> + +<p><i>Clarkson</i> [<i>alone</i>]—Charming! She is charming, that little +woman; but may I be hanged if I understand one word of what +is going on here.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>The Duke of Septmonts <i>comes in hastily, and advances to</i> +Clarkson.</p></div> + +<p><i>Septmonts</i>—I have just come from your house, Mr. Clarkson. Mrs. +Clarkson told me you were here. I returned at once. Pardon me for +troubling you. If when I came in I asked you to come to my own +drawing-room, and have thus troubled you once more, it is because I +was told you were expecting me here, with the duchess. This is her +private parlor; and as what we have to say is a matter for men—</p> + +<p><i>Clarkson</i>—Therefore the duchess went to her own room +when your return here was announced.</p> + +<p><i>Septmonts</i>—Mr. Clarkson, did <i>she</i> tell the servant that you +would prefer to hold our conversation here?</p> + +<p><i>Clarkson</i>—No, I told him.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>[<i>Septmonts goes to the door of the room by which Catherine went out, +and closes the portière.</i>]</p></div> + +<p><i>Clarkson</i> [<i>in a scornful aside</i>]—What an amount of mystery +and precaution!</p> + +<p><i>Septmonts</i>—The matter is this, Mr. Clarkson. I must fight a +duel to-morrow morning. This duel can terminate only in the +death of one or other of the contestants. I am the insulted one, +therefore I have the choice of weapons. I choose the sword.</p> + +<p><i>Clarkson</i>—Do you fence well?</p> + +<p><i>Septmonts</i>—I believe I am one of the best fencers in Paris. +But another friend on whom I could count is one of those men +of the world who discuss all the details of an affair, and with +whom the preliminaries of such a meeting might last several +days. I want to get through with the matter at once.</p> + +<p><i>Clarkson</i>—Ah! The fact is, you <i>do</i> give an importance and +a solemnity to such things in France that we don't understand, +we Americans, who settle the question in five minutes on the +first corner of the street, in the sight of everybody.</p> + +<p><i>Septmonts</i>—That is just the reason that I allowed myself to +apply to you, Mr. Clarkson. Now, are you disposed to be present +as my second?</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5033" id="Page_5033">[Pg 5033]</a></span> +<i>Clarkson</i>—Bless me, with all my heart! Besides, when I +mentioned your letter to Mrs. Clarkson she told me to do all +I could to serve you. Have you and my wife known each other +long?</p> + +<p><i>Septmonts</i>—About four years; and I owe your wife a great +deal, morally speaking. I have no desire to conceal the fact. I +was not yet married when I met Mrs. Clarkson. One day I had +lost a large sum at play,—a hundred and fifty thousand francs,—which +I did not have, and tried in vain to procure; for at that +time I was completely ruined. Mrs. Clarkson very generously +lent me the sum, and I repaid it, with interest equivalent to the +capital.</p> + +<p><i>Clarkson</i>—But as you were ruined, duke, how could you pay +this large capital and this large interest? Did your father or +mother die? In France the death of parents is a great resource, +I know.</p> + +<p><i>Septmonts</i>—No. I was an orphan, and I had no expectations. +I married.</p> + +<p><i>Clarkson</i>—Ah, true! You French people make much of marriages for +money! It's a great advantage over us Americans, who only marry for +love. Now with us, in such a case as yours, a man goes into some +business or other; he goes to mining; he works. But every country has +its own customs. I beg your pardon for interrupting you. After all, it +doesn't concern me. Come back to our duel.</p> + +<p><i>Septmonts</i>—I have a letter here in my hands—</p> + +<p><i>Clarkson</i>—Ah! You have a letter in your hands—</p> + +<p><i>Septmonts</i>—A letter which compromises my wife—</p> + +<p><i>Clarkson</i>—Ah! I am completely at your service. I belong +to the sort of men who do not admit any compromises in matters +of that kind.</p> + +<p><i>Septmonts</i>—I may be killed—one has to look ahead. If I +lose my life, I lose it by having been so injured by my wife that +I intend to be revenged on her.</p> + +<p><i>Clarkson</i>—And how?</p> + +<p><i>Septmonts</i>—I wish that the contents of this letter, which I +have in my possession, shall become public property if I am +killed.</p> + +<p><i>Clarkson</i> [<i>coldly</i>]—Ah! And how can I serve you as to that?</p> + +<p><i>Septmonts</i>—I will intrust this sealed letter to you. [<i>He takes +the letter from his pocket.</i>] Here it is.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5034" id="Page_5034">[Pg 5034]</a></span> +<i>Clarkson</i> [<i>still more coldly</i>]—Very well.</p> + +<p><i>Septmonts</i>—Now, if I survive, you will restore it to me as it +is. If not, then in the trial which will follow, you will read it +in a court. I wish the letters to become public. Then it will be +known that I avenged my honor under a feigned pretext; and M. +Gérard and the duchess will be so situated that they will never +be able to see each other again.</p> + +<p><i>Clarkson</i>—Nonsense! Once dead, what does it matter to you?</p> + +<p><i>Septmonts</i>—I am firm there. Will you kindly accept the commission?</p> + +<p><i>Clarkson</i> [<i>in a formal tone</i>]—Surely.</p> + +<p><i>Septmonts</i>—Here is the letter.</p> + +<p><i>Clarkson</i> [<i>takes it and holds it as he speaks</i>]—But, duke, +now that I think about it, when this trial occurs it is probable, +even certain, that I shall not be in France. I was expecting +to leave Paris on business to-morrow morning at the latest. I +can wait until to-morrow evening to please you, and to help +you with this duel of yours; but that is really all the time I can +spare.</p> + +<p><i>Septmonts</i>—Very well; then you will have the goodness to +give this letter to Mrs. Clarkson with the instructions I have just +given you, and it will be in equally good hands.</p> + +<p><i>Clarkson</i> [<i>looking at the letter</i>]—All right. A blank envelope. +What is there to indicate that this letter was addressed to M. +Gérard?</p> + +<p><i>Septmonts</i>—The envelope with his name on it is inside.</p> + +<p><i>Clarkson</i>—You found this letter?</p> + +<p><i>Septmonts</i>—I found it—before it was mailed.</p> + +<p><i>Clarkson</i>—And as you had your suspicions you—opened it?</p> + +<p><i>Septmonts</i>—Yes.</p> + +<p><i>Clarkson</i>—I beg your pardon for questioning you so, but you +yourself did me the honor to say that you wished me to be <i>fully</i> +informed. Do you know whether the sentiments between M. +Gérard and the duchess were of long standing?</p> + +<p><i>Septmonts</i>—They date from before my marriage.</p> + +<p><i>Clarkson</i> [<i>looking toward the apartment of the duchess</i>]—Oh, +I see. That is serious!</p> + +<p><i>Septmonts</i>—They loved each other, they wanted to marry +each other, but my wife's father would not consent.</p> + +<p><i>Clarkson</i> [<i>reflectively</i>]—M. Gérard wanted to marry her, did he?</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5035" id="Page_5035">[Pg 5035]</a></span> +<i>Septmonts</i>—Yes; but when he learned that Mademoiselle +Mauriceau was a millionaire, as he had nothing and had no title +other than his plain name Gérard, he withdrew his pretensions.</p> + +<p><i>Clarkson</i>—That was a very proper thing for the young man +to do. It doesn't surprise me!</p> + +<p><i>Septmonts</i>—Yes; but now, Mr. Clarkson, this young gentleman +has come back—</p> + +<p><i>Clarkson</i>—And is too intimate a friend to your wife?</p> + +<p><i>Septmonts</i>—Ah, I do not say that!</p> + +<p><i>Clarkson</i>—What do you say, then?</p> + +<p><i>Septmonts</i>—That as the letter in question gives that impression, +the situation amounts to the same thing as far as a legal +process is concerned.</p> + +<p><i>Clarkson</i> [<i>thoughtfully and coldly</i>]—Oh-h-h!</p> + +<p><i>Septmonts</i>—Don't you agree with me, Mr. Clarkson?</p> + +<p><i>Clarkson</i>—No, not at all. I can understand revenge on those who have +injured us, but not on those who haven't done so. And I don't like +vengeance on a woman anyway, even when she is guilty; and certainly +not when she is innocent; and you owe your wife a great deal—between +ourselves, you owe your wife a great deal, duke. I understand now why, +for once, your father-in-law M. Mauriceau sides with his daughter and +M. Gérard against you. He is sure they both are innocent. By-the-by, +does M. Mauriceau also know of this letter?</p> + +<p><i>Septmonts</i>—Yes. He even tried to take it from me by force.</p> + +<p><i>Clarkson</i>—Why did he not take it?</p> + +<p><i>Septmonts</i>—Ah, because you see, I had the presence of mind +to tell him that I did not have it any longer—that I had sent it +to you!</p> + +<p><i>Clarkson</i> [<i>ironically</i>]—That <i>was</i> very clever!</p> + +<p><i>Septmonts</i>—And then when M. Gérard had challenged me, M. +Mauriceau thought he would make an impression by saying to +him before me, "I will be your second."</p> + +<p><i>Clarkson</i>—Well, is that the whole story?</p> + +<p><i>Septmonts</i>—Yes.</p> + +<p><i>Clarkson</i>—Very well, my dear sir: to speak frankly, all those +people whom you characterize so slightingly seem to me the right kind +of people—excellent people. Your little wife seems to be the +victim of prejudices, of morals, and of combinations about which we +mere American savages don't know anything at all. In our American +society, which of course I can't compare with +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5036" id="Page_5036">[Pg 5036]</a></span> +yours, as we only date from yesterday,—if Mademoiselle Mauriceau +had loved a fine young fellow like M. Gérard, her father would +have given her to the man she loved; or if he had refused that, why +she would have gone quite simply and been married before the justice +of the peace! Perhaps her father wouldn't have portioned her; but then +the husband would have worked, gone into business, and the two young +people would have been happy all the same. As to your M. Gérard +here, he is an honest man and a clever one. We like people who work, +we Americans, and to whatever country they belong, we hold them as +compatriots—because we are such savages, I suppose. So you +understand that I don't at all share your opinion of this question.</p> + +<p><i>Septmonts</i>—And so speaking, you mean—?</p> + +<p><i>Clarkson</i>—That if I give you this explanation, it is because I +think I understand that in paying me the honor of choosing me +as a second, you thought that the men of my country were less +clear-sighted, less scrupulous than the men of yours. In short, +duke, you thought I would lend my hand to all these social pettinesses, +these little vilenesses which you have just recounted with +a candor that honors you.</p> + +<p><i>Septmonts</i>—Do you happen to remember, Mr. Clarkson, that +you are talking to <i>me</i>—in this way?</p> + +<p><i>Clarkson</i>—To you. Because there are only two of us here! +But if you like, we will call in other people to listen.</p> + +<p><i>Septmonts</i>—Then, sir, you tell me to my face—</p> + +<p><i>Clarkson</i>—I tell you to your face that to squander your +inheritance—to have gambled away money you did not have—to borrow it +from a woman without knowing when or how you could return it—to marry +in order to pay your debts and continue your dissipations—to revenge +yourself now on an innocent woman—to steal letters—to misapply your +skill in arms by killing a brave man—why, I tell you to your face +that all that is the work of a rascal, and that therefore a rascal you +are. Oh, what astonishes me is that fifty people haven't told you so +already, and that I have had to travel three thousand leagues to +inform you on the subject! For you don't seem to have ever suspected +it, and you don't look thoroughly convinced even now.</p> + +<p><i>Septmonts</i> [<i>controlling himself with the greatest difficulty</i>]—Mr. +Clarkson, you know that I cannot call you to account until +I have settled with your friend M. Gérard. You take a strange +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5037" id="Page_5037">[Pg 5037]</a></span> +advantage of the fact, sir. But we shall meet again. Please return +me the paper you have had from me.</p> + +<p><i>Clarkson</i>—Your wife's letter? Never in the world! As it was +addressed to M. Gérard, it belongs to M. Gérard. I intend to +give it to M. Gérard. If <i>he</i> wants to return it to you, I won't +stand in the way; but I doubt whether he will return it.</p> + +<p><i>Septmonts</i>—You will fight me, then, you mean?</p> + +<p><i>Clarkson</i>—Oh! as for that; yes, fight as much as you like.</p> + +<p><i>Septmonts</i>—Very well; when I have finished with the other, +you and I will have our business together.</p> + +<p><i>Clarkson</i>—Say the day after to-morrow, then?</p> + +<p><i>Septmonts</i>—The day after to-morrow.</p> + +<p><i>Clarkson</i>—Stop; I must start off by to-morrow night, at the +latest.</p> + +<p><i>Septmonts</i>—You can wait. And while waiting, leave me!</p> + +<p><i>Clarkson</i>—Duke, do I look like a man to whom to say "leave" +in that tone, and who goes? Now look at me; it isn't hard to +see what I have decided. I don't mean you to fight with Gérard +before you have fought with me. If Gérard kills you, I shan't +have the pleasure of crossing swords with "one of the first +fencers in Paris," which it will amuse me to do. If you kill +him, you cause irreparable misfortunes. If you think I'm going +to let you kill a man who has saved me twenty-five per cent. in +the cost of washing gold, you are mistaken! Come, prove you +are brave, even when you aren't sure of being the stronger! Go +and get a good pair of swords from your room (since the sword +is your favorite weapon—mine, too, for the matter of that), and +follow me to those great bare grounds back of your house. On +my way here I was wondering why in goodness's name they were +not utilized. In the heart of the city they must be worth a good +deal! We will prove it. As for seconds, umpires of the point +of honor, we'll have the people who pass by in the street—if +any do pass.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>[<i>Septmonts rushes in a fury toward the door, but when there stretches his +hand toward the bell. Clarkson throws himself between him and the +bell.</i>]</p></div> + +<p><i>Clarkson</i>—Ah! no ringing, please! Don't play the Louis XV. +gentleman, and order your servants to cudgel a poor beggar! or +as sure as my name is Clarkson, I'll slap your face, sir, before +all your lackeys!</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5038" id="Page_5038">[Pg 5038]</a></span> +<i>Septmonts</i>—Very well, so be it! I <i>will</i> begin with you. +[<i>Angrily hastens from the room for the weapons.</i>]</p> + +<p><i>Clarkson</i>—Quite right! [<i>Looking coolly at his watch.</i>] Let me +see; why, perhaps I <i>can</i> get away from Paris this evening after +all. [<i>He goes calmly out at the back toward the darkened garden.</i>]</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>[<i>The Duchess of Septmonts has pulled aside the portière and looks toward +the door by which her husband and Mr. Clarkson have gone out. She +is very much agitated, and can hardly walk. She rings the bell, and +then makes an effort to appear calm. The servant comes in.</i>]</p></div> + +<p><i>Catherine</i> [<i>tremulously, to the servant</i>]—Ask my father to +come here, immediately. [<i>The servant goes out. Catherine looks +toward the window and makes a movement to go to it.</i>] No, I +will not look out! I will not know anything! I do not know +anything; I have <i>heard</i> nothing; the minutes that that hand +marks upon the clock, no one knows what they say to me. One +of them will decide my life! Even if I had heard nothing, +things would take the turn that they have, and I should merely +be amazed in knowing of them. Instead of knowing nothing, I +have merely to remember nothing. But no, no,—I am trying in +vain to smother the voice of my own conscience! What I am +doing is wicked. From the moment that I have known anything +about this, I am an accomplice; and if one of these two men is +killed he has been killed with my consent. No, I cannot and +I will not. [<i>She runs toward the door. As she does so Mrs. +Clarkson enters hastily.</i>] You, you, madam!</p> + +<p><i>Mrs. Clarkson</i>—Were you not really expecting me to-day, +madam? My husband sends me a note to say that you—and +he—wish to speak to me immediately.</p> + +<p><i>Catherine</i>—Madam, since Mr. Clarkson has written you, there +has occurred a thing which neither your husband, nor I, nor you +yourself could foresee.</p> + +<p><i>Mrs. Clarkson</i>—What do you mean?</p> + +<p><i>Catherine</i>—While my husband the duke has been explaining +to Mr. Clarkson the reasons of the duel,—which you, you, madam, +have provoked,—your husband, who did not find these reasons +either sufficient or honorable, has undertaken to defend us—Gérard, +yes, Gérard, and me,—and so very forcibly, that at this +instant—</p> + +<p><i>Mrs. Clarkson</i>—They are fighting?</p> + +<p><i>Catherine</i>—Yes, yes, only a few steps away from here!</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5039" id="Page_5039">[Pg 5039]</a></span> +<i>Mrs. Clarkson</i>—Ah! That sounds like Clarkson! [<i>She takes +a step toward the door.</i>]</p> + +<p><i>Catherine</i>—Madam, that duel must not go on.</p> + +<p><i>Mrs. Clarkson</i>—Why not?</p> + +<p><i>Catherine</i>—I will not permit these two men to lose their +lives on my account.</p> + +<p><i>Mrs. Clarkson</i>—You? What difference does it make to you? +They are not doing anything but what they chose to do. "Hands +off," as the officials at the gaming-tables say when the ball has +stopped rolling. You have wished to be free, haven't you? and +you are perfectly right; you never said so to anybody, but you +begged it all the same of One who can do anything. He has +heard your prayer, and he has made use of me to save you; of +me, who have been anxious to destroy you! That is justice; and +do you think that I object—I who am to be the loser? In the +game that I play with Destiny, every time I make up my mind +that God is against me, I bow my head and throw up the game. +I don't fear any one except God. He is on your side. Let us +talk no more about it.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>[<i>Just as she is speaking the last words, Clarkson comes in. He is very +grave.</i>]</p></div> + +<p><i>Mrs. Clarkson</i>—See there. You are a widow.</p> + +<p><i>Clarkson</i> [<i>to Mrs. Clarkson</i>]—My dear Noémi, will you be so +kind as to hand that paper to our friend the duchess. She will +perhaps feel some embarrassment in taking it directly from my +hand—and it is a thing that must be returned to her. Such was +the last wish of her husband; he really did not have time to tell +me as much, but I fancy that I guess it right.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>[<i>Mrs. Clarkson calmly takes the letter and goes to Catherine.</i>]</p></div> + +<p><i>Mrs. Clarkson</i>—I once said to your friend M. Rémonin that +if I lost my game I would lose like one who plays fair. Madam, +it was through me that your marriage came to pass; and now it +is through me that your marriage—is dissolved. [<i>Turning to +Clarkson.</i>] And now, Clarkson, my dear, let us get out of this. +You are a good and a brave fellow. I will go anywhere with +you. I have had enough of Europe—things here are too small. +Do you know, I really believe I am going to find myself in love +with you! Come, let us go! I am positively smothering.</p> + +<p><i>Clarkson</i>—Yes, let us go.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5040" id="Page_5040">[Pg 5040]</a></span></p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>[<i>At the moment that Mr. and Mrs. Clarkson are going out, servants and +police officials, accompanied by a commissioner of the police service, +appear in the door. Clarkson is pointed out.</i>]</p></div> + +<p><i>Commissioner</i>—I beg your pardon, monsieur,—there seems to +have been—a murder here.</p> + +<p><i>Clarkson</i>—Oh no, monsieur, not at all a murder—only a duel.</p> + +<p><i>Commissioner</i>—And am I to understand, monsieur, that it is +you who—</p> + +<p><i>Clarkson</i>—Oh yes, monsieur, it is I. You have come to take +me into custody?</p> + +<p><i>Commissioner</i>—Yes, monsieur.</p> + +<p><i>Clarkson</i>—What a ridiculous country! I am ready to follow +you, monsieur. But I am an American citizen. I shall give you +bail—but of course, the law before anything....</p> + +<p><i>Mrs. Clarkson</i>—Reckon on me, Clarkson. <i>I</i> shall take charge +of this matter.</p> + +<p><i>Clarkson</i>—How are you going to do that?</p> + +<p><i>Mrs. Clarkson</i>—Oh, that's my affair.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>[<i>Mrs. Clarkson crosses the stage and whispers a word to the commissioner. +The commissioner bows very respectfully. Mrs. Clarkson goes out.</i>]</p></div> + +<p><i>Commissioner</i> [<i>to Dr. Rémonin</i>]—You are a doctor, monsieur?</p> + +<p><i>Rémonin</i>—Yes, monsieur.</p> + +<p><i>Commissioner</i>—Will you have the goodness to give a certificate +of death?</p> + +<p><i>Rémonin</i> [<i>significantly</i>]—With great pleasure!</p> + +<p class="transc">Translated for 'A Library of the World's Best Literature,' by E. Irenæus +Stevenson</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5041" id="Page_5041">[Pg 5041]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="GEORGE_DU_MAURIER" id="GEORGE_DU_MAURIER"></a>GEORGE DU MAURIER</h2> + +<h4>(1834-1896)</h4> + + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 90px;"> +<img src="images/capg385.png" width="90" height="90" alt="G" title="G" /> +</div><p class="dropcap">eorge Louis Palmella Busson du Maurier was born in Paris on March +6th, 1834, and his early life was passed there. His father was a +Frenchman, who had married an Englishwoman in Paris. The Du Mauriers +came of an old family in Brittany, Du Maurier's grandfather having +been a small <i>rentier</i>, who derived his living from glass-works. +During Du Maurier's childhood his parents removed to Belgium and +thence to London. At seventeen years of age he tried for a degree at +the Sorbonne in Paris, but was not successful; and he was put, much +against his will, to study chemistry under Dr. Williamson at +University College, London. Du Maurier's father, whose characteristics +are described in 'Peter Ibbetson,' was an amateur of science. It has +been hinted by the son that certain unlucky experiments, which were +the result of the elder Du Maurier's fancy for the natural sciences, +considerably impaired the family fortunes. The father had bent his +heart on the son's being a man of science, but the son's tastes were +all for art. He did therefore little good in his chemical studies.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 178px;"> +<img src="images/Illus385.png" width="178" height="216" alt="George du Maurier" title="George du Maurier" /> +<span class="caption"><span class="smcap">George du Maurier</span></span> +</div> + +<p>Du Maurier's father died in 1856, and he +then devoted himself definitely to art. He worked at the British Museum, +and made considerable progress there. He next went to Paris, +and lived the life which he has described in 'Trilby.' In 1857 he attended +the Academy at Antwerp, and studied under De Kaiser and +Van Lerius. His severe studies at Antwerp had the result that his +sight was seriously impaired, and he lost the use of his left eye. +After two years of enforced idleness he went to London to seek his +fortune. An old acquaintance of his student life in Paris introduced +him to Charles Reade, who in turn introduced him to Mark Lemon, +the editor of Punch. Through these acquaintances he obtained employment +in drawing for Once a Week, Punch, and the Cornhill Magazine. +On the death of Leech in 1864 he was regularly attached to +the staff of Punch, and till the time of his death continued to work +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5042" id="Page_5042">[Pg 5042]</a></span> +for that periodical with ever-increasing success. It is not too much +to say that for many years Punch was chiefly and mainly Du Maurier. +He early marked out for himself an entirely new path, which was not +in the direction of caricature or broad comedy; grace, sentiment, and +wit, rather than fun, were the characteristics of his work. He confined +himself almost entirely to society, so that his field was a narrower +one than that of some of his coadjutors. He had not, for +instance, the masculine breadth of Leech, who represented with great +strength and humor the chief characters of English life,—the parson, +the soldier, the merchant, the farmer, etc.</p> + +<p>Du Maurier was almost entirely a carpet knight. He drew London +society, and a certain phase of London society. The particular +society which he represented is of very recent existence. Thirty +years ago there was but one society in London. This was simply the +ancient aristocratic society of England, which gathered in London in +the season. It is true that there was an artistic society in London +at that time, but it was quite apart and of little general recognition +or influence. But since then there has come up in London a society +made up chiefly of artists, professional people, and successful merchants +(having moreover its points of contact with the old society), +which is very strong and influential. It is this which Du Maurier +knew, and which he represented. Even here, however, the types he +has selected for description were very special. But they were presented +with so much grace and charm that the public never tired of +them. To his type of woman he was especially faithful: the tall +woman with long throat and well-defined chin, much resembling the +figures of Burne-Jones and Rossetti, only somewhat more mundane. +We have the same woman in the heroine of 'Trilby.'</p> + +<p>Though Du Maurier, before beginning 'Peter Ibbetson,' had never +written a book, he had had considerable literary experience, for he +is said to have spent as much time upon the construction of the dialogues +which accompanied his pictures as upon the pictures themselves. +The story of 'Peter Ibbetson' he had often related to his +friends, who had urged him to write it down. This he finally did,—at +the special instance, it is said, of Henry James. It appeared in +Harper's Magazine in 1891. 'Trilby' was published in 1894 in Harper's +Magazine, and at once attained a great popular success. The +publishers estimate that about 250,000 copies of the book have been +sold. Du Maurier had sold the book outright for £2,000, but when it +became apparent that the work was to be a success, the publishers +admitted the author to a royalty, paying at one time $40,000. They +also shared with him the large sums paid for the dramatization of +the work. For 'The Martian,' his last novel, he received £10,000 +outright. This also was published in Harper's Magazine.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5043" id="Page_5043">[Pg 5043]</a></span> +It is perhaps too early to pass judgment upon the merits of these +works. They have, no doubt, grave faults. The story of 'Peter +Ibbetson' has been completed when it is but two-thirds told. The +remaining portion of the book is a dream. This is of course a dangerous +reversal of the usual method of the story-teller, which is to +make dreams seem like facts. The hypnotic part of 'Trilby' is said +by the professional authorities on the subject to be bad science. The +hypnotism in 'Trilby' was perhaps a journalist's idea, that subject +being much talked of at the time the book was written. Du Maurier, +it need hardly be said, was by training a journalist, although the +training had been of the pencil rather than of the pen. The literary +style of the novels is curious. It makes no pretensions to finish; the +grammar even is sometimes at fault. But on the other hand, it has +decided merits. It is particularly easy, flowing, and simple. These +are not the qualities we should have expected from the nature of Du +Maurier's literary training. The brief dialogues which he has for so +many years appended to his sketches in 'Punch' would have educated, +we should have thought, the qualities of brevity and point +rather than those of ease and fullness. Certain peculiarities of the +style cannot be defended, but the author produces his effects in spite +of such solecisms. This is true of the matter of his stories as well +as of the style. They are at many points inartistically constructed; +but the stuff is good, and the works therefore hold their own in spite +of these drawbacks. They certainly have one virtue, which is most +necessary to the success of any work of the imagination: they have +reality. We believe as we read, and continue to believe after we +have ceased reading, that the Major and Mimsey and Taffy and +Trilby are real persons. They are real to us because they have in +the first case been real to their creator. It is possible, however, that +the pictures which accompany the text may increase the strength of +the illusion.</p> + +<p>No book, in recent years at any rate, has had so instantaneous and +prodigious a popular success as 'Trilby.' Popularity is always hard to +explain with any certainty. It seems to be a quality in the warp and +woof of the mind of the man that has it. One condition appears to be +that he shall be in sympathy with the minds of the mass of his +fellow-beings. There was such a sympathy in Du Maurier's case; and to +be more particular, his kindly and friendly enthusiasm was a quality +to commend him to men. He had a power of enjoying beauty in his +fellow-beings. Then he had had a long education in the qualities that +make popularity. He had long studied the art of pleasing. It is not +improbable that in these novels, which were intended for the American +public, he may have played upon certain of our national +susceptibilities. We in this country like to +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5044" id="Page_5044">[Pg 5044]</a></span> +have our literature taken seriously by the European. It may be that Du Maurier +may have had an inkling of this, for it is curious to note how much of our +poetry appears in these novels. Du Maurier had a very nice taste in +poetry, a genuine enthusiasm for it which it is heartily to be wished +were shared by all college professors of English literature. Thus, he +could not have chosen better lines than those which Peter Ibbetson was +in the habit of reciting to Mimsey, 'The Water-fowl' of +Bryant,—perhaps the most perfect poem ever produced in this +country,—a poem so "beautifully carried," as Matthew Arnold once +described it to the present writer. Poe's beautiful and musical lines, +written by him at fourteen,—'Helen, thy beauty is to me,'—are also +made use of. We have a good deal of Longfellow and other American +writers. 'Ben Bolt' is of course an American song. These appeals to +our national predilections may have influenced us. But the interest +and curiosity of our practical and hard-working American public in the +Bohemian art life of the Latin Quarter was also, no doubt, a chief +cause of the popularity of 'Trilby.'</p> + +<p>Du Maurier did not live long to enjoy his success. He had always +been known to his friends as a sensitive man, this quality being +ascribed to ill health. Ill health was no doubt a chief cause of the +vexation with which he received certain comments upon his books, +in some cases inspired by envy of his success. Many of his recent +contributions to Punch have been at the expense of the unsuccessful +author, and have supported the thesis that ill success was not an +indubitable proof of genius. When Lord Wolseley asked him what +would be the title of his next novel, he said 'Soured by Success.' +He died in London on October 8th, 1896.</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="BOHEMIA" id="BOHEMIA"></a>AT THE HEART OF BOHEMIA</h3> +<h4>From 'Trilby' Copyright 1894, by Harper & Brothers</h4> + + +<p>And then—well, I happen to forget what sort of a day this +particular day turned into, about six of the clock.</p> + +<p>If it was decently fine, the most of them went off to dine at +the Restaurant de la Couronne, kept by the Père Trin, in the +Rue de Monsieur, who gave you of his best to eat and drink for +twenty sols Parisis, or one franc in the coin of the empire. +Good distending soups, omelets that were only too savory, lentils, +red and white beans, meat so dressed and sauced and seasoned +that you didn't know whether it was beef or mutton, flesh, fowl, +or good red herring,—or even bad, for that matter,—nor very +greatly care.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5045" id="Page_5045">[Pg 5045]</a></span> +And just the same lettuce, radishes, and cheese of Gruyère or +Brie as you got at the Trois Frères Provençaux (but not the +same butter!). And to wash it all down, generous wine in +wooden "brocs," that stained a lovely aesthetic blue everything it +was spilled over.</p> + +<p>And you hobnobbed with models, male and female, students of law and +medicine, painters and sculptors, workmen and blanchisseuses and +grisettes, and found them very good company, and most improving to +your French, if your French was of the usual British kind, and even to +some of your manners, if these were very British indeed. And the +evening was innocently wound up with billiards, cards, or dominoes at +the Café du Luxembourg opposite; or at the Théâtre du Luxembourg, in +the Rue de Madame, to see funny farces with screamingly droll +Englishmen in them; or still better, at the Jardin Bullier (la +Closerie des Lilas), to see the students dance the cancan, or try and +dance it yourself, which is not so easy as it seems; or best of all, +at the Théâtre de l'Odéon, to see Fechter and Madame Doche in the +'Dame aux Camélias.'</p> + +<p>Or if it were not only fine, but a Saturday afternoon into the +bargain, the Laird would put on a necktie and a few other necessary +things, and the three friends would walk arm-in-arm to Taffy's hotel +in the Rue de Seine, and wait outside till he had made himself as +presentable as the Laird, which did not take very long. And then +(Little Billee was always presentable) they would, arm-in-arm, the +huge Taffy in the middle, descend the Rue de Seine and cross a bridge +to the Cité, and have a look in at the Morgue. Then back again to the +quays on the Rive Gauche by the Pont Neuf, to wend their way westward; +now on one side to look at the print and picture shops and the +magasins of bric-à-brac, and haply sometimes buy thereof, now on the +other to finger and cheapen the second-hand books for sale on the +parapet, and even pick one or two utterly unwanted bargains, never to +be read or opened again.</p> + +<p>When they reached the Pont des Arts they would cross it, +stopping in the middle to look up the river towards the old Cité +and Notre Dame, eastward, and dream unutterable things and +try to utter them. Then turning westward, they would gaze at +the glowing sky and all it glowed upon—the corner of the Tuileries +and the Louvre, the many bridges, the Chamber of Deputies, +the golden river narrowing its perspective and broadening +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5046" id="Page_5046">[Pg 5046]</a></span> +its bed, as it went flowing and winding on its way between +Passy and Grenelle to St. Cloud, to Rouen, to the Havre, to +England perhaps—where <i>they</i> didn't want to be just then; and +they would try and express themselves to the effect that life was +uncommonly well worth living in that particular city at that particular +time of the day and year and century, at that particular +epoch of their own mortal and uncertain lives.</p> + +<p>Then, still arm-in-arm and chatting gayly, across the court-yard of +the Louvre, through gilded gates well guarded by reckless imperial +Zouaves, up the arcaded Rue de Rivoli as far as the Rue Castiglione, +where they would stare with greedy eyes at the window of the great +corner pastry-cook, and marvel at the beautiful assortment of bonbons, +pralines, dragées, marrons glacés—saccharine, crystalline substances +of all kinds and colors, as charming to look at as an illumination; +precious stones, delicately frosted sweets, pearls and diamonds so +arranged as to melt in the mouth; especially, at this particular time +of the year, the monstrous Easter eggs of enchanting hue, enshrined +like costly jewels in caskets of satin and gold; and the Laird, who +was well read in his English classics and liked to show it, would +opine that "they managed these things better in France."</p> + +<p>Then across the street by a great gate into the Allée des +Feuillants, and up to the Place de la Concorde—to gaze, but +quite without base envy, at the smart people coming back from +the Bois de Boulogne. For even in Paris "carriage people" have +a way of looking bored, of taking their pleasure sadly, of having +nothing to say to each other, as though the vibration of so many +wheels all rolling home the same way every afternoon had hypnotized +them into silence, idiocy, and melancholia.</p> + +<p>And our three musketeers of the brush would speculate on +the vanity of wealth and rank and fashion; on the satiety that +follows in the wake of self-indulgence and overtakes it; on the +weariness of the pleasures that become a toil—as if they knew +all about it, had found it all out for themselves, and nobody else +had ever found it out before!</p> + +<p>Then they found out something else—namely, that the sting +of healthy appetite was becoming intolerable; so they would +betake themselves to an English eating-house in the Rue de la +Madeleine (on the left-hand side near the top), where they would +renovate their strength and their patriotism on British beef and +beer, and household bread, and bracing, biting, stinging yellow +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5047" id="Page_5047">[Pg 5047]</a></span> +mustard, and horseradish, and noble apple-pie, and Cheshire +cheese; and get through as much of these in an hour or so as +they could for talking, talking, talking; such happy talk! as full +of sanguine hope and enthusiasm, of cocksure commendation or +condemnation of all painters, dead or alive, of modest but firm +belief in themselves and each other, as a Paris Easter egg is full +of sweets and pleasantness (for the young).</p> + +<p>And then a stroll on the crowded, well-lighted boulevards, +and a bock at the café there, at a little three-legged marble table +right out on the genial asphalt pavement, still talking nineteen +to the dozen.</p> + +<p>Then home by dark old silent streets and some deserted +bridge to their beloved Latin Quarter, the Morgue gleaming +cold and still and fatal in the pale lamplight, and Notre Dame +pricking up its watchful twin towers, which have looked down +for so many centuries on so many happy, sanguine, expansive +youths walking arm-in-arm by twos and threes, and forever talking, +talking, talking....</p> + +<p>The Laird and Little Billee would see Taffy safe to the door +of his <i>hôtel garni</i> in the Rue de Seine, where they would find +much to say to each other before they said good-night—so much +that Taffy and Little Billee would see the Laird safe to <i>his</i> door, +in the Place St. Anatole des Arts. And then a discussion would +arise between Taffy and the Laird on the immortality of the +soul, let us say, or the exact meaning of the word "gentleman," +or the relative merits of Dickens and Thackeray, or some such +recondite and quite unhackneyed theme, and Taffy and the Laird +would escort Little Billee to <i>his</i> door, in the Place de l'Odéon, +and he would re-escort them both back again, and so on till any +hour you please.</p> + +<p>Or again, if it rained, and Paris through the studio window +loomed lead-colored, with its shiny slate roofs under skies that +were ashen and sober, and the wild west wind made woeful music +among the chimney-pots, and little gray waves ran up the river +the wrong way, and the Morgue looked chill and dark and wet, +and almost uninviting (even to three healthy-minded young +Britons), they would resolve to dine and spend a happy evening +at home.</p> + +<p>Little Billee, taking with him three francs (or even four), +would dive into back streets and buy a yard or so of crusty +new bread, well burned on the flat side, a fillet of beef, a litre +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5048" id="Page_5048">[Pg 5048]</a></span> +of wine, potatoes and onions, butter, a little cylindrical cheese +called "bondon de Neufchâtel," tender curly lettuce, with chervil, +parsley, spring onions, and other fine herbs, and a pod of +garlic, which would be rubbed on a crust of bread to flavor +things with.</p> + +<p>Taffy would lay the cloth English-wise, and also make the +salad, for which, like everybody else I ever met, he had a special +receipt of his own (putting in the oil first and the vinegar after); +and indeed, his salads were quite as good as everybody else's.</p> + +<p>The Laird, bending over the stove, would cook the onions +and beef into a savory Scotch mess so cunningly that you could +not taste the beef for the onions—nor always the onions for the +garlic!</p> + +<p>And they would dine far better than at le Père Trin's, far +better than at the English Restaurant in the Rue de la Madeleine—better +than anywhere else on earth!</p> + +<p>And after dinner, what coffee, roasted and ground on the +spot, what pipes and cigarettes of "caporal," by the light of the +three shaded lamps, while the rain beat against the big north +window, and the wind went howling round the quaint old medieval +tower at the corner of the Rue Vieille des Mauvais Ladres +(the old street of the bad lepers), and the damp logs hissed and +crackled in the stove!</p> + +<p>What jolly talk into the small hours! Thackeray and Dickens again, and +Tennyson and Byron (who was "not dead yet" in those days); and Titian +and Velasquez, and young Millais and Holman Hunt (just out); and +Monsieur Ingres and Monsieur Delacroix, and Balzac and Stendhal and +George Sand; and the good Dumas! and Edgar Allan Poe; and the glory +that was Greece and the grandeur that was Rome....</p> + +<p>Good, honest, innocent, artless prattle—not of the wisest, +perhaps, nor redolent of the very highest culture (which by the +way can mar as well as make), nor leading to any very practical +result; but quite pathetically sweet from the sincerity and fervor +of its convictions, a profound belief in their importance, and a +proud trust in their lifelong immutability.</p> + +<p>Oh happy days and happy nights, sacred to art and friendship! +oh happy times of careless impecuniosity, and youth and +hope and health and strength and freedom—with all Paris for +a playground, and its dear old unregenerate Latin Quarter for a +workshop and a home!</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5049" id="Page_5049">[Pg 5049]</a></span></p> +<h3><a name="CHRISTMAS" id="CHRISTMAS"></a>CHRISTMAS IN THE LATIN QUARTER</h3> +<h4>From 'Trilby.' Copyright, 1894, by Harper & Brothers</h4> + +<p>Christmas was drawing near.</p> + +<p>There were days when the whole Quartier Latin would +veil its iniquities under fogs almost worthy of the Thames +Valley between London Bridge and Westminster, and out of the +studio window the prospect was a dreary blank. No Morgue! no +towers of Notre Dame! not even the chimney-pots over the way—not +even the little mediæval toy turret at the corner of the +Rue Vieille des Mauvais Ladres, Little Billee's delight!</p> + +<p>The stove had to be crammed till its sides grew a dull deep +red, before one's fingers could hold a brush or squeeze a bladder; +one had to box or fence at nine in the morning, that one +might recover from the cold bath and get warm for the rest of +the day!</p> + +<p>Taffy and the Laird grew pensive and dreamy, childlike and +bland; and when they talked, it was generally about Christmas +at home in merry England and the distant land of cakes, and +how good it was to be there at such a time—hunting, shooting, +curling, and endless carouse!</p> + +<p>It was Ho! for the jolly West Riding, and Hey! for the bonnets +of Bonnie Dundee, till they grew quite homesick, and wanted +to start by the very next train.</p> + +<p>They didn't do anything so foolish. They wrote over to friends in +London for the biggest turkey, the biggest plum-pudding, that could be +got for love or money, with mince-pies, and holly and mistletoe, and +sturdy, short, thick English sausages, half a Stilton cheese, and a +sirloin of beef—two sirloins, in case one should not be enough.</p> + +<p>For they meant to have a Homeric feast in the studio on +Christmas Day—Taffy, the Laird, and Little Billee—and invite +all the delightful chums I have been trying to describe; and +that is just why I tried to describe them—Durien, Vincent, Antony, +Lorrimer, Carnegie, Petrolicoconose, l'Zouzou, and Dodor!</p> + +<p>The cooking and waiting should be done by Trilby, her friend +Angèle Boisse, M. et Mme. Vinard, and such little Vinards as +could be trusted with glass and crockery and mince-pies; and if +that was not enough, they would also cook themselves and wait +upon each other.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5050" id="Page_5050">[Pg 5050]</a></span> +When dinner should be over, supper was to follow, with +scarcely any interval to speak of; and to partake of this, other +guests should be bidden—Svengali and Gecko, and perhaps one +or two more. No ladies!</p> + +<p>For as the unsusceptible Laird expressed it, in the language +of a gillie he had once met at a servants' dance in a Highland +country-house, "Them wimmen spiles the ball!"</p> + +<p>Elaborate cards of invitation were sent out, in the designing +and ornamentation of which the Laird and Taffy exhausted all +their fancy (Little Billee had no time).</p> + +<p>Wines and spirits and English beers were procured at great +cost from M. E. Delevigne's, in the Rue St. Honoré, and liqueurs +of every description—chartreuse, curaçoa, ratafia de cassis, and +anisette; no expense was spared.</p> + +<p>Also truffled galantines of turkey, tongues, hams, rillettes de +Tours, pâtés de foie gras, "fromage d'Italie" (which has nothing +to do with cheese), saucissons d'Arles et de Lyon, with and without +garlic, cold jellies, peppery and salt—everything that French +charcutiers and their wives can make out of French pigs, or any +other animal whatever, beast, bird, or fowl (even cats and rats), +for the supper; and sweet jellies and cakes, and sweetmeats, and +confections of all kinds, from the famous pastry-cook at the corner +of the Rue Castiglione.</p> + +<p>Mouths went watering all day long in joyful anticipation. +They water somewhat sadly now at the mere remembrance of +these delicious things—the mere immediate sight or scent of +which in these degenerate latter days would no longer avail +to promote any such delectable secretion. Hélas! ahimè! ach +weh! ay de mi! eheu! [Greek: oimot]—in point of fact, <i>alas</i>!</p> + +<p>That is the very exclamation I wanted.</p> + +<p>Christmas eve came round. The pieces of resistance and +plum-pudding and mince-pies had not yet arrived from London—but +there was plenty of time.</p> + +<p><i>Les trois Angliches</i> dined at le Père Trin's, as usual, and +played billiards and dominoes at the Café du Luxembourg, and +possessed their souls in patience till it was time to go and hear +the midnight mass at the Madeleine, where Roucouly, the great +baritone of the Opéra Comique, was retained to sing Adam's +famous Noël.</p> + +<p>The whole Quarter seemed alive with the réveillon. It was +a clear frosty night, with a splendid moon just past the full, and +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5051" id="Page_5051">[Pg 5051]</a></span> +most exhilarating was the walk along the quays on the Rive +Gauche, over the Pont de la Concorde and across the Place +thereof, and up the thronged Rue de la Madeleine to the massive +Parthenaic place of worship that always has such a pagan, worldly +look of smug and prosperous modernity.</p> + +<p>They struggled manfully, and found standing and kneeling room among +that fervent crowd, and heard the impressive service with mixed +feelings, as became true Britons of very advanced liberal and +religious opinions; not with the unmixed contempt of the proper +British Orthodox (who were there in full force, one may be sure).</p> + +<p>But their susceptible hearts soon melted at the beautiful music, and +in mere sensuous <i>attendrissement</i> they were quickly in unison with +all the rest.</p> + +<p>For as the clock struck twelve, out pealed the organ, and up rose the +finest voice in France:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Minuit, Chrétiens! c'est l'heure solennelle<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Où l'Homme-Dieu descendit parmi nous!"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>And a wave of religious emotion rolled over Little Billee and +submerged him; swept him off his little legs, swept him out of +his little self, drowned him in a great seething surge of love—love +of his kind, love of love, love of life, love of death, love of +all that is and ever was and ever will be—a very large order +indeed, even for Little Billee.</p> + +<p>And it seemed to him that he stretched out his arms for love +to one figure especially beloved beyond all the rest—one figure +erect on high, with arms outstretched to him, in more than common +fellowship of need: not the sorrowful Figure crowned with +thorns, for it was in the likeness of a woman; but never that of +the Virgin Mother of our Lord.</p> + +<p>It was Trilby, Trilby, Trilby! a poor fallen sinner and waif, +all but lost amid the scum of the most corrupt city on earth. +Trilby, weak and mortal like himself, and in woeful want of +pardon! and in her gray dove-like eyes he saw the shining of so +great a love that he was abashed; for well he knew that all +that love was his, and would be his forever, come what would +or could.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Peuple, debout! Chante ta délivrance!<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Noël! Noël! Voici le Rédempteur!</i>"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5052" id="Page_5052">[Pg 5052]</a></span> +So sang and rang and pealed and echoed the big deep metallic +baritone bass—above the organ, above the incense, above +everything else in the world—till the very universe seemed to +shake with the rolling thunder of that great message of love and +forgiveness!</p> + +<p>Thus at least felt Little Billee, whose way it was to magnify +and exaggerate all things under the subtle stimulus of sound, +and the singing human voice had especially strange power to +penetrate into his inmost depths—even the voice of man!</p> + +<p>And what voice but the deepest and gravest and grandest +there is, can give worthy utterance to such a message as that,—the +epitome, the abstract, the very essence of all collective +humanity's wisdom at its best!</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="DREAMING" id="DREAMING"></a>"DREAMING TRUE"</h3> +<h4>From 'Peter Ibbetson.' Copyright 1891, by Harper & Brothers</h4> + +<p>As I sat down on a bench by the old willow (where the rat +lived), and gazed and gazed, it almost surprised me that +the very intensity of my desire did not of itself suffice to +call up the old familiar faces and forms, and conjure away these +modern intruders. The power to do this seemed almost within +my reach: I willed and willed and willed with all my might, but +in vain; I could not cheat my sight or hearing for a moment. +There they remained, unconscious and undisturbed, those happy, +well-mannered, well-appointed little French people, and fed the +gold and silver fish; and there with an aching heart I left them.</p> + +<p>Oh, surely, surely, I cried to myself, we ought to find some +means of possessing the past more fully and completely than we +do. Life is not worth living for many of us, if a want so desperate +and yet so natural can never be satisfied. Memory is but +a poor rudimentary thing that we had better be without, if it can +only lead us to the verge of consummation like this, and madden +us with a desire it cannot slake. The touch of a vanished hand, +the sound of a voice that is still, the tender grace of a day that +is dead, should be ours forever at our beck and call, by some +exquisite and quite conceivable illusion of the senses.</p> + +<p>Alas! alas! I have hardly the hope of ever meeting my +beloved ones again in another life. Oh, to meet their too dimly +remembered forms in this, just as they once were, by some trick +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5053" id="Page_5053">[Pg 5053]</a></span> +of my own brain! To see them with the eye, and hear them with +the ear, and tread with them the old obliterated ways as in a +waking dream! It would be well worth going mad, to become +such a self-conjurer as that.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>I got back to my hotel in the Rue de la Michodière.</p> + +<p>Prostrate with emotion and fatigue, the tarantella still +jingling in my ears, and that haunting, beloved face, with its +ineffable smile, still printed on the retina of my closed eyes, I +fell asleep.</p> + +<p>And then I dreamed a dream, and the first phase of my real, +inner life began!</p> + +<p>All the events of the day, distorted and exaggerated and jumbled +together after the usual manner of dreams, wove themselves into a +kind of nightmare and oppression. I was on my way to my old abode; +everything that I met or saw was grotesque and impossible, yet had now +the strange, vague charm of association and reminiscence, now the +distressing sense of change and desolation.</p> + +<p>As I got near to the avenue gate, instead of the school on my +left there was a prison; and at the door a little thick-set jailer, +three feet high and much deformed, and a little deformed jaileress +no bigger than himself, were cunningly watching me out of +the corners of their eyes, and toothlessly smiling. Presently they +began to waltz together to an old familiar tune, with their enormous +keys dangling at their sides; and they looked so funny that +I laughed and applauded. But soon I perceived that their +crooked faces were not really funny; indeed, they were fatal and +terrible in the extreme, and I was soon conscious that these +deadly dwarfs were trying to waltz between me and the avenue +gate for which I was bound—to cut me off, that they might run +me into the prison, where it was their custom to hang people of +a Monday morning.</p> + +<p>In an agony of terror I made a rush for the avenue gate, and +there stood the Duchess of Towers, with mild surprise in her eyes +and a kind smile—a heavenly vision of strength and reality.</p> + +<p>"You are not dreaming true!" she said. "Don't be afraid—those +little people don't exist! Give me your hand and come in here."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5054" id="Page_5054">[Pg 5054]</a></span> +And as I did so she waved the troglodytes away, and they vanished; and +I felt that this was no longer a dream, but something else—some +strange thing that had happened to me, some new life that I had woke +up to.</p> + +<p>For at the touch of her hand my consciousness, my sense of +being I, myself, which hitherto in my dream (as in all previous +dreams up to then) had been only partial, intermittent, and +vague, suddenly blazed into full, consistent, practical activity—just +as it is in life, when one is well awake and much interested +in what is going on; only with perceptions far keener and more +alert.</p> + +<p>I knew perfectly who I was and what I was, and remembered all the +events of the previous day. I was conscious that my real body, +undressed and in bed, now lay fast asleep in a small room on the +fourth floor of an <i>hôtel garni</i> in the Rue de la Michodière. I knew +this perfectly; and yet here was my body too, just as substantial, +with all my clothes on; my boots rather dusty, my shirt collar damp +with the heat, for it was hot. With my disengaged hand I felt in my +trousers pocket; there were my London latch-key, my purse, my +penknife; my handkerchief in the breast pocket of my coat, and in its +tail pockets my gloves and pipe-case, and the little water-color box I +had bought that morning. I looked at my watch; it was going, and +marked eleven. I pinched myself, I coughed, I did all one usually does +under the pressure of some immense surprise, to assure myself that I +was awake; and I <i>was</i>, and yet here I stood, actually hand in hand +with a lady to whom I had never been introduced (and who seemed much +tickled at my confusion); and staring now at her, now at my old +school.</p> + +<p>The prison had tumbled down like a house of cards, and lo! +in its place was M. Saindou's <i>maison d'éducation</i>, just as it had +been of old. I even recognized on the yellow wall the stamp of +a hand in dry mud, made fifteen years ago by a day boy called +Parisot, who had fallen down in the gutter close by, and thus +left his mark on getting up again; and it had remained there for +months, till it had been whitewashed away in the holidays. +Here it was anew, after fifteen years.</p> + +<p>The swallows were flying and twittering. A yellow omnibus +was drawn up to the gates of the school; the horses stamped and +neighed, and bit each other, as French horses always did in those +days. The driver swore at them perfunctorily.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5055" id="Page_5055">[Pg 5055]</a></span> +A crowd was looking on—le Père et la Mère François, +Madame Liard the grocer's wife, and other people, whom I +remembered at once with delight. Just in front of us a small +boy and girl were looking on, like the rest, and I recognized the +back and the cropped head and thin legs of Mimsey Seraskier.</p> + +<p>A barrel organ was playing a pretty tune I knew quite well, +and had forgotten.</p> + +<p>The school gates opened, and M. Saindou, proud and full of +self-importance (as he always was), and half a dozen boys whose +faces and names were quite familiar to me, in smart white trousers +and shining boots, and silken white bands round their left +arms, got into the omnibus, and were driven away in a glorified +manner—as it seemed—to heaven in a golden chariot. It was +beautiful to see and hear.</p> + +<p>I was still holding the duchess's hand, and felt the warmth of it +through her glove; it stole up my arm like a magnetic current. I was +in Elysium; a heavenly sense had come over me that at last my +periphery had been victoriously invaded by a spirit other than mine—a +most powerful and beneficent spirit. There was a blessed fault in my +impenetrable armor of self, after all, and the genius of strength and +charity and loving-kindness had found it out.</p> + +<p>"Now you're dreaming true," she said. "Where are those +boys going?"</p> + +<p>"To church, to make their <i>première communion</i>," I replied.</p> + +<p>"That's right. You're dreaming true because I've got you +by the hand. Do you know that tune?"</p> + +<p>I listened, and the words belonging to it came out of the +past, and I said them to her, and she laughed again, with her +eyes screwed up deliciously.</p> + +<p>"Quite right—quite!" she exclaimed. "How odd that you +should know them! How well you pronounce French for an +Englishman! For you are Mr. Ibbetson, Lady Cray's architect?"</p> + +<p>I assented, and she let go my hand.</p> + +<p>The street was full of people—familiar forms and faces and +voices, chatting together and looking down the road after the +yellow omnibus; old attitudes, old tricks of gait and manner, old +forgotten French ways of speech—all as it was long ago. +Nobody noticed us, and we walked up the now deserted avenue.</p> + +<p>The happiness, the enchantment of it all! Could it be that +I was dead, that I had died suddenly in my sleep, at the hotel +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5056" id="Page_5056">[Pg 5056]</a></span> +in the Rue de la Michodière? Could it be that the Duchess of +Towers was dead too—had been killed by some accident on her +way from St. Cloud to Paris? and that, both having died, so near +each other, we had begun our eternal after-life in this heavenly +fashion?</p> + +<p>That was too good to be true, I reflected; some instinct told +me that this was not death, but transcendent earthly life—and +also, alas! that it would not endure forever!</p> + +<p>I was deeply conscious of every feature in her face, every +movement of her body, every detail of her dress,—more so than +I could have been in actual life,—and said to myself, "Whatever +this is, it is no dream." But I felt there was about me the +unspeakable elation which can come to us only in our waking +moments when we are at our very best; and then only feebly, in +comparison with this, and to many of us never. It never had to +me, since that morning when I had found the little wheelbarrow.</p> + +<p>I was also conscious, however, that the avenue itself had a +slight touch of the dream in it. It was no longer quite right, +and was getting out of drawing and perspective, so to speak. I +had lost my stay—the touch of her hand.</p> + +<p>"Are you still dreaming true, Mr. Ibbetson?"</p> + +<p>"I am afraid not quite," I replied.</p> + +<p>"You must try by yourself a little—try hard. Look at this +house; what is written on the portico?"</p> + +<p>I saw written in gold letters the words "Tête Noire," and said so.</p> + +<p>She rippled with laughter, and said, "No, try again;" and +just touched me with the tip of her finger for a moment.</p> + +<p>I tried again, and said "Parvis Notre Dame."</p> + +<p>"That's rather better," she said, and touched me again; and I +read, "Parva sed Apta," as I had so often read there before in +old days.</p> + +<p>"And now look at that old house over there," pointing to my +old home; "how many windows are there in the top story?"</p> + +<p>I said seven.</p> + +<p>"No; there are five. Look again!" and there were five; and +the whole house was exactly, down to its minutest detail, as it +had been once upon a time. I could see Thérèse through one of +the windows, making my bed.</p> + +<p>"That's better," said the duchess; "you will soon do it—it's +very easy—<i>ce n'est que le premier pas</i>! My father taught me; +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5057" id="Page_5057">[Pg 5057]</a></span> +you must always sleep on your back with your arms above your +head, your hands clasped under it and your feet crossed, the +right one over the left, unless you are left-handed; and you must +never for a moment cease thinking of where you want to be in +your dream till you are asleep and get there; and you must +never forget in your dream where and what you were when +awake. You must join the dream on to reality. Don't forget. +And now I will say good-by; but before I go, give me both +your hands, and look round everywhere as far as your eye can +see."</p> + +<p>It was hard to look away from her; her face drew my eyes, +and through them all my heart; but I did as she told me, and +took in the whole familiar scene, even to the distant woods of +Ville d'Avray, a glimpse of which was visible through an opening +in the trees; even to the smoke of a train making its way to +Versailles, miles off; and the old telegraph, working its black +arms on the top of Mont Valérien.</p> + +<p>"Is it all right?" she asked. "That's well. Henceforward, +whenever you come here, you will be safe as far as your sight +can reach,—from this spot,—all through my introduction. +See what it is to have a friend at court! No more little dancing +jailers! And then you can gradually get farther by yourself.</p> + +<p>"Out there, through that park, leads to the Bois de Boulogne—there's +a gap in the hedge you can get through; but mind and make everything +plain in front of you—<i>true</i>, before you go a step farther, or else +you'll have to wake and begin it all over again. You have only to will +it, and think yourself as awake, and it will come—on condition, of +course, that you have been there before. And mind, also, you must take +care how you touch things or people—you may hear, see, and smell; but +you mustn't touch, nor pick flowers or leaves, nor move things about. +It blurs the dream, like breathing on a window-pane. I don't know why, +but it does. You must remember that everything here is dead and gone +by. With you and me it is different; we're alive and real—that is, +<i>I</i> am; and there would seem to be no mistake about your being real +too, Mr. Ibbetson, by the grasp of your hands. But you're <i>not</i>; and +why you are here, and what business you have in this my particular +dream, I cannot understand; no living person has ever come into it +before. I can't make it out. I suppose it's because I saw your reality +this afternoon, looking out of the window at the Tête Noire, and you are +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5058" id="Page_5058">[Pg 5058]</a></span> +just a stray figment of my over-tired brain—a very agreeable +figment, I admit; but you don't exist here just now—you can't +possibly; you are somewhere else, Mr. Ibbetson; dancing at Mabille, +perhaps, or fast asleep somewhere, and dreaming of French churches and +palaces, and public fountains, like a good young British +architect—otherwise I shouldn't talk to you like this, you may be +sure!</p> + +<p>"Never mind. I am very glad to dream that I have been of use to you, +and you are very welcome here, if it amuses you to come—especially as +you are only a false dream of mine, for what else <i>can</i> you be? And +now I must leave you: so good-by."</p> + +<p>She disengaged her hands and laughed her angelic laugh, and then +turned towards the park. I watched her tall straight figure and +blowing skirts, and saw her follow some ladies and children into a +thicket that I remembered well, and she was soon out of sight.</p> + +<p>I felt as if all warmth had gone out of my life; as if a joy had taken +flight; as if a precious something had withdrawn itself from my +possession, and the gap in my periphery had closed again.</p> + +<p>Long I stood in thought, with my eyes fixed on the spot where she had +disappeared; and I felt inclined to follow, but then considered this +would not have been discreet. For although she was only a false dream +of mine, a mere recollection of the exciting and eventful day, a stray +figment of my over-tired and excited brain—a <i>more</i> than agreeable +figment (what else <i>could</i> she be!)—she was also a great lady, and +had treated me, a perfect stranger and a perfect nobody, with singular +courtesy and kindness; which I repaid, it is true, with a love so deep +and strong that my very life was hers to do what she liked with, and +always had been since I first saw her, and always would be as long as +there was breath in my body! But this did not constitute an +acquaintance without a proper introduction, even in France—even in a +dream. Even in dreams one must be polite, even to stray figments of +one's tired, sleeping brain.</p> + +<p>And then what business had <i>she</i> in <i>this</i>, <i>my</i> particular dream—as +she herself had asked of me?</p> + +<p>But <i>was</i> it a dream? I remembered my lodgings at Pentonville, +that I had left yesterday morning. I remembered what I was—why +I came to Paris; I remembered the very bedroom at the Paris hotel +where I was now fast asleep, its loudly ticking +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5059" id="Page_5059">[Pg 5059]</a></span> +clock, and all the meagre furniture. And here was I, broad awake and +conscious in the middle of an old avenue that had long ceased to +exist—that had been built over by a huge brick edifice covered +with newly painted trellis-work. I saw it,—this +edifice,—myself, only twelve hours ago. And yet here was +everything as it had been when I was a child; and all through the +agency of this solid phantom of a lovely young English duchess, whose +warm gloved hands I had only this minute been holding in mine! The +scent of her gloves was still in my palm. I looked at my watch; it +marked twenty-three minutes to twelve. All this had happened in less +than three-quarters of an hour!</p> + +<p>Pondering over all this in hopeless bewilderment, I turned my steps +towards my old home, and to my surprise, was just able to look over +the garden wall, which I had once thought about ten feet high.</p> + +<p>Under the old apple-tree in full bloom sat my mother, darning small +socks; with her flaxen side-curls (as it was her fashion to wear them) +half concealing her face. My emotion and astonishment were immense. My +heart beat fast. I felt its pulse in my temples, and my breath was +short.</p> + +<p>At a little green table that I remembered well sat a small boy, rather +quaintly dressed in a bygone fashion, with a frill round his wide +shirt collar, and his golden hair cut quite close at the top, and +rather long at the sides and back. It was Gogo Pasquier. He seemed a +very nice little boy. He had pen and ink and copy-book before him, and +a gilt-edged volume bound in red morocco. I knew it at a glance; it +was 'Elegant Extracts.' The dog Médor lay asleep in the shade. The +bees were droning among the nasturtiums and convolvulus.</p> + +<p>A little girl ran up the avenue from the porter's lodge and pushed the +garden gate, which rang the bell as it opened, and she went into the +garden, and I followed her; but she took no notice of me, nor did the +others. It was Mimsey Seraskier.</p> + +<p>I went and sat at my mother's feet, and looked long in her face.</p> + +<p>I must not speak to her nor touch her—not even touch her +busy hand with my lips, or I should "blur the dream."</p> + +<p>I got up and looked over the boy Gogo's shoulder. He was +translating Gray's Elegy into French; he had not got very far, +and seemed to be stumped by the line—</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<span class="i0">"And leaves the world to darkness and to me."</span> +</div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5060" id="Page_5060">[Pg 5060]</a></span> +Mimsey was silently looking over his other shoulder, her +thumb in her mouth, one arm on the back of his chair. She +seemed to be stumped also; it was an awkward line to translate.</p> + +<p>I stooped and put my hand to Médor's nose, and felt his +warm breath. He wagged his rudiment of a tail, and whimpered +in his sleep. Mimsey said:—</p> + +<p>"Regarde Médor, comme il remue la queue! <i>C'est le Prince +Charmant qui lui chatouille le bout du nez.</i>"</p> + +<p>Said my mother, who had not spoken hitherto:—</p> + +<p>"Do speak English, Mimsey, please."</p> + +<p>O my God! My mother's voice, so forgotten, yet so familiar, +so unutterably dear! I rushed to her and threw myself on my +knees at her feet, and seized her hand and kissed it, crying, +"Mother, mother!"</p> + +<p>A strange blur came over everything; the sense of reality +was lost. All became as a dream—a beautiful dream, but only +a dream; and I woke.</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="BARTY" id="BARTY"></a>BARTY JOSSELIN AT SCHOOL</h3> +<h4>From 'The Martian'</h4> +<h4>From Harper's Magazine. Copyright, 1896, by Harper & Brothers</h4> + + +<p>Indeed, even from his early boyhood, he was the most extraordinarily +gifted creature I have ever known, or even heard of; a kind of +spontaneous humorous Crichton to whom all things came easily—and life +itself as an uncommonly good joke. During that summer term of 1847 I +did not see very much of him. He was in the class below mine, and took +up with Laferté and little Bussy-Rabutin, who were first-rate boys, +and laughed at everything he said, and worshiped him. So did everybody +else, sooner or later; indeed, it soon became evident that he was a +most exceptional little person.</p> + +<p>In the first place, his beauty was absolutely angelic, as will +be readily believed by all who have known him since. The +mere sight of him as a boy made people pity his father and +mother for being dead!</p> + +<p>Then he had a charming gift of singing little French and English +ditties, comic or touching, with his delightful fresh young pipe, +and accompanying himself quite nicely on either piano or guitar +without really knowing a note of music. Then he could +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5061" id="Page_5061">[Pg 5061]</a></span> +draw caricatures that we boys thought inimitable, much funnier than Cham's +or Bertall's or Gavarni's, and collected and treasured up. I have dozens of them +now—they make me laugh still, and bring back memories of which the +charm is indescribable; and their pathos to me!</p> + +<p>And then how funny he was himself, without effort, and with +a fun that never failed! He was a born buffoon of the graceful +kind,—more whelp or kitten than monkey—ever playing the +fool, in and out of season, but somehow always apropos; and +French boys love a boy for that more than anything else; or +did in those days.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>His constitution, inherited from a long line of frugal seafaring +Norman ancestors (not to mention another long line of well-fed, +well-bred Yorkshire squires), was magnificent. His spirits +never failed. He could see the satellites of Jupiter with the +naked eye; this was often tested by M. Dumollard, maître de +mathématiques (et de cosmographie), who had a telescope, which, +with a little good-will on the gazer's part, made Jupiter look as +big as the moon, and its moons like stars of the first magnitude.</p> + +<p>His sense of hearing was also exceptionally keen. He could hear a +watch tick in the next room, and perceive very high sounds to which +ordinary human ears are deaf (this was found out later); and when we +played blindman's buff on a rainy day, he could, blindfolded, tell +every boy he caught hold of—not by feeling him all over like the rest +of us, but by the mere smell of his hair, or his hands, or his blouse! +No wonder he was so much more alive than the rest of us! According to +the amiable, modest, polite, delicately humorous, and ever tolerant +and considerate Professor Max Nordau, this perfection of the olfactory +sense proclaims poor Barty a degenerate! I only wish there were a few +more like him, and that I were a little more like him myself!</p> + +<p>By the way, how proud young Germany must feel of its enlightened +Max, and how fond of him, to be sure! <i>Mes compliments!</i></p> + +<p>But the most astounding thing of all (it seems incredible, but +all the world knows it by this time, and it will be accounted for +later on) is that at certain times and seasons Barty knew by an +infallible instinct <i>where the north was</i>, to a point. Most of my +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5062" id="Page_5062">[Pg 5062]</a></span> +readers will remember his extraordinary evidence as a witness in +the "Rangoon" trial, and how this power was tested in open +court, and how important were the issues involved, and how he +refused to give any explanation of a gift so extraordinary.</p> + +<p>It was often tried at school by blindfolding him, and turning +him round and round till he was giddy, and asking him to point +out where the North Pole was, or the North Star, and seven or +eight times out of ten the answer was unerringly right. When +he failed, he knew beforehand that for the time being he had +lost the power, but could never say why. Little Doctor Larcher +could never get over his surprise at this strange phenomenon, +nor explain it; and often brought some scientific friend from +Paris to test it, who was equally nonplussed.</p> + +<p>When cross-examined, Barty would merely say:—</p> + +<p>"Quelquefois je sais—quelquefois je ne sais pas—mais quand +je sais, je sais, et il n'y pas à s'y tromper!"</p> + +<p>Indeed, on one occasion that I remember well a very strange +thing happened; he not only pointed out the north with absolute +accuracy, as he stood carefully blindfolded in the gymnastic +ground, after having been turned and twisted again and again—but +still blindfolded, he vaulted the wire fence and ran round +to the refectory door, which served as the home at rounders, all +of us following; and there he danced a surprising dance of his +own invention, that he called 'La Paladine,' the most humorously +graceful and grotesque exhibition I ever saw; and then, +taking a ball out of his pocket, he shouted, "À l'amandier!" and +threw the ball. Straight and swift it flew, and hit the almond +tree, which was quite twenty yards off; and after this he ran +round the yard from base to base, as at "la balle au camp," till +he reached the camp again.</p> + +<p>"If ever he goes blind," said the wondering M. Mérovée, +"he'll never need a dog to lead him about."</p> + +<p>"He must have some special friend above!" said Madame +Germain (Mérovée's sister, who was looking on).</p> + +<p><i>Prophetic words!</i> I have never forgotten them, nor the tear +that glistened in each of her kind eyes as she spoke. She was a +deeply religious and very emotional person, and loved Barty +almost as if he were a child of her own.</p> + +<p>Such women have strange intuitions.</p> + +<p>Barty was often asked to repeat this astonishing performance +before skeptical people—parents of boys, visitors, etc.—who had +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5063" id="Page_5063">[Pg 5063]</a></span> +been told of it, and who believed he could not have been properly +blindfolded; but he could never be induced to do so.</p> + +<p>There was no mistake about the blindfolding—I helped in it +myself; and he afterwards told me the whole thing was "aussi +simple que bonjour" if once he felt the north—for then, with +his back to the refectory door, he knew exactly the position and +distance of every tree from where he was.</p> + +<p>"It's all nonsense about my going blind and being able to do +without a dog," he added; "I should be just as helpless as any +other blind man, unless I was in a place I knew as well as my +own pocket—like this play-ground! Besides, <i>I</i> shan't go blind; +nothing will ever happen to <i>my</i> eyes—they're the strongest and +best in the whole school!"</p> + +<p>He said this exultingly, dilating his nostrils and chest; and +looked proudly up and around, like Ajax defying the lightning.</p> + +<p>"But what <i>do</i> you feel when you feel the north, Barty—a +kind of tingling?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"Oh—I feel where it is—as if I'd got a mariner's compass trembling +inside my stomach—and as if I wasn't afraid of anybody or anything in +the world—as if I could go and have my head chopped off and not care +a fig."</p> + +<p>"Ah, well—I can't make it out—I give it up," I exclaimed.</p> + +<p>"So do I," exclaims Barty.</p> + +<p>"But tell me, Barty," I whispered—"<i>have</i> you—have you +<i>really</i> got a—a—<i>special friend above</i>?"</p> + +<p>"Ask no questions and you'll get no lies," said Barty, and +winked at me one eye after the other—and went about his business, +and I about mine.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5064" id="Page_5064">[Pg 5064]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="WILLIAM_DUNBAR" id="WILLIAM_DUNBAR"></a>WILLIAM DUNBAR</h2> +<h4>(1465?-1530?)</h4> + + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 93px;"> +<img src="images/capa408.png" width="93" height="89" alt="A" title="A" /> +</div><p class="dropcap"> picturesque figure in a picturesque age is that of William Dunbar, +court minstrel to James IV., and as Sir Walter Scott declared, "a poet +unrivaled by any that Scotland has ever produced." Little of his +personal history is known. Probably he was a native of East Lothian, a +member of the family of the Earl of March, and a graduate of St. +Andrews University about the year 1479. After his college days he +joined the order of Franciscans and became a mendicant friar, +preaching the queer sermons of his time, and begging his way through +England and France. Yet in these pilgrimages the young scholar learned +useful habits of self-denial, saw new phases of human character, and +above all enjoyed that close communion with nature which is the need +of the poet. Over and over there is a reflection of this life in that +fanciful verse, which has caught the color of the morning hours when +the hedgerows are wet and the grass dewy, when the wild roses scent +the roadside and the lark is at matins—verse full of the joy of life +and the hope of youth.</p> + +<p>After some years of this vagabond life, Dunbar left the Franciscans +and attached himself to the court, where he speedily became a +favorite. His day was one of pageant and show, of masque and +spectacle, and into its gay assemblage of knights and courtiers, +ladies and great nobles, Dunbar fitted perfectly. When an embassy was +sent to England to negotiate the royal marriage with Margaret Tudor, +Dunbar went along, being specially accredited by the king. He became a +favorite with the young Princess, and a poem written in honor of the +city of London, and one descriptive of the Queen's Progress, afford a +faithful and valuable memorial of this mission. History is fortunate +when she secures a poet as her scribe. Dunbar is principally known by +his three poems 'The Thistle and the Rose,' 'The Golden Targe,' and +'The Dance of the Seven Deadly Sins.'</p> + +<p>The first of these is an allegory celebrating the nuptials of the +king. It suggests of course the allegories of Chaucer; but Dunbar's +muse is his own, and the poem springs fresh and clear from native +fonts. The poet represents himself as awakened by Aurora on a spring +morning and told to do homage to May. Through the symbolism of the +court of Nature, who crowns the Lion and Eagle, commissions the +Thistle and Rose as her handmaidens, and orders their praises sung by +the assembled birds of earth, the political significance +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5065" id="Page_5065">[Pg 5065]</a></span> +of the allegory appears. But 'The Thistle and the Rose,' which is thus made +to illustrate the union between the two great houses of Scotland and +England, is far more than the poem of an occasion. It is full of the +melody and fragrance of spring, saturated with that sensuous delight +which at this bountiful season fills the veins of Nature. Here Dunbar +is no longer the court laureate, but the begging friar, wandering +through the green lanes and finding bed and board under the free +skies.</p> + +<p>'The Golden Targe' is more artificial in construction. It is another +allegory, descriptive of an encounter between Cupid and Reason, who is +defended by a golden targe or shield from the attacks of love. Here +again the rural landscape forms a background to his mimic action. +Amazons dressed in green fight the battle of Cupid, and vanquish +Reason, then magically vanish and leave the poet to awake from his +dream. 'The Golden Targe' was a poem to be read in the royal presence, +when the court assembled after a day's hunting or an afternoon of +archery; but it is filled with the ethereal loveliness which only the +true poet beholds.</p> + +<p>It is in 'The Dance of the Seven Deadly Sins' that Dunbar touches the +note of seriousness, which characterizes his race and his individual +genius. This satire is not so unsparing an indictment as the vision of +Piers Ploughman, and yet it provokes inevitable comparison with the +older poem. In a dream the poet sees heaven and hell opened. It is the +eve of Ash Wednesday, and the Devil has commanded a dance to be +performed by those spirits that had never received absolution. In +obedience to this command the Seven Deadly Sins present a masque +before his Satanic Majesty, and it is in the description of this +grisly performance that Dunbar reveals a new aspect of power. The +comedy here is not comic, but grotesque and horrid. The vision of the +Scot is the vision that came to the poets of the 'Inferno' and +'Paradise Lost,' and it shows that his imagination was capable of the +loftiest flights.</p> + +<p>After the melancholy day of Flodden Field, the Scottish laureateship +ceased to exist, but it is remarkable that so prominent a man as +Dunbar should so completely have disappeared from contemporary view +that his subsequent career and the time of his death are matters of +doubt. His period is given as between the years 1465 and 1530, but +these dates are only approximate.</p> + +<p>Had Dunbar held his genius in hand as completely as did Chaucer, his +accomplishment would doubtless have been greater than it was. Yet his +place in literature is that of one of the most important poets of the +fifteenth century, the age of Caxton and bookmaking, the time of that +first flush of radiance which ushered in the full day of Spenser and +Shakespeare.</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5066" id="Page_5066">[Pg 5066]</a></span></p> +<h3><a name="THISTLE" id="THISTLE"></a>THE THISTLE AND THE ROSE</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Quhen Merche wes with variand windis past,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And Appryle had, with her silver schouris,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tane leif at Nature with ane orient blast,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And lusty May, that muddir is of flouris,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Had maid the birdis to begyn thair houris<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Amang the tendir odouris reid and quhyt,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Quhois armony to heir it wes delyt:<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">In bed at morrow, sleiping as I lay,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Me thocht Aurora with hir cristall ene<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In at the window lukit by the day,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And halsit me, with visage paill and grene;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">On quhois hand a lark sang fro the splene:—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Awalk, luvaris, out of you slomering;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sé hou the lusty morrow dois up spring.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Me thocht fresche May befoir my bed up stude,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">In weid depaynt of mony diverss hew,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sobir, benyng, and full of mansuetude,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">In brycht atteir of flouris forgit new,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Hevinly of color, quhyt, reid, broun and blew,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Balmit in dew, and gilt with Phebus bemys;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Quhyll all the house illumynit of her lemys.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Slugird, sche said, awalk annone for schame,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And in my honour sum thing thou go wryt;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The lark hes done the mirry day proclame,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">To raise up luvaris with confort and delyt;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Yit nocht incressis thy curage to indyt,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Quhois hairt sum tyme hes glaid and blisfull bene,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sangis to mak undir the levis grene.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Than callit sche all flouris that grew on feild,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Discirnyng all thair fassionis and effeiris,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Upone the awfull Thrissil sche beheld,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And saw him kepit with a busche of speiris;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Considering him so able for the weiris,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A radius croun of rubeis sche him gaif,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And said, In feild go furth and fend the laif:<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And sen thou art a King, thou be discreit;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Herb without vertew thow hald nocht of sic pryce<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As herb of vertew and of odour sueit;<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5067" id="Page_5067">[Pg 5067]</a></span><span class="i1">And lat no nettill vyle, and full of vyce,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Hir fallow to the gudly flour-de-lyce;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor latt no wyld weid, full of churlicheness,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Compair hir till the lilleis nobilness.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Nor hald non udir flour in sic denty<br /></span> +<span class="i1">As the fresche Rois, of cullour reid and quhyt:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For gife thow dois, hurt is thyne honesty;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Considring that no flour is so perfyt,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">So full of vertew, plesans, and delyt,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So full of blisful angeilik bewty,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Imperiall birth, honour and dignité.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="TARGE" id="TARGE"></a>FROM 'THE GOLDEN TARGE'</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Bryght as the stern of day begouth to schyne<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Quhen gone to bed war Vesper and Lucyne,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">I raise, and by a rosere did me rest:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Up sprang the goldyn candill matutyne,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With clere depurit bemes cristallyne<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Glading the mery foulis in thair nest;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Or Phebus was in purpur cape revest<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Up raise the lark, the hevyn's menstrale fyne<br /></span> +<span class="i1">In May, in till a morrow myrthfullest.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Full angellike thir birdis sang thair houris<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Within thair courtyns grene, in to thair bouris,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Apparalit quhite and red, wyth blomes suete;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Anamalit was the felde with all colouris,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The perly droppis schuke in silvir schouris;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Quhill all in balme did branch and levis flete,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">To part fra Phebus did Aurora grete;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hir cristall teris I saw hyng on the flouris<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Quhilk he for lufe all drank up with his hete.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">For mirth of May, wyth skippis and wyth hoppis,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The birdis sang upon the tender croppis,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">With curiouse notis, as Venus chapell clerkis;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The rosis yong, new spreding of their knoppis,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">War powderit brycht with hevinly beriall droppis,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Throu bemes rede, birnyng as ruby sperkis;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The skyes rang for schoutyng of the larkis.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5068" id="Page_5068">[Pg 5068]</a></span></p> +<h3><a name="GLADNESS" id="GLADNESS"></a>NO TREASURE AVAILS WITHOUT GLADNESS</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Be merry, man, and tak not sair in mind<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The wavering of this wretchit warld of sorrow;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To God be humble, and to thy friend be kind,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And with thy neighbour gladly lend and borrow:<br /></span> +<span class="i1">His chance to-nicht, it may be thine to-morrow;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Be blyth in heart for ony aventúre;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">For oft with wise men't has been said aforrow<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Without Gladnéss availis no Treasúre.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Mak thee gude cheer of it that God thee sendis,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">For warldis wrak but weilfare nocht availis;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nae gude is thine, save only that thou spendis,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Remenant all thou brukis but with bailis:<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Seek to soláce when sadness thee assailis;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In dolour lang thy life may not indure,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Wherefore of comfort set up all thy sailis;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Without Gladnéss availis no Treasúre.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Follow on pitý, flee trouble and debate,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">With famous folkis hald thy company;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Be charitáble and humble in thine estate,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">For warldly honour lastis but a cry:<br /></span> +<span class="i1">For trouble in erd tak no mélancholý;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Be rich in patience, give thou in guids be puir;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Who livis merry he livis michtily;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Without Gladnéss availis no Treasúre.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Thou sees thir wretches set with sorrow and care<br /></span> +<span class="i1">To gather guids in all their livis space;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And when their bags are full, their selves are bare,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And of their riches but the keeping has:<br /></span> +<span class="i1">While others come to spend it that has grace,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whilk of thy winning no labour had nor cure.<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Tak thou example, and spend with merriness;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Without Gladnéss availis no Treasúre.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Though all the work that e'er had living wicht<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Were only thine, no more thy part does fall<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But meat, drink, clais, and of the lave a sicht,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Yet to the Judge thou sall give compt of all;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Ane reckoning richt comes of ane ragment small:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But just and joyous, do to none injúre,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Ane Truth sail mak thee strang as ony wall;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Without Gladnéss availis no Treasúre.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5069" id="Page_5069">[Pg 5069]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="JEAN_VICTOR_DURUY" id="JEAN_VICTOR_DURUY"></a>JEAN VICTOR DURUY</h2> +<h4>(1811-1894)</h4> + + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 90px;"> +<img src="images/capd413.png" width="90" height="90" alt="D" title="D" /> +</div><p class="dropcap">uruy, whose monumental works upon Grecian and Roman history have been +worthily reproduced in England under the editorship of Professor +Mahaffy, and in America in sumptuous illustrated editions, was a +figure of the first importance both in the educational and in the +distinctly literary history of France, throughout nearly half the +present century. He became one of the "Immortals" in 1884, succeeding +to the chair of Mignet; but his 'History of Ancient Greece,' which was +published in 1862, had been already crowned by the Academy. His more +extensive 'History of the Grecian People,' published in 1885-1887, won +from the Academy the Jean Renaud prize of 10,000 francs.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 178px;"> +<img src="images/Illus413.png" width="178" height="220" alt="Jean Victor Duruy" title="Jean Victor Duruy" /> +<span class="caption"><span class="smcap">Jean Victor Duruy</span></span> +</div> + +<p>He was born September 11th, 1811, of a family employed in the Gobelins +tapestry works in Paris. His predilection for study secured him an +opportunity to enter the College of Sainte-Barbe, whence he passed to +the Normal School.</p> + +<p>When he was twenty-two he began teaching history, first at Rheims, and +then in the College of Henry IV. in Paris. Here he began his literary +work, mostly upon school-books, of which he wrote many, mainly +historical and geographical. He received the degree of Doctor of +Letters in 1853, and became successively Inspector of the Academy of +Paris, Master of Conferences at the Normal School, Professor of +History at the Polytechnic School, and Inspector-General of Secondary +Instruction. During the whole of this period he had been engaged with +secondary classes, and had become strongly impressed by the faulty +condition of the primary and secondary schools. In 1863 Louis Napoleon +put him at the head of the educational system of the empire as Minister +of Public Instruction. This appointment gave him the opportunity to carry +out numerous and important secularizing reforms which brought him into +sharp collision with the clerical party. He held his post as minister +for six years—six years of struggle with the parsimonious +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5070" id="Page_5070">[Pg 5070]</a></span> +disposition of the administration upon the one hand, and with the hostile +clericals upon the other.</p> + +<p>The measures in which he was especially interested were the +reorganization of the Museum of Natural History, the extension of +scientific study, the introduction of the study of modern and +contemporary history in the lyceums (a dreadful experiment, according +to his opponents), gratuitous and compulsory primary education, the +improvement of the night schools, and popular classes for adults. He +was to a large extent successful in all these, except in the direction +of compulsory education. The efforts which he made to improve the +instruction given to young girls brought upon him the tempest. The +bishops, with Monsignor Dupanloup of Orléans at their head, raised a +veritable crusade, and Pope Pio Nono himself at length entered the +hostile ranks. Probably in part because of this conflict, he was +superseded in 1869 and was made a member of the Senate, from which he +retired to private life, and the prosecution of his literary labors on +the fall of the empire, in the following year. He died in 1894.</p> + +<p>As an author his style is clear and direct. Among his numerous works +the most important are the two great histories, for which, as for +other achievements, honors were heaped upon him. In these he laid +particular stress upon the <i>milieu</i>—the conditions of place, time, +and race. Consequently he has therein written the history of the Greek +and Roman peoples, and not merely the history of Greece and Rome,—and +has pictured them, so far as possible, as they looked and felt and +thought and acted. He exhibits, for example, the growth of the +magnificent power of Rome, and its decadence; and shows the +all-conquering empire subdued to the manners, the gods, and the +institutions of the conquered. And worse:—"They had become enamored +of the arts, the letters, and the philosophy of Greece, and dying +Greece had avenged itself by transmitting to them the corruption which +had dishonored its old age."</p> + +<p>The drift of his argument appears in this paragraph, in which he sums +up his story of the Eternal City:—"In the earlier portion of its +history may be seen the happy effects of a progressively liberal +policy; in the later the baneful consequences of absolute power, +governing a servile society through a venal administration."</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5071" id="Page_5071">[Pg 5071]</a></span></p> +<h3><a name="POLICY" id="POLICY"></a>THE NATIONAL POLICY</h3> +<h4>From the 'History of Rome'</h4> + +<p>The Roman power, till then confined to the West, was now to penetrate +into another universe,—that of the successors of Alexander. The +eternal glory of Rome, the immense benefaction by which she effaces +the memory of so many unjust wars, is to have reunited those two +worlds that in all former ages were divided in interest, and strangers +to each other; is to have mingled and fused the brilliant but corrupt +civilization of the East with the barbaric energy of the West. The +Mediterranean became a Roman lake,—<i>mare nostrum</i>, they said,—and +the same life circulated on all its shores, called for the first and +the last time to a common existence.</p> + +<p>In this work were employed a century and a half of struggles and +diplomacy; for Rome, working for a patient aristocracy and not for a +man, was not compelled to attain her end at a bound. Instead of +rearing suddenly one of those colossal monarchies formed like the +statue of gold with feet of clay, she founded slowly an empire which +fell only under the weight of years and of the Northern hordes. After +Zama she could have attempted the conquest of Africa, but she left +Carthage and the Numidians to enfeeble each other. After Cynoscephalæ +and Magnesia, Greece and Asia were all ready for the yoke, but she +accorded them fifty years more of liberty. This was because, along +with the pride of the Roman name and the necessity for dominion, she +always retained some of her ancient virtues. The Popiliuses were more +numerous than the Verreses. Now she preferred to rule the world; later +she will put it to pillage. Thus, wherever Rome saw strength she sent +her legions; all power was broken; the ties of States and leagues were +shattered; and when her soldiers were recalled they left behind them +only weakness and anarchy. But the task of the legions accomplished, +that of the Senate began. After force came craft and diplomacy. Those +senators, grown old amidst the terrors of the second Punic war, seemed +now to have less pleasure in arms than in the game of politics,—the +first, in all ages, of Italian arts.</p> + +<p>Several other causes dictated this policy of reserve. Against the +Gauls, the Samnites, Pyrrhus, and Hannibal,—in other +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5072" id="Page_5072">[Pg 5072]</a></span> +words, for the defense of Latium and of Italy,—Rome had employed all +her strength; it was then a question of her existence: whereas, in the +wars with Greece and with Asia, her ambition and her pride alone were +interested; and wisdom demanded that some relaxation be given to the +plebeians and the allies. The Senate had moreover too many affairs on +its hands—the wars with Spain, with Corsica, with Cisalpina, and with +Istria—to admit of its becoming deeply involved in the East. +Therefore two legions only will fight Philip and Antiochus—that +will suffice to conquer, but would be too little to despoil them. +Furthermore, the Senate believed that in penetrating into this Greek +world, where an old glory concealed so much weakness, they could not +accord too much to prudence. These pitiless enemies of the Volscians +and the Samnites will not proceed in their next wars by exterminating +their adversaries and wasting their country. "It was not with such a +purpose," said they, "that they came to pour out their blood; they +took in hand the cause of oppressed Greece." And that language and +that policy they will not change after victory. The first act of +Flamininus, on the day after Cynoscephalæ, was to proclaim the liberty +of the Greeks. All who bore that respected name seemed to have the +right to Roman protection; and the little Greek cities of Caria, and +of the coasts of Asia and Thrace, received with astonishment their +liberty from a people that they hardly knew. All were captivated by +this apparent generosity. None perceived that in restoring +independence to the cities and States, Rome wished to break up the +confederations that sought to reorganize and would perhaps have given +new force to Greece. In isolating them and attaching them to herself +by grateful ties, she placed them almost insensibly under her +influence. She made allies of them; and every one knows what the +allies of Rome became. Thus the Senate was so well satisfied with +this policy, which created division everywhere and awakened extinct +rivalries, that for half a century it followed no other.</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5073" id="Page_5073">[Pg 5073]</a></span></p> +<h3><a name="DOMINION" id="DOMINION"></a>RESULTS OF THE ROMAN DOMINION</h3> +<h4>From the 'History of Rome'</h4> + +<p>Although in literature Rome was but the echo of Greece, she civilized +all the Western world, for which the Greeks had done nothing. Her +language, out of which sprang the various languages of the Romance +nations, is in case of need a means of communication among scholars of +all countries, and her books will always remain—a wise selection +being made—the best for the higher culture of the mind. They have +merited above all others the title of <i>litteræ humaniores</i>, the +literature by which men are made. A cardinal, reading the 'Thoughts of +Marcus Aurelius' (written in Greek, it is true, but written by a +Roman), exclaimed, "My soul blushes redder than my scarlet at sight +of the virtues of this Gentile."</p> + +<p>Suppose Rome destroyed by Pyrrhus or Hannibal, before Marius and Cæsar +had driven the German tribes back from Gaul: their invasion would have +been effected five centuries sooner; and since they would have found +opposed to them only other barbarians, what a long night would have +settled down upon the world!</p> + +<p>It is true that when the Roman people had laid hands upon the +treasures of Alexander's successors, the scandal of their orgies +exceeded for a century anything that the East had ever seen; that +their amusements were sanguinary games or licentious plays; that the +Roman mind, after receiving a temporary benefit from Greek philosophy, +went astray in Oriental mysticism; and that finally, after having +loved liberty, Rome accepted despotism, as if willing to astonish the +world as much by her great corruption as she did by the greatness of +her empire.</p> + +<p>But can we say that no other age or nation has known servility of +soul, licentiousness in public amusements, and the conspicuous +depravity in morals that is always to be seen where indolence and +wealth are united?</p> + +<p>To the legacies left by Rome which have now been enumerated, we must add +another, which ranks among the most precious. Notwithstanding the poetic +piety of Virgil, and Livy's official credulity, the dominant note of Latin +literature is the indifference of Horace, when it is not the daring skepticism of +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5074" id="Page_5074">[Pg 5074]</a></span> +Lucretius. To Cicero, Seneca, Tacitus, and the great jurisconsults, +the prime necessity was the free possession of themselves, that +independence of philosophic thought which they owed to Greece. This +spirit, begotten of pure reason, was almost stifled during the Middle +Ages. It reappeared when antiquity was recovered. From that day the +renascent world set forward again; and in the new path France, heir of +Athens and of Rome, was long her guide—for art in its most +charming form, and for thought, developed in the light.</p> + +<p>Upon a medal of Constantine his son presents to him a globe surmounted +by a phœnix, symbol of immortality. For once the courtiers were not +in the wrong. The sacred bird which springs from her own ashes is a +fitting emblem of this old Rome, dead fifteen centuries ago, yet alive +to-day through her genius: <i>Siamo Romani</i>.</p> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Library of the World's Best +literature, Ancient and Modern, Vol. 12, by Various + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WORLD'S BEST LITERATURE *** + +***** This file should be named 32308-h.htm or 32308-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/2/3/0/32308/ + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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