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CORNELL
UNIVERSITY
LIBRARY

 

 

Stewart Henry Burnham

 
PN 6013.4 D24 University Library

“WNT
3 1924 027 284 441
THE

BEST FIFTY BOOKS

OF THE

GREATEST AUTHORS

CONDENSED

FOR BUSY PEOPLE.

COMPRISING THE MOST FAMOUS WORKS IN ALL LITERATURE,
WITH PORTRAITS AND BIOGRAPHIES OF THE
GREAT WRITERS OF ALL AGES.

EpitED BY BENJAMIN R, DAVENPORT.

ASSISTED BY EMINENT SCHOLARS AND CRITICS OF BOTH
ENGLAND AND AMERICA.

PUBLISHED BY THE MatTtTHEews-NorRTHRUP Co,
Burrato, N. Y., U. §. A.

1895.
. S
. As G2 276

CopyriGHTED, 1891,

BY BENJAMIN R. DAVENPORT.

CopyRIGHTED, 1595,

BY THE MATTHEWS-NORTHRUP CO.
Brg of ‘
Steck ue af a“ Dial ie:

 
    

ry

x
Shas

    

ey
THIS BOOK WAS MADE IN THE
ComrLere ART PRINTING Works oF THE MATTHEWS-NORTHRUP Co.,

In Burrato, N.Y,

.
WORK

Is respectfully dedicated to the following self-made men of
Our Country:

PMILIP D. ARMOUR, of Illinois; TMOMAS A. EDISON, JAY GOULD,
GROVER CLEVELAND, DAVID B. MILL, JOMN MH. INMAN, of
New York; JAMES G. BLAINE, of Maine: RUSSELL A.
ALGER, of Michigan; JOSEPM E. BROWN, of
Georgia; and JOMN D, ROCKEFELLER,

of Ohio, :

‘

Representing magnificently in their lives the possibilities offered in our
Century and Country to the energetic and persevering.

EXAMPLES, LIKE BEACON LIGMTS,
to encourage and guide the weary to the Maven of Success.

To the self-made men of our land are we indebted for the development of our
great resources; and consequently that solid foundation of Education,

ACCUMULATED WEALTH,

affording, as it does, time, and fostering the desire for the
ornamentation of the Edifice of the Mind.

Then, like Solomon the Wise, who resigned his throne to the Iron Worker to
whom was due the credit for the strength and stability of his Temple,
let the School-men stand uncovered in the presence of
those to whom is due all honor for laying

TME FOUNDATION ’

upon which the Future Edifice of Education in America shall be built;
recognizing, as they must, that ornamentation is but made
possible by these Great Foundation Creators.
CO AEN ss

** The following list, constituting the Best Fifty Books printed in the English
Language, ts based upon the opinions expressed by the most eminent literary men

of England and America upon the subject.

NAMES OF BOOKS.
Iurap,
INFERNO,
DECAMERON, OR HUNDRED TALEs,
SHAKESPEARE’S PLays,
ARABIAN NIGHTS,
Don QUIXOTE,
PARADISE Lost,
PitGRim’s PROGRESS,
Rosinson CRUSOE,
TRAVELS OF LEMUEL GULLIVER,
Essay on Man,
Git BLAS DE SANTILLANE,
Tom JONEs, 2 ies
ZADIG,
RASSELAS,
TRISTRAM SHANDY,
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, .
PAUL AND VIRGINIA,
LirE oF JoHNsOoN,
WILHELM MEISTER’S APPRENTICESHIP,

IVANHOE,

AUTHORS.
Hlomer.
Dante.
Boccaccio.

Shakespeare.

Cervantes.
Milton.
Bunyan.
Defoe.
Dean Swift.
Pope. .

Le Sage. .
Fielding.
Voltatre. .

Dr, Johnson.

Sterne.
Goldsmith.
St.-Pierre.
Boswell. .
Goethe.
Scott. .

PAGE.
17

43

73

91
145

175
199
209
219
229
243
257
273

297
311
321
335
351
365
CONTENTS.

 

NAMES OF BOOKS.
THE ANTIQUARY,

CHILDE HAROLD’s PILGRIMAGE,

CONFESSIONS OF AN ENGLISH OpiuM EATER, .

THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLow,

Tue Lasr or THE MOHICANS,

SARTOR RESARTUS,
VivIAN GRAY, .

Cousin Pons,

TEN THOUSAND A YEAR,

CoNSUELO,

THE WANDERING JEw,

THe Last Days oF Pompen,

My Nove,

THE Count oF Monte Cristo,

VANITY Fair, .

Tue History or Henry Esmonp, Eso,

JANE Eyre,

SCARLET LETTER,

UncLe Tom’s Cabin,
CRITICAL, HisTORICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS Essays,
Davip CopperFIELD,

TALE OF Two CITIES, .

WESTWARD Ho, .

Joun Ha.irax, GENTLEMAN,

EDUCATION ; INTELLECTUAL, Moral. AND PHYSICAL,

Les Miskrabies,
Woman IN White,
MIDDLEMARCH,

BEN lIlur,

AUTHORS.

PAGE,

————

aay oaks
De Quincey.
Irving,

Cooper.

Carlyle.
Disraeli. .
Balzac.

Warren. .
George Sand.
Eugene Sue.
Bulwer-Lytton. .
Bulwer-Lytton. .

Dumas. :
Thackeray.
Thackeray,
Charlotte Bront¢.

Hawthorne.
Mrs. Stowe. .
Macaulay.
Dickens.
Dickens,
Kingsley.
Mulock-Crath. ,
Spencer...
Victor Huge.
Collins,

George Elfot,
Wallace. .

391
407
419
435
+a

637
649
660

675

149
561
PREFACE.

The task of linking together the gems of literature contained in this
volume was undertaken by the editor, whom a fellow-feeling has made won-
derfully kind toward the ambitious and struggling men and women of our
country, knowing from experience of what use such a book would have
been to him. It is dedicated to representative self-made men, for by those
of the class of which they are splendidly typical, and others who would emu-
late their examples, will this book be most appreciated. In their lives of
active work, which in many cases began in childhood, they have not had
time to obey any calls save the demands of material necessities. While the
inheritor of riches may have spent years at college, and in reading at his
leisure many if not all of the books contained in this volume, the self-made
man or woman has been struggling for the knowledge necessary to procure
means to sustain life itself, and hence has had no time to devote to the study
of rhetoric and philosophy, or to become enthralled by the imaginative and
descriptive powers of the great creators of fiction. When such men or
women arrive at a period of their existence when their material wants are
sufficiently satisfied, and their future amply assured, and they desire to
acquire such ornamental knowledge as may be found in books, they find
themselves surrounded by a vast array of volumes, filled truly with much
that is beautiful but not actually useful. They stand appalled at the her-
culean labor that confronts them. In fact, before they can even get a brief
outline of these fifty most used, most quoted books, the classics of litera-
ture, they must peruse from fifty to a hundred thousand pages. Sucha
task to the man who has devoted himself to literary pursuits during a life-
time, and acquired the peculiar training that enables him to extract pleasure
from dry metaphor, exhaustive descriptions and metaphysical dissertation
may seem easy. But to one who has spent the larger portion of his life in
the active bustle of exciting business affairs, it presents anything but an
inviting undertaking. It is exactly as if the delicate student were required
10 PREFACE,

 

without due preparation to enter into a pugilistic encounter with a trained
athlete. This volume, its demerits being perfectly well known to the editor,
is presented asa means whereby the large class to whom I refer may have
a shorter way of becoming somewhat familiar at least with the tallest pillars
in the temple of letters. The principal points and characters, and as much
of the plot as is possible in the space reserved for each work, are succinctly
set forth. Such quotations as have particularly impressed themselves upon
the editor have been added, with a brief biographical sketch of each author.
I think that I can claim for this volume that it will enable those who read it
carefully, and retain what is herein written, to discuss more fully and more
thoroughly any one of these books than can ninety per cent of those who
have read the books in the original ; because the main points, the prominent
situations, characters, and subjects (especially those most generally dis-
cussed ) are freed from all surrounding verbiage, and, like the oaks of the
forests when the underbrush is cleared away, are more easily found and
remembered. Hence, for those who are thrown into the society of the
learned or literary without years of preparation, this brief acquaintance will
obviate much embarrassment.

This book is not intended to take the place of a thorough reading of
the works herein condensed. Fully aware of the criticism that will be made
upon this attempt, and anticipating the cry of presumption and sacrilege
from the scholar, who, having labored in the vineyard since the first hour,
objects to the equal reward given to him who enters at the eleventh hour,—
to such I would say no literary merit is claimed for this work, nor is it pre-
sumed that within its limits justice is or can be done to the master-pieces
whose outlines it gives. What is claimed is that one knowing the contents of
this volume well, will possess more knowledge of the great works herein con-
densed than ninety-nine per cent. of those who raise the cry of presumption.
No sacrilege is intended when we remove some ancient grave-yard to make
room for needed public improvements. This is the Utilitarian’s Age and
Country. The man or woman of action wants to possess what these books
contain, but cannot pay the price —a price not of money, but of time. In
some it will arouse curiosity to become better acquainted with Ivanhoe,
Copperfield, Cousin Pons, and others. Having once been led into the
enchanted field of literature, they will not forsake it.
PREFACE, va

 

The selection of these books was made from data gathered by a literary
friend of the editor, who had spent fifteen years in collecting the opinions
of the most learned men of England and America as to what are the best
books printed in the English language. The impossibility of condensing
works like the Bible, and one or two others, forced the editor to substitute
those which he deemed useful and instructive, being guided by the lists of
books furnished by Lubbock, Ireland, Perkins, Baldwin and others, and
bearing in mind the object in view, namely, usefulness in everyday life and
conversation. Hence Greek and Latin authors are omitted, with the ex-
ception of Homer, whom Pope's translation has made an English classic.

The incident that was the origin of this work seems to me worthy of a
place in the preface, as illustrating the end that it has in view. The editor
was one of a party who a few years ago dined at a club in a Western city,
with a number of prominent men, among whom was one whose career is syn-
onymous with success, whose business enterprises are of such gigantic pro-
portions as to make his name a household word both in America and
Europe, who has amassed an immense fortune, who is famous for his
charity, simplicity of life, and commercial integrity. This gentleman easily
lead the conversation upon all questions of finance, supply and demand,
labor and capital, and kindred subjects, the rest of the party being only too
happy to be enlightened by what they readily recognized as a master mind.
Then one of them, while discussing labor organizations, incidentally referred
to Charles Reade’s book, “ Put Yourself in his Place.” From that point
the conversation drifted to the abuses of which Charles Dickens had written,
and the cause and origin of many other books, and at once the man who was
in intellectual power the superior of anyone present, ceased to join in the
conversation. The reason was obvious. While many of those present had
been leisurely reading books, and thus ornamenting the mental structure,
he had unwittingly adopted Herbert Spencer’s theory of education. He had
first learned what is necessary for existence itself, and the ornamental part
of the fabric yet remained to be constructed.

At that table I determined to make an attempt—unequal asI knew I was to
the task—to place in such a man’s hands at least the hornbooks of literature in
so concise a manner that he might quickly and readily acquire some knowl-
edge of them—not an extensive knowledge, perhaps, but a knowledge
12: PREFACE.

which in the possession of the capable becomes as powerful as David's
sling against a very Goliah. And by “capable,” I mean able to use the in-
formation that has been acquired by reading. A man might possess tools
enough to fill the Colosseum, but only such as he is mechanic enough to use
would be of any value to him. The mere reading of a book in itself is of
little importance. It is that which is remembered, and can be used, that is
of value. “Mute Miltons”’ are not very entertaining companions. David
might have possessed a thousand slings, but it was the one he used against
Goliah that was of value to him. One of the objects of this work is so
to arrange the tools for the capable that in each drawer of memory’s bureau
shall be the proper tool, duly sharpened and ready when occasion demands
its use, and that the workshop of the mind shall not be lumbered up with a
mass of beautiful, artistic, picturesque articles that have no utility in every-
day life.

Justin McCarthy said of Lord Lytton that * no man could well have made
more of his gifts.” It isto enable the reader of this volume to utilize every one
of these books to the utmost that the original has been stripped of everything
except what is necessary for every-day use: and if the task has been success-
fully done, it will place it in the power of each reader to do as Lord Lytton
did, by making the most of fifty of the best books printed in the English
language. The mere fact that one has read Don Quixote would never im-
press itself or enlighten a social gathering unless the reader had the ability
when the occasion arose to make use of what he had acquired by some apt
quotation or illustration ; for example, the man fighting imaginary foes
may be compared to Don Quixote charging upen the wind-mills. One who
listens with credulity to the whisperings of fancy may be said like Rasselas
tc be following with eagerness the phantom of hope. One who is consumed
by a concealed emotion of some kind may appropriately be likened to some
such character in literature as Arthur Dimmesdale, torn by a self-accusing
conscience. Or, again, to one who has achieved leadership by being especi-
ally evil the well-read man can apply with telling effect Milton's thoughts
of Satan raised to that bad eminence. Or is it possible to rebuke one who
presumes to criticise the wisdom of the Almighty in words more weighty
and concise than those of Pope. Presume not God to scan, the proper

study of mankind is man ""?
PREFACE. 13

 

Since the dinner-table incident referred to above, on many occasions
have I noticed how the man of books will frequently silence much abler
and more intelligent companions, by drifting the bark of conversation into
the literary current ; how the woman of fifty, who has spent her life in idly
reading books, will often overawe brighter and braver women who have had
no time to spend in familiarizing themselves with the works of the masters
of literature. Many have said to me, “I want to read these books, I dis-
like not to know anything of them when they are mentioned; it often
places me in an awkward position, but it is a physical impossibility. I have
only a short time in the evenings to read. The newspapers, magazines, and
current literature require my attention, and to peruse one such work as
Boswell’s “ Johnson” in addition would require hours of toil which nature
demands for rest.” If this book be of no other and further use than a
shield to those for whom it is written, to protect them from the insidious
yet well-bred darts of the educated, who oft embarrass—intentionally, too—
by referring to or quoting from some well-known book or author, than I
shall feel as if my labor had not been in vain.

Trusting that someone better qualified will take up the work and pur-
sue it to its legitimate conclusion, that is, to a point where one could glance
in a short time over the whole field of literature ; knowing that those who
are capable will retain in memory every landmark of the scene, and after-
wards may linger in such valleys as offer tempting prospects to their indi-
vidual tastes,— I place this volume before the public with the sincere wish
that it may prove of real use to them.
 

 

 

 

 

HOMER.

BG. 1200 Greece
HOMER AND THE ILIAD.

The name of Homer stands, by common consent, at the head of all the uninspired poetry
of the world. But over all that pertains to this name in the remote ages from which it
sprung there is drawn a veil of obscurity and doubt, which the combined efforts of the
greatest scholars and the most acute critics have not been able either to lift or to penetrate,

Whether there ever was a particular man by the name of Homer who composed the
poems attributed to him ; if.so, where he was born; whether he did or did not frame his
verses in writing; what was the age in which he flourished; whether the things he tells us
are truth, or fiction, or a mixture of both; and by what means the text of the Homeric
poems has been transmitted, are questions which have given rise to volumes of contro-
versy and learned conjecture; and to these the readers who love such things are referred.

A common opinion has been that Homer was a veritable man, a Greek, born and living
probably on one of the Ionian Islands, who, though he became blind, like Milton, did in his
blindness, like the same illustrious modern, compose a great poem which all the world has
admired and the fame of which is immortal. Sometimes he is called Maeonides (native of
Maeonia); sometimes ‘‘ The Blind Bard of Chios,” as if Chios was his birthplace.

As to his principal poem, the /Zad, it is commonly assumed to be a poem about the siege
of Ilium (or Troy) by the Greeks, and more particularly about the ‘‘ wrath of Achilles” in
the quarrel that sprang up between him and Agamemnon — these two being prominent leaders
of the Grecian forces against the Trojans. But the //ad is in fact a collection of poems, not
always closely related perhaps, as the best critics think, not composed by any single bard,
some of them having but little reference to the theme announced in the beginning, but
brought permanently together ages ago, possibly by Pisistratus, and after that harmonized,
fitted together, revised and polished by successive grammarians and editors, and brought
under the common title of the //ad, by which the collection has been known ever since the
age of Pericles.

The original of the //ad as we now have it is Greek; and the text is a regular and favorite
study in all colleges where classical learning is taught. But the translatioris of the text into
English are abundant, though varying in degree of merit. The greatest scholars have tried
their hands upon it, and tried (as Mr. Matthew Arnold contended) in vain to seize and to pre-
serve the music and the fire of the original. We have Chapman’s Homer, Cowper's Homer,
Derby’s Homer, Bryant’s Homer, Pope’s Homer, and a good many others, besides the
learned dissertations of no less a scholar than Gladstone upon Homer and his works, to say
nothing of other great authors that might be enumerated.

As apopular version of the //ad, that of Alexander Pope is probably the most general
favorite. The verse is easily read, flowing, musical, and thus more pleasing to the majority of
readers than the more faithful, but stiffer translations of Cowper, Bryant, and others. Et will
be the aim of the succeeding pages to epitomize the //ad on the basis of Pope’s version.
18 HOMER.

THE ILIAD.

The poem in its present state consists of twenty-four Books. The first
book opens with the lines which every school-boy can repeat,

Achilles’ wrath to Greece, the direful spring
Of woes unnumbered, heavenly goddess, sing.

Achilles and Agamemnon were prominent leaders in the war against
Troy. The troops having captured two beautiful maids, Chryseis and
Briseis, gave the first to Agamemnon, and the last to Achilles. But Chryses,
the father of Chryseis, and a priest of Apollo, comes to beg for the release
of his daughter, which being insolently refused, he gets Apollo to send a
pestilence upon the Grecian camp.

On mules and dogs the infection first began ;
At last the vengeful arrows fixed on man.

For nine long nights, through all the dusky air,
The pyres, thick-flaming, shot a dismal glare.

The scourge obliged Agamemnon to release and send back his captive ;
but, being supreme in command, he immediately seized upon Briseis, the
maid who had been given to Achilles. As to this worthy,

: with grief and rage oppressed,
His heart swelled high, and labored in his breast ;
Distracting thoughts by turns his bosom ruled ;
Now fired by wrath, and now by reason cooled :
That prompts his hand to draw the deadly sword,
Force through the Greeks, and pierce their haughty lord ;
This whispers soft, his vengeance to control,
And calm the rising tempest of his soul.

At last, angry and soured, he draws himself and his forces away from the
other Greeks, goes into the sulks, complains of his ill treatment to Thetis,
his mother, and she induces Jupiter to av enge her son by giving victory to
the ‘Trojans. Jupiter is very much in fear of his wife, who favors the Greeks :
but he dismisses Thetis with the assurance that her petition shall be
granted,

Shakes his ambrosial curls, and gives the nod,
The stamp of fate, and sanction of the god :

High heaven with trembling the dread signal took,
And all Olympus to the center shook.
THE ILIAD. 19

 

Book II.

This book opens with an account of the ruse by which Jupiter sought to
fulfill his promise to Thetis. He sent a lying spirit to persuade Agamemnon
to risk a battle with the Trojans without the aid of Achilles and his forces.
The king was fooled, and at once made preparation for an attack. But,
thinking that it would’ be better in the first place to try the temper of his
army, he assembled all his forces, and pretended to them that he thought
the siege a hopeless undertaking ; and that the best way would be to aban-
don it, and that they should all go home to their wives and children.

Our shattered barks may yet transport us o’er,
Safe and inglorious to our native shore :

Fly, Grecians, fly, your sails and oars employ,
And dream no more of heaven-defended Troy.

To Agamemnon’s disgust, this feigned counsel was taken in earnest, and
the braves were all ready to go at a moment’s notice; and a stampede for
the ships began. But here Juno interfered, and sent Minerva to stop the
retreat, who soon set brave Ulysses to work. Ulysses shamed some, per-
suaded others, and some, like the factious, deformed and bawling Thersites,
he unmercifully pounded. The stampede was checked.

Back to the assembly roll the thronging train,
Desert the ships, and pour upon the plain.

A grand review of the whole Grecian army followed, and that becomes
occasion in the poem for the celebrated enumeration of the forces engaged,
both Greek and Trojan, including

THE CATALOGUE OF THE SHIPS.

This enumeration, with its multitude of Hellenic proper names, and their
happily descriptive epithets, while instinct with poetical conception, is a
remarkable piece of metrical ingenuity, which, with any verbal forms less
flexible than the Grecian, would have been impossible.

And Pope’s paraphrase (for it is little else) is very felicitous. There is
room for only a specimen line or two.

With these appeared the Salaminian bands,

Whom the gigantic Telamon commands ;

In twelve black ships to Troy they steer their course,
And with the great Athenians join their force.

The proud Mycené arms her martial powers
Cleoné, Corinth, with imperial towers,
20 HOMER.

 

Fair Arethyrea, Ornia’s fruitful plain.

And A-gion and Adrastus’ ancient reign ;
And those who dwell along the sandy shore,
And where Pellené yields her fleecy store,
Where Helicé, and Hyperesia lie,

And Gonéessa’s spires salute the sky.

Book III.

The third book of the Iliad is mainly devoted to an account of the duel
between Menelaus and Paris.

Paris, the son of Priam, King of Troy, was in fact the offender, who had
precipitated the war between the Greeks and Trojans ; for while on a visit
to Menelaus in Greece, he had taken advantage of his host's temporary
absence to corrupt the fidelity of his beautiful wife, Helen, and had
carried her back with him to Troy. Menelius, on his return, inflamed with
anger at this treachery, had persuaded the Grecian chiefs to declare war
upon the Trojan State for the recovery of his wife. This third book relates
how, on the eve of a general engagement, it was arranged that a single com-
bat between Meneldus the injured husband, and Paris the seducer of his
wife, should settle the whole quarrel.

Then let a midway space our hosts divide,

And on that stage of war the cause be tried :

By Paris there the Spartan king be fought,

For beauteous Helen and the wealth she brought,
And who his rival can in arms subdue,

His be the fair, and his the treasure too.

Thus with a lasting league, your toils may cease,
And Troy possess her fertile fields in peace ;

Thus may the Greeks review their native shore,
Much famed for generous steeds ; for beauty more.

Preparations for this combat were made immediately. Helen, summoned
by the goddess Iris, comes to the Trojan battlements, attended by her maids,
to view the scene ; and there in answer to the aged Priam’s inquiries, she
names a number of the prominent Grecian heroes who are seen moving
about on the plain, particularly \gamemnon, Ithacus, and Idomeneus.

Olferings and vows are made by the chiefs of the opposing armies ; and
the battle begins, Paris has the first spear cast.

The Trojan first his shining javelin threw ;

Full on Atrides™ ringing shield it flew,

Nor pierced the brazen orb, but with a bound,
Leaped from the buckler, blunted, on the ground.

* Atrides (son of Atreus) was a name common to the brothers Agamemnon and Menelius.
THE ILIAD. 21

 

Menelaus casts his javelin with greater effect, and follows it up witha
mighty sword cut at Paris’s helmet, shivering his blade. Then he rushes
upon Paris, lays hold of his crest, and drags him off toward the Grecian
camp. But Venus flies to the rescue, spirits away the fallen combatant, and
lays him on his bed in the palace, so that, when the victor reaches the camp,
he finds an empty helmet in his hand. Helen is now called to Paris’s
chamber to see her lover; but upbraids him for his defeat, and makes
damaging comparison of him with her lawful husband, yet soon relents, and
takes him to her arms.

Boox IV.

The fourth book brings the embattled hosts of Greeks and Trojans, each
of which had been resting on their arms to witness the duel, into general
and sanguinary action. The engagement was brought about by Minerva at
the instance of Jupiter. Minerva instigated one Pandarus a Trojan, to aim
a shaft at Meneldus. The arrow inflicted a painful, though not immediately
dangerous, wound upon the hero, to the great grief and alarm of his brother,
Agamemnon. Machion came to the wounded man’s assistance.

Straight the broad belt with gay embroid'ry graced,
He loosed: the corselet from his breast unbraced ;
Then sucked the blood, and sovereign balm infused
Which Chiron gave, and Asculapius used.

Agamemnon, on his part, leaving his war chariot with Eurymedon,
pressed through the Grecian forces on foot, stirring up each leader to new
deeds of martial bravery, and urging immediate vengeance for the breaking
of the truce. The poet enlarges on the manner in which he praised Idome-
neus, admired Ajax, witnessed the discipline of Nestor, roused Ulysses and
Diomed, and received ardent responses from all.

A furious battle ensued ; and the fate that overtook particular heroes on
both sides is described.

Had some brave chief this martial scene beheld,
By Pallas guarded through the dreadful field ;
Might darts be bid to turn their points away,
And swords around him innocently play ;

The war’s whole art with wonder had he seen,
And counted heroes where he counted men.

The book closes with the lines,

So fought each host, with thirst of glory fired,
And crowds on crowds triumphantly expired.
2 HOMER.

 

Boon V.

This book celebrates the valor and almost superhuman prowess of
Diomed. Gods and goddesses mingle in the fray, coming conveniently upon
the stage of action at those junctures where their favorites are in mortal
peril, to shield, to hide, or to carry them away. They themselves receive
occasional wounds, Venus and Mars in particular, which last mentioned
worthy

hs eee bellows with the pain
Loud as the roar encountering armies yield
When shouting millions shake the thundering field.

The book presents but little else than a series of encounters in which
the spears crash through helms and corselets, cleave skulls, transfix bodies,
and tear out entrails, and in which war chariots collide like meteors, and in
which noble steeds are either turned in flight or captured by the foe.
Diomed is the prominent figure throughout First he is wounded by an
arrow from the Trojan Pandarus. /Eneas comes to the help of Pandarus,
who is killed; and Eneas himself is badly injured by a rocky fragment
hurled at him by Diomed.

Where to the hip th’ inserted thigh unites,

Full on the bone the pointed marble lights ;
Through both the tendons broke the rugged stone,
And stripped the skin, and cracked the solid bone.

His divine mother, Venus, carries him off the field. Then Diomed
rushes after her, and levels his lance at her.

Her snowy hand the razing steel profaned,
And the transparent skin with crimson stained.
From the clear vein a stream immortal flow’d,
Such stream as issues from a wounded god.

Venus, flying back to the abode of the gods, is nursed and pitied by her
mother, Dione, and is advised by Jupiter to keep herself henceforth away
from the field of strife.

Then Mars, the most fierce and quarrelsome of the gods, goes down to
mix in the fray, and rouses the Trojan Hector to fury,
becomes awful.

The battle now

Stern Diomed with either Ajax stood,

And great Ulysses bathed in hostile blood.
Embodied close the laboring Grecian train,
The fiercest shock of charging hosts sustain.

Great Hector saw, and raging at the view, *
Pours on the Greeks; the Trojan troops pursue :
THE ILIAD. 23

 

He fires his host with animating cries,

And brings along the furies of the skies.
Mars, stern destroyer, and Bellona dread,
Flame in the front, and thunder at their head.

It were long to tell who were slain

. ... Aineas brandishing his blade
In dust Orsilochus and Crethon laid.

On the other hand,

Alastor, Cromius, Halius, strow’d the plain,
Alcander, Prytanis, Noémon fell.

Finally, Juno and Minerva take the field ; and the book ends amid gore
and dust. Mars is healed by Peon.

Juno and Pallas mount the blest abodes
Their task performed, and mix among the gods.

Book VI.

The sixth book is mainly occupied with the episode.of Glaucus and
Diomed, and that of Hector and Andromache. It opens with a scene of
increased success of the Greeks, consequent upon the withdrawal from the
field of the gods and goddesses. Ajax, Euryalus, Ulysses and other Gre-
cian heroes, go on cutting down their foes without mercy.

Helenus, the chief augur of Troy, bids Hector retire from the field, hasten
to the town, and send a solemn procession of Trojan maidens, headed by
Queen Hecuba, and prayers and sacrifices, to the temple of Minerva, beseech-
ing her to remove the daring deadly Diomed from the fight.

In the meantime, Diomed meets Glaucus on the field, a warrier of noble
mien, and falls into conversation with him, learning his history, particularly
the romantic story of one of his ancestors named Bellerophon. In this nar-
rative it came out that their grandsires had been friends, whereupon Diomed
and Glaucus became friends, and exchanged arms.

For Diomed’s brass arms of mean device,

For which nine oxen paid (a vulgar price),

He gave his own of gold divinely wrought,

A hundred beeves the shining purchase bought.

At Hector’s instance, the Queen led a procession of maidens to the
shrine of Minerva, while he himself sought that kid-glove hero, Paris, and
found him with Helen and her virgins, polishing his arms.

Him thus inactive with an ardent look,
The Prince beheld, ‘and high resenting spoke.
24 HOMER.

 

Hector’s reproachful address had the desired effect. It stung Paris, and
shamed him into something like manly courage. At any rate he buckled
on his things, and started for the field. ;

Hector, on his part, rushed away for a brief interview with his beloved
wife, the ‘ white-armed " Andromache, and found her with the nurse hold-
ing their beautiful child Scamandrius (called by the Trojans, Astyanax).
The parting of Hector and Andromache becomes occasion for some of the
most beautiful passages in the whole poem.

Yet while my Hector still survives I see,
My father, mother, brethren all in thee;
Alas! my parents, brothers, kindred, all
Once more will perish if my Hector fall.

Hector clasps his boy, and lifts him up with a passionate appeal to

the gods:
O thou, whose glory fills the ethereal throne,

And all ye deathless powers, protect my son ;
Grant him, like me, to purchase just renown,
To guard the Trojans, to defend the crown.

On parting with Andromache he says,

Andromache, my soul's far better part,

Why with untimely sorrows heaves thy heart ?
No hostile hand can antedate my doom,

Till fate condemns me to the silent tomb.

The book closes upon the spectacle of Hector and Paris hastening away
in company to the field.

Book VIL.

This book, like the third, is devoted in the main to a single combat,
not now between Menelius and Paris, but between two more terrible foemen,
Hector and .\jax.

Hector, on the part of Troy, threw down the challenge. Nine Greeks
came forward to accept it, viz. \gamemnon, .\jax, Diomed, Idomeneus,
Oileus, Merion, Eurypylus, Thoas, and Ulysses. The name of the com-
batant was chosen by the lot shaken in the helmet ; and Ajax won.

The lots produced, each hero signs his own:
Then in the general's helm the fates are thrown.
The people pray, with lifted eyes and hands,
And vows ascend from all the bands.

Ajax advances. He

. braced his dazzling armor on;
Sheathed in bright steel the giant warrior shone ;
THE ILIAD. 25

 

He moves to combat with majestic pace :

So stalks in arms the grisly god of Thrace
When Jove, to punish faithless men, prepares
And gives whole nations to the waste of wars
Thus marched the chief, tremendous as a god;
Grimly he smiled; earth trembled as he strode.

After a vengeful encounter with spears, they heave rocks at each other.

Hector
. stooping down,
In his strong hand up-heaved a flinty stone,
Black, craggy, vast: to this his force he bends
Full on the brazen boss the stone descends.

Ajax, on his part,

. Seized the fragment of a rock,
Applied each nerve, and swinging round on high,
With force tempestuous let the ruin fly.

Hector was badly hurt, but was healed by Apollo. Night closed the
contest, leaving the result undecided. The combatants, however, exchanged
tokens. Hector gave the Greek a sword, and Ajax gave the Trojan a belt.

Meanwhile, Antenor, in a council at Troy, proposed that the war should
be closed by giving up Helen and her treasure. Paris objected. He would
give up the treasure, but not the stolen wife. In the morning the offer of
the treasure, with interest, was formally tendered to the Greeks, but was
refused with disdain, A truce, however, was proclaimed for the burning of

the dead.
In mingled throngs the Greek and Trojan train

Through heaps of carnage, searched the mournful plain,
Scarce could the friend his slaughtered friend explore,
With dust dishonored, and deformed with gore.

The book closes with description of a fortification ; with towers, erected
by the Greeks for the protection of their ships. This piece of work was dis-
pleasing to Neptune, who was pacified by Jove with the suggestion that by
and by Neptune could shake the whole structure down by a sea storm, and
cover the ruins with sand.

Boox VIII.

In the eighth book, the battle is renewed, but under changed conditions,
Jupiter assembles a council of the gods, and threatens them all with dire
vengeance if they dare to interfere on either side.
xe HOMER.

 

The only concession he makes is to his ‘t best beloved" Minerva, whom
he gives permission to assist the Greeks with her wise “counsel.” Yet he
himself interferes in behalf of the Trojans, and

oe from Ida's top his horrors spreads ;

The clouds burst dreadful o’er the Grecian heads ;
Thick lightnings flash; the muttering thunder rolls ;
Their strength he withers, and unmans their souls.

At the opening of the fight, old Nestor's horse is wounded by a dart
from Paris; and the “hoary monarch’’ would have come to grief but for
the timely assistance of Diomed, who takes him into his own chariot. But
here Jupiter’s thunder and lightning came in.

The ground before him flamed with sulphur blue.

Nestor advised retreat, and they fled. The Trojans, led on by Hector,
gathered fresh courage, and begin to press the Greeks more fiercely, and
threaten their ships.

Where the deep trench in length extended lay.
Compacted troops stand wedged in firm array,

A dreadful front! They shake the brands, and threat
With long destroying flames the hostile fleet.

The Greeks make a determined sally :

Forth rush a tide of Greeks, the passage freed ;
The Atrida first, the Ajaces next succeed,
Meriones, like Mars, in arms renowned.

And godlike Idomen now passed the mound,
Evaemon’s son next issues to the foe.

And last young Teucer with his bended bow.

Who, first by Teucer's mortal arrows bled ?
Orsilochus ; then fell Ormeneus dead.

The godlike Lycophon next pressed the plain
With Chromius, Daetor, Ophelestes slain.

He tries to bring down Hector, but in vain,

Since rallying from our wall we fore'd the foe,
Still aimed at Hector have I bent my bow -
Eight forky arrows from this hand have fled,
And eight bold heroes by their points lie dead ;
But sure some god denies me to destroy

This fury of the field, this doy of Troy.
THE ILIAD. 27

 

Once more the Greeks were driven to take refuge within their walls, at
which Juno, able no longer to contain herself, begs Minerva to go down
with her and help turn the fortune of the day. The two arm themselves,
and set forth, but are met by Iris with a stern mandate to forbear; and
they are obliged to go back. Jupiter and Juno have a bitter quarrel. Night
comes on; and

The victors keep the field; and Hector calls
A martial council near the navy walls.

The Trojans kindle immense watch fires, and keep them burning all
night, illuminating all the shore, so that the Greeks may not embark and
fly under cover of the darkness.

A thousand piles the dusky horrors gild,

And shoot a shady lustre o’er the field.

Full fifty guards each flaming pile attend,
Whose umbered arms, by fits, thick flashes send,
Loud neigh the coursers o’er their heaps of corn
And ardent warriors wait the rising morn.

Book IX.

The ninth book, justly admired for the spirit and the eloquence of the
speeches it contains, relates the particulars of a fruitless appeal for aid
to Achilles, whose anger at Agamemnon still kept him and his forces in
retirement.

Agamemnon had proposed a cessation of hostilities, and an abandon-
ment of the siege. Diomed scorned such counsel, and said,

The gods, O Chief, from whom our honors spring
The gods have made thee but by halves a king.

He was for continuing the war at all hazards. Nestor took the floor,
and counseled an appeal to Achilles to return and help his old comrades to
stem the tide of battle. Agamemnon fell in with this proposition, and
offered immense rewards to move the purpose of the offended chief — gold,
and tripods, and steeds, and Lesbian maids, and Briseis herself, about whom
the whole difficulty had arisen. Besides all this, he promised captives and
treasure from the vanquished Troy, and made the offer of one of his own
daughters, whom he engaged to dower with

re ne ee so a vast a store
As never father gave a child before.
 

28 HOMER.

 

The embassy consisted of the aged Phoenix, as leader, Ajax, Ithacus,
Hodius, and Eurybates. \fter suitable offerings to Jupiter, they set out,

and soon
. . . arrived where on the sandy bay

The Myrmidonian tents and vessels lay.
Amused at ease the godlike man they found
Pleased with the solemn harp’s harmonious sound.

Achilles received the messengers hospitably, and as became a prince, and
they opened their commission, but all to no purpose. The chief had been
stung too deeply. He had no faith in Agamemnon, denounced him as a
tyrant, and rejected all his offers with scorn, expressing his intention soon
to pack up, and sail back to his dominions in Phthia, there to spend the
remainder of his days in peace. In vain did the aged Phoenix plead with
him, reminding him of the share which he himself had taken in educating
and training him, and endeavoring to move him by reciting the legend of
Meleager, an ancient hero, who once had risen superior to personal resent-
ments. Achilles remained unpacified, and unshaken in his resolution,
Ulysses, in disgust, told his companions it was time to be off. The aged
Phoenix, however, remained asa guest. The rest carried back the tidinzs
of their failure, and Diomed, in a bitter speech, gave expression to the gen-
eral sentiment by saying, for substance: Achilles be hanged; we will con-
tinue to fight.

Book NX.

The tenth book describes a night adventure of Diomed and Ulysses, who,
through the resolution of a council hastily called by Agamemnon in his
anxiety, had volunteered to penetrate the Trojan camp as spies.

A similar enterprise had been prepared by the Trojans to learn the
secrets of the Grecian camp, from which one Dolon had been despatched,
Diomed and Ulysses heard the cautiously approaching footsteps of Delon,
drew aside into the shadow, allowed him to pass, then pursued and arrested
him. The wretched prisoner, trembling at the prospect of speedy death,
weakly gave up certain secrets of the Trojan camp, in particular describing
the spot where lay certain ‘Thracian reinforcements led by Rhesus. Diomed
then beheaded the spy, and hung up his arms fora trophy on a neighboring
tamarisk, ‘Then he and Ulysses pressed on, found the Thracians .
and while Diomed passed along chopping olf the heads of the sleepers
Ulysses dragged each corpse aside by the foot. When twelve had been hus
executed, they unticd the snowy steeds of Rhesus, and with these and hik
beautiful car, hastened back to the Grecian camp, stopping on the way fot
the trophy they had left of poor Dolon, :

asleep :
THE ILIAD. 29

 

Then o’er the trench the bounding coursers flew ;
The joyful Greeks with loud acclaim pursue.
Straight to Tydides’ high pavilion borne,

The matchless steeds his ample stalls adorn:

The neighing coursers their new fellows greet,
And the full racks are heaped with generous wheat,
But Dolon’s armour to his ships conveyed,

High on the painted stern Ulysses laid,

A trophy destined to the blue-eyed maid.

Book XI.

The eleventh book is of no particular interest beyond the hint it con-
tains of some softening on the part of Achilles.

The Greeks, led by Agamemnon, renew the fight with sanguinary
success ; and Hector for the Trojans, rages round the field with supermortal
valor. A remarkable passage in the opening of the book describes: the
armor of Agamemnon. First the cuirass :

Ten rows of azure steel the work infold,
Twice ten of tin, and twelve of ductile gold :
Three glittering dragons to the gorget rise,
Whose imitated scales against the skies
Reflected various light, and arching bow’d
Like color’d rainbows o’er a showery cloud,
(Jove’s wondrous bow of three celestial dyes,
Placed as a sign to man amidst the skies).

Next the baldric, then the sword, and then

His buckler’s mighty orb was next display’d,
That round the warrior cast a dreadful shade ;
Ten zones of brass its ample brim surround,
And twice ten bosses the bright convex crown’d.
Tremendous Gorgon frowned upon the field,
And circling terrors filled the expressive shield ;
Within its concave hung a silver thong,

On which a mimic serpent creeps along

His azure length in easy waves extends,

Till in three heads the embroidered monster ends.

Ulysses and Diomed distinguish themselves; and both are wounded.
Ulysses being in mortal peril cries for help, and is rescued by Menelaus and
Ajax.

Machaon, the valued physician of the Greeks, is also wounded, and is
borne from the field in the car of Nestor. Achilles, watching from afar,
30 HOMER.

 

feels interest enough in the fortunes of the day to send Patroclus with
inquiries about the state of the battle, and particularly about Machaon, and
receives from Nestor a full account of things framed in such a way as, it
was hoped, might induce him to forget his resentments and return to the
ranks. Nestor went so far as to suggest that, if Patroclus could not per-
suade Achilles to come back, he should come himself clad in Achilles’
armor. On his way back, Patroclus meets the wounded Eurypylus, relieved
him of the dart, and dressed his painful wounds.

Book XII.

The twelfth book shows the Greeks in dire extremity. They had
retired behind their works; and, now, instead of besieging the Trojans,
the Trojans were besieging them. But at the deep ditch before the walls

The panting steeds impatient fury breathe

But snort and tremble at the gulf beneath :

Just at the brink, they neigh and paw the ground ;
And the turf trembles, and the skies resound.
Eager they viewed the prospect dark and deep,
Vast was the leap, and headlong hung the steep,
The bottom bare — a formidable show !

And bristled thick with sharpened stakes below.
The foot alone this strong defence could force,
And try the pass impervious to the horse,

Polydamas advises that the horses be sent to the rear, and that the
attack be managed on foot. His advice is taken; and the Trojan forces
advance in fine bands, determined to scale the walls, or to break through,
and fire the Grecian fleet. Prodigies of strength and valor are exhibited
by both parties. Arrows darken the air: the besiegers thunder at the
gates, or endeavor to scale the stronghold by means of ladders : showers of
stones are hurled from the walls, and the trench heaped with. slain.
Sarpedon succeeds in’ breaching the walls; and Hector hurls a missile that
shatters a pair of folding gates.

Book XIII.

The thirteenth book of the Iliad opens with a plece of vreat audacity on
the part of one of the gods. Jupiter had strictly commanded that not one
of the heavenly powers should interfere in the fight between the two armies
threatening them with his thunderbolts and hell fire, if they dared to dis:
obey. Yet as related in the eighth book, he himself had interfered, and
THE ILIAD. 31

 

now in this thirteenth book, we see Neptune profiting by the example of his
superior, and going down, in the likeness of Chalcas, to assist the Greeks.
They were in sore need of assistance. But under the inspiration of this new
power they rallied, and in close phalanx put a stop to the enemy.

The details of the book are somewhat wearisome, reciting as they do the
particulars of endless encounters between the opposing heroes, who hack,
and pierce, and rend, and smash each other, covering the ground with
blood, and brains, and entrails, tillone shudders and sickens, and wonders
how any audience could long have been kept from revolt under such a
surfeit of horrors.

Book XIV.

The most noteworthy thing in the fourteenth book is the deception
practised on Jupiter by his wife, an event speaking little for the sagacity of
the King of gods and men.

The book opens with a description of Nestor’s anxiety about the turn
things were taking. The Grecian wall was down, and the Trojans were
pressing forward to burn the fleet. Nestor hastens to Agamemnon, and meets
him in company with Ulysses and Diomed. Agamemnon, as in the ninth
book, was weakening again, and proposed an abandonment of the siege.
Ulysses answered him with cutting sarcasm :

What shameful words, unkingly as thou art,

Fall from that trembling tongue and tim’rous heart ?
Oh were thy sway the curse of meaner powers,

And thou the shame of any host but ours !

A host by Jove endowed with martial might,

And taught to conquer or to fall in fight.

In such base sentence if thou couch thy fear,
Speak it in whispers, lest a Greek should hear.
Lives there a man so dead to fame, who dares
To think such meanness, or the thought declares ?

Agamemnon receives the rebuke of his subordinate meekly ; and all
three go out to encourage the army.

Meantime Juno prepares a trick for her august husband. Arraying her-
self in her best, she borrows the magic girdle of Venus, and prevails upon
the god of Sleep to seal Jupiter’s eyes. Then she flies to Mount Ida where
her lord is reposing, ravishes him with her charms, and sinks in his rapturous
embraces, This gave Neptune an opportunity to accede to her anxious
request that he would go and help the Greeks, which he does to such good
purpose that the tide of battle is turned again. Ajax, whose favorite
32 HOMER,
weapons appear to be great stones, hurls one of ponderous weight, and
brings down the Trojan leader.

So lies great Hector prostrate on the shore ;
His slackened hand deserts the lance it bore;
His following shield the fallen chief o’erspread
Beneath his helmet dropped his fainting head.

The book closes with such reverses to the Trojans, as portend their
speedy ruin.
Book XV.

In the fifteenth book, although there is plenty of savage fighting be-
tween the Greeks and Trojans, the celestial powers get by the ears to such
a degree as to suggest the thought that the quarrel may possibly be trans-
ferred from the plains of Troy to the courts above.

Jupiter, awaking from his amorous dream, sees how ill things are going
with the Trojans, while the Greeks are flushed with victory, and are led by
Neptune; and he straightway lays it to his wife, and loads her with
reproaches. But she pacifies him by artful submission, and is sent by him
to the council of the gods with a message to Iris and .\pollo, directing the
one to call off Neptune, and the other to assist the wounded and fainting
Hector. These orders were obeyed. Neptune betook himself to his own
watery domain; and Apollo went to succor the Trojan hero.

Not half so swift the sailing. falcon flies,
That drives a turtle through the liquid skies,
As Phoebus, shooting from the Idan brow
Glides down the mountain to the plain below.
There Hector seated by the stream he sees,
His sense returning with the coming breeze ;
Again his pulses beat, his spirits rise ;
Again his loved companions meet his eyes :
Jove thinking of his pains, they pass away,
To whom the god who gives the golden day :
“Why sits great Hector from the field so far ?
What grief, what wound, withholds thee from the war?”

In the meantime, Mars, egged on by Juno, had all but reached the point
of precipitating himself in open rebellion upon the field to help the Greeks,
but was dissuaded from the rash act by Minerva,

The revived Hector slays Arcesilas and Stiehius > «Eneas cuts down
Medon and Hisus > Mecystes does the business for Polydamas, and \genor
for Clontus. \ great part of the Grecian wall is breached ; and the Trojans
rush in to fire the fleet, but are held at bay by Ajay
THE ILIAD. 33

 

Book XVI.

The sixteenth book is big with fate. Patroclus, in the camp of Achilles,
entreats his chief, if he will not go to help the Greeks himself, to allow Aim
to go, dressed in Achilles’ armor. Achilles consents, and places the bold
and savage Myrmidons at his disposal. He charges him, however, to be
content with saving the Grecian fleet from destruction, not to pursue the
enemy to their walls, and on no account to kill Hector. He himself wants
the honor of killing Hector when it shall please him, by and by, to show
what he can do. He is a boastful fellow, this Achilles; and as he sees the
Trojans pressing the Greeks closer and closer, he exclaims:

It was not thus, when, at my sight amazed,
Troy saw and trembled as this helmet blazed :
Had not the injurious king our friendship lost,
Yon ample trench had buried half her host.
No camps, no bulwarks now the Trojans fear,
Those are not dreadful, no Achilles there.

As Patroclus drew nigh to actual engagement in his chief’s armor,

The war stood still, and all around them gazed,
When great Achilles’ shining armor blazed :
Troy saw, and thought the dread Achilles nigh ;
At once they see, they tremble, and they fly.

Hector himself flies. The great Sarpedon is killed by Patroclus—a
heavy disaster for Troy. The combat thickens around his body, his enemies
desiring to despoil him, and his friends to carry him off the field. Patroclus,
elated with his valorous deed, presses on, and is encountered by Hector.
He dashes a stone at the head of Hector’s charioteer, Cebrion, toppling him
dead to the ground, and vaunts over the feat in this sarcastic fashion :

Good heavens! what active feats yon artist shows !
What skillful divers are our Phrygian foes!

Mark with what ease they sink into the sand!

Pity that all their practice is by land.

But now, forgetting the charge of Achilles, he pursues the flying foe
toward the city, where Apollo disarms him, Euphorbus wounds him, and
Hector kills him. Here is the grand turning point of the action.

Achilles will soon appear to avenge the death of his beloved Patroclus.
His vengeance on the Greeks is already satisfied. Soon he will wreak a
fearful and bloody vengeance on Hector, his great antagonist.
34 HOMER,

 

Book NVII.

The seventeenth book derives its chief interest from the mad etforts of
each party to gain possession of the body of Patroclus. Menelaus and
Euphorbus, Hector, and .\jax fight for it. Finally, Menelaus and Meriones,
assisted by the two Ajaxes, bear off the body to the ships. In the mean-
time, Antilochus is despatched to Achilles with the sad news that his
beloved Patroclus is killed.

One of the most noteworthy passages in this book is that which
describes the almost human grief of the horses of Achilles for the loss of
Patroclus,

Meantime at distance from the scene of blood,

The pensive steeds of great Achilles stood :

Their godlike master slain before their eyes,

They wept and shared in human miseries.

In yain Automedon now shakes the rein,

Now plies the lash, and soothes and threats in vain ;
Nor to the fight nor Hellespont they go,

Restive they stood, and obstinate in woe.

Mong thelr face
The th round drops coursed down with silent pace,
Conglobing on the dust. Their manes, that late
Circled their arched necks, and waved in state,
Trailed on the dust beneath the yoke were spread,
And prone to earth was hung their languid head.

Another fine passage is that which gives the prayer of Ajax for light.

Lord of earth and air,
Oh King, oh father, hear my humble prayer ;
Dispel this cloud; the light of Heaven restore
Give me to see, and Ajax asks no more:
If Greece must perish, we thy will obey ;
But let us perish in the face of day.

Jook NVI,

The story of the cighteenth book is briefly told; but it is one of the most
exquisitely beautiful, and deeply interesting of all, memorable chiefly for its
description of the shtetd ef Achilles, :

The body of Patroclus, though brought back as far as the fleet, is
not out of danger, ‘The ‘Trojans are: still madly battling to recover it anid
are sall repulsed by the brothers Ajax. Achilles, mourning over the amine
THE ILIAD. 35

 

of his friend’s death brought him by Antilochus, complains bitterly to his
mother, Thetis, who with her sea-nymphs comes to comfort him.

Thalia, Glaucé — every watery name —
Nesaea mild, and silver Spio came;
Cymothoé and Cymodocé were nigh
And the blue languish of soft Alia’s eye,
Their locks Actaea and Limnoria rear,
Then Proto, Doris, Panopé appear,
Thoa, Pherusa, Doto, Melita;

Agave gentle, and Amphithoé gay,

Next Callianira, Callianassa show

Their sister looks: Dexamené the slow,
And swift Dynamené, now cut the tides ;
Iaera now the verdant wave divides.
Nemertes with Apseudes lifts the head ;
Bright Galatea quits her pearly bed;
These Orythia, Clymene attend ;

Maera, Amphinomé, the train extend,
And black Janira, and Janassa fair

And Amatheia’ with her amber hair.

Iris now appears on the scene with orders from Juno that Achilles go to
assist in the complete rescue of the body of Patroclus. But, alas! he has
no armor; that had been taken from the body of Patroclus by Hector.
However, it is arranged that, with such armor as he can snatch, he shall
show himself to the Trojans, and scare them, which he does very effectually
by his blazing eyes and his prodigious shouting. Meantime, Minerva
hastens to the workshop of Vulcan to get a new suit of armor for Achilles ;
and a most interesting description is given of her visit to the celestial
smithy, and particularly of the wonderful shield forged for Achilles by
Vulcan.

The description of this shield is minute and very celebrated, but is too
long to quote here. Flaxman devised a model of it—a magnificent work.
Four casts were made in silver, valued at 2,000 guineas a piece, one of which
was for the sideboard of George III., of England, and the three others for
distinguished noblemen.

Book XIX.

Book nineteenth brings about the great result, hitherto so long and
vainly sought, of a reconciliation between Agamemnon and Achilles.

No sooner does the alienated hero behold the shining and magnificent
armor brought him by his mother from Vulcan, than he begins to glow with
36 HOMER.
martial ardor, and easily yields to her persuasion publicly to ‘ renounce his
ire.” She offers miraculously to preserve the body of Patroclus from cor-
ruption, and Achilles goes forth.
The speeches made by him and Agamemnon in presence of the Grecian
host are given, in which Agamemnon cunningly contrives to shift the odium
of his own conduct in seizing Briseis upon the ‘divinities that shape our

ends.” ;
Nor charge on me, ye Greeks, the dire debate ;

Know angry Jove, and all-compelling Fate,
With fell Erinnys, urged my wrath that day,
When from Achilles’ arms I forced the prey.

His explanation of the transaction is elaborate, but lame; yet it is
accepted. Commissioners are sent to Achilles’ head-quarters with the
presents promised by the King ; and Achilles is impatient for the fight. He
can hardly wait a moment for Hector’s blood. By Ulysses’s counsel, how-
ever, the army takes refreshment.

The strangest thing in the book is the reproach which Achilles addresses
to his horses Xanthus and Balius, for their share of blame in the matter of
Patroclus’s death, and the reply of one of thése horses declining to acknowl-
edge that they were in fault. Achilles then rushes to the fray.

Book XX. _

A portentious change in the conduct of the war is announced in the
twentieth book. In the eighth book, Jupiter is represented as threatening
dire punishment to any of the gods who should dare to interfere in the fight
on either side. In this twentieth book, a council of the gods is called, the
result of which is that the prohibition is removed. Jove says:

. Celestial powers descend ;
And, as your minds direct, your succor lend
To either host.

The gods mingle in the fray ; and it becomes tenfold more fierce. The
description of it is very grand. Jupiter thunders in the heavens : Neptune
shakes the boundless earth and the mountain tops; Id

a rocks on its base :
and the city of the Trojans, and the ships of the Gr

ccks trembled ; and
Pluto leaps from his throne in terror, lest his loathsome dominions should
be laid open to mortals and immortals.

The interest gathers about a combat between -Eneas and Achilles
Afneas is hard pressed, but is finally rescued by the assistance of Sicuunie
Achilles falls with fury upon the rest of the ‘Trojans, and would have made
THE ILIAD. 37

 

an end of Hector but for the timely intervention of Apollo. Achilles
pursues the Trojans with great slaughter.

Dashed from their hoofs, while o'er the dead they fly,
Black bloody drops the smoking chariot dye.

The spiky wheels through heaps of carnage tore;
And thick the groaning axles dropped with gore.
High o’er the scene of death Achilles stood,

All grim with dust, all horrible in blood.

Yet stiff, insatiate, still with rage on flame;

Such is the lust of never-dying fame.

Book XXI.

In book twenty-first it is manifest that we are approaching a catastrophe.
The Trojans are flying before Achilles, some toward the town, others to the
river Scamander.

As the scorched locusts from the field retire,
While fast behind them runs the blaze of fire;
Driven from the land before the smoky cloud,
The clustering legions rush into the flood ;

So plunged in Xanthus by Achilles’ force

Roars the resounding surge with men and horse.

Twelve “chosen youths” he takes alive, and sends them to the ships,
to be reserved as a sacrifice to the shade of Patroclus. As Achilles
presses on revengeful, relentless, the very river turns against him, the river
Xanthus.

Xanthus its name by those of heavenly birth,
But called Scamander by the sons of earth.

Achilles was boastful as well as cruel ; and his

* . . . boastful words provoked the raging god;
With fury swells the violated flood.

At length Vulcan, by the instigation of Juno, almost dries up the
river.

The scenes described in this part of the Iliad are full of action.

The imagery is of a lofty character. The battle with the rivers, the
intervention of the gods, the flight and terror of the Trojans, the insatiable
madness and hot pursuit of Achilles, the rush to the city, the hurried open-
ing of the gates, affording a glimpse of safety, the crowding in of the dusty
and worn-out fugitives, form a picture on which the pencil of Homer has
lavished its most vivid coloring.
38 HOMER.

 

A striking passage, of which a few lines are here given, describes the
flight of Achilles before the angry river.

Suill flies Achilles, but before his eyes

Still swift Scamander rolls where’er he flies ;
Not all his speed escapes the rapid floods —
The first of men, but not a match for gods.
Oft as he turned the torrent to oppose,

And bravely try if all the powers were foes;
So oft the surge in watery mountains spread,
Beats on his back, or bursts upon his head.

Book NNII.

In this book the grand catastrophe is reached. The Trojans, routed in
the field, have taken secure refuge within the walls of their city, except
Hector, who stands without at the Scaean gate, refulgent in arms, and
resolved to try the fortunes of the day with Achilles single handed. His
aged father, Priam, and Hecube, his mother, with tears and passionate
appeals, implore him to forego the hazardous encounter; to come in, while
he may, and not invite a death which will bring down their gray hairs, with
sorrow, to the grave.

Hector, however, will not be persuaded. He awaits the approach of
Achilles, who, “like a god”

ais ako. Gap te Sapo drew nigh.
His dreadful plumage nodded from on high ;
The Pelian javelin in his better hand,

Shot trembling rays that glittered o’er the land:
And on his breast the beamy splendor shone,
Like Jove's own lightning on the rising sun.

Hector, mastered by a sudden fear, flies before him: and Achilles pur-
sues him three times around the walls of Troy. The description of this
pursuit by Homer is extremely vivid.

Thus at the panting dove a falcon flies,

The swiftest racer of the liquid skies ;

Just when he holds, or thinks he holds, his prey,
Obliquely wheeling through the aérial way,
With open beak and shrilling cries he springs,
And aims his claws, and shoots upon his wings,

At last Minerva descends to the aid of Achilles. She deceives Hector,
appearing to him in the shape of his friend Deiphobus, who encourages him
THE ILIAD. 39

 

to turn with him and encounter Achilles. He does this, hurls a spear, and
calls upon his friend for another.

He calls Deiphobus, demands a spear —
In vain; for no Deiphobus was there.

Then seeing that a trick had been played upon him by some superior
power, he resigns himself to his fate, and is slain by Achilles, who flames
with rage, and will not even grant his victim’s dying request for the rites of
sepulture. Worse than this; he ties him by the heels to his chariot, and
drags his dead body round the walls of Troy in full view of his friends.

his fell sou! a thought of vengeance bred
Unw orthy of himself and of the dead ;
The nervous ancles bored, his feet he bound
With thongs inserted through the double wound ;
These fixed up high behind the rolling wain,
‘His graceful head was trailed along the plain.

The lamentations of the Trojans, particularly. of his mother, and of his
beautiful wife, Andromache, are pathetically described. As to this last
description, and that of the parting of Hector and Andromache, in Book
VI, Professor Felton well remarks that “the poet’s claim to a place in the
highest ranks of genius might safely rest on these two scenes alone.”

Book XXIII.

A few words are all that need to be given to Book XXIII., nearly the
whole of it being occupied with an account of the funeral of Patroclus, and
cf the games instituted in his honor.

The bodies of slain victims were laid on the funeral pile, and most hor-
ribie of all, the bodies of the twelve captives mentioned in Book XXL,
though it does not appear that they were burnt alive.

High on the top the manly corse they lay,
And well fed sheep and sable oxen slay :
Achilles covered with their fat the dead,
And the piled victims round the body spread.
Then jars of honey, and of fragrant oil,
Suspends around low bending o’er the pile.
Four sprightly coursers with a deadly groan,
Pour forth their lives, and on the pyre are thrown.
Of nine large dogs, domestic at his board,
Fall two, selected to attend their lord.

Then last of all, and horrible to tell,

Sad sacrifice, twelve Trojan captives fell.
40 HOMER.

Book XXIV.

This, the closing book of the Iliad, is occupied with a description of
negotiations and petitions for the body of Hector. Apollo, in a council of
the gods, exclaims :

Unpitying powers, how oft each holy fane

Has Hector tinged with blood of victims slain !
And can ye still his cold remains pursue,

Still grudge his body to the Trojans view ?

Thetis is sent by Jupiter to soften the heart of Achilles; and old King
Priam, though earnestly dissuaded by Hecuba, sets out under the guidance
of Mercury, to press his suit at the tent of Achilles.

The meeting between Priam and Achilles is pathetically described. The
martial hero’s heart is touched by the sorrowful aspect of the venerable

suppliant.
Now each by turns indulged the gush of woe:
And now the mingled tides together flow ;
This low on earth, that, gently bending o’er ;
A father one, and one a son deplore.

The request for the body of Hector is granted; and the poem closes
with an account of the funeral and of the lamentations of Andromache,
Hecuba, and Helen.
 

 

OURANTE ALLIGHIER! DANTE

BORN 1265. ITALY Oreo 1321
DANTE.

As the dark ages were rolling away there suddenly appeared above the scattering mists
a bright light in the literary firmament, as startling and as brilliant as if an unexpected comet
flashed across the sky to the astonishment of all beholders.

This is a true genius. It is not to be accounted for by the spirit of the times, by the
environment of a person, or by the demand of the public. We cannot see the underlying
thought of the author of the Divina Commedia, or by what motive he was governed in the
construction of his immortal work, though we can discover many things in his personal
history that qualified him for it. ;

The original idea of the book and the development of the plan was an inspiration, but
we can trace in his life a succession of events that enabled him, when ready to begin, to go
on successfully with his undertaking.

Dante, or more properly, Durante Alighieri, was born in Florence, A. D. 1265, under
the lovely sky of a Tuscan May. His family was of noble blood; by birth he belonged to
the Guelfs, or the party of the Pope and the Church, and he was known as the enemy of the
Ghibellines, or the party of the Emperor. His widowed mother devoted herself to his train-
ing in his earliest years, and as he advanced in life, Brunetto Latini and other distinguished
masters carried on the work.

He became thoroughly acquainted with the rich stores of Latin literature. Virgil, Ovid
and Horace were his chosen companions.

In his advanced youth he frequented the universities of Padua, Bologna and Paris,
the most celebrated seats of learning then known, and it said that he went to England and
sought to complete his education in the university of Oxford. In these institutions he pur-
sued philosophy, by which name was included the whole round of scientific knowledge, and
theology, which included all which we now call metaphysics. Though diligent as a student,
and using books and teachers so as to gain from both the greatest advantage, he was by no
means a recluse. He was cheerful, frank and generous in his disposition, and passed for a
high-bred man of the world. ©

He was gathering material for his great work from every department of science, and from
his general acquaintance with the world, and now, at the age of twenty-five, he was to make
acquaintance with military life. In the battle of Campaldino, fought by the Florentines with
their neighbors of Arezzo, because the latter favored Ghibelline refugees, Dante displayed great
bravery ; he fought in the first rank, and claimed a proud share in the victory of that day.

In the following year he took a conspicuous part in the siege of Caprona, and was thus
storing his mind with rich treasures from his acquaintance with scenes of pillage and
slaughter, to be brought forth as they were needed, to give life and vividness to his
great poem.

He was often employed, as a citizen, on important embassies, especially to the Kings of
France, Hungary and Naples, and in all he is said to have acquitted himself with honor and
advantage to his country.
44 DANTE,

But that which contributed most to the preparation for his masterpiece, as quickening h‘s
imagination and stirring the deepest fountains of his soul, was his pure and true love for
‘‘ Bice,” or Beatrice Portinari, The young couple met at the house of her father at a festa,
and the boy’s heart was suddenly, and for all time, captured.

This passion cannot be called a boy’s love. It was the fervor of a fond heart, that burned
with the fire of devotion, not only during his boyhood (he was then but ten years old), but
which continued after the death of the beloved object, to the disturbance of his conjugal
relation, and to be the inspiration of his poetical dreams as long as he lived. Whether the
fair object of his love responded to his heart we are not told. His devotion might well put
to shame many a more mature lover.

Beatrice died A. D. 1290, at the age of twenty-four, and, notwithstanding his strong
passion, he submitted himself to the bond of wedlock with another Italian dame. He
married Gemma Donati within a year after Beatrice’s death, and became the father of six
children.

His thoughts and his language of devotion to the memory of his dead mistress were
enough to embitter his married life. In A. D. 1300, Dante was made Prior, or chief
magistrate of Florence, and then, as he himself says, his real troubles commenced. Party
feeling was running very high in the city, and in his temporary absence on an embassy to
Rome, his opponents succeeded in having him pronounced an enemy ; his house was burned
and his estate confiscated. He became a wanderer, and was not allowed to enter Florence
for the rest of his life. In this period the ‘* Divina Commedia” was written. Exile was a
stimulus to his genius. He was a wanderer until his death, for about twenty years, and he
died in Ravenna, where he had found temporary shelter, in A. D. 1321, at the age of fifty-
six. He is undoubtedly to be ranked as the earliest and the greatest of the modern Italian
poets.

TELE. TS PERN ©.

The whole book, the * Divina Commedia,” is Properly called * The Vision
of Dante.” It consists of an imaginary journey, as in a dream, through the
three regions of Hell, Purgatory and Paradise.

By common consent, the Inferno is far Superior to the other parts in sub-
lime thought and elegant diction. It consists of thirty-four Cantos. In the
first Canto, the poet introduces himself to his readers in the first lines, thus:

In the midway of this our mortal life,
1 found me in a gloomy wood, astray,

This reference is doubtless to his own age. He had just passed the
“midway of our mortal life.” ‘The days of our years are three-score and
ten, and in .\ D. 1200, he was thirty-five years of age.

How first I entered it, I scarce can say,
Such sleepy dulness, in that instant weighed
My senses down, when the true path I left.
THE INFERNO 45

 

The poet is here describing the confusion and doubt into which he was
thrown by his exile, and the untoward circumstances by which he was sur-
rounded.

But, when a mountain’s foot I reached, where closed,
The valley that had pierced my heart with dread,

I looked aloft and saw his shoulders broad,

Already vested with that planet’s beam

Who leads all wanderers safe through every way,
Then was a little respite to the fear.

The sight of the sunshine on the mountains he was approaching, com-
forted him, and he began the ascent. so poetically told in the words, “ the
hinder foot still firmer.” (In a toilsome ascent the weight of the body rests
on the hinder foot.)

f 8 Scarce the ascent
Bepan, when lo, a panther nimble, light
And covered with a speckled skin, appeared ;—
Then a lion came against me, as it appeared
With his head held aloft and hunger-mad,
That e’en the air was fear-struck. A she-wolf
Was at his heels.

Whether by these fierce animals we understand the love of luxury or
pleasure, the dominion of pride and the influence of avarice, or as other com-
mentators suppose, the city of Florence, the King of France and the Court
of Rome, the traveler pursues his upward way amid all obstacles. Though,
as he says,

“While to the lower space, with backward step
I fell, my ken discovered the form of one
Whose voice seemed faint, through long disuse of speech.
When him in that great desert I espied,
‘Have mercy on me,’ cried I out aloud,
‘Spirit, or living man, whate’er thou be.’
He answered, ‘ Now, not man; man once | was.’”

This was the shade of the poet Virgil. He had left the world more
than a thousand years before. He had endeared himself to all the poets of
succeeding generations. He had been an especial favorite of Dante, who
was now willing to accept as his guide to the unknown region he was about
to explore one whom he had so long followed in his sweet songs. When
Dante recognizes the old poet, from the full description he gives of himself,
he replies :

“ Art thou then that Virgil — that well-spring
From which such copious floods of eloquence
Have issued ?”’ I with front abashed, replied,
46 DANTE,

 

“Glory and light of all the tuneful train,
May it avail me, that I long with zeal
Have sought thy Volume and with love immense
Have conned it o’er. My master thou, and guide!
Thou, he from whom alone I have derived
That style, which for its beauty, into fame
Exalts me.”

To escape these beasts, Virgil assures him he must take another way, and
he promises

“1, for thy profit pondering, now devise
That thou mayest follow me; and I, thy guide,
Will lead thee hence, through an eternal space
Where thou shalt hear despairing shrieks, and see
Spirits of old, tormented, who invoke
A second death: And those next view who dwell
Content in fire, for that they hope to come,
Whene’er the time may be, among .the blest,
Into whose regions, if thou then desire
To ascend, a spirit worthier than I
Must lead thee, in whose charge, when I depart,
Thou shalt be led : For that Almighty King,
Who reigns above, a rebel to his law
Adjudges me, and therefore hath decreed
That, to his city none through me should come.
He in all parts hath sway : there rules. there holds
His citadel and throne. O happy those,

Whom there he chooses.”
Dante replies,

“Barred by that God whom thou didst not adore
I do beseech thee (that this ill, and worse,
I may escape) to lead me where thou saidst,
That I Saint Peter’s gate may view, and those
Who as thou tell’st are in such dismal plight.”

“ Onward he moved, I close his steps pursued.”

Canto Tl,
The shades of evening come on, and darkness befits the journey they are

about to make. ‘Then follows the invocation poets are accustomed to use
at the beginning of a poem,

*O Muses! Oh high genius! now vouchsafe
Your aid, Oh mind! that all 1 saw has kept
Safe in a written record, here thy worth
And eminent endowments come to proof.”
THE INFERNO. 47

 

Dante then begins seriously to question whether: he is worthy to make
this journey into the hidden world, and though he refers to the visit of
®neas to the infernal regions which Virgil has so vividly described, and to
the experience of Paul, who was caught up to Heaven, he still doubts his
own fitness for such an enterprise. He says:

‘not AEneas I, nor Paul.
Myself I aay not anes and none else
Will deem me. _I, if on this voyage then
I venture, fear it a in folly end.”

Virgil rebukes him for his fears, and to re-assure him he says,

in od “T was among the tribe
Who? rest ft eudpendlell Pn

Thus he announees himself, as being in Limbo, i. e., neither admitted to
a state of glory, nor doomed to punishment.

“when a dame so blest
And lovely 1 besought her to conimand
Call'd me.’

She gives him this direction :

“ A friend, not of my fortune but myself,
On the wide desert, in his road has met
Hindrance so great that he, through fear, has turned.
Now much I dread that he past help hath strayed,
And I be risen too late for his relief,
From what, in Heaven, of him I heard. Speed now,
And by thy eloquent persuasive tongue,
And by all means for his deliverance meet,
Assist him — So, to me will comfort spring.
1, who now bid thee on this errand forth
Am Beatrice; from a place I come
Re-visited with joy — Love brought me thence,
Who prompts my speech. When in my Master’s sight
I stand, thy praise to him I oft will tell.”

Dante, on hearing that he was the object of Beatrice’s care, was inspired
with new courage, and uses this beautiful figure to describe his state of
mind.

* As florets by the frosty air of night
Bent down and closed, when day has blanched their leaves
Rise all unfolded on their spiry stems ; :
So was my fainting vigor now restored ”

Virgil and Dante then proceed on the deep and woody way.
48 DANTE.

 

Canto III.

The travellers come to a portal’s lofty arch, where, by the lurid light
they are able to read the terrible and well-known inscription, the closing

line of which is,
‘All hope abandon, ye who enter here.”

They enter, and the place is dismal enough.

“Here sighs, with lamentations and loud moans
Resounded through the air, pierced by no star.”

The poet inquires of his guide,

‘‘Oh master! what is this I hear? What race
Are these, who seem so overcome with woes?”

Virgil answers,

“This miserable fate
Sater she wretched souls of those who lived
Without or praise or blame, with that ill band
Of angels mixed, who nor rebellious proved.
Nor yet were true to God, but for themselves
Were only.” “ From his bounds Heaven drove them forth
Not to impair his lustre, nor the depth
Of Hell receive them, lest the accursed tribe
Should glory thence, with exultation vain.”

To Dante's inquiry why these lament so loud, Virgil repiies,

“ These of death
No hope may entertain;

Speak not of them, but pass them by.”

A long train of Spirits appeared, some of whom Dante recognized. He

at once knew the shade of Celestine V., who cowardly abdicated the Papal
Chair in A. 1D. 1294.

They came next to the borders of the Acheron, where they have an

mterview with Charon, who proposes to take them into Eternal Darkness,
but when he perceives that Dante is vet alive, he s ays,

» . ‘Live Spirit get thee hence, and leave
These who are dead.”

Virgil rebukes Charon and explains the right of the living man to visit
the lower regions.

“Charon! thyself torment not: So ‘tis willed

Where will and power are one: ask thou no more.”
THE INFERNO. 49

 

Charon fills his boat with those who desire to cross, and by blows of his
oar compels those to enter who linger. The sad spectacle overcame the
living man, and he swooned.

Canto IV.

Aroused by a clap of thunder, he was bewildered and knew not where he
was, but, looking round, he found it was the brink of the Lamentable Vale,
the dread abyss, where he had fainted. It was so dark and deep that he
could discern nothing. Virgil proposes to descend into the blind world
beneath, but Dante perceiving his pallor, asks :

How may I speed, if thou yieldest to dread,

Who still art wont to comfort me in doubt ?
Virgil replies :

: The anguish of that race below
With pity stains my cheek, which thou for fear
Mistakest.

They then come to the first circle that surrounds the abyss. Here no
plaint was heard but sighs, not caused by tortures but from grief. The bard
informs Dante that those confined here were blameless, but without baptism
it profited them nothing.

Dante evidently considers Limbo as within the borders of Hell. In
answer to his inquiry whether any came from thence to the regions of the
blessed, Virgil replies :

I was new to that estate
When I beheld a puissant one arrive
Amongst us, with victorious trophy crowned ;
He forth the shade of our First Parent drew :
And others, many more whom he to bliss
Exalted. Before these be thou assured
No spirit of human kind, was ever saved.

As they pass on, they meet a tribe possessing the place, held in great
honor. Virgil says:
The renown of their great names

That echoes through your world above, acquires
Favor in heaven which holds them thus advanced.

They meet four spirits, one of whom calls out :

Bs, Ha sed Honor the bard
Sublime! His shade returns that left us late.

This is the recognition of Virgil by his brother poets, Homer, Flaccus,
Naso and Lucan. Dante is honored by being made one of the number,
being acknowledged as one of the six masters of song.
 

DANTE.

50 bs

Proceeding, they come to a magnificent castle, and find it and the
neighboring grounds occupied by some of the exalted ones of the earth.
Kings, Queens, and philosophers; Hector, Caesar, Socrates. Plato, and,
strange to say, Soldan, or Saladin, the rival of Coeur de Lion, who though
an infidel, is given a place in Limbo because he gave some Christian direc-
tions about his burial.

: Canto V.

They come into the second circle, where are carnal sinners ; those who
have indulged in unlawful love. Those who are punished here are tossed
about by furious winds.

: “The stormy blast of hell
With restless fury drives the spirits on.”

Here Minos stands, a horrid monster, before whom each sinner comes
and makes honest confession of all his sins, and receives sentence of proper
punishment. Here a long train appears, headed by Semiramis, and followed
by Dido, Cleopatra, and Helen, with some of their lovers, Achilles and
Paris. Two shades attract Dante's attention, and as they approach, being
Francesca Rimini and her adulterous lover, a long conversation follows, in
which is given a full account of her fall, and the way in which she was
led to it.

aA £ * While thus one spirit spake
The other wailed so sorely that heart-struck

I, through compassion fainting, seemed not far
From death, and like a corse, fell to the ground.”

Canto VI.

On his recovery, the poet find himself in the third circle, where Cerberus.
the dog of hell, is found.

o8 ‘Cruel monster fierce and strange
Through his wide threefold throat, barks as « dog
Over the multitude immersed beneath.”

Virgil throws a “sop to Cerberus,” as he gathers a handful of earth and
casts it into his hungry maw, Passing among the multitude of prostrate
shades, one suddenly raised himself and addressed Dante, announcing him-
self as a fellow citizen, by name Ciaeco. He says: :

iw SOAs “ For the sin
Of gluttony, damned vice, beneath this rain
E’en as thou seest, I with fatigue am worn.
Nor | sole spirit in this woe: ah these

Have by like crime, incurred like punishment.”
THE INFERNO. 51

 

Ciacco, under the inquiries of Dante, utters a prophecy of the future
condition of Florence. To Dante’s question as to the condition of some
of his personal friends, he says :

“ These are yet blacker spirits. Various crimes
Have sunk them deeper in the dark abyss.
If thou so far descendest, thou mayest see them,”

and is then prostrated, to rise no more until the last trumpet sounds.

Dante asks Virgil whether the misery of these sufferers will be increased
or mitigated, and Virgil answers, giving the sentiment of St. Augustine, that
at the resurrection of the flesh, both the happiness of the good and the
torments of the wicked will be increased.

Canto VII.

Entering the fourth circle, they encounter Plutus, and Virgil, perceiving
Dante’s fright, says: ‘‘ Let not thy fear harm thee ’— then turning to Plutus,
says:

“Curst wolf! thy fury, inward on thyself
Prey and consume thee!”

In this fourth circle, where the wretched spirits are most numerous, their
crime is avarice or prodigality, and the punishment is to meet in deadly
conflict, rolling heavy weights against each other :

“ Exclaiming these, ‘ Why holdest thou so fast?’
Those answering, ‘And why castest thou away?’”’

Some of these contestants had their heads shorn, Some were Popes or
Cardinals, o’er whom,

« Avarice dominion absolute maintains.”

In the discussion that follows about Fortune, Virgil says :

“Not all the gold that is beneath the moon
Or ever hath been, of these toil-worn souls
Might purchase rest for one.”

They come to the borders of the Stygian Lake, and see a “ miry tribe,
all naked and with looks betokening rage,” and to the inquiry, ‘‘What race
is this?”

The good instructor spake “ Now seest thou son,
The souls of those whom anger overcame.”
52 DANTE.

Canto VIII

In this Canto they are ferried over the Stygian Lake by Phlegyas, and
on the way are accosted by the Shades of Filippo Argenti, of whom Virgil
says :

vie “He in the world was one
For arrogance noted : to his memory
No virtue lends its lustre.”

Coming to the City of Dis, whose minarets were shining with a ver-
milion light, they were forbidden entrance by a thousand demons. After
a colloquy, in which they gave permission to the shade of Virgil, but
forbade the living being to come in, and awaking great fear in Dante, lest
his guide should forsake him, when the door was finally closed against
Virgil he returned to Dante and said :

lg “that I am angered, think
Nv ground of terror; in this trial, I
Shall vanquish, use what arts they may within
For hindrance. This their insolence not new,
Erewhile at gate less secret they displayed
Which still is without bolt: upon its arch
Thou sawest the deadly scroll: and even now,
On this side of its entrance, down the steep
Passing the circles, unescorted, comes
One whose strong might can open us this land.”

Canro IX

While they are waiting the coming of the promised deliverer, Virgil
tells his friend that he has already made this journey under the spell of
Erictho, a famous sorceress, and that he is therefore well acquainted with
the way. They see suddenly appearing on the top of the tower three
forms :

In limb and motion feminine they seemed,
Around them greenest hydras twisting rolled.

These were the three Furies, Megaera, Alecto, and Tisiphone. ‘They
call to Medusa to turn the rash onlooker into stone, but, shielded by Virgil,
Dante escapes this wretched fate. ‘The promised help, an angel, now came
with a terrible, crashing sound through the miry lake, with unwet feet :

#8 to the gate
He came, and with his wand touched it, whereat
Open, without impediment. it Hew.
THE INFERNO. 53

 

They now enter without hindrance and see the place thick with sepul-
chres, the lids of which are open, and out of which are bursting flames
hotter than melted iron. Virgil explains :

“ The arch-heretics are here, accompanied
By every sect their followers.”

Canto X.

In this Canto, Dante holds conversation with Farinata and Cavalcanti,
in which some prophecies are given, the spirits declaring :

“We view, as one who has an evil sight
. plainly, objects far remote ;
So much of his large splendor yet imparts
The Almighty Ruler: but when they approach,
Or actually exist, our intellect
Then wholly fails ; nor of your human state,
Except what others bring us, know we aught.”

In conversation, Cavalcanti asks:

“ If thou through this blind prison goest
Led by thy lofty genius and profound,
Where is my son? And wherefore not with thee ? ”
Dante replied,

: “Not of myself I come :
By ‘bia slic there expects me, through this clime
Conducted, whom perchance Guido thy son
Had in contempt.”

The Shade says,

se “How! said’st thou, he had ?
No longer lives he? Strikes not on his eye
The blessed daylight ?”

and then as if utterly overcome, sinks back into the burning tomb, and is
seen no more. Resuming his talk with Farinata, he abjures him to tell his
friend who has just fallen that his son yet lives, and ask him who are par-
takers of his fiery doom. He answered,

“More than a thousand with me, here are laid.”

He names among them Frederick IJ. and the Lord Cardinal; of the rest
he would not speak.
DANTE.

 

Canto XI.

Standing upon a rocky eminence, they see the tomb of Anastasius ;
and Virgil, rehearsing what they have already seen, makes a long dis-
course in answer to the inquiry why all sinners are not subject to the
punishments of the city of Dis. He shows what is the nature of the
various crimes which men commit, and more at length dwells on the sin of
usury, which he says is contrary to the laws of Nature, and the laws of the
Book of God.

The whole Canto is generally regarded as a resumé of the poem so far
as written.

Canio XII.

They descend by a rough passage to the seventh circle. The pass was
guarded by the Minotaur. Virgil allays the fears of the beast, assuring him
that they had come only to view his torment, and hurries Dante down the
steep till they come to a river of blood, in which were immersed those who
had injured others by violence. This river was guarded by Centaurs,
three of whom came forth to oppose their coming. Nessus threatens
them, but Virgil appeals to Chiron, and when they come near, Chiron says
to his fellows :

“Are ye aware that he who comes behind
Moves what he touches? The feet of the dead
Are not so wont.”
Virgil says :
OTe Gy eee. aod * He is indeed alive,
And solitary, so must needs by me
Be shown the gloomy Vale, thereto induced
By strict necessity, not by delight.
She left her joyous harpings in the sky,
Who this new office to my care consigned.
He is no robber, no dark spirit I,
But by that virtue which empowers my step
To tread so wild a path, erantus, | pray,
One of thy band, whom we may trust secure,
Who to the ford may lead us, and convey
Across, him mounted on his back: for he
Is not a spirit that may walk the air.”

Nessus at the direction of Chiron carries Dante over the river of blood
4

but as they pass along the bank, they sce the spirits of these who were

given to blood and rapine, among whom are Alexander and Dionysius ot
THE INFERNO. 55

 

the ancient time, and Azzolino and Obizzo of comparatively modern times.
Here also they see one thus described :

‘He in God’s bosom smote the heart,
Which ed is honored on the bank of Thames.”

Nessus have described the terrible condition of tyrants, among whom are
Attila, Sextus and Pyrrhus, leaves them, “and alone repassed the ford.”

Canto XIII.

In the second compartment of the seventh circle they come to: those
who have committed suicide, and those who have violently consumed their
goods ; the first changed into rough and knotted trees, whereon the Harpies
build their nests, and the latter chased and torn by female mastiffs.

Dante hearing moanings, and supposing that the dismal sound proceeded
from persons concealed in the wood, Virgil, to enlighten him, says :

‘ “Tf thou lop off
A single: veig from one of those ill plants,
The thought thou hast conceived shall vanish quite.”

He broke off a branch and to his amaze issued a voice saying :
“Why pluckest thou me?”
and as the dark blood trickled down its side, these words were added :

“ Wherefore tearest me thus ?
1 aheve no touch of mercy in thy breast ?
Men once were we, that now are rooted here.
Thy hand might well have spared us had we been
The souls of serpents.”

Virgil takes upon himself all blame for the rough conduct of Dante, and
with flattering words, persuades the spirit to reveal itself, he says,

“Tit was who held
Both kev to oF rederick’s heart and turn’d the wards,
Opening and shutting with a skill so sweet,
That besides me, into his inmost breast
Scarce any other could admittance find.”

This was Pietro della Vigne, who from a low condition raised himself to
the office of Chancellor of Frederick II. By the envy of his fellow court-
iers, and by means of forged letters, the monarch was made to believe that
56 DANTE.

 

he was holding secret intercourse with the Pope, with whom he was then at
enmity. He was condemned by his too credulous sovereign to lose his eyes,
and in his despair he put an end to his life by dashing out his brains against
the walls of a church. He now declares his innocence. He says:

a wd! bre csinae . ~ MAS Wear
That never faith I broke to my liege lord.”

In answer to Virgil's questions, he more fully explains the doom of self-

murderers :
“for what a man

Takes from himself, it is not just he have.

te at oak HP throughout
The dismal glade our bodies shall be hung,
Each on the wild-thorn of his wretched shade.”

Two swift runners are seized and torn in pieces bv fierce mastiffs, and the
leaves of a bush behind which they took shelter being scattered, the spirit of
the bush begs the travellers to gather them up and place them at the foot of
the trunk. This is an unknown suicide, who announces the crime in these

words :
“T slung the fatal noose from my own roof.”

Canto XIV.

On their strange journey they come now to the third department of the
seventh circle. They reach a wide area of arid sand, in which they see a
multitude of wretched spirits, upon whose naked bodies flakes of fire are
descending. Among these tormented ones is one of whom Dante asks his
guide:

i PE Stk foe & Lgl SSayew whe:
Is yon huge spirit, that, as seems, heeds not
The burning ? ”

The spirit answers for himself :

: _— “Such as I was
When living, dead, such now I am.”

Virgil calls out with a louder voice than usual :

Capaneus !
Thou art more punished, in that this thy pride
Lives yet unquenched : no torment. save thy rave,
Were to thy fury pain proportioned full.”
THE INFERNO. 57

 

They come to a little brook whose crimson waves lifts Dante’s hair with
horror, and Virgil says,
“ Of all that I have shown thee, since that gate
We entered first, whose threshold is to none
Denied, naught else so worthy of regard,
As is this river, has thine eye discerned,
O’er which the flaming valley all is quenched.”
Dante replies,

“ That having given me appetite to know,
The food he too would give, that hunger craved.

Then Virgil gives hima long account of the olden time, telling him that
in Crete there is a huge statue, from the fissure in which tears distil, that in
their progress flow downward and form the rivers of the infernal regions.

Canto XV.

Passing on they come to a troop of spirits, by whom they themselves
were carefully scanned, and one of them recognizing Dante caught him by
the skirt and cried out: ‘“‘ What wonder have we here?”

It was the shade of Brunetto, his old instructor, and to Dante’s expres-
sion of surprise: “And are ye here?” Brunetto proposes to turn back and
have an interview with him. Dante proposes to sit down and have a long
talk with him; but the shade replies :

“O son, whoever of this throng
One instant stops, lies then a hundred years,
No fan to ventilate him, when the fire :
Smites sorest. Pass thou therefore on. I close
Will at thy garments walk, and then rejoin
My troop, who go mourning their endless doom,”

In their conversation, Brunetto foretells a glorious future for Dante as a
poet, though he would have some political troubles, and leaves him in haste
as he sees a company of spirits approaching whom he does not wish to meet,
commending his learned volume to him, as he says:

“I commend my Z7vreasure to thee
Wherein I yet survive: my sole request.”

Canto XVI.

They come to the Border of the eighth circle, and hear the sound of a
stream falling, and meet three military men, who claim acquaintance with
them, as being of their city. They were revolving like wheels, and in great
38 DANTE.

 

torment. They gave their names, and are recognized by Dante, who gives
them some account of the present condition of Florence. They suddenly

departed ; ; ; ;
“Not in so short a time might one have said

‘Amen’, as they had vanished.”

They now hear more clearly the roar of the torrent, and come to the
brink of the cataract. Here Virgil took from Dante a cord which he wore
around him, and cast it into the chasm. Then the poet says,

ge te ve “through the gross and murky air, I spied
A shape come swimming up, that might have quelled
The stoutest heart with wonder.”

Canto XVII
Virgil describes the creature called Geryon:

“Lo, the fell monster with the deadly sting,
Who passes mountains, breaks through fenced walls,
And firm embattled spears, and with his filth
Paints all the world.”

Virgil beckoned him to the shore.

“Forthwith, that image vile of Fraud appeared,
His head and upper part exposed on land,
But laid not on the shore his bestial train.
His face the semblance of a just man’s wore,
So kind and gracious was its outward cheer:
The rest was serpent all.”’

While Virgil is making arrangement with Geryon to carry them down
the abyss, Dante has an interview with some Florentines anda Paduan, who
are known by the badges they wear; then returning to his guide, they
prepare for their descent.

“ My guide already seated on the haunch
Of the fierce animal I found: and thus
He me encouraged. ‘Be thou stout: be bold,
Mount thou before: for that no power the tail
May have to harm thee, I will be i’ th’ midst,’

The descent is made in safety. ‘This Canto is filled with m
figures, and is itself one of the most highly wrou
work,

any poetical
ght passages of the whole
THE INFERNO. 59

 

Canto XVIII.

They are landed in Malebolge, and here they meet, and are met by, two
processions of tormented spirits. Here those are punished who have
caused women to fall, either for their own pleasure, or for that of others,
lashed by horned-fiends:

“That on their back unmercifully smote.
Ah! how they made them bound at the first stripe!
None for the second waited, nor the third.”

‘They see one, who thus announces himself:

“Know then ’twas I who led fair Ghisola
To do the Marquis’ will.”

Among the company that come in the other direction, they see Jason,

; “ whose skill and prowess won
The ram from Colchas.”
“ Here too, Medea’s injuries are avenged.
All bear him company, who like deceit
To his have practiced.”

Here were seen a crowd immersed in human ordure, among which
Alessio is recognized, and the ancient Thais.

Canto XIX.

They come to the third gulf of the eighth circle, here the sin of simony
is punished. The bottom of the vault was filled with apertures like tombs,
and out of each emerged the feet of a sinner, who was immersed therein head
downwards. In the fourth gulf they come to one who mistakes Dante for
Boniface VIII., who was not yet dead.

Nicholas III. of the Orsini family, intimates that he was expecting the
coming of Boniface, who for the same crime was to receive punishment.
He says :

‘ “ Under my head are dragged
The rest, iy predecessors in the guilt
Of simony. Stretched at their length they lie
Along an opening in the rock. Midst them
I also low shall fall, soon as he comes,
For whom I took thee, when so hastily
I questioned. But already longer time
60 DANTE.
Hath passed, since my soles kindled, and I thus
Upturned have stood, than is his doom to stand
Planted, with fiery feet. For after him,
One yet of deeds more ugly shall arrive
From forth the west, a shepherd without law,
Fated to cover both his form and mine.

This is supposed to refer to Bertrand de Got, archbishop of Bordeaux,
who assumed the title of Clement V, transferred the Holy See to Avignon,

and died in 1314.
CanTo XX.

They see approaching them, but moving backwards, a tribe with heads
reversed at the neck bone. This is the punishment of those who pretend to
foretell future events, Amphiaraus is the first seen, whom the earth swal-
lowed, and Tiresias, who for a time changed his sex, and Aruns, who killed
Brutus, and Manto the daughter of Tiresias, who founded Mantua, of which
the poet, in this canto, gives full account. Then Eurypylus is pointed out :

i “who with Calchas gave the sign
When first to cut the cable,”

when the Greeks were going to the Trojan war. Michael Scott is also

pointed out,
“ Practiced in every slight of magic wile.”

Guido Bonatti and Asdente, Italians, the latter a shoemaker who. left the
bench to practice the arts of divination, are shown in their torment, and
Virgil says:

“See next the wretches, who the needle left,
The shuttle and the spindle, and became
Diviners : baneful witcheries they wrought
With images and herbs.”

Canto XN],

Still in the eighth circle, they look down from the bridge, and see what
the poet likens to the pitch which the Venetian sailors prepare for their
vessels.

“So, not by force of fire, but art divine,
Boils here a glutinous thick mass, that round
Limed all the shore beneath,”

The place is filled with demons. Whose work it is, with great hooks. to
keep those who are tormented under the hot waves of pitch. One ot
THE INFERNO. 61

 

the elders is attempting to escape, and the demons are called upon to
prevent it,
“E’n thus the cook bestirs him, with his grooms,
To thrust the flesh into the caldron down
With flesh-hooks, that it float not on the top.”

To repel the assault of the raging demon, Virgil again makes mention of
the Almighty will. He says:

“ Believest thou Malacoda! I had come
Thus far from all your skirmishing secure,
Bee wa SE a Sa without will divine
And destiny propitious ? Pass we then:
For so Heaven’s pleasure is, that I should lead
Another through this savage wilderness.”

The chief of the band of demons now points out a surer way for their
progress, declaring that the rocks on which they were standing were rent,
so as to be now insecure, when Christ was crucified. Calling a troop of ten
by their names, he charges them to convey the travelers safely to the next
stage in their journey.

Canto XXII.

This Canto is introduced by a reference to the poet’s experience in the
various movements of soldiers in battle, in jousts, but the movements of
this demonial escort surpasses all he has ever seen.

The view of the lake of pitch is still before them, and those within are
represented by dolphins before a storm, showing their backs above the wave,
and by frogs, which lift a part of their bodies above the moat in which they
dwell. It is the work of these demons to force each such sufferer below the
boiling pitch, and as they escort the travelers on their way, they are occu-
pied with their peculiar work.

Ciampolo and the friar, Gomita, are pointed out as suffering in the pitchy
flood, and are objects of special torture by this company of fiends. The
poet describes the escape of one of their victims from their fury, as a water-
fowl escapes from the pursuing falcon by diving below the wave, and this
leads to a conflict between two of the demons, thus described :

aD, Sah ret Aap ie Se “ O’er the dike

In grapple close they joined ; but the other proved
A goshawk able to rend well his foe:

And in the boiling lake both fell,

And we departing, left them to that broil.”
Ve DANTE,

 

Canro XNIIL.

These demons now turn their rage against Dante. He is reminded of a
fable of A‘sop’s, in which the frog offering to carry the mouse across a
stream, with the intention of drowning him, both are snatched up by a kite.
They see the demons approaching, but Virgil caught Dante, as a sleeping
mother catches up her babe when suddenly roused by the crackling of flames,
and carried him to the next fosse, whither the demons were not allowed to
come. They now come to a tribe, of whom it ts said :

“Caps had they on, with hoods that fell low down
Before their eyes, in fashion like to those
Worn by the monks in Cologne. Their outside
Was overlaid with gold, dazzling to view,
But leaden all within.”

They first meet the mourning hypocrites, Catalano and Loderingo, joy-
ous friars of Florence. Then they come to a pierced spirit; nailed by
his hands and feet to the ground, and they learn that this is Caiaphas,
who gave counsel to the Pharisees, that it was fitting that one man should
die for the people, and, in the fosse near by, Annas is lying and all par-
takers with him in that counsel against the Christ.

Canto XNIV.

They go into the seventh gulf, climbing the rocks with great labor,
Virgil encourages the fainting Dante thus :

Now needs thy best of man;

For not on downy plumes, nor under shade
Of canopy reposing, fame is won ;

Without which whose'er consumes his days,
Leaveth such vestige of himself on earth,
As smoke in air, or foam upon the wave.
Thou therefore rise: vanquish thy weariness
By the mind's effort, in each struggle formed
To vanquish if she suffer not the weight

Of her corporeal frame to crush her down.”

As they proceed, Dante hears a voice, the words of which he could not
catch distinctly, Dante proposes to go to the next circle, and Virgil replies :

“I answer not, but by the deed. To fair request
Silent performance maketh best return,”
THE INFERNO. 63

 

The bridge over the chasm leading to the eighth mound revealed a crowd
of the most horrible serpents among which ran a crowd of naked spirits,

oe Us “ winged with horrid fear

Nor hope had they of crevice where to hide,

Or heliotrope to charm them out of view.

With serpents were their hands behind them bound,
Which through their reins infixed the tail and head,
Twisted in folds before. And, lo! on one

Near to our side, darted an adder up,

And, where the neck is on the shoulders tied,
Transpierced him. Far more quickly than e’er pen
Wrote O or I, be kindled, burned, and changed

To ashes all, poured out upon the earth.

When there- dissolved he lay, the dust again
Uprolled spontaneous, and the self-same form
Instant resumed.”

The poet here gives an account of the fabled Phoenix, and ends the
canto with some political prophecies from the mouth of Vanni Fucci, one of
the tormented.

Canto XXV.

Fucci, guilty of blasphemy amid his punishment, was seized by two ser-
pents and, endeavoring to escape, was pursued by Cacus the centaur, inflamed
with fury. Three spirits of noted robbers now appear, and the punishment
of one is described. He is seized by a serpent with six feet, and in the

struggle,
“That which was either now was seen no more.”

The transformation is fully described —how the man is changed into a
serpent, and the serpent into a man, so that

“ The soul transformed into the brute, glides off,
Hissing along the vale, and after him
The other talking sputters.”

Canto XXVI.

This canto commences with an ironical exclamation for the poet’s native
city:
“Florence, exult ! for thou so mightily

Hast thriven, that o’er land and sea thy wings

Thou beatest, and thy name spreads over hell.

Among the plunderers, such the three I found

Thy citizens: whence shame to me thy son,

And no proud honor to thyself redounds.”
64 DANTE.
They come to the eighth chasm, where they see innumerable fires like

the fire-flies seen by the peasant in the spring-time, and as Elisha saw the

chariot and horses of fire when Elijah ascended to Heaven. Virgil says:

“ Within these ardors are the spirits, each
Swathed in confining fire.”

To Dante’s inquiry about a special flame, he answers :

“ Ulysses there, and Diomed endure
Their penal tortures, thus to vengeance now
Together hastening, as erewhile to wrath,
These in the flame with ceaseless groans deplore
The ambush of the horse, that opened wide
A portal for that goodly seed to pass,
Which sowed imperial Rome.”

Ulysses invoked, gives an account of his travels and his shipwreck, thus
closing the canto.

CanxtTo XXVII.

Another flame is seen, and its occupant inquires about the condition of
Romagna, and receives such information as Dante could give. Dante asks:

“ Now tell us who art thou ?
Be not more hard than others,”
‘Then roared awhile the fire, its sharpened point
On either side waved, and thus breathed at last :
‘If I did think my answer were to one
Who ever could return unto the world,
This flame should rest unshaken. But since ne'er,
If true be told me, any from this depth
Has found his upward way. I answer thee,
Nor fear less infamy record the words.’ ”

He then gives an account of his crime:

“ A man of arms at first, I clothed me then
In good Saint Francis’ girdle, hoping so
To have made amends. And certainly my hope
Had failed not, but that he, whom curses light on,
The high priest, again seduced me into sin.
Long as this spirit moved the bones and pulp
My mother gave me, less my deeds bespake
The nature of the lion than the fox, ,
All ways of winding subtlety I knew,
And with such art conducted, that the sound
Reached the world's limit.”
THE INFERNO. 65

 

By subtlety, he aided the Pope to obtain possession of Penestrino, and,
though promised absolution of his crime, when he died and St. Francis
came to claim his spirit,a dark cherub met him and cried, “ Wrong me not:
he is mine.” Taken to Minos, he was condemned to the eighth circle,
where he is to remain.

Canto XXVIII.

They come to the ninth gulf, and see bodies frightfully mangled, among
whom is the arch heretic Mahomet, who says :

“Whom here thou seest, while they lived, did sow
Scandal and schism, and therefore thus are rent.
A fiend is here behind, who with his sword
Hacks us thus cruelly, slivering again
Each of this realm, when we have compassed round
The dismal way : for first our gashes close
Ere we repass before him.”

A hundred wretched spirits cry out to warn Dolcino of the doom that
awaits him as a heretic, and Pietro prophesies the cruel deaths of Guido and
Angelo. Curio, deprived of his tongue for giving fatal advice, and Mosca
now appear, the latter the author of the saying :

“The deed once done there is an end, that proved
A seed of sorrow to the Tuscan race.”

Bertrand of Born now comes to view, bearing his head in his hand. He
incited John to rebel against his father, Henry II. of England, and for this
breach between two who should be so closely united he is condemned to the
separation of his head from his body.

Canto XXIX.

They go to the bridge that crosses the tenth gulf, where they hear the
cries of the forgers and the alchemists who are tormented therein. Going
down the rock, they see a multitude afflicted with various foul diseases.
Here Dante is looking intently, and says :

“ Within that cave I deem,
Whereon so fixedly I held my ken
There is a spirit dwells, one of my blood,
Wailing the crime that costs him now so dear.”

This was Geri of Bello, a kinsman of Dante, whom he places among the
lost. One for pretending to teach another to fly, was burned and after
66 DANTE.

 

death was condemned by Minos to this gulf for alchemy, and several Sienese
are here for alchemy. One introduced himself thus :

“T am Capocchio’s ghost
Who forged transmuted metals by the power
Of alchemy.”

He is said to have been a fellow-student of Dante in natural philosophy,
The punishment of these sufferers is so grievous that they scratch them-
selves and others, until
i ee “the crust
Came drawn from underneath in flakes like scales
Scraped from the bream, or fish of larger mail.”

Canto XXX.

In the same gulf other sinners are punished in a similar manner, In
the introduction to the canto the poet gives the sad story of Athemas and
other great sinners, who were visited by the Furies in order to say that
some of the Furies of Thebes or Troy compared with those that now
appeared. One attacked Capocchio. This was Schicchi. He personated
a dead man and made a will in favor of another, for which service he was
rewarded with a mare of extraordinary beauty, called ~ the lady of the
herd.” The other was the ancient Myrrha. Adamo begs for a drop of
water to cool his parched tongue. He is extremely anxious to meet Guido,
who instigated him to his crime of making counterfeit money. He is
chained and cannot move, but says:

se pianky 93% “were I but so light

That I each hundred years might move one inch,
I had set forth already on this path,

Seeking him out amid the shapeless crew.”

Potiphar’s wife, and Sinon, who helped to introduce the wooden horse
into Troy, are now seen in torment, and a long quarrel of words, preceded
by a blow given and returned, is recited between Sinon and Adamo. Virgil
reproves Dante for listening, and says :

oh3 “to hear
Such wrangling is a joy for vulgar minds."

Canto XXNI.

Approaching the ninth and last circle of the lower regions, they heard
the terrible blast of a horn, :

“ Sounded so loud, the peal it rang had made
The thunder feeble.”
THE INFERNO. 67

 

Dante seems to see in the dim distance a lofty tower, and to his inquiry,
“Master! what land is this?” Virgil answers :

: “too long a space
Of intervening darkness has thine eye
To traverse: thou hast widely erred
In thy imaginings.”

“Yet know, ere further we advance :
That it less strange may seem, these are not towers
But giants. In the pit they stand immersed
Each from his navel downward round the bank.”

They first come to Nimrod the mighty hunter, whose horn they had
heard, and then to Ephilates, who was foremost in the battles with the gods.
Dante gives this philosophical view of the reason why the race of giants is
not continued :

“ All teeming Nature, when her plastic hand
Left framing of these monsters, did display
Past doubt, her wisdom, taking from mad War
Such slaves to do his bidding: and if she
Repent her not of the elephant and whale,
Who ponders well, confesses her therein
Wiser and more discreet : for when brute force
And evil will, are backed with subtlety,
Resistance none avails.”

They come to Anteus, a mighty giant, whom Virgil engages to carry
them down to the lowest depths, and

: ‘in the abyss,
That Tuelles with Judas low engulfs,
Lightly he placed us. Nor, there leaning stayed,
But rose, as in a bark the stately mast.”

Canto XXXII.

To complete his picture of human suffering, the poet now describes the
punishment by extreme cold, as in contrast with that of burning heat.

; “as down we stood
_ the: dave pit beneath the giants’ feet,
But lower far than they, and I did gaze
Still on the lofty battlement, a voice
Bespoke me thus: ‘ Look how thou walkest ! Take
Good heed, thy soles do tread not on the heads
Of thy poor brethren.’ Thereupon I turned,
And saw before and underneath my feet
A lake, whose frozen surface liker seem’d
To glass than water.”
68 DANTE.

 

 

Above this icy surface many heads were protruded. Several names of

Italians are given. :
“A thousand visages

Then marked I, which the keen and eager cold
Had shaped into a doggish grin: whence creeps
A shivering horror o'er me, at the thought

’ Of these froze shadows.”

Passing on, he strikes his foot against a head, whom, complaining of the
abuse, and refusing to tell his name, Dante seizes by the hair, and threaten-
ing to pull off his scalp if he would not own his name. A neighboring
spirit reveals this secret, calling him by name, Bocca.

The poet sees two heads in close contact, the jaws of one fastened upon
the brain of the other, and the answer to his inquiry who these are, is given
in the beginning of the next Canto.

Canto XXNIII.

Count Ugolino tells at length the sad story of the destruction of himself
and his children by being starved to death by the direction of Arch-
bishop Ruggieri, and justifies the savage attack he is making upon his brain,
by the heinousness of the crime.

The friar Alberigo cries out for help. He is punished for the assassina-
tion of some of his brethren at a banquet. And now appears a ghost whose
body is still on earth, for Alberigo says,

“Know that the soul, that moment she betrays
As I did, yields her body to a fiend
Who after; moves and governs it at will.
Till all its time be rounded: headlong she
Falls to this cistern.”

This is the ghost of Branca Doria, who murdered his father-in-law.

Canro XXNIV,
They descended to the fourth and last round of the ninth circle, and see

the King of the infernal regions. His coming is thus introduced by Virgil :

“The banners of Hell’s monarch do come forth
Toward us ; therefore look.”

Dante’s description of Satan is a fitting subject for the last Canto.
Mere the lost souls were seen through the ice. ‘The poet describes the
monarch of the lower regions ;
THE INFERNO, 69

 

“ That emperor who sways
The ata of sorrow, at mid-breast, from the ice
Stood forth; and I in stature am more like
A giant, than the giants are his arms.
Mark now, how great that whole must be, which suits
With such a part. If he were beautiful
As he is hideous now, and yet did dare
To scowl upon his Maker, well from him
May all our misery flow. O, what a sight!
How passing strange it seemed, when I did spy
Upon his head three faces; one in front
Of hue vermilion, the other two with this
Midway each shoulder joined, and at the crest
The right twist wan and yellow seemed ; the left
To look on, such as come from whence old Nile
Stoops to the lowlands. Under each, shot forth
Two mighty wings, enormous as became
A bird so vast. Sails never such I saw
Outstretched on the whole sea. No plumes had they
But were in texture like a bat; and these
He flapped i’ th’ air, that from him issued still
Three winds, wherewith Cocytus to its depths
Was frozen, At six eyes he wept: the tears
Adown three chins distilled with bloody foam.
At every mouth his teeth a sinner champed,
Bruised as with ponderous engine ; so that three
Were in this guise tormented.”

These three spirits, subjected to such fierce torture, are Judas, Brutus
and Cassius. Virgil now says:

“ But night now reascends
And it is time for parting. All is seen.’

At the bidding of his guide, Dante grasps his neck, and he clasping the
jagged coat of Lucifer goes on towards the center of the infernal region
until reaching the thighs of the monster, he suddenly turns and goes
upwards, and with an infinite struggle reaches the open air.

an 8 “ By a hidden way
My guide and I did enter, to return
To the fair world: and heedless of repose
We climbed; he first, I following his steps,
Till on our view the beautiful light of Heaven
Dawned through a circular opening in the cave:
Thence issuing we again beheld the stars.”
 

CERTALDO

BOCCACCIO DI

GIOVANNI

Dito 1375

ITALY

BORN 1313.
GIOVANNI BOCCACCIO.

The name Boccaccio has a vigorous sound ; we feel that its owner must have been robust
in physique and intellect. Grave Dante, his master, could write in dignified blank verse of
solemn things; his friend, the poet Petrarch, eased his heart in dainty sonnets; but for
Boccaccio, honest prose best expressed his genius, in strong words, with never an instant’s
hesitation at calling ‘‘a spade a spade.” The question as to where Giovanni Boccaccio was
born is still an unsettled one, but whether at Paris or Florence, the rivals for this honor, it
is certain that it was in the year 1313 that the little Vanni, the Italian equivalent for Jack,
first opened his eyes. He was an illegitimate child, for there is in existence a papal dispen-
sation, allowing him to enter on an ecclesiastical career, though disqualified by the laws of
the church on account of his illegitimacy. While he was still very young he was seized with
the desire of inventing fiction, and in the tales that he made for his companions was a faint
foreshadowing of his future power as one of the world’s greatest story-tellers, His father, an
avaricious, sordid man had little sympathy with this son of an early love, but intended him
to follow his own calling, that of a merchant, and here is Boccaccio’s account of this period
of his life: :

‘I well remember that my father used his utmost endeavor in my childhood to make
a merchant of me, and that he placed me, when I was yet a youngster, as a pupil with a
very large trader, with whom for the space of six years I did nothing else but purposely
waste that irrecoverable time.” And then he tells of the next attempt to fit him into a
groove where he did not belong. ‘‘ After that, inasmuch as it appeared, from the circum-
stances of the case, that I was fitter for the cultivation of literature, my father ordered me to
commence the study of canon law, under the persuasion that I should by that means achieve
fortune; and thus, under a most celebrated teacher, I labored for an equal space of time, in
vain.” It was hard for the old tradesman to realize that his son would handle any book
rather than a ledger, but the conviction was finally forced upon him; ‘“‘ the genius of
literature had marked him for her own, and canon law could dispute her empire no more
successfully than trade.” It is a difficult matter to fix exact dates to events in Boccaccio’s
life, but when he was between twenty-five and thirty years of age his father sent him to
Naples, probably for purposes connected with his canonical studies, and it was there that he
first saw and loved Fiametta; and received what proved to be the strongest passion of his
life, the impulse to follow in the steps of the classic writers, For centuries the wonders of
the early Greek and Latin literature had been buried; no school boy wrestled with his Caesar
or Virgil, but the awakening was at hand, and it is impossible to speak of Boccaccio without
referring to that new enthusiasm for Greek and Latin literature and art, which, springing up
in Italy about the time of the 14th century, and spreading rapidly through Europe, received
the name of the Renaissance, or new birth. During the 12th and 13th century the growth
of the city Republics of Italy caused a revived study of the Roman law, and this in a
natural sequence led to a fresh interest in the old Latin authors; from the Latin to the
Greek classics is but a short step, and so Italian scholars began to drink at the ‘‘ fountain
CIVVTANNI BOCCACCIO.

74

head of the world’s literature." Petrarch was the real originator of the movement, so far
as it could be the work of one man; his love for the ancient classic writers amounted to
worship, and he was a most ardent searcher after old parchments. The newly-discovered
manuscripts were multiplied by the happy invention of the art of printing from movable
types, which occurred in the early days of the Renaissance. It was at this time that the
famous Vatican Library was founded by the Pope Nicholas V. to contain these treasures.
Closely following Petrarch as regards his interest in the classic writers came Boccaccio.
There is a story told of his lingering at Virgil’s tomb, in a quiet spot, just out of Naples,
and there resolving to take him for a master and devote his life to letters. It was at church
that Giovanni first saw Fiametta, and instantly the flame was kindled of an enduring love,
which had so strong an influence on his literary career. ‘‘ Her tresses,” he tells us, ‘‘ are
of a blonde hue, and under her slender brows are two lovely eyes, such rogues in their
movement, that the light flashing from their beauty renders it scarcely possible to tell what
they are,” iametta’s name in the world was Maria, her surname is unknown, as, unfortu-
nately for them both, she was already married. Boccaccio himself remained unwedded, and
it is believed was at least constant to this mis-placed affection. His first literary attempt
was a prose romance, called Filocopo, followed by the long and tedious poem of the
Teseide. The latter was the delight of his countrymen for generations, and it is the founda-
tion of Chaucer’s Knights Tale, but now Trollope says, ‘‘ that it would probably be a safe
bet, that no living Italian has ever read the whole of it, it is so intolerably dull and
incorrect.” When Boccaccio was somewhat over thirty, there came to the Neapolitan throne
a beautiful, dissolute woman, Queen Giovanna, and it was to please her as well as Fiametta
that he wrote the Decameron, the book which has made him illustrious and given him the
right to his title of the Father of Italian prose. When he was some years older he wrote the
“* Life of Dante,” and lectures on the Divina Comedia ; they have continued to be read on
account of the interest always attaching to the subject. During his father's old age he was
obliged to go back to Florence, and his grief at being separated from his mistress brought
forth the poetical romance which he named in her honor, ** Fiametta.” With the exception,
however, of his work on Dante, it is certain that Giovanni Boceaccio's reputation has rested,
and will rest, wholly on the Decameron. The word means a ten-day’s bout at anything, and
in this case, it is a ten-day's bout at story-telling. ‘The author imagines that a party of
Florentines, seven women and three men, in fear of the terrible plague which is devastating
the city, shut themselves up in one of the delightful villas in the environs of Florence. They
form a court, each individual to rule for a single day, and the royal edict is issued that every
one of the party shall tell a story on each of the ten days they are together ; so at the end of
that time a hundred novels or novelettes have been produced. The introduction teils how
the company hit upon this plan, and contains a vivid, artistic description of the plague,
perhaps the tinest bit of writing ever done by Boccaccio. The fact that there is ‘* nothing
new under the sun” is proved again in the Decameron, for most of the plots are taken from
older sources -—the Arabian Nights, and the French Tableaux. But Boccaccio cannot be
called a plagiarist any more than Chaucer or Shakespeare, who drew freely upon the
Hecameron for their plots, Chaucer even taking from it the whole frame in which he has
enclosed the ‘* Canterbury Tales.” The grave charge, however, which is brought against
ihe book by modern readers is its immorality ; it was an age of license, and its author
mirrored the profligate manners of those about him; the book is like a brilliant flash-light
on the times, showing not only the evil but the out-spokenness of Koccaccio’s day. The
pun ART EV the ten ladies and gentlemen in the villa, were represented as being thoroughly
virtuous and discreet ; the marvel is that such persons should have sat in a circle and talked
THE DECAMERON. 75

to each other with such anti-fig leaf simplicity. The general opinion that the Decameron is
a grossly indecent book is a true one, but a late writer has said, ‘‘ that there is not a page in
it which is not innocent and edifying compared with several of the novels which have
recently obtained in France the highest degree of success and approbation.”

As one finds occasionally a jewel in a mud-hole, so in the mass of these tales, unreadable
for their vulgarity, is found so exquisite a story as that of the Patient Griselda, inimitable in
its tenderness and delicacy. The Decameron was a prohibited work by its author’s contem-
poraries, and Boccaccio himself deeply regretted its publication, but it was not wholly for
its coarseness. He frequently ridicules monks and nuns, and tells stories to their discredit ;
he speaks of the sacraments of the church with unbecoming levity, and writes generally in
an irreverent tone, which must have been offensive to all good Catholics. It was this that
grieved the pure-minded Petrarch, and undoubtedly this was what lay heaviest on Giovanni's
conscience, when, in his latter years, he repented sorely of having written what all the world
was reading. However great the blemishes of the Decameron, it deserves to be remembered
as being the first book since the classic days written in easy, flexible prose, and as the ‘‘ well
of Tuscan, undefiled,” from which the best modern writers have drawn their plots or inspira-
tion, from old Chaucer of Boccaccio’s own time down to Rudyard Kipling, that flashing
light in the literary sky of 1890. Late in his life Boccaccio assumed the ecclesiastical habit
and studied theology. He was frequently an ambassador to the petty Italian courts, and finally,
full of years and honors, retired to end his days at Certaldo, a little town on a height some
twenty miles from Florence. Here he died in his sixty-third year, and was buried in the
parish church. ‘‘ His tombstone was removed about a hundred ago, on account of the
popular opinion and tradition that Messer Giovanni di Boccaccio was a powerful magician,
as indeed he was.”

It is to be regretted that much of the matter is base, while the manner is fine.

STORIES FROM THE DECAMERON.

In Florence had we birth ;
That company who chose to sit
Ten sunny days, a fountain’s flight beside
Scattering the rose, and weaving tales of wit
What time by Arno many cursing died.”
“Fiametta.’— Helen Gray Cone.

INTRODUCTION.

To the ladies.

When I reflect how disposed you are by nature to compassion, I cannot
help being apprehensive lest what I now offer to your acceptance should
seem to have but a harsh and offensive beginning ; for it presents at the
very outset the mournful remembrace of that most fatal plague so terrible
76 GIOVANNI BOCCACCI/O.

yet in the memories of us all; but, as the occasion of the occurrences of
which I am going to treat could not well be made out without such relation,
I am forced to use this Introduction.

In the year, then, of our Lord, 1348, there happened at Florence a most
terrible plague. Unlike what had been seen in the East, where bleeding
from the nose is the fatal prognostic, here there appeared certain tumors in
the groin or under the arm pits, some as big as a small apple, others as an
egg ; and afterwards purple spots in most parts of the body, the usual mes-
sengers of death. To the cure of this malady, neither medical knowledge
nor the power of drugs was of any effect, and few escaped, but nearly all
died the third day from the first appearance of the symptoms. What gave
the more virulence to this plague was that, by being communicated from
the sick to the hale, it spread daily, like fire when it comes in contact with
large masses of combustibles. Such was the quality of the pestilential
matter as to pass not only from man to man, but, what is more strange, it has
been often known that anything belonying to the infected, if touched by
any other creature, would certainly infect and kill that creature in a short
space of time. This occasioned various fears and devices amongst those
who survived, all tending to the same uncharitable and cruel end ; which
was, to avoid the sick and every thing that had been near them, expecting
by that means to save themselves. .\nd such at the time was the public
distress, that the laws human and divine were no more regarded ; for the
officers, to put them in force, being either dead, sick, or in want of persons
to assist them, every one did just as he pleased. I pass over the little
regard that citizens and relations showed tv each other ; for their terror was
such that a brother even fled from his brother, a wife from her husband and,
what is more uncommon, a parent from his own child. Every place was
filled with the dead ; hence, it became a yeneral practice for the neighbors,
assisted by what porters they could meet with, to clear the houses and lay the
bodies at the doors; and every morning great numbers might be seen
brought out in this manner to be carried away on biers or tables, two or
three at a time ; and sometimes it has happened that a wife and her hus-
band, two or three brothers, anda father and son have been laid on together.
The consecrated ground no longer containing the numbers which were
brought thither, they were forced to dig trenches, piling them up in rows,
as goods are stowed in ships, and throwing in a little earth till they were
filled to the top.

Not to dwell on every particular of our misery, I shall observe that
it fared no better with the adjacent country — the poor, distressed laborers
dying like cattle rather than human creatures. The oxen, asses, sheep,
yoats, swine, and the dogs themselves were left to roam at will about
THE DECAMERON. 17

 

the fields and among the standing corn, which no one cared to gather or
even reap. What can I say more, if I return to the city? What magnifi-
cent dwellings, what noble palaces were depopulated to the last inhabitant !
What number of both sexes, whom in the morning neither Galen, nor
A€sculapius himself, would have desired to be in perfect health, breakfasted
in the morning with their living friends and supped at night with their
departed friends in the other world !

But I am weary of recounting our late miseries ; therefore I proceed
to say, that it happened one Tuesday that seven ladies met in the church
of Samta Maria Novella. The eldest I call Pampinea, the next to her
Fiametta, the third Filomena, the fourth Emilia, the fifth Lauretta, the
sixth Neifile, and the youngest Eliza. While they were talking over the
terrors of the plague of a certain place they had in mind, three gentle-
men came into the church; one was called Pamfilo, the second Filo-
strato, and the third Dioneo, all of them well bred and pleasant com-
panions. Pampinea, who was related to one of the three, acquainted
them with their design, which was for them all to betake themselves to
one of the beautiful villas on the Arus and there shut themselves up until
all fear of the contagion was over. The gentlemen agreeing to this, by the
next day the company were gathered ina certain palace, which was cleaned
and ready for their reception. Around it were fine meadows, and most
delightful gardens, with fountains of the purest and best water. The party
being seated Pampinea made the following suggestion: I, who first pro-
posed the means by which such an agreeable company is met together, do
find there is a necessity for our appointing a principal, whom we shall honor
and obey in all things as our head. And that every one may share alike, “I
hold it best that each of us should experience both the honor and the
trouble for one day.”’ These words were received with the highest satisfac-
tion, and Filomena, running to a laurel tree, made a garland and put it upon
Pampinea’s head, crowning her queen of the first day.

It was little more than three the next morning when the queen arose
and ordered all to be called, alleging that much sleep in the day-time
was unwholesome. Then they went info a meadow of deep grass, and sat
down in a circle, while Pampinea addressed them in this manner: “As
the sun is high and the heat excessive it would be madness for us to think
of moving yet; let us begin and tell stories, and in this manner one per-
son will entertain the whole company; and by the time it has gone all
around, the worst part of the day will be over and then we can divert
ourselves as we like best.’ This motion being approved by all, the cus-
tom was continued for each of the ten days that the merry company were
together.
78 GIOVANNI BOCCACCIO

SECOND DAY

Nove IX.

Told by Filomena. :

A company of Italian merchants were assembled in a tavern at Paris,
and the conversation turned on the subject of their wives. They all
expressed themselves with levity or scepticism, on the virtue of women,
except a young Genoese merchant, named Bernabo, who maintained that he
possessed a wife no less true than beautiful. Heated by wine, and excited
by the coarse raillery of another young merchant, Ambrogiolo, he proceeded
to enumerate the various perfections of his Zinevra. He praised her love-
liness, her submission, and her discretion, her skill in embroidery ; and he
added, as rarer accomplishments, that she could mount a horse, fly a hawk,
write and read, and cast up accounts as well as any merchant of them all.
His enthusiasm only excited the laughter of his companions, particularly of
Ambrogiolo, who by an artful mixture of contradiction and argument roused
the anger of Bernabo, and he at length exclaimed that he would stake his
life on the truth of his wife. Ambrogiolo eagerly wagers one thousand
florins of gold against five thousand that Zinevra is accessible to temptation ;
that in less than three months he will bring her husband proofs of her
falseness. He set off for Genoa to find Zinevra ; but on his arrival the dis-
crete and noble character of the lady made him despair of success by fair
means. By bribery, he was conveyed to Zinevra’s chamber, concealed in a
trunk from which he issued at night ; he made himself master of her purse,
her morning robe or cymar, her girdle, and of a certain mark on her person.
With these evidences of guilt he returned to the wretched husband. Bernabo
rejected every proof against his wife, until Ambrogiolo mentioned the
“mole, cinque-spotted,” when, without further dispute, he paid the forfeit,
and filled with rage and despair returned towards Genoa. From his country
house he sent a messenger to Zinevra, desiring her to meet him there, but
with secret orders to the man to dispatch her by the way The servant
spared her life on condition that she would fly from the country forever. In
the disguise of a mariner, Zinevra embarked on a sailing vessel, and on
arriving at Alexandria was taken into the service of the Sultan, under the
name of Sicurano. Her sex not being suspected, she was soon after sent, as
captain of the guard, to the fair at Acre. Here she met Ambrogiolo and
saw in his possession her own purse and girdle. In reply to her inquinies,
he related with fiendish exultation how he had obtained them, and she per-
suaded him to go back with her to Alexandria; she then sent a messenger
to Genoa in the name of the Sultan, calling her husband to Alexandria. At
a proper opportunity she summoned both before the Sultan, obliged Ambro-
THE DECAMERON. 19

 

giolo to make confession of his treachery, wrung from her husband the
avowal of his supposed murder of herself, then, falling at the Sultan’s feet,
discovered her real name and sex, to the astonishment of all. Bernabo was
pardoned at his wife’s entreaties, and Ambrogiolo was condemned to be
fastened to a stake, smeared with honey and left to be devoured by flies and
locusts. Zinevra, enriched by the presents of the Sultan and the forfeited
wealth of Ambrogiolo, returned with her husband to Genoa, where she lived
in great honor and happiness to the end of her life.

Shakespeare has closely followed this tale in his play of ‘‘ Cymbeline” ; the character of
Zinevra, or Imogen, as he calls her, being one of the loveliest and most perfect of his
heroines.

THIRD DAY.

Novex IX.

Told by Neifile.

There was in France a young lady, Gilette de Narbonne, who was
married by the king’s order, to repay a favor she had done him, to a certain
Count de Roussillon. She had loved the Count from a child, but he, being
married against his will, heartily disliked the wife forced upon him. As
soon as the wedding feast was over he left France, and took up his abode in
Tuscany, at the same time sending his bride this message, that he would
come to her and live with her at his home of Roussillon when she should
present him with a cherished ring which he always wore, and a son of his
own begetting. By a clever ruse she succeeded in accomplishing both
difficult objects, he believing her to be a Florentine girl whom he loved.
When, after some time, Gilette showed her husband his ring in her posses-
sion, and not only one, but two sons, twin boys, he saluted her as his lawful
countess, and from that time he showed her all due respect, and they con-
tinued happy together as long as they lived.

 

Shakespeare’s ‘‘ All’s Well that Ends Well” is based on this tale.

FOURTH DAY.

Nove. I.

Told by Fiametta.

Tancred, Prince of Salerno, was a most humane and generous lord, had
he not in his old age defiled his hands in a lover’s blood. He had one beau-
tiful daughter, whom he dearly loved; so his anger was the more violent
80 GIOVANNI BOCCACCIO.

against her, when he discovered that she had a lover, a person of low
parentage but noble qualities, Guiscard by name. Tancred resolved to say
nothing to anyone but to carry out a plan of revenge that he had in mind.
One night Guiscard was seized by two men, and brought before Tancred,
who, when he saw him, said, with tears in his eyes, *‘Guiscard, you have ill
requited my kindness towards you.” Guiscard made no other answer but
this: “Sir, love has greater power than you or I.” In the morning
Tancred gave orders to the two men to strangle Guiscard and to take his
heart out of his body and bring it to him. They executed his commands,
and Tancred putting the heart into a golden cup sent it by a trusty servant
to his daughter. When the woeful present was delivered to Ghismond, she
took the cup and seeing the heart therein, and knowing that it must be
Guiscard’s, she looked steadfastly at the man, and said: “My father has
done wisely ; such a heart requires no worse a sepulchre than one of gold.”
When the servant had gone, she shed a flood of tears, kissing the heart a
thousand times; then she poured some poisoned water into the cup with the
heart, drank it without the least dread, and threw herself upon her couch,
expecting death. Her frightened maidens sent at once for her father, who
reached her in time to hear her last request, which was that her body and
that of Guiscard might be interred together publicly. As she was dying
she strained her lover’s heart strongly to her breast, saying: “ Receive us,
Heaven ; I die!”” Then closing her eyes she departed this miserable life.
Such an end had the loves of Guiscard and Ghismond, and the Prince,
repenting of his cruelty, had them buried in one grave, in the most public
manner, amid the general grief of all the people of Salerno.

No tale of Boccaccio has been so often translated and imitated as this one. It forms the
subject of not fewer than five Italian tragedies, one of which ‘' La Ghismonda," was falsely
attributed to Tasso. In England it is best known by the ‘' Sigismunda and Guiscardo” of
Dryden. The fine arts have also added celebrity to the tale ; there is u beautiful painting,

supposed to be by Correggio, in which Sigismunda is represented as weeping over the heart
of her lover.

FOURTH DAY,

Noven V

Told by Filomena.

There lived at Messina three brothers and a sister, Isabella, a lady of
worth and beauty. ‘The brothers, who were merchants, had in their employ
a young man called Lorenzo. After some time it was discovered that these
two were deeply in love with one another, which was most displeasing to the
THE DECAMERON. Sr

 

brothers. However, they behaved with the same civility to Lorenzo as before
the discovery, and one day, under pretense of going out of the city upona party
of pleasure, they invited him to go with them, and arriving at a lonesome
place, they slew him, unprepared as he was, and buried him on the spot.
After some time Isabella, thinking that her lover made a long stay, inquired
of her brothers concerning him. Their answer did not satisfy her, and fear-
ing she knew not what, she spoke no more of him and spent her life in a
tedious and anxious waiting for his return. One night it happened that
having wept herself to sleep, Lorenzo appeared to her in a dream, pale and
ghastly, and said to her: “My dearest Isabella, I can return no more to
thee, for thy brothers have put me to death.” Then describing the place
where they had buried him, he disappeared. Isabella wakened in the morn-
ing, weeping bitterly, but did not dare say anything to her brothers. As
soon as it was possible she sought the lonesome spot, and there to her grief
and horror found her lover’s body. She cut off the head, and burying the
trunk again returned to her home without being discovered. She then shut
herself up in her chamber and lamented over the head, until she had washed
it with her tears, and then she put it into a flower pot, planted sweet herbs
therein with sprigs of basil, which she watered with nothing but rose or
orange water, or else with her tears, accustoming herself to sit always before
it and devoting her whole heart unto it, as containing her dear Lorenzo.
Her brothers being told by a neighbor of this strange devotion to a flower
pot, first remonstrated with their sister and then removed it from her. The
young men wondered why she should have so great fancy for it; turning
out the earth therefore, they found the head not so much consumed but
that, by the curled locks, they knew it to be Lorenzo’s, This threw them
into the utmost astonishment, and, fearing lest it should be known, they
again buried it privately and withdrew themselves thence to Naples. Isa-
bella never ceased weeping, and calling for her pot of basil, till she died;
and thus ended her unfortunate love. But in some time afterwards the
thing became public, which gave rise to the well-known song, ‘“ Most cruel
and unkind was he, that of my flowers deprived me.”

Keats’ beautiful poem of ‘‘ Isabella, or the Pot of Basil,” has made this story familiar to
English readers.

No heart was there in Florence but did mourn
In pity of her love so over-cast.
And a sad ditty of this story borne
From mouth to mouth through all the country pass’d ;
Still is the burthen sung ‘‘O cruelty,
To steal my Basil-pot away from me.”
— Keats.
$2 GIOVANNI BOCCACCIO

 

 

FIFTH DAY.

NovEL IX.
Told by Fiametta.

“ Only a tale of love is mine
Blending the human and divine
A tale of the Decameron, told
In Palmieri’s garden old,
By Fiametta, laurel-crowned,
While her companions lay around,
And heard the intermingled sound
Of airs that on their errands sped,
And wild birds gossiping overhead.
And lisp of leaves, and fountain’s fall,
And her own voice more sweet than all,
Telling the tale, which wanting these,
Perchance may lose its power to please.

“ Tales of a Waystde Inn.” —Long fellow.

At Florence there dwelt a young gentleman, named Federigo, who in
feats uf arms and gentility surpassed all the youth in Tuscany. He was
deeply in love with a lady, Monna Giovanna, one of the most agreeable
women in Florence. She, however, did not return his atfection though he
was continually making tilts, balls, and such diversions to win her favor,
lavishing away his money in rich presents, and every possible extravagance.
As Federigo continued to spend profusely and acquire nothing his wealth
soon began to waste, till at last he had nothing left but a small farm, his in-
come almost nothing, and a single hawk, one of the best in the world for
hunting. Monna Giovanna in the meantime had married, her husband had
died, and left her with a large fortune, and one child. It happened that the
boy fell ill, and taking one of the fancies which often come to the sick, he
begged his mother to get for him Federigo’s hawk, which he had often seen
and longed to possess. After much hesitation the widow sought her old
lover's cottage, and after the usual compliments, told him that she had come
to take a neighborly dinner with him, if he would receive her after her past
unkindness. Federigo replied: “ Madame, I do not remember ever to
have suffered any loss by your means; and most assuredly this courteous
visit is more welcome to me, than if I had all that I have wasted returned
to me to spend over again; but you are come to a very poor host.” Although
his poverty was extreme, never till now had he been so sensible of his past
extravagance, for finding nothing to entertain the lady with, he was in the
utmost perplexity until he espied the hawk upon its perch, and heard the
gay jingle of its bells. Without further thought, he wrung the head off and
THE DECAMERON. 83

 

gave it to a girl to dress and roast carefully. Then, when all was ready,
with a smile on his countenance, he went to the garden where he had left
Monna Giovanna and told her that what little dinner he was able to provide
was now served. She, therefore, entered and sat down with him, he serving
her with great respect, while she dined upon the good hawk, not knowing
what it was. After the meal was over, and they had sat chatting a little
while, the lady thought it a fit time to tell her etrand, and accordingly told
him of her son’s illness and his great desire for the trained falcon. Federigo
was overcome at this request, and when he was able to answer, told Monna
Giovanna, how, wishing to treat her with something choicer than he would
anyone else, and having little in his house, he had ordered his hawk to be
roasted for her dinner. “Nor,” he went on, “could I have thought him
better bestowed, had you not now desired him in a different manner, which is
such a grief to me that I shall never be at peace as long as I live,’ and say-
ing this he produced the falcon’s feathers, feet and talons. The lady blamed
him for killing such a bird to entertain any woman with, but in her heart
extolled the greatness of his soul, which poverty had no power to abase. A
few days after her son died, and she continued sorrowful for some time, but
being left young and rich, her brothers pressed her to marry again. She told
them that if she must take a husband, it should be none other than
Federigo Alberighi. They smiled contemptuously at this, and said: ‘You
foolish woman! He is not worth one farthing.” She replied: “I know it,
brothers, but I would sooner have a man in need of riches, than riches with-
out a man.” They accordingly gave her to him, with all her wealth, and
they lived together in true happiness to the end of their lives.

This is the ‘‘ Faucon” of La Fontaine. Longfellow has put it in the mouth of the Student
in one of the most charming of the ‘‘ Tales of a Wayside Inn.” Of this story it has been
said, that, ‘‘ as a picture of the habitual workings of some one powerful feeling nothing ever
has approached the story of Federigo and his Falcon. The perseverance in attachment, the
spirit of generosity displayed in it, has no parallel in the history of heroical sacrifices.”

TENTH DAY.
Novex VIII.

Told by Filomena.

Sophronia, believing hérself to be the wife of Gisippus, is really married
to Titus Cuintus Fulrius, who carries her to Rome, where Gisippus arrives,
some time after, in great distress, and thinking himself despised by Titus,
confesses himself guilty of a murder, in order to put an end to his life.
Titus recollects him, and, to save him, accuses himself, which, when the
murderer sees, he delivers himself up as the guilty person. Finally, they are
all set at liberty by Octavius, and Titus marries Gisippus to his sister, and
84 GIOVANNI BOCCACCIO.

 

gives him half his estate. The story ends with the following beautiful
eulogy on friendship, which is, in the opinion of critics, the most eloquent
passage in the Decameron, or perhaps in the Italian language.

“A most sacred thing, then, is Friendship, and worthy not only of singu-
lar reverence, but to be celebrated with perpetual applause, as being the
prudent mother of magnanimity and honor, the sister of gratitude and
charity, and the enemy of hatred and avarice; always ready, without being
requested, to manifest that virtuous kindness to others which she would
have shown to herself ; whose divine effects are rarely now to be met with,
to the great reproach of the sordidness of mankind, which has driven it ina
long exile to the farthest corner of the earth.

What degree of love, wealth or affinity could have wrought so effect-
ually upon the heart of Gisippus, to make him feel the pangs of his friend,
and give him up to his beloved spouse? What greatness, what rewards,
could have made him heedless of disobliging all his own relations, as well as
Sophronia’s, and indifferent to the unjust murmurs and insults of the people,
to serve his friend? What, I say, but friendship only? On the other hand,
what could have prompted Titus, without deliberation, when he might have
fairly pretended not to have seen him, to contrive his own death in order to
save Gisippus? What could have made him so liberal in parting with half
his substance to Gisippus? What but this alone could have induced Titus,
when he saw him poor — destitute —to give him his sister ?

To what purpose, then, do men covet numbers of relations, brethren
and children, and procure at a vast expense great plenty of servants, when,
for the least inconvenience they may sustain, people are apt to forget their
duty to parent, brother, or master? Whereas, in true friendship it is quite
otherwise ; that sacred obligation serves instead of all degrees of affinity.”

TENTH DAY.
NOVEL XN,
“ This story is said, not for that wives should
Follow Griselda, as in humility,
For it were importable though they would ;
But for that every wight in his degree
Should be constant in adversity
As was Griselda.”
“ Canterbury Tales.'— Chaucer.
Told by Dioneo. i
A long time ago there was a young Marquis of Saluzzo, called Gaultieri.
He was a bachelor, and his subjects felt most anxious that he

should marry,
lest they might be left without a lord,

The idea was distasteful to him, and
THE DECAMERON. 85

 

yet he at length yielded to their importunities ; and, as he was determined
to wed no fine lady, for fear of a bad temper, he turned his eyes toward a
poor young country girl, whose behavior had pleased his fancy. After he
had acquainted her father with his intentions, he sent for his people and said
to them, “ Gentlemen, contrary to my own inclination, I am about to
espouse a wife ; as I take this step solely at your solicitation. I protest that
I look for all due respect and honor toward the one of my choice, although
she be but a poor young woman of the neighborhood.” When all prepara-
tions were made for his nuptials, as well as the wedding garments anda
coronet and ring for the bride, the Marquis of Saluzzo repaired, with his
lords and gentlemen, to the old man’s house whose daughter he intended to
wed. It was about the third hour of the day, and Griselda, still ignorant of
the honor in store for her, was hastening with her morning duties, that she
might go with the rest to see the new marchioness. Her father was first
called, and the Marquis addressing her, asked if he were to espouse her
would she make it her study to please him, and always be patient and
obedient unto his will? To all which she answered, ‘“ Yes.’”’ Then com-
manding the gorgeous robes to be brought, Griselda is arrayed as becomes a
lady of rank, the coronet is set upon her head, all disordered as is her
pretty hair, and turning towards her, everyone being in amaze, the Marquis
says, “ Behold, this is the person whom I intend for my wife, provided she
will accept of me for her husband. Will you,” said he to the gentle girl,
who stood abashed in her royal apparel, “have me for your husband ?”
She replied, “ Yes, if it so pleases your lordship.” ‘‘ Well,” he said, “and
I take you for my wife.” So he married Griselda in that public manner, and,
mounting her on a palfrey, conducted her to his palace, and celebrated his
marriage with as great pomp and rejoicing as if he were wedded to the
daughter of the King of France. The young bride proved so intelligent
and obedient to her husband, that he thought himself the happiest of men ;
and soon she was honored in all the country round for her good works and
gracious manner, and beloved by her husband’s subjects even as their own
lives. At length a time of new rejoicing came, for a daughter was born to
the happy pair ; but while the babe was still young, the Marquis was taken
with the fancy that he should make trial of his wife’s patience by long
and intolerable sufferings ; so, he began with harsh words, as if his love had
changed to her, and told her that his people were dissatisfied with her mean
parentage. Finally, one day a man servant came to her, who said:
“‘Madame, I must obey my lord’s commands, and he has ordered me to take
your daughter,” and he then carried the child away, leaving the mother to
infer that her beloved babe was to be killed. Griselda submitted to this
cruelty, and, although her heart throbbed with maternal affection and appre-
86 GIOVANNI BOCCACC/O.

or

hension, she said quietly: ‘It must be as thy lord and mine commands.
Her meekness and constancy greatly astonished her tyrannical husband.
Some years after this, the Marquis was delighted by the birth of a second
child, a son and heir to the noble house of Saluzzo; but not satisfied with
what he had already done, he began again to persecute Griselda, telling her
that since the birth of her son he could no longer live in peace with his sub-
jects, on her account. She heard the untruth with resignation, and only
said, ‘“ My lord, study your own happiness, without a thought for me, for I
am pleased only with what is agreeable to you." A few days after her boy
was taken from her, as her daughter had been; this she bore with the same
fortitude, so that the Prince wondered greatly, declaring that there was no
other woman capable of doing the like. As he knew her to be extremely fond
of her children, he was sure that it was from no lack of affection, only from
her entire obedience. The people thought him the worst and most cruel of
men, as they believed the children were both put tv death, but the patient
Griselda would accept of no condolence, saying only : “It was not my will,
but his who begot them.” Several more vears being now passed, Gualtieri
made a last trial of his wife’s patience, by declaring before many people
that he could no longer bear to keep Griselda with him, but should solicit a
dispensation from the Pope to send her away and take another. And soon
after, pretending that he had received the letters from Rome, he turned
towards her, his subjects being present, and said in a brutal manner:
“Woman, by leave of his Holiness, I may dispose of thee back to thy
humble cottage with the same portion thou broughtest me.” Then gentle
Griselda with difficulty refrained from tears as she answered; ‘* My lord,
I know that my servile descent does not accord with your high rank ; for
what I have been I am indebted to Providence and to you; I consider it as
a favor lent me. I therefore willingly restore it. Behold the ring with
which you espoused me ; as for the dowry which I brought you, there is no
need for a sumpter-horse to carry it away, for I do not forget that I brought
you nothing, not even my clothing; but [ would entreat your grace, ita
you would be pleased to let me have one shift over and above e my dowry.’

Clothed in a single garment, the deeply wronged woman sought her father’s
house, and took up her usual duties there, with the greatest courage imag-
inable. Gualticri then gave it out that the young bride, whom he had just
quictly married, was soon to arrive and must be received with great cere-
mony ; and he ordered Griselda to come and make the preparations for his
nuptial feast. “ For,” he said, * thou knowest I have no woman fit as thyself to
perform such work properly ; and, too, 1 would have thee receive the guests
as if thou wert still mistress, and after, get thee back to thy father’s Ss again.”
With breaking heart she returned in her coarse gown to the palace, from
THE DECAMERON, 87

 

which she had but just departed, and there fulfilled the Marquis’ commands.
Soon the supposed bride arrived, a young lady of twelve or thirteen years,
accompanied by her little brother and attendants, and when the guests were
assembled, the feast began, and then poor patient Griselda was called to the
board, to sit beside the prince all meanly attired as she was. As she came
towards him, he asked her: “Griselda, what thinkest thou of my bride?”
She answered, ‘‘ My lord, if she be as prudent as she is fair, you will be a
happy man with her, but I beseech you not to take the same heart-piercing
measures with her as with your first wife, for this young lady has not been
inured to hardship from her cradle as I was.” Gualtieri then said,
“Griselda, I intend now to restore, in one hour, all the happiness I have
taken from you during many years, and to make you the sweetest recom-
pense for all the pangs you have suffered. Behold in this young lady and
her brother our own daughter and son, whom I have caused to be carefully
brought up during this time of separation.” Then embracing her most
affectionately, he led her to the children, and she, weeping for joy, pressed
them to her heart. The Marquis, continuing the rest of his life with
Griselda, showing her all the respect and honor possible, was judged a very
wise man, though abundantly too severe; but as for Griselda, she was
beyond compare ; divine spirits may descend from Heaven into the meanest
cottages, whilst royal palaces shall produce such as seem rather adapted to
have the care of beasts than the government of men.

“The Patient Griselda” has been the most popular of all the stories of the Decameron,
and was probably founded on some real or traditional incident. Of all the French and
English versions of the tale, Chaucer's is the most famous. He assigns it to the Clerk of
Oxenforde in his Canterbury Tales ; the clerk declares, in his prologue, that he learned it
from Petrarch, and it is possible that Chaucer, when in Italy, heard the story related by
Petrarch, who had got it by heart, in order to repeat it to his friends. The tale was so great
a favorite in France, that the comedians of Paris represented, in 1393, a Mystery, in French
verse, entitled, ‘‘ Le Mystire de Griseldi.””. There is also an English drama, named ‘‘ Patient
Grissel,” published in 1599.
 

 

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

Bonn 1564. ENGLAND. Dieo 1616
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

Like the greatest of Greek poets, Homer, the personal details in the existence of the
greatest of all Englishmen, intellectually speaking, are shrouded in a veil of medieval ob-
scurity. Sufficient is it to know that on the 26th of April, 1564, the ‘‘ myriad-minded
Shakespeare” received his baptismal name of William. Of the particular day of his birth
there is no authentic record. All that we can gather is that in the little town of Stratford on
the river Avon in Warwickshire, the life began of one who by the splendor of his poetic
genius, the abiding interest of his dramatic productions and the philosophic depth of every-
thing he wrote, has contributed to modern times a literary heritage, second only to the Bible
itself in the breadth, wealth and extent of human knowledge and experience,

To self-made men it must always be a source of satisfaction that the author of Hamlet,
Julius Casar, Coriolanus, Anthony and Cleopatra, Lear, Othello and Macbeth, began life as
the son of a poor country glover, John Shakespeare, whose highest title to consideration was
his marriage to Mary Arden, the gentlewoman who became the mother of the mighty
Shakespeare. In common, then, with the fate of the majority of those who have won fame’s
most enduring honors, the chief of English poets was in his younger years a lad of humble
circumstances. His thrifty father had amassed a moderate estate, whose income was suffi-
cient to permit the youth to go to school and learn that store of classic erudition which so
adorns and vivifies the pages of his plays. Yet, long before his education was complete,
monetary losses compelled John Shakespeare to remove his gifted son from school to aid in
propping up the falling fortunes of their home. In this, however, father and son had but a
small success, so that at seventeen our future paragon found himself the heir of a bailiff-hunted
debtor and himself a poacher on the lands of the neighboring Knight, Sir Thomas Lucy.
Hauled before that magistrate for stealing deer, the hero of this sketch was roundly rated for
his dissolute ways, and, in revenge, published a lampoon so bitter, that the ridiculed Sir
Thomas practically drove his youthful foe from Warwickshire to London.

At eighteen Shakespeare had fallen under the influence of Anne Hathaway, a woman
eight years his elder, whom, nevertheless, he speedily married. Five months later, in April,
1583, his eldest child, Susanna, was-born. Before he was twenty-one he was the father of
two additional children, Hamnet, a son, and Judith, a daughter. Then came the trouble
with his father’s debts and Sir Thomas Lucy’s persecutions ; and the result was that the young
man turned his eyes toward the great metropolis with the hope of bettering his fortunes.
Though there is no historic evidence to warrant the conclusion, the inference is irresistible
that his marriage proved a bitter disappointment, and that he realized too late the fatal error
he had made. At all events, his journey Londonward appears to have been in the nature of
a final separation, so far as marital affection is concerned. Thenceforth, though at times, he
visited his family, and always carefully provided for its support, a permanent estrangement
seems to have existed between the husband and the wife.

His career in the Capital City was in every way a gratifying success. Turning his hand
readily to the writing of plays, he not only adapted old plays, produced originals, and played
in both, but he entered during the early years of his connection with the drama into business
schemes of theatrical management, which later on bore fruit in handsome cash returns.

a
92 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

Tradition says that he began his stage career by holding horses at the doors of London
theatres ; but this, perhaps, is only such a tale as belongs to the fanciful legends that grow
up about the name of an illustrious man. Wvatever may have been his start in London,
this is certain, that seven years after his arrival there, we find him on terms of intimate
friendship with that nobleman and noble man, Henry Wriothesley, Earl of Southampton.
To him Shakespeare dedicated in 1593 his Venus and Adonis, and the next year the Rape of
Lucrece, two poems peculiarly charming for their virile thought, quaint fancy, rich phraseology
and felicitous expression. To the just appreciation, munificent patronage, and warm friend-
ship of the illustrious Earl, we owe perhaps some of the finest of the Shakespearian dramas.
By Southampton’s generosity, the poet was relieved from the drudgery cf the stage and
placed in a position to employ his genius to its best advantage. On us then, for whom that
genius has clothed the dead forms of history with a vital breath, and permitted us to speak
face to face, as it were, with such personages as Cesar, Richard the Third, Egypt's Queen,
Coriolanus and the Prince of Denmark, there is the obligation of everlasting gratitude to
Henry Wriothesley.

In 1596 Hamnet, Shakespeare's son, died at the age of twelve years, and the great
dramatist lost the only heir of his race and fame. This was a heavy blow; for Shakespeare
was then in the height of his influence and prosperity, a man whose reputation awed to a
certain degree even the imperious Elizabeth, to whom he paid the exquisite compliment of
““Love in Idleness.”’

During the eighteen years he spent in the metropolis, he amassed a comparatively large
fortune and won an eminence that places his name mountainpeaked and alone above all his
contemporaries. Among these were men like Raleigh, Jonson, Beaumont, Fletcher, Selden
and Sidney—cosmopolitans all—yet, with the exception of Jonson, there is no authentic proof
that he ever had any personal associations with them,

Hence we have the anomaly of a man whose genius was so perfect that without the aid of
experience it could sound all the depths and shallows of human experience ; and vet, so far
as we can judge, the petty prejudices of the time excluded the actor from the circles that
acknowledged the glory of the poet. In life, as in fame, the greatest of Englishmen seemed
destined to be apart and solitary.

In 1610, or 1612, he retired to his native place at Stratford, where, after four years of
quiet country life, he died in 1616, his death resulting as the story goes, from a fever occa-
sioned by over-drinking in honor of a visit from his friend, Ben Jonson. On the 26th of
April, two days after his decease, he was buried in the Church of Stratford, which still
preserves his hallowed ashes. Over his tomb is this epitaph :

“Good frend for Jesus s.ike torbeare,
To digg the dust encloased heare :
Blese be the man that spares thes stones,
And curst be he that moves my bones."

If one sentence could sum up the stupendous literary merits of this Colossus of Letters,
it would probably be something akin to this: that Shakespeare is greatest because he is
truest and completest of all poets in his delineation of the hopes and fears and aspirations,
the hates, furics and ambitions, the fancies and imaginations, the quiescence and activities,
the oblivions and the memories, the engaging frankness and the subtle turnings of the human
heart. Nothing of interest to man escapes his all observing eve and penetrating glance. He
has recorded his impressions, and the sublimity of the truth in which they are clothed has
given him the crown and sceptre in the Empire of Mind. As Edward V. says of Cesar
in Richard IIL:

“Death makes no conquest of his conqueror,
For now he lives in fame though not in life.”
HAMLET. 93

 

HAMLET.

Act I., Scene first, opens at Elsinore, in Denmark. Bernardo, an officer,
relieves Francisco, a soldier, from his guard, and Francisco says “ For this
relief, much thanks.” Marcellus, a brother officer, and Horatio, the friend
of Hamlet, join Bernardo, and the conversation turns upon a ghost which
has been said to have appeared, the previous nights, about the Palace of the
King. In the midst of their conversation the ghost enters, but when ap-
proached, departs again. Hordtio discourses on the subject, and remarks,
regarding similar portents in the past :

A little ere the mightiest Julius fell,
The graves stood tenantless, and the sheeted dead
Did squeak and gibber in the Roman strec ts.

The ghost re-enters, but at the crowing of the cock fades out of view.
The scene ends with their departure in search of Hamlet.

In Scene second, the King, Queen, Hamlet, Polonius, Laertes and
courtiers are present in a room of state. The King, after dispatching
envoys to Norway, and bidding farewell to Laertes, who is off for France,
addresses Hamlet as “ My Cousin Hamlet, and my son,” at which Hamlet
mutters under his breath :

A little more than kin, and less than kind.

The King and Queen both attempt to rouse Hamlet from the sorrow
occasioned by the death of his father, the late King of Denmark, whose
crown is now worn by Hamlet’s uncle. They make no impression, however,
owing to the disgust he feels that his mother should have married his uncle
only two months after the late King’s death. On their departure, Hamlet,
left alone, cries out:

O, that this too too solid flesh would melt,
How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable
Seem to me all the uses of this world !

That it should come to this!
But two months dead !—nay, not so much, not two:
So excellent a King ; that was, to this,
Hyperion to a satyr: so loving to my mother,
That he might not beteem the winds of Heaven,
Visit her face too roughly. Heaven and earth!
Must l remember ? why, she would hang on him
As if increase of appetite had grown
94 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

By what it fed on. And yet, within a month,—
Let me not think on’t; —Frailty, thy name is woman !—

But break, my heart: for I must hold my tongue!

Horatio, Marcellus and Bernardo enter Hamlet greets Horatio, who
sivs he came to see the dead King’s funeral, whereat the Prince exclaims,
‘1 think, it was to see my mother’s wedding,” and bitterly adds

Thrift, thrift, Horatio! the funeral-baked meats

Did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables.
Then speaking of his father, Hamlet says :

He was a man, take him for all in all,

I shall not look upon his like again.

Horatio tells him of the ghost, which is said so ciosely to resemble

Hamlet’s father, and says the spirit has
A countenance more
In sorrow than in anger.
And Hamlet, after hearing all, exclaims:

I'll speak to it, though hell itself should gape.

The next scene portrays the parting of Laertes and Ophelia, children of
Polonius. Her brother warns Ophelia to beware of Hamlet's love, and
says :

The chariest maid is prodigal enough,
If she unmask her beauty to the moon
Virtue itself scapes not caluminious strokes.

To which Ophelia rejoins :
: But, good my brother,
Do not, as some ungracious pastors do,
Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven;
Whil’st like a puff'd and reckless libertine,
Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads.

Polonius enters at this point, and greets them with:
‘\ double blessing is a double grace ;
Bidding Laertes a God-speed, the old man says :

: » Give thy thoughts no tongue,
Nor any unproportion’d thought his act.

Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar.

The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried,
Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel :
HAMLET. 95

 

But do not dull thy palm with entertainment

Of each new-hatch’d, unfledg’d comrade. Beware
Of entrance to a quarrel, but, being in,

Bear it, that the opposer may beware of thee.

Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice:

Take each man’s censure, but reserve thy judgment.
Costly thy habit, as thy purse can buy,

But not express’d in fancy; rich, not gaudy:

For the apparel oft proclaims the man.

Neither a borrower, nor a lender be:

For loan oft loses both itself and friend ;
And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.
This above all,— To thine own self be true ;
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou can’‘st not then be false to any man.

Laertes departs, and Polonious also adds his caution to Ophelia to
beware of Hamlet’s passion.

Scene fourth shows Hamlet and Horatio waiting for the appearance of
the ghost. Hamlet complains of the cold, and Horatio agrees that :

It is a nipping and an eager air.

The sound of feasting and music breaks upon their ears, and wassail
songs are heard. Horatio asks if it is Danish custom, to which Hamlet
replies:

Ay, marry, is’t:
But to my mind, though I am native here,
And to the manner born,— it is a custom
More honor’d in the breach than the observance.

After some further exchange of conversation, they are startled by the
appearance of the spirit, and Hamlet exclaims:

Angels and ministers of grace defend us!

Then addressing the ghost, the Prince interrogates :

What may this mean,
That thou, dead corse, again in complete steel
Revisit’st thus the glimpses of the moon,
Making night hideous ?

The spirit beckons Hamlet to follow him, and though Horatio and Mar-
cellus attempt to restrain the Prince, he obeys. Horatio sadly muses on
the occurrence :

Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.
96 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

 

In Scene fifth the apparition says to Hamlet :

. . . Iam thy father’s spirit;
Doom’d for a certain term to walk the night ;
And, for the day, confin’d to fast in fires,
Till the foul crimes, done in my days of nature,
Are burnt and purged away. But that I am forbid
To tell the secrets of my prison-house,
I could a tale unfold, whose lightest word
Would harrow up thy soul; freeze thy young blood;
Make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres ;
Thy knotted and combined locks to part,
And each particular hair to stand on end
Like quills upon the fretful porpentine.

Then the ghost tells the Prince that it was sent from its mortal body by
2‘ murder most foul,’ and says the murderer is the present King of Den-
mark. Hamlet cries out:

O, my prophetic soul! my uncle.

The spirit hastens its discourse, describes the murder by the pouring of
poison into the late King’s ears, and urges revenge. The suddenness of
the murder is the especially damning fact, for, as the spirit says :

No reckoning made, but sent to my account
With all my imperfections on my head.

Then, perceiving the dawn, the ghost bids Hamlet farewell :

The glow-worm shows the matin to be near,
And ‘gins to pale his ineffectual fire.

The Prince in meditaticn bitterly concludes, as he reflects upon his
uncle’s crime :

That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain.

Horatio and Marcellus enter, and are both required to swear to the
utmost secrecy. Horatio marvels at the events, to which surprise Hamlet
answers,

There are more things in Heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

The voice of the spirit beneath urges them all again and again to take
the oath, until Hamlet says, Rest, rest, perturbed spirit.” Then, as they
all depart, the Prince exclaims ;

The time is out of joint; O cursed spite
That ever I was born to set it right!
HAMLET. 97

 

ACT II. Scene first. Polonius gives Reynaldo, his servant, funds for
Laertes, and also cautions that an eye be kept upon the behavior of the
youth. Reynaldo departs and Ophelia enters. She tells her father of the
strange, distracted conduct of Hamlet. Polonius thinks he has found the
secret of the Prince’s madness, namely, Hamlet’s love for Ophelia.

Scene second shows the King endeavoring to work through the court-
iers, Guildenstern and Rosencrantz, to the en1 that Hamlet’s cheerfulness
may be restored. Polonius interrupts the conversation and announces the
return of Denmark’s embassy to Norway. This being fully heard, Polonius
says that Hamlet is mad:

Mad call I it: for, to define true madness,
What is’t but to be nothing else but mad ?

4

The Queen impatiently :
More matter with less art
To which Polonius replies :

That he is mad, ’tis true: ’tis true, ‘tis pity;
And pity ’tis ’tis true.

Then he reads a love letter of Hamlet to Ophelia, and they agree to ob-
serve the pair, and note the actions of the Prince. They all depart, and
Hamlet enters. Polonius waits and speaks to him, and Hamlet makes a
reference to Ophelia, whereat Polonius says :

Still harping on my daughter.
Hamlet speaks so shrewdly, that Polonius observes :

Though this be madness, yet there’s method in it.

Polonius departs, and Guildenstern and Rosencrantz appear. Hamlet
bewails the misery of the world, but they do not agree, whereupon he
remarks: ‘ Why, then, ’tis none to you ; for there is nothing either good or
bad, but thinking makes it so.” Then speaking of man, he says: ‘‘ What a
piece of work is man! How noble in reason! how infinite in faculty ! in form
and moving, how express and admirable! in action, how like an angel! in
apprehension, how like a god! the beauty of the world! the paragon of ani-
mals! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust ? man delights not
me,— ior woman neither.”

The courtiers try to argue him out of his mood, but he significantly
shows his knowledge of their design, by the remark, “ when the wind is
southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw.”

At this point Polonius enters and announces that he has secured a band
of players. Hamlet greets them cordially, and when the other courtiers
98 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

 

depart, he hires the chief of the troupe to play the murder of Gonzago in
exact imitation of Hamlet's father. Thereupon the Prince exclaims :

The play’s the thing
Wherein I'll catch the conscience of the King.

ACT IIL, Scene first, deals with Hamlet’s interview with Ophelia. The
Prince enters, soliloquizing thus :

To be, or not to be, that is the question :—
Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind, to suffer

The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune;

Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,

And, by opposing, end them ?—To die,—to sleep,—
No more ;—and, by a sleep, to say we end

The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to,—'tis a consummation
-Devoutly to be wish’d. To die;—to sleep :-—

To sleep! perchance to dream ;—ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,

Must give us pause: there's the respect,

That makes calamity of so long life ;

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,
The pangs of despis'd love, the law’s delay,

The insolence of office, and the spurns

That patient merit of the unworthy takes,

When he himself might his quietus make

With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life ;

But that the dread of something after death,—
The undiscover'd country, from whose bourn

No traveller returns,—puzzles the will;

And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of ?

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution

Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought;

And enterprises of great pith and moment,

With this regard, their currents turn awry,

And lose the name of action.

Ophelia enters, and returns his presents in the following words :

Take these again ; for to the noble mind,
Rich gifts wax poor, when vivers prove unkind,
HAMLET. 99

 

He tells her that he does not love her, and bids her
To a nunnery, go; and quickly too.
She bewails his shattered reason and his sad estate :

The glass of fashion, and the mould of form,

The observed of all observers! quite, quite down!
Now see that noble and most sovereign reason,
Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh.

Scene second opens with Hamlet’s advice to the players not to “out-
herod Herod” in their acting, the chief purpose of which is ‘to hold the
mirror up to nature.” Any extravagance, “though it make the unskillful
laugh, cannot but make the judicious grieve.” After arrangements are made
for the play, Hamlet says to Horatio, in referring to the latter’s honesty :

Nay, do not think I flatter. °

No, let the candied tongue lick absurd pomp,
And crook the pregnant hinges of the knee,
Where thrift may follow fawning.

Give me that man,
That is not passion’s slave, and I will wear him
In my heart’s core, ay, in my heart of heart,
As I do thee.

The King, Queen, courtiers and afterwards the players enter. The
latter enact the murder of Gonzago, whose wife reiterates her love for him.
Hamlet questions his mother regarding this particular phase of the play,
and is answered :

The lady doth protest too much, methinks.

The King inquires about the play, whether there be any offense in it, but
Hamlet says none whatever :

Let the
Galled jade wince, our withers are unwrung.

The actors continue, and one pours poison in the ear of sleeping Gon-
zago, whereat Hamlet’s uncle rises in fright and rushes away, followed by
all the others, save Hamlet and Horatio. The former says:

Why, let the stricken deer go weep,
The hart unyalled play :

For some.must watch, while some must sleep ;
So runs the world away.
100 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

 

Guildenstern and Rosencrantz come with the message that the Queen
desires to see Hamlet in her chamber. He responds :

We shall obey, were she ten times our mother.

Polonius enters and pretends with Hamlet that a distant cloud resembles
a camel, a weasel, and a whale, whereupon the Prince remarks :

They fool me to the top of my bent.
Polonius departs, and Hamlet muses :
‘Tis now the very witching time of night;

When churchyards yawn, and hell itself breathes out
Contagion to this world.

Scene III. shows the King plotting with Guildenstern and Rosencrantz to
inveigle Hamlet into a trip to England. The King, after these courtiers
go out, exclaims :|

O, my offense is rank, it smells to Heaven;
In the corrupted currents of this world,
Offense’s gilded hand may shove by justice:
And oft ’tis seen, the wicked prize itself
Buys out the law; but ‘tis not so above.

Hamlet comes upon him at prayer, but decides to postpone, for the
present, revenge.
In Scene fourth, Hamlet upbraids his mother, who says:

Hamlet, thou hast thy father much offended.

The Prince, by his manner, frightens the Queen, who calls for help, a call
repeated by Polonius who has hidden himself behind the curtain, Hamlet
draws his sword, runs it through the arras and slays Polonius. Then the
Prince continues the arraignment of his mother as guilty of

a8 Such an act

That blurs the grace and blush of modesty ;
Calls virtue, hypocrite ; takes off the rose
From the fair forehead of an innocent love,
And sets a blister there ; makes marriage vows
As false as dicers’ oaths.

Then he contrasts his father and his uncle:

Look here, upon this picture, and on this;
The counterfeit presentment of two brothers,
See, what a grace was seated on this brow :
Hyperion’s curls ; the front of Jove himself ;
HAMLET." IOI

 

An eye like Mars, to threaten and command ;
A station like the herald Mercury,
New-lighted on a Heaven-kissing hill;

A combination, and a form, indeed,

Where every god did seem to set his seal,
To give the world assurance of a man.

His uncle he describes as a “ King of shreds and patches.” The ghost
enters, but does not appear to the Queen, who thinks Hamlet’s madness is
affecting him again. But he replies

Lay not that flattering unction to your soul.
He urges her to cease association with the King, and says:

Assume a virtue if you have it not,

and adds
I must be cruel, only to be kind.

ACT IV., Scene first, the King, Queen, Guildenstern and Rosencrantz
discuss the aberration of the Prince. In Scene second, the two latter come
for the body of Polonius. In Scene third, the King meditates :

woe Diseases, desperate grown
By desperate appliance are relieved,
Or not at all.

Hamlet and Guildenstern enter, and Hamlet, after much wordy fencing,
tells where he has placed the body of Polonius.

Scene fourth shows Fortinbras, Prince of Norway, with captain and
soldiers, marching against Poland. Hamlet muses on the uselessness of the
expedition :

Rightly to be great,
Is not to stir without great argument,
But greatly to find quarrel in a straw,
When honour’s at the stake.

In Scene fifth, at Elsinore, in the Palace, Horatio tells the Queen the
madness of Ophelia. The Queen, fearing the effect of the girl’s distracted
speech, exclaims :

So full of artless jealousy is guilt,
It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.

Ophelia enters, and the King reflects,

When sorrows come, they come not single spies,
But in battalions !
102 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

 

Then Laertes, at the head of a tumultuous mob, breaks into the palace
and threatens the King, who calms the Queen with the words :

do not fear our person ;
There’ s such divinity doth hedge a King,
That treason can but peep to what it would.

Then he explains to Laertes that he is guiltless of the death of Polonius,
but the conversation is interrupted by the entrance of Ophelia, who sings
various songs and strews flowers about the room :

There's rosemary, that’s for remembrance ;
Pray, you, love remember : and there is pansies,
That’s for thoughts.

The King assures Laertes he will tell him all at another time.

Scene sixth announces to Horatio the capture of Hamlet, on his way to
England, by pirates.

Scene seventi: develops a plot between the King and Laertes for the
destruction of the Prince, whose return is just announced. T.uertes is to
fence with Hamlet and use a poisoned foil. In the midst of the plot the
Queen enters and with the exclamation,

One woe doth tread upon another's heel,

reports the drowning of Ophelia.

ACT V., Scene first, opens on a churchyard. Two gravediggers are
singing at their work. Hamlet and Horatio approach. The former ques-
tions one of the clowns, but gets such painfully exact answers, that he says :
‘‘ How absolute the knave is! We must speak by the card, or equivocation
will undo us.” Finally, one of the diggers throws out the skull of Yorick.
Hamlet picks it up. ‘Alas! poor Yorick !—I knew him, Horatio: a fellow
of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy : he hath borne me on his back a
thousand times; and now how abhorred in my imagination it is! My
gorge rises at it." Then he continues :

To what base uses we may return, Horatio

Imperious C.esar, dead, and turn’d to clay,
Might stop a hole to keep the wind away.

The funeral of Ophelia approaches. Laertes says :

Lay her i’ the earth:
And from her fair and unpolluted flesh
May violets spring.

The Queen adds, as she scatters flowers :

Sweets to the sweet: Farewell !
RICHARD Ill. 103

 

Hamlet and Laertes quarrel, but the King interferes, and advises the
latter to bide his time. :

Scene second describes the fencing contest between Laertes and the
Prince. Hamlet wins the first point, and Osric cries

“A hit, a very palpable hit.”

Laertes, however, wounds the Prince, who retaliates, and they scuffle and
change foils. Hamlet with Laertes’ poisoned blade wounds its owner. -The
Queen, who had drunk her son’s health in the tampered wine intended by
the King for Hamlet, hereupon expires. Laertes confesses and Hamlet
slays the King. He himself almost immediately falls dead. Horatio says
of him “ Now cracks a noble heart,” and as Fortinbras, the Prince of Nor-
way, enters, they all hail him as the Majesty of Denmark.

RICHARD ITI.

The play of King Richard III. opens with the soliloquy of the Duke of
Gloucester on the peace which has just ended the War of the Roses. This
terrible conflict had lasted more than thirty years, during which the flower
of the English nobility fell in internecine conflicts, and the commercial pros-
perity of the country was completely ruined. Two families claimed the
throne, one headed by the reigning king, Henry VI., and the other by
Richard, Duke of York.

Henry VI. traced his ancestry to John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster,
fourth son of Edward III. Richard, Duke of York, on his mother’s side,
traced his descent from Lionel, Duke of Clarence, third son of Edward IIL,
and on his father’s side to Edmund, Duke of York, fifth son of Edward IIT.
The Black Prince, eldest son of Edward III., had died before his father, and
his claim descended to his son, Richard II., who was deposed by his cousin
Henry Bolingbroke, son of John, Duke of Lancaster. Henry thereupon
assumed the title of Henry IV., notwithstanding that Edmund Mortimer,
great-grandson of Lionel, was the nearest of the blood. This prince dying
shortly afterwards, his claim passed to his sister Anne, whose son was Rich-
ard, Duke of York, father of Edward IV. and Richard III. On the death
of Henry IV., his son, Henry V., succeeded him, and the early death of
this monarch transferred the kingdom to his infant son, Henry VI.
104 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

The weakness of Henry VI. gave Richard of York his opportunity, and
the ambition of this duke led to the struggle known as the War of the Roses
—so called, because a white rose was the symbol of York, and a red rose
was the emblem of Lancaster. The conflict resulted in the signal triumph
of the House of York, but Duke Richard himself lost his life in the war,
and the crown passed to his eldest son, Edward IV., brother of Richard,
Duke of Gloucester, whose soliloquy opens the play. With the single
exception of Hamlet’s monologue on suicide, there is no more famous
soliloquy in the whole domain of literature. It begins with the celebrated
lines :

Now is the winter of our discontent

Made glorious summer by this sun of York,

And all the clouds that lowered upon our house
lu the deep bosom of the ocean buried.

Now are our brows bound with victorious wreathes,
Our bruised arms hung up for monuments,

Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings,
Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.
Grim-visag'd war has smooth’'d his wrinkled front,
And now instead of mounting barbed steeds

To fright the souls of fearful adversaries

He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber,

To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.

Then he turns his mind to his own deformity, and exclaims :

And therefore since | cannot prove a lover
T am determined to prove a villain

And hate the idle pleasures of these days.
Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous,

Isy drunken prophecies, libels and dreams

To set my brother Clarence and the King

In deadly hate, the one against the other ;

In the midst of Richard's meditations, Clarence approaches under arrest,
and on his way to the Tower. Richard grects him, pretends sympathy, and
deplores the evil tongues that have inflamed the anger of the King. Clar-
ence departs, and Lord Hastings appears with the news that Edward IV. ts
sick unto death. The first scene closes with the glee of Richard at the
prospect of the vacant throne,

In the next scene, Anne, daughter of Warwick, enters, accompanying
the dead body of Uenry VI. to the place of burial. The bearers rest awhile,
and Anne with lamentations curses Richard for the murder of both the dead
RICHARD LI. 105
King and his son, her late husband. In the midst of her grief, Richard
appears and proposes for her hand. She turns upon him in fury, whereat he
replies :

It is a quarrel most unnatural

To be revenged on him that loveth thee,

and continues with his honeyed words and smooth assertions, till she has
given her consent. No sooner is she gone than he exults :

Was ever woman in this humour wooed ?
Was ever woman in this humour won?

And I no friend to back my suit withal
But the plain devil and dissembling looks
And yet to win her,— all the world to nothing !

Then he recalls her husband whom he murdered, and remarks:

A sweeter and a lovelier gentleman

Framed in the prodigality of nature

Young, valiant, wise; and, no doubt, right royal,
The spacious world cannot again afford.

Then ironically contrasting his own deformity, he concludes :

Shine out, fair sun, till I have bought a glass,
That I may see my shadow as I pass.

Scene third opens in a room in the palace where Edward’s queen and a
number of nobles are conversing about the King’s health, Richard enters,
and charges the queen with undermining himself and Clarence in the opin-
ions of the King. He says:

Because I cannot flatter and speak fair,

Smile in men’s faces, smooth, deceive and cog,
Duck with French nods and apish courtesy,

I must be held a rancorous enemy.

Cannot a plain man live and think no harm,
But thus his simple truth must be abused

By silken, sly, insinuating Jacks?

The queen denies the imputation, whereupon he rejoins :

I cannot tell; the world is grown so bad

That wrens may prey, where eagles dare not perch.
Since every Jack became a gentleman,

There’s many a gentle person made a Jack.
106 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

 

 

 

The quarrel hereupon becomes general, and Margaret, queen of Henry
VI., appears, and curses all, especially Richard, whom she calls a

“ poisonous, bunchbacked toad.”

A summons from the King ends the broil and Richard is left alone. Two
murderers appear, and are hired to dispatch the Duke of Clarence.

Scene fourth changes to the Tower. Clarence relates to the keeper a
dream in which he imagined he was drowning, and gives the following
splendid narrative :

O Lord, methought what pain it was to drown!
What dreadful noise of water in my ears!
What sights of ugly death within my eyes!
Methought I saw a thousand fearful wrecks.

A thousand men that fishes gnawed upon;
Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl,
Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels,

All scattered in the bottom of the sea:

Some lay in dead men’s skulls; and in the holes
Where eyes once did inhabit, there were crept,
As ‘tere in scorn of eyes, reflecting gems,
That woo'd the slimy bottom of the deep,

And mocked the dead bones that lay svattered by.

Shortly after the murderers enter, take charge of the Duke, stab him and
throw him into a cask of Malmsey wine.

Act I. opens off a room inthe Palace. King Edward has just effected a
reconciliation of the various factions, when Richard enters and announces
the death of Clarence. The King is overcome and retires to his room in
grief. Richard charges the death to the influence of the queen.

In scene second the Duchess of York is comforting the children of Clar-
ence when the Queen rushes in bewailing King Edward's death. Richard
and Buckingham shortly follow, and the latter proposes that the Prince at
once be fetched to London for the coronation.

‘Scene third expresses, through the conversation of two citizens, the gen-
eral fear of evil times. :

In scene fourth the news is brought to Queen Elizabeth, the Duchess of
York and the Archbishop, that the Queen's friends, Rivers and Grey, have
been arrested by Richard, whereupon she and little Vork, Edward the Fifth’s
brother, take sanctuary, In this scene Elizabeth says of the prating York :
“Pitchers have cars.”

Act ILL opens on the arrival of Edward V. in London, where his uncle,
Richard, and Buckingham propose that he make the ‘Tower a home until
RICHARD III. 107

 

his coronation, The King demurs, but soon becoming interested in the his-
tory of the structure, asks whether it is of record that the Tower was built
by Julius Caesar, and remarks :

But say, my Lord, it were not register’d,
Methinks the truth should live from age to age,
As ‘twere retailed to all posterity,

Even to the general all-ending day.

Then speaking of Czesar, he continues :

That Julius Cazesar was a famous man;
With what his valor did enrich his wit,

His wit set down to make his valor live.
Death makes no conquest of this conquerer,
For now he lives in fame though not in life.

Whereat Richard remarks, under his breath :
Short summers lightly have a forward spring.

A few moments afterwards, little York appears and enters into biting
repartee with Gloucester, in which the latter by double meanings foreshadows
the death of both the children. The King consents to go to the Tower, and
after his departure, Buckingham and Catesby plot the elevation of Richard,
who promises the Earldom and movables of Hereford to Buckingham.

In the next scene Catesby fails to corrupt Lord Hastings, and in scene
third Rivers, Grey and Vaughan are led to execution.

Scene fourth opens on a council in the Tower, at which Lord Hastings
is present and urges the immediate coronation of Edward. Richard enters,
and learning of Hasting’s unfavorable designs, accuses him of witchcraft,
and brutally exclaims :

Off with his head! Now by St. Paul I swear,
> J will not dine until I see the same.

In scene fifth, Richard, on the Tower walls, receives the head of Hast-
ings. The Lord Mayor comes and promises to justify the execution to the
citizens of London. Richard dispatches Buckingham to attend the public
meeting, and cast doubts on the legitimacy of King Edward, and King
Edward’s sons.

Scene sixth presents a scrivener moralizing on the indictment of Hastings
and bewailing the evil of the times.

Scene seventh, in Baynard’s castle, describes Buckingham’s report of
London's coldness towards the claims of Richard. Shortly after, under the
108 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

stress of Buckingham’s designs, the Lord Mayor with a deputation waits
upon Richard and begs him to accept the crown. At first he affects to
refuse :

To bear the golden yoke of sovereignty,
but finally consents, and all set up a shout of forced thanksgiving.

Act IV., scene first, portrays Queen Elizabeth, the Marquess of Dorset,
the old Duchess of York, and Lady Anne, Duchess of Gloster, before the
Tower, on their way to visit the Princes. They are refused admittance,
and Anne is summoned to the coronation of Richard. Weeping, she departs,
whereat the Queen says :

Farewell thou woful welcomer of glory!

In scene second, Richard, crowned and in state, approaches Buckingham

with the words :
Ah Buckingham, now do I play the touch

To try if thou be current gold indeed !
The Duke pretends not to understand the drift of Richard regarding the
murder of the Princes, and thereupon the King bursts out :
Tut, tut, thou art all ice, thy kindness freezes,
and bitterly adds :
High-reaching Buckingham grows circumspect.
The Iuke reminds the King of his promise about the Earldom and pvs-
sessions of Hereford, whereat the King roars at him:
Thou troublest me! I am not in the vein.

Scene third is the Murderer ‘Tyrrel’s soliloquy on the slaughtered Princes,
during the course of which occurs the famous lines :

Their lips were four red roses on a stalk,
That in their summer beauty kissed each other.

Richard enters, gleefully hears of their death, but has his joy dashed
by the arrival of the news that Morton has fled to the Earl of Richmond,
Richard's rival. Moreover, Buckingham is up in arms; but the old Pan-
tagenet valor rises in Richard, and he cries :

Then fiery expedition be my wing,

Jove's Mercury and herald for a king !

Go, muster men, my counsel is my shield,

We must be brief when traitors brave the field.

Scene fourth pictures Queen Margaret gloating over the misenes of the
House of York, Queen Elizabeth and Richard's mother, the Duchess of
RICHARD TI. 109

 

York, approach, and are taunted by the widow of Henry VI, who says to
the Duchess : ,

From forth the Kennel of thy womb hath crept,

That dog that had his teeth before his eyes,

To worry lambs and lap their gentle blood.

Richard himself appears, only to receive the curses of Margaret, Eliza-
beth and his mother, whose parting words are:

Bloody thou art, bloody will be thy end,
Shame serves thy life and doth thy death attend.

Nothing daunted, the King proposes for the daughter of Elizabeth, who,
in terror, affects to consent. At this juncture Ratcliff and Catesby announce
the arrival of Richmond off the Western coast.

The King summons the Duke of Norfolk to his aid, and warns Lord
Stanley that his son George Stanley’s head will pay the profit of any treason
on the father’s part. Catesby returns and reports the capture of Bucking-
ham, at which the King vindictively exclaims :

Off with his head, so much for Buckingham !

In scene fifth, Stanley plots treason in favor of Richmond.

ACT V. opens at Salisbury with the execution of Buckingham. Scene
second introduces Richmond at Tamworth, where he addresses his soldiers,
and concludes with the lines :

To reap the harvest of perpetual peace
With this one bloody trial of sharp war.
Then later adds :
True hope is swift and flies with swallow’s wings
Kings it makes gods and meaner people Kings.

Scene third is at Bosworth Field, where Richard and Richmond marshal
their respective armies. At nightfall Richard seeks his tent and tries to
sleep, but the ghosts of his victims in ghastly procession haunt his dreams
and curse him on the morrow. They bless the cause of Richmond. Richard
starts from his sleep and tries to reason away the visions, but failing, he

exclaims :
—Fool, do not flatter,
My conscience has a thousand several tongues,
And every tongue brings in a several tale,
And every tale condemns me for a villain.

Ratcliff enters, and, in response to the King’s inquiry, says :

The early village cock
Hath twice done salutation to the morn.
Tro WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

Then Richard, speaking of his dream, exclaims :

Hence bubbling dreams, you threaten here in vain,
Conscience avaunt, Richard's himself again !

The Earl of Richmond, marshaling his host, gives them the battle cry
God and St. George, Richmond and Victory!
Richard addresses his warriors, and cries:

March on, join bravely, let us to’t pell-mell,
If not to heaven, then hand in hand to hell!

Stanley's desertion is announced, but Richard roars .

A thousand hearts are great within my bosom,

and the battle thereupon begins.
Scene fourth opens with Catesby imploring aid from Norfolk and ex-
claiming :
The King enacts more wonders than a man.

Richard rushes in and thunders forth

A horse! a horse! My kingdom for a horse !
to which Catesby responds that he will bring a horse, and the King replies :

I think there be six Richmonds in the field,
Five have I slain to-day instead of him.
A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse !

Richard departs in search of his foe, finds him, nearly slays him, when
Stanley rides against Richard and the last of the Plantagenets is killed. Vhe
act and the play ends with the triumph of Henry Tudor, Earl of Richmond.

ROMEO AND JULIET.

ACT I, scene first, shows a public place in Verona. Two servants to
Capulet, armed with swords and bucklers, enter, and are met by two ser-
vants of Montague. The ancient feud between the families of Capulet and
Montague extends to the servants ; a quarrel ensues, during which Abram
asks of Sampson : “Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?” Sampson replies :
“No, sir, Edo not bite my thumb at vou, sir; but I bite my thumb.”
ROMEO AND JULIET. ery

A fight follows. Benvolio, nephew to Montague, and Tybalt, nephew to
Lady Capulet, enter and participate in the affray. They are followed by
partisans of both houses, and finally Capulet and Montague, the heads of
the rival houses, appear, and words and blows are freely exchanged, until
the opportune appearance of the Prince, with attendants, who commands
peace, chides both parties for their turbulence, and withdraws, followed by
nearly all the combatants. Lady Montague and her husband remain, and
converse with Benvolio in regard to their son Romeo. They question him
as to the cause of Romeo’s melancholy moods. Benvolio answers, that
often

i “before the worshiped Bua
Peered forth the golden window of the East ;’

he had seen Romeo walking in the wood, but

“ Measuring his affections by my own,
That most are busied, when they’re most alone,”

he made no attempt to speak with him. Montague says that Romeo fre-
quently goes forth in the early morning, and returns home

“‘So soon as the all cheering sun
Should in the farthest East begin to draw
The shady curtains from Aurora’s bed,”

u

and darkening his chamber, gives himself up to his sad thoughts, and that
Romeo is
“So far from sounding and discovery
As is the bud bit with an envious worm,
Ere he can spread his sweet leaves to the air,
Or dedicate his beauty to the Sun.”

Lord and Lady Montague then withdraw, and Romeo approaches. Con-
versing with Benvolio, he tells him that he himself is

“Out of her favour, where I am in love.”

Benvolio expresses sympathy with his cousin’s sorrow, and Romeo
replies :
“Why, such is love’s transgression.
Griefs of my own lie heavy in my breast.”

Benvolio asks him what the griefs are, and Romeo answers:

“In sadness, cousin, I do love a woman,”
112 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

 

and after further questioning, he says of the unknown fair one,

ge 8 “She'll not be hit

With Cupid’s arrow, she hath Dian’s wit.”
“She will not stay the siege of loving terms.

Nor bide the encounter of assailing eyes,

Nor ope her lap to saint-seducing gold,”

Benvolio advises him to forget her ; but Romeo says,

“He that is stricken blind, cannot forget
The precious treasure of his eyesight lost
Farewell; thou canst not teach me to forget.”

In scene second, Paris, a kinsman of the Prince, asks of the Lord
Capulet the hand of his daughter Juliet. Lord Capulet urges delay for two
years on account of her extreme youth. He invites the County Paris” to
an entertainment at his house that night, where he would see many “fresh
female buds,” whose charms might eclipse those of his daughter. They
withdraw, and Benvolioand Romeo enter ; Benvolio suggests to Romeo, that

. . . “One fire burns out another's burning,
One pain is lessened by another's anguish ; ”

advises him to be present at the Capulet feast and compare * the fair Rosa-
line whom thou lovest " with other ladies there.

In scene third, Lady Capulet informs Juliet that the Count Paris is a suitor
for her hand, desires her to observe him closely when he comes to the festivity,
and adds :

“This precious book of love, this unbound lover,
To beautify him, only lacks a cover.
That book in many’s eyes doth share the glory,
That in gold clasps locks in the golden story.”

Scene fourth. .\ Street. Romeo, Benvolio, Mercutio with torch bearers
and others on their way to Capulet’s house. Romeo expresses his reluctance
to participate in the festivities.

In scene fifth, a hall in Capulet’s house is shown : Capulet welcomes his
guests, urges the younger ones to dance, and his * Cousin Capulet to sit,
For you and Tare past our dancing days." Romeo's attention is attracted
by the beauty of a lady unknown to him, and he soliloquizes :

“©, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!
Her beauty hangs upon the cheek of night
Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop’'s ear,

Beauty too rich for use, for Earth too dear!’
ROMEO AND JULIET. 113

Tybalt, hearing the voice, and suspecting the speaker to be a Montague,
calls for his rapier.

He is checked by Capulet, who forbids discourtesy to Romeo, his guest.
Tybalt angrily withdraws. Romeo addresses Juliet, each being unknown to
the other,

“Tf I profane with my unworthy hand
This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this —
My lips, two blushing pilgrims ready stand
To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.”

Their conversation is interrupted. Romeo learns who Juliet is and
departs. Juliet is told Romeo’s name, and exclaims :

“My only love sprung from my only hate
To early seen, unknown, and known too late.”

ACT II, scene first, is an open place adjoining Capulet’s garden.
Romeo appears, climbs the wall of the garden, and disappears within.
The second scene is in Capulet’s garden. Romeo speaks

“He jests at scars that never felt a wound.”
Juliet appears at a window, and Romeo exclaims:

“But soft! what light through yonder window breaks ?
It is the East and Juliet is the Sun !
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon.”

“See how she leans her cheek upon her hand!
O, that I were a glove upon that hand
That I might touch that cheek.”

Juliet, unconscious of any listener, thus soliloquizes

“O, Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?
Deny thy father and refuse thy name.”

“What’s ina name? That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet.”

“Romeo, doff thy name;
And for that name which is no part of thee,
Take all myself.”

Romeo hearing this, addresses Juliet :

“T take thee at thy word.”
1 il WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

Juliet recognizes the voice, and warns him of his danger, if he is found
there by any of her kinsmen, and Romeo tells her :

* Alack ! there lies more peril in thine eyes
Than twenty of their swords.”

She asks him :
‘Dost thou love me ?

At lover's perjuries
They say Jove laughs.”

Romeo protests his love:

“Lady, by yonder blessed moon, I swear
That tips with silver all these fruit-trees tops —”

And Juliet replies :

“O, swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon
That monthly changes in her circled orb
Lest that thy love prove likewise variable.”

“ Do not swear at all
Or, if thou wilt, swear by thy pracious self
Which is the ae of my idolatry.’
ss Sie eet, Good nig iit,
This bud of love by summer's ripening breath
May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet.”

The nurse calls her from within the house; she withdraws a moment,
then returns, and Romeo promises to arrange for their marriage, and to
send her word to-morrow, and again Juliet bids him

‘Good night: good night! parting is such sweet sorrow,
That I shall say good night till it be morrow.”

The third scene ts at Friar Laurence'’s cell ‘The friar is gathering herbs.
musing upon their various qualities,

“Naught so vile that on the earth doth live
But to the earth some special good doth give
Nor aught so good, but strained from that fair use,
Revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse :
Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied ;
And vice sometimes by actions dignitied.”

Romeo enters, and discloses his wish that the good friar should unite
him in marriage to Juliet that day. ‘Phe friar consents to do SO,
ROMEO AND JULIET. 115

 

In the fourth scene Benvolio tells Mercutio that Tybalt has sent a chal-
lenge to Romeo. Romeo appear and joins in the lively badinage in which
the others are indulging. Juliet’s nurse enters, and Romeo directs her to
tell her mistress to meet him at Friar Laurence’s cell that afternoon, where
the marriage will take place.

In the fifth scene, the nurse delivers the message to Juliet, and in the
sixth scene, the friar’s cell, while waiting for Juliet, Romeo says, if he may
but call Juliet his own he cares not what may follow, and the friar answers :

“ These violent desires have violent ends
And in their triumph die ; like fire and powder
Which, as they kiss, consume.”

As Juliet enters, he adds,

“Here comes the lady: O, so light a foot
Will ne’er wear out the everlasting flint.”

As they approach the altar, Juliet says to Romeo :

“ They are but beggars that can count their worth,
But my true love is grown to such excess,
I cannot sum up half my sum of wealth.”

ACT III. Scene first. A public place. Benvolio, Mercutio, Romeo
and servants are met by Tybalt aud others of the Capulet faction. Tybalt
attempts to force Romeo to fight. Romeo declines. Mercutio draws his
sword ; Tybalt defends himself. They are soon separated. Tybalt and his
followers withdraw, and Mercutio says:

“Tam hurt;
A plague o’ both your houses! I am sped.”

Romeo tries to cheer him by saying : “The hurt cannot be much.” Mer-
cutio answers: “No, ’tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door,
but ’tis enough, ’twill serve.” He dies, and Tybalt reappearing, Romeo and
Tybalt fight, and Tybalt is killed. Romeo, in deep sorrow, exclaims: “ Oh,
I am Fortune’s fool.”

The Prince enters with attendants, makes enquiry into the deaths of
Mercutio and Tybalt, and Romeo is banished by the Prince.

Scene second. Capulet’s orchard; Juliet, expectant of Romeo, says °

‘Give me my Romeo and when he shall die,
Take him and cut him out in little stars,
And he will make the face of heaven so fine
That all the world will be in love with night,
And pay no worship to the garish sun.”
116 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

 

The nurse enters and tells Juliet of the death of Tybalt and of Romeo's
banishment. Juliet, distracted with grief and horror that Romeo should
have done the dreadful deed, exclaims :

“ Beautiful tyrant! Fiend angelic,”

“Was ever book containing such vile matter,
So fairly bound? 0, that deceit should dwell
In such a gorgeous palace!”

The terrible accumulation of woes proves almost too much for her
reason, swayed as she is by the fierce conflict of the passions of love and
grief. The scene ends with the promise of the nurse to bring Romeo to
her, to take his last farewell.

Scene third takes us again to Friar Laurence’s cell. The friar informs
Romeo of the sentence of banishment pronounced by the Prince, and
Romeo says death would be preferable to banishment from Juliet. The
very flies,

“ May seize
On the white wonder of dear Juliet’s hand
And steal immortal blessing from her lips,”

while Romeo may not ; he is banished. The good friar attempts consolation
by speaking of
“Adversity’s sweet milk, philosophy.”

The nurse enters and describes to Romeo the anguish of Juliet. Romeo
is in despair, but Friar Laurence advises him to go to Juliet, bid her fare-
well, and then travel to Mantua, and in due time the marriage should be
announced, Romeo’s friends would secure a pardon from the Prince, and
call the exile back.

In the fourth scene Capulet promises Paris that Juliet shall marry him
on Thursday next, and directs his wife to prepare Juliet for the wedding.

The fifth scene shows Romeo taking leave of Juliet in her chamber.
Juliet says ;

“Wilt thou be gone? It is not yet near day.
It was the nightingale and not the lark,
That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear,”

and Romeo answers :

‘It was the lark, the herald of the morn.
Night’s candles are burned out and jocund day
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain top,”
ROMEO AND JULIET. 117

 

and Juliet at last, realizing his danger in longer tarrying, urges him to go.

“Tt is the lark that sings so out of tune,
Straining harsh discords and unpleasing sharps.”

He leaves her, and Lady Capulet enters, and informs her daughter of the
marriage project. Juliet refuses to carry out the wishes of her parents.
The father adds his commands, and Juliet, under pretence of confession,
goes to Father Laurence for advice.

ACT IV. In the first scene Juliet finds Paris at Friar Laurence’s cell.
He takes his leave, and Juliet tells her new trouble to the friar. He counsels
her to consent to the marriage, and hands her a phial containing a powerful
drug, which will cause the appearance of death in the person'taking it. He
tells her to drink the potion Wednesday night ; she would be found appar-
ently dead on Thursday morning, and, according to custom, she would be
laid in the monument of the Capulets.

Romeo would be advised and at hand when she awakened, to bear her
away to Mantua, Juliet consents to the plan, and in the second scene in-
forms her parents she has repented and will carry out their wishes.

Scene third. Juliet dismisses her nurse at night, drinks the potion and
throws herself upon the bed. Scene fourth shows the family busied with the
final preparations for the marriage, and in scene fifth the lifeless body is
found in Juliet’s chamber, wept over, and carried to the tomb.

ACT V. Scene first. In Mantua; Romeo is informed by his servant,
Balthasar, that Juliet is dead. He resolves to go to her tomb and there
commit suicide. He finds an apothecary, who at first refuses to sell him
poison, as the law of Mantua makes the sale of poisons a capital offense.
He afterwards yields to a bribe of forty ducats, explaining :

“My poverty, but not my will consents.”

Scene second. Friar John explains to Friar Laurence that the letter
intended for Romeo at Mantua had not been sent, and Friar Laurence, in
distress, hurries away, in order to be at hand when Juliet awakes from her
trance, to explain Romeo's failure to arrive as intended.

Scene third. A churchyard containing the Capulet monument. Paris
and his page enter, bearing flowers and a torch. He hears footsteps and
retires, and Romeo and Balthasar enter, carrying a mattock. Romeo, dis-
missing his servant, breaks open the door of the monument. Paris, seeing
the act, rushes forward, and threatens Romeo with death, as a penalty for
his sacrilege. Romeo entreats him,

“Tempt not a desperate man.”

Z
173 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

 

Paris defies him ; they fight, and Paris is slain. Romeo laments over him,
lays him within the monument, and seeing Juliet lying there, still insensible,

thus apestOpaliss her :
“ Beauty's ensign yet

ie crimson in thy lips, and in thy cheeks,
And death’s pale flag is not advanced there.”

“ Eyes, look your last.
Arms take your last embrace !”

He drinks the poison and dies just as Friar Laurence enters the monu-
ment. At that moment Juliet wakes. The friar is alarmed by the approach
of the watch, and tries to take Juliet away with him, but she refuses to leave
the dead body of her husband. She hears the watch close at hand, and
snatches Romeo's dagger, buries it in her breast, and dies. The watchmen
find the dead bodies, and messengers are dispatched in all directions. The
Prince soon appears upon the scene, followed by the Montagues and Capu-
lets. Friar Laurence is called upon by the Prince to tell what he knows,
and his testimony, joined with that of the page of Paris, and of Balthasar,
makes the cause of these terrible events very plain.

The Prince calls before him the heads of the rival houses and shows
them the results of their wicked enmity; the two bereaved fathers are
reconciled over the dead bodies of their children, and the tragedy closes
with these words from the mouth of the Prince:

“ For, never was a story of more woe,
Than this of Juliet, and her Romeo.”

 

NACBE TH,

The play of Macbeth, regarded by some as the greatest of the Shake-
spearian tragedies, opens on a deserted heath in Scotland. Amid thunder
and lightning three witches enter. One begins ;

“When shall we three meet again >"
to which another responds :

* When the hurlyburly’s done,
When the battle’s lost and won,”

and the third concludes :

“That will be ere set of sun.”
MACBETH. 119

Then saying they will meet Macbeth, they vanish, all exclaiming :
“Fair is foul and foul is fair!”

Scene second shows a camp near Forres. An alarum sounds, and King
Duncan, attended by his sons, Malcolm and Donalbain, enters with Lennox.
A bleeding soldier is brought in, who reports that Macbeth has routed the
rebel chief Macdonwald. On the heels of this news the Lords of Ross and
Angus appear and recount the triumphs of Macbeth over the combined
forces of the Norweyan King and the rebel lord of Cawdor. Duncan pro-
nounces the doom of the latter nobleman, sends greeting to Macbeth and
dubs that valiant chief the “‘ Thane of Cawdor.”

In scene three, the witches reappear upon the heath and cast a charm.
A drum sounds and Macbeth and Banquo enter. The witches, one after an-
other, hail Macbeth as thane of Glamis, thane of Cawdor, and as future
king. Macbeth starts, and becomes wrapt in thought, whereat Banquo
questions the withered hags as to his own destiny. Two hail him as lesser
and greater than Macbeth, and the third says: “Thou shalt get kings,
though thou be none.” Macbeth shakes off his meditation, and expresses
wonder at his own predicted fortune. Glamis he is, but Cawdor lives,

govae Ug) aS) “and to be King,
Stands not within the prospect of belief.”

He questions the witches further, but they disappear. While Banquo
and Macbeth are turning this strange experience over in their minds, Ross
and Angus arrive to hail Macbeth as Cawdor. At this fulfilment of the
witches’ prophecy, the newly created nobleman whispers to himself :

‘Glamis and Thane of Cawdor !
The greatest is behind.”

Then, turning to Banquo, he asks him if it is not possible the children of Ban-
quo shall be kings, to which Banquo cautiously responds :

“ Oftentimes to win us to our harm,
The instruments of darkness tell us truths;
Win us with honest trifles to betray ’s
In deepest consequence.”

Macbeth, communing with himself, exults :

“Two truths are told,
As happy prologues to the swelling act
Of the imperial theme.”
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

120

 

Then a thought crosses his mind, that makes, as he expresses it, “ My
seated heart knock at my ribs,” and then putting aside the suggestion of
murder, he muses :

“Tf chance will have me King, why chance may crown me,
Without a stir.”

Banquo interrupts the train of speculation by reminding him that they
are waiting on his leisure. He excuses himself for detaining them, and they
all depart together.

Scene four is at Forres, and discloses a room in the Palace. Malcolm
acquaints the King with the execution of the deposed thane of Cawdor, and
says :

“ Nothing in his life,
Became him like the leaving it.””

To which Duncan replies, on hearing of the rebel’s repentance

< wae +)! There's novart,

To find the mind's construction in the face :
He was a gentleman on whom I built

An absolute trust.”

Macbeth now enters with Banquo, Ross and Angus. The King greets
him most affectionately, and extends like courteous welcome to Banquo.
Then the aged monarch, in the assembly of his nobles, proclaims as heir
apparent to the throne Malcolm, his eldest son. Duncan shortly afterwards
expresses his intention of paying an immediate visit to the castle of Mac-
beth, who says he will ride ahead to be the harbinger of the King’s
approach.

In scene fifth, Lady Macbeth, at Inverness Castle, enters, reading a letter
from her husband, in which he sets forth the witches’ prophecy, and its
strange fulfilment in one particular, She exclaims :

“Glamis thou art, and Cawdor; and shalt be,
What thou art promis'd — Yet do I fear thy nature ;
It is too full o’ th’ milk of human kindness
To catch the nearest way. Thou would’st be great,
Art not without ambition; but without
The illness should attend it: What thou would'st highly.
That would’st thou, holily ; would’st not play false, ,
And yet would’st wrongly win,

An attendant enters and informs her of the coming of the King.
Macbeth himself shortly appears, aud in reply to his wife's question as to
MACBETH. ibe

 

when the King intends to leave their castle, replies: ‘‘to-morrow.” At this
Lady Macbeth bursts out :

ibe fae (os “ O, never

Shall sun that morrow see.”

Macbeth responds : ‘“‘ We will speak further.”
Scene sixth represents the meeting of Lady Macbeth and Duncan. In
scene seventh Macbeth soliloquizes on the murder of the King:

If it were done when ’tis done, then ‘twere well.
It were done quickly if th’ assassination

Could trammel up the consequence, and catch
With his surcease success; that but this blow
Might be the be-all and the end-all here,

But here, upon this bank and shoal of time,

We'd jump the life to come. But in these cases,
We still have judgment here; that we but teach,
Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return
To plague th’ inventor. This even-handed justice
Commends the ingredients of our poison’d chalice
To our own lips.

Besides, this Duncan,
Hath borne his faculties so meek, hath been
So clear in his great office, that his virtues
Will plead like angels, trumpet-tongued against
The deep damnation of his taking off.

I have no spur
To prick the sides of my intent ; but only
Vaulting ambition which o’erleaps itself
And falls on the other.

Lady Macbeth enters, and her husband announces he will no longer enter-
tain the design of Duncan’s murder. She upbraids him with weakness, and

accuses him of
Letting “I dare not” wait upon “I would”

Like the poor cat i’ the adage.
Macbeth replies :

I dare do all that may become a man,
Who dares do more is none.

She reiterates her reproach, and he suggests: “If we should fail?’’ At

which she exclaims :
We fail !

But screw your courage to the sticking place,
And we'll not fail ! c
122 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE,

 

She then outlines the plan: to make the guards of Duncan drunk, so
that “ Memory, the warder of the brain,” shall sleep ; thereupon to murder
Duncan and lay the guilt upon the snoring sentinels. Macbeth, in admira-
tion of her courage, cries :

Bring forth men children only !
For thy undaunted metal should compose
Northing but males.

Stirred by her words he thus consents, and girds his spirit for the fearful
deed.

ACT II. Scene first. Banquo and his son Fleance enter with a torch
and are met by Macbeth and a servant also with torch. Banquo is the
bearer of gifts from Duncan to Macbeth, and after a few remarks, the
thane of Glamis is left alone. He sees a vision and exclaims: ‘Is this a
dagger that I see before me?” and as he muses, a bell strikes, whereat he
says :

Hear it not Duncan; for it 1s a knell,
That summons thee to Heaven or to Hell.

Lady Macbeth enters, and fearing some disturbance of their plan, ejac-
ulates: ‘The attempt and not the deed confounds us." Macbeth returns
from the murder all unstrung and imagines he has heard a voice cry out:
“Sleep no more; Macbeth doth murder sleep,” to which trepidation Lady
Macbeth replies: “’Tis the eye of childhood that fears a painted devil.”
(on her departure to stain the garments uf the sentinels with blood, Macbeth
groans to himself :

“Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood
Clean from my hand? No, this, my hand will rather
The multitudinous seas incarnadine.”

Lady Macbeth returns, and unconsciously meets his thoughts with the
remark ; “A little water clears us of this deed.” \ knocking ts heard, and
after the dilatory porter has opened the gate, Macdatf and Lennox enter.
Macbeth and his wife have previously retired, but the former returns, as if
from his bed, and greets the visitors, Macdutt, according to the King’s in-
structions, is to awaken the sovereign at an early hour. He is shown to the
King’s room by Macbeth. On entering it, he is horror stricken at the sight
and rushes out, proclaiming the murder of the Ring Great confusion en-
sues, during which Macbeth kills the guards in pretended Vengeance of the
crime,

Malcolm and Donalbain, sons of Duncan, have their suspicions, and has-
tily Nee the country, one to England and one to Lreland.
MACBETH. 123

 

In scene fourth Macduff informs Ross that the sovereignty has fallen
on Macbeth.

ACT III. Scene first represents a room in the Palace. Banquo enters,
musing upon the strange events, and hopes his posterity will number kings,
as promised by the witches. Macbeth enters, greets Banquo, and invites
him to the royal supper that evening. Banquo accepts, but tells of a jour-
ney he is to make in the afternoon, and thereupon, with his son Fleance, de-
parts. Macbeth hires murderers to follow him, for the usurper says to him-
self :

“He chid the sisters
When first they put the name of King upon me,
And bade them speak to him; then, prophet-like,
They hailed him father to a line of Kings.”

Scene second opens with Lady Macbeth, at the palace; Macbeth pres-
ently enters and says: “We have scotched the snake, not killed it,” and
then, musing on the whole unhappy business, breaks out :

“ Duncan is in his grave,
After life’s fitful fever, he sleeps well ;
Treason has done his worst: nor steel, nor poison,
Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing
Can touch him further !”

Lady Macbeth consoles him, and they proceed to the banquet hall.

In scene three the assassins murder Banquo, but Fleance and his servant
escape.

Scene four discloses a banquet, at which the ghost of Banquo appears,
and terrifies Macbeth out of all prudence. The guilty man exclaims :
“ Thou canst not say I did it: never shake thy gory locks at me.” The
ghost disappears, but the King no sooner gains his composure than it reap-
pears, whereat Macbeth cries out :

“Avaunt and quit my sight. Let the earth hide thee!
Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold ;

Thou hast no speculation in those eyes,

Which thou dost glare with.

Hence, horrible shadow, unreal mockery, hence!"

Then Lady Macbeth dismisses the guests with the injunction :

“Stand not upon the order of your going
But go at once.”
124 WILLIAM SIAKESPEARE,

 

When they are alone, Macbeth learns that Macduff has declined the in-
vitation to the banquet. The King determines to consult the weird sisters
regarding affairs, and adds:

“Tam in blood
Stept in so far, that, should I wade no more,
Returning were as tedious as go o’er.”

Scene fifth pictures an interview between the witches and their mistress,
Hecate. |

In scene sixth Lennox converses with a Lord of the Court, who tells him
that Malcolm is at Edward of England’s palace, and that Macduff has also
fled thither. Their conversation ends with the prayer of both for the down-
fall of Macbeth.

ACT IV., scene first, represents a dark cave; a caldron boiling in the
middle, and the three witches around it. Distant thunder. Macbeth enters
shortly. The witches call up apparitions. One, that of a child, says to the
King:

“ Be bloody, bold and resolute, laugh to scorn

The power of man, for none of woman born
Shall harm Macbeth.”

Another apparition of a child foretells :

“Macbeth shall never vanquished be, until
Great Birnam wood to high Dunsinane hill
Shall come against him.”

Macbeth, delighted, asks if Banquo’s issue shall ever reign, whereat the
witches show him the apparition of eight kings, one after another, until
Macbeth bursts out: “What, will the line stretch out to the crack of
doom?" The witches vanish. Lennox enters, and tells him of the thght
of Macduff, and the King reflects :

“From this moment,
The very firstlings of my heart shall be
The firstlings of my hand,”

and determines to sack the castle of his enemy.

In scene second the murder of Lady Macduff and her child is accomp-
lished, She had been previously warned by a messenger, but resolved to
remain, as she believed that to be her duty, though she said:

“Tam in this earthly world ; where to do harm,
Is often laudable, to do good sometimes
Accounted dangerous folly.”
MACBETH. 125

 

Scene third shows the friendly interview in England between Malcolm
and Macduff, interrupted by the news of the massacre of the latter’s family.
The two at once resolve on the invasion of Scotland.

ACT V., scene first, presents the Court Doctor and a gentlewoman dis-
cussing the sleep-walking fits of Lady Macbeth, who immediately after
enters. The somnambulic Queen exclaims, as she looks at her hands:
“Out damned spot!” and later adds: “All the perfumes of Arabia will not
sweeten this little hand.”’ As she raves, she half discloses the murder of
Duncan and the assassination of Banquo. Then she returns to her chamber.

Scene second shows some of the great Scottish Lords with their attend-
ants marching to the support of the invading Malcolm.

In scene third Macbeth relies on the witches’ prophecy and scouts the
rebels and their forces. Nevertheless, he is heartsick of the toils and tur-
moils: “ My way of life’’ he says,

“Is fall’n into the sear, the yellow leaf ;
And that which should accompany old age,
As honor, love, obedience, troops of friends,
I must not look to have ; but, in their stead,
Curses, not loud but deep, mouth-honor, breath,
Which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not.”

He turns to the doctor and asks about Lady Macbeth. The physician
says she is better, but is troubled with strange fancies; whereat the King
interrogates :

“ Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased,
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow,
Raze out the written troubles of the brain,
And with some sweet oblivious antidote
Cleanse the stuff’d bosom of that perilous stuff
Which weighs upon the heart ?”

On the doctor’s negative reply, Macbeth, in scorn, remarks: ‘Throw
physic to the dogs, I’ll none of it.”

In scene four the soldiers of Malcolm, on coming to Birnam wood, each
hew a bough and carry it, to make the host of the invader seem more ter-
rible. Thus the witches’ prophecy is unconsciously fulfilled.

Scene fifth opens on the Castle of Dunsinane, and Macbeth gives orders:
“Hang out our banners on the outward walls!” As he is bustling with
preparations, the death of the Queen is announced. He is overcome, and
says :

“‘ She should have died hereafter ;
There would have been a time for such a word.
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

Creeps in this petty pace from day to day

To the last syllable of recorded time,

And all our yesterdays have lighted fools

The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle !
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more: it is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

A messenger enters with news that the Birnam wood is coming to Dun-
sinane, at which announcement Macbeth exclaims :

“T pull in resolution, and begin
To doubt the equivocation of the fiend
That lies like truth:

“IT ‘yin to be aweary of the sun,
And wish the estate o’ the world were now undone.
Ring the alarum-bell! Blow, wind! come, wrack!
At least we'll die with harness on our back.”

Scene sixth shows the arrival of the invading army before the Castle.
Scene seventh presents Macbeth in the battle. He slays the son of an
opposing chieftain, and then meets Macduff. Macbeth warns him off from
certain death, as none of woman born may hope to prevail; but the thane
of Fife replies :

** Despair thy charm ;
And let the angel whom thou still hast served
Tell thee, Macduff was from his mother's womb
Untimely ripp'd.”

The usurper cries :

“‘ Accursed be the tongue that tells me so,
For it hath cow'd my better part of man!
And be these juggling fiends no more believed,
That palter with us in a double sense;
That keep the word of promise to our ear,
And break it to our hope. I'll not fight with thee.”

Vo which Macdutf replies: “Then yield thee, coward.” Macbeth in
anyer, cries :
“TL will not yield,
To kiss the ground before young Malcolm's feet,
And to be baited with the rabble’s curse.
AS YOU LIKE IT. 137

 

Though Birnam wood be come to Dunsinane,

And thou opposed, being of no woman born,

Yet I will try the last. Before my body

I throw my warlike shield. Lay on, Macduff,

And damn’d be he that first cries ‘Hold, enough!’ ”

They fight ; Macbeth is slain, and the play ends with the departure of
Malcolm to be crowned at Scone.

AS YOU LIKE IT,

DRAMATIS PERSONA.

DUKE, living in banishment. TOUCHSTONE, a clown.

FREDERICK, his brother, and usurper of his
dominions.

AMIENS, ) Lords, attending on the banished

JAQUES, ; duke.

Le BEAU, a courtier attending upon Fred-
erick.

CHARLES, wrestler to Frederick.

OLIVER,

JAQUES,

ORLANDO,

ADAM,

DENNIS,

{sons of Sir Rowland de Boys.

; servants to Oliver.

SiR OLIVER MARTEXT, a vicar.

ae t shepherds.

WILLIAM, a country fellow, in love with Au-
drey.

A person representing Hymen.

ROSALIND, daughter to the banished duke.

CELIA, daughter to Frederick.

PHEBE, a shepherdess.

AUDREY, a country wench.

Lords, pages and attendants, etc.

Scenes—Oliver’s house ; Duke Frederick’s court ; and the Forest of Arden.

ACT L, scene first, shows the orchard of Oliver’s house.

Orlando and

Adam enter, and Orlando complains bitterly of the neglect of Oliver, who
‘does not treat him like a brother. Oliver enters, and a war of words follows,

in which Orlando demands the thousand crowns left. him in his father’s will.

Oliver then sends for Charles the wrestler, and, telling him Orlando
intended to wrestle and disgrace him before Frederick, gives him permission
to break Orlando’s neck.

Scerie second shows the lawn before the duke’s palace. Rosalind and
Celia enter. Rosalind grieves for her banished father, and Celia cheers her,
and begs her to be merry. Rosalind promises, and suggests falling in love.
Le Beau enters and tells them of the wrestling.

Duke Frederick, Orlando, Charles, Lords and attendants enter. Ros-
alind and Celia comment on Orlando's youth and inexperience, and beg him
 

128 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

 

to desist lest he be injured. Orlando tells them he is determined, and in
the wrestling disables Charles. Rosalind is struck with admiration, and
gives Orlando a chain from her neck. As she is departing, Orlando thanks
her, and Rosalind says :

“He calls us back : my pride fell with my fortunes,
I'll ask him what he would. Did you call, sir?
Sir, you have wrestled well, and overthrown
More than your enemies.”

Scene third is a room in the palace. Rosalind laments the departure of
Orlando, and Celia seeks, by ridiculing her sudden affection, to cure it, but
Rosalind will not be comforted, and cries: ‘‘Oh, how full of briers is this
working-day world!”

The Duke enters and orders Rosalind to leave his court within ten days
under the penalty of death. Celia, who has much love for her cousin, de-
termines to accompany her into banishment, and suggests seeking Rosalind’s
father in the Forest of Arden. That they may travel with safety, Rosalind
dons male attire and Celia is clad in lowly costume.

ACT IL, scene first, shows the Forest of Arden, with the banished
Duke and his followers. The Duke says:

eat a pe “Are not these woods
More free from peril than the envious court ?
Here feel we but the penalty of Adam.

Sweet are the uses of adversity,

Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,

Wears yet a precious jewel in his head ;

And this our life exempt from public haunt

Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in everything.”

Scene four is in the Forest of Arden. Rosalind as Ganymede, Celia as’
Alena, and Touchstone, the Clown, who Hed with them, enter all weary
and worn out, Says Rosalind: “I could tind it in my heart to disgrace
my man’s apparel and to cry like a woman: but I must comfort the
weaker vessel, as doublet and hose ought to show itself courageous to
petticoats,”

In Scene fifth Amiens is singing a song. Jaques asks for more, and
Amicns tells him it will make him melancnoly,

Jaques. Vthank it. More, I prithee, more. I can suck melancholy out
of a sony, as a weasel sucks eggs. More, I prithee, more.

-Imtens. My voice is ragged: I know [ cannot please you.
AS VOU LIKE IT. 129

 

Scene seventh shows the Duke and his followers at dinner in the forest,
when Jaques enters and tells of having met a fool in the forest.

“Good morrow, fool,” quoth I. “No, sir,” quoth he,
“Call me not fool till heaven hath sent me fortune: ”

He then asks the Duke to appoint him fool, and says:

3 “T must have liberty
Withal, as large a charter as the wind,
To blow on whom I please; for so fools have ;
And they that are most galled with my folly,
They most must laugh. And why, sir, must they so?
The “why” is plain as way to parish church.”

Orlando comes in, and demands food for his servant, who is fainting, and
the Duke, turning to his followers, says :

“ Thou seest we are not all alone unhappy:
This wide and universal theatre
Presents more woeful pageants than the scene
Wherein we play in.”

To which Jaques replies :
“All the world’s a stage,

And all the men and women merely players :
They have their exits and their entrances ;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms.
And then the whining school-boy with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like a snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like a furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances ;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper’d pantaloon,
With spectacle on nose and pouch on side,
130 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

 

His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes

And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all ;
That ends this strange eventful history,

Is second childishness and mere oblivion,

Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

Amiens then sings this song :

Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind
As man's ingratitude ;
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,
Although thy breath be rude.

.

Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly :
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly :
Then heigh-ho, the holly !
This life is most jolly.

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
That dost not bite so nigh

As benefits forgot :
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp

As friend remember’d not.

Heigh-ho! sing, etc.

ACT III, scene second, shows Orlando in the forest, Hanging a paper
on a tree, he says :

“ Hang there, my verse, in witness of my love :
And thou, thrice-crowned queen of night, survey
With thy chaste eye, from thy pale sphere above,
Thy huntress’ name that my full life doth sway,
©, Rosalind ! these trees shall be my books,
And in their barks my thoughts I'll character ;
That every eye which in this forest looks
Shall see thy virtue witness'd every where.

Run, run, Orlando, carve on every tree
The fair, the chaste and unexpressive she.

Rosalind and Celia cach find verses praising Rosalind, which had been
hung up by Orlando. Rosalind inquires of Celia whose writing they are,
AS YOU LIKE IT. 131

 

and says: “I would thou couldst stammer, that thou mightst pour this
concealed man out of thy mouth, as wine comes out of a narrow-mouthed
bottle, either too much at once or none at all. I prithee, take the cork out
of thy mouth that I may drink thy tidings.”

Orlando and Jaques enter, and Rosalind, taking advantage of her dis-
guise, jeers at Orlando’s love for the Rosalind to whom he has been pen-
ning so many and such pretty verses, and questions: ‘In good sooth, are
you he that hangs the verses on the trees?” Orlando says: “I swear to
thee, youth, by the white hand of Rosalind, that I am he, that unfortunate
he.” .

Rosalind, ‘“ But are you so much in love as your rhymes speak ?”’

Orlando. ‘“ Neither rhyme nor reason can express how much.”’

Rosalind offers to cure him of his love, and suggests that he imagine her
to be his Rosalind, and woo her.

In scene four Rosalind and Celia discuss Orlando, and, in speaking of
his kisses, Rosalind says : “And his kissing is as full of sanctity as the touch
of holy bread.” To which Celia replies: ‘He hath bought a pair of cast
lips of Diana ; a nun of winter’s sisterhood kisses not more religiously ; the
very ice of chastity is in them.”

In scene five Silvius declares his love to Phebe, but she, being in love
with Ganymede, rejects him.

ACT IV., scene first, is a part of the forest. Rosalind and Celia meet
Jaques. Rosalind questions Jaques’ sadness, and he replies :

“T have neither the scholar’s melancholy, which is emulation, nor the
musician’s, which is fantastical, nor the courtier’s, which is proud, nor the
soldier’s, which is ambitious, nor the lawyer’s, which is politic, nor the
lady’s, which is nice, nor the lover’s, which is all these: but it is a melan-
choly of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many ob-
jects, and indeed the sundry contemplation of my travels in which my often
rumination wraps me in a most humorous sadness.”

Rosalind tells him that “To have seen much and to have nothing is to
have rich eyes and poor hands.” Jaques says he has gained experience.
Rosalind replies :

“T had rather have a fool to make me merry than experience to make
me sad.”

Orlando comes upon them and is taxed for being late, and in the wooing
which follows, Rosalind says: “Men have died from time to time and
worms have eaten them, but not for love.”

Rosalind finally repents, and says she would have twenty such as
Orlando. He asks: “Why twenty?” and she replies: ‘Why, then, can one
desire too much of a good thing ?”
132 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

 

They go through a mock wedding, Celia acting as priest, and Rosalind
remarks that “a woman’s thought runs before her action:” To which Or-
lando replies: “So do all thoughts; they are winged.” He then departs,
promising to return later.

In scene third Orlando does not appear at the time appointed for his
return, but in his stead comes Oliver, who bears a bloody napkin, which
Orlando sends to Rosalind. Oliver explains Orlando’s absence, by telling
how :

“ He left a promise to return again
Within an hour, and pacing through the forest,
Chewing the food of sweet and bitter fancy,
Lo, what befell! he threw his eve aside,
And mark what object did present itself :
Under an oak, whose boughs were moss'd with age
And high top bald with dry antiquity,”

he saw a wretched ragged man sleeping. About his neck was coiled “a
green and gilded snake,” while in the bushes close by lay a lioness waiting
for the man to move. Orlando found the wretched man was his brother,
who had turned him adrift. Orlando gave battle to the lioness and killed
her. Inthe fight he was wounded, and sent the blood-stained napkin to
Rosalind, as his excuse, by the brother he rescued. Upon hearing the story,
Rosalind swoons.

In ACT V., scene second, Orlando and Oliver discuss Rosalind and
Celia, and Oliver confesses his love for Celia. Rosalind enters, and Orlando
tells her of Oliver’s love for Celia, and his determination to marry her on the
morrow, and says:

“But O, how bitter a thing it is to look into happiness through another
man's eyes! By so much the more shall I to-morrow be at the height of
heart heaviness.”

Rosalind then tells Orlando that she can do strange things ; that she has
studied magic, and that when his brother marries, Orlando shall marry
Rosalind, Orlando asks: * Speakest thou in sober meanings?”

In the last scene the old Duke notices a strong resemblance between
Ganymede and his daughter Rosalind, and promises Ganymede that if he
produce Rosalind she may marry Orlando.

While Ganymede departs for Rosalind, Touchstone tells how he quar-
relled upon the “seventh cause,” and says ;

“Upon a lie seven times removed, as thus, sir, I did dislike the cut of a
certain courtier's beard : he sent me word, if I said his beard was not cut
well, he was in the mind it was: this is called the Retort Courteous. If I
sent him word again ‘it was not well cut,’ he would send me word, he cut it
AS YOU LIKE IT. 3

PY
a

 

to please himself : this is called the Quip Modest. If again ‘it was not well
cut,’ he disabled my judgment : this is called the Reply Churlish. If again
‘it was not well cut,’ he would answer, I spake not true: this is called the
Reproof Valiant. If again ‘it was not well cut,’ he would say I lied: this
is called the Countercheck Quarrelsome : and so to the Lie Circumstantial
and the Lie Direct.” e

Asked if he can nominate in order the degrees of the lie, Touchstone
says :

“O sir, we quarrel in print, by the book; as you have books for good
manners: I will name you the degrees. The first, the Retort Courteous ;
the second, the Quip Modest ; the third, the Reply Churlish ; the fourth, the
Reproof Valiant; the fifth, the Countercheck Quarrelsome ; the sixth, the
Lie with Circumstance ; the seventh, the Lie Direct. All these you may
avoid but the Lie Direct, and you may avoid that, too, with an If. I knew
when seven justices could not take up a quarrel, but when the parties were
met themselves, one of them thought but of an If, as, ‘If you said so, then
I said so,’ and they shook hands and swore brothers. Your If is the only
peacemaker ; much virtue in If.”

Rosalind, clad as a woman, with Celia and Hymen enter. In the midst
of a wedding song, Jaques de Boys enters and tells how Duke Frederick,
coming to the forest to murder his banished brother, met a religious man,
was converted from the world and bequeathed his crown to his banished
brother, restoring at the same time their lands to those who were exiled
with him. The wedding merriment proceeds and ends with a dance, after
which Rosalind recites the epilogue :

“Tt is not the fashion to see the lady the epilogue ; but it is no more un-
handsome than to see the lord the prologue. If it be true that good wine
needs no bush, ’tis true that a good play needs no epilogue; yet to good
wine they do use good bushes, and good plays prove the better by the help
of good epilogues. What a case am I in then, that am neither a good epi-
logue nor cannot insinuate with you in the behalf of a good play! I am
not furnished like a beggar, therefore to beg will not become me ; my way
is to conjure you, and I’ll begin with the women. I charge you, O women,
for the love you bear to men, to like as much of this play as pleases you ;
and I charge you, O men, for the love you bear to women—as I perceive by
your simpering, none of you hates them—that between you and the women
the play may please. If I were a woman I would kiss as many of you as
had beards that pleased me, complexions that liked me, and breaths that I
defied not ; and, I.am sure, as many as have good beards or good faces or
sweet breaths will, for my kind offer, when I make courtesy, bid me fare-
well.”
134 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

 

 

OTHELLO,

The play of “Othello” more than any other of the Shakespearean
dramas touches the chord of gnodern love and passion. The plot turns on
the jealousy excited in the mind of Othello, the Venetian general, by Iago,
his subordinate, who is mad for revenge because of Othello’s suspected in-
trigue with Emilia, Iago’s wife. Iago also burns with resentment, because
Cassio has been made the General’s lieutenant.

Scene first discloses Iago conversing ina street of Venice with Roder-
igo, who is deeply in love with Desdemona, the heroine of the play. Iago
tells him how Othello repulsed the friends whom Iago sent to plead for the
latter’s appointment as lieutenant. Furthermore, to add insult to injury,
the Moor had chosen for that place,

“One, Michael Cassio, a Florentine.”

Roderigo warmly sympathizes with Iago, and urges him to resign
Othello’s service, to which Iago replies :

“T follow him to serve my turn upon him,”

and adds, that, when Iago’s sentiments are known by outward action :

: “I will wear my heart upon my sleeve
For daws to peck at.’

Then he suggests to Roderigo to arouse Brabantio, the father of Desde-
mona, and excite his ire against the Moor. They repair to the aged Sena-
tor’s house, and sting him to fury with the report of his daughter's marriage
to Othello. Brabantio collects his friends, and starts out in search of the
General, exclaiming as he goes :

“Who would be a father >"

In scene second Cassio meets Othello, with a summons from the Doge,
regarding a disturbance in the Venetian tributary, Cyprus. Immediately
afterwards Brabantio enters, with a troop of friends, and upbraids Othello
with the theft of Desdemona, a maid

“So opposite to marriage that she shunned
The wealthy, curléd darlings of our nation ”

The old Senator wishes to drag Othello forthwith to prison, but consents
to repair, all together, to the Council Chamber of the Duke.
OTHELLO. 135

 

Scene three discloses the Duke receiving messages from Cyprus. Bra-
bantio, Othello, Iago, Roderigo, and officers enter. Brabantio accuses the
General, who replies to the Duke’s question as follows :

‘‘ Most potent, grave and reverend signiors,
My very noble and approv’d good masters:
~ That I have ta’en away this old man’s daughter,
Is most true; true, I have married her:
The very head and front of my offending
Hath this extent, no more.

° Yet by your eatin wateiee,
I will a round, unvarnished tale deliver,
Of my whole course of love.”

Brabantio interrupts, but Othello appeals to the testimony of Desdemona,
who is thereupon sent for. Meanwhile, Othello continues :

“Her father lov’d me; oft invited me;
Still questioned me the story of my life,
From year to year; the battles, sieges, fortunes,
That I have passed..
I ran it through, even from my boyish days,
To the very moment that he bade me tell it ;
Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances ;
Of moving accidents by flood and field,
Of hair-breadth ’scapes i’ the imminent deadly breach.”

“Such was my process ;

; These things to hear
Would Desdemona seriously incline :
But still the house affairs would draw her thence ;
Which ever as she could with haste despatch,
She’d come again, and with a greedy ear
Devour up my discourse: Which I observing,
Took once a pliant hour ; and found good means
To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart,
That I would all my pilgrimage dilate,
Whereof by parcels she had something heard,
But not intentively: I did consent;
And often did beguile her of her tears,
When I did speak of some distressful stroke
That my youth suffer'd. My story being done,
She gave me for my pains a world of sighs :
She swore,—in faith, ‘twas strange, ‘twas passing strange;
’Twas pitiful, ‘twas wondrous pitiful :
136 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

 

She wish’d she had not heard it; yet she wish'd

That Heaven had made her such a man: she thanked me ;
And bade me, if I had a friend that lov'd her.

I should but teach him how to tell my story,

And that would woo her. Upon this hint I spake:

She lov'd me for the dangers I had pass’d ;

And I lov'd her that she did pity them.

This only is the witchcraft I have us’d ;

Here comes the lady, let her witness it.”

The Duke admires Othello’s story, and bids Brabantio wisely make the
best of the matter. The Senator, addressing his daughter, asks her to whom
she owes, in all the company, the most obedience, to which Desdemona

answers :
‘‘My noble father,

I do perceive here a divided duty,”

and gives her allegiance to the Moor. Brabantio thereupon resentfully re-
linquishes his claims, and speaks of Cyprus. The Duke refers the matter to
Othello, who accepts the conduct of the expedition.

Preparations are made for Othello’s immediate departure, and, as a fare-
well shot, Brabantio maliciously exclaims :

‘Look to her, Moor, if thou hast eyes to see ;
She hath deceived her father, and may thee.”

To which Othello rejoins :
“ My life upon her faith!"

Othello and Desdemona then proceed homeward, leaving Iago and
Roderigo together. The former promises the latter ultimate Possession of
Desdemona, and duping him, urges the gullible Roderigo to convert his
property into ready cash, to forward Iago’s schemes in his behalf. “Put
money in thy purse,” is the villain’s refrain. The Moor will gtow cold is
lago’s encouragement, and Desdemona will soon tire of her swarthy choice.
“The food that to him now is luscious as locusts shall be to him shortly as
bitter as coloquintida,” says Lago. Roderigeo snaps at the suggestion and
agrees to sell his land. Tago, after his dupe departs, muses on the possi-
bility of making Othello jealous of the lieutenant Cassio, and concludes
that such shall be the scheme.

ACT TL, scene first, discloses a seaport town of Cyprus, where the arrival
of the General is awaited. In conversation with the collected gentlemen,
Cassio says of Othello :

» + + . . ‘He hath achieved a maid
That paragons description and wild fame.”
OTHELLO. 137

 

Shortly after, Desdemona, with her waiting woman, Emilia, wife of Iago,
enters. Cassio greets the ladies, and kisses Emilia. This leads to badinage,
in which Iago caustically observes of women:

«Come on, come on; you are the pictures out of doors;
Bells in your parlors ; wild-cats in your kitchens ;
Saints in your injuries; devils being offended; ”

Desdemona chides him for his severity, whereat he replies :

“O gentle lady, do not put me to’t
For I am nothing if not critical.”

She, however, presses Iago, regarding his ideas of women. After
describing his ideal and paragon, he adds, that such an one is fit,

“To suckle fools and chronicle small beer,”
to which Desdemona rejoins :

“O most lame and impotent conclusion !”’

Soon after, Othello enters, greets Desdemona, and both depart with
their attendants. Iago continues his conversation with Roderigo, to whom
he outlines his plan of Creating jealousy in Othello. The villain says that
the Moor will love, thank and reward him, for making Othello

“egregiously an ass.”

In scene second a herald proclaims feasting and thanksgiving for the de-
feat of the Turks and the delivery of Cyprus.

Scene three shows Cassio entrusted with the guard of the island that
night. Iago joins him, and, discussing Desdemona, comments upon the
beauty of her eye, to which Cassio responds :

“ An inviting eye, and yet methinks, right modest.”

Cassio leaves after a few farther remarks, and Iago plots to get him
intoxicated, that being the lieutenant’s chiefest weakness Roderigo has
already drunk to Desdemona, “ potations pottle-deep.” While lago is rumi-
nating, some Cyprian gentlemen, the worse for wine, approach, at which he

exclaims :
“ My boat sails freely both with wind and stream.”

Cassio and friends enter at the same time. The roysterers propose song
and drink, and Cassio quaffs a goblet in honor of Othello. When Cassio
bids the company farewell, Iago spurs Roderigo on to pick a quarrel with
the lieutenant. Roderigo departs on this errand, and shortly rushes back
with Cassio in hot pursuit. They fight ; the spectators make an uproar ;
the alarum rings, and Othello, wakened from his sleep, appears. The Gen-
135 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

 

eral questions Montano regarding the origin of the brawl, and expresses sur-
prise at finding him in such an outbreak, whereat the latter, being weak from
wounds, refers Othello to Iago. That plotter, after some affected hesita-
tion, tells the story in such a way that, while seeming to shield the fault of
Cassio, really condemns it. Othello regretfully exclaims :

“‘ Cassio, I love thee :
But never more be officer of mine.”

Desdemona, at this point, enters to find out what has happened, and is
led away by Othello. Iago, when the two are left alone, asks Cassio if he’s
hurt, to which the lieutenant replies: ** Ay, past all surgery!” and adds:
“Reputation! reputation! reputation! O, I have lost my reputation! I
have lost the immortal part of myself, and what remains is bestial.’’ Iago
rejoins : “ Reputation is a most idle and false imposition ; oft got without
merit, and lost without deserving.” But Cassio mournfully continues : “0,
thou invisible spirit of wine, if thou hast no name to be known by, let us call
thee devil! ’’ Iago questions him as to the provocation which excited Cas-
sio’s wrath, but the lieutenant remembers nothing. ‘O,” he cries out,
“that men should put an enemy in their mouths, to steal away their
brains!’’ Jago cunningly advises him to entreat the influence of Desde-
mona with the Moor. Cassio jumps at the suggestion, and in more hopeful
mind, proceeds to his home. Iago, hereupon, is met by Roderigo, who
complains of lost money and no success, to which the conspirator coun-
sels patience, and the act ends with the conciliation of Roderigo and the
chuckle of Iago.

ACT IIL, scene first, discloses Cassio and some musicians, whom he
hires to serenade the General. .\ clown enters and asks if their apparatus
are wind-instruments, and being assured they are, remarks: ‘© thereby
hangs a tale!" Without explaining his observation, he gives them money,
and tells them that Othello desires them to cease their noise. They depart,
and Cassio hires the clown to carry a request to Desdemona, to grant an
interview to Cassio, The clown retires and lago enters. Through Emilia,
his wife, Iago pretends to aid the suit, and she unconsciously lends her
assistance to bring together Cassio and Desdemona.

Scene second is a room in the Castle. Othello gives letters to Tago,
to be delivered to the pilot of the argosy, going to Venice, and the General,
with his attendant gentlemen, departs to view the fortifications.

In scene three, Desdemona promises Cassio her assistance. Iago and
Othello enter at a distance, whereat Cassio takes a hurried departure. Tago
pretends to be disturbed at the sight, and Othello, half divining his com-
panion’s thought, feels an uneasy fear. His wife immediately begins an
OTHELLO. 139

 

ardent plea for Cassio’s retention. Othello consents, and bids Desdemona
leave him for a while. As she departs, he gazes after her and says:

“Excellent wretch! Perdition catch my soul
But I do love thee! And when I love thee not,
Chaos is come again.”

Iago, by innuendo and insinuation. excites the jealousy of his chief, yet
all the time pretends to be allaying it. In the course of his conversation
with Othello, Iago says:

“Good name in man or woman, dear my lord,
Is the immediate jewel of their souls:
Who steals my purse steals trash; ‘tis something, nothing ;
’Twas mine, ’tis his and has been slave to thousands ;
But he that filches from me my good name,
Robs me of that which not enriches him,
: And makes me poor indeed.”
Othello demands his thoughts, but Iago artfully suggests the very thing
he pretends to deprecate :
“O beware my lord of jealousy ;
It is the green-eyed monster, which doth mock
The meat it feeds on.”
To which Othello rejoins :
“ Think’st thou, I’d make a life of jealousy

No; to be once in doubt,
Is once to be resolved.”
Then Iago, growing bolder, openly warns the General to keep watch on
Desdemona. The plotter says of the Venetian women :
“Their best conscience
Is not to leave’t undone, but keep’t unknown.”
Othello bitterly exclaims that if he finds her false,
“Though that her jesses were my dear heart-strings,
I’d whistle her off and let her down the wind,
To prey at fortune.”
“OQ, the curse of marriage,” he continues :
“That we can call these delicate creatures ours,
And not their appetites.”
At this point Desdemona and Emilia re-enter, and Othello, as he gazes
on his wife, bursts out :

“ If she be false, O, then Heaven mocks itself !
I’ll not believe’t.”
140 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

 

Desdemona, noticing his distraction, asks him if he is ill, and he com-
plains of headache. She offers to bind his temples with her handkerchief,
but he puts it aside. It falls to the ground, and he, bidding her let it go,
takes her off with him. Emilia picks it up, and keeps it for Iago, who has
begged her to steal it for him. The reason — unknown to her — why he de-
sires it, is because Othello gave it as a special gift to Desdemona to be kept
forever. Jago enters, and snatches the handkerchief from the hand of Em-
ilia, who asks it back unless he greatly wishes to retain it. Iago tells her to
depart, and then meditates to drop the handkerchief in Cassio’s room ; for

“ Trifles light as air,

Are to the jealous confirmations strong
As proofs of holy writ.”

Othello approaches, and his villainous subordinate remarks :

“ Not poppy, nor mandragora,
Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world,
Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep
Which thou own’dst yesterday.”

The General enters and bitterly upbraids Iago for telling him suspicious
thoughts that have ruined all confidence in Desdemona. ‘“ O, now, forever,”
exclaims Othello :

“ Farewell the tranquil mind, farewell content !
Farewell the pluméd troops and the big wars,
That make ambition virtue! 0, farewell!

Pride, pomp and circumstance of glorious war!

Farewell! Othello’s occupation’s gone.”
Iago attempts to commiserate him. Whereupon Othello seizes the villain
by the throat and cries :

“Give me the ocular proof!"

of Desdemona’'s sin.
Iago protests and asks if Othello would spy upon the guilty love of the
suspected pair, whereat the Moor roars out :
“Death and damnation!”

Then Tago relates a pretended dream, in which the lieutenant confessed
the relation which he held with Desdemona. To add to Othello's wrath
and conviction, Iago refers to the handkerchief, purported to have been
found in Cassio's room, The Moor, beside himself with rage, cries :

“O that the slave had forty thousand lives !
One is too poor, too weak for my revenge.”
OTHELLO. 141

 

Then he vows the death of Desdemona, and appoints Iago his lieutenant.

In scene four, before the Castle, Desdemona, Emilia, and a clown enter.
Desdemona asks the clown where Cassio lives, and the fellow makes a wordy
and ambiguous answer. Shortly after, Othello appears, and Desdemona
begins her suit again for Cassio’s restoration. Othello pretends he has a
rheum, and asks her for her handkerchief, the one he gave her as a special
gift. Of course she cannot give it, and he rushes away in jealous rage,
whereat Emilia says :

“°Tis not a year or two shows us a man.”

At this point, Iago and Cassio enter, the latter immediately requesting
the continued influence of Desdemona in favor of his re-instatement in the
good graces of Othello. She replies that her husband is angry, and so she
must wait till he becomes in better humor. She expresses wonder at
Othello’s rage or jealousy, and says she never gave him cause, to which
Emilia replies :

“But jealous souls will not be answered so.”

Then Desdemona and Emilia excuse themselves, and depart, leaving
Cassio alone; Iago having sometime previously taken his departure.
While Cassio is meditating, his mistress Bianca appears, and they make an
appointment together.

ACT IV., scene first, is still before the Castle. Iago spurs on the
jealousy of Othello by reminding him of the handkerchief. Then, as Iago
continues the pretended tale of Desdemona’s guilt, Othello falls in a trance.
Tago says: ‘Work on, my medicine, work!” Cassio enters, but is warned
to depart by Iago, who promises to counsel with him later. Othello recovers,
and Iago pursuing the conversation, observes :

‘“O ’tis the spite of hell, the fiend’s arch-mock,
To lip a wanton in a secure couch,
And to suppose her chaste !”

Tago then tells him of Cassio’s coming and the latter’s promise to return
on the General’s departure. Iago urges Othello to conceal himself and
watch the actions of Cassio when questioned of his victories with Desde-
mona. Othello agrees, and Cassio soon returns. Jago in a lowered tone,
questions him of his intrigue with Bianca, whereat the lieutenant laughs and
jokes. Othello, from his retirement, grimly growls :

“They laugh that win.”

Bianca enters at this point, and upbraids Cassio with the handkerchief
which he has given her, and charges him with having received it from some
142 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

 

other favorite. Cassio pacifies her, by agreeing to sup with her that night,
and departs in her company. Othello, coming out, exclaims :

“ T would have him nine years a-killing.”’

Then musing on the perfections of Desdemona, and remembering her
supposed duplicity, he wails: ‘But yet the pity of it, Iago! O, Iago, the
pity of it, Iago!” The latter suggest to strangle her in the marriage bed,
and Othello so determines. At this point Lodovico, a messenger from
Venice, together with Desdemona and attendants, enter. Lodovico delivers
to the Moor a letter, which proves to be his recall, and the appointment of
Cassio in his stead. Desdemona expresses pleasure at the thought of a return
to Venice, and Othello in his rage smites her in the face. Then after a few
words of greeting to Lodovico, Othello takes his leave of the scene. The
former expresses to Iago the pain and disappointment felt at viewing such
an exhibition.

In scene two Othello questions Emilia, but getting no satisfaction, sum-
mons his wife. He taxes her with faithlessness and, exclaims that he could
have endured anything. Desdemona expostulates, and to his question,
whether she has not been false, she says: “No, as I am Christian!”
Othello scorns her, and then recalls Emilia, as he departs himself. Desde-
mona tells her to prepare the marriage bed. Emilia meets Iago, who ques-
tions her about the trouble, and she asserts that some villain has laid the
plot, and then she adds :

*‘O, heaven, that such companions thou'ldst unfold
And put in every honest hand a whip,
To lash the rascals naked through the world!”

Desdemona appeals to Iago for help, and he pretends to think Othello is
merely out of humor. Emilia and her mistress depart, and Roderigo enters.
He charges Iago with defrauding him, and demands restitution of the money
and jewels entrusted for Desdemona. Iago quiets him by the promise that
Roderigo shall enjoy her the following night, and then persuades the dupe
to kill Cassio, as a means of detaining Othello in the isle.

Scene third discloses a room in the Castle, with Desdemona, Othello,
Lodovico, Emilia and attendants. Lodovico bids Desdemona good night,
and Othello commands her to her room at once. The Moor, Lodovico and
the rest depart, leaving Desdemona and Emilia alone. The latter, after pre-
paring her mistress for bed, is dismissed, Desdemona singing a pathetic
little song. lmilia, before she goes, delivers an opinion on the chastity of
wives, and says :

“ But I do think it is their husbands’ faults,
If wives do fall.”
OTHELLO. 143

 

ACT V., scene first, shows Iago and Roderigo lying in wait for Cassio.
Iago, urging on the deed, exclaims: “It makes us, or it mars us!” Cassio
enters, and Roderigo rushes upon him, but fails to wound him. Cassio,
however, thrusts his sword into Roderigo, whereat Iago glides out, wounds
Cassio in the leg and then disappears. The outcries of the wounded men
attract Othello, who, thinking Iago has revenged on Cassio the wrong to his
General, rushes off to strangle Desdemona. Lodovico and Gratiana ap-
proach, and shortly after Iago returns. Cassio appeals to him for help, and
Roderigo also calls to him. Pretending to think the latter a “ murtherous
slave,” Iago stabs the prostrate Roderigo, who exclaims :

“O damn’d Jago! O inhuman dog!’

Bianca enters at this point, and Iago charges her with conspiracy against
Cassio. She grows pale, and he cries out :

“Nay, guiltiness will speak,
Though tongues were out of use.”
In scene second, Othello enters the bedchamber of Desdemona, who is
sleeping. As he gazes upon her beauty, he murmurs to himself :
“ Yet I'll not shed her blood ;
Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow,
As smooth as monumental alabaster.”

Then he muses:

“Put out the light and then — Put out the light
If I quench thee, thou flaming minister !
I can again thy former light restore,
Should I repent me: but once put out thy light,
I know not where is that Promethean heat
That can thy light relume.”

He kisses her and she awakes. He charges her with her reputed sin,
but she denies the accusation. Thereupon he smothers her. Then, as he
realizes she is gone, he cries:

“O insupportable. O heavy hour!”

Emilia knocks, and being admitted, tells the Moor that Roderigo has
been killed but Cassio lives. Then discovering the murder of Desdemona,
she raises an alarm that brings Montano, Gratiano and Iago. Othello tells
them why he has killed his wife, and instances the handkerchief as proof
of guilt. At this Emilia tells the truth about it and Iago stabs her and
runs out. The others guard the door to prevent the possibility of Othello’s
escape, but he, with bitterness, asks them :

, “Why should honor outlive honesty ?
Let it go all!”
144 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

Then he says:

“Here is my journey's end, here is my butt,
And very sea-mark of my utmost sail.”

Raving over Desdemona, he curses Iago, who is shortly afterwards
brought in prisoner. The moment Othello sees him, he rushes at the
villain and wounds him, but is seized and prevented from wreaking com-
plete vengeance. Then the whole plot is revealed, and the handkerchief
accounted for by Cassio’s explanation. Lodovico then orders the custody
of Othello, and proclaims Cassio as Governor of Cyprus. Othello says:

“Soft you; a word or two before you go.
I have done the State some service, and they know’t;
No more of that: I pray you in your letters,
When you shall these unlucky deeds relate,
Speak of me as I am; nothing extenvate,
Nor set down ought in malice; then must you speak
Of one that lov’d not wisely, but too well;
Of one, not easily jealous, but being wrought,
Perplex'd in the extreme; of one whose hand,
Like the base Indian, threw a pearl away
Richer than all his tribe; of one whose subdued eyes,
Albeit unused to the melting mood,
Drop tears as fast as the Arabian trees
Their medicinable gum: Set you down this :
And say, besides, that in Aleppo once,
Where a malignant and a turban'd Turk
Beat a Venetian and traduced the state,
I took by the throat the circumcised dog
And smote him —thus!”’

Othello stabs himself, and almost instantly expires. Lodovico, turning
upon Iago, says:
“© Spartan dog!
More fell than anguish, hunger, or the sea!”

And then to the Governor, the envoy adds, to wreak vengeance on Tago.

“ The time, the place, the torture, O enforce it!
Myself will straight aboard; and, to the State,
This heavy act with heavy heart relate.”

And here the curtain falls.
THE ARABIAN NIGHTS’ ENTERTAINMENTS:
OR,

THE THOUSAND AND ONE NIGHTS,

This series of Oriental Legends is a delightful pageant of powerful
Caliphs, in turbans encrusted with jewels, Grand viziers, genii with flashing
scimitars, hideous afrites, almond-eyed maidens clothed in silken tissues,
reclining in blooming gardens, and the whole laden with “odors of Araby
the Blest.”

When the tales were written, or who were the writers, no one knows.
Advocates of equal ability have claimed for them a Persian, Indian or Ara-
bian source ; but it is now generally allowed that they are to be traced to an
older work, of very early origin, are founded upon Mohammedan customs,
and describe Moslem manners, religion and superstitions. There have been
many translations of these tales.

In 1704 Antoine Galland, a Frenchman, published the first translation
into a modern tongue, and the ladies of the gay court of Louis the Four-
teenth read it with keen enjoyment.

In the early part of this century there were a number of English trans-
lations made, and now there is hardly a language’in whose literature ‘The
Arabian Nights ” may not be found.

The translations vary in many ways, but, as some one has said, “ The
machinery of the stories is much the same ; the same genii flashed out in
smoke and flame, and the same scimitars went blazing and dealing death
through all the copies of the Thousand and One Nights.”

The stories may be divided into two classes. The first delights in the
wonders of magic, in the intervention of fairies and genii; the second con-
sists of genuine Arabian tales and anecdotes, in which adventures of the
times of the Caliphs, and particularly of the renowned Haroun al Raschid,
are related.

He was the greatest of all the Mohammedan rulers of Bagdad, a broad-
minded, intelligent man, who lived in the ninth century, while Charlemagne
was on the Imperial throne.
146 THE ARABIAN NIGHTS’ ENTERTAINMENTS.

 

The meaning of the title is the framework that holds the stories together,
and is itself a story. It runs this way :

There was in ancient times, a Sultan of India and China, called Schahriars,
who, becoming convinced of the unfaithfulness of his wife, the Sultana,
decided that all women were untrue, and asa slight punishment to the light-
minded sex, devised this plan; that he would wed a damsel each night and
have her put to death the following morning.

This odious scheme was carried out through the aid of his Grand Vizier,
until the sound of wailing was heard through the land, for every day there
was “a maid married and a wife murdered.’’ The Grand Vizier, who was
the unwilling executioner of all these fair maidens, had two daughters,
Scheherazade and Dinarzade.

Scheherazade, the elder, was exceedingly clever, and had, among other
good qualities, a wonderful memory. She was a constant reader, and
never forgot what she read. Now, this beautiful, clever woman, in her
turn, devised a plan; she would sacrifice herself for her sister, become
the bride of the Sultan, and take the risk of being murdered the next day,
if her plot should fail.

It was with great difficulty that she succeeded in getting her father’s
consent, but the matter was finally arranged, and Schahriar’s eyes were
delighted with the most beautiful bride that he had yet seen ; however, it
was not to the charm of her lovely face that Scheherazade trusted. She
begged the Sultan that her younger sister, Dinarzade, might spend the last
hours with her, and this being granted, Dinarzade had a couch given her in
the bride-chamber. According to their agreement, the younger sister
wakened Scheherazade, about an hour before day, and begged her as a last
favor, to relate one of the pleasant stories that she had read. Permission
being given by the Sultan, the Sultana began the story of The Merchant
and the Genie.”

When it was fairly day, the story only half completed, had so fascinated
the Sultan, that he decided not to silence the silvery tongue, but to wait
another day at least, before delivering Scheherazade into the hands of the
“Lord High Executioner,"

The next night the same request was made and granted, the quick-
witted woman going on with the story of the Merchant and the Genie, and
saying at the most exciting moment, “But T see daylight and must leave
off, yet the best of the tale is yet to come.” ‘The Sultan, whose interest was
thoroughly aroused, resolved to let her live another day, that he might hear
the end of the story. And so it went on, night after night. Scheherazade,
by the witchery of her tongue, and her art of leaving the tale at the
moment of most absorbing interest —like the modern magazine story, “to
THE ARABIAN NIGHTS’ ENTERTAINMENTS. 147

 

be continued in our next,” kept her husband’s curiosity excited, until she
had been the wife of the Sultan for a thousand and one nights. Finally,
Schahriar revoked his cruel edict, on condition that the Sultana should occa-
sonally repeat to him one of her delightful stories. Thus these thousand
and one stories for the “ Arabian Nights’ Entertainments.”

Naturally they vary in interest, but there are a few especially dear to the
childish heart, and to the man’s heart also, as they bring back to him memo-
ries of a happy childhood. The book is a rich storehouse for illustration
and figure, and certain of the tales are often used by lawyers, politicians,
book makers, and public speakers of all kinds. Some of these are “Ali
Baba, or the Forty Thieves ;” “ Aladdin, or the Wonderful Lamp ;”’ “ The
Enchanted Horse,” whose story Chaucer tells again in the Squire’s Tales,
and Milton calls

“ That wondrous horse of brass
On which the Tartar King did ride.”

“ Abou Hassan, or the Sleeper Awakened ;” “Prince Ahmed, and the
Fairy Pari-Banou ;” “Sinbad the Sailor,” struggling under the burden af
the terrible Old Man of the Sea; and the stories of the Calenders; a
Calender, by the way, is a begging dervish, or religious Mohammedan, who
lives partly in a monastary, and partly leads a solitary life, either wandering
or stationary.

~ The following four tales, briefly told, are perhaps the most popular of
them all :

SINBAD THE SAILOR.

There lived once in the city of Bagdad, during the reign of the renowned
Haroun al Raschid, a poor porter named Hinbad. This porter found him-
self, on a certain day, tired and hungry, at the gate of a fine palace, the home
of a famous merchant and traveler, Sinbad by name.

“ Alas!” said Hinbad, “‘ Why has Allah, the great God, given to this man
plenty, and to poor Hinbad only poverty?”

Some one repeated this speech to Sinbad, and he ordered that the poor
fellow, after being well fed and clothed, should be brought before him.
When this was done, Sinbad told him the stories of his adventures, perhaps
to show him that sitting down and complaining is not the way to win fair
palaces, or anything else in this world.

Sinbad made seven voyages in all, and like most sailors, could spin mar-
vellous yarns. He tells a story to the porter, every day for a week's time,
and at the end of each tale, gives Hinbad a bag of gold. His first voyage is
148 THE ARABIAN NIGHTS’ ENTERTAINMENTS.
not so eventful, but on the second, he is cast away on an island, where he
discovers an enormous egg.

Sinbad seats himself close to the wonder to examine it, and immediately
the sky darkens, and a roc, the huge bird which had laid the egg, comes
swooping down upon it. Sinbad tied himself to one of the creature’s claws
—she was large enough to carry off an elephant— and was taken to a
valley, hemmed in by high mountains, where he managed to disengage him-
self from the bird ; looking about him, he saw a quantity of large diamonds
and, what was not so agreeable, some very large serpents. While he won-
dered how he should get out of this uninhabited valley, a huge piece of raw
meat fell at his side, followed by others from the rocks above. Sinbad
remembered that this was a stratagem used by merchants to procure
precious stones, and quickly filled his pockets with the finest of the dia-
monds, took bits of the meat, tied them about him with his turban, and lay
down, his face towards the ground. Scarcely had he done this, when a
gigantic eagle pounced down, and seizing him by the meat that was tied to
his body flew off to its nest. As soon as the eagle had dropped her sup-
posed prize of fresh meat into her eyrie, the waiting merchants frightened
her away and discovered Sinbad, where they had hoped only to see dia-
monds sticking in the meat. Their surprise was great, but the sailor
satisfied them by sharing his load of the sparkling stones with them, and they
directed him on his way.

The third time he takes ship, Sinbad is again wrecked, and encounters a
horrible monster, liked the one-eyed Cyclops, of which Homer writes, a
creature with long pointed teeth and flapping ears. Like Ulysses, Sinbad
and his men put out the giant’s one eve with a hot iron, and sail away in
safety. :

Qn another of his voyages, the fifth, Sinbad came to a land where
everything seemed lovely, with flowing streams, sweet smelling flowers and
delicious fruits. In the midst of these delights he encounters an old man,
who appeared woefully weak and infirm. The deceitful old man begged
Sinbad to take him upon his shoulders and carry him across a little stream.
He had no sooner done so than the aged creature’s shaky limbs straightened
out and became long and strong, his arms clutched him about the neck, and
there was poor Sinbad under the voke of the * Old Man of the Sea.” It
was impossible to shake him off, and Sinbad went about under this burden,
until, from the influence of some grape juice that the sailor had prepared,
his hold gradually loosened, and he fell off ina drunken sleep, and Sinbad
made anend of his tormenter. Finally, after his seventh journey, Sinbad
settled down in) Bagdad, and became a wood subject of Haroun al Rasehid,
Commander of the Faithful,
THE ARABIAN NIGHTS’ ENTERTAINMENTS. 149

 

THE FISHERMAN AND THE GENIE.

A very poor fisherman, with a wife and three children, had made a vow to
Allah that he would only cast his net four times in each day.

Ona certain day, being very hungry, he found at the first draught, only
the carcass of an ass; at the second, a large jar full of sandand mud; at the
third, a quantity of broken jars and pots.

Then, being well nigh discouraged, he threw the net again for the fourth
and last time, exclaiming, “In the name of Allah,” and found in it, when he
- had: pulled it up with great difficulty, a copper vessel with a leaden stopper.
This he opened, and at first saw nothing but smoke ascending, which was
soon condensed, and then appeared from the midst of it a genie, or afrite, of
frightful aspect, bigger than any giant ever seen, with great lamps of eyes
in his dome-like head.

“OQ, Solomon !”’ exclaimed this huge creature, “I will never again oppose
thee in aught.”

“Proud Spirit,” said the fisherman, “what is it you say? It is above
eighteen hundred years since the prophet Solomon died, and we are now at
the end of time.”

Whereupon the Genie turned upon him with a fearful look and said :

“ How darest thou address me in such words ?”

“Very well,” said the fisherman, “then will I call you an Owl of good luck.”

“T say,” thundered the Genie, “ speak more respectfully to me, or I will
slay thee.”

“ Ah,” returned the fisherman, “ why will you kill me? Did I not just
now set you at liberty?”

“Yes,” replied the Afrite, “and that is why I kill thee, but for this favor
thou shalt choose the manner of thy death.”

“ And is this the reward of my service?” complained the poor fisherman.

“ Hearken, I will tell thee my story,’”’ said the big one, “ and then thou
wilt see that I cannot spare thy life. Hundreds of years ago I rebelled
against and angered the great prophet Solomon, and he caused me to be en-
closed in this copper vessel, sealed the top with his own signet, and then had
me cast into the deep. During the first hundred years, I swore that if any
one released me, I would make him rich; during the next century, I made a
vow that my deliverer should become a potent monarch ; but at last, full of
wrath at my long imprisonment, I swore with an oath, that any one who
should find and release me, should be killed with no mercy, except to choose
the manner of his death —now, therefore, I give thee that choice.”

Necessity is the mother of invention, and the miserable fisherman in his
desperation bethought himself of a.stratagem.
150 THE ARABIAN NIGHTS' ENTERTAINMENTS.

 

“QO, Spirit,” cried he, “ by that high name, engraved on Solomon's seal,
were you actually and entirely, great as you are, enclosed in that small
vessel of copper?”

“Yes,” replied the Genie, “by that great name, I was.”

“For my part, I cannot believe it,” said the fisherman, “ unless I see you
go again into the vessel.” /

At this, the enormous bulk of the Afrite dissolved itself, turned into
smoke, and then condensing, entered the copper vessel by degrees until all
was inside.

Whereupon the cunning fisherman seized the leaden cover and corked
the vessel completely, the Genie having no power to move, as the seal of
Solomon was upon him. Then a long conversation took place between the
two, until finally the giant swore so solemnly, in the name of Allah, that he
would not hurt the fisherman if he would release him, and more than that,
would make him exceedingly rich, that the fisherman was convinced of his
sincerity, and quickly removed the cover of the vessel. At that instant the
smoke ascended again, and the Afrite appeared in his hideous shape.

His first action was to kick the vessel into the sea, and with a frightful
laugh, he said to the poor man “Follow me.” Obeying this command, they
soon reached a lake in the center of a desert.

“Now, my deliverer,”’ said the Genie, “ throw in thy net.”

The fisherman did so, and drew up in his net, four fish of different
colors; white, red, blue, and yellow. The Afrite said to him,

“Take them to the Sultan, and he will enrich thee. Do so every day,
but take not fish from the lake more than once in each day. And now, I
commend thee to the care of Allah.”

Having said this, he clove the earth asunder with his foot, and it
swallowed him. The fisherman did as the Genie told him, and received
four hundred pieces of gold for his fish. But the Sultan did not regale him-
self on them at supper that night, for when the gay colored fish were in the
sauce-pan, a grand lady stepped out, by magic, from the side wall, and
spoke to them, and overturned them into the blaze.

This occurred again, and the third time, a huge black slave stepped
from the wall and destroyed the fish, The Sultan, who seemed to have a
mind bent on investigation, set out, accompanied by the fisherman, the
Grand Vizier, and a retinue of soldiers, determined to solve the mystery.
When they reached the lake, they saw the white, blue, red, and yellow fish,
disporting in the water, ‘Then the Sultan, uneasy, said to his Vizier, * I must
search this out farther,” and leaving the camp, disguised in plain clothes, he
soon came to a palace, where the matter was explained to him. .\ wicked
sorceress had changed her husband's body, so that it was one half marble,
THE ARABIAN NIGHTS’ ENTERTAINMENTS. I51

 

and the other half living, and had then turned all the people of his city into
fish ; the Mohammedans into white ; the Persians, who worshiped fire, into
red; Christians into blue, and the Jews into yellow fish.

The braye Sultan, hearing the sad story, was enabled by a wise craft, to
so deceive and enchant the enchantress, that she granted all his wishes;
restored her husband first, and then sprinkling a little water over the lake,
changed all the inhabitants of the city back again, every one recovering his
natural form. Then returning to the disguised Sultan for his approval, he
quickly seized the witch and cut her in two parts with his scimitar.

As for our hero, the fisherman, the Sultan invested him with a robe of
honor, took one of his daughters to wife, gave the other to the Prince, and
made his son treasurer of the realm. The fisherman in time became ore of
the wealthiest of men, and his daughters continued to be the wives of the
sultans until they died.

ALADDIN; OR, THE WONDERFUL LAMP.

Aladdin was the son of a tailor, Mustapha, who lived in a large city of
China. The boy’s continued idleness so troubled his father, that he fell ill
and died broken-hearted, on account of his willful son. Aladdin was strol-
ling about in the street one day, when a dark-faced man came up to him
and asked him if he were the son of Mustapha, the tailor. “ Yes,” answered
Aladdin, “but my father has been dead a long time.” At these words, the
African magician, for he was a sorcerer and was looking out for some worth-
less lad to carry out one of his evil plans, threw his arms about the boy and
kissed him, with tears in his eyes, saying, ““I am your uncle, your father’s
brother ; go to your mother and tell her that I will visit her to-morrow.”
After several meetings the magician beguiled Aladdin far outside the city,
where, by the sorcerer’s power, they saw a stone in the ground, with a brass
ring fastened to it. At his supposed uncle’s command, Aladdin pulled up
the stone and discovered a stairway, which he descends, and, following the
directions given him, goes through large halls, into a garden, where he finds
a small ordinary looking lamp in a niche of the garden wall.

Before sending him down, the African put a ring on Aladdin’s finger,
telling him that it was a talisman against all harm. Aladdin filled his
pockets with some of the extraordinary fruit in the garden, which proved to
be wonderful jewels; purple amethysts, pink rubies, and sparkling
diamonds. i

When he reached the stairway again, he had a disagreement with his
uncle, which ended in the sorcerer’s flying into a passion, and sealing the
opening with the heavy stone, leaving Aladdin in the subterranean passage.
In his distress the boy cried out, “There is no strength or power but in

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152 THE ARABIAN NIGHTS' ENTERTAINMENTS.

 

Allah!” and joining his hands to pray, rubbed the ring which the magician
had put on his finger, meaning to let the boy wear it only long enough to
protect him while getting the magic lamp. Instantly a frightful Genie
stood before him and said,

“What wouldst thou have? I am ready to obey thee —I and other
slaves of the ring.”

Aladdin answered, “ Whoever thou art, deliver me from this place,” and
in the same moment he found himself outside the cavern. He ran quickly
home, and after his unusual exertion found himself very hungry. He
gave the lamp that he found in the garden to his mother, telling her to sell
it for food. The mother, thinking it would bring a better price if she were
to rub off a little of its dinginess, begins to polish it with fine sand and
water, and at the same instant an enormous Genie of hideous aspect
appeared at her side, and said to her in a voice of thunder, “ What wouldst
thou? Iam ready to obey thee as thy slave—I and the other slaves of
the lamp.” The poor woman was so frightened, that she fell down in a
swoon, but Aladdin, who remembered how quickly the other great creature
obeyed him, answered boldly, “I am hungry — bring me something to eat "
The Genie disappeared, and in a moment returned with a large silver tray,
on which were several dishes of the same metal, containing delicious food.
From these experiences Aladdin found that he could control the two Genii,
who were able to do for him whatever he asked, no matter how astonishing
or difficult it seemed.

One day Aladdin heard that the beautiful princess Badrou! Boudour,
the Sultan's daughter, was going to the bath. Secreting himself behind a
door, he managed to get a view of her face, when she was unveiled. The
sight of so much loveliness overcame .\laddin, who went home to his mother
in a melancholy mood, suffering from his first attack of the heart. After
thinking it over, he made up his mind that he, the worthless Aladdin, the
tailor’s son, would demand the hand of the princess from her noble father,
the great Sultan.

He persuaded his mother to go to the palace with his petition, taking as
a gift some of the jewels that he found in the garden.

The Sultan was so enchanted with the beauty of the stones, that he
graciously answered that Aladdin might wed his daughter after three
months. When two thirds of the time had passed, Aladdin heard that the
princess was to be married that day to the son of the Grand Vizier, the
Sultan’s chief officer. Aladdin at once called up the slave of the lamp, and
commanded him to go that night to the princess’ bridal chamber and trans-
port the newly wedded pair to him. The Genie did as he commanded, and
when they were set down in Aladdin's room, he said to the Genie, * Remove
THE ARABIAN NIGHTS’ ENTERTAINMENTS. 153

 

the bridegroom and keep him a prisoner until to-morrow dawn, and then
bring him hither.”

When Aladdin was left with the princess, he told her of the Sultan’s
promise, and how it had been broken, and then lay down beside her, with a
drawn scimitar between them, to secure her safety, and to treat her with the
utmost respect. In the morning, the separated bride and bridegroom were
carried back to their room in the palace.

The next night, the same thing was repeated, and the whole affair was
so alarming, that the two families agreed to annul the marriage contract
and announce the fact publicly. After a time, by the aid of his two power-
ful servants, Aladdin married the Princess Badroul Boudour, and lived in
great magnificence near the royal palace. After he had been married to
the princess for some years, the African sorcerer, by his magic, discovered
that Aladdin was not lying dead in the underground palace, but living in
luxury, with a Sultan’s daugher for his wife, and the wonderful lamp in his
possession. Immediately he set out for China, and disguised as a peddler,
went about the streets calling out, ““New lamps for old! New lamps for
old!” A foolish maid of the princess told her what the peddler was calling,
and begged her to exchange the dull, old lamp in the master’s dressing-
room for a shiny new one. Aladdin being away hunting, the exchange
was quickly made, and in a twinkling, the palace with the princess in it, and
Aladdin out of it, was lifted and set down in Africa. When Aladdin
returned from the hunt, and found an empty spot where his home had been,
he knew.at once that it must have been the work of the African sorcerer,
so, calling the slave of the Ring, he ordered the Genie to take him to his
palace. To hear was to obey, and after a happy meeting with his wife, they
concoct a plan, by which the villain of a conjurer is to be poisoned, and the
lamp taken from him. The plan is successful, and the palace with its
inmates brought back to China.

After a short time of happiness and quiet, with no sudden journeyings,
there appeared in the city a very holy woman, known as Fatima, who so
interested the Princess, that she invited her to live with her and was guided
by her in everything. One day, when they were discussing the beauties of
the great hall in the palace, Fatima told the Princess that there was only
one thing lacking ; if by any means she could obtain a roc’s egg and hang
it up in the middle of the hall then it would be complete.

Badroul Boudour begs Aladdin to get the roc’s egg for her, and
Aladdin, not dreaming that the Genie of the Lamp will refuse him any-
thing, orders the huge egg brought. To his intense astonishment the
great slave is furiously angry, and raging about, with flames flashing
from his eyes, demands how Aladdin dare insult him, by asking for his
154 THE ARABIAN NIGHTS’ ENTERTAINMENTS.

 

cousin and master, the roc, to be suspended from the dome. Then he
says, “I will spare you, however, because the request does not come from
you ; it is from the brether of the African magician, who is in your palace,
disguised as the holy woman, Fatima ; he intends to kill you, so beware.”
Then the Genie disappeared, and Aladdin needing no further hint, very
soon succeeded in neatly putting his dagger through the false Fatima’s
heart. Then his trouble was really over ; the Sultan died, and the Princess
Badroul Boudour succeeded him, and she and Aladdin reigned together
for many happy years.

THE HISTORY OF ALI BABA AND THE FORTY THIEVES.

There once lived, in a town of Persia, two brothers, the elder Cassim,
and the younger Ali Baba. Cassim was rich, while Ali Baba was only a
poor wood-cutter. One day, while the younger brother was in the forest,
a troop of forty robbers dashed into the wood, and Ali Baba had just time to
climb into a tree, by a great rock, and conceal himself amongst its branches,
when they halted under the very tree where he was hidden. One of the
robbers, who appeared to be the Captain, pronounced the words, “‘ Open
Sesame !”’ and instantly a door opened in the rock, and the troops dis-
appeared through it. Presently the door opened again to let them out,
and then the Captain caused the door to close, by uttering the words,
“Shut Sesame !’’ When the last man had ridden out of sight, Ali Baba
determined to see what was behind the door, descended from the tree,
and uttered the same words that the Captain had used, with the same
result.

Instead of a dismal cave, he found a spacious room, filled with all
sorts of treasures —rich stuffs piled one upon another, gold and silver in
great heaps, and bags of money. Ali Baba lost no time in taking out
as much of the treasure as his three asses could carry, and lading them
with gold and silver instead of the fagots which he expected to be their
burden, hastened home. Through the stupidity of his wife, his brother
Cassim discovered the secret of the cave, and went at night to the rock
in the wood, He, too, pronounced the words he had learned from his
brother, * Open Sesame,” and found himself inside the door, When he
was ready to come out, he was horrificd to find that he could no longer
recall the magic word. He remembered that it was the name of a kind of
grain, so he said “Open Barley,” and as that had no effect, he named every
species of grain of which he could think, but in vain; the door remained
firmly shut.

Some hours afterwards, the robbers returned to their cave, and finding
the intruder there, lost no time in dispatching the unfortunate Cassim, cut-
THE ARABIAN NIGHTS’ ENTERTAINMENTS. 155

 

ting his body in four pieces, and hanging them just inside the cave, asa
warning to anyone who should try to follow his example. Ali Baba became
anxious when his brother did not return, went to the secret door, and, to his
great sorrow, found the four pieces of his brother's body. He carried the
remains secretly to Cassim’s house and by the help of Morgiana, a clever
slave of his brother’s, succeeded in introducing a cobbler into the house, and
induced him, by means of a bribe, to sew the body together. Then it was
given out that Cassim was dead, and his funeral followed with all the
Mohammed anceremonial, and Ali Baba went to live in his brother’s house.

In the meantime, the robbers, returning to their cave, find Cassim’s body
gone, as well as more of their treasure, and they make a vow to seek and
punish the one who had done this daring deed. After various attempts, such
as marking the house with red chalk, which Morgiana frustrates, by mark-
ing all the houses near by in the same way, the captain does finally succeed
in getting into Ali Baba’s house, in the disguise of an oil merchant. Instead
of so many leathern jars of oil, however, there is but one containing oil,
while the other jars are each filled with a crouching robber. Morgiana has
need of some oil, and, thinking that she will help herself from the oil
merchant’s plenty, goes quietly to the court-yard, and in the darkness hears
a voice from the first jar, saying softly, “Is it time?” Though naturally
surprised at finding a man in the jar, instead of the oil she wanted, Mor-
giana did not lose her presence of mind, but answered quickly, “ Not yet,
but presently.” She went in turn to each jar, giving the same answer as
she was questioned by each robber, until she came to the jar of oil. She
filled her oil pot, and set it upon the fire to heat, and then poured enough of
the boiling oil into each vessel to stifle the robber within. Then she placed
herself at a window to watch what might happen. The captain coming from
his bedroom at the appointed time, got no answer to his signal, and on
going to the jars, found the dead bodies of his fellow thieves, and knew that
his plot was discovered. He contrived to force the lock of the garden-door
and escaped to the forest, raging and planning vengeance on Ali Baba.

In the morning Morgiana told her master the adventures of the previous
night, and Ali Baba, overjoyed at his escape, and pleased with Morgiana’s
bravery, gave her her freedom. He and his servant, Abdalla, buried the
well-oiled thieves in a long deep trench, like sardines in a box.

Some time after, there appeared in the city a very civil merchant of silks,
called Cogia Houssain, who made himself especially agreeable to Ali Baba’s
son, so much so, that he was soon asked to dine at Ali Baba’shouse. Cogia
Houssain declined, saying, “ The truth is, I can eat no food with salt in it ;
therefore, judge how I should, feel at your table.” Ali Baba assured him
that there should be no salt in any dish that came upon the table, and went
156 THE ARABIAN NIGHTS ENTERTAINMENTS.

 

at once to tell Morgiana that there would be a guest at dinner, and how to
prepare the food.

The shrewd woman said to herself, ‘“‘Who is this that will eat no salt
with my master? He must be an enemy!” She took occasion to carry in
one of the dishes, looked attentively at Cogia Houssain, and recognized
nim as the robber captain.

When the meal was over, and the wine and fruit on the table, Morgiana,
dressed as a dancing girl, with a silver girdle around her waist, from which
hung a sharp poniard, appeared before the company, to entertain them, as
was the Eastern custom. After several graceful dances, she drew the
poniard, and began to dance, in which she outdid herself, by her agility and
lightness of foot. Sometimes she presented the dagger at the breast of one
of the company, sometimes at another's, and often seemed to strike her
own. As she approached the false silk merchant, he pulled out his purse to
give her a gold piece ; while he was putting his hand into it, Morgiana, with
a courage worthy of herself, plunged the poniard into his heart. Ali Baba
was shocked at her action, but when the deception was explained to him,
and he realized that the faithful Morgiana had rid him forever from this
deadly enemy, he was overcome with joy, and embraced her, saying :

* Morgiana, I have given you your liberty, now I will make you my
daughter — you shall marry my son.’ The son readily consented to the
marriage, especially as it was agreeable to his own inclination.

Some years later li Baba told the secret of the cave to his son, who
handed it down to his posterity. His descendants used their good fortune
with moderation, and lived in great comfort and honor.

PRINCE ATIMED, AND THE FAIRY PARI-BANOU.,

There was once upon a time a Sultan of the Indies. an old man, and a
wise ruler, who had three sons and a beloved niece, Nourounnihar. Now,
these three brothers all loved their beautiful cousin passionately ; and their
father, in order to decide the matter, said that she should be the bride of
the one who should bring to him the most extraordinary rarity. Prince
Houssain, the eldest, obtained a carpet, so wonderful, that whoever sat upon
it could be transported, in an instant, wherever he desired to be. Prince
Ali purchased from a crier a magical ivory tube, through which one might
see any person or object he wished, no matter how tar away. Ahmed, the
youngest of the Princes, found an apple of such virtue, that a dying patient
need only smell of it to be immediately restored to perfect health,

By means of the tube, the three brothers, who met together after a few
months’ time, discovered that the lovely Princess of their heart's desire was
THE ARABIAN NIGHTS’ ENTERTAINMENTS. 157

 

lying in a death-like swoon. In their agitation they all sat down on Hous-
sain’s carpet, when, presto! they found themselves in the apartments of the
Princess, where they soon were full of joy, as Ahmed’s apple, when presented
to her nostrils, entirely restored her to her former health and beauty.

When the Sultan knew of these wonders, he pronounced them of so equal
a value, that nothing could be decided through their means ; and therefore
told the Princes that atrial of their skill with the bow and arrow should
now be the test. Ali’s arrow flew far past Houssain’s, and Ahmed’s could
nowhere be seen, so the bewitching Nourounnihar was given to Ali, as his
bride. In his grief Houssain decided to turn dervish and live a solitary life,
while Ahmed went in quest of his lost arrow. After long searching, he spies
the missing shaft lying on the ground, and near by, an iron door in the
rocks, which he opens easily, and there beholds a magnificent palace, out of
which steps a ravishingly beautiful woman, clothed in jeweled robes.

Addressing him by name, she says, “ You are welcome, Prince Ahmed.
You cannot be ignorant, as the Koran informs you, that there are genii in
the world, as well as men ; I am a daughter of ore of the most powerful and
distinguished of these genii, and my name is Pari-Banou.”’

Pari-Banou already knew and loved Ahmed for his many graces ; it was
her art that had guided his arrow to this door ; and he was so conquered by
her charms, that no other life seemed desirable than one by her side. For a
long time the Prince and his fairy wife lived in a round of delightsome
pleasures, so wonderful and so varied, that Ahmed, had he lived a thousand
years among men, could not have experienced equal enjoyment. At the end
of six months, the young man had a great longing to see his father, whom
he deeply loved and honored, and after some demurring, Pari-Banou sent
him in great state with a retinue of mounted men, to the Sultan’s capital.
His aged father received him most tenderly, and Ahmed related his adven-
tures, only omitting his marriage with the fairy, as she had forbidden that
disclosure.

In three days he returned to his wife, and thereafter made frequent
visits to his old home, until some of the King’s favorites became jealous of
his grandeur, and tried to persuade the Sultan that Prince Ahmed was
planning to win the people by his magnificence, and then usurp the throne.
The Sultan listened to these insinuations, and employed a sorceress, who, by
her wiles, discovered the treasure-house whence Ahmed drew his splendors,
and told the secrets of his fairy wife and of the marvellous beauties of her
palace. The sorceress advised the Sultan to ask impossible favors of his
son, until he should be so mortified by his inability to grant them, that he
would come no more to the court. Guided by this advice, the Sultan at
first asked Ahmed for a tent large enough to shelter his whole army, and
158 THE ARABIAN NIGHTS’ ENTERTAINMENTS.

 

small enough to be held in a man’s hand. The Prince is disheartened at so
unheard of a request, but the fairy tells him it is a mere trifle, and, with a
merry laugh at his downcast face, orders her smallest pavilion brought
in, which proves to have such powers of extension as to cover an army,
though carried to her in an attendant’s hand.

The Sultan’s next demand was accomplished by the help of the same
power, and at last he said to Prince Ahmed that it would especially delight
him to see a little man a foot and a half high, with a beard thirty feet long,
who carried a bar of iron weighing five hundred pounds. Pari-Banou finds
for him just such a dwarf, ready to her hand, in the person of her own
brother, who goes with Ahmed to the presence-chamber, with his heavy bar
on his shoulder ; his thirty-foot-long beard supporting itself before him, his
thick moustaches tucked up to his ears; his small pig-like eyes sunk deep
in his enormous head ; besides all this, a hump behind and before. The
fairy had warned Ahmed that her strange brother was terrible when angered,
and so it proved, for the fierce little being took offence at the king’s evident
fear of him, and lifting up his iron bar, struck the distrustful father on the
head and killed him, before Ahmed could prevent him.

He treated all of the Prince’s enemies in the same violent way, and
finally cried out, ‘I will crush the whole city with my bar, if they do not
acknowledge Prince Ahmed as Sultan of the Indies.”

All present quickly made the air ring with acclamations of ** Long life
to Sultan \hmed!” and soon after he was proclaimed through the whole
metropolis, was clothed in the royal vestments and placed upon his father’s
throne, where he and his fairy spouse reigned for many years, as Sultan and
Sultana of all the Indies.

ABOU HASSAN; OR, THE SLEEPER AWAKENED.,

The Caliph Haroun al Raschid and his lively consort Zobeide had two
attendants, of whom they were very fond, Abou Hassan and his wife
Nouzhatoul-.\ouadat.

This well-treated pair proved to be most extravagant in their way of
living, and after being married only a year, were in such distress to obtain
their customary luxuries, that together they devised a plan to fill their empty
purses, Karly in the morning the wife went weeping to the Calipha, and
in doleful accents complained that her beloved companion had been removed
by death, and that she had nothing suitable in the house with which to
furnish his funeral. he husband made a like story of his wife’s death to
his master, and their too-credulous benefactors gave to each a bag of gold,
and a piece of grand brocade for a covering, The Caliph went to Princess
THE ARABIAN NIGITTS’ ENTERTAINMENTS. 159
Zobeide’s apartment, to condole with her on the loss of her favorite slave,
but she, in astonishment at his words, said, “Commander of the Faithful,
of what do you speak? It is your slave, Abou Hassan, who is dead, and for
whom I grieve, for your sake.”

At this the Caliph fell a-laughing, so convinced was he of her mistake,
but as he saw her to be obstinately settled in the error, and almost in a
tage, he tried to be reasonable, and said quietly to Mesrour, the eunuch,
“‘Go instantly to Abou Hassan’s and bring us back the true word in the
matter.” The deceitful pair were watching from the window for develop-
ments, and so, on Mesrour’s arrival, he found the husband kneeling in tears
beside his wife’s bier, her feet turned reverently towards Mecca. But this
report, when brought back, would not satisfy the determined Zobeide, for
in the meantime she and the Caliph had laid a wager, her palace of paint-
ings against his garden of pleasure, that Abou Hassan was dead and his
wife living — not without angry words on her part, and even the mild Haroun
was hardly able to keep his temper. And now the queen sends her old and
trusted nurse to the scene of dispute ; the watchers at the window see her
coming and quickly change places, so that, on entering, the messenger sees
the faithful wife mourning at her husband’s bier, his feet also piously turned
tuwards Mecca.

So continued a contradiction was more than could be borne, and while
their Lord and Lady were disputing, the nurse and eunuch almost came to
blows. His majesty, always clever at settling disputes, could see no end to
this, and cried out, “I see we are all liars! Now, we will go together to
Abou Hassan’s, and there will find the solution of the mystery.” When
the King, Queen and attendants reached the supposed chamber of death,
they were all struck with horror, for there were wo biers, covered with two
pieces of gold brocade, and ome lying dead at each side of the room.
Zobeide mourned beside her slave’s bier, and as the Caliph sat by that of
Abou Hassan, he said, in his grief and perplexity, “I would give a thousand
gold pieces to know which one died first.” No sooner were these words
uttered, than he heard a sepulchral voice from under the brocade
nearest him: ‘ Commander of the faithful,” it said, “I died first; give me
the thousand pieces of gold ’’—and springing up, the pretended dead man
threw himself at his master’s feet; while his wife did the same to Zobeide.
The Caliph and his consort were so pleased that the dispute was over, and
that neither one was called to mourn, that they forgave the trick which had
been played upon them, and laughed aloud in their relief at being once
more in accord; and even carried their kindness so far, that they bestowed
a thousand gold pieces upon both Abou Hassan and on Nouzhatoul-
Aouadat.
 

 

 

MIGUEL CERVANTES SAAVEDRA DE CERVANTES

BORN 1547. SPAIN Dieo 1616
MIGUEL DE CERVANTES-SAAVEDRA.

Until a comparatively recent period but little was known of the birthplace and ear.y his-
tory of Miguel de Cervantes-Saavedra, whose pen shed a luster over the literature of Spain
that more than three centuries have not been able to dim. However, research has brought
to light the fact that Cervantes was born in Alcala de Henares sometime in the year 1547.
The family of Cervantes, although in humble circumstances, ranked with the Azdalgos of
Spain. At an early age he evinced a great fondness for books. This taste was encouraged
by his parents, who destined him for one of the learned professions. But his inclinations
led rather in the direction of what is to-day denominated ‘‘ light literature,” and books of
fiction and poetry had more charms for him than the heavy tomes that were better calculated
to fit him for his proposed future career. While he was still very young, the parents of
Cervantes removed him to Madrid, where he was placed under the tuition of one Juan Lopez,
a very learned professor, where he continued until the year 1568. The result of this resi-
dence at Madrid was that he received a fair education and acquired a somewhat extensive
knowledge of classical and general literature. His poetical aspirations found vent during
the last year of his residence at the Spanish capital, when, upon the occasion of the obsequies
of Isabel de Valois, the wife of Phuip II., he was counted among the most successful of the
competitors in the literary exercises that formed a feature of that mournful celebration. The
next step in Cervantes’ career was his establishment at Rome as Chamberlain to Cardinal
Julio Aquaviva. In this capacity he served until 1570, when he enlisted under Marco An-
tonio Colonna, the papal general, and at the famous battle of Lepanto he was so severely
wounded in the left arm as to totally lose the use of it. | But this loss was only a source of
gratification to the soldier-poet, who thus refers to it: ‘‘ My maim was received on the
noblest occasion that past or present ages have seen, or future can ever hopetosee, If my
wounds do not reflect a luster in the eyes of those who barely behold them, they will yet be
esteemed by those who know how I came by them; for a soldier makes a better figure dead in
battle, than alive and at liberty running away ; and J am so firmly of this opinion, that could
an impossibility be rendered practicable, and the same opportunity be recalled, I would
rather be again present in that prodigious action, than whole and sound without sharing in
the glory of it. The scars that a soldier shows in his face and breast are stars, which
guide others to the haven of honor, and the desire of just praise.”

With such sentiments filling Cervantes’ breast, the heroics of Dow Quixote seemed the
natural outpouring of a chivalric soul devoted to a Christian warfare, such as that in which
Cervantes’ sovereign was engaged in his crusade against the infidel Turks. On recovering
from his wound, Cervantes joined the Neapolitan army and remained with it until 1575. On
the 26th of September of that year, as he was going from Naples to Spain on board a galley,
he was captured and carried to Algiers by the famous corsair captain, Arnaute Mami. On
the division of the captives, he fell to the lot of Dali Mami, a Greek renegade, whose hostility
to the Christians, and especially to the Spaniards, was such as to make his name whispered
with horror by every follower of the cross. In this captivity Cervantes passed five years.
Many and futile were his attempts at escape. Twice he was brought into the King’s pres-
ence, with a rope around his neck, to be hanged. Once he was ordered two thousand blows
164 MIGUEL DE CEBRVANTES-SAAVEDRA.

 

with a stick, only being saved from this barbaric punishment by the prayers of his fellow
captives, to whom his generous spirit had endeared him. Towards the close of the year
1580, the family and friends of Cervantes succeeded, after infinite effort and many vexa-
tious delays, in effecting his release by the payment of a large ransom, and he once more
found himself in the land of his nativity, poor in purse but rich in experience. Fixing his
residence at Madrid, where his mother and sister then lived, he resumed his reading of every
kind of books, Latin, Spanish and Italian, and began to devote himself to a literary career.
In 1584 he married, at Esquivias, Donna Catalina de Palacios Salazar y Vozmediano, who
was of one of the ‘‘ first families,” but whose purse was as short as her cognomen was long.
From this time until the date of his death, Cervantes continued to employ his pen on the
various compositions which have enriched the literature of his native country, but which sig-
nally failed to do as much for their maimed and unfortunate author. For more than thirty
years he followed his literary bent, sometimes basking in the sunshine of a rich patron's
generosity, at others feeling the pangs of hunger and the humiliation of a beggar’s apparel.

On the 23d uay of April, 1616, at Madrid, on the same day that England's immortal
Shakespeare ‘‘shuffled off” the ‘‘ mortal coil,” the spirit of Cervantes winged its way to
that country where the soul of the author needs no patron’s care to preserve the paltry body.
The funeral of Cervantes was as poor and obscure as his life had been, and no stone, inscrip-
tion or memorial pointed out the place of his interment.

The first product of Cervantes’ literary genius was Ga/a‘ea, a pastoral novel in six books,
interspersed with songs and verses, and published at Madrid in 1584. He next turned his
attention to the drama, and wrote several comedies, which were performed at Madrid with
more or less of success. From 1554 to 1594 he applied himself to dramatic composition, dur-
ing which time he is said to have wr.tten thirty comedies, only eight of which are now extant.

In 1613 he printed his twelve Exemplary Novels, the titles of which are: The Little
Gipsy, The Generous Lover, Ricconcte and Cortadillo, The Spanish-English Lady, The Glass
Doctor, The Force of Blood, The Jealous Estremaduran, The Illustrious Servant Maid, The
Two Damsels, The Lady Cornelia Bentiroglio, The Deceitful Marriage, and The Dialogue
of the Dogs. Inthe following year he published 4 Journey to Parnassus, a satire on the
Spanish poets. In 1615 appeared eight comedies and as many interludes by the now famous
author. The titles of the comedies are: Zhe Spun:s Gartan!, The House of Jealousy, The
Baths of Algiers, The Lucky Pimp, The Grand Sultana, The Labyrinth of Love, The Kept
Mistress, and Peter the Mischief Maker. Of the interludes, the following are the titles:
The Judge of the Divorces, The Ruffianly Widower, The Election of Maver of Deganso,
The Careful Guardian, The Counterfeit Biscainer, The Raree Show of Wonders, The Cave
ef Salamanca, and The Jealous O17 Man. The first and third of the interludes are in
verse, the rest in prose, Cervantes’ last performance, a work on which he employed many
years, was a romance entitled Mersiles and Sigismunmda, which was published after his dea*h.

But the fame of Cervantes will always rest, as it has rested for so many years, upon the in-
comparable satire on the foolish and extravagint romances of chivalry—Don Qurtvote. By
the beginning of 1604 Cervantes had completed this chef a’ecurre and in the beginning of the
next year the first part was printed at Madrid by Juan de la Cuesta, to whom Cervantes had
sold the copyright for ten years. In 1608 the second part of Dow Quixote made its appear-
ance and Cervantes’ name was soon in the mouths of all Spain. The popularity of Don
Quixote is attested by the extraordinary number of editions and translations which have ap-
peared in all languayes, Up to 1874 there had been 275 editions published, of wh ch §-
appeared in Spain and ror in other countries. Translations have been made into English,
Freneh, German Dutch, Italian, Danish and every European tongue, including Turkish.
DON QUIXOTE. 165

 

THE LIFE AND EXPLOITS OF THE INGENIOUS
GENTLEMAN, DON QUIXOTE DE
LA MANCHA.

There lived in the village of La Mancha a country gentleman who, by
reason of much reading of books of knight-errantry, and more particularly
of the adventures of one Amadis of Gaul, quite lost his wits and fell into
the strange conceit that for his own reputation and for the public good he
himself should turn knight-errant and wander through the world with his
horse and arms in quest of adventures, and tu put in practice whatever he had
read to have been practiced by knights-errant— redressing all kinds of
grievances, exposing himself to danger, and undertaking enterprises that he
might acquire eternal fame and renown. The better to accomplish this
noble purpose, the first thing he did was to scour up a suit of armor, which
had been his great-great-grandfather’s, and which had lain long years, rusty
and mouldy, forgotten in a corner. But when his valorous work was at last
completed, he perceived that there was one great defect, which was, that
instead of a helmet there was only a simple morion, or steel cap. But he
dexterously supplied this want by contriving a sort of vizor of pasteboard,
which being fixed to the head-piece, gave it the appearance of a complete
helmet.

The next thing he did was to visit his steed; and, though his bones
stuck out from every part of his anatomy, he fancied that Alexander’s
Bucephalus could not be compared to him. For four days did the good
knight labor to bring forth a name for so fine a creature until he happily hit
upon Rozinante, which signified “formerly a common drudge-horse,” but
which to his ear was lofty and sonorous, and apt as expressing what he had
been, before acquiring his present superiority over all the steeds in the
world.

Having christened his horse so much to his satisfaction, he resolved to
give himself a name that should be worthy the deeds which he and Rozin-
ante were to accomplish. After eight days of cogitation he determined to
call himself Don Quixote, but being mindful that the knightly Amadis was
not content with the simple appellation of Amadis, but added thereto the
name of his native country, he too resolved to style himself Don Quixote
de la Mancha.

But he must needs have a lady-love, for a knight-errant without a
mistress was a tree without leaves or fruit, or a body without a soul. Near
166. MIGUEL DE CERVANTES-SAAVEDRA.

 

the place where he lived, there dwelt a comely country lass with whom he
had formerly been in love, though she never knew it, nor troubled herself
about it. Her name was Aldonza Lorenzo; and he pitched upon her to be
the lady of his thoughts. But, she, too, must have a name harmonious,
uncommon and significant, like the rest he had devised for himself and his
belongings, so he called her Dulcinea del Toboso,

Being now provided with armour, a noble steed and a fair mistress, there
was nought for Don Quixote to do but to have himself dubbed knight, and
set forth in quest of those adventures of which he had read so much in the
annals of knight-errantry. Mounting Rozinante, he sallied out upon the
highway and soon came in sight of an inn, which to his eyes was a turreted
castle of noble proportions. Hailing the landlord, he craved shelter and
refreshment, And here our noble knight had his first adventure; for while
he rested from his fatigues and kept ward over his armor, which he had lain
aside at the cistern, a party of carriers arrived and ruthlessly laid hands on
the armor, which was in their way; and thereat Don Quixote laid two of
them low with his lance and would undoubtedly have been slain by the re-
mainder had the landlord not come to his rescue and explained his strange
disorder to the enraged muleteers. Now, Don Quixote became so impatient
to be dubbed knight, that he resolved the lord of the castle should perform
the noble office, and so importunate was he, that the inn-keeper resolved to
humor his strange whim, and thereupon smote him on the neck with his
bare fist, and across the shoulders with the knight’s own sword; he then
ordered the maids of the inn to buckle on the knight's sword, which they
did, while stifling their laughter; and so, with his heart's desire gratified, did
Don Quixote again mount Rozinante and issue forth,

The disappearance of Don Quixote from his home was soon communi-
cated to his friends ; and the strange appearance of the knightly gentleman,
who had been observed by the villayers as he set out on his adventures, set
all tongues wagging. When these things came to the ear of the village
priest, he, in company with the barber, repaired to the home of Don Quixote,
and there discovering the cause of the poor gentleman's madness, in the
library of books of knight-errantry, proceeded to make a mighty bonfire of
the same, and had the door of the room, where they had once graced the
shelves, deftly walled up. Some days after, Don Quixote returned, bruised
and battered from conflicts with natives who had not the same views of
knight-errantry as the valiant Quixote, and who took his interference in
their alfairs so ill, that blows rained down upon him far thicker than thanks.
‘The disappearance of his books seemed to Don Quixote the work of some
vile enchanter ; but their loss did not deter him one whit from the pursuit
of knightly adventures, and so soon as he had recovered he again set
DON QUIXOTE. 167

 

out to wage war and ‘succor the helpless, to the glory of his Dulcinea del
Toboso.

But Don Quixote was now determined to provide himself with a squire.
In the vicinity there dwelt a laborer, an honest man, but very shallow-
brained With promises of finding an island of which the simple fellow
should be made governor, Don Quixote beguiled Sancho Panza, for that
was the laborer’s name, to quit his wife and children and follow him in his
journeyings. Provided with a wallet, and mounted on an ass, Sancho Panza
sallied out of the village in the wake of Don Quixote, both being unper-
ceived by anyone; and then began those most wonderful adventures that to
this day are remembered in the village of La Mancha, and which have made
the names of Don Quixote and his faithful squire ever to be held in high
estimation by all true lovers of knightly courtesy and courage.

Of all the marvelous encounters with which the history of Don Quixote
is filled, the dreadful and never-before-imagined adventure of the windmills
is most worthy to be recorded in the annals of chivalry. It fell out in this
wise: As Don Quixote and Sancho Panza journeyed, they perceived some
thirty or forty windmills ; and, as soon as Don Quixote espied them, he said
to his squire: “ Fortune disposes our affairs better than we ourselves could
have desired ; look yonder, friend Sancho Panza, where you may discover
somewnat more than thirty monstrous giants, with whom I intend to fight,
and take away all their lives; with whose spoils we will begin to enrich
ourselves ; for it is lawful war and doing God good service to take away so
wicked a generation from off the face of the earth.”

“What giants?” said Sancho Panza. “Those you see yonder,” answered
his master, “with those long arms; for some of them are wont to have
them almost of the length of two leagues.’’ ‘Consider, sir,’ answered
Sancho, “that those which appear yonder are not giants, but windmills ; and
what seem to be arms are the sails, which, whirled about by the wind, make
the millstone go.’ ‘“‘One may easily see,” answered Don Quixote, “that
you are not versed in the business of adventures; they are giants ; and if
you are afraid, get aside and pray, whilst I engage with them in a fierce and
unequal combat.” And so.saying, he clapped spurs to Rozinante, without
minding the cries his squire sent after him, that those he went to
assault were, without doubt, windmills, and not giants. But he was so fully
possessed that they were giants, that he neither heard the outcries of his
squire, Sancho, nor yet discerned what they were, though he was very near
them, but went on crying out aloud: “Fly not, ye cowards and vile catiffs,
for it is a single knight who assaults you.” Now, the wind rose a little and
the great sails began to move, which Don Quixote perceiving, he said:
“Well, though you should move more arms than the giant Briareus, you
168 MIGUEL DE CERVANTES-SAAVEDRA.

 

shall pay for it.” And so saying, and recommending himself devoutly to
his lady, Dulcinea, beseeching her to succor him in the present danger,
being well covered with his buckler, and setting his lance in the rest, he
rushed on as fast as Rozinante could gallop, and attacked the first windmill
before him ; and, running his lance into the sail, the wind whirled it about
with so much violence, that it broke the lance to shivers, dragging horse and
rider after it, and tumbling them over and over on the plain, in very evil
plight. Sancho Panza hastened to his assistance as fast as his ass could
carry him ; and when he came up to him, he found him not able to stir, so
violent was the blow he and Rozinante had received in falling. ‘God save
me,” quoth Sancho, “did I not warn you to have a care of what you did,
for they are nothing but windmills, and nobody could mistake them but one
that had the like in his head?” “Peace, friend Sancho,” answered Don
Quixote, “for matters of war, are of all others, most subject to continual
mutations. Now, I verily believe, and it is most certainly so, that the sage
Freston, who stole away my chamber and books, has metamorphized these
giants into windmills, on purpose to deprive me of the glory of vanquishing
them, so great is the enmity he bears me; but, when he has done his work,
his wicked arts will avail but little against the goodness of my sword. '

“God grant it as he can,” answered Sancho Panza ; and helping him to
rise, he mounted him again upon Rozinante, who was half shoulder slipped,
and so, discoursing of the late adventures, they journeyed on.

And as they journeyed, Don Quixote saw in the distance a thick cloud
of dust, which portended to him, a vast army of divers nations approaching.
His valiant soul was filled with joy, which was greatly enhanced, when his
faithful squire pointed out another cloud of dust, which indicated another
army, moving from another direction; the two soon to meet on the broad
plain, over which our knight was riding. As they approached, Don Quixote
declared that his duty was to assist the weaker party, and expounded to
Sancho Panza the names of the two contending hosts. ‘* The army in front
is led by the great Emperor .\lifanfaron, lord of the great island of ‘Tapro-
ban; the one behind us, by the King of the Garamantes, Pentapolin of
the Naked Arm,” ‘The cause of the war, he explained, was the love of Ali-
fanfaron for VPentapolin’s daughter, who is most beautiful and a Christian,
while the Emperor is a Pagan ; and as a Christian Knight, Don Quixote de-
cided to assist Pentapolin, and his soul was filled with enthusiasm, at the
mighty decds soon to be enacted, in which he himself was to be an active
participant. So great was his mental exaltation, that he paid little heed to
Sancho Panza's suggestion, that the neighing of the steeds, the sound of the
trumpets, and beating of drums, were in reality nothing but the bleating of
Sheep and lambs, and he explained to honest Sancho, that it was fear en
DON QUIXOTE. 169

 

the part of the latter, which affected his hearing and eyesight ; directed him
to stand aside in order to avoid the shock of the encounter, and then, clap-
ping spurs to Rozinante and setting his lance in the rest, he attacked, single
handed, the Paynim host; in other words, he rushed into the squadron of
sheep, paying no heed to the herdsmen, who called out to him to desist, and
who, finding their cries unavailing, pelted him with stones with such effect
as to knock out a number of his teeth, throw him from his horse, and so seri-
ously to injure him, that they believed they had killed him, and, picking up
about seven sheep the knight had killed, hurried away.

Sancho, who had watched from a neighboring hillock the slaughter of the
sheep, and the fall of his master, ran to his assistance, reminding him that
it was a flock of sheep, and not an army of men; but his master declared
that his enemy, the enchanter, had transformed the men into sheep, and if
Sancho would follow them, he would find that they had become men again.
Seeing Sancho fall into a melancholy mood he assured that worthy that the
Squire at Arms would have no share in the mischances that might befall the
Knight, to which Sancho replied, that as they were without food, and with
little prospect of obtaining any, he thought the Squire was sometimes a
participant in his master’s misfortunes; and the pious Knight re-assured
Sancho by saying :

“God, who provides for all, will not desert us, especially as we are en-
gaged in his service.”

This inspired Sancho with fresh courage, and the brave Knight and his
trusty Squire continued their journeyings, meeting very many wonderful-ad-
ventures, in all of which the noble Don Quixote proved his courage and his
fidelity to the vows of Knighthood.

One of these was so marvelous, and displayed so fully all his noble
qualities, that it must be related.

Journeying, as was his wont, attended by Sancho Panza, he was over-
taken by a wagon which contained two very large and fierce lions, intended
as a present to the King. In one of the cages was a lion, and in the other a
lioness. The brave Don Quixote demanded that the cages should be opened,
in order that the creatures might know who and what manner of man Don
Quixote de la Mancha was. Sancho entreated his master not to throw away
his life in an encounter with wild beasts ; but the Knight was resolute, and
the wagoner removed his mules, Sancho removed himself and his ass to a
place of safety, and the keeper of the lions made another vain effort to in-
duce the Knight to abandon his desperate undertaking. Don Quixote, dis-
mounting from his horse, grasped his shield, drew his sword, commended him-
self to Heaven and to his lady, Dulcinea, and then awaited the onslaught.
The keeper, at a signal from Don Quixote, opened wide the door, and the
170 MIGUEL DE CERVANTES-SAAVEDRA.

lion, a creature of monstrous size, thrust his head out of the cage, stared
about him fiercely, and then turned about, and lay down again quietly in his
apartment. The Knight, not satisfied, desired the keeper to give the lion a
thrust to irritate him; but the keeper assured him that the lion was evi-
dently afraid, and that honor and victory were on the side of the Knight.
Thus ended the encounter, and to commemorate his triumph, Don Quixote,
conforming to the ancient custom of Knights-errant, assumed the title of
Knight of the Lions.

A few days later, Don Quixote, coming out of a wood, descried a
company of ladies and gentlemen engaged in the diversion of hawking;
among them a lady upon a white steed with green trappings, who appeared
to the Don to be chief in rank ; and to her he sent Sancho, with a message
to the effect that the Knight of the Lions desired to wait upon her, and to
kiss her fair hands. Sancho performed his mission in the most approved
language of chivalry, on bended knee, and returned with an invitation
trom the lady and the Duke, her husband, to visit them at their castle near
at hand. The Duke and Duchess were well acquainted with the history of
Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, and determined to humor their peculiari-
ties to their fullest extent. The Duchess was especially amused by Sancho
Panza; his quaint, proverbial sayings affording her great entertainment,
and after Don Quixote had duly presented himself to the Duchess, the
whole party rode towards the Duke's castle, the Duke, however, preceding
them, in order to give some directions to his servants.

Upon the Don’s arrival at the gates, two of the Duke's lackeys lifted
him from his horse, two damsels threw a long, scarlet mantle on him.
and as they did so, a shout went up from the galleries of the court-yard,
“Welcome to the Flower and Cream of Knight-errantry !"" at the same
time he was sprinkled with sweet perfumes; all of which attentions, while
they gratified, did not astonish the Don, for all was in accordance with
ancient custom, as was well known to him from his books.

Thus were Don Quixote and Sancho entertained: the latter being
encouraged to talk freely both of his master and of himself, a privilege of
which he availed himself to the fullest extent, reciting the Knight's valiant
exploits, adding his quaint comments thereon, and revealing his ambition
to become the governor of an island, as his master had promised him. The
Duke immediately promised to give him the island of Barataria to govern,
and the Duke having made the necessary arrangements, the honest fellow
was inducted into the office of governor. For ten days did Governor Sancho
Panza dispense justice in his own inimitable way, doing himself great
credit by his peculiar shrewdness and native wit, which supplied the want of
knowledge of books and men; but a very few days of high position satis-
DON QUIXOTE. 171

 

fied him, and he very gladly relinquished his honors and returned to his
master.

Not long thereafter, Don Quixote, on his faithful steed Rozinante, accom-
panied by Sancho Panza mounted on his ass Dapple, commenced their
journey to Barcelona; the Knight intending to take part in the tourney
there. His reception at that city was a very hearty one; the most promi-
nent officials, including the Viceroy, taking part therein.

Soon after his arrival, an adventure occurred to him, of so much import-
ance, that it must be given here in full.

One morning, on the sea-shore, Don Quixote, in full armor, was met by
another knight, also fully armed, who proclaimed himself the Knight of
the White Moon, and challenged our knight to single combat, the conditions
being that if victory attended the challenger, Don Quixote was to forsake
arms and the quest of adventures, and return home, to live quietly one
year. If Don Quixote were victor, the life of the White Moon Knight
would be at his mercy, and his horse and arms a trophy to the victor.
Our brave Knight of the Lions eagerly accepted the challenge, and in
the presence of the Viceroy and other gentlemen the combat took place,
ending in the unhorsing of Don Quixote, and victory for the stranger
knight.

Tn a few days, in accordance with the terms of the combat, Don Quixote
sadly set out for his home; thus terminating the career which had brought
glory to him and to La Mancha, his native province.

The Knight of the White Moon, proved to be the Bachelor Carrasco, a
neighbor, who had taken this course to cure Don Quixote of the madness
which had so long afflicted him.

In the fullness of time, Don Quixote was laid low with a mortal sick-
ness. As the end drew near, the mists that had long enveloped the poor
gentleman’s brain cleared away, and the uncompromising enemy of wind-
mills, and champion of beauty in distress, perceived the folly of his course,
and spoke to the friends who were assembled about his bedside: “Give
me joy, good gentlemen, that I am no longer Don Quixote de la Mancha,
but Alonzo Quixano, for his virtues surnamed The Good. I am now an
utter enemy to all Knights-errant ; and their histories are to me odious and
profane. I am now sensible of the danger I was lead into by reading
them; and now, through the mercy of God, and my own dear bought
experience, detest and abhor them.” And with these pious assertions on
his lips did Alonzo Quixano, so long known as Don Quixote de la Mancha,
compose himself for death, the conqueror from whom even Rozinante could
not have borne him, and in the combat with whom the faithful Sancho could
not assist his vanquished master.
172 UIGUEL DE CERVANTES-SAAVEDRA.

 

ANALYSIS,

To the artificial age reared in the insipid extravagances of the succes-
sors of Amadis of Gaul, Don Quixote came with the freshness of a
summer sunrise. The simple humor, the broad charity and the easy
grace of the narrative were rare and delightful equalities in Spanish litera-
ture. Sainte-Beuve has called it “the book of humanity.” Byron declared
that “Cervantes laughed Spain’s chivalry away”; but this is manifestly
untrue, for at chivalry itself none of Cervantes shafts are aimed ; it is only
the foolish perpetration of its principles, long after the necessity for their
practice had passed, that he ridicules. Don Quixote is a satire, but a satire
on follies common to all times and all peoples. Smiles and tears chase each
other across the pages of this marvelous book that will ever typify all that
is greatest in the literature of Spain.

QUOTATIONS.

Among the gems of thought that adorn the pages of Don Qurxote, are the
following:

““Too much of a good thing.”

“He had a face like a benediction.”

“The more you stir it, the worse it will be.”

“Every one is the son of his own works.”

“Every one is as God has made him, and oftentimes a great deal worse.”

“I would do what I pleased, and doing what I pleased, I should have my
will, and having my will, I should be contented; and when one is contented,
there is no more to be desired; and when there is no more to be desired,
there is an end of it.”

‘‘ Blessings on him who invented sleep,—the mantle that covers all human
thoughts, the food that appeases hunger, the drink that quenches thirst, the
fire that warms cold, the cold that moderates heat, and, lastly, the general
coin that purchases all things, the balance and weight that equals the shep-
herd with the king, and the simple with the wise.”
 

JOHN MILTON

Dieo 1674

GLAND

EN

Born 1608
[1

JOHN MILTON.

John Milton, a poet of the first half of the seventeenth century, and deservedly ranking
as one of the greatest poets of all ages, was not only a poet, but a profound scholar, a power-
ful controversialist, a man of affairs, and an enlightened theologian.

Born in Bread Street, Cheapside, London, England, December 9, 1608, he lived into his
sixty-sixth year, having accomplished in his time an amount of work, literary, political and
poetical, of which the brightest genius and the most industrious author might be proud.

During the early years of his life, and throughout the long years of his public service of
the state, he enjoyed acompetence. He was liberally educated, studied at Christ’s College,
Cambridge, traveled on the continent, made the acquaintance of some of the most renowned
scholars of Europe, and was versed not only in Latin, Greek, and Hebrew, but also in the
modern languages of southern Europe.

His political principles were strongly Republican. He was Latin secretary to the Common-
wealth, and always an admirer and fast friend of Cromwell; and it was during his term of
public office that his most characteristic prose writings, embracing his vigorous controversial
pamphlets, appeared. :

After the restoration he was in some danger from the monarchy, but was never seriously
molested. He was thrice married, and had three daughters, who were of little comfort to
him, and even undutiful and hateful.

‘In his latter years he was afflicted with blindness ; and some of his most touching and
eloquent lines bear reference to that fact.

During this unhappy period of his life he had the services of readers and amanuenses,
and his most memorable work, the ‘‘ Paradise Lost,” was composed wholly after the darkness
fell upon him, It is a poem containing some of the most sublime strains in the English or
in any language. The following is an epitome of the same :

PARADISE LOST.

The theme of this remarkable, and in some respects matchless, poem can-
not be better stated than in its opening lines:

“Of man’s first disobedience and the fruit
Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste
Brought death into the world, and all our woe,
With loss of Eden, till one greater Man
Restore us and regain the blissful seat,
Sing, Heavenly Muse.”
196 JOHN MILTON.

 

The poem is divided into twelve Books, to each of which there is prefixed
an “ Argument,” or synopsis of the contents.

Book I.

After informing us that Satan and a vast number of subordinate angels,
whom he had drawn into revolt against God, had been driven out of Hea-
ven into the great deep of Hell, Milton gives a magnificent description of
the rebel host as they lay thunderstruck and astonished on the burning
lake.

+ A dungeon horrible on all sides round
As one great furnace flamed ; yet from those flames
No light, but rather darkness visible
Served only to discover sights of woe,
Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace
And rest can never dwell, hope never comes
That comes to all; but torture without end
Still urges, and a fiery deluge, fed
With ever-burning sulphur unconsumed.”

Satan, recovering somewhat from his confusion, calls up him who next in
dignity lay by him, namely Beelzebub, and confers with him about their com-
mon ruin. He says to him:

‘ “What though the field be lost ?
All is not lost ; the unconquerable will,
And study of revenge,”

remains ; and then proceeds to suggest that their dearly bought experience
may perhaps enable them

“To wage by force or guile eternal war,
Irreconcilable to our grand Foe.”

Beelzebub, as full of hate as Satan himself is, does not think there is
any hope of prevailing. Satan replies:

“ Fallen Cherub, to be weak is miserable
Doing or suffering.”

and gathers a little hope from the fact that Heaven seems to have recalled
the “ministers of vengeance,” and suggests calling a council with reference

to repairing their loss, and still defying and offending their common enemy.
The description of Satan is wonderful.

“With head uplift above the wave, and eyes
That sparkling blazed; his other parts besides
Prone on the flood, extended long and large,
PARADISE LOST. 177

 

Lay floating many a rood, in bulk as huge
As whom the fables name of monstrous size,
Titanian or Earth-born, that warred on Jove,
Briareos or Typhon, whom the den

By ancient Tarsus held, or that sea-beast
Leviathan, which God, of all his works,
Created hugest that swim the Ocean stream.
Him haply slumbering on the Norway foam
The pilot of some small night-foundered skiff,
Deeming some island, oft, as seamen tell,
With fixéd anchor in his scaly rind,

Moors by his side under the lee, while night
Invests the sea, and wishéd morn delays.”

The limits of our space forbid extended quotation from the magnificent
comparisons and descriptions with which this first book abounds; and it
must suffice to say, that Satan, rearing himself up from the infernal lake,
calls together all his powers for council on the burning marl of the shore,
the chiefs of whom are enumerated: Moloch, Chemos, Baalim, Ashtaroth,
Astoreth, Thammuz, Dagon, Belial, and others. Azazel raises the standard,
at which there was

“ A shout that tore Hell’s concave, and beyond
Frighted the region of Chaos and old Night.”

Speedily they rear a huge fabric for a council hall,

“Built like a temple, where pilasters round
Were set, and Doric pillars overlaid
With golden architrave: nor did there want
Cornice or frieze, with bossy sculptures graven ;
The roof was fretted gold. Not Babylon
Nor great Alcairo such magnificence
Equalled in all their glories.”

Here the leaders of the infernal host assembled for consultation.

“The great Seraphic Lords and Cherubim
In close recess and secret conclave sat,
A thousand demi-gods on golden seats,
Frequent and full.”

Boox II.
This book describes the council, and reports the deliberations.

“ High on a throne of royal state, which far
Outshone the wealth of Ormus and of Ind,
Or where the gorgeous East with richest hand
178 JOHN MILTON.

 

Showers on her kings barbaric pearl and gold,
Satan exalted sat, by merit raised
To that bad eminence.”

He propounds the subject to be discussed, namely, by what way best,
whether by open war or covert guile, to claim their just inheritance.
The first to speak is Moloch. His voice is for open war against the
Almighty :
Pye ag) “when, to meet the noise
Of His almighty engine, He shall hear
Infernal thunder, and for lightning, see
Black fire and horror shot with equal rage
Among His Angels, and His throne itself
Mixed with Tartarean sulphur and strange fire,
His own invented torments.”

The next speaker was Belial, whose tongue

, “Dropt manna, and could make the worst appear
The better reason, to perplex and dash
Maturest counsels.” .

He thought nothing was to be gained, either by secret or by open war.
This would merely provoke an increase of the divine vengeance, and still
more dreadful suffering on their part. And so he

“Counseled ignoble ease, and peaceful sloth,
Not peace.”

The next speaker was Mammon. He was for trying to make the best of a
very bad situation, and for digging gems and gold out of the desert soil, and
so surrounding themselves with magnificence. He added:

“ Our torments also may, in length of time,
Become our elements, these piercing fires
As soft as now severe, our temper changed
Into their temper.”

He therefore was for peaceful counsels. A murmur of applause was
rising, when a fourth speaker began, Beelzebub,

i 4 sos + + 4 we . Sage he stood,
With Atlantean shoulders fit to bear
The weight of mightiest monarchies.”

He counseled a search for the truth of that tradition, or prophecy in
Heaven, concerning another kind of creature, equal, or not much inferior to
themselves, about this time to be created. If the abode of this creature
PARADISE LOST. 179
(Man) could be found, why might he not be seduced from his allegiance, or
corrupted, or destroyed, and so the Almighty be provoked or thwarted ?

“This would surpass
Common revenge, and interrupt his joy
In our confusion, and our joy upraise
In his disturbance; when his darling sons,
Hurled headlong to partake with us, shall curse
Their frail original, and faded bliss,
Faded so soon.”

This plan proved acceptable. But who would undertake the search for
this new world? Who would attempt to force the awful barriers of hell
and go forth on this perilous expedition ?

Satan himself offered to do it; and the Stygian council was dissolved.
The scheme was published by heralds through all the infernal hosts, and the
“ranged Powers” dispersed, each as inclination or sad choice determined
him, to await Satan’s return.

The poet then describes the tour of exploration undertaken by the arch
fiend ; how he reached the far off gates of hell.

; “ Before the gates there sat
On either side a formidable shape.”

One was that of a woman to the waist, but ending in the scaly folds of
a serpent. This was Sin, who sprang originally from Satan’s head. The
other was that of a horrid creature that brandished a dart. This was
Death, the progeny of Sin and Satan himself. Satan did not recognize his
son, and was for forcing his way out through the gate. Death proceeds to
dispute his passage. Sin rushed in and prevented the conflict. Around the
waist of Sin bark hell-hounds, begotten by the incestuous commerce of Sin
and Death. She holds the key of Hell gates, and, knowing on what errand
Satan is bent, allows him to go forth, trusting that he will eventually allow
her to enter the new found world of Man.

Satan’s flight through space is now described. He skirted the region of
Chaos and Night, and traversing vast spaces, at last reached a point where
faint rays of light shot through the gloom from the distant walls of Heaven.

“extended wide
Tne circuit - undetermined, square or round,
With opal towers, and battlements adorned
Of living sapphire, once his native seat ;
And, fast by, hanging in a golden chain,
This pendent World, in bigness as a star
Of smallest magnitude, close by the moon.”
8c JOHN MILTON.

 

Book III.

The reference to light, in the preceding lines, cited from the close of
Book II., may be presumed to have turned the poet’s thoughts in the direc-
tion which led to the memorable opening of Book III., that matchless apos-
trophe to light which is known wherever the English language is spoken.

“Hail holy Light, offspring of Heaven first-born
Or of the Eternal, co-eternal beam,
May I express thee unblamed? Since God is light,
And never but in unapproached light
Dwelt from eternity — dwelt then in thee,
Bright effluence of bright essence increate.”

On resuming the subject proper of the poem, the poet tells us how

Se erie 8 “the Almighty Father from above,
From the pure Empyrean where he sits
High throned above all height, bent down his eye,”

and beheld Satan,

“ Coasting the wall of Heaven on this side Night,
In the dun air sublime, and ready now
To stoop with wearied wings, and willing feet
On the bare outside of this World.”

By this he means the stellar universe, which contains our earth,
To this malign enemy, the Almighty calls the attention of his only begot-
ten Son ; says that he made Satan

se ofes Ns “just and right
Sufficient to have stood, though free to fall.”

Satan proved an ingrate and a rebel, and is now about to attempt the
ruin of man, either by force or “ false guile.” But inasmuch as Satan and
his host “ decreed their own revolt,” while Man, it he fall, will fall, deceived
by the Satanic arts of that enemy who is approaching him, the Father
declares his purpose to show him mercy. ‘The Son renders praises to the
lather for the manifestation of his gracious purpose toward man. But the
Father, resuming, declares that merey cannot be shown apart from some
expedient to satisfy offended justice.

“ Die he, or Justice must ; unless for him
Some other, able and as willing, pay
The rigid satisfaction, death for death.
Say, Heavenly Powers, where shall we find such love ?
PARADISE LOST. 181

 

Which of ye will be mortal, to redeem
Man's mortal crime, and just, the unjust to save ?
Dwells in all Heaven charity so dear?”

The Son of God, having “life in himself,” offers to die for Man, and
says he shall “lead Hell captive, maugre Hell,” and shall conquer Death,
“and with his carcass glut the grave.” The Father accepts the offered
sacrifice, and all Heaven rings with loud hosannas.

Meantime Satan alights upon the outer surface of our stellar universe,
figured by Milton, in accordance with the astronomical ideas of his time, as
“a firm opacous globe.” At this distant point is the region which after-
wards becomes “the Limbo of Vanity,” where all the fools go,

“Embryos and idiots, eremites and friars,
White, black and gray, with all their trumpery.”

He gets a glimpse of the gate of Heaven, and sees a shining stairway
let down from that. blest abode to an opening on the external shell of the
universe, from which there was a passage down to the earth,

“Just o’er the blissful seat of Paradise.”

This shining stairway is sometimes let down, and sometimes drawn up.
Satan espies the opening mentioned, and eagerly enters it. His flight
toward our earth is described. According to Milton’s astronomy, our earth
occupied a central position, while the sun was but a planet. Satan stops at
the sun, and there finds Uriel, the regent of that orb, but first changes him-
self into the shape of a meaner angel, and, pretending a zealous desire to
behold the new creation, and man, whom God had placed there, inquires of
him the place of his habitation and is directed. He alights first on Mount
Niphates.

Some of the descriptions in this book are exceedingly fine; that for
example, of Satan on his arrival at the outer limit of our starry sphere,

“Here walked the Fiend at large in spacious field,
As when a vulture on Imaus bred,
Whose snowy ridge the roving Tartar bounds,
Dislodging from a region scarce of prey,
To gorge the flesh of lambs, or yeanling kids
On hills where flocks are fed, flies toward the springs
Of Ganges or Hydaspes, Indian streams,
But in his way lights on the barren plains
Of Sericana, where Chineses drive
With sails and wind their cany wagons light.
So on this windy sea of land, the Fiend
Walked up and down alone, bent on his prey.”
182 JOHN MILTON.

 

Book IV.

In this book, the poet follows the Arch-fiend in his flight until he reaches
the borders of Eden, in which Paradise is situated. He describes the
tumultuous passions that surge in his breast. Then he presents us with an
enchanting picture of man’s first abode.

Satan sees Adam and Eve walking there in all their pristine beauty ;
listens to their talk, and in that way learns how they had been forbidden to
eat of the fruit of a particular tree in the garden. Here he sees his oppor-
tunity to work their ruin by inducing them to disobey. Meanwhile Uriel,
the ruler of the Sun, having found reason to believe that Satan was a bad
spirit instead of the innocent traveler he pretended to be, warns Gabriel, the
keeper of Paradise, to be on his guard. Gabriel takes measures to find
and arrest Satan, and sets the night-watch. Ithuriel and Zephon find him
“squat like a toad, close at the ear of Eve,’ and filling her mind as she
sleeps with phantasms and illusions. At the touch of Ithuriel’s spear, Satan
is forced to resume his proper form, and is brought a prisoner before Gabriel.
A wordy war ensues; and the squadron of angels closed around Satan,
“with ported spears,” while he, on his part, stood “like Teneriffe or Atlas.”
But, finally, he was permitted to fly away ; and with that the book ends.

Amid the riches of this fourth book, it is embarrassing to attempt giving
even the briefest specimen of Milton’s gorgeous imagery, learned allusions
and wonderful diction. It must suffice to give two or three of those which
contain felicitous phrases that have entered into the wealth of our common
speech.

“Me miserable! which way shall I fly
Infinite wrath, and infinite despair ?
Which way I fly is Hell; myself am Hell;
And in the lowest deep, a lower deep
Still threatening to devour me, opens wide.”

The airs that blew off Paradise are thus referred to :

Seale, saatate «d “As when to them who sail
Beyond the Cape of Hope, and now are past

Mozambic, off at sea north-east winds blow

Sabean odors from the spicy shore

Of Araby the Blest ; with such delay

Well pleased, they slack their course, and many a league
Cheered with the grateful smell old Ocean smiles.”

Adam, in one place, says to lve,

" Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth
Unseen, both when we wake, and when we sleep.”
PARADISE LOST. 183

 

When the guards arrest Satan, and ask him who he is, he replies:

“Not to know me, argues yourselves unknown,
The lowest of your throng ; or, if ye know,
Why ask ye, and superfluous begin
Your message, like to end as much in vain?”

. . . “Abashed the Devil stood,
And felt how awful goodness is, and saw
Virtue in her shape how lovely — saw, and pined
His loss.”

Book V.

We are now brought to Paradise, and before us is unfolded the blissful
life of Adam and Eve. It is morning. Adam awakes before Eve, and

B15 ie Ss ae TBh ss . ‘then, with voice

Mild as when Zephyrus on Flora breathes,

Her hand soft touching, whispered thus: ‘ Awake,
My fairest, my espoused, my latest found,
Heaven’s last, best gift, my ever new delight !’”

Eve tells Adam how her slumbers had been disturbed by a dream, the
substance of which was, that a fair appearing stranger, with flattering words,
persuaded her to walk abroad, and drew her attention to the tree bearing
forbidden fruit, holding a portion of it to her very lips. She tasted the
fruit, and was immediately borne up so as to gain an extended prospect of
the earth beneath, when, lo, her guide was gone, and she awoke.

Adam tells her not to be troubled by the dream, and expresses the hope

“ That what in sleep thou didst abhor to dream
Waking, thou never wilt consent to do.”

They walk forth together in the sweet morning air; and the poet puts
into their mouths, that well known and beautiful hymn of praise beginning,

“ These are thy glorious works, Parent of good,
Almighty! Thine this universal frame,
Thus wondrous fair: Thyself how wondrous then!”

The angel Raphael is sent down to Paradise to warn our first parents of
their danger, to describe their wily enemy, and to relate to them how he
came to his bad estate. The “ winged Saint” speeds away on his errand,
and lights on the “eastern cliff of Paradise.” He was at once recognized
by the celestial guards of the place, passed through them, and made his way
toward the bower of the innocent pair. Adam calls to Eve to come and
184 JOHN MILTON.

 

behold the “ glorious shape” of their approaching visitant, and Eve prepares
from the fruit of the earth, a luscious breakfast.

oo % “For drink, the grape
She crushes, inoffensive must, and meathes
From many a berry, and from sweet kernels pressed
She tempers dulcet creams — nor these to hold
Wants her fit vessels pure; then strews the ground
With rose and odors from the shrub unfumed.”

Adam goes forth to meet Raphael,

“ without more train
Accompanied than with his own complete
Perfections; in himself was all his state,
More solemn than the tedious pomp that waits
On princes, when their rich retinue long
Of horses led, and grooms besmeared with gold
Dazzle the crowd, and sets them all agape.”

They three sit down to breakfast, Eve, in her unadorned beauty, doing
the honors at the table ; and there is much edifying discourse.

One word dropped by Raphael leads Adam to inquire what the former
had meant by his caution about disobedience. This gives Raphael the
opportunity to execute the mission on which he came; and he proceeds to
explain what disobedience means, by relating the history of Satan’s revolt,
and that of the legions he drew down after him. The story of the revolt in
Heaven, as told by Raphael is, in brief, this, that the Almighty having called
for all praise, honor and obedience to his Son, discontent, and then malice
were awakened in the breast of him who became Satan, Then he was
Lucifer.

‘ “great indeed
His name, and high was his degree in Heaven:

His countenance as the morning star that guides
The starry tlock."

That flock he found means to allure,

. “and with lies
Drew ‘adie him the third part of Heaven's hos:.”

With these the rebel angel drew off, and stationed himself in a region
at the North, where he fixed his throne, marshaled his forces, and prepared
to defend himself, and carry out his new-formed schemes of wicked
ambition, One angel, however, of those under his command, he could not
PARADISE LOST. 185

 

seduce from his allegiance. That was Abdiel. He braved the whole
tebellious host, and hurled at them words of withering scorn,

“So spake the Seraph Abdiel, faithful found ;
Among the faithless, faithful only he ;
Among innumerable false, unmoved,
Unshaken, unseduced, unterrified,
His loyalty he kept, his love, his zeal ;
Nor number nor example with him wrought
To swerve from truth, or change his constant mind,
Though single.”

Amid the scorn and execration of his companions, he drew away from
the recently built towers of the rebel army,

“ And with retorted scorn his back he turned
On those proud towers to swift destruction doomed.”

Boox VI.

The poet in Book VI. carries on the narrative which broke off in the
last book with the departure of Abdiel from Satan’s council and his camp.
Raphael continues the story, and tells how

“ All night the dreadless Angel, unpursued
Through Heaven’s wide champaign held his way till morn.”

He was welcomed by the “ friendly powers.” Then Michael and Gabriel
were sent forth to battle with the rebels, charged to drive them all out

“from God and bliss
Into dhetc vlzee of punishment, the gulf
Of Tartarus.”

As the Heavenly host drew near the place of conflict, Satan, their com-
mander, appeared.
“ Before the cloudy van,
On the rowgh edge of battle ere it joined,
Satan with vast and hauglity strides advanced,
Came towering, armed in adamant and gold.”

This sight so provoked Abdiel, that he stepped forward, and smote him
full on the crest. Satan staggered under the blow.

‘ “ Ten paces huge
tie: back saeoiled; the tenth on bended knee
His massy spear upstayed ; as if, on earth,
Winds under ground, or waters forcing way,
Sidelong had pushed a mountain from his seat
Half sunk with all his pines.”
186 JOHN MILTON.

 

A general engagement followed :

“ And clamor such as heard in Heaven till now
Was never; arms on armor clashing brayed
Horrible discord, and the madding wheels
Of brazen chariots raged.”

Satan and Michael meet in single combat, as if

“ Two planets, rushing from aspect malign
Should combat, and their jarring spheres confound.”

The rebels retreat under cover of night, and Michael and his angels
camp upon the field. Before the next day’s encounter, Satan invents gun-

powder,
“ Which into hollow engines long and round

Thick rammed, at the other bore with touch of fire
Dilated and infuriate, shall send forth
From far, with thundering noise, among our foes,
Such implements of mischief as shall dash
To pieces and o’erwhelm whatever stands
Adverse.”

A quantity of it is manufactured ; guns are cast and mounted ; and the
next day’s battle begins. All at once the Heavenly host see

“ A triple mounted row of pillars laid
On wheels (for like to pillars most they seemed
Or hollowed bodies made of oak or fir,
With branches lopt, in wood or mountain felled)
Brass, iron, stony mold, had not their mouths
With hideous orifice gaped on us wide,
Portending hollow truce.”

At the first fire, these engines * belched forth,”

“ Their devilish glut, chained thunderbolts and hail
Of iron globes,”

and temporarily discomfited the forces of Michael. But these recovering
themselves, tore up mountains, and hurled them with all their rocks, waters,
and shaggy woods upon the rebels, covering up them and their artillery in
a common ruin,

In the final act, the Son of God himself rides forth against the rebels
in a resplendent chariot, and drives them toward the walls of Heaven,
which opening, they leap down in horror and confusion into the place of
punishment prepared for them in the Deep.
PARADISE LOST. 187

 

“Nine days they fell; confounded Chaos roared,
And felt tenfold confusion in their fall
Through his wild Anarchy; so huge a rout
Encumbered him with ruin. Hell at last,
Yawning, received them whole, and on them closed ;
Hell, their fit habitation, fraught with fire
Unquenchable, the house of woe and pain.”

Book VII.

This Book begins with an invocation to Urania, whom the poet is care-
ful to distinguish from the muse of that name, and to identify as the sister
of the Eternal Wisdom. Her he beseeches to tell him “what ensued”
when Adam had requested Raphael to unfold to him the story of the origin
of the world.

Raphael’s discourse to Adam is then continued, and, as given by the
poet, it is little more than an expansion of the first chapter of the Book of
Genesis. He tells Adam that, after the secession of the rebel powers, and
their final vanquishment by the Son of God, The Almighty Father, to make
good the loss, determined to create a world, and people it with a new order
of creatures, who should increase and multiply “out of one man, a race
innumerable,” to be after due training received into Heaven. This creation
was to take place by the immediate agency of the Son. The Son, amid the
acclaim of angels, rides forth into Chaos to perform His Father’s will. The
Spirit moved upon the face of the deep, and,

. . . . . . “downward purged
The black tartareous, cold, infernal dregs,
Adverse to life; then founded, then conglobed
Like things to like, the rest to several place
Disparted, and between spun out the air
And Earth, self-balanced, on her center hung.”

On the first of the demiurgic days,

“Let there be Light’ said God; and forthwith Light
Ethereal, first of things, quintessence pure,
Sprung from the deep.”

On the second day,

. “God made
The firmament, expanse of liquid, pure,
Transparent elemental air, diffused
In circuit to the uttermost convex
Of this great round.”
188 JOHN MILTON.

 

On the third anday came vegetable life,

“With high woods the’hills were crowned,
With tufts the valleys and each fountain side,
With borders long the rivers; that Earth now
Seemed like to Heaven, a seat where gods might dwell.”

On the fourth day, light, which had at first been ensphered in a “ cloudy
tabernacle,” was transferred to a previously “ unlightsome ” globe (the sun),
and the moon and stars were made.

On the fifth day came life in the waters

“With fry innumerable swarm, and shoals
Of fish, that with their fins and shining scales,
Glide under the green wave, in sculls that oft
Bank the mid sea.”

Also arose other forms of life,

“ Their aery caravan, high over seas
Flying, and over lands, with mutual wing,
Easing their flight.”

On the sixth day the earth brought forth cattle and creeping things :

“now half appeared
The taw ny lion, pawing to get free
His hinder parts,”

And last came Man, God's crowning work. Then God rested,

“and the Empyrean rung
With hallelujahe: Bi

Book VIII.

Raphael, still detained by Adam, unfolds to him some knowledge of the
motions and relative positions of the heavenly bodies. On certain points,
however, he speaks with hesitation, showing us that Milton himself, at the
time of writing his poem, had no definitely settled notions about the solar
system and the stellar universe

At the beginning of Raphacl’s astronomical disquisition, Eve withdrew,
to attend upon her flowers and fruits, preferring to hear the story subse-
quently from Adam's lips.

acy ‘he, she knew, would intermix
Gravatt digressions, and solve high dispute
With conjugal caresses.’
PARADISE LOST. 189

 

Raphael says, for substance, that it is of very little consequence to
understand the theory of the celestial motions if one but reverently admire
them ; and he hints that the Almighty Father may laugh by and by at the
clumsy attempts of Adam’s descendants to explain the planetary system,

and to
: “gird the sphere
With centric and eccentric scribbled o’er,
Cycle and epicycle, orb in orb.”

He tells Adam not to puzzle himself by inquiring why this little globe
of the earth should be of such vast consequence, and by thinking,

“ That bodies bright and greater should not serve
The less not bright, nor Heaven such journeys run,
Earth sitting still, when she alone receives
The benefit. Consider first, that great
Or bright, infers not excellence. The Earth,
Though in comparison of Heaven, so small,

Nor glistering, may of solid good contain
More plenty than the sun that barren shines
Whose virtue on itself works no effect,

But in the fruitful earth.”

Dismissing theories he says to Adam :

, “joy thou
a lie he gives to thee, this Paradise,
And thy fair Eve; Heaven is for thee too high
To know what passes there. Be lowly wise;
Think aul what concerns thee and ny Bsn:

That which etre us Hes i in daily fife
‘Is the prime wisdom: what is more is fume
Or emptiness, or fond impertinence.”

Raphael’s discourse being ended, Adam proceeds to relate to him his
own brief experience — how he found himself, and how he felt when he first
opened his eyes upon this beautiful world; how he sighed for the com-
panionship of some rational creature like himself, and prayed the Creator
to gratify him in this respect; and how the Lord answered him by
creating Eve.

There are many beautiful passages. Adam says that in his sleep his side
was opened, and a rib taken from it ; and that of this rib God made Eve.

“Under his forming hands a creature grew,
Man-like, but different sex, so lovely fair,
That what seemed fair in all the world seemed now
190 JOHN MILTON.

 

Mean, or in her summed up, in her contained,
And in her looks, which from that time infused
Sweetness into my heart unfelt before,

And into all things from her air inspired

The spirit of love and amorous delight.”

He tells how Eve recognized him as her lord, and how he led her to the
nuptial bower.
be ee « w & « “all Heaven,
And happy constellations on that hour
Shed their selectest influence; the Earth
Gave sign of gratulation, and each hill;
Joyous the birds; fresh gales and gentle airs
Whispered it to the woods, and from their wings
Flung rose, flung odors from the spicy shrub,
Disporting, till the amorous bird of night
Sung spousal, and bid haste the evening star
On his hill-top to light the bridal lamp.”
Of Eve, Adam says:
sd - + + . “when I approach
Her loveliness, so absolute she seems
And in herself complete, so well to know
Her own, that what she wills to do or say
Seems wisest, virtuousest, discreetest, best.”

Finally, Raphael returns to Heaven, and Adam to his bower.

Book IN.

It is in this Book that the interest of the poem culminates, for in it we
have first a detailed account of the disastrous fall of .Adam and Eve.
Satan, in the form of a mist, stealthily makes his way into Paradise, at the
point where the river Tigris, from a subterranean passage, throws up a foun-
tain, hard by the Tree of Life. Bad passions are struggling in his breast ;
and, as he contemplates his intended work, he says :

“only in destroying I find ease
To my relentless thoughts.”

Ile determines to enter some creature which God has made ; and fixes
upon the Serpent, which thus becomes the instrument of his malignant
purpose.

One morning, Eve made a proposition to Adam to the effect, that in
their daily task of trimming and training the plants they should sometimes
work separately ; since, being together, they spent too much time in. talk
PARADISE LOST. 191

 

and smiles and caresses, and so accomplished little. Adam did not accede
very readily to this, saying that the time spent in loving each other was not
lost ; and, moreover, he was a little afraid to have his wife far from him on
account of the lurking enemy about whom they had been warned. But
Eve, confident in her righteous purposes and her discretion, pressed the
point so persistently that Adam finally consented to the arrangement, and
they went to work in different parts of the garden. Yet Adam, spite of his
love and admiration for Eve, had his misgivings, saying :

“Firm we subsist, yet possible to swerve,
Since Reason not impossibly may meet
Some specious object by the foe suborned,

Wouldst thou approve thy constancy, approve
First thy obedience.

God towards thee hath done his part, do thine.”

The serpent (in whom the Devil was now incarnated), spying his oppor-
tunity, drew nigh, and to her great astonishment, began addressing her ina
most flattering speech. She asked him how he attained this endowment ;
and he told her that he found the use of language by eating of the fruit of
a certain tree in the garden, and begged her to come and eat of the same,
saying that thus she would be elevated to still greater dignity and knowl-
edge than she now possessed. His “ glozing words” found entrance into
her heart. She went with him and found herself in the presence of the Tree
of Knowledge of which she and her husband had been forbidden to eat.
Offering this as an objection to Satan’s request, and citing the threat, ‘In
the day that thou eatest thereof thou shalt surely die,” Satan artfully re-
plied to her that there must be some mistake about that, since he himself
had eaten of the fruit and was not dead, but was greatly improved.

In the end he prevailed, and Eve ate of the fruit.

“Earth felt the wound, and Nature from her seat,
Sighing through all her works, gave signs of woe
That all was lost.”

Eve returned to Adam, bearing some of the fruit, and told her story.

“ But in her cheek distemper flushing glowed.”

He was horrified at what his wife had done, but, perceiving her lost, re-
solved, through vehemence of love, to perish with her, and, extenuating the
fault, ate also of the fruit. The consequences mentioned in the Bible are
192 JOHN MILTON.
then most poetically described. The rising shame they felt in their nakedness
led them to cover themselves with fig-leaves, and they soon fell into mutual
recrimination. Adam says :

- ‘Let none henceforth seek needless cause to approve
The faith they owe: when earnestly they seek
Such proof, conclude they then begin to fail.”

Eve, impatient under the reproaches of her husband, says :

ten a “‘why didst not thou, the head,
Command me absolutely not to go,
Going into such danger as thou saidst ? ”

Adam reminded her that he did all in his power, short of violence, to

prevent her : :
“Tl warned thee, I admonished thee, foretold

The danger and the lurking enemy,”

and closes with the bitter reflection,

ou 4 “Thus it shall befall

Him who to worth in women overtrusting,
Lets her will rule: restraint she will not brook;
And left to herself, if evil thence ensue,

She first his weak indulgence will accuse.”

Book X.

In this Book Milton relates the immediate consequences of man’s fall —
the return of the guardian angels to Heaven, and their acquittal of all
blame for the unperceived entrance of Satan into laradise ; the judgment
pronounced by the Son of God both upon Satan and his unhappy victims;
the preparations made by Sin and Death to follow in the track of Satan
and enter our world, and the bridge they made for that purpose from the
gate of Hell; the return of Satan to the infernal regions to boast over his
success before his under chiefs, who with himself, were all straightway com-
pelled to assume the form of horrid, hissing serpents ; the remorse of Adam
and Eve; Adam's angry address to his wife, and her piteous supplication to
him; the alterations which took place in the solar system, and in all the
clements, to express God's displeasure ; and, finally, the hopes that were
kindled in the breasts of the guilty pair by the gracious bearing of the Son
of God, and his obscure intimations of merey,

In this Book the poet has given a very free rein to fancy, and his lines
abound with learned allusions to passages in the Greek and Latin classics.
PARADISE LOST. 193

 

to the disquisitions of the schoolmen, and to geographical and historical
knowledge. The following are among the strong and striking passages.
Death :.

4 ok “ snuffed the smell

Of mortal change on earth. As when a flock

Of ravenous fowl, though many a league remote,

Against the day of battle, to a field

Where armies lie encamped, come flying, lured

With scent of living carcasses designed

For death the following day in bloody fight.”

Sin and Death, addressing themselves to the work of constructing a
bridge, or causeway, from Hell to earth, gathered all sorts of materials from
Chaos, and these they :

“Tossed up and down, together crowded drove,
From each side shoaling, towards the mouth of Hell;
As when two polar winds, blowing adverse
Upon the Cronian sea, together drive
Mountains of ice, that stop the imagined way
Beyond Petsora eastward to the rich
Cathaian Coast. The aggregated soil
Death with his mace petrific, cold and dry,

As with a trident smote, and fixed as firm

As Delos, floating once; the rest his look

Bound with Gorgonian rigor not to move,

And with asphaltic slime; broad as the gate,
Deep to the roots of Hell the gathered beach
They fastened, and the mole immense wrought on
Over the foaming deep high-arched, a bridge

Of length prodigious, joining to the wall
Immovable of this now fenceless world.”

Eve says in one place:

“O Conscience! into what abyss of fears
And horrors hast thou driven me; out of which
I find no way, from deep to deeper plunged!”

She suggests to Adam that they remain childless,

be Se a OS “so Death
Shall be deceived his glut, and with us two
Be forced to satisfy his ravenous maw.”

Finally, they both kneel before God, confessing their sin, and imploring
his mercy,
194 JOHN ‘MILTON.

oe “and pardon begged, with tears
Watering the ground, and with their sighs the air
Frequenting, rent from hearts contrite, in sign

Of sorrow unfeigned and humiliation meek.”

Book XI.

We now hear the prayers of Adam and Eve as they ascend

“winged for Heaven with eon flight
Than loudest oratory
: nor missed the way, ie envious winds
Blown vagabond or frustrate; in they passed
Dimensionless through heavenly doors.”

The Son presents these prayers to the Father, who graciously receives
them, intimating mercy, but saying that the guilty pair must be expelled
from Paradise. He says:

“Happier had it sufficed him to have known
Good by itself and evil not at all.”

Michael is dispatched to expel Adam and Eve, but is bidden to execute
his commission gently. In the meantime, Adam perceives that a change is
coming over all earthly things, animate and inanimate.

An eagle is chasing some doves, and a lion is rushing after a gentle
brace of deer. Michael makes his appearance, and announces that the two
must quit the garden. Very touching is the lament of Eve

“O unexpected stroke, worse than of death !
Must I leave thee, Paradise? thus leave
Thee, native soil, these happy walks and shades
Fit haunt of gods, where I had hope to spend,
Quiet, though sad, the respite of that day
That must be mortal to us both? O flowers,
That never will in other climate grow,
My early visitation, and my last
At even.”

Adam is likewise distressed. Michael comforts them both, But before
he has them forth out of the garden, he shows to Adam, from the top
of a high hill, a vision, embodying the chief aspects of the future history of
the race that was to spring from Adam and Eve — shows him the murder of
Abel by Cain ; the spectacle of mortal diseases that should afflict the human
family ; the tents of pleasurable sin; the panorama of sieges and wars; the
PARADISE LOST. 195
reign of the giants ; the corruptions and vices that preceded the flood ; the
deluge itself, and the salvation of Noah’s family ; and finally, God’s “ bow
in the cloud,” as the token of his covenant of peace.

Book XII.

This is the last book of the great epic, and, as many think, the least
poetical of all, It is chiefly occupied with the sketch which Michael gives
to Adam of the steps by which the redemption of the human race yet to be
born, is to proceed. In this Michael follows the scriptural account, noting
particularly the growth of despotism (incarnate in Nimrod) and of ambition ;
the design of the Babel builders ; the confounding of the languages; the
dispersion of mankind ; the call of Abraham; the Egyptian captivity and
deliverence ; the wandering in the desert ; the entrance into the promised
land; the second captivity, and the rebuilding of the temple; the fallen
estate of the nation and priesthood after the time of Antiochus Epiphanes ;
the coming of Christ (the seed of the woman); and the planting and train-
ing of the Christian Church. Michael goes on still further to portray the
corruptions under the papacy, and the spread of the gospel, on to the judg-
ment day, and the final triumphs of the Saints.

By this discourse Adam is greatly comforted and says :

“ Henceforth I learn that to obey is best,
And love with fear the only God, to walk
As in his presence, ever to observe
His providence, and on him sole depend.”

Michael replies,

“ This having learned, thou hast attained the sum
Of wisdom; hope no higher, though all the stars
Thou knew’st by name, and all the ethereal powers,
All secrets of the Deep, all Nature’s works,
Or works of God in heaven, air, earth, or sea,
And all the riches of this world enjoy’dst,
And all the rule one empire.”

And then, with a few parting precepts, and with kind counsel, he leads
Adam and Eve out of the garden. Eve says to her husband

soa “lead on;

In me is no delay; with thee to go

Is to stay here; without thee here to stay
Is to go hence unwillingly ; thou to me
JOHN MILTON.

Art all things under heaven.”

The Cherubim descended ; on the ground
Gliding meteorous, as evening mist
Risen from a river o’er the marish glides

The brandished sword of God before them blazed
Fierce as a comet.”

Michael leads Adam and Eve down a cliff to the plain.

“Some natural tears they dropped, but wiped them soon;
The world was all before them, where to choose
Their place of rest, and Providence their guide.
They, hand in hand, with wandering steps and slow,
Through Eden took their solitary way.”
 

 

JOHN BUNYAN

BORN 1628 ENGLAND Dieo 1688
JOHN BUNYAN.

The name of John Bunyan, which a little over two hundred years ago was the name of a
poor, despised, obscure, and illiterate preacher among the English Baptists, has come to be
one of the most illustrious names in English literature. So good an authority as Lord
Macaulay did not hesitate to say, that ‘‘ though there were many clever men in England
during the latter half of the 17th century, there were only two great creative minds. One of
those minds produced the ‘ Paradise Lost’; the other, the ‘ Pilgrim’s Progress.’ ”

Bunyan was born at Elstow, near Bedford, in England, in the year 1628 ; and he died
in 1688. His father was a tinker; and he followed the same calling. Becoming deeply
impressed with the importance of religion, and passing through fearful struggles of mind
with reference to his own salvation, he joined the Baptists, and in the course of a few years
became a preacher among them. The intolerance of the Established Church was shown in
endeavors to stop his preaching, and finally in his arrest and imprisonment. But he would
promise no cessation of his labors. He said, ‘‘ If you let me out to-day I will preach to-
morrow.” The authorities kept him in prison for years, and it was there that he con-
ceived, began, and in large part executed his immortal work, ‘‘ The Pilgrim’s Progress.”
Bunyan was the author of other works—‘‘ The Holy War,” ‘‘ Gospel Truths Opened,”
‘‘The Holy City,” ‘‘ Grace Abounding to the Chief of Sinners” (the last being an account
of his own life and experience), and others less known. But that which more and more
caught the ear of the world, and has been the admiration and delight of generation after
generation of readers, was ‘‘ The Pilgrim’s Progress,” of which the following is an
epitome.

THE PILGRIM’S PROGRESS.

This book,-in the form which it finally took, is in two parts, and is
prefaced by a rhymed composition of some 250 lines, which Bunyan calls
“The Author’s Apology for his Book.” Some would pronounce this
doggerel; but it is far above that. Lacking altogether the grace and polish
of literary art, it is so full of shrewd sense as to save it from contempt
and to extract praise from the most critical.

PART I.

This relates the experience of a man, whom the author calls “ Christian,”
from the time when he first began to be concerned about his soul’s salvation
until the hour of his triumphant entry into Heaven. His life is described
200 JOHN BUNYAN.

under the similitude of a Pilgrimage. This man (so says the allegory) dwelt
in the City of Destruction, and became alarmed at the doom which he
found out from “a little book” was overhanging the town. He “broke
his mind to his wife and children,” told them of their coming danger,
and said, “ O my dear wife, and you my children, I am undone by reason of
a burden that lieth hard upon me.”” “‘ Our city will be burnt, and we shall
miserably perish, unless a way of escape befound” His family thought him
crazy, but could not quiet his fears. One day, walking the fields in his distress,
he met with a kind hearted man named Evangelist; and to him he made known
his trouble. Evangelist gave him a parchment roll, on which was written
“fly from the wrath to come,” and pointed him to a distant “ wicket gate,”
which he could see only as ashining point. Then Christian, roll in hand, but
impeded by the burden on his back already mentioned, began to run toward
the wicket gate. His family and the neighbors now thought he was gone
mad sure enough. They ran after him and begged him to return. In
vain. Finally, two men, Obstinate and Pliable, went after him, resolved
“to fetch him back by force.’ But they succeeded no better than the rest.
On the contrary, one of them, Pliable, was so deeply impressed by what
Christian told him concerning the glories of the Celestial City, which he
said would be the prize of a pilgrimage, that he resolved to go with him.
On they fared, Christian reading as he ran from his “ little book,”’ and Pli-
able eagerly listening. But as they ran, they both fell into a dangerous
quagmire called the Slough of Despond. Christian floundered in the
mud, and finally struggled out on the side furthest from the town, while
Pliable, full of bitterness and reviling, regained the opposite bank, saying
to Christian, “ you shall possess the brave country alone for me.” Still
pressing on, Christian fell in with one Mr. Worldly Wiseman, with whom he
fell into conversation, and learning his trouble, and the advice that had been
given him by Evangelist, exclaimed, * Beshrew him for his counsel, there
is not a more dangerous and troublesome way in the world than is that into
which he hath directed thee." Then he proceeded to tell “him that there
was a much easier way to get rid of his burden than thatof pilgrimage. He
advised him to go to the little village of Morality near by, and inquire for
an old gentleman, Mr. Legality, who had great skill to help men off with
such burdens as his. And if old Legality should not happen to be himself
at home, he had a son, a nice young man by the name of Civility, who
would do the job just as well, So Christian hied him in the direction
pointed out by his new friend, But on the way he passed by a high hill
which fearfully overhung the way, and from which flashes of fire came forth
in-such wise as to make him * sweat and quake for fear.” In the midst. of
his sore amaze, his first friend Evangelist appeared again, and reproved him
PILGRIM’'S PROGRESS. 201

 

so sharply for his folly, that he fell down at Evangelist’s feet as dead, say:
ing ‘Woe is me; for Iam undone.” After a wholesome lecture, and abun-
dant good counsel from Evangelist, the pilgrim started again, and presently
reached “the Wicket Gate.” A little distance from the gate was a stronghold,
Beelzebub’s Castle, from which “both he andthem that are with him shoot
arrows at those that come up to this gate, if haply they may die before they can
enter in.” Christian was not harmed by the arrows, and was received by one
Goodwill, and found that he was at the beginning of the road that leads on,
“straight as a line can make it,” to the Celestial City, a way “that was cast
up by Patriarchs, Prophets, Christ and his apostles.” Goodwill gave him a
few general directions, and sent him on his way, telling him that he would
reach a point where his grievous burden would be taken off. As a parting
word, he told him to call at ‘“‘ the Interpreter’s House ” which was not far off.

Reaching this mansion, he was kindly received by the Interpreter him-
self, and taken all through-the building and shown a great variety of em-
blematical pictures and tableaux vivants. Among other things that were
shown was a parlor filled with clouds of dust, raised by a sweeper, but laid
by a damsel with a sprinkler. The parlor was the heart of man, the sweeper
was the law, the dust was original sin, the sprinkler was the gospel. Another
piece was the act of Passion and Patience, two lads, one of whom would
have all his good things in this world, and the other of whom was willing to
wait for his good things in a future life. Then there was a fire which the
Devil was trying to put out with water, while a man concealed supplied it
with oil. Then there was the noble mansion, to which entrance could be
gained only by fighting a way through the portal, and the iron cage con-
taining a man sunk in despair. All these impressive sights were explained
by the Interpreter, and Christian went on his way. With new courage he
sped forward to a point, where the road on either side was flanked with a
wall called Salvation. ‘Up this way, therefore, did burdened Christian run
till he came to a place somewhat ascending ; and upon that place stood a
cross, and a little below, in the bottom, a Sepulchre. So I saw in my dream,
that, just as Christian came up with the Cross, his burden loosed from off
his shoulders, and fell from off his back, and began to tumble, and so con-
tinued to do, till it came to the mouth of the Sepulchre, where it fell in, and
I saw it no more.” “Three shining ones” appeared to him at the Cross,
and saluted him. One said, “thy sins be forgiven thee;’’ the second
stripped him of his rags and gave him a change of raiment; the third set a
mark upon his forehead, and “ gave him a Roll, with a seal upon it, which
he bid him look on as he ran, and that he should give.it in at the Celestial
Gate.” Resuming his journey with a light heart, he encounters Formality
and Hypocrisy, who come tumbling into the road over the wall on the side.
see JOHN BUNYAN.

 

The three soon reached the Hill Difficulty, at which Christian refreshed him-
self by drinking from a cool spring at the foot, and addressed himself to
climb the arduous height. Formality and Hypocrisy turned aside into easier
paths which ran around the base. He had a hard journey up this hill, but was
not discouraged, even when he met Mistrust and Timorous running down,
completely disheartened and frightened by the dangers and difficulties they
had encountered. By and by Christian found a pleasant arbor, and turned
into it for a little rest. He fell asleep, and waking, pushed on, but found to
his dismay that he had lost his roll. Then he had to retrace his weary foot-
steps, and finally found it in the arbor where it had dropped from his bosom.
He went on again till he came in sight of the house called Beautiful. But
his approach was threatened by two lions, one on each side of the path.
He pressed on undaunted, and found that the beasts could not harm him,
because they were chained.

At the house Beautiful our pilgrim was delightfully entertained by three
damsels, Piety, Prudence, and Charity. With these kindhearted and com-
passionate ladies he had much improving conversation, was bountifully
refreshed at supper, and was lodged in a sweet pleasant chamber called
Peace. ‘The next day he was shown a great many wonderful sights, ‘the
pedigree of the Lord of the hill,” “the armory,” and “the delectable view
from the top of the house.” On his departure, they harnessed him from
head to foot with what was of proof, lest perhaps he should meet with
assaults in the way.” This panoply he soon had need of ; for coming down
into the Valley of Humiliation he was met by a foul fiend, Apollyon, who
disputed his passage, proclaimed his hatred of the Lord of the way, and
finally “straddled quite over the whole breadth of the way.” and cried out,
“prepare to die; for I swear by my infernal den that thou shalt go no
further, here will I spill thy soul.’ A furious combat ensued, in which
Christian was nearly spent, but in which he was at last victorious. He now
passed through a place more terrible than any he had vet seen, or dreamed
of. It was the Valley of the Shadow of Death, lined with pitfalls and quag-
mires, ‘dark as pitch,” “full of hobgoblins, satyrs, and dragons of the
pit,” where there was “a continual howling and yelling as of people under
unutterable misery.” “ Into that quag King David once did fall and had,
no doubt, therein been smothered, had not He that is able plucked him out.”
In this doleful place he passed the mouth of hell itself. He encountered
serpents, and demons, and found the narrow path itself lined with pits, and
gins, and nets, and: snares, and traps; and was frightened nearly to death.
But he came through, Shortly after this he found a companion, a fellow
pilgrim, named Faithful; and the two journeyed together, edifying one
another with accounts of their respective fortunes by the way,
PILGRIM’S PROGRESS. 203

 

Faithful, on his part, had escaped the Slough of Despond, but had been
assaulted by a woman called Wanton, enticed by Adam the First, knocked
down by Moses, and rescued by one greater than Moses. By and by they
came across a fellow traveller named Talkative, “the son of one Say-Well
of Prating Row,” and a long conversation with him is detailed. Further on
Christian and Faithful find themselves approaching a large town. It is
Vanity Fair, and their way-is right through the middle of it. Here were
“ Britain Row, French Row, Italian Row, Spanish Row, German Row,”
with all their vanities for sale. Here were jugglings, cheats, games, plays,
fools, apes, knaves, and rogues. The attention of the people was immedi-
ately drawn to the travellers in their pilgrim garb. They did not want to
buy anything ; but in reply to the traffickers exclaimed, ‘‘ We buy the truth.”
Soon the townsmen began to make game of them, revile them, and seek to
pick a quarrel with them. Then they proceeded to violence, beat them,
besmeared them with dirt, and put them in a cage, and finally arraigned them
as malefactors before Lord Hategood, and put them through the sorry farce
of a trial, and Pickthank appeared against them as a witness. Among other
things, they were accused of railing against Lord Oldman, Lord Carnal
Delight, Lord Luxurious, Lord Lechery and Sir Having-Greedy. The jury
that was impaneled consisted of Mr. Blindman, Mr. No-good, Mr. Malice,
Mr. Love-lust, Mr. Live-loose, Mr. Heady, Mr. High-mind, Mr. Enmity,
Mr. Liar, Mr. Cruelty, Mr. Hate-light and Mr. Implacable ; Faithful and
Christian somehow were released. But as to Faithful, after the release, they
scourged him, buffeted him, lanced his flesh with knives, stoned him with
stones, and finally burnt him to ashes. Christian soon found another good
pilgrim to bear him company. This was Hopeful, who went with him to
the end of the way. The two encountered various characters on the road ;
By-Ends, of Fair-Speech, Mr. Hold-the-World, Mr. Money-Love, Mr. Save-
All. They saw one Demas, “ who stood, gentlemanlike, by a silver mine, and
called passengers to come and see.” They passed an old white monument,
bearing the almost illegible inscription, ‘“‘ Remember Lot’s Wife.” Not long
after they fell into serious trouble; for becoming somewhat tired of a por-
tion of the road, which was very rough, they turned aside, and climbed overa
stile to an inviting piece of ground called By-path Meadow. Here they found
easy walking. One Vain Confidence, preceding them, was dashed to pieces,
by falling over a precipice. The darkness overtook them. They were lost.
It was Christian’s fault. Hopeful had protested against leaving the high-
way. Endeavoring to get back they found that the floods were out ; and
they narrowly escaped drowning. So they laid down, and waited for the
morning. But near to that place was Doubting Castle, owned by Giant
Despair ; and he, getting up in the morning early, found the pilgrims on his
204 JOHN BUNYAN.

 

 

grounds, and put them into “a very dark dungeon, nasty and stinking to
the spirits of these two men.” The Giant asked his wife. Diffidence, what
he should do with his prisoners, and she counseled to beat them, which was
done with great cruelty. Afterwards he bade them kill themselves * with
knife, halter, or poison,” which he offered; but they were saved from
his malice by the timely occurrence of an epileptic fit, to which he was
subject. After a long and miserable imprisonment, they at last escaped,
by means of a key called Promise, which Christian had had upon his per-
son all the time and forgotten —a key which would open any lock in Doubt-
ing Castle. On making good their escape, and regaining the highway, they
erected a memorial pillar to warn other pilgrims against so costly a mistake
as they had committed. After some other adventures, the pilgrims reach
the Delectable Mountains, where. they are hospitably entertained by the
shepherds, Knowledge, Experience, Watchful, and Sincere. They enter
the Enchanted Ground, and the Country of Conceit. A black man witha
white robe gets them into a net, from which a “Shining one” delivers
them; and on this Enchanted Ground they have a number of narrow
escapes, and much edifying conversation. Finally, they come to a most
happy and blessed country. It is the Land of Beulah. Here there is
everything to delight the sense and the souls of the pilgrims. A little
beyond is the dark river, which divides the heavenly land from ours. They
enter, they sink in the chill waters, but they encourage each other, and are
received by celestial friends on the further shore. Conveyed by saints and
angels, they were led up a high and mighty hill, whereon the Celestial City
was built. Entrancing music was in the air. ‘ The gates were open to let
the men in. And behold the city shone like the sun; the streets also were
paved with gold; and in them walked many men with crowns upon their
heads, palms in their hands, and golden harps to sing praises withal.”

PART IL.

The second part of the Pilgrim's Progress, which appeared sometime sub-
sequently to the publication of the first, neéds but a few words, being essen-
tially like the first in describing a journey from the City of Destruction to the
Celestial City, only taking the members of Christian's family for the
travellers, and skillfully diversifying the incidents of the way. Christiana,
the wife of Christian, sets out on the same pilgrimage that her husband had
made long before, taking the children with her. Mrs. ‘Timorous tried to
dissuade Christiana from going ; but, failing in her purpose, calls together
ber neighbors, Mrs. Bat’s yes, Mrs. Inconsiderate, Mrs. Lightmind and
Mrs. Knownothing, to discuss the wild project. Christiana and her family
PILGRIM’S PROGRESS. 205

 

set out ; and the incidents of their: pilgrimage are depicted with the same
vividness and strength that are displayed in the first part. Mr. Greatheart,
a bold man and good swordsman, does most of the fighting on Christiana’s
journey, and the whole narrative is skillfully adapted to be in keeping with
the nature of women and children. Here and there the quaint realism is
laughable. Matthew, the eldest son of Christiana, falls ill, “and his sick-
ness was sore upon him, for he was much pained in his bowels, so that he
was with it at times pulled, as it were, both ends together. There dwelt
also, not far from thence, one Mr. Skill, an ancient and well approved
physician.” “When he was entered the room, and had a little observed the
boy, he concluded that he was sick of the gripes.” Then he said to his
mother, “ What diet has Matthew of late fed upon?” “ Diet,” said Christiana,
“nothing but what is wholesome.” The physician answered, ‘‘ This boy has
been tampering with something that lies in his maw undigested, and that
will not away without means. And I tell you, he must be purged, or else he
will die.” It was discovered that he had been eating fruit from Beelzebub’s
orchard. “Then Christiana began to cry; and she said, ‘O naughty boy,
and O careless mother, what shall I do for my son?’

‘“¢ S277. Come, do not be too much dejected; the boy may do well again.
But he must purge and vomit.’

“¢Chr. Pray, sir,try the utmost of your skill with him, whatever it cost.’

“<« Skill, Nay, I hope I shall be reasonable.’ So he made him a purge;
but it was too weak; ’twas said it was made of the blood of a goat, the
ashes of a heifer, and with some of the juice of hyssop, etc. When Mr.
Skill had seen that that purge was too weak, he made him one to the pur-
pose: ‘twas made ex carne et sanguine Christi (you know physicians give
strange medicines to patients); and it was made into pills, with a promise
or two, and a proportionable quantity of salt. Now, he was to take them
three at a time, fasting, in half a quarter of a pint of the Tears of Repent-
ance.” On the whole, it is not extravagant to say, that this Pilgrim’s Pro-
gress, by Bunyan, with all its analogies, is the greatest allegory ever written.
Its quaint homely English is unrivalled for point and picturesque power.
And one can well understand the feeling of an eminent and learned dignitary
of the English Church, who exclaimed, as he stood near the immortal
dreamer’s grave in Bunhill Fields: “I would exchange all my learning and
my preferments for the honor of having written the Pilgrim's Progress.”
On every page we may pick up something striking, forcible, or highly
poetical. Take “the Man with the Muck-rake” at the Interpreter’s house.
“ There stood also one over his head with a celestial crown in his hand, and
proffered nim that crown for his muck-rake. But the man did neitner look
up nor. regard, but raked to himself the straws, the small sticks and dust of
66 JOHN BUNYAN.

 

the floor.” Take By-ends’ account of his kindred. He says almost all the
citizens of Fairspeech are related to him, “ but in particular, my Lord Turn-
about, my Lord Time-server, also Mr. Smooth-man, Mr. Facing-both-ways,
Mr. Anything; and the parson of our parish, Mr. Two-Tongues, was
mother's own brother; and yet my great-grandfather was but a waterman,
looking one way, and rowing another.” At the Slough of Despond Christian
is told, “It is not the pleasure of the King that this place should remain so
bad ; his laborers have also, by the direction of his Majesty's surveyors,
been for above these sixteen hundred years employed about this patch of
ground, if perhaps it might have been mended ; yea, and to my knowledge,
here have been swallowed up at least twenty thousand cartloads, yea,
millions, of wholesome instructions, that have at all seasons been brought
from all places of the king's dominions ;” “ but it is the Slough of Despond
still, and so will be when they have done what they can.” How spirited is
the account of Christian's fight with Apollyon. ‘ Then Apollyon, espying
his opportunity, began to gather up close to Christian, and wrestling with
him, gave him a dreadful fall; and with that Christian’s sword flew out of
his hand. Then said Apollyon, ‘I am sure of thee now ;’ and with that,
he had almost pressed him to death, so that Christian began to despair of
life. But as God would have it, while Apollyon was fetching his last blow,
thereby to make a full end of this good man, Christian nimbly reached out
his hand for his sword, and caught it, saying ‘Rejoice not against me, O
mine enemy, when I fall I shall arise ;’ and with that gave him a deadly
thrust, which made him give back as one that had received his mortal
wound.” When Christian and Hopeful enter heaven, as it were, they were in
Heaven before they came at it, being swallowed up by the sight of angels,
and with hearing their melodious notes. Here, also, they had the city itself
in view ; and they thought they heard all the bells therein to ring, to wel-
come them thereto. But above all, the warm and joyful thoughts delighted
them which they had about their own dwelling there with such company,
and that for ever and ever. When Ignorance was carried away to his doom,
Bunyan says, * Then I saw that there was a way to hell, even from the
gates of heaven, as well as from the City of Destruction.”

The Pilgrim’s Progress is the most real of all dreams, the most sacred of all epics, and the
truest of all fiction,
 

 

DANIEL DEFOE

Diced 1731

ENGLAND

BORN 1661.
DANIEL DEFOE.

se

Daniel DeFoe was the son of a tradesman, and was born in the city of London in the
year 1661. He received an unusually good education for one in his station of life at that
period, and was originally intended for the Church, but at twenty-one years of age he
decided to turn his talents to literature. He soon became conspicuous as a most trenchant
writer on political affairs, and for this very reason the greater part of his life-work is of a
character which has lost its meaning in this age. At twenty-four he participated in the Mon-
mouth Rebellion, but managed to escape arrest, and, returning to London, engaged in busi-
ness as a hose factor, until being unsuccessful in some considerable speculations he was driven
into literature. After the Revolution he attracted the attention of King William, by sug-
gesting a means of raising money for the continual wars then being undertaken, and he was
rewarded with a public office, which he held until 1699. In 1703 he was deprived of the
freedom of the city of London which he had possessed by birth and acquisition, and he
seriously devoted himself to pamphleteering. He wrote on all the public questions of the
day, and was employed by the king upon secret services, and as a reward for his champion-
ship of the new dynasty. After the death of King William, DeFoe’s fortunes changed. He
was imprisoned and pilloried for writing a pamphlet called ‘‘ The Shortest wuy with Dis-
senters,” which was a fierce satire on the High Church party. This left him penniless, with
a wife and family, and, in order to supply them with the necessaries of life, he started a
review, which he conducted during his confinement in Newgate, and for about eight years
after his release, without receiving any assistance whatever in its production. He advocated
the union of Scotland and England, and was finally appointed to an office in the government
with a comfortable salary. Upon the death of Queen Anne, DeFoe left the field of politics
for fiction, and in 1719 he published the work which will hand his name down to posterity as
long as the English language is spoken. For a long time he could not find a publisher
willing to accept the risk of giving ‘‘ Robinson Crusoe” to the world, but William Taylor,
a more speculative bookseller than his brethren, undertook the work, and cleared a thousand
pounds almost immediately. ‘‘ Robinson Crusoe” became popular at once, and DeFoe,
with characteristic energy, set to work to make hay while the sun shone. During the next
few years he wrote ‘‘An Account of Dickory Crooke,” ‘‘ The Life and Piracies of Captain
Singleton,” ‘‘The History of Duncan Campbell,” ‘‘ The Fortunes and Misfortunes of Moll
Flanders,” ‘‘ The Life of Colonel Jacque,” and the ‘‘ Account of the Plague,” which is the
only one of the series which survives for modern readers. DeFoe never equalled ‘‘ Robinson
Crusoe” in his other works, and it is upon this marvelous narrative that his fame must ever
rest. He died in 1731, in comfortable circumstances, at the age of seventy, after having
fifty years of authorship.

PHILOSOPHY OF ROBINSON CRUSOE.

The idea of Robinson Crusoe was undoubtedly suggested to DeFoe by the story of Alex-
ander Selkirk, but the vital embodiment of it was entirely DeFoe’s own. Selkirk’s misfor-
tunes but furnished a skeleton for DeFoe’s narrative ; the philosophy of the book was prob-
ie DANIEL DEFOE.

 

ably the gestation of the meditations that beguiled DeFoe’s own weary hours while he was
in prison during Her Majesty's pleasure. DeFoe came of a dissenting family, at a time
when dissenters were held in great odium in Great Britain, and the undercurrent of Robinson
Crusoe sets forth the consolation of simplicity of desires, faith in God without ostentatious
ceremony, and the lesson that a man can only truly know himself in solitude. These ideas
were not favorably regarded by the High Church party who were in power in DeFoe’s day,
because religion with the endowed members of the apostolic succession was merely a high
road to political and social preferment. Dean Swift was a good type of the ambitious
churchman in the seventeenth century. The established church belonged to the world, and
the court, and the writers who were writers for the masses found no indorsement in its deca-
logue. DeFoe had already suffered for his Puritanical ideas, and the ironical way in which
he had suggested the complete extinction of true religion and liberty of thought ; and when
he abandoned his purely political writing, he presented his lesson in a new form. He gilded
the pill, and it became popular with all parties. DeFoe was essentially an earnest, God-
fearing man, and in Robinson Crusoe he has developed the principles which guided him
throughout his long and useful life. He could have risen to great eminence early in life, if he
had consented to prostitute his talents in the services of the majority, but instead he fell into
disfavor and lost his fortune and liberty for the sake of his convictions, although he had a
wife and children dependent upon him. Popularity and competence he did achieve before he
died, but it was late in life, after he had suffered many hardships. The philosophy of Rob-
inson Crusoe is much the same as that of the Book of Job. That, no matter how heavily the
hand of God may seem to weigh upon a man, or how interminable seem his afflictions, still
there is always comfort in God’s word and the assurance of his love and mercy ; and, more-
over, no man is so utterly without blessing and hope that he has not much material consola-
tion to be thankful for. Then, too, the lesson of what unaided endeavor and persistence can
accomplish in the face of great obstacles, is preached in every line of Robinson Crusoe. It
is a book which charms youth, and is delightful in old life, but, unlike other works of adven-
ture, it only inspires perseverance, thoroughness and hope, and not an idle desire to rove for
excitements which insure a release from honest toil. Robinson Crusoe's life on the island is
the sublimation of drudgery. It shows the dignity, the pleasure, and the genius of toil,
however lonely, and however monotonous. Generations of boys have lived days and nights
with Robinson Crusoe, and its lessons are as good to-day as when the book was first given
to the world ; and they will last as long as the race itself.

LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF ROBINSON CRUSOE

1 was born in the year 1632, in the city of York, in England, of a yood
family, my father being a foreigner of Bremen, who settled first at Hull ;
there he got a good estate by merchandise, and, leaving off his. trade,
lived afterward at York, from whence he had married my mother. Her
relations were named Robinson, after whom I was so called, that is Rob-
inson Kreutznaer, or Crusoe, as our name came to be in England. My
LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF ROBINSON CRUSOE. 2rT*

 

father designed me for the law, but I would be satisfied with nothing but
going to sea. The South American trade was then attracting all the roving
spirits of England, and in spite of all the commands and entreaties of my
father and mother, being one day at the seaport of Hull, in September,
1651, I went as a common sailor aboard a ship bound for London, with-
out waiting to ask either God’s blessing or my father’s, and without any
consideration of circumstances or consequences. The ship no sooner got
to sea, than a storm began to blow, and I, sick in body and terrified in
mind, began to reflect seriously upon what I had done, and to think that I
was overtaken by the judgment of Heaven for my wickedness. But when
the storm passed off, the voice of conscience died away, and I drank and
caroused with the other sailors. In Yarmouth roads another storm came
up and our ship was wrecked, but we escaped in the boats, landed and
made our way to London. Still persisting in my foolish course, I made a
voyage to the east coast of Africa, and then another, carrying merchandise
to trade with the natives. On the second voyage our ship was captured by
Turkish rovers (or Moorish pirates), and for two years I was a slave in the
household of a pirate captain. One day when I had been sent out a-fishing
with a Moor and a boy named Xury, I threw the Moor overboard, and sailed
southward along the coast taking Xury with me. After several adventures
we were picked up by a Portuguese trader bound for the Brazils, who treated
us kindly and carried us to the Bay de Todos los Santos. Here I spent
two years raising tobacco ona plantation, and with good success; but in
my rash and immoderate desire to gain riches rapidly I fitted out a ship for
the African slave trade, and embarked in it on the rst day of September,
1659, eight years, to a day, from the time when I first ran away from home.
Driven out of our course by a storm, I decided to make for the Island Bar-
badoes, for repairs; but our voyage was otherwise determined. A second
storm overtook us, and the vessel was driven westward out of the way of. all
human commerce. The crew were in great distress, thinking that even if
their lives were saved from the sea, they were in danger of being devoured
by the savages who inhabited many of the surrounding Islands of the
Caribbee archipelago. The storm still blowing very hard, and we having lost
our reckonings, one morning the cry of “Land!” was raised, and the ship
immediately struck upon a sandbank, the waves breaking heavily over her,
and staving one of the boats. The whole crew of eleven men, including
myself, took to the other boat, and rowed toward the land. A mountain-
like wave overwhelmed the boat, and swallowed us all up. I was washed
up on the shore by the great waves, and reached the dry land; of my com-
panions I never afterward saw a sign except a few hats and shoes that were
thrown upon the beach. I was overjoyed at my wonderful escape, and
212 DANIEL DEFOE.

 

walked about the shore lifting up my hands, Then I reflected that I was wet,
had no clothes to shift me, nor anything to eat and drink. I saw no pros-
pect but that of perishing with hunger or being devoured by wild beasts.
I had nothing but a knife, a tobacco pipe, and a little tobacco in a box. I
was in an agony of mind, and ran about like a mad man. Night coming
upon me,.I began with heavy heart to consider what would be my lot if
there were any ravenous beasts in that country. I climbed into a thick,
bushy tree, and being excessively fatigued I fell fast asleep. When I waked
it was broad day, and the storm had abated, I saw that the ship had been
driven to within about a mile from the shore, and there she lay upright on
the sand. As the tide went down I waded and swam out to her, and
clambered on board, where, finding that the provisions were untouched by
the water, I ate and filled my pockets, and then set to work to furnish
myself with many things which I foresaw would be of use. With spare
spars I built a rough raft, and loaded it with provisions, guns and ammuni-
tion, the carpenter’s chest, and a few clothes. The sea being calm. the
return voyage was safely accomplished and the cargo landed on the bank
of acreek. My next work was to view the country and seek a proper place
for my habitation. On traveling up to the top of a steep and high hill I
saw, to my great affliction, that I was on a small island, and no other land,
except a few distant rocks and two other small islands, was in view. The
island seemed barren and uninhabited, and I saw no wild beasts, though wild
fowl were abundant. I now made a hut with my chests and boards, for my
night’s lodging, and during the following days I made other voyages to
the ship, bringing away all that I could carry of her provisions, cordage,
ammunition and timbers. Then there came a storm, and next morning the
ship had disappeared. In search of a place suitable for my habitation, I
found a little plain under a rising hill, at the foot of which was a small
hollow or cave. Here I pitched my tent, drawing a half circle around it to
the rocks on either side, and in this 1 drove two rows of strong stakes
sharpened to a point, so as to form a wall, which I filled in with pieces of
old cable and earth until it was impregnable for cither man or beast. The
entrance was by a short ladder, which, when T was in, 1 lifted over after
me, Into this fortress, with infinite labor, I carried all my stores, digging
out the rock behind my tent so as to make a cellar. Meanwhile, I often
went out with a gun, and one day shot one of the goats which I discovered
to inhabit the island. All this time 1 had a dismal prospect of my condition,
but reflected how fortunate 1 had been in saving my life when my ten com-
panions had been drowned, and in the marvelous fortune that had so
liberally provided me with stores, 1 kept a record of the days as they
went by, and drew up a statement showing the comforts | enjoyed and the
LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF ROBINSON CRUSOE. 213

 

miseries I suffered. I succeeded in bringing my mind a little to relish my
condition, I also set myself to arrange my stores, and to enlarge the cave,
by working sideways into the rock and making another entrance on the out-
side of my fortification. I made mea table and chair, and some shelves,
and began to keep a journal, in which I recorded the events already
narrated. Some grain that I had shaken out of an old bag sprang up into
what proved to be barley and rice. In April, just after I had finished my
fortification, there came three earthquake shocks which greatly terrified
me. In June I suffered from a violent ague. For the first time my con-
science was awakened, and I thought of repentance. I dreamed that the
Lord said to me, “ Seeing all these things have not brought thee to repent-
ance, now thou shalt die!” I began to reproach myself with my past life,
in which I had so evidently provoked the justice of God to lay me under
uncommon strokes. These reflections extorted from me some words like
prayer. For the first time for many years I cried, “ Lord be my help, for I
am in great distress!” I took up a Bible that had come from the ship, and
found in it words that comforted me. My only medicine was tobacco,
but I gradually grew better, both in body and—for I continued to read the
Bible—in mind, After I recovered from my sickness, I began to make a
more particular survey of the island. One clear day I saw land toward the
west, which lay very high, and which I thought to be part of America, but
what part I knew not. My dog—for I had brought two cats, a parrot anda
dog from the ship —caught a kid, and I brought this home in hopes of raising
a flock of goats. I began to be more cheerful, and to conclude that it was
possible for me to be happy in this solitary condition. I was comforted by
finding in the Bible the words, ‘I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee.”
I continued to work at husbandry, and to contrive to make wicker baskets
and pottery.’ The sight of land made me dream of escaping from the
island, and I felled a great cedar tree, and hewed from it a canoe or
periagua, large enough to have carried twenty men, but when I had finished
it, I found it too heavy to get into the water. In the middle of this work
I finished my fourth year on the island. I now entertained different notions
of things. I looked upon the world as a thing remote, which I had nothing
to do with. I had nothing to covet; I was lord of the whole manor.
I was taught that the good things of this life are no farther good to us than
they are for our use; and that we enjoy just as much as we can use, and
no more. I compared my condition with what I had expected it tobe. I
was very sensible of the goodness of Providence in providing me with so
much from the ship. I worked up my mind not only to a resignation to
the will of God, but even to a sincere thankfulness. Some of my stores
began to be exhausted. My ink was all gone, and the biscuit I had brought
214 DANIEL DEFOE.

 

from the ship, so that I had no bread for a year, until I got my own stock
of grain. My clothes, too, began to decay, and after eking them out as long
as I could, I made a suit from the skins of the animals I killed, and an
umbrella of the same material. For nearly two whole years I worked upon
a smaller periagua, which I succeeded in launching, and in fitting with a
mast and a sail. Then I designed to make a cruise around the island, for
I dare not venture a voyage to the distant mainland in so small a boat.
Setting sail, I found my boat carried along by a violent current, and feared
I should be driven out into the ocean. Now I looked back upon my
solitary island as the most pleasant place in the world, and longed to be
there again. I was carried to a frightful distance, when a fortunate wind
filled my sail and carried me back. I landed on the opposite side of the island
and marched home. On the way I slept for a night, and was awakened by
a voice that cried “ Robin Crusoe, Robin Crusoe!’ I started, to find that
it was my parrot which had flown there, and which I now took back with
me. My powder was now abated considerably, and to provide myself with
fresh meat I trapped four goats, which I kept in an inclosure, and tamed.
They gave me milk, and as they increased I killed some of the kids. I
still thought of my boat, and would make little voyages in her, keeping
close to the shore. One day, when I had been on the island for fifteen
years, I was going toward my boat, when I was exceedingly surprised with
the print of a man’s naked foot on the shore, which was very plain to be
seen on the sand. I was thunderstruck, and fled to my castle. My fear
was so great that it almost banished my religion, until I bethought me of
the words of Scripture: ‘Call upon me in the day of trouble and I will
deliver thee.” I now set to work upon another wall, enclosing the second
entrance to the cave, and planted outside of it a thick grove of trees, which
completely concealed my abode. Some three years later, on visiting the
extreme southwestern point of the island, I found human skulls and bones,
the remains of cannibal feasts with which savages celebrated their victories,
paddling over to the island from the mainland with their victims for the
purpose. ‘They never penetrated the interior of the island, and seemed to
confine themselves to the further side of it, but one morning, when I had
been there twenty-three years, five canoes landed near to my castle, and I
saw thirty naked savages holding a horrid feast. One of their victims,
being left unbound, started to run desperately for his life. We was pursued
by two men, and I ran down from the hill where I stood in time to shoot
one of them and knock down the other with the stock of my gun, The
poor fellow whom I had thus rescued became my faithful servant, I gave
him the name of Friday, that being the day of the occurrence. During the
next three years the savages did not reappear, I taught Friday the acts of
LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF ROBINSON CRUSOE. 215

 

husbandry, and the English language, and he was of such great assistance
to me, that I enjoyed his company. I also tried to instruct him in the
Christian religion. But he did not lose his longing to return to his own
country, the island of Trinidad, the high land that was visible on the
western horizon; and we began to build another boat. Then a party of
savages landed on the island. Friday and I attacked them with our guns,
dispersed them, and rescued their victims, a Spaniard, and an old savage,
who proved to be Friday’s father. I learned from the Spaniard that there
were sixteen of his fellow countrymen living with Friday’s tribe, and we
decided that he and the old savage should return thither for them, in order
that we might build a boat large enough to hold the whole company and
carry us to one of the Christian colonies of America. But during their
absence a large English ship came in sight, and a long boat came ashore
from it, with the captain, the mate and a passenger, bound prisoners. While
the crew were asleep, awaiting the turn of the tide, I went up to the
captives, and learned that there had been a mutiny on board of their ship,
and that the crew had brought them thither to abandon them on what was
thought to be a desolate island. With the help of my guns the crew were
overpowered, the ringleaders shot, and the others forced back to their
allegiance. Then the captain pulled off again to the ship, and, surprising
the men below decks, recovered command of it. Abandoning the most
mutinous members of the crew upon the island the captain set sail, giving
me a free passage for myself and Friday to England, where I arrived the
rith of June, 1687, having been thirty-five years absent. Here I found
myself a stranger; my father and mother were dead, and none knew me.
I left England to prove my title to my estate in the Brazils. This I did in
Lisbon, securing property worth five thousand pounds, and, selling the estate
for thirty-three thousand pieces of eight, I returned to London and married,
but could not overcome my roving disposition. I sailed again for South
America, revisiting the island where I had spent so many years. After
leaving it, we encountered a fleet of savages’ canoes, and poor Friday was
killed by their arrows. Then I sailed around the Cape of Good Hope to
Madagascar and the Gulf of Persia, where the crew forced the captain to
set me ashore. Falling in with an English merchant, I made trading
voyages to Siam, Borneo and the surrounding countries and islands, and
traveled through China, Tartary, and Russia, sailing from Archangel to
Hamburg. Thence I returned to England after an absence of ten years
and nine months. And here I resolved to prepare for a longer journey than
all these, having lived a life of infinite variety seventy-two years, and learnt
sufficiently to know the value of retirement and the blessing of ending our
days in peace.
216 DANIEL DEFOE.

 

QUOTATIONS FROM ROBINSON CRUSOE.

I had in five or six days got as complete a victory over my conscience
as any young fellow that resolved not to be troubled with it could desire.

I do not wonder at the custom, when a malefactor, who has the halter
about his neck, is tied up and just going to be turned off, and has a reprieve
brought to him; I say, I do not wonder that they bring a surgeon with it,
to let his blood that very moment they tell him of it that the surprise may
not drive the animal spirits from the heart and overwhelm him. For sudden
joys, like griefs, confound at first. I smiled to myself at the sight of this
money ; “Oh drug!” said I aloud, “what art thou good for? Thou art
not worth to me—no, not the taking off the ground; one of those knives
is worth all this heap.”

I had nothing to covet, for I had all that I was now capable of enjoy-
ing. I was lord of the whole manor; or, if I pleased, I might call myself
king or emperor over the whole country which I had possession of ; there
were no rivals; I had no competitor, none to dispute sovereignty or
command with me.

And now I saw how easy it was for the Providence of God to make even
the most miserable condition of mankind worse. . . . Thus, we never
see the true state of our condition till it is illustrated to us by its contraries,
nor know how to value what we enjoy, but by the want of it.
 

 

JONATHAN SWIFT.

BORN 1667. IRELAND Dito 1745.
JONATHAN SWIFT.

Jonathan Swift was born in Dublin on the 30th of November, 1667. His father was an
attorney, who had moved from the County of York to Dublin, to act as the agent of land-
owners, who held estates in Ireland. Before Jonathan’s birth his father died, leaving his
widow with very slender provision. Mrs. Swift was supported by her brother-in-law, Godwin
Swift, who undertook the education of his nephew.

At the age of six years Swift was sent to the schoo! of Kilkenny, and in his fourteenth
year he entered the University of Dublin. Asa student his career was not very creditable
to him. His neglect of his studies made it impossible for him to obtain honors, and his
degree of Bachelor of Arts was conferred upon him ‘‘ by special favor,” a term used in the
University to designate lack of merit. During this period he, with a clique of congenial
spirits, was censured by the heads of the University. It was during his latter college days
that Swift formed a taste for the peculiar style of satire in which he subsequently be-
came feared and famous. Before leaving college he wrote his first sketch of the ‘‘ Tale of
a Tub.”

In the year 1688 Swift left Dublin and went to England, where he became the secretary
of Sir William Temple. While in this position he studied very hard and laid the founda-
tions of his future fortunes. Becoming weary of his position, he took holy orders, and ob-
tained the prebend of Kilroot, in the diocese of Connor. After a time, however, he gave
up the church and returned to the position of secretary, in which he remained four years.

Swift's first prose work was published when he had attained his thirty-fourth year. It
was entitled ‘‘ An Essay on the Dissensions in Athens and Rome.’’ Three years afterwards
he published the ‘‘ Tale of a Tub.” Shortly afterwards, in spite of great opposition, he
was appointed Dean of St. Patrick, Dublin. After this his time was largely taken up with
political intrigues, and the writing of political pamphlets. He was so unfortunate in these,
however, as to incur the dislike of both political parties. In 1727 he published ‘‘ Gulliver's
Travels,” which were hailed with a mixture of merriment and amazement. The book
immediately became popular. After its publication Swift enjoyed a short season of pros-
perity, but he soon found that it was impossible for him to advance in the political world.
He returned to Ireland, where the remainder of his life was spent. About 1739 his mental
faculties began to fail, and he was forced to give up all work. The remaining six years of
his life were spent in seclusion and misery. His reason almost wholly deserted him.

Swift’s domestic affairs have given rise to a great deal of discussion ; and it is generally
conceded that his treatment of Miss Esther Johnson, better known as “‘ Stella,” and of
Miss Vanhomrigh, “Vanessa” was characterized by faithlessness and almost cruelty. In
1716 Swift was married to ‘‘ Stella,” but they continued to live separately until death. His
memory is still revered in Ireland, for he gave the first impulse to the exertions for constitu-
tional freedom and the consequent development of a manufacturing industry. There was
much in his character to condemn, but there was also much to admire.
220 JONATHAN SWIFT.

THE TRAVELS GF LEMUEL GULLIVER,

My father had a small estate in Nottinghamshire ; I was the third of
five sons. He sent me to Emanuel College in Cambridge, when fourteen
years old, where I resided three years and applied myself closely to my
studies. I was afterwards bound apprentice to an eminent surgeon in Lon-
don, with whom I continued four years, and my father now and then send-
ing me small sums of money, I laid them out in learning navigation and
other parts of the mathematics, useful to those who intend to travel, as I
always believed it would be my fortune to do. When I left London I went
to Leyden, where I studied physic two years and seven months, knowing it
would be useful to me in long voyages. After my return from Leyden I
was recommended to be surgeon to the Swa//ou', Captain Pannell, com-
mander, with whom I made a voyage or two into the Levant and several
other parts. I then resolved to settle in London, and married Miss Mary
Burton, but my business failing, 1 determined to go to sea again. I was
surgeon successively in two ships, and made several vovages, for six vears, to
the East and West Indies, by which I made some addition to my fortune.
I next accepted an advantageous offer from the master ot the Antelope,
who was making a voyage to the South Sea. We set sail from Bristol, May
4, 1699, and our voyage at first was very prosperous. In our passage from
the South Sea to the East Indies we were driven by a violent storm to the
northwest of Van Diemen’s Land. On the 5th of November our ship was
driven upon a rock and immediately split. What became of my companions
I cannot tell, but conclude they were all lost. For my part, I swam as
fortune directed me. I often let my legs drop, but could feel no bottom,
but when my strength was almost gone I found myself within my depth.
I walked near a mile before I got to the shore and then advanced forward
near half a mile, but could not discover any sign of houses or inhabitants.
I was extremely tired and lay down on the grass where I slept, as I reck-
oned, about nine hours ; for when lL awakened it was just daylight. I
attempted to rise but was not able to stir, for IT found my arms and legs
were strongly fastened on cach side to the ground 3 and my hair, which was
long and thick, tied down in the same manner. I heard a confused noise
about me, but in the position I lay could see nothing evcept the sky. Ina
little time, I felt something alive moving on my left leg, which, advancing
gently forward over my breast, came almost up to my chin, when, bending
my eyes downward as much as 1 could, | perecived it to be a human crea-
ture not six inches high, with a bow and arrow in his hand and a quiver at
THE TRAVELS OF LEMUEL GULLIVER. 221

 

his back. Struggling to get loose I had the fortune to break the strings
that fastened my left arm, but the little creatures by whom I was sur-
rounded discharged volleys of arrows at me, until I thought it the most
prudent method to lie still) When the people observed that I was quiet, one
of them made me a long speech whereof I understood not a syllable. I
answered in the most submissive manner, and made signs that I wanted
food. They understood me, and several ladders were applied to my sides,
on which above a hundred of the inhabitants mounted and walked towards
my mouth, laden with baskets full of meat. They then rolled up one of
their largest hogsheads of wine, which I drank off at a draught. It seems
that upon the first moment I was discovered sleeping on the ground the
emperor had early notice of it, and determined in council that I should be
tied, that meat and drink should be sent me, and a machine prepared to
carry me to the capital city. Five hundred engineers and carpenters were
set at work to prepare a great vehicle, which was brought to me as I lay.
I was then raised with ropes and pulleys, placed on it and tied fast. Fifteen
hundred horses, each about four inches and a half high, were employed to
draw me towards the capital, which was half a mile distant. An ancient
temple, the largest in the kingdom, which had been polluted by an unna-
tural murder, was fixed upon as my lodging-place, and in it I was secured,
with four score and eleven chains, fastened to my left leg with six-and-thirty
padlocks. The country around the capital appeared like a continued
garden, and the enclosed fields, which were generally forty feet square,
resembled so many beds of flowers. The fields were intermingled with
woods and the tallest trees appeared to be seven feet high. As the news of
my arrival spread through the kingdom, it brought prodigious numbers of
tich, idle and curious people to see me, so that the villages were almost
emptied. To provide food for me, an imperial commission was issued out,
obliging all villages nine hundred yards about the city to deliver in every
morning six beeves, forty sheep, and other victuals for my sustenance ;
begotten with a proportionable quantity of bread and wine and other
liquors. A number of their most learned men were appointed to teach me
their language, which I soon acquired. My gentleness and good behavior
had gained so far on the emperor and his court, and indeed upon the army
and people in general, that I soon began to conceive hopes of getting my
liberty. I sent many petitions to his majesty, who at length mentioned the
matter in a full council, where the articles and conditions on which I
should be set free were drawn up and carried. I subscribed to them, and
was set free. Permission being granted to me by the emperor, I visited
Mildendo, the metropolis of the country. The city is capable of holding
five thousand souls; the houses from three to five stories; the shops and
222 JONATHAN SWIFT.

 

markets well provided. ‘Ihe Emperor's palace is in the center of the city,
and is enclosed by a wall two feet high. At his request, I visited it, and, by
lying on my side, I applied my face to the windows of the middle stories
and discovered the most splendid apartments that can be imagined. The
world as known to the Lilliputians, consists of Lilliput and the island of
Blefuscu. The inhabitants of these countries are constantly at war with
each other. Their differences began by an Emperor of Lilliput publishing
an edict commanding his subjects to break their eggs on the little end
instead of on the big end as was formerly the custom. This edict gave rise
to many rebellions, which were constantly fomented by the monarchs of
Blefuscu. The Big-endian exiles in the court of Blefuscu found so much
credit, that at the time of my visit an invasion of Lilliput was contemplated,
This I prevented by swimming across the channel that separated the two
countries and taking fifty of their largest men-of-war from the Blefuscudians
and taking them back with me to Lilliput. For this service the Emperor
created me a wardac, which is the highest title of honor among them.
About three weeks after this exploit the people of Blefuscu sued for peace,
which was soon concluded. I was invited by the King of Blefuscu to visit
his country, and when I was preparing to attend at his court the news
reached me that owing to court intrigues in Lilliput I had been impeached,
and sentenced to have my eyes put out. Without delay I crossed the
channel to Blefuscu, where I was well received. Three days after my
arrival I found a boat which had been driven from some ship. After fitting
it up and making it seaworthy, I stored it with provisions, consisting of
the carcasses of four hundred sheep, and bread and drink proportionable.
I then set sail and left the coast, and after several days was picked up by
an English merchantman from Japan. Several months afterwards I reached
my home in England. An active and restless life having been assigned me
by nature and fortune, in two months after my return I again left my native
country, and took shipping in the Adrenture, bound for Surat. We touched
at the Cape of Good Hope, and had a good voyage until we got northward
of the island of Madagascar, where a great storm set in. We were carried,
by my computation, five hundred leagues to the east, so that the oldest
sailor on board could not tell in what part of the world we were. On the
17th of June we came in full view of a great continent, and men were sent
ashore to search for water, 1 accompanied them to make what discoveries
Teould, lL wandered away from the men, and on returning towards them
found that they had already put to sea, and were being pursued by a large
monster, that walked out into the water after them. I immediately ran
away to conceal myself, and fell into a high read, for such I took it to be,
though it served the inhabitants only as a foot-path through a field of
THE TRAVELS OF LEMUVEL GULLIVER. 223

 

barley. Here I walked for some time but could see little on either side of
me, it being now near harvest, and the corn rising at least forty feet. I was
an hour walking to the end of this field, which was fenced in by a hedge at
least one hundred and twenty feet high. I was endeavoring to find some
gap in the hedge when I discovered one of the inhabitants in the next field.
He appeared as tall as an ordinary spire steeple and took almost ten yards
at every stride. I ran to hide myself in the corn, but he presently entered
the field with seven monsters like himself, with reaping hooks in their hands.
They began to reap the corn in the field where I lay, and finding it impos-
sible to escape, I called aloud, whereupon one of the creatures espied me.
He picked me up and examined me. I did not struggle, but made suppli-
cating cries and gestures. He seemed pleased with the curiosity he had
found and took me to his master, the farmer. After they had all examined
me, the farmer carried me home to his house. It being noon, dinner was
served, and I was placed beside the farmer’s plate on the table, which was
about thirty feet high. The whole family were delighted with me. After
dinner I gave them to understand that I was very sleepy, and was put to
bed. After sleeping a couple of hours I was attacked by a couple of huge
rats, about the size of large mastiffs. Drawing my hanger I defended myself
and dispatched one of them. The other then ran away. I was placed in
the care of the farmer’s daughter, a girl nine years old, who treated me with
great care and affection, and taught me the language of Brobdingnag.
When it became known in the country that the farmer had discovered a
curious little animal that could speak and appeared to be rational, I was
taken to various market places, where my master made much money by
putting me on exhibition. Finally, I was heard of at court, and the empress
purchased me from the farmer. I soon became very popular with the royal
family. When being borne about the country I found it to be well popu-
lated. The city of Lorbrulgrud, the capital, contains about six hundred
thousand inhabitants. It was in length about fifty-four miles and two and
a half in breadth. The king’s palace is a heap of buildings about seven
miles around ; the chief rooms are generally two hundred and forty feet
high and broad and long in proportion. When I had become fluent in the
language of the country, the king favored me with many audiences in which
I described to him at length the customs and laws of European nations.
He frequently expressed surprise and his disapproval of them. He confined
the knowledge of governing to common sense and reason; to justice and
liberty ; and to the speedy determination of civil and criminal causes. I
had not been two years in the country, when my nurse and I attended the
king and queen in a progress to the south coast of the kingdom. I was
carried, as usual, in my traveling box, which was a very convenient closet of
224 JONATHAN SWIFT.

 

twelve feet wide. When we came to our journey’s end, I desired leave to
see the ocean, and was taken out to the shore by a boy who was given
charge of me. He set me down and went to hunt for birds’ eggs. Suddenly
my box was picked up by an eagle, I fancy, and carried aloft to a great
height. The eagle being attacked, let it fall into the ocean, where it floated
for some time and was finally picked up by an English merchantman. I was
rescued, and after several months arrived safely in England. About ten
days after my return home I again set out for the East Indies. After visit-
ing Fort St. George and Tonquin, where we loaded our boats with several
sorts of goods, we were taken by pirates. Owing to the enmity of a Dutch-
man who was on the pirate ship, I was set adrift in a small canoe, with
paddles and sails and four days’ provisions. In a short time I reached a
group of islands. On the fifth day after being set adrift I reached the most
southward of the islands in the group, and there remained. On the morning
of the sixth day, I was walking along the coast, when I noticed a vast
opaque body pass between me and the sun. Taking out my perspective
glass I discovered people moving on it. The reader can hardly conceive my
astonishment to behold an island in the air, inhabited by men who were able
(as it should seem) to rise or sink or put it in progressive motion as they
pleased. I shouted with my utmost strength, and when they noticed me
they let down a chain with a seat fastened to the bottom, to which I fast-
ened myself and was drawn up by pulleys. I found the people to be very
singular in their shapes, habits and countenances. ‘Their heads were all
reclined either to the right or left, one of their eves turned inwards and the
other directly up to the zenith. Their outward garments were adorned with
figures of sun, moon and stars, interwoven with those of fiddles, flutes,
harps, trumpets, guitars, harpsichords, and many instruments of music
unknown to us, The minds of these people are so taken with intense spec-
ulations, that they neither can speak nor attend to the discourses without
being roused by some external action upon the organs of speech and hear-
ing, for which reasons servants are employed, whose business it is with a
flapper, a blown bladder containing some dried peas and fastened on the end
of a stick, to flap the mouths and cars of their masters when they make
visits or attend to business, ‘The people of Laputa, the floating island,
excel in the study of the mathematics and music. When I had learned the
language of the Laputians, I left the island and visited Balnibarbi, where I
found the people to be engaged in strange experiments. They had many col-
leges and academies, but their learning was all of a worthless character, \s
it was my object to reach Japan, T left: Balnibarbi as soon as possible and
visited Glubbdubdrib, the land of magicians. In. this place | was enabled
by the aid of the magicians, to converse with the heroes and sages of the
THE TRAVELS OF LEMUEL GULLIVER. 225

 

past. From Glubbdubdrib I proceeded to Luggnagg, where I saw the
Struldbrugs, a race of immortals who do not have immortal youth, but who
become more and more decrepit year by year. This immortality is a curse
to them. From Luggnagg I pushed my way to Japan, where I found pas-
sage in a Dutch ship to Amsterdam, and shortly afterwards arrived safely in
Amsterdam. Setting out from England again as captain of the Adventure,
I sailed to the West Indies. My crew mutinied against me and left me pris-
oner for a number of months, while they cruised about in I know not what
quarter of the world. Finally, they put me ashore on a rocky island, which
I found to be inhabited by horses. Houyhnhnms they call themselves, for
they have a language. These horses are very wise and gentle creatures,
addicted to no vices and practicing every virtue. The human race is
represented in this land by a detestable race of beings, called Yahoos.
They are the beasts of burden. They have no glimmerings of reason, are
thoroughly vicious and hateful, yet, strange to say, they are almost identical
with men in their appearance and habits. I learned the language of the
horses, and lived on intimate relations with one of their chiefs for some
time. His conversations were full of wisdom and all his conduct guided by
the noblest and loftiest sentiments. I looked forward to spending the rest
of my life away among the Houyhnhnms, but so great is their detestation
for the Yahoos that my friend was severely censured for associating with
one, for such I was considered to be, and he was forced to bid me leave the
country. I did so, but so great a hatred for my own race did I conceive by
studying the habits of the Yahoos, that I would never have returned to
England, had I not been taken captive by a Portuguese captain, who sent
me to London. I fear I shall never be able to eradicate from my mind the
contempt for my own race I acquired while living among and studying the
habits of the wise and noble Houyhnhnms.

GENERAL REMARKS,

Gulliver’s Travels is throughout a satire. The voyage to Lilliput is an
exposure of the policy of the English court during the reign of George I.
The disputes between the Little-endians and Big-endians represent the con-
troversy between the Latin and English churches. In Brobdingnag the
satire takes wider range; the object of assault is changed from the tactics
of a party to the general system of policy. The voyage to Laputa was the
least successful of the satires. It was not generally understood, as it dealt
with the proceedings of the Royal Society. The voyage to the Houyhn-
hnms has always been popular with the generality of readers, although its
misanthropy is repulsive and almost disgusting. It is the bitterest satire on
226 JONATHAN SWIFT.

 

humanity that has ever been written. But, disgusting as the picture of the
Yahoos is, it still conveys an important moral lesson. It is a probable
delineation of what humanity might become if exposed to the brutalizing
influences of ignorance and unregulated passions; it pictures the triumph
of sensuality over intelligence, and consequently sets forth in the strongest
light the necessity of moral training and religious instruction. The general
narrative was not less agreeable to the mass of readers than the satire to
particular classes of politicians. Gulliver's character is so thoroughly
natural, so completely that of the English sailor of his day, that many
were disposed to hail him as a personal acquaintance when the book first
appeared.

OUCOTATIONS.
FROM THE VOYAGE TO BROBDINGNAG.

His majesty took me in his hands and stroking me gently, delivered
himself in these words, which I never shall forget; nor the manner he
spoke them in: ‘My little friend, you have made a most admirable
panegyric upon your country, you have clearly proved that ignorance, idle-
ness and vice are the proper ingredients for qualifying a legislator ; that
laws are best explained, interpreted and applied, by those whose interests
and abilities lie in preventing, confounding and eluding them. I observe
among you some lines of an institution, which in its original might have
been tolerable, but these half erased, and the rest wholly blurred and
blotted by corruptions. It does not appear, from all you have said, how
any one perfection is acquired toward the procurement of any one station
among you; much less that men are ennobled on account of their virtue;
that priests are advanced for their piety or learning ; soldiers for their con-
duct or valor; judges for their integrity ; senators for the love of their
country, or counsellors for their wisdom. As for yourself, who have spent
the greatest part of your life in traveling, I am well disposed to hope you
may hitherto have escaped many vices of your country. But by what I
have gathered from your own relation, and the answers I have with much
pains wringed and extorted from you, I cannot but conclude the bulk of
your natives to be the most pernicious race of little odious vermin that
nature ever suffered to crawl upon the surface of the earth.” He gave it
as his opinion, “that whoever could make two ears of corn, or two blades
of grass, to grow upon a spot of ground, where only one grew before, would
deserve better of mankind, and do more essential service to his country
than the whole race of politicians put together,”
 

 

ALEXANDER POPE

Born 1688 ENGLAND Dien 1744.
ALEXANDER POPE.

Alexander Pope, the most famous English poet of the first half of the eighteenth
century, was born on the 21st of May, 1688, in Lombard Street, in the City of London.
He was the son of a linen merchant, in comfortable circumstances, who a few years later
retired from business, and settled near Windsor, where the poet’s boyhood was spent.

He was brought up in the Roman Catholic Church, to which his father belonged, and his
education was acquired partly at two small Catholic schools, but mostly at home. Physically,
he was weak and small of stature, almost to dwarfishness, but his mental precocity was
phenomenal. He had a remarkable taste for literature, and especially for the classics, and
decided at an early age to adopt authorship as his profession. He was not long in establish-
ing his reputation, for his first published work, a volume of ‘‘ Pastorals,” which appeared
in 1709, was received with general applause. In 1711, the ‘‘Essay on Criticism” was
issued, and the ‘‘ Rape of the Lock” the following year.

Pope now became a leader in the contemporary world of letters, numbering among his
friends such men as Addison and Swift, Robert Harley, Earl of Oxford, and Henry St.
John, Viscount Bolingbroke.

In 1713, Pope undertook the arduous task of translating Homer’s ‘‘ Iliad” and ‘‘ Odyssey,”
which was not completed for eleven years, and which proved to be a great financial success.
In 1718 he established himself in the villa at Twickenham, on the Thames, where the rest
of his life was spent. After a number of minor works, he published the ‘‘ Dunciad,” in
1728—a satire, in which he vigorously lashed his critics and enemies. The ‘‘ Essay on
Man” appeared in four parts, in the years 1732 to 1734. It was suggested to Pope by
Bolingbroke, who had returned from exile in France, and had settled at Dawley, not far
from the poet's residence, and was followed up by the ‘‘ Epistles,” to Lord Bathurst, Lord
Cobham and other friends of the author.

But death was gradually leaving Pope as the only survivor of the literary coterie to
which he had belonged. His mother died in 1733. Dr. Arbuthnot—one of his closest
friends —in 1734 ; from Addison he had long since been estranged ; Swift's life was becom-
ing clouded by the mental derangement which ended in his death in 1745. In 1735 Boling-
broke left Dawley, to travel in France, and then settle in London; and the chief friend of
Pope’s later days, his apologist and his literary executor, was Warburton.

The poet’s last work was a revision and extension of the satirical ‘‘ Dunciad,” in the new
version of which Colley Cibber was gibbeted as the chief object of its ridicule. His health,
feeble throughout his life, gradually gave way, until, on the 30th of May, 1744, he died at
his Twickenham villa.

THE ESSAY ON MAN.

“An Essay on Man” is the general title given by Pope to four epistles
in verse, addressed to the poet’s friend, Henry St. John, Lord Bolingbroke.
230 ALEXANDER POPE.

EPISTLE I.

OF THE NATURE AND STATE OF MAN, WITH RESPECT TO THE
UNIVERSE.

The first epistle opens with an address to Bolingbroke, briefly outlining
the purpose of the essay :

“ Awake, my St. John! Leave all meaner things
To low ambition, and the pride of kings.
Let us (since life can little more supply
Than just to look about us and to die)
Expatiate free o'er all this scene of man;
A mighty maze! but not without a plan;
Eye nature’s walks, shoot folly as it flies,
And catch the manners living as they rise ;
Laugh where we must, be candid where we can,
But vindicate the ways of God to man.”

The poet first shows the limitation of human reason :

“Say first, of God above, or man below,
What can we reason but from what we know ?”

‘Thro’ worlds unnumbered tho’ the God be known,
’Tis ours to trace him only in our own.”

Then, postulating the existence of an all-wise Creator, he argues the fu-
tility of complaining of human imperfections :

“Presumptuous Man! The reason wouldst thou find
Why form’d so weak, so little, and so blind ?
First, if thou canst, the harder reason guess,
Why form’d no weaker, blinder, and no less !"

What seem to us to be imperfections, may not be so when viewed in
relation to the whole system of the universe :

**Man, who here seems principal alone,
Perhaps acts second to some sphere unknown,
Touches some wheel, or verges to some goal ;
‘Tis but a part we see, and not a whole.”

Upon our very blindness, human happiness depends — upon our ignor-
ance of the future, and our hope of a better state :

“The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day,
Had he thy reason, would he skip and play ?
Oh, blindness to the future! kindly given
That each may fill the circle marked by heaven ;
AN ESSAY ON MAN. 231

 

Who sees with equal eye, as God of all,
A hero perish, or a sparrow fall.”

“Hope springs eternal in the human breast ;
Man never is, but always to be blessed.”

Here comes the famous description of the Indian:

“Lo, the poor Indian! whose untutored mind
Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind ;
Yet simple nature to his hope has given,

Behind the cloud a hill, an humbler seses teil

He aus no Shed s wing, no seid s ies ;
But thinks admitted to that equal sky,
His faithful dog shall bear him company.”

Man must recognize that he merely fills his appointed place in the great
system of the universe. Of this grand system, even the apparent disorders
of nature and man, such as earthquakes and tempests, or war and crime,
are also ordained as parts; for

“All subsists by elemental strife,
And passions are the elements of life.
The general order, since the whole began,
Is kept in nature, and is kept in man.”

Each link in this great chain of creation has its appointed place and its
proper attributes :

“Why hath not man a microscopic eye?
For this plain reason, man is not a fly.”

And each link must keep its place, or the whole chain might fall asunder
in chaos:
“From nature’s chain whatever link you strike,
Tenth, or ten thousandth, breaks the chain alike.”

The lesson is enforced by the simile of the human body :

“What if the foot, ordain’d the dust to tread,
Or hand, to toil, aspired to be the head ?”’

The doctrine of the order of nature is stated in another way in the lines

«All are but parts of one stupendous whole,
Whose eee nature is, and God the soul.”

as To bites, no figs no jiow no grew, no somal
He fills, He bounds, connects, and equals all.”
232 ALEXANDER POPE.

In conclusion, the poet sums up his optimistic philosophy thus :

« All nature is but art, unknown to thee;
All chance, direction, which thou canst not see ;
All discord, harmony not understood ;
All partial evil, universal good :
And spite of pride, in erring reason’s spite
One truth is clear: Whatever is, is right.”

EPISTLE I1.

ON THE NATURE AND STATE OF MAN, WITH RESPECT TO HIMSELF
AS AN INDIVIDUAL,

From the doctrine of the order of nature, explained in the first epistle,
Pope infers this practical lesson :

“Know then thyself, presume not God to scan ;
The proper study of mankind is man.”

Truly he is a strange thing to study,

“ Placed on this isthmus of a middle state,
A being darkly wise, and rudely great ;"”

And strange are the contrasts that he affords :

“Go wondrous creature, mount where science guides,
Go measure earth, weigh air, and state the tides;
Instruct the planets in what orbs to run,

Correct old Time, and regulate the sun;
Go, teach Eternal Wisdom how to rule —
Then drop into thyself, and be a fool!"

Pope thus analyzes the human mind ;

“Two principles in human nature reign;
Self-love, to urge, and reason, to restrain;
Self-love, the spring of motion, acts the soul ;
Reason’s comparing balance rules the whole.
Man, but for that, no action could attend,
And but for this, were active to no end.

. . . .

Most strength the moving principle requires;
Active its task, it prompts, impels, inspires,
Sedate and quiet, the comparing lies,

Form’d but to check, deliberate, and advise.”
AN ESSAY ON MAN, 233

 

And yet these two principles, the inciting and the restraining, are not
entirely opposite :

“ Self-love and reason to one end aspire,
Pain their aversion, pleasure their desire.”

Next we come to the passions, which Pope considers as belonging to the
active principle :
“ Modes of self-love the passions we may call;
’Tis real good, or seeming, moves them all;”’

And they are far from being wholly evil and injurious :

“On life's vast ocean diversely we sail,
Reason the card, but passion is the gale ;
Nor God alone in the still calm we find,
He mounts the storms, and walks upon the wind.”

Even when the passions grow into one ruling or master passion, which
dominates the mind, it is still the function of reason

“ To rectify, not overthrow,
And treat this passion more as friend than foe.”

For it can be turned in the right direction, and made to become a great
power for good :

‘As fruits, ungrateful to the planter’s care,
On savage stocks inserted, learn to bear :
The surest virtues thus from passions shcot,
Wild nature’s vigor working at the root,”

Then follows the famous passage :

“Vice is a monster of so frightful mien
As to be hated, needs but to be seen ;
Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face,
We first endure, then pity, then embrace.”

Even human vices and weaknesses, in Heaven’s great view, are not de-
fects in the scheme of creation, but necessary parts of the mighty system :
‘Heaven forming each on other to depend,
A master, or a servant, or a friend,

Bids each on other for assistance call,
Till one man’s weakness grows the strength of all.”

Every condition of life has its own comfort, and its own hope :

“Behold the child, by nature’s kindly law
Pleased with a rattle, tickled with a straw ;
234 ALEXANDER POPE.

 

Some livelier plaything gives his youth delight,
A little louder, but as empty quite :

Scarfs, garters, gold, amuse his riper stage,

And beads and prayer-books are the toys of age:
Pleased with this bauble still, as that before;

Till tired he sleeps, and life’s poor play is o'er.”

Thus all our weaknesses are turned, by the wisdom of Providence, to
our happiness :

“In folly’s cup still laughs the bubble joy ;

See, and confess, one comfort still must rise ;
Tis this — though Man's a fool, yet God is wise.”

FEpistce IIT.

OF THE NATURE AND STATE OF MAN, WITH RESPECT TO SUCIETY.

Before proceeding to a new department of his subject, Pope sums up the
argument previously given:

‘Here then we rest; the Universal Cause
Acts to one end, but acts by various laws.’

To rightly view society, the observer must

“ Look round our world; beho!d the chain of love
Combining all below and all above.”

Nothing was created wholly for itself, nor yet wholly for other things;
even man, who stands at the head of nature, cannot claim that she was
created for his sole use:

“ Know, nature’s children all divide her care :
The fur that warms a monarch, warm’d a bear.”

Each species, whether endowed with reason, as man is, or with instinet,
as the other animals are, has the powers that are most conductive to its own
happiness. Nor is instinct so far inferior to reason :

* And reason raise o’er instinct as you can
In this ‘tis God directs, in that ‘tis man

Who made the spider parallels design,

Sure as Demoivre, without rule or line ?

Who bid the stork, Columbus-like explore

Heavens not his own, and worlds unknown before >"
AN ESSAY ON MAN. 235

 

This is the keystone of the structure of society — the Creator.
“On mutual wants, built mutual happiness.”

Animals, who have not reason, are actuated by self-love alone. It
impels them to care for their offspring, and thus perpetuate their race.
Even primitive man, before the dawn of civilization, was far from utter
degradation :

“Nor think in nature's state they blindly trod;
The State of nature, was the reign of God.”

And as he gradually rose from savagery, it was by copying the animals :

“See him from nature rising slow to art ;
To copy instinct then was reason’s part;
Thus then to man the voice of nature spake —
‘Go, from the creatures thy instruction take;
Thy arts of building from the bee receive ;
Learn of the mole to plough, the worm to weave;
Learn of the little nautilus to sail,
Spread the thin oar, and catch the driving gale.
Learn each small people's genius, policies,
The ants’ republic, and the realm of bees.’

Great Nature spoke; observant man obeyed;
Cities were built, societies were made.”

The earliest government was of the patriarchal type:

“ Love all the faith, all th’ allegiance then ;
For nature knew no right divine in men,
No ill could fear in God; and understood
A sovereign being but a sovereign good.”

Then came the tyrant, who, establishing his rule by force, fortified it
with the tenors of superstition :

“Fear made her devils, and weak hope her gods;
Gods partial, changeful, passionate, unjust,
Whose attributes were rage, revenge, or lust.”

But then even tyrants were taught justice and benevolence by some
Poet or Patriot, who
“rose but to restore
The faith and moral, nature gave before ;
Relumed her ancient light, not kindled new.”
236 ALEXANDER POPE,

 

Summing up the argument of the third epistle, the poet sings :

“Such is the world’s great harmony, that springs
From order, union, full consent of things.

For forms of government let fools contest ;
Whate’er is best administered is best :

For modes of faith let graceless zealots fight ;
His can't be wrong whose life is in the right.
In faith and hope the world will disagree ;
But all mankind's concern is charity.

Thus God and Nature link’d the general frame,
And bade self-love and social be the same.”

EPIsTLe IY.

OF THE NATURE AND STATE OF MAN WITH RESPECT TO HAPPINESS.

Pope follows the old Aristotelian definition of happiness in addressing

it as:
“O Happiness! our being’s end and aim!”

The first question that arises with regard to happiness, is how it can be
obtained :
* Plant of celestial seed! if dropp'd below
“ Say in what mortal soil thou deign’st to grow ?
Fix'd to no spot is happiness sincere,
‘Tis nowhere to be found, or everywhere :
‘Tis never to be bought, but always free.”

Tt does not depend upon power, riches, or learning :

“Order is Heaven's first law; and this confest,
Some are, and must be, greater than the rest,
More rich, more wise ; but who infers from hence
That such are happier, shocks all common sense.
Condition, circumstance is not the thing ;

Bliss is the same in subject and in king.”

It springs from sources that are accessible to all ranks :

“ Know all the good that individuals find,
Or God and nature meant to mere mankind,
Reason’s whole pleasure, all the joys of sense,
Lie in three words, health, peace and competence.”
AN ESSAY ON MAN. 237

 

They are blind moralists who say that earthly prosperity must always
attend upon virtue. There must be some apparent defects in the working
of the great scheme of creation :

“Think we, like some weak prince, the Eternal Cause
Prone for his favorites to reverse his laws ?

‘But sometimes virtue starves, while vice is fed,’
What then? Is the reward of virtue bread?’”

Virtue brings something more than a mere earthly reward :

“What nothing earthly gives or can destroy,
The soul’s calm sunshine, and the heartfelt joy,
Is virtue’s prize.”

And this prize nothing else can bring ; not wealth —

“Judges and senates have been bought for gold,
Esteem and love were never to be sold;”’

nor exalted position —

“ Honor and shame from no condition rise ;
Act well your part, there all the honor lies.

Worth makes the man, and want of it the fellow;
The rest is all but leather or prunella.”

nor a long lineage —

“What can ennoble sots, or slaves, or cowards?
Alas, not all the blood of all the Howards ;”

nor fame —

““What’s fame? a fancied life in others’ breath,
A thing beyond us, e’en before our death.

A wit’s a feather, and a chief’s a rod,
An honest man’s the noblest work of God;”’

nor superior abilities —

“ Tf parts allure thee, think how Bacon shined,
The wisest, brightest, meanest of mankind.”

This, then, is the truth to which we are brought :

“ Know then this truth (enough for man to know)
‘ Virtue alone is happiness below.’
238 ALEXANDER POPE.

And hence it is that happiness is attainable by every human being :

“See the sole bliss Heaven could on all bestow !
Which who but feels can taste, but thinks can know.

Slave to no sect, who takes no private road
But looks through nature up to nature's God.”

And the whole framework of society rests upon the foundation of love:

sos “ Faith, law, morals, all began,
All end in love of God and love of Man.”

In conclusion, the poet affectionately addresses Bolingbroke, whom he
calls: “My guide, philosopher and friend.” And the last lines sum up
the doctrine of the whole essay thus :

“Whatever is, is right ;
That Reason, Passion, answer one great aim ;
That true Self-love and Social are the same;
That Virtue only makes our bliss below,
And all our Knowledge is. ourselves to know.”

REVIEW OF THE “Essay oN MAN.”

In the “ Essay on Man,” Pope undertakes the difficult task of presenting
acomplete system of moral philosophy. The central ideas of the first of
the four epistles of which the poem consists are, that man is of necessity
limited in his capacity, and ought not to judge God: that God created
everything for the best, and that the universe is a vast system or order,
whose apparent imperfections really serve for the general good.

The second epistle analyzes the human mind, with its opposing principle
of reason and self-love, and shows how an overruling Providence turns even
our weaknesses to our happiness.

The third epistle shows how society is built up on the teachings of
nature, and depends upon order and harmony, the best good of each one
being the good of all.

The fourth epistle argues that happiness springs from virtue alone, and
is thus accessible to all, ‘The tone of the whole essay is deeply religious and
highly optimistic.

As asystem of philosophy, the * Essay on Man" has little value. Bol-
ingbroke himself, who suggested the subject to his friend Pope, said that
the poct was ‘a very indifferent philosopher,” and it is doubtful whether he
had any very thorough understanding of the subject with which he dealt.
Phere are some decided inconsistencies in his line of thought. He dwells,
in the first epistle, on the folly of attempting to judge of the universe from
AN ESSAY ON MAN. 239

 

the peculiar and restricted point of view that Man possesses ; but through-
out the latter part of the poem he asserts that the constitution of the uni-
verse is perfect and complete. His view of the unerring mechanism of crea-
tion is clearly fatalistic; it reduces Man to a mere portion of the great
machine, and is entirely inconsistent with any idea of human free-will, upon
which, at other times, he insists. In one portion of the first epistle he in-
troduces a passage which enunciates another distinct theory of the universe
— the pantheistic doctrine of Spinoza :

‘All are but parts of one stupendous whole,
Whose body Nature is, and God the soul.”

This theory, that the Supreme Being exists only as the soul of the uni-
verse, is irreconcilable with the idea of a personal Deity, and would destroy
much of the remaining argument of the essay. Again, the analysis of the
powers of the mind in the second epistle is not exactly logical. Reason, in-
stead of being a separate element opposed to self-love, is a mental function
that may be, and frequently is, used by self-love to further its own ends.

But if Pope’s attempt to outline a system of moral philosophy is a fail-
ure, the “Essay on Man” is, nevertheless, a brilliant and immortal poem.
Dr. Johnson said of it that “it affords an egregious instance of the predomi-
nance of genius, the dazzling splendor of imagery and the seductive powers
of eloquence. Never were penury of knowledge and vulgarity of sentiment
so well disguised.” Bulwer Lytton characterizes it as “ unequaled in didatic
solemnity and splendor since Lucretius set to music the false tenets of
Epicurus.”

It is in the details of the work, the separate passages and ideas, that
the great merits of the “Essay on Man” are to be found. The art of ex-
pression — an art of which Pope was a past master —is nowhere brought to
a greater degree of perfection. “1 chose verse,’ he remarks in his intro-
ductory paragraphs, “ because I found I could express the principles, maxims
and precepts more shortly this way than in prose itself.’’ And this is no idle
boast, for a more condensed style was surely never written. Every word in
the poem is effective, every passage, though as a part of the general argument
it may be of little value, yet is worth reading with attention for its own merit.

The skill with which philosophical phrases and formule are presented in
graceful and poetical language is remarkable. Probably no poem of the
same length contains somany gems of thought that have been crystallized
into proverbs. The “Essay on Man” shows Pope’s style at its best. It is
the most characteristic work of the poet who stood at the head of the class-
ical school that dominated English literature during the first half of the
eighteenth century.
 

 

 

 

 

ALAIN RENE LESAGE

Boan 1668 FRANCE Dico 17T4T.
ALAIN RENE LE SAGE.

A reader of modern French literature, perusing Gi/ Blas as his first essay in the direction
of the products of the pen of Le Sage, would, in the absence of biographical corroborative
evidence, find it difficult to believe that the author of this romance of the home of the Hi-
dalgo was, in truth, a Frenchman. Such however, was the case, but so close a student was
he of Spanish models as almost to rival the genius of the greatest native authors. The de-
tails of the earlier years of Le Sage are meager. He was born at Sarzeau, near Vannes
(Morbihan), on the 8th of May, 1668. The district in which he was born was a legal one,
and Claude Le Sage, the father of the novelist, held the united positions of advocate, notary,
and registrar of its royal court. -His wife’s name was Jeanne Brenugat. The parents of
Le Sage died when he was very young, leaving the lad to the tutelage of an uncle, who neg-
lected the care both of his education and fortune. Happily, however, Pére Bochard, of the
Order of the Jesuits, Principal of the College of Vannes, became interested in young Le
Sage on account of the natural talents he displayed, and cultivated his taste for literature.
Le Sage continued his studies under Pére Bochard until he was eighteen ; it is conjectured
that these were concluded at Paris, where, in 1692, he was called to the bar. But, like many
another illustrious author, he found that his talents were not adapted to the practice of the
law, and he soon determined to develop that literary bent which had already shown itself at the
College of Vannes. He began modestly as 4 translator, and published in 1695 a French
version of the Zfistles of Aristeenetus, which was not successful. At this time he was so
fortunate as to secure as a friend and patron the Abbé de Lyonne, who settled upon him a
pension of six hundred livres, and made him besides many valuable presents. Under such
favorable auspices, possessing a handsome person as wellas literary ability, Le Sage was soon
admitted into those brilliant circles where the writers of the day and the French modlesse min-
gled. The Abbé de Lyonne, being himself a student and collector of Spanish literature,
naturally strove to direct the mind of his protégé in the same direction, and with what success
the inimitable romance of Gil Blas is the crowning example. The career of Le Sage was far
from metric ; he was nearly forty years of age before he obtained anything like decided suc-
cess, The greater part of his literary labor was expended on the drama, both in translating
from the Spanish and in original composition. In 1707 his admirable farce of Crispin Rival
de son Maitre was acted with great applause, and Le Diab’e Boiteux (known in England un-
der the title of its first translation, ‘‘ The Devil upon Two Sticks”) was published. This lat-
ter romance went through several editions in the same year. Its popularity was unbounded
from its first appearance. One proof of the estimation in which it was held was, that two
young nobles entering a bookseller’s shop, in which there was only one copy of the book,
contested its possession in a duel the victor carrying off the volume as his trophy. In 1715
the first two volumes of Gi/ Béas appeared ; and its success was at once assured. Its ex-
cessive popularity induced Le Sage to add, some time afterwards, a third and a fourth
volume ; but there is a certain amount of repetition in this continuation, Sir Walter Scott,
in his ‘‘ Lives of Eminent Novelists and Dramatists,” thus refers to this effort of Le Sage
244 ALAIN RENE LE SAGE.

 

to prolong the existence of the hero of Gi/ Blas; ‘‘A French writer has said that it was
received by the public with the same kind of admiration as that accorded to a decaying
beauty, whose features remain the same, though their freshness and brilliancy are abated
by time.”

In 1694, Le Sage married Marie Elizabeth Huyard of Paris, an exceedingly beautiful
young woman, the daughter of a joiner, and without a single sou by way ofa dot, How-
ever, it was a love match, and Le Sage’s domestic life was a happy one, the union proving all
that he could desire. He had three sons and a daughter ; the daughter devoting her whole
life to attending on her gifted father. His circumstances, though moderate, were always
easy, for, although he could portray the wildest extravagances in his romances, Le Sage was
not afflicted with any of the habits of prodigality and dissipation that so often beset men of
letters. Onecircumstance alone embittered a few years of his life. His eldest son had been
educated for the bar, but insisted on adopting the stage as his profession. Le Sage, who had
painted the life of an actor in the most ridiculous and hateful aspect, was excessively pained by
his son's choice. But the young man, by the singular worth of his private character and his
social talents, gained ad nittance into the first society in Paris in spite of his father’s dis-
pleasure. A reconciliation between father and son was at last effected, and the latter after-
wards became the v-ry apple of the elder Le Sage’s eye. The death of this gifted actor, in
1743, proved such a severe blow to Le Sage, that he retired forever from Paris and from the
world. I1is youngest son had also become an actor, and was known to the theatre-going
public of Paris as ‘‘ Pittenec.” The second son of Le Sage eschewed the allurements of
foyer and footlights, and, having entered the church and become Abbé Le Sage, had been
made a Canon of the Cathedral of Boulogne, through the patronage of the queen, and had
had a pension bestowed upon him. To the cloister, therefore, Le Sage and his daughter be-
took themselves upon the former's resolving to forsake the pomps and vanities of Paris. In
the seclusion of the Canon's home Le Sage passed his declining years. He lived to the ripe
old age of eignty, and, although afflicted by deafness, and having to use an ear-trumpet, his
conversation was so delightful that when he was in the world, and frequented his favorite
coffee-house in the Rue St. Jacques, Paris, the guests would gather round him, and even
climb on chairs and tables, to catch the pearls of wit and wisdom that fell from his lips. He
died in the winter of 1747-48, a great writer who could portray vice and the vagaries of the
idle and dissolute with a master-hand, and yet who left to posterity a high character for honor
and personal probity.

Le Sage was an indefatigable worker, and while writing for the Theatre de la Foire—the
Théatre Frangais withholding from him a welcome in spite of the undoubted merit of Cris-
pin and Turcaret, his two greatest dramas — he produced either alone or with others about a
hundred pieces, varying from strings of songs with no regular dialogues to comediettas, only
distinguished from regular plays by the introduction of music. His dramatic translations and
compositions include: Le Traitre Puni, 1p01- 32 Le Point? Honneur, Vro1-3 ¢ Din Félix
de Mendoce, 701-3» Don César Ursin, vyo7 s Turcaret (one of the best comedies in French
literature), 1709. Among the original, translated and adopted works of Le Sage are: Or.
fando Inamorate s Gusman a Alfarache : Le Bachelier de Salamamjue, 1730-33 5 Esteva-
ntlir Gons ties, 1730-33 Aventures de Mo ts Beauchéne, 1733.5 La Vahse Trourdce : and
One Journie des Pargues,

Gil Blas, the most widely read and popular of allof the works of Le Sage, has survived
the assaults of criticism and the mutations of public taste in literature, and towers to-day in
the field of classical French fiction as it did more than two centuries ago. It is distinguished
by subtle and poignant satire, profound knowledge of human nature, wit and grace.
THE ADVENTURES OF GIL BLAS. 245

 

THE ADVENTURES OF GIL BLAS.

Seldom does it fall to the lot of any one, be he prince or pauper, in the
course of one short life, to experience the adventures, to play the countless
roles in both the tragedies and comedies of life, and finally to arrive at
honor and distinction, as did Gil Blas of Santillane. The father of Gil Blas,
after having borne arms for a long time in the Spanish service, retired to his
native place, married a chamber-maid, who was not exactly in her teens, and
in ten months thereafter rendered himself illustrious by becoming the par-
ent of the hero of these adventures. The early education of Gil Blas was got-
ten under the auspices of his god-father and maternal uncle, Gil Perez, a
canon of the town of Oviedo, who assumed this responsibility, both on account
of the great natural talents of Gil Blas and from the humble circumstances of
the latter’s father and mother. Inashort time Gil Blas had put himself beyond
the range of his uncle’s limited abilities, for that good man had not gained his
preferment altogether by his learning, but owed it exclusively to the grati-
tude of some good nuns whose discreet factor he had been, and who had
credit enough to procure him the order of priesthood without the trouble-
some ceremony of an examination. Gil Blas was now transferred to the
care of Doctor Godinez, the most accomplished pedant of Oviedo, and so
rapid was his advancement that at the end of five or six years he could read
a Greek author or two, had a fair conception of the Latin poets, and had
become such an expert arguer, from his knowledge of logic, that his fame
had spread beyond the gates of Oviedo. Gil Perez now determined to send
his nephew to the university of Salamanca, believing that his wit would
easily win him a good post. Acting on this determination, he presented Gil
Blas with a few ducats and his own mule, and bade him go forth to make his
way in the world. Before taking his departure, Gil Blas took a last leave of
his papa and mamma, who loaded him with an ample inheritance of good
advice and made him a present of their blessing, which was all his patri-
mony and all his expectation. Thus it was that he set out upon the road,
with the world before him, as yet his own master, as well as master of a bad
mule and forty good ducats, without reckoning on a little supplementary
cash purloined from his much-honored uncle.

Arrived at the village of Pegnaflor, Gil Blas disposed of his mule at a
ruinous figure and was duped into paying well for the privilege of stuffing a
gay Spanish gallant with the best the inn of the place afforded, as the price
of a little fulsome flattery, only to have the festive gentleman wound his
vanity by this speech when the meal was concluded: ‘ Master Gil Blas,”
246 ALAIN RENE LE SAGE.

 

said he, ‘I am too well pleased with my princely entertainment to leave
you without a word of advice, of which you seem to stand in much need.
From this time forward be on your guard against extravagant praise. Do
not trust men till you know them, You may meet with many another man,
who, like me, may amuse himself at your expense, and perhaps carry his
joke a little further. But do not you be taken in a second time, to believe
yourself, on the word of such fellows, the eighth wonder of the world.”
With this sting in the tail of his farewell speech he very coolly took his
leave. Abashed and humiliated by his financial failure in selling his four-
footed asset and in having his hospitality so abused, Gil Blas resolved to
continue his journey to Salamanca under the protection of a muleteer, who
was to depart thence the following day. But, alas! for his hopes of a safe
conduct. Among the party which accompanied the muleteer was a young
merchant and his bride. The charms of the latter cast such a potent
spell over the tender susceptibilities of the muleteer that, at a hostelry
where they stopped for the night, the rascally muleteer endeavored to ac-
complish by force that which he had failed to achieve by gallantry. The
lady resisted so valiantly, that her cries brought the village authorities to the
rescue, and, in the midst of the confusion, Gil Blas, with visions of the tor-
ture raising the hair upon his scalp, escaped to the adjacent woods, where he
was soon lost in their cimmerian intricacies. Groping about in the darkness
he stumbled upon the entrance to a subterranean cave. Penetrating into
this he found himself in the midst of a band of outlaws, who made him so
welcome that he was forced to accept their hospitality, even to the extent of
reconciling himself to what promised to be an indefinite stay in their under-
ground dwelling. In fact, he found himself a prisoner, and was soon in-
stalled in the position of cup-bearer to the band. But the wit of Gil Blas,
that was to do so much for him at the university, did not desert him now,
and by appearing to fall in with the ways of his companions he won their
confidence until they permitted him to accompany them on their forays.
Returning from one of their marauding expeditions, they brought with them
a beautiful maiden of high degree, whose escort they had murdered, and
whose treasure they had added to their store of ill-gotten gains. Gil Blas
resolved to protect the virtue of the captive, and so adroit did he prove
himself, that, by shamming illness, he managed to be left alone with the fair
Donna Mencia while the freebuoters sallied forth to a distant point. They
were no sooner well away than Gil Blas, with the aid of a potent argument,
in the shape of a loaded pistol, induced the old crone who kept the keys of
the entrance to the cave to deliver up the same and permit him and the
Donna Mencia to vo free. Restoring Donna Mencia to her friends, but not
until after having been thrown into prison on suspicion of being a highway-
THE ADVENTURES OF GIL BLAS. 247

 

man, from the fact of wearing a suit of stolen clothing furnished him by his
late companions, Gil Blas became the recipient of that lady’s bounty.
Loaded with ducats he proteeded to Valladolid, where a little contingent of
adventurers, playing upon his credulity, soon stripped him of all his worldly
possessions, and left him no alternative but to go out to service. After
staying three months in the household of the Licentiate Sédillo, without
having cause to complain of bad nights, that gentleman succumbed to the
efforts of the great Doctor Sangrado and gave up the ghost.

So impressed was Gil Blas with the talents and abilities of the doctor,
that he besought him to take him into his employ, and, as the admiration
was mutual, he became that famous physician’s assistant. Doctor Sangrado
was the Hippocrates of Valladolid. A tall, withered, wan executioner of
the sisters three, who had done all their justice for at least these forty
years! This learned forerunner of the undertaker had an aspect suited to
his office. His words were weighed to a scruple; and his jargon sounded
grand in the ears of the uninitiated.

Gil Blas’ employment consisted in writing down the name and residence
of the patients who sent for Doctor Sangrado in his absence. This account
might truly be called a bill of mortality ; for the members all went from
bad to worse during the short time they continued in the Doctor’s system.
Gil Blas was a sort of book-keeper for the other world — to take places in the
stage, and to see that the first come were the first served. ‘“ Hark you, my
child,” said Doctor Sangrado to Gil Blas one day, after the latter had been
long enough at the books to prove his worth, “I am not one of those hard
and ungrateful masters who leave their household to grow gray in service
without a suitable reward. Without more ado, I wiil initiate you in the
healing art, of which I have for so many years been at the head. Other
physicians make the science to consist of various unintelligible branches ;
but I will shorten the road for you, and dispense with the drudgery of study-
ing natural philosophy, pharmacy, botany and anatomy. Remember, my
friend, that bleeding and drinking warm water are the two grand principles ;
the true secret of curing all the distempers incident to humanity. Yes, this
marvelous secret which I reveal to you, and which nature, beyond the reach
of my colleagues, has failed in rescuing from my pen, is comprehended in
these two articles — namely, bleeding and drenching. Here you have the
sum total of my philosophy ; you are thoroughly bottomed in medicine, and
may raise yourself to the summit of fame on the shoulders of my long
experience.” Gil Blas began his practice on an a/guazil in a pleurisy, who
was condemned to be bled with the utmost rigor of the law, at the same
time that the system was to be replenished copiously with water. He next
made a lodgment in the veins of a gouty pastry-cook, who roared like a lion
248 ALAIN RENE LE SAGE.

by reason of gouty spasms. He stood on no more ceremony with his blood
than with that of the a/guazz/, and laid no restriction on his taste for simple
liquids. Gil Blas was now fully launched in the practice of his profession.
Far from wanting employment, it happened by a kind providence, as his
master had foretold, to be a very sickly season. The small-pox and a malig-
nant fever took alternate possession of the town and suburbs. Gil Blas
and Doctor Sangrado saw eight or ten patients a day; so that the kettle
was kept on the simmer, and the blood in the action of transpiring. But
things will happen cross ; they died to a man, either by the fault of the two
great healers or theirown. If. their case was hopeless, the doctors were not
to blame ; and, if it wasnot hopeless. they were. Three visits to a patient
sufficed. About the second, the undertaker was encountered; or, when
more fortunate than usual, the patient had got no further than the point of
death. As Gil Blas was but a young physician, not yet hardened to the
trade of an assassin, he grieved over the melancholy issue of his own theory
and practice. But Doctor Sangrado had committed himself to the bleeding
and drenching system, and could not turn back ; so he and Gil Blas went on
working double tides, and did so much execution, that in less than six weeks
they made as many widows and orphans as the sieze of Troy. The plague
must have got into Valladolid, by the number of funerals. Day after day came
some father or other to know what has become of his son, who was last seen
in their hands ; or else a stupid fellow of an uncle, who had a foolish hank-
ering after a deceased nephew. Finally, Gil Blas was so unfortunate as to
attend a lady who was the mistress of the bully of Valladolid. As he was
no more successful in detaining her from a hasty departure for the other
world than he had been with his other patients, the ire of the bully was
aroused, and he vowed vengeance on the young medical e\perimenter, and
to escape the dire consequences of an encounter with the bereaved and
skeptical lover, Gil Blas shook the dust of Valladolid from his feet and set
out once more on his travels.

In due time Gil Blas arrived at Madrid, where he obtained a situation
with a saturnine and morose gentleman, who had the misfortune to be
arrested as a spy, when in fact he was only a man of wealth, seeking to live
as he pleased from a horde of gold which he kept concealed in his apart-
ments. When his real character became known he was soon released, but
having seen Gil Blas in conversation with the robber chieftain, who had
formerly made him captive, and who unfortunately turned up in the streets
of Madrid in the nick of time to prove Gil Blas’ evil genius, he set that
young gentleman packing, as too dangerous a customer to have access to a
house where so much treasure was stored. Gil Blas next became the valet
to a gentleman of fashion, While in his service he was initiated into all
THE ADVENTURES OF GIL BLAS. 249
the vices practiced by the gay young men of the Spanish Capital, and was”
in a fair way to have his morals brought to the same level as those of his
master, when that gentleman’s mad career was brought to an untimely close
by a few inches of cold steel dexterously applied to a vulnerable part of
his anatomy by another gentleman, who had taken umbrage at some
remarks disparaging a lady of his acquaintance. By the death of his
master, Gil Blas was once more thrown upon the mercy of the unsym-
pathetic world. But while enjoying the pleasures participated in by his
late employer, he had won the favor of Laura, the faithful abigail of
Arsenia, a lady of the theater, and a prime favorite of the beaux of Madrid,
and to this young lady he betook himself in his extremity. Fortunately,
Arsenia had need in her establishment of a young gentleman possessed
of the talents of Gil Blas, to act as her steward. The bargain was soon
struck, and Gil Blas found himself comfortably annexed to the theatrical
profession.

Gil Blas’ first experience in the new sphere of life, where he was now
employed, was to attend his mistress to the theatre. Arriving there, accom-
panied by Laura, he was conducted by that damsel behind the scenes, where
he could see and hear to advantage. Seating herself by Gil Blas, Laura
told him the names of the actors and actresses as they made their en-
trances. Nor did she stop there, for the hussy gave some highly seasoned
anecdotes into the bargain. Her characters were, “crack-brain”’ for this,
“impertinent fellow” for that. Continuing, she said : ‘‘ Take particular no-
tice of that brilliant star now coming forward ; that magnificent setting sun,
increasing in bulk as its fires become less vivid. That is Casilda. If from
that distant day when she first laid herself open to her lovers, she had re-
quired from each of them a brick to build a pyramid, like an ancient Egyp-
tian princess, the edifice by this time would have mounted to the third
heaven.” Thus Laura prattled on, blaspheming even her own mistress.
When she grew tired of talking she frolicked among the actors, whereat Gil
Blas, who was in love with the wench, although her morals were not strictly
pure, took her to task. “You are a very silly swain,” retorted Laura, “but
you will get better notions among us. You will fall by degrees into our
easy manners. No jealousy, my dear creature, you will be completely
laughed out of it in the theatrical world. The passion is scarcely known
there. Fathers, husbands, brothers, uncles, and cousins, are all upon a lib-
eral plan of community, and often make a strange jumble of relationships.”
At the end of the play Gil Blas and Laura returned home with their mis-
tress, whither Florimonde, a bosom friend of Arsenia, and of her own kind,
came soon after to supper, with three old noblemen anda player. Besides
Laura and Gil Blas, the establishment consisted of a cook-maid, a coach-
250 ALAIN RENE LE SAGE.

 

man and alittle foot-boy. They all labored in their respective vocations,
The lady of the frying-pan was assisted in her cookery by the coachman,
The waiting-woman and the little foot-boy laid the cloth, and Gil Blas set
out the side-board, magnificently furnished with plate, offered up at the
shrine of the green-room goddess. There was every variety of wines, and
Gil Blas played the cup-bearer to show his mistress the versatility of his tal-
ents. The evening passed right merrily, and Gil Blas found his initiation
into the household of a popular actress full of seductive attractions. The
following morning Arsenia said to him: “ Five or six of our gentlemen and
ladies are to dine here to-night; take care that we are well served.”
“Madame,” answered Gil Blas, “there shall be a banquet for the whole
troop.” ‘“ My friend,” replied Arsenia, “correct your phraseology ; you
must say company, not troop. A troop of robbers, a troop of beggars, a
troop of authors ; but a company of comedians, especially when you have
to mention the actors of Madrid.”

Gil Blas was borne down by the torrent for three weeks, and ran the
career of dissipation in his turn, But in the midst of pleasure he frequeutly
heard the still, small voice of conscience, arising from the impression of a
serious education, which mixed gall in the Circean cup. Riot could not
altogether get the better of remorse; on the contrary, the pangs of the
latter grew keener with the more shameful indulgence of the former, and, by
a happy effect of his temperament, the disorders of a theatrical life began to
make Gil Blas shudder. ‘Ah! wretch,” said he to himself, * is it thus that
you make good the hopes of your family? Is it not enough to have
thwarted their pious intentions, by not following your destined course of
life as an instructor of youth? Need your condition of a servant hinder
you from living decently and soberly? Are such monsters of iniquity fit
companions for you? Envy, hatred, and avarice are predominant here;
intemperance and idleness have purchased the fee-simple there ; the pride
of some is aggravated into the most barefaced impudence, and modesty is
turned out of doors, by the common consent of all, The business is
settled. I will not live any longer with the seven deadly sins.”
surviving spark of honor and of religion, in the midst of so much general
depravity, made Gil Blas not only resolve te leave Arsenia, but even to
abjure all commerce with Laura, whom yet he could not cease to love,
though he was well aware of her daily inconstancy. One tine morning he
mide up his bundle; and, without reckoning with Arsenia, who indeed owed
him next to nothing, without taking leave of his dear Laura, Gil Blas burst
from that mansion, which smelt of brimstone and tire reserved for the wicked.

Filled with these pious resolutions, Gil Blas once more set out to seek a
situation, and this time fully resolved that goodness and virtue should weigh
THE ADVENTURES OF GIL BLAS. 251

 

more in the’ balance of his judgment than the gaudy trappings of vice.
After may experiences and numerous adventures, after serving masters and
mistresses of many kinds, and after acquiring a much larger stock of worldly
wisdom than he had been encumbered with when he straddled his good
uncle’s mule at Oviedo, he arrived at the city of Grenada. Here, through
the kind offices of an influential friend, he was so fortunate as to
secure a situation in the household of the powerful and learned Archbishop
of Grenada This distinguished prelate was in want of a young man with
some little tinge of literature, who could write a good hand and make fair
copies of his manuscripts ; for he was a great author. Upon his first intro-
duction to the Archbishop, Gil Blas made so favorable an impression that he
was at once installed in the office of private secretary. The second day of
his service the Archbishop sent for him to transcribe a homily. He made a
point of having it copied with all possible accuracy. It was done to please
him ; for Gil Blas omitted neither accent nor comma, nor the minutest tittle
of all he had marked down. His satisfaction at observing this was height-
ened by its being unexpected. ‘Eternal Father!” exclaimed he in holy
rapture, ‘‘was ever anything seen so correct? You are too good a trans-
criber not to have some little smattering of the grammarian. Now, tell me
with the freedom of a friend : in writing it over, have you been struck with
nothing that grated upon your feelings? Some little careless idiom, or some
word used in an improper sense?” “Oh! may it please your grace,”
answered Gil Blas with a modest air, “it is not for me, with my confined
education and coarse taste, to aim at making critical remarks. And, though
ever so well qualified, I am satisfied that your grace’s works would come out
pure from the essay.” The successor of the apostles smiled at this answer.
He made no observation on it; but it was easy to see through all his piety,
that he was an arrant author at the bottom: there is something in that dye
that not heaven itself can wash out. So rapid was the advancement of Gil
Blas in the good graces of the Archbishop, that a short time afterwards the
latter addressed him thus, in a tone of extraordinary. emotion: “ Never
mind, Gil Blas! henceforward take no care about the hereafter, I shall make
it my business to place you among the favored children of my bounty. You
have my best wishes ; and to prove to you that you have them, I shall ‘take
you into my inmost confidence.” These words were no sooner out of his
mouth, then Gil Blas fell at his grace’s feet, quite overwhelmed with grati-
tude. He embraced his elliptical legs with almost pagan idolatry, and con-
sidered himself as a man on the high road to a very handsome fortune.
“Yes, my child,” resumed the Archbishop, whose speech had been cut short
by the rapidity of Gil Blas’ prostration, “I mean to make you the receiver-
general of all my inmost ruminations. The honor of being handed down to
252 ALAIN RENE LE SAGE.

 

posterity as a perfect pulpit orator has irresistible attractions for me. To
this end, my dear Gil Blas, there is one thing requisite from your zeal and
friendship. Whenever it shall strike you that my pen begins to contract, as
it were, the ossification of old age; whenever you see my genius in its
climacteric, do not fail to give me a hint. Do not be afraid of offending by
frankness and sincerity ; to put me in mind of my own frailty, will be the
strongest proof of your affection for me.”

Some months after this outburst on the part of the Archbishop, and after
Gil Blas had advanced far on the road to preferment in the household of
the prelate, a lowering storm came suddenly over the Episcopal palace ; the
Archbishop had a stroke of apoplexy. By dint of good nursing there was
soon no bodily appearance of disease remaining. But his reverend intellects
did not so easily recover from their lethargy. Gil Blas could not help ob-
serving this in the very first discourse he composed. Alas, and well-a-day !
when the second homily came it was a knock-down argument. Sometimes
the good prelate moved forward, and sometimes he moved backward;
sometimes he mounted up into the garret, and sometimes dipped down
into the cellar. It was a composition of more sound than meaning, some-
thing like a capuchin’s sermon, which only scatters a few artificial flowers
of paltry rhetoric over a barren desert of doctrine. “ Here is a sermon with
symptoms of apoplexy in every paragraph. Come, my good Coryphzus of
the public taste in homilies, prepare to do your office,” said Gil Blas to him-
self. This praiseworthy resolve was made the more easy to carry out by
the Archbishop himself asking Gil Blas what they said of him in the world
at large and whether people were tolerably pleased with his last discourse.
Feeling himself to be betwixt the devil and the deep sea, and yet firmly re-
solved to perform the painful duty of censor which he had been compelled
to assume, Gil Blas replied: “It would seem, your Grace, as though your
last homily had not quite struck home to the hearts of the audience, like
those which went before. Performances of that order are above the reach of
vulgar criticism ; there is not a soul but expects to be saved by their influ-
ence. Nevertheless, since you have made it my duty to be sincere and un-
reserved, [shall take the liberty of just stating that your last discourse is
hot written with quite the overpowering eloquence and conclusive argument
of your former ones. Does not your Grace feel justas I do on this subject >”
“T were unfit to live in a Christian land!” interrupted the .Archbishop,
with stammering impatience, “1 were unfit to live in a Christian land if
T liked you the less for such a Christian virtue as sincerity. 1 should have
given you infinite credit for speaking what you thought, if you had thought
anything that deserved to be spoken. I have been finely taken in by your
outside show of cleverness, without any solid foundation of sober judgment.
THE ADVENTURES OF GIL BLAS. 253
Let us talk no more on this subject. You are as yet scarcely in the rudi-
ments of good taste, and utterly incompetent to distinguish between gold
and tinsel. You are yet to learn that I never in all my life composed a
finer homily than that unfortunate one, which has not the honor of your ap-
probation. We all grow wiser as we grow older, and I shall in future select
the people about me with more caution ; nor submit the castigation of my
works but to a much abler critic than yourself. Get about your business ! ”
So, giving Gil Blas an angry shove by the shoulders, the Archbishop dis-
missed the victim of his sense of duty with this parting admonition : “ God
speed you, good master Gil Blas! I heartily pray that you may do well in
the world! There is nothing to stand in your way but the want of a little
better taste.”

As though Gil Blas had now reached the very zenith of his misfortunes,
his condition began to mend. After his summary dismissal from the service
of the Archbishop of Grenada, he resumed his journey and his search after
employment. Step by step he advanced from the household of one digni-
tary to that of another, profiting by the worldly wisdom his early rebuffs
had imparted, until he found himself attached to no less a personage than
the King! Years and experience had brought to Gil Blas a sufficiency of
this world’s goods; and the many and varied scenes through which he had
passed, the panoramic view of life, blotted too many times by pictures of
vice, degradation and the prostitution of men’s best talents to secure tem-
poral advancement, which had passed before his gaze — all served to impart
a lesson that brought with it the redemption of his moral character, and an
old age full of honors and happiness. As Gil Blas looked back over his
past, and pondered upon his present, happy state, his last utterance framed
itself in these words: ‘To perfect my satisfaction, heaven has deigned to
send me two smiling babes, whose education will be the amusement of my
declining years; and if ever husband might venture to hazard so bold an
hypothesis, I devoutly believe myself their father.”

SELECTIONS.

The following quotations from the inimitable wit, wisdom, and satire of
“Gil Blas” furnish excellent examples of the style and quality of that great
master of classical French fiction — Alain René Le Sage:

“With this I fired off my paper pop-gun against her peace. She read
it over two or three times, but if she had rubbed her eyes till doomsday
she would have seen no clearer. In point of fact, nothing could be more
unexpected than so cavalier an answer. Up went her eyes towards the
heavens, appealing to their rival luminaries. The ivory fences of her pretty
254 ALAIN RENE LE SAGE.

 

mouth committed alternate trespass on her soft and suffering lips, and
her whole physiognomy bore witness to the pangs of her distressed and
disappointed heart.”

“No old dowager, with a purse to buy a second husband, ever took
more pains to assure herself, by the cultivation of her charms, that the
person and not the fortune should be the object of attraction. The
assassin stab of time was parried by the quart and tierce of art.”

“Their motive was sufficiently obvious ; but I was determined to play
at diamond cut diamond. The simpler of a simpleton is no bad counter-
mine to the attack of a sharper.”

“Nevertheless, let our appetites be as obstinate as they might be, we
every now and then suspended the fray to spar a little with the flagon, which
returned our blows until it made us reel again.”

“Tt is very wonderful, and yet very common, how the most trifling
notice from the great penetrates the very soul of those who are not accus-
tomed to it!”

“To define it strictly and properly, it was nothing better than that of
a spy with a sounding citle; there was nothing substantial in the nature of
the appointment ; whereas to the stewardship was tied the key to the strong
box, and with that goes the mastery of the whole family.”

“This novelty causing me to be looked upon as a rising favorite, excited
the envy of certain persons, so that I was preciously sprinkled with the
hellish dew of court malevolence."

“Scipio and myself were husbands, too rich in Nature's gifts and in the
affections of our spouses, not very soon to have the satisfaction of becoming
fathers: Our lasses were as women wish to be who love their lords, almost
at the same moment.”

“I began by laying it down as a first maxim of political philosophy, that
the vital functions, the respiration as it were of all monarchy, depended
upon the strict administration of the finances ; that in our particular case
that duty became imperiously urgent, irresistibly impressing on our con-
sciences ; and that the revenue should be considered, as the nerves and
sinews of Spain, to hold her rivals in check and keep her enemies in awe.”
 

HENRY FIELOING.

Boan 1707. ENG.ianod Oreo 1754
HENRY FIELDING.

Henry Fielding may be considered as the true father of the English novel. There were
other writers of fiction before him, as there were other poets before Chaucer, but Fielding
first showed, by example, the great resources and power of this species of literature.

As a delineator of human nature he has no equal, even being considered superior to Dick-
ens in this respect ; yet there is a coarseness in some of his scenes, and often in his language,
that makes a sad drawback to the pleasure of reading him. This objectionable feature is
explained, however, by recalling the moral tone of the age in which he lived.

Henry Fielding was born at Sharpham Park, in Somersetshire, England, on the 22d of
April, 1707. His education commenced at home, under the direction of Rev. Mr. Oliver,
the family chaplain, who is said to have furnished the original of ‘‘ Parson Trulliber” in
Joseph Andrews, one of Fielding’s best-known novels.

As soon as he had made sufficient progress in his studies, Fielding was sent to Eton,
where he numbered among his school companions the famous members of Parliament, Pitt
and Fox, Lord Lyttleton and Sir Charles H. Williams. He applied himself diligently to
his studies, and from Eton went to the University of Leyden, to study law, but after two
years pecuniary supplies suddenly ceased and he was compelled to return to England.

Thus, at the age of twenty, Henry Fielding was cast almost penniless into the vortex of
London life. In appearance he was tall, handsome and commanding, with pleasing man-
ners, and a keen relish for the pleasures of society; live he must, by some means or other,
so the young man turned his attention to the drama, for which he showed an aptitude of no
common order. At this time the prospects of the English stage were by no means encour-
aging ; a false and degenerate taste prevailed ; to which a new and young author ran immi-
nent risk of sacrificing the real vigor or originality of whatever genius he might possess.

Fielding’s first comedy, Love in Several Masques, was produced in 1728, before its
author had obtained his majority; this was favorably received, and from time to time he
wrote other plays, twenty-three in all, mostly comedies and farces. But the drama was not
the sphere in which Fielding was destined to win renown ; his plays are mostly forgotten,
while those charming pictures of life and manner, Zom Jones and Amelia, have established
for him an enduring fame.

In 1735 he married one of the reigning belles of Salisbury, and soon after was admitted
to the bar ; unsuccessful as a lawyer, he again turned his attention to literature, and in 1742
his first novel, Joseph Andrews, appeared. In 1743 his wife died, and from this blow he
never entirely recovered. Her memory seemed ever present to him ; and the beautiful por-
trait he has given the world in Ame/ia, shows how firmly she sat enthroned in his heart.

In 1749 his great work, The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling, appeared. Its suc-
cess was most decided, and its popularity has never waned. Of this delightful fiction, Sir
Walter Scott says: ‘‘ The History of Tom Jones is truth and human nature itself; and
therein lies the inestimable advantage which it poses-es over all previous fictions of this
particular kind.” And Gibbon thus writes: ‘‘ The romance of Zom Jones, that exquisite
258 HENRY FIELDING.

 

picture of humor and manners, will outlive the palace of the Escurial and the Imperial Eayle
of Austria.”

In 1753 Fielding’s health failed, and he went to Lisbon, hoping to be benefited by a
warmer climate ; here, however, his life ebbed away, and on the 8th of October, 1754, he
died, in his forty-eighth year.

Such was the life, and such the principal works of Henry Fielding. Asa man he pos-
sessed a noble heart, and a nice sense of honor. Asa painter of character and manners he
remains to this day unrivaled. ‘‘ He made his books the mirrors of his soul ; like it, they
partake of the natural defects that pertain to things human, but they are, for all that,
healthy, noble, and elevating. The man is seen in his works; and those who have read
Joseph Andrews, Tom Jones, and Amelia, will obtain a better idea of Henry Fielding than
any biographer could give them.”

THE HISTORY OF TOs JOSES.

Tom Jones, who, bad as he is, must serve for the hero of this history,
had only one friend among all the servants of the family of Mr. Allworthy.
This friend was George Seagrim, the gamekeeper, commonly known as
“Black George.”

Tom became a member of Mr. Allworthy’s family in a peculiar way. Mr,
Allworthy, who was a widower with no children, and lived in that part of
the western division of the kingdom, which is commonly called Somerset-
shire, had retired to his room one evening, after a full quarter of a year’s
absence in London, and was preparing to step into bed, when, upon opening
the clothes, he beheld an infant wrapped in some coarse linen, in a sweet
and profound sleep, between the sheets.

Investigation giving Mr. Allworthy, as he thought, a clue to the mother
of the child, one Jenny Jones, who had been a nurse to Miss Bridget,
Mr. Allworthy’s sister, he decided to keep and bring up the infant thus
unexpectedly thrust upon his care.

‘About this time, Miss Bridget met and married one Captain Blifil; eight
months after the celebration of the nuptials was Miss Bridget, by reason
of a fright, delivered of a fine boy. Though the birth of an heir, by his
beloved sister, was a circumstance of great joy to Mr, Allworthy, vet it did
not alienate his affections from the little foundling to whom he had been
godfather, given his own name of Thomas, and whom he had_ hitherto
seldom failed of visiting at least once a day in his nursery. He told his
sister, if she pleased, the new born infant should be bred up together with
little Tommy, to which she consented, though with some little reluctance.

Miss Bridget’s wedded life was short, for soon after the birth of his child
Captain BUAl died of apoplexy,
THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 259

 

As the boy, Tom, grew up, it was the universal opinion of all of Mr.
Allworthy’s family that he was certainly born to be hanged; indeed, I am
sorry to say, there was too much reason for the conjecture ; the lad having,
from his earliest years, discovered a propensity to many vices. He had
been already convicted of three robberies, viz.: Robbing an orchard,
stealing a duck, and picking the pocket of Master Blifil, his companion,
and the nephew of Mr. Allworthy. Tom spent most of his time hunting with
Black George, and at one time got him into trouble, which resulted in his
discharge from Mr. Allworthy’s service, and caused his family much misery
and suffering. Tom applied to Miss Sophia Western, now in her eighteenth
year, the daughter of a neighboring Squire, and the heroine of our tale,
in order to engage her interest on the behalf of his friend, the gamekeeper.

Tom’s favor with Miss Sophia began when he was very young. He
presented her with a little bird, which he had taken from the nest, had
nursed up, and taught to sing. Of the bird, Sophia, then about thirteen
years old, was very fond. One day, Master Blifil, with misjudged sympathy,
cut the string and gave Sophia’s bird its liberty. A scream from Sophia
brought Tom Jones to the rescue; he climbed the tree to which the bird
flew, but the branch on which it was perched broke with his weight, and the
poor lad plumped, over head and ears, into a canal, on whose bank the tree
stood ; he escaped unharmed, however, except for a good ducking.

“Small things affect light minds” was a sentiment of a great master of
the passion of love, and certain it is, that from this day Sophia began to
have some little kindness for Tom Jones, and no little aversion for his com-
panion, Master Blifil. To say the truth, Sophia, when very young, discerned
that Tom, though an idle, thoughtless, rattling rascal, was nobody’s enemy
but his own; and that Master Blifil, though a prudent, discreet, sober young
gentleman, was at the same time, strongly attached to the interest only of
one single person, and who that single person was the reader will be able
to discern without any assistance of ours.

Tom behaved te Sophia with no particularity, unless perhaps, by showing
her a higher respect than he paid to any other; but as for special design,
he had none; for which we shall at present suffer the reader to condemn him
of stupidity, but perhaps we shall be able, indifferently well, to account for
it hereafter. Matters were in this situation, when Tom, one afternoon,
finding Sophia alone, began, after a short apology, with a very serious face,
to acquaint her that he had a favor to ask of her, which he hoped her good-
ness would comply with. Any false notions which she might have of what
was coming were dissipated, when he informed her his request was, to solicit
her interest on behalf of the game-keeper, to which she readily assented,
and the interview resulted in better times for Black George.
260 HENRY FIELDING.

Shortly after the last incident, as Sophia was returning from the chase,
her horse fell suddenly to prancing and capering in such a manner that she
was in the most imminent danger of falling; as her horse reared up, she
was thrown, and was caught in the arms of Tom Jones, who, seeing her
peril, leaped from his own horse, seized hers by the bridle, and secured her
safety at the expense of a broken arm.

The generosity of Sophia’s temper construed this behavior of Jones into
great bravery, and it made a deep impression on her heart ; and, indeed,
after much inquiry into the matter, I am inclined to believe, that at this very
time, the charming Sophia made no less impression on the heart of Jones.
But the truth was, his heart was in the possession of another young woman,
none other than Mollie Seagrim, the tall, robust and masculine daughter of
the game-keeper. So, though he had many thoughts for Sophia while he
was confined to his room by the broken arm, yet his own heart would not
suffer him to destroy a human creature, who he thought loved him, and had
to that love sacrificed her innocence.

Sophia had, from certain obscure hints thrown out by her aunt, collected
some apprehension that the sagacious lady suspected her passion for Jones ;
she now resolved to take the opportunity offered by the attendance of Mr.
Allworthy and family at a dinner, given by her father, of wiping out all such
suspicion, by putting an entire constraint on her behavior, and addressing
her whole discourse to Mr. Blifil, and taking not the least notice of Jones,
the whole day.

Squire Western was so delighted with this conduct of his daughter, that
he scarce ate any dinner, and when the company retired into the garden,
took Mr. Allworthy aside, and very bluntly proposed a match between
Sophia and young Mr. Blifil. To this Mr. Allworthy replied, that if the
young people liked each other, he should be very desirous to complete the
affair.

As soon as Mr, Allworthy returned home, he took Mr. Blifil apart and
communicated to him the proposal which had been made by Mr. Western.
Bil, after a very short hesitation, answered Mr, Allworthy, that matrimony
was a subject on which he had not vet thought ; but that he was so sensible
of his fatherly care, that he should in all things submit himself to his
pleasure.

Squire Western was so much pleased with Blifil’s reply, as contained in
a letter from Mr, Allworthy the next morning, that he immediately returned
an answer, without having mentioned a word to his daughter, appointing
that very afternoon for opening the scene of courtship, When Sophia's aunt
announced this to her, the poor girl burst into a flood of tears, and declared
her love for Jones ; but too much in her aunt's pewer to deny her anything
THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 261

 

positively, she was obliged to promise that she would see Mr. Blifil and be as
civil to him as possible.

When Mr. Blifil and Sophia met, a long silence of near a quarter of an
hour ensued. Blifil often attempted to speak, and as often suppressed his
words just at the very point of utterance; at last, out they broke in a tor-
rent of far-fetched and high strained compliments, which were answered on
her side by downcast looks, half-bows and civil monosyllables, which Blifil,
from his inexperience in the ways of women, and from his conceit of him-
self, took for a modest assent to his courtship ; and: when, to shorten a scene
she could no longer support, Sophia rose and left the room, he imputed that
too, merely to bashfulness, and saw no bar to his success with her.

Sophia soon met her father, and pleaded with him not to countenance
Blifil’s attentions to her; for, said she: ‘I hate and detest him.”

“Tf you detest un never so much,” cried Western, ‘you shalt ha’ un.”
This he bound with an oath too shocking to repeat, and after many violent
assertions, concluded in these words:

“T am resolved upon the match, and, unless you consent to it, I will not
give you a single farthing ; no, though I saw you expiring with famine in
the street, I would not relieve you with a morsel of bread; this is my fixed
resolution, and so, I leave you to consider on it.” He then broke away from
her, and burst directly out of the room, leaving poor Sophia prostrate on the
ground. Unexpectedly meeting Jones, the Squire immediately acquainted
him with the whole matter. At first, almost struck dead with this turn of
affairs, despair inspired him with more impudence than a human forehead
was ever gifted with. He desired leave to go to Sophia, that he might
endeavor to obtain her concurrence with her father’s inclination.

Considering Mr. Jones’ growing passion for Sophia, and her known love
for him, together with the fact of a rival in the shape of Mr. Blifil, the
gentle reader can imagine the result of their interview, which certainly did
not strengthen Mr. Blifil’s cause.

Mr. Jones had naturally violent animal spirits; these being set afloat,
and augmented by the spirit of wine, produced some extravagant effects ;
for example, on one occasion, Mr. Allworthy’s recovery from a severe fever
feared to be fatal, so overpowered Jones, that it threw him into such
immoderate excess of raptures, that he might be truly said to be drunk with
joy; in fact, he behaved so unseemly, that Mr. Blifil professed to be highly
offended, and his attempt to subdue Jones’ exuberance of spirit resulted in
a drunken scuffle, in which Blifil, as usual, came out second best. This
unseemly behavior gave Blifil a good excuse for complaining to Mr. All-
worthy (when he found Jones was in his way), and turning that worthy
gentleman against him. This, together with a report of Sophia’s love for
262 HENRY FIELDING.

 

Jones from the excited father of Sophia, who accused Mr. Allworthy of
“breeding up a bastard like a gentleman, and letting un come about to
voks’ houses and make love to their daughter,” resulted in influencing him
to disinherit Jones and turn him out of the house.

Thus set adrift in the world, Tom traveled with no purpose for a mile or
more, when he stopped under a tree near a brook, and gave himself up to
bewailing his unfortunate fate. Here he fell into the most violent agonies;
tearing his hair from his head, and using most other actions which generally
accompany fits of madness, rage and despair. When he had in this manner
vented the first emotions of passion, he began to come a little to himself ;
then his thoughts turned to Sophia, and his duty under the circumstances,
and he determined to write her a letter, for which purpose he repaired to a
house near by. In this letter he begged her to forget him, and learn to
scorn him for a presumption, which can never be too severely punished.
Sophia’s reply to this Jones read a hundred times, and kissed it a hundred
times as often; yet, on cool reflection, he plainly perceived that his case
was neither mended nor altered by Sophia’s billet, unless to give him some
glimpse of hope, when she said: * Believe this, that nothing but the last
violence shall ever give my hand or heart where you would be sorry to see
them bestowed.”

Having made up his mind in regard to Sophia, his second consideration
was what course of life to pursue. At last, the ocean, that hospitable friend
to the wretched, opened her capacious arms to receive him, and he instantly
resolved to go to Bristol to enlist. On his way thither, he fell in with a
company of soldiers, and at a banquet, proposed a toast to Sophia, and their
mistaking her for another Sophia, a disreputable woman of Bath, resulted in
a fracas, and Jones was laid out, with a bad wound in his head. He was
attended by one, little Benjamin, who combined the tonsorial art with that
of an old style surgeon, who revealed himself to Jones as: "that Mr. Part-
ridge who had the honor of being your reputed father, and the misfortune
to be ruined by that honor—but," he added “here I absolve you from all
filial duty, for I do assure you, you are no son of mine. But, though it is
natural enough for men to hate even the innocent cause of their sufferings,
yet I have loved you ever since I heard of your behavior to Black George,
and I am convinced from this extraordinary meeting that you are born to
make me amends for all I have suftered on that account; for I desire
nothing more than leave to attend you on this expedition.” ‘This Jones
granted, and they traveled on to Gloncester together, Leaving Gloucester
one evening, they journeyed to the foot of Mazard Hill, where they sought
shelter in a cottage, to which they were guided by a light glimmering
through the trees. ‘They secured admission, after knocking severaletimes
THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 263
by offering to an old woman, who appeared at the upper casement, a bribe
of half a crown.

After they had warmed themselves, she begged them to leave before her
master returned ; who, she said, was “a strange man, not at all like other
people, and would be terribly angry if he found you here.” Partridge was
anxious to go, but Jones delayed, and to a good purpose ; for a noise with-
out, with cries of “d n your blood,” “show us your money this instant,”
“your money, you villain! or we will blow your brains about your ears!”
gave Jones a chance to prove himself a hero, by rushing out, an old broad-
sword in his hand, and rescuing the Man of the Hill from his assailants. This
Man of the Hill was a person of the tallest size, with a long beard, as white
as snow ; his body clothed with the skin of an ass. He wore likewise boots
on his legs, and a cap on his head, both composed of the skin of some other
animals,

Jones and Partridge remained all night at the cottage, being entertained
by the Man of the Hill with the story of his life. As the day beganto dawn,
Jones walked forth, in company with the stranger, and mounted the hill, of
which they had no sooner gained the summit, than one of the most noble
prospects in the world presented itself to their view. Jones was not allowed
long to contemplate its beauties, however, for the most violent screams of a
woman were heard proceeding from the wood below them. Jones made
directly to the thicket whence the sound had issued, and here he beheld a
most shocking sight indeed ; a woman stripped, half-naked, under the hands
of a ruffian, who had put his garter around her neck and was endeavoring to
drag her up toa tree. Jones asked no questions at this interval, but fell in-
stantly upon the villain and made such good use of his trusty oaken stick
that he laid him sprawling on the ground. The woman he led away to a
place of safety, and afterward conducted her to Upton, the nearest town,
where, with his companion, who gave her name as Mrs. Waters, he put up at
an inn for the night.

Leaving our hero at Upton we will return to a consideration of the fair
Sophia. Squire Western and Mrs. Western, Sophia’s aunt, were determined
to hurry up affairs in the matter of Blifil’s courtship, and promised him he
could have Sophia to wife the following day. Blifil, moved by jealousy of
Jones, and the prospect of the estate of Mr. Western, expressed satisfaction,
though, to say the truth, he was by no méans satisfied. Still the scheme
would probably have been carried out had not Sophia prevented it, and taken
measures to put a final end to the whole treaty, by running away that same
night in company with her maid, Mrs. Honour.

Late that evening they arrived at the inn at Upton. Sophia had on her
riding habit, and was so very richly laced that, as they entered, Partridge and

 
264 HENRY FIELDING.

 

the post-boy instantly started from their chairs, struck with the utmost awe
and astonishment at the splendor of the lady’s dress. Sophia at once retired
to her room, and her maid to the kitchen, where, of course, she hears of Tom
Jones being in the house, and of intimate relations existing between him and
Mrs. Waters; all of which she rehearses later to Sophia, who causes the
matter to be investigated, and, finding it too true, her first delight at the
thought of Jones’ presence turns to indignation, and, taking her muff, which
had certain pleasant associations, and had been her constant companion
since Jones left Somersetshire, she pinned her name to it, bribed the maid to
carry it to Mr. Jones’ room, and, mounting her horse, continued her journey.
Meeting with but few adventures, Sophia arrived at London, where she re-
paired directly to Lady Bellaston’s, and found a hearty, as well as a most
polite welcome. Lady Bellaston was no sooner acquainted with the reasons
which induced Sophia to leave the Squire and fly to London, than she highly
applauded her sense and resolution and promised her all the protection
which it was in her power to give.

As we have now brought Sophia into safe hands, the reader will, I appre-
hend, be contented to deposit her there a while, and to look a little after
poor Jones. His behavior next morning on discovering the muff in his bed,
his thoughts, his looks, his words, his actions were such as beggar all de-
scription. After many bitter execrations on Partridge, and not fewer on
himself, he hastened down stairs, to hire him horses and set out in pursuit of
Sophia. Rushing into the kitchen with Sophia’s muff in his hands, he was
greeted by Mr. Western, who had just arrived, in hot pursuit of his daughter.
Western immediately ran up and laid hold on Jones, crying out : * We have
got the dog-fox, I warrant the bitch is not far off !"" The jargon which fol-
lowed for some minutes, as it would be very difficult to describe, so it would
be no less unpleasant to read.

When Squire Western heard that Sophia had departed, he gave every
one present a hearty curse, and immediately, ordering his horses, took his
leave, but, falling in with another Squire on the road, he joined in a hunt,
then a dinner, and at his cups that evening was persuaded to return home,
after sending some of his retinue in quest of his daughter.

Soon after Squire Western's departure, Jones and Partridge started out
by the same road, on foot, as they were unable to procure horses. A day
and a night were they on the road before Jones could gain any trace of
Sophia, when they chanced to meet a boy who conducted them to an inn
where Sophia had stopped, and there they gained information which caused
them to push on to London,

Jones was so cager in his pursuit, as to call forth from Partridge the
remark ; “Certainly, sir, if ever man deserved a young lady, you deserve
THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 265

 

Madame Western ;. for what a vast quantity of love must a man have, to be
able to live upon it without any other food, as you do.”

“ And a very rich diet too, Partridge,” answered Jones.

Arrived at London, they put up at the Bull and Gate Inn, and early the
next morning Jones again sets forth in pursuit,of Sophia, and many a weary
step he took to no purpose. The first he heard of her whereabouts was at
a masquerade, where he met the Lady Bellaston, who promised that she
would endeavor to find out Sophia, and, in a few days, bring him to an
interview with her, on condition that he would then take his leave of
her. But Jones found, after repeated interviews with Lady Bellaston,
there was no likelihood of obtaining this by her means; for, on the con-
trary, the lady began to treat even the mention of the name of Sophia with
resentment.

Invited one evening to Lady Bellaston’s house, he was in the drawing
room, awaiting her coming, when, to his great surprise, in walked Sophia ;
expecting to find no one in the room, she came hastily in, and went directly
to a glass, which almost fronted her, without once looking toward the upper
end of the room where the statue of Jones now stood motionless, In this
glass it was, after contemplating her own lovely face, that she first discov-
ered the said statue, when, instantly turning about, she gave a violent
scream, and scarce preserved herself from fainting, till Jones was able to
move to her, and support her in his arms.

To paint the looks or thoughts of either of these lovers is beyond my
power ; as their sensation, from their mutual silence, may be judged to have
been too big for their own utterance, it cannot be supposed that I should be
able to express them. We can, however, catch some of their conversation ;
we hear Sophia say :

“Sure, sir, after what is passed — you cannot expect, after what I have
heard... .” (Then Jones)

«|. . I scarce know whatI say... . If, if, any remembrance of me
should intrude to give a moment’s uneasiness to that tender bosom, think of
my unworthiness, and let the. remembrance of what passed at Upton blot
me forever from your mind.”

Sophia stood trembling all this while; her face was whiter than snow,
and her heart was throbbing through her stays.

“|. . If I thought it worth while to accuse you,” she replied, “I have
a charge of an unpardonable nature, indeed.” “Could:I have expected such
treatment from you?” “To have my name traduced in public, in inns ;
nay, even to hear that I had been forced to fly from my love!”

- Expecting to hear of his amour with Lady Bellaston, nothing could
equal Jones’ surprise at these words of Sophia, but yet, not being guilty,
266 HENRY FIELDING.

 

he was much less embarrassed how to defend himself, than if she had
touched that tender string, at which his conscience had been alarmed.

He had no difficulty to make her believe he was entirely innocent of an
offence so foreign to his character, and before they were aware, they had
both gone so far, that he let fall some words that sounded like a proposal of
marriage, and she had said, that ruin with him would be more welcome to
her than the most affluent fortune with another man. At this time they
were interrupted by the arrival of Lady Bellaston, but, before leaving, Jones
gained permission to visit Sophia again.

It would be a strange thing, if so lovely a young lady as Sophia, did not
attract many to worship at the shrine of her beauty ; so our readers will not
be surprised to hear of Lord Fellamar, who had formed her acquaintance
since she came to London, and had made himself obnoxious to her by his
addresses. On one occasion, he had just declared and tried to force his
love upon her, when an unexpected deliverance came. At a critical moment,
the whole house rang with :

“Where is she?” “D n me, I’ll unkennel her this instant!”
‘«Show me her chamber, I say!” ‘“ Where is my daughter? I know she’s
in the house, and I'll see her if she's above ground ; show me where she is '"
At which last words the door flew open, and in came Squire Western, with
his parson and a set of myrmidons at his heels. How miserable must have
been the condition of poor Sophia, when the enraged voice of her father
was welcome to her ears! Welcome indeed it was, and luckily did he come,
for it was the only accident upon earth which could have preserved the
peace of her mind from being forever destroyed, and she was easily per-
suaded to be taken away by her father from Lady Bellaston’s to his lodg-
ings in Piccadilly.

Once there, her father pressed her vehemently to give her consent to
marry Blifl, who, as he acquainted her, was to be in town ina few days.
But instead of complying, she gave a more peremptory and resolute refusal
than she had ever done before. ‘This so incensed her father that, after
many bitter vows that he would force her to have him whether she would or
no, he departed from her with many hard words and curses, locked the door
and put the key in his pocket.

Her imprisonment lasted until the arrival of her aunt, Mrs. Western, a
few days afterwards, and its monotony was only broken by the reading of a
letter from Jones, which Black George smuggled in to her, hid in a roasted
pullet ; but this she could not answer, for lack of pen and ink, till she was
released, at the intercession of her aunt. She then wrote Jones, asking him
to refrain from any more correspondence, as she had promised her aunt not
to see or converse with any person without her knowledge and consent, and

 
THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 267

 

closing with the words : “ Fortune may, perhaps, be some time kinder to us
both than at present ; believe this: that I shall always think of you as I
think you deserve ; and am, sir, your obliged servant, Sophia Western.”

As the love which Blifil had for Sophia was of that violent kind which
nothing but the loss of her fortune, or some other such accident, could les-
sen, his inclination to the match was not at all altered by her having run
away ; hence, hearing of Sophia’s whereabouts in London, he repaired
thither, and was ushered unceremoniously into her presence by Squire Wes-
tern, while she was listening to a lecture on prudence and matrimonial poli-
tics from her aunt. Sophia no sooner saw Bilifil, than she turned pale, and
almost lost the use of her faculties, and at a word from her aunt, hastily
withdrew. Her aunt, on the contrary, waxed red, and having all her facul-
ties at command, began to exert her tongue on the Squire.

“ Brother,” said she, “I am astonished at your behavior.” ‘Will you
never learn any regard for decorum? Had you suffered Mr. Blifil to have
sent his compliments to my niece, and to have desired the favor of waiting
on her in the afternoon, I should possibly have prevailed upon her to have
seen him ; but now, I despair of bringing about any such matter. At pres-
ent, Mr. Blifil, as well as you, must excuse me, as I am in haste to dress,”
and thus ended the interview.

Before Jones had an opportunity of again visiting Sophia, he became en-
gaged in an affair of honor with a certain Mr, Fitzpatrick, who accused him
of improper intimacy with his wife. The duel resulted in Fitzpatrick’s
being severely wounded, and Jones imprisonment. Blifil, seeing his oppor-
tunity, employed Mr. Dowling, Mr. Allworthy’s lawyer, to make out a case
against Jones, representing that Mr. Allworthy was very desirous of having
the villain brought to justice, though it was not proper for him to appear in
it. This was unsuspected by Mr. Allworthy, who, to tell the truth, was
beginning to relent towards his adopted son, having learned from several
sources of his kindness to others. He also discovered, from a letter written
by Mr. Square, who was an inmate of Mr. Allworthy’s family at the time he
was so very ill, that Tom Jones was the only one in the house that, when
Mr. Allworthy lay on his supposed death-bed, testified any vea/ concern, and
what happened afterwards, arose from the wildness of his joy, and from the
baseness of another person.

And now occurred some surprising discoveries, in which Mr. Allworthy was
undeceived and Blifil’s villainy exposed. Perhaps the greatest surprise to Mr.
Allworthy was the fact, now first made known to him, of the real parentage
of Tom Jones. The disclosure was made by Mrs. Jenny Waters, who said :

“T acknowledge to have been guilty of a cruel neglect, in not having dis-

16 covered it to you before; indeed, I little knew how necessary it was.
268 HENRY FIELDING.

 

These hands conveyed the infant to your bed ; conveyed it thither at the
command of its mother ; at her command I afterwards owned it, and thought
myself, by her generosity, nobly rewarded, both for my secrecy and my shame.”

“Who could this woman be ?”’ said Allworthy.

“Tndeed, I tremble to name her,” answered Mrs. Waters.

“ By all this preparation, I am to guess that she was a relation of mine,”
cried he.

“Indeed, she was a near one,” at which .\llworthy started, and she con-
tinued : ‘‘ You had a sister, sir.”

“" . , <A-sister!"’ repeated he, looking aghast.

* As there is truth in Heaven,” cries she, ‘‘ vour sister was the mother of
that child you found between your sheets.”

“Can it be possible?” cries he. ‘Good Heavens? Well, the Lord dis-
poses all things. Yet, sure, it was a most unjustifiable conduct in my sister
to carry this secret with her out of the world.”

“T promise you, sir,” said Mrs. Waters, “ she always professed a contrary
intention. Oh, sir, had that lady lived to have seen this poor young man
turned like a vagabond from your house; nay. sir, could she have lived’ to
hear that you had yourself employed Mr. Dowling to prosecute him for a
murder of which he was not guilty — forgive me, Mr. Allworthy, I must say
it was unkind.”

Mr. Allworthy’s surprise at hearing this latter reproach was increased
when he heard from Mr. Dowling’s own lips the misrepresentation and
villany of Blifil, and even more; that Blifil had destroved a letter his
mother wrote to Mr. Allworthy on her death-bed and delivered to Mr.
Dowling, with these words: “Tell my brother, Mr. Jones is his nephew —
he is my son.” Allworthy stood a minute silent. lifting up his eyes: and
then, turning to Dowling, said :

“How came you, sir, not to deliver this message ?”

“Your Worship,” answered he, * must remember that you were, at that
time, ill in bed, and I delivered the letter and Message to Mr. Blifil, who
afterwards told me never to speak of it, for you did intend to conceal it
from the world.”

Allworthy then called to a servant to feteh him a chair, as he was
obliged to go out on some business of consequence. Mr. Blifil, hearing the
chair ordered, came down stairs to attend upon his uncle; for he never was
deficient in such acts of duty. He asked his uncle if he Was going out, to
which Allworthy made no answer, till he was just going into his chair: and
then, turning about, he said :

“Harkee, sir, do you find out hetsne my return, the letter which your
mother sent me on her death-bed.’
THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 269

 

Allworthy then departed, and left Blifil in a situation to be envied, only
by a man who is just going to be hanged.

Mr. Allworthy proceeded directly to Mr. Western’s, where, after a visit
with Sophia, he acquainted that gentleman with the whole discovery which
he had made concerning Jones, and with his anger with Blifil.

Men, over-violent in their dispositions, are, for the most part, as change-
able in them. No sooner then, was Mr. Western informed of Mr. All-
worthy’s intention to make Jones his heir, than he joined heartily with the
uncle, in every commendation of the nephew, and became as eager for
Sophia’s marriage with Jones, as he had before been to couple her to Blifil.
Here, Mr. Allworthy was forced to interpose, and to relate what had passed
between him and Sophia previously, and the declaration she had made of
her purpose not to marry Jones, though she would give Mr. Allworthy no
reason for her decision.

Mr. Jones, having been set free from prison through the intervention of
two noble lords, and knowing of Mr. Allworthy’s change of feeling, returned
home, where occurred an affecting meeting between him and his uncle.

His next meeting with Sophia was at a tea given by Squire Western
to Mr. Allworthy and Jones. The tea-table was scarce removed, before
Western lugged Allworthy out of the room, and left the lovers alone. It
will, 1 question not, appear strange to many readers, that those who had so
much to say to one another when danger and difficulty attended their con-
versation, and who seemed so eager to rush into each other’s arms when so
many bars lay in their way, now that with safety, they were at liberty to say
or do whatever they pleased, should both sit for some time silent and
motionless, with their eyes cast downward on the ground. Mr. Jones, during
this interval, attempted once or twice to speak, but was absolutely incapable ;
muttering only, or rather sighing out, some broken words ; when Sophia, at
length, partly out of pity to him, and partly to turn the discourse from the
subject which she knew well enough he was endeavoring to open, said :

“Sure, sir, you are the most fortunate man in the world in this discovery.’

“ And can you really, madam, think me so fortunate,” said Jones, sighing,
“‘while I have incurred your displeasure?” and in very earnest words he
declared his sincere repentance of all his misdeeds.

“You must expect,” replied Sophia, “if I can be prevailed upon to
pardon you, I will at least insist on the strongest proofs of your sincerity.
Time, time alone, Mr. Jones, can convince me that you are a true penitent ;
let it then be the business of some part of your life to show me you
deserve it ; and when I see you merit my confidence, you will obtain it.”

“Oh, my angel,” cries Jones. ‘How shall I thank thy goodness? I
will be all obedience to your commands; yet let me entreat you to appoint
270 HENRY FIELDING.

 

a short trial. Oh, tell me when I may expect you will be convinced of what
is most solemnly true ?”’

“ A twelvemonth, perhaps,” she said.

‘Oh, my Sophia,” cries he; “ you have named an eternity.”

“ Perhaps it may be something sooner,” says she ; “I will not be teased.”

Further pleading was prevented by Squire Western, who, having stood
some time listening, burst into the room, and in reply to Sophia’s “ What
would my papa have me do?” said, “ Why, gi’ un thy hand this moment.”

Will our readers think it strange that Sophia answered: ** Well, sir, I will
obey you. There is my hand, Mr. Jones!”

Thus, reader, we have at length brought our history to a conclusion, in
which, to our great pleasure, though contrary, perhaps, to thy expectation,
Mr. Jones appears to be the happiest of all human kind ; for what happiness
this world affords equal to the possession of such a woman as Sophia, I sin-
cerely own I have never discovered.

As to Blifil, Allworthy has never yet been prevailed upon to see him, but
has settled £200 a year upon him, to which Jones has privately added a
third, and upon this income he lives in one of the northern counties.

Jones and Sophia were quietly married, and retired to Squire Western's
country seat, where they settled down to a happy wedded life.

Whatever in the nature of Jones had a tendency to vice has been corrected
by a continual conversation with Mr. Allworthy, and by his union with the
lovely and virtuous Sophia, and there is not a neighbor, a tenant, or a servant
who does not bless the day when they were married.
 

 

FRANCOIS MARIE AROUET DE VOLTAIRE

Dico 1778

FRANCE

Born 16904.
FRANCOIS MARIE AROUET DE VOLTAIRE.

Francois Marie Arouet was born in Paris, November 21, 1694. His father was a notary,
possessed of a large income and of very many powerful friends, and the boy was reared in
affluence, and surrounded from infancy by refining and elevating influences. Among the
intimate friends of the family was the god-father of the young Francois, the Abbe de Cha-
teauneuf, who took great interest in him from his very birth. He lost his mother when but
seven years of age ; his father gave very little attention to Francois, his youngest son, and
the Abbe was the boy’s first instructor.

At the age of ten, Francois was sent to the Jesuit College Louis Le Grand, where he
remained seven years. His principal studies were the Greek and Roman classics and church
history, or, as he himself expressed it later in life, he learned Latin and nonsense. He wrote
verses with great facility almost from infancy, and this natural talent was fully developed by
his school training. At seventeen, on leaving school, he told his father that he desired no
profession except literature, but yielded so far to his father’s wishes as to attend law lectures,
and to enter upon a course of lessons in geometry and metaphysics.

At this time he was very much petted and admired by the gay people of the Court, who
delighted in his wit, and his lively verses. But while giving his nights and days to fashion
and light literature, his progress towards the legal profession was quite slow, and his father
sent him to reside for a time, and to study with a retired judge, the Marquis de Saint Ange.
Here the young poet learned a little law, but a great deal of more recent French history, and
from the venerable Marquis he gathered the facts, which, wrought into his active brain,
resulted in his epic poem of the Henriade, published nearly ten years later. When he
returned to Paris, he resumed his former life of gaiety, and was looked upon as a brilliant and
somewhat dangerous young man. In May, 1716, he was banished by the Regent, the Duke
of Orleans, to Sully, a small village about one hundred miles from Paris. He was accused,
and undoubtedly with justice, of writing satirical verses against the Regent. Many of the
epigrams which were constantly circulating in Paris were probably his work. One was cer-
tainly his, For economy’s sake, the Regent had reduced the number of horses in the royal
stables one half, and the couplet intimates that the reduction by one half of the number of
asses which had surrounded his Jate majesty was very desirable.

After a few months of exile he was permitted to return, and in 1717; his tragedy of
(Eedipe was accepted at the theatre, but before its production its author was again in
trouble, being accused, falsely in this case, of libelling the Regent, and was sent to the Das-
tile. Here he remained eleven months. His time was fully and profitably occupied with
study, and in writing the Henriade, On his release he assumed, as his own, the name of an
ancestor of his mother, calling himself henceforward Arouet Voltaire. Cdipe was pro-
duced November 18, 1718, and met with the enthusiastic approval of the public, being per-
formed forty-five successive nights. The next year more libels on the Regent were circulated,
and again Voltaire, innocent, but suspected, was required to leave Paris for some months,
274 FRANCOIS MARIE AROUET DE VOLTAIRE.

 

which he spent at the chateau of a friend, the Duke de Villars. While thus absent, the famous
inflation scheme of John Law collapsed, causing almost universal bankruptcy throughout
France. To Voltaire, so far aloof from the excitement, it seemed a great mystery. He
wrote to a friend, ‘‘Is it a reality? Is ita chimera? Has half the nation found the philos-
opher’s stone in paper mills?”

In 1724 the Aenriade was at last in print, and was most cordially greeted both in
France, and throughout Europe. This poem is much in the manner of the .£neid of
Virgil, the subject being the romantic career of Henry of Navarre (King Henry IV). It
gave an opportunity to the author, to handle freely the religious and military contests of that
age. Both the character and life of Henry would naturally adapt themselves to poetry,
and in the Henriade, this brave, reckless, magnetic Prince stands before the world, a perfect
type of the true Frenchman.

In 1726 Voltaire was once more arrested ; this time for attempting to fight a duel, con-
fined fifteen days in the Bastile, and then released on condition of his immediate departure for
England, where he was given a smiling welcome. He was soon on terms of intimacy with
many of the leading people of that country; among others, Lord Bolingbroke, the aged
Duchess of Marlborough, Sir Robert Walpole, Pope, Swift, Congreve, Thomson, and
Edward Young. An epigram of the latter addressed to Voltaire has been often quoted.
In a conversation upon Paradise Lost, the critical Frenchman objected to the personification
of Sin and Death, and Young replied :

‘* You are so witty, profligate and thin
At once we think you Milton, Death and Sin."

During his stay in England, prolonged for over three years, he published in London, by
subscription, an edition of the /Yexvtade, and prepared his letters upon England, a work,
which, when published, produced great effect upon the minds of the French, revealing to
them much that had never been understood before, inciting in very many a desire for free
government as it existed across the channel, and doubtless awakened in thoughtful minds,
ideas which bore fruit many years after in the French Revolution.

Returned to France, he commenced his Za Puce//e, the longest of his poetical works, full
of brilliancy, the irreverence and the bitterness so characteristic of him. The Mtstory of
Charles NTT, of Sweden, was published in Paris in 1731, and during the next two years
several tragedies and poems of various degrees of merit saw the light. In August, 1732,
his most celebrated tragedy of Za: was produced on the Parisian stage; its theme, the
mutual love of the Soudan, a Mahometan ruler in Jerusalem in the time of the Crusades,
and Zaire, a Christian captive, ignorant of her faith and country. Just on the eve of
marriage with her Saracenic lover, she meets her father and her brother, and is distracted
by the rival claims of religion, family and pride of race on one side, and the deep and tender
love of her own heart, and a tiery, jealous love on the other. ‘The Soudan mistakes the
brother for a clandestine lover, kills her, and, discovering his error, kills himself. Za:re
even yet retains its popularity, and is frequently played both in France and England. At
this time, in the midst of his literary labors, he was largely engaged in commerce, importing
grain and various products into France, and in 1733. he, in connection with some others,
entered into a contract for feeding the French army. His share of the profits in two or
three years amounted to 600,000 franes. His writings during these years was as voluminous
as ever, and he wrote a poem glorifying the Italian campaign of 1734, for which campaign

he furnished supplies, and thus as has been withly said, ‘t The same hand supplied the army
with biscuit and laurel." i
ZADIG. 275

In May, 1746, he was unanimously elected a member of the French Academy, and was
thenceforth one of the Forty Immortals. So great was his fame at that time, that it was
scarcely regarded as an honor, and excited but little comment except among the enemies
that his vitriolic pen and tongue had made throughout Europe.

In August, 1736, Frederick, the Prince Royal of Prussia, commenced with Voltaire a
correspondence which lasted for forty-two years. Frederick was then twenty-four years of
age, married, living in peace and dignity, having some slight army duties, but devoting most
of his time to reading Voltaire, and writing French verses. His first letter to Voltaire was
full of the most intense admiration for the great poet, whose writings had been the inspira-
tion of his life. The correspondence was a very animated one from the first. To the author
it seemed to be a golden opportunity to advise and instruct the future ruler of a great
kingdom in his duties, and his philosophical disquisitions were received by his disciple, as
the product of true wisdom.

For a number of years Frederick had desired that Voltaire should take up his abode in
Prussia, as his guest and friend, and in 1750, Frederick, now King, was able to welcome his
mentor to his royal palace at Potsdam. He loaded down his distinguished guest with favors
and pensions, and Voltaire at first was enchanted. Frederick believed himself a poet, and
was delighted that the man whom he regarded as the greatest poet of the age should con-
descend to correct and criticise his poems, while Frederick, in turn, wrote comments upon
Voltaire’s works, Mutual admiration kept the friendship warm for a time, but a coolness
soon followed. Both were very fond of money, Frederick was husbanding his resources, in
order to increase the numbers and efficiency of his army. Voltaire was envied by other men
of letters, who were favorably entertained at Court, and he, in turn, became jealous of them,
and of the attention bestowed upon them by the King ; his health became delicate, and in
three years the monarch and the genius were willing to separate, and Voltaire took up his
abode first at Geneva, Switzerland, and afterwards at Ferney, a magnificent estate in Bur-
gundy, near Lake Leman. Here, at the age of sixty-five, he seemed to commence a new
career. He adopted as the motto of his remaining years, the words Ecrasez L’/nfame ; in
English, ‘‘ Crush the Monster.’””’ He meant by the Monster, Religion claiming supernatural
authority and enforcing that claim by pains and penalties. It is impossible to give here his
views as they are so fully expressed and so often repeated in his almost innumerable writings.
All of these works oppose oppression, intolerance and bigotry, and his hatred of those
whom he regarded as the active instruments of persecution for opinion’s sake was fully
reciprocated by the ecclesiastics who suffered under his virulent attacks.

In 1778, just at the time of the proclamation of the alliance between France and the
United States, after twenty-eight years of exile, Voltaire visited Paris. His welcome was
most enthusiastic ; all that was great and honored in literature or art offered their homage.
One witty lady wrote: ‘‘ He saw yesterday more than three hundred people. All Parnassus
was there from the mire to the summit.” He brought with him a new tragedy, rene,
the child of his old age, and personally superintended its preparation for the stage.

For three months he lived in the midst of the most intense excitement, breathing con-
stantly the incense offered by innumerable worshipers; but, before any subsidence of the
flood tide of adulation, he was attacked with violent hemorrhage, and on May 30, 1778, his
marvelous mind fled from its earthly habitation forever.

The tale of Zadig which follows, is full of the bitterest satire leveled at certain officials
and others in France, and at the abuses sanctioned by the government and church eccle-
siastics. It is one of a number of stories written in the same manner and with the same
purpose. It possesses all the characteristics of the brifliant author.
276 FRANCOIS MARIE AROUVET DE VOLTAIRE.

 

ZADIG, AN ORIENTAL HISTORY.

In the reign of the King Moabdar there lived at Babylon a young man
of good natural disposition, improved by an excellent education, named
Zadig. He was very modest, and though witty, he never ridiculed those
possessed of less learning than himself, for the precepts of Zoroaster had
taught him that self-love is a foot ball swelled with wind. He sought the
society and instruction of the wise, and paid great deference to what he
heard them say. For example, he believed that the sun was in the centre
of the world, but when the magi told him that such opinions were heretical
and revolutionary in their tendency, he held his peace with great meekness.
Being wealthy, and consequently possessed of many friends, of a handsome
person, of good intellect, and a noble heart, he expected much happiness in
life. He hoped to marry Sémira, a young lady of great beauty and high
rank. As the marriage day drew nigh, the loving pair were one day walking
under the palm trees on the banks of the river Euphrates, when they were
met by a party of armed men, the attendants of young Orcan, the Minister's
nephew, who had been flattered into the belief that his accomplishments,
aided by his uncle’s influence, would secure him anything he desired. He
fancied himself in love with Sémira, and had resolved to carry her off.
His servants seized her, and having by their violence wounded her, she
cried out. “ My dear husband, they tear me from the man I adore.” Zadig
fought very bravely, and with the help of two slaves beat off the ruthans,
and carried home the bleeding and insensible S¢mira. As soon as she
recovered consciousness, and beheld Zadig, she told him in the most tender
and loving words, her gratitude to, and her affection for her brave preserver.
Her wound was soon healed, but an arrow had struck Zadig near his left
eye, and an abscess formed, causing great fear that he would lose the sight
of one eye. Sémira was in despair, She wearied Heaven with her prayers
for her lover, and waited with intense anxiety the arrival of the great phy-
sician Hermes, who had been sent for from Memphis. When the great man
came, his decision was immediate and final, that the patient must lose his
eye. * Had it been the right eye, 1 could have cured it ; but the wounds of
the left eye are incurable.” All Babylon marveled at the profound learning
of Hermes, and lamented the fate of Zadig.

Two days after his departure, the abscess broke of its own accord, and
the eye was cured. Hermes wrote a book proving that the cure ought not
to have taken place. As soon as Zadig was able to go abroad, he went to
visit his loved one, but learned, that having an unconquerable aversion to
ZADIG. 277
one-eyed men, she had bestowed her hand upon the minister’s nephew Orcan.
Zadig fainted at the news, and was for a long time ill. On recovery, he
resolved to avoid women educated at court, and soon married the daughter
of a prominent citizen.

For three months he lived in great happiness with his wife Azora,
although he fancied she was disposed to admire many of the excellent young
men of her acquaintance. This, however, was a trifle, and when she told
him, with virtuous indignation, the story of the young widow Cofrou, he felt
very sure of her fidelity to him. The story ran thus: “The widow vowed
to remain widowed, so long as the rivulet which flowed near her husband’s
tomb should continue to run, and when I saw her she was turning the course
of the rivulet.”

Soon after, Azora went into the country for a short visit, and on her
return was informed by the weeping servants that their master had died
suddenly the night before, and that his corpse had just been laid in the
tomb of his ancestors at the end of the garden. Azora wept, tore her hair,
and was inconsolable through the day. At evening, Cador, a friend and
confidant of Zadig, called upon her to mingle his tears with hers. Next
day he called again. They wept less and dined together. Cador told her
he was heir to Zadig’s estate, and asked her to share it with him as his wife.
Azora, at first, was very angry, but soon became calm. She still sighed and
wept, but talked more freely with Cador, admitting that he seemed free
from many of those traits which in her late husband had caused her unhap-
piness. During supper Cador complained of severe pain in his side, and to
the lady’s anxious enquiries, reluctantly said there was one sovereign remedy |
for the pain, viz., to apply to his side the nose of a man who is lately dead.
The lady very promptly took a razor, went to her husband’s tomb, found
his body recumbent at first, but immediately he rose to his feet, holding his
nose in one hand, and putting back the razor with the other. “Madam,”
said he, “don’t exclaim so violently against young Cofrou: the project of
cutting off my nose is as bad as turning the course of the rivulet.”

Some time after Zadig was obliged to repudiate Azora, who became too
difficult to please, and he then sought happiness in the study of nature.
“No man,” said he, “can be happier than he who studies the great book of
nature, which God has placed before our eyes. He nourishes and exalts his
soul, he lives in peace, and his tender spouse will not come to cut off his
nose.” He retired to a country house on the banks of the Euphrates, and
gave himself up to the minute, careful study of plants and animals.

One day, while walking in a wood, he was met by several men, one of
whom accosted him thus: “Young man, have you seen the Queen’s dog?”
Zadig, in reply, gave a full description of the dog, adding, “ No; I have not
278 FRANCOIS MARIE AROUET DE VOLTAIRE.

 

seen her.” The same day a valuable horse had escaped from the King’s
stable, and the huntsmen, in their pursuit, met Zadig, and asked him if he
had seen the King’s horse. Zadig described the missing animal with perfect
accuracy, adding that he had not seen him. He was taken before the
judges, charged with stealing both animals. The judges found him guilty,
and sentenced him to spend the remainder of his days in Siberia. As soon
as the sentence was announced word came that the dog and horse were
found, and the judges reversed their decision, but ordered Zadig to pay four
hundred ounces of gold for having said he had not seen what he had seen.
This fine he was compelled to pay, and after doing so, he addressed the
judges as “ Ye Stars of justice, Abysses of science, Mirrors of truth,” and
explained how he was enabled by marks upon the sand, by leaves which
had fallen from the trees, etc., to know the peculiarities of both horse and
dog.

His acute and profound discernment of nature caused great admiration
among the judges, and coming to the ears of the King, he ordered his
officers to restore the four hundred ounces of gold, and with great cere-
mony the money was returned, the officers retaining only three hundred
and ninety-eight ounces to defray the expenses of justice.

By this experience, Zadig learned the danger »f appearing too knowing.
Soon after a prisoner of State made his escape, and, in doing so, passed the
windows of Zadig’s house. Zadig was questioned, and made no answer. It
was proved that he saw the escaping prisoner, and he was fined five hundred
ounces of gold, and, according to custom, he thanked the judges for their
forbearance. His reflections on the incidents were very sorrowful. “ What
a misfortune it is to walk through a wood where the Queen’s dog or a
King’s horse had passed! How dangerous to look out of a window, and
how difficult to be happy in this life!" Another trouble came upon him
soon after. A controversy raged in Babylon as to whether there was such
an animal as a griffin. One party said: * Why should Zoroaster forbid the
eating of griffins if there are no griffins?’ Zadig endeavered to reconcile
the conflicting sects by saying, “Tf there are any griffins, let us not eat
them; if there are none, we shall still less eat them, and in either case we
shall obey Zoroaster.” “This was regarded as heresy, and a learned person,
who had written thirteen volumes on the preperties of the griffin, accused
Zadig, before Yebor, the most stupid of the Chaldeans, and therefor the
most fanatical, who was on the verge of ordering the presumptuous young
logician to be impaled, when a friend ventured to defend him. Beware of
punishing Zadig,” he cried, “he is a saint. He has some griffins in his
poultry yard, and yet does not eat them.  TTis accuser is a heretic who dares
maintain that rabbits have cloven feet, and are not unclean.”
ZADIG. 279

 

“Very well,” said Yebor, “ Zadig must be impaled for having thought ill
of griffins, and his accuser for having heretical opinions of rabbits.”

The matter was finally arranged through the interposition of a ‘maid of
honor,” and no one was impaled.

Zadig then resolved to abstain from political and religious controversy,
and to comfort himself by philosophy and friendship. He lived in an
elegant house in a suburb of Babylon, drawing to him by his refined hospi-
tality the most worthy men and most beautiful women of that great city.
His suppers and his musical entertainments caused his house to be known
as the centre of polite society. :

Opposite to him there lived a certain Arimazes, a man whose deformed
countenance was but a faint picture of his deformed mind. Though rich,
he found very few friends, and the gaiety of Zadig’s mansion excited many
bitter feelings in his mind. He sometimes, uninvited, visited Zadig’s house,
and spoiled all the pleasure of the company by his sour looks and surly
way. He acquired in Babylon the name of The Luvious, while Zadig was
called The Happy.

This unhappy man, by chance, found in Zadig’s garden one half of a
verse of poetry, written by Zadig in praise of the King. But the half which
came into possession of the envious man, appeared to be a severe denuncia-
tion of his majesty. For the first time in his life Arimazes was happy. He
sent the verses to the King, by whose order Zadig was tried and sentenced to
be executed. His friends felt, but dared not express their great sorrow, while
his relatives were inconsolable, for three-fourths of his estate was to go into
the King’s treasury and one-fourth to Zhe Envious. Just as Zadig was pre-
paring for death, the King’s parrot laid upon the King’s knee the paper
containing the second half of Zadig’s unfortunate poem. The King hastily
fitted the two pieces together, read the lines of compliment, and Zadig was
quickly released, brought before the King and Queen and honored with
a most cordial reception. The Queen was especially friendly and Zadig
finally returned the friendliness. His wisdom and wit gave great pleasure
to the King, and ere long, Zadig was appointed first minister of the realm.
His appointment gave great delight to the ladies of Babylon, and great vex-
ation to the courtiers, while the envious man was made quite ill from jeal-
ousy. His career as a minister was marked by great.wisdom, justice and
integrity. In administering justice, his principal aim was to find out the
truth which all men seek to obscure.

In the midst of his successful administration the envious man again
appears, and by an absurd tale inspires the King with jealousy of Zadig and
the beautiful Queen Astarte. With true Oriental promptness of action, the
King gave orders for the instant execution of the Queen and Zadig. The
280 FRANCOIS MARIE AROUVET DE VOLTATRE.

 

latter was saved by his faithful friend Cador, who mounted him upon a swift
dromedary and set him upon the road to Egypt. In that land he had the
misfortune to kill a man, and was sold as a slave to an Arabian merchant
named Setoc, who regarded Zadig, at first, as a beast of burden, but grad-
ually found that his slave was possessed of great knowledge and prudence,
and he soon made him his companion and adviser, and finally his intimate
friend.

It was the custom at that time in Arabia for widows to throw themselves
alive upon the funeral piles of their husbands. Zadig was shocked by this
barbarous usage, and learning that Almona, a woman of Setoc’s tribe, was
about to immolate herself thus, he protested, insisting that reason was more
respectable than ancient abuses, and waited on the young widow, endeavor-
ing to convince her that life should be sought rather than death. His elo-
quence was so effective that the lady not only abandoned her purpose, but
confessed to Zadig her willingness to accept him as her second husband.
Recollections of Astarte prevented Zadig from favoring this suggestion, but
he called upon the chiefs of the tribes to make a law, that no widow should
be permitted to burn herself, until she had conversed privately with a voung
man for the space of anhour. Sincethen no woman has burned herself, and
thus Zadig became the benefactor of Arabia.

Setoc gave Zadig his freedom, and the latter journeyed toward Syria, and
on the frontier, between Arabia Petra and Syria, he fell into the hands of a
robber chieftain named Arbogad, who endeavored to enroll Zadig as one of
his officers, and mentioned as an inducement that King Moabdar was killed,
and all Babylon was thrown into confusion. He was unable to tell Zadig
anything as to the fate of Queen <Astarte, and the unhappy man proceeded
on his journey with a heart weighed down by sorrow and anxiety in regard
to Astarte and his faithful friend Cador.

Coming to the bank of a river, he met a poor forlorn fisherman, who told
him that in better days he had been the most famous cream-cheese dealer in
Babylon, but was now ruined. The great minister Zadig and Queen Astarte
were extremely fond of his cream cheese, and owed him the price of six
hundred cheeses + when he went to the city to collect: his money, he heard
that both the Queen and Lord Zadig had disappeared. At this tale of
woe Zadig was deeply moved, and comforted the fisherman by giving him
half of his money, and sending him back to Babylon with messages to Lord
Cador,

Not long after mecting the unhappy fisherman, as he was riding towards
Babylon, he saw a lady, deeply veiled, sitting upon the grass, who, seeing
éadig, raised her veil and disclosed the lovely features of Astarte. Great
Joy way felt by both, and after a long conversation, which explained each to
ZA DIG. 281

 

the other their wonderful adventures, Astarte, protected by Zadig’s servant,
set out for Babylon.

There was great joy in Babylon over the safe return of Queen Astarte, and
the Babylonians declared that the Queen should marry the man whom they
should choose for their sovereign, and that their King should be the man who
should be proved to be of the greatest valor and the greatest wisdom. Ac-
cordingly a tournament was arranged, the terms of which were as follows :
The candidates were to appear in complete armor. Those who succeeded in
conquering four knights were to engage with one another, and whoever re-
mained the last master of the field would be proclaimed conqueror at the
games. Four days later he was to return, with the same arms, and explain
the enigmas proposed by the magi. If he did not explain the enigmas, he
was not to be King, and the tourney was to recommence ; the determination
being that the King should not only be the greatest warrior, but the wisest
man of the age. The Queen was to be strictly guarded. She was allowed
to be present at the games, covered with a veil. All these arrangements
were communicated to Zadig by Astarte, who, of course, hoped that Zadig
would be the successful competitor.

He arrived in Babylonon the eve of the great day and caused his device to
be inscribed among the combatants, concealing his identity as the law required.
The next day, after a prolonged contest, only two Knights vanquished four
Knights each ; these two were Prince Otamus and Zadig. Finally, the cham-
pions met in the lists, and the White Knight, as he was called (in other words
Zadig), was at last the victor. At night, while he lay in a deep sleep, a fool-
ish man named Itobad, who had entered the lists in the morning, but was
speedily unhorsed and withdrew, covered with the ridicule of the spectators,
entered Zadig’s tent and carried off the white armor, leaving in place of it his
own armor, which was green. When Zadig awoke he found nothing where-
with to clothe himself but the green armor. In a furious passion he put it on,
but when he came into the sight of the people they received him with hoots
and hisses. Filled with fury, he escaped from them, and, walking upon the
banks of the Euphrates, he felt fully persuaded that his star had destined him
to inevitable misery, and he revolved in his mind all his misfortunes, from
the adventure of the woman who hated one-eyed men to that of his armor.

He blamed himself for sleeping so long. ‘Had I slept less,” he solil-
oquized, “I should now be King of Babylon.” At the first opportunity he
sold the green armor and bought a gown and a long bonnet.

In this garb he continued his melancholy walk, meeting a venerable her-
mit, with whom he fell into conversation, and who explained to him the jus-
tice of the providence that regulates the world and all it contains, and ended
by counselling his immediate return to Babylon.
282 FRANCOIS MARIE AROUVET DE VOLTAIRE.

 

The day of his return to the city was the day on which those who had
fought in the tournament were to solve the enigmas. ll the Knights were
present except the Knight in green armor. Itobad wore the white armor
which he had stolen from Zadig. Zadig claimed that he had fought in the
lists, that his armor had been stolen, and that he was entitled to the privilege
of answering the enigmas. The question was voted upon, and his reputation
for truthfulness was such that he was admitted. The enigmas, which related
to certain metaphysical and political questions, were answered fully and sat-
isfactorily by Zadig only.

Zadig then accused Itobad of the theft of his armor and challenged him
to combat. Itobad, believing that in full armor he would be more than a
match for a champion in a cap and nightgown, accepted the challenge with
great confidence, but was speedily disarmed, and owed his life to the clem-
ency of Zadig, who took from him his magnificent array, and, clothing him-
self with it, threw himself at the feet of Astarte.

By the unanimous consent of the whole nation he became King of Baby-
lon and the husband of Astarte. He was happy. He sent for the robber
Arbogad and gave him an honorable post in his army, promising to advance
him if he was a true soldier, or to hang him if he followed the profession of
a robber. Setoc, with the fair Almona, was called from Arabia and placed
at the head of the commerce of Babylon, Cader was advanced to hizh dig-
nities. He was the friend of the King, and the King was the only monarch
on earth that had a friend.

The beautiful Sémora could not be comforted for having believed that
Zadig would be blind of an eye; Azora ceased not to lament having
attempted to cut off his nose. The Envious Man died of rage and shame.
The Empire enjoyed peace, glory and plenty. The people blessed Zadig,
and Zadig blessed Heaven.

EXTRACTS.
From Edipe.

“A great man’s friendship is the gift of Heaven.”
From Foire,

“On the banks of the Ganges, I have been a devotee of false Gads ; in
Paris a Christian, here a Mahometan, Instruction does it all. The hand of
our Father cngraves upon our feeble hearts those first characters which
time and example retrace.”

“Thy God, whom thou betrayed, thy God, whom thou blasphemest, died
for thee, died for the universe amid these scenes. Turn thine eves. His
tomb is near this palace. Here is the Mount whereon to wash ‘away our
sins. He was willing to die under the wounds of impious men. Yonder is
ZADIG. 283
the place where he returned to life from the grave. In this august region,
thou canst not take one step without finding thy God.”

From La Religion Naturelle.

“God has spoken, doubtless, but it is to the universe. He has never
inhabited the deserts of Egypt. Delphos, Delos, Ammon are no asylums of
His. He does not hide Himself in the caves of the Sibyls. The moral law,
the same in every age, in every place, speaks to eternal ages in the name of
that God. It is the law of Trajan, of Socrates and it is yours; of this
changeless worship, Nature is the apostle. Good sense receives it, and the
pangs of remorse, born of conscience are its defenders.”

“Never did a parricide, a calumniator, say calmly in the bottom of his
heart ‘how beautiful, how sweet it is, to destroy innocence, to rend the
bosom that gave me breath !’”

“The very virtues of the pagans, it is said, are crimes. The immortal
Newton, the learned Leibnitz, the wise Addison and Lodie, do not anticipate
the judgments of Heaven! Respect such mortals as these ; pardon their
virtue.”

“Oh God, so misconceived, though all things announce Thee ; if I have
deceived myself, it is in seeking to know Thy law! My heart may go
astray, but it is full of Thee.”
 

 

SAMUEL JOHNSON

BORN 1709. ENGLAND Dito 1784
SAMUEL JOHNSON.

Samuel Johnson, the great English lexicographer, was born at Lichfield, Staffordshire,
on the 18th day of September, 170g. Johnson's father was the proprietor of a humble book
stall, at which the country people gathered, on market days, to purchase such literary wares
as sufficed for their meager wants ; and from whose patronage the elder Johnson eked out a
precarious livelihood. The childhood of the great Doctor Johnson gave little promise of the
future that awaited the coming dictator of English criticism. In infancy, he struggled with
constitutional disease which left its indelible imprint on his features. The poverty of his
parents precluded his indulgence in those juvenile pursuits which leave their bright memories
to lighten the hours of mature retrospect. However, Johnson’s father gave the lad the best
opportunities for a good education which his limited means permitted, and it is needless to
say the opportunities were improved. After having received his elementary education at
Stourbridge, Johnson entered Pembroke College, Oxford. But here, in 1731, his career was
interrupted by his father’s lack of means, and, at twenty-two years of age, with his education
half completed, Johnson was compelled to leave college without his degree. His father’s
death, at about this time, threw him entirely upon his own resources. Heavy of heart, sick
in body, and oppressed with a morbid melancholy, which was the bane of his earlier years, he
trudged to: Market Bosworth, Leicestershire, to become usher in a school. But the work
proved so uncongenial to him that he soon abandoned it and established himself at Birming-
ham, where he supported himself by translating for the booksellers. While there, he mar-
tied a Mrs. Porter, the widow of a shop-keeper, who brought him a modest dowry of
$4,000. With this capital he attempted to start a school of his own near Lichfield, but as a
pedagogue Johnson was predestined to failure. The scarcity of pupils soon drove him to
abandon this project and, in March, 1737, he set his face towards the Metropolis of London,
which was to become the scene of his literary triumphs. But the road to success, like the
road to learning, was to be far from a royal one to the country school-master, who shared the
vicissitudes of Grub Street with many of his ilk for twenty-six weary and heart-breaking
years. The literary life of the time was filled with perils and hardships, and of these John-
son experienced his full share. Much of the work which he did during this time was in pre-
paring articles of various kinds for the Gendleman’s Magazine, which was published by
Cave, the bookseller. The dawn of a better day began to break when he offered to Dodsley,
one of the chiefs of the book-selling guild, a poem entitled ZLomdon, a satire in imitation
of /Juvenal, and for which Dodsley gave him $50, In May of the year 1762, the unre-
mitting labors of Johnson received the recognition of royalty, and the necessity for ceaseless
effort passed when the King conferred on him a pension of $1,500 a year. Thenceforward
he became ‘‘ the great Dr. Johnson,” the literary censor before whom the writers of his
time bowed in reverence. In 1763 he made the acquaintance of James Boswell, Esq., a
Scotch lawyer of limited intellect, but with an unbounded admiration for Samuel Johnson.
The outcome of this acquaintance was the best biography in the English language. With-
out the power to create, Boswell possessed the automatic faculty of reproducing, and no word
or look of Dr. Johnson’s ever escaped him. The result was Boswell’s Life of Johnson,
288 SAMUEL JOHNSON.

 

which endures as a perennial photograph of its illustrious subject. In 1765 the University of
Dublin conferred the degree of LL. D. upon Johnson, and this was confirmed some years
later by his Alma Mater. Among the associates of the great ‘‘ King Samuel” at this
period were Garrick, Gibbon, Burke, Reynolds, Goldsmith and many others whose names
are illustrious in the history of English literature. In his declining years he found the hos-
pitable doors of a rich brewer and his wife— the Thrales — opened to him; and at their
fireside he drank innumerable cups of tea and entertained those friends who had made his
chambers in Bolt Court historical by their presence. But, one by one, his friends dropped
away, as the laurel gave place to the bay, and ‘‘ storied urn and monumental bust,” rose to
mark the places where they rested. On Monday, the 13th day of September, 1784, after
two years of struggling with paralysis, dropsy, asthma, and the old melancholy, which had
returned to oppress him, Samuel Johnson passed on to join the throng that had gone before,
and all that was mortal of the great man was deposited under the stones of Westminster Abbey.

The peculiar style of Dr. Johnson's English can not be better typified than by quoting a
reply, which Oliver Goldsmith made to some ponderous criticism of Johnson’s, ‘‘ If you
were to write a fable about little fishes, doctor, you would make the little fishes talk like
whales.” The principal works of Dr. Johnson are: .-f Life of Savage, 1744; a second
satire after Juvenal,; The Vanity of Human Wishes, 1749; Irene, a tragedy, begun while
he was teaching, and produced in 1749; his contributions to the Ramdler, which appeared
from 1750 to 1752, and to the /d/er, which began in 1758, and ran for 103 numbers; -4
Dictionary of the English Language, upon which he spent seven years, and for which he re-
ceived the sum of $7,875; Rasselas, a tale of Abyssinia, 1759 ; an edition of Shakespeare,
the preface of which is one of the best specimens of his prose writing ; .4 Journey to the
ffebrides, constructed from letters to Mrs. Thrales while traveling through Eastern Scotland
and the Hebrides in 1773 ; and The Lives of the Poets, 1781. Johnson's name will always
be associated with his English dictionary; not so much on account of the intrinsic merit of the
work, as from the fact that, at the time when it was compiled there was no such work in
English literature, and it at once challenged the attention of the reading world. Rasse/as, the
most popular of Johnson’s writings, was composed in a single week, while the author was still
hghting the bitter battle of poverty, and the compensation which he received for it was
devoted to paying the funeral expenses of his mother.

THE HISTORY OF RASSELAS,

PRINCE OF ABYSSINIA,

“Ye who listen with credulity to the whispers of fancy, and pursue with eagerness the
phantoms of hope ; who expect that age will perform the promises of youth, and that the
deficiences of the present day will be supplied by the morrow ; attend to the history of
Kasselas, Prince of Abyssinia,” :

The history of Rasselas is the story of a vain search after the unattain-
able; the soaring of a restless soul into the high places where contentment

is Supposed to sit enthroned over the realms of perfect peace } an allegory
of human unrest as old as time and as wide as the world.
THE HISTORY OF RASSELAS. 289

 

Rasselas was the fourth son of the mighty emperor, in whose dominions
the river Nile rises, and according to an ancient custom he was confined in
a private palace, with other sons and daughters of Abyssinian royalty, until
the order of succession should call him to the throne. This palace was
situated on an island, in the midst of a valley surrounded on all sidés by
towering mountains. The only means of egress from the valley was
through a massive gate closing the entrance to a cavern through the
mountain. On all sides the earth smiled with plenty. Birds and beasts
of every sort abounded. Fruits and flowers grew on every hand. Such
was the appearance of security and delight which this retirement afforded,
that they, to whom it was new, always desired that it might be perpetual ;
and as those, on whom the iron gate had once closed, were never suffered
to return, the effect of longer experience could not be known. There the
sons and daughters of Abyssinia lived only to know the soft vicissitudes
of repose and pleasure, as no hint of the turmoil and trouble of the
outer world, where man preyed upon man, was ever allowed to reach
their ears; and this delectable spot was known far and wide as the
“Happy Valley.”

In his twenty-sixth year the spirit of Rasselas grew troubled. Content-
ment gave place to questioning. The sound of the lute ceased to charm
and the pleasures of the Happy Valley palled upon the prince. This change
in the young man attracted the attention of the sages, and, when ques-
tioned, Rasselas replied: “ Possessing all that I can want, I find one day
and one hour exactly like another, except that the latter is still more tedious
than the former. . . . I have already enjoyed too much; give me
something to desire.” To this outburst, the wise man answered: “Sir, if
you had seen the miseries of the world, you would know how to value your
present state.” ‘“ Now,” said the prince, “you have given me something to
desire ; I shall long to see the miseries of the world, since the sight of them
is necessary to happiness.”

From this hour, Rasselas began to meditate on how he might escape
from the valley of happiness. Months were spent in idle dreaming of what
he should accomplish when once he had reached that world of misery which
was now the Mecca of his desires. Soon he awoke to the fact that much
time had been spent in idle dreaming, and then began to regret that he had
dreamed. Another period was wasted in regretting his regrets, when he
chanced to overhear a maiden, who had broken a pitcher at the fountain,
remark, that what cannot be repaired is not to be regretted, and then he
began active measures to effect his escape. He now consulted an eminent
mechanic, who had been lured to the Happy Valley, and together they
labored upon a flying machine which was to bear them far beyond the
290 SAMUEL JOHNSON.

 

mountains. But when the eminent mechanic spread his wings for a trial
trip, after a long year of labor on his invention, he fell headlong intu the
lake and was rescued from a watery grave, more dead than alive, by the
disappointed Rasselas.

Now came on the wet season, when water covered the face of the earth,
and the unhappy prince was driven from his haunts on the mountains to
the confines of the palace to plot his escape. Among the inhabitants of
the valley was a wise man, one Imlac, who became the constant companion
of Rasselas. Imlac was the son of a wealthy merchant of Goiama, who
traded between the inland countries of Afric and the ports of the Red sea.
In Imlac’s youth his father had given him his portion, with the assurance
that if he did not trade diligently, and amass much gold, he should be no
son of his. But Imlac had drunken at the fountain of knowledyve and had
come to despise the fruits of trade; thus he accepted the alternative
offered by his mercenary parent, and departed secretly from his home to
add, by observation and travel, to his store of learning. After years of
wandering, during which he had seen many peoples and many places, had
become learned in all the sciences, had studied the divine art of Poesy, and
had acquired a reputation for wisdom which only served to convince him of
the ignorance of the world, and of how much he had yet to learn, he
returned to his old home to find his father long dead, his friends forgetful,
and the polish of travel mistaken for foreizn and distasteful manners. Dis-
gusted with the result of his own choice, he had sought the Happy Valley
to end his days in pondering the images of the past, in the hope of finding
that contentment which had thus far proven so illusive. The story of Imlac
fired the imagination of Rasselas, and he exclaimed, at its conclusion:
“Teach me the way to break my prison; thou shalt be the companion of
my flight, the guide of my rambles, the partner of my fortune, and my sole
director in the Choice of Life.”

When the rainy season had passed, Rasselas and Imlac succeeded in tun-
neling upward through the side of the mountain; but not without having
been discovered by Nekayah, the favorite sister of Rasselas. Now Nekayah
was likewise consumed with an unnamed desire, and, when she learned that
nothing could assuage this but * the miseries of the world,” she, too, insisted
upon accompanying Rasselas out of the Happy Valley. ‘lo this desire of
Nekayah the prince assented. Secreting about their persons an ample sup-
ply of priceless jewels, which could easily be converted into money, Rasse-
las, Nekayah, the faithful Imlac, and Pckuah, the favored companion of the
princess, passed out of the mouth of the tunnel and stood within the world.

In due time the refugees from the Happy Valley reached Cairo, and
there set diligently to work to make a Choice of Life,
THE HISTORY OF RASSELAS. 2gI

 

Being domiciled in a house, the magnificence of which, and of their sur-
roundings, gave to the prince and princess an opportunity of studying the
grace, beauty and fashion of Cairo, the searchers after a Choice of Life es-
teemed themselves truly fortunate. From this time forward did Rasselas
and Nekayah devote themselves to the study of mankind, with unremitting
labor, the fruits of which may be briefly recorded in the following summary
of several Choices of Life which they discovered, and their unvarying
results :

Younc MEN or SPIRIT AND GayEeTy.—Mirth without images ; laughter
without motive ; pleasures gross and sensual, in which the mind has no
part ; conduct at once wild and mean; laughter at order and law; but
dejection at the frown of power, and abasement before the eye of wisdom.

A SacE, who can teach all that is necessary to be known, who, from the
unshaken throne of rational fortitude, looks down on the scenes of life
changing beneath him, who speaks, and attention watches his lips, who rea-
sons, and conviction closes his periods. But when bereavement lays its
heavy hand upon him, he exclaims: “ My views, my hopes, my purposes are
at anend. Iam now a lonely being, disunited from society.”

SHEPHERDS, peacefully tending their flocks, but with hearts cankered
with discontent that they are condemned to labor for the luxury of the rich,
looking up with stupid malevolence toward those who are placed above
them.

A Prosperous Man, dwelling in a stately palace, but in constant dan-
ger of life and property from enemies who envy his wealth and conspire to
possess themselves of it, until his mind becomes filled with a great fear lest
they come upon him, run riot in his mansion and enjoy the gardens which he
planted.

A Hermit, who in early life had borne arms, and who, through the
preferment of brother officers, had been kept back from advancement, and
who was enjoying the delights of solitude and removal from the temptations
of the world ; but who lamented his choice, crying: “I am sometimes
ashamed to think that I could not secure myself from vice, but by retiring
from the exercise of virtue, and begin to suspect that I was rather impelled
by resentment than led by devotion into solitude. The life of a solitary
man will be certainly miserable, but not certainly devout.”

Rasselas and his little party of seekers after a Choice of Life soon
exhausted the resources of Cairo. The prince and princess divided their
labors; the prince investigating the condition of those in high stations,
while the princess wandered among those in humble circumstances. Mar-
riage was studied by both with assiduity, but neither among the rich nor
among the poor did matrimony seem to conduce to that state of mind which
292 SAMUEL JOHNSON.

 

was the object of their quest. Finally, Imlac suggested a visit to the
Pyramids, to which Rasselas and his sister eagerly assented, for if anywhere
under the sun the secret of permanent content was to be discovered it must
be within these monuments of antiquity. But, when they emerged from the
gloom of the buried chambers, Imlac voiced the sentiment of the disap-
pointed searchers, crying aloud: “I consider this mighty structure as a mon-
ument of the insufficiency of human enjoyments. A king, whose power is
unlimited, and whose treasures surmount all real and imaginary wants, is
compelled to solace, by the erection of a Pyramid, the satiety of dominion
and tastelessness of pleasures, and to amuse the tediousness of declining life,
by seeing thousands laboring without end, and one stone, for no purpose,
laid upon another. Whoever thou art that, not content with a moderate
condition, imaginest happiness in royal magnificence, and dreamest that
command or riches can feed the appetite of novelty with perpetual gratifi-
cations, survey the Pyramids and confess thy folly.

Upon emerging from the Pyramids, the harmony of the little party was
destroyed by finding that the princess’ beloved companion, Pekuah, who
had refused to enter the gloomy recesses with the others, had been abducted
by a party of predatory Arabs. The grief of Nekayah knew no bounds and
she refused to be comforted. But, after a long and wearisome search,
Pekuah was returned to her mistress, through the payment of a heavy ran-
som, and the princess knew the happiness that comes to a heart when pro-
tracted and hopeless grief is followed by great joy.

The long search after a Choice of Life was now drawing to a close.
Only two incidents remain to be recorded. .\mong those whom Rasselas
and his companions encountered, after the restoration of Pekuah, were a
wonderful astronomer, whose reason had been impaired by much study of
the celestial bodies, and an aged man of great learning. The fruits of the
aged man’s life seemed not worth the plucking, for when he was inter-
rogated by the indefatigable questioners, he could only reply: © Nothing is
now of much importance, for T cannot extend my interest: beyond myself,
My retrospect of life recalls to my view many opportunities of good
neglected, much time squandered upon trifles, and more lost in idleness and
vacancy, T leave many great designs unattempted, and many great attempts
unfinished. My mind is burdened with no heavy crime, and therefore I
compose myself to tranquillity; endeavor to abstract my thoughts from hopes
and cares; expect, with serene humility, that hour which nature cannot
long delay; and hope to possess in a better state that happiness which here
Tcould not find, and that virtue which here I have not attained.” The
impression which this discourse left upon the minds of Rasselas and his com-
panions were further strengthened by a visit to the catacombs, Thoughts
THE HISTORY OF RASSELAS. 293

 

of immortality and a future state were borne in upon them to the exclusion
of the heretofore absorbing theme of a Choice of Life, and the princess was
constrained to exclaim: ‘To me the Choice of Life is become less important.
I hope hereafter to think only on the Choice of Eternity.”

It was now the time of the inundation of the Nile, and Rasselas and his
fellow searchers were confined to their house. They pondered on their
varied and wonderful experiences. Their minds were filled with half formed
desires, which they each knew could never be obtained.

And the conclusion of the whole matter was, that they resolved, when
the inundation should cease, to return to Abyssinia.

Alas, for the vanity of human wishes !
 

 

aos

ie

 

 

 

LAURENCE STERNE.

Boan 1713. IRELAND Dieo 1768
LAURENCE STERNE.

Laurence Sterne was the son of Lieutenant Roger Sterne and Mrs. Agnes Hebert, a cap-
tain’s widow, and great-grandson of Archbishop Sterne. He was born at Clonmel, in the
south of Ireland, November 24, 1713.

His first training was received at a school in Halifax, which he entered in 1723, remaining
there for eight years. In 1732 he was admitted to Jesus College, Cambridge, matriculated
1733, admitted to degree of B. A., 1736 and to M. A., 1740. Upon leaving the University
he received holy orders, and obtained the living of Sutton, in Yorkshire. He married, in
1741, a lady of property, whose name is not given, and soon after got the prebendary of
York. Through his wife’s influence, the living of Stillington was added to that of Sutton,
and he did duty at both places for twenty years.

In 1759 the first two volumes of Zyistram Shandy were published, which were the
means of procuring for him from Lord Falconbridge the curacy of Coxwold the following
year. The remaining volumes were published ; three and four in 1761, five and six in
1762, seven and eight in 1765, and nine in 1767. A Sentimental Journey was written in
1767 and published in 1768. His published works, in addition to those already named,
consist of volumes of Sevmons and Letters, A Fragment and The History of a Good, Warm
Watch-Coat,

In 1760, by which time his books had gained for him wide notoriety, Mr. Sterne became
dissatisfied with clerical duties, and, taking a house in York for his wife and their daughter
Lydia, an only child, who was the idol of her father, spent most of his time thereafter in
London, or on the continent.

He had grown weary of his wife, as appears from the fact of his having consented to
a liaison with Mrs. Draper, the wife of an absent officer ; the ‘‘ Eliza” to whom were ad-
dressed « number of his published letters. From this time he was with his family very
little ; his wife and daughter were in France at the moment of his death. This occurred
in his lodgings in Bond Street, London, March 18, 1768. His last words were: ‘‘ Now
it is come!” and as he uttered them he put up his hand as if to ward off a blow. He
had suffered from neglect during his illness, and Mr. Becket, his publisher, was the
only person who attended his funeral as a friend. He was buried in a grave-yard belong-
ing to the parish of St. George, Hanover Square, where a monument was erected for
him by two strangers calling themseives brother masons, although he was not a member
of the order,

In person, Mr. Sterne is described as tall and thin, having a hectic and consumptive
appearance. The life and character of Laurence Sterne are summed up by one of his biog-
raphers in these just, if bitter, words:

‘A standing reproach to the profession which he disgraced ; groveling in his tastes ; in-
discreet if not ficentious in his habits; he lived unhonored and died unlamented, save by
those who found amusement in his wit or countenance in his immorality.”
2y5 LAURENCE STERNE.

TRISTRAM SHANDY.

Tristram Shandy was born at Shandy Hall, in the English village of
Shandy, on the fifth day of November, in the year of our Lord 1718. His
father was Walter Shandy. The maiden name of his mother was Elizabeth
Mollineux. Mr. Shandy, who for many years had been a Turkey merchant,
had now relinquished the cares of business and retired to his parental estate.
The only midwife in the village where the Shandys dwelt was a worthy widow
of forty-seven — name not given. She had been induced to prepare herself
for her peculiar duties by the wife of Yorick, the village parson, and the good
man himself had paid the fees for her license. This Parson Yorick was a
lover of horseflesh, and was fain to go well mounted ; but five vears before
paying for the midwife’s license he had, all of a sudden, made his appearance
upon a lean, sorry jackass of a horse, and had kept up this sort of riding ever
since. The fact was, that his good horses were so often in demand by his neigh-
bors for the purpose of procuring the services of a midwife who lived several
miles away, that, one after another, they were used up by this constant pull
upon them. So the parson was forced, in defense of his own pocket, to keep
a beast the neighbors would be ashamed to borrow. .\nd when the midwife
was licensed, how plainly were his motives discerned by his horse-borrowing
neighbors! Now he would again bestride a gallant steed, the occasion for
lending having passed, and by the mere preservation of horsetlesh pocket the
expense of the license, ten times multiplied, the very first year. So his neigh-
‘bors became his enemies, and continued to be, in spite of the fact that his
mount remained the same. Besides, this parson had a blunt way of putting
things, and withal an instinct for humor that would not be repressed, as had
his supposed ancestor in Shakespeare's time ; and it happened that his jokes
cost him many a friend. And, at last, detraction did for him what it has
so often done — broke his heart and killed him. It was this midwife who was
present when ‘Tristram Shandy was born, and you now know all about how
she came to be one. . :

Pending the birth of the child, who, in due time was known as Tristram
Shandy, his father and Uncle Toby sat smoking by the fire. Walter Shandy,
‘Tristram’s father, was aman of great force of character, well-read, disputa-
tious, but full of kind feeling. Between him and his brother Toby, who had
now been living with him for many years, there existed the strongest and
tenderest attachment. “Poby had been a soldier, and had the misforture to
be wounded during one of King William's wars, at the sicge of Namur,
where he was struck in the groin by a heavy stone, broken by a ball from the
TRISTRAM SHANDY. 299

 

parapet of ahornwork. Although he had been subjected to the hardening pro-
cess of a military life, he was as modest as a woman, and as gentle as a lamb.

It is told of him, in illustrating the latter characteristic, that one day at
dinner, having, at last, succeeded in catching an overgrown fly, by which he.
had been grievously tormented, he arose from the table, proceeded to the
window, lifted the sash, and said to the insect :

“Go, poor devil, get thee gone; why should I hurt thee? This world
surely is wide enough to hold both thee and me.” Uncle Toby had a hobby
for military diagrams and fortifications, originating in his desire to point
out to the many visitors introduced into his apartment by his ever attentive
brother — he having been confined for four years before recovering from
his hurt — the identical spot where he was wounded at the siege of Namur.
This hobby had now grown upon him to such an extent that it had become
all-powerful and all-absorbing.

Sitting by the fire, as has been related, the brothers were suddenly
started by a racket over their heads. Ringing the bell for Obadiah, the
man servant, he informed them that the mistress had been taken very badly,
and that Susannah, the maid, had gone to fetch the midwife. Whereupon
Obadiah was bidden to proceed with all haste for Doctor Slop, a man-mid-
wife, living eight miles distant, upon whose presence, upon this important
occasion, Mr. Shandy had previously insisted. The doctor speedily ap-
peared, “a little squat, uncourtly figure of about four feet and a half perpen-
dicular height, with a breadth of back and a sesquipedality of belly which
might have done honor to a serjeant in the horse-guards.” He had, how-
ever, neglected to bring with him his bag of obstetrical instruments, contain-
ing, among other things, a wonderful invention of his own, in the form of a
pair of forceps. Obadiah was immediately dispatched for them, Corporal
Trim, Uncle Toby’s servant, being left to meet any exigencies requiring
the offices of a messenger during his absence. The Corporal’s real name
was James Butler. He had been a corporal in Uncle Toby’s own company,
where he had received the nickname which clung to him ever after. Dis-
abled, at length, for the service by a wound in the knee, he became the ser-
vant of Uncle Toby, a capacity which he continued to fill after the retire-
ment of his superior into private life. The corporal, having all along
assisted Uncle Toby in the prosecution of his hobby, had become well versed
in the science of fortification. Moreover, he was a ready talker and not
infrequently said things that were both pat and pungent.

Obadiah, who had gone to Dr. Slop’s house for the bag of instruments,
was inordinately fond of whistling. Having procured the bag, and re-
mounted his horse, he found that the lusty and incessant jingle of the instru-
ments quite overpowered and drowned_his favorite wind music. What does
300 LAURENCE STERNE.

 

he do, therefore, but tie his hat-band around them, in so many tight, hard
knots that, the bag once in Doctor Slop’s hands, he found it impossible to
unloose them. ‘They, must needs, therefore, be cut, and in doing this, the
doctor managed to cut his thumb as well. This served to render him some-
what awkward in the use of his forceps when they came to be required.
The result was that poor Tristram was brought into the world with a nose,
as Susannah declared, ‘as flat as a pancake.”’

Never mind how, over this mishap, Mr. Shandy raved and roared. Long
noses were a characteristic inheritance in the Shandy family, and, here
was a Shandy without any nose at all! However, after Uncle Toby had
sympathized with him and philosophized over him, reminding him that if
this had not happened, something worse might have happened in its place,
and that “against the impositions laid upon our nature we are upheld by
the grace and the assistance of the best of Beings,” Mr. Shandy, at length,
became calm. But more trouble was to follow. Susannah, rushing into the
room, exclaimed that the baby was black in the face, that the curate was in
waiting to administer the right of baptism, and that he must hurry with the
name. “ Trismegistus,” cries Mr, Shandy, seized with a sudden inspiration.
Susannah hastened back to the curate and informed him that the name was
Tris—something. ‘Tristram, then,” said the curate. ‘There is no
Christian name beginning with Tris but that."

“Nay, then,” quoth Susannah ; “it is Tristram-gistus.”

“There is no ‘ gistus’ to it, noodle,” rejoined the curate, and before Mr,
Shandy could make his way to the room, the deed was done — his son, as if
his broken nose was not enough to bear, had been irrevocably christened
Tristram, And the father’s cup, full to the brim before, now ran over.
At this instance, a conclave was held, composed of various dignitaries
of the church, among them good Parson Yorick, to the end that some
way of undoing the baptismal mistake of the curate might haply be dis-
covered, Much learning was ventilated upon this occasion: there was
considerable oratory and some wit, but, so far as poor ‘Tristram was con-
cerned, it ended as it began; he was Tristram still! And his father was
now hopless indeed! ‘True, he had been hugely tickled with the learned
discourses to which he had listened in the council convened at his request,
but all was like the anointing of a broken bone. He became pensive,
wandered off by himself, sighed often, and was in a bad way generally,
when, presto ! everything was changed by the reception at the Hall of a
letter, announcing that his \unt Dinah, who, years before, had brought dis-
grace upon the family by eloping with, and marrying a coachman, had died,
leaving to Mr, Shandy a legacy of a thousand pounds, And the question,
what to do with his money, drew him out of his troubles, in furnishing a
TRISTRAM SHANDY. 301

 

new direction for his thoughts and energies. After wavering between many
opinions, he finally reached this conclusion —that he would inclose the
Ox-moor, or send his son Bobby upon his travels. The Ox-moor was a large
tract of land included in the Shandy estate, which had long been neglected,
and whose cultivation would, beyond doubt, result in a liberal revenue. But
who was Bobby? Why, Mr. Shandy’s elder son, introduced late into the
story because, up to this point, it has been so largely occupied by Tristram,
its legitimate hero. He does not seem to have amounted to much anyway.
Where was Bobby? Why, at college somewhere. But why should Bobby
travel? Because it had been from time immemorial, a custom of the Shandy
family, that the eldest son should, before marriage, enjoy the benefits sup-
posed to be derivable from a personal acquaintance with foreign parts, as a
sort of finish for him. But to decide upon which of these projects he would
choose, was too much for Mr. Shandy, and there is no knowing how the
matter would have fallen out, had not Providence effectually settled it for
him. How? By Bobby’s death.

And now, having but one son, Mr. Shandy drops the Ox-moor project,
and everything else, and proceeds, after the example of Xenaphon to write a
Tristrapoedia, or system of education for him. In three years he had accom-
plished half his work, which he had kept changing to accord with some new
development in the character of his son. The work was never finished, and
Tristram failed of an education according tothe Shandyan theory. Never-
theless, his mother superintended his rudimentary training, so that he did
not fare badly after all. From this point the progressive biography of the
lad is summed up after this fashion: Five years with a bib under his chin ;
four years in traveling from Christ-cross-row to Malachi; a year and a half
in learning to write his own name; seven long years and more at Greek and
Latin ; four years at probation and negations. And now he must havea tutor.

Mr. Shandy, having described the sort of a person he would have for the
position, Uncle Toby suggests young LeFever, the son of an officer, who, in
his last days, Uncle Toby had befriended, and for whose son he cherished a
great love and strong admiration. LeFever had been taken ill at the inn at
Shandy, and Uncle Toby’s attention had been first directed to him by the
landlord, who came to him to petition for some sack for which the sick man
had expressed a desire. After sending the landlord away, bearing two bot-
tles of sack, Uncle Toby bade Corporal Trim to proceed to. the inn, ascertain
what particulars he might concerning the invalid, and hasten back with his
report. It turned out that LeFever was a lieutenant, and that he served
with Uncle Toby in Flanders. He had come from Ireland, with his son, on
the way to rejoin his regiment, but had been stopped in Shandy by his ill-
ness. In a fortnight or three weeks he might march, said Uncle Toby.
302 LAURENCE STERNE.

“He will never march,” replied Corporal Trim.

“ He wil/ march,” exclaimed Uncle Toby.

“ He will never march, but to his grave,” answered the Corporal.

“ He shall march,” replied Uncle Toby.

“ He cannot stand it,” said Trim.

“He shall be supported,” answered Uncle Toby.

“He'll drop at last,” rejoined the Corporal.

“He shall not drop!” thundered Uncle Toby.

“ Do what we can for him, the poor soul will die,” the Corporal answered.

‘“‘He shall not die, by God!" cried Uncle Toby.

The accusing spirit which flew up to Heaven's chancery with the oath,
blushed as he gave it in—and the Recording Angel, as he wrote it down,
dropped a tear upon the word, and blotted it out forever. But he did die!
And in his final moments looked wishfully in Uncle Toby's face, and then
turned the look to his boy. The look was rightly interpreted, and from that
moment the son became Uncle Toby’s care. By him the youth was edu-
cated, but, in the midst of his studies, war was declared between the French
and the Turks, and young LeFever begged so hard for permission to take
his father's sword — his only inheritance, save his mother’s ring —and join
the imperial army, that Uncle Toby finally consented. He came up with
the army just at the time of the defeat of the Turks at Belgrade, but, for
four years after, he had been the sport of a series of mischances, culminating
in illness at Marseilles, from which place he wrote to his patron that he
would return to him by the first ship, and was now hourly expected. It was
this young man who was recommended by Uncle Toby to his brother as a
suitable tutor for Tristram.

Uncle Toby owned in his own right a cottage in Shandy, with a consider-
able plot of ground. His passion for things military had led him to make
a plan of almost every fortified town in Italy and Flanders, so, let the Duke
of Marlborough, or the allies, besiege whatever place suited their inclina-
tion, Uncle ‘Toby was always ready tor them, By the assistance of Trim, he
had laid out his bowling-green in true military fashion, so that, as often as a
siege occurred, first referring to his plans, he was able to reproduce its par-
ticulars, from day to day, under his very eyes, by means of the pliant acces-
sorics of the bowling-green, which could be so altered, at any moment, as to
correspond with the developments of the actual siege, as made known in the
daily papers, The bowling-green, in short, was a complete miniature town,
arranged for defence upon the strictest military principles, so that when, for
instance, the Duke of Marlborough made a lodgment, Uncle ‘Toby did the
same with his litthe town; if a bastion was battered down, or a defence
ruined, away went one of Uncle Toby's toy bastions, and smash went one of
TRISTRAM SHANDY. 303
Uncle Toby’s places of defense. So minute were the arrangements of the
bowling-green that they included a regular sentry-box, where Uncle Toby
had nailed up his diagrams in such a way, that they could be conveniently
handled ; the top only being secured, while the bottom was left free. So
the sieges went on at Shandy, just as they went on in Flanders, or anywhere
else, with a minuteness and to a perfection which was a constant joy to
Uncle Toby, and, so satisfied was he with himself, his success and every-
thing, that in the course of an apologetical oration delivered to an audience
exclusively composed of his brother Walter, who was inclined to ridicule
the Captain’s hobby (for this was Toby Shandy’s rightful title), Uncle Toby
declared, with an earnestness that bespoke the approval of his very soul,
that he believed that, in carrying on these miniature sieges, he and Corporal
Trim were answering the great ends of their creation.

But there came achange. For eight months war rested upon its sword,
and Uncle Toby in his easy chair. The peace of Utrecht had been signed,
but the demolition of Dunkirk was still in abeyance Uncle Toby and Trim
had constructed the town out of their bowling-green material, so that, in a
small way, it was Dunkirk itself, but beyond that they could not go for months
after. However, the fatal moment arrived at last; down went Dunkirk
senior at the hands of the besiegers, and down went Dunkirk junior at the
hands of Uncle Toby and Trim, and the bowling-green became only the
scene of military chaos ; Uncle Toby’s occupation was gone! It is proper
to say that for some time previous to this wholesale destruction of his fac-
simile work, the military enthusiasm of Uncle Toby had, for some cause or
other, seemed to lessen ; his military ardor to cool. And the cause was not
far to seek or difficult to find. As usual, it was a woman! The grounds of
Uncle Toby joined those of the Widow Wadman, out of whose arms her spouse
had been taken, seven long years before, by the boniest, strongest arms of
all. Then she had nursed her consequent sorrow alone and unfriended, un-
less Mrs. Bridget, her housekeeper, was to be considered as answering the
requisites of companion and friend.

No personal description of the Widow Wadman is furnished in the book,
but two pages are left blank, at the point of her introduction, to enable the
reader to draw her portrait for himself to his own liking.* Uncle Toby
must have been badly taken, when his military studies and maneuverings
could no longer serve him, when he could so unreluctantly turn his back upon
the great Mars and find such beauty in the baby face of Cupid. This con-
jecture is confirmed by our author himself, who says of Uncle Toby in this
crisis: “Softer visions, gentler vibrations, stole sweetly in upon his slum-

*Norr.—The author evidently took it for granted that each of his male readers would
have an ideal widow somewhere.
304 LAURENCE STERNE.

 

bers ; the trumpet of war fell out of his hands ; he took up the lute, sweet
instrument ! of all others the most delicate! the most difficult—” and there
stops, without imparting the slightest information how Uncle Toby and the
lute got on together. Whether or not he played loud enough and in such
a way as to reveal his secret, it nevertheless became known. Mrs. Bridget
knew it, and told Susannah ; Susannah told Mrs. Shandy ; Mrs. Shandy told
Mr. Shandy ——

It must be confessed that this is the interesting part of the story, and it
would be natural to suppose that, having gone thus far, the author would
have kept right on until he had asserted his own skill in dealing with so deli-
cate and difficult a subject, and had satisfied the laudable curiosity of the
reader. He might have known that everybody would be amazingly inter-
ested in dear old Uncle Toby and in whatsoever concerned him ; especially
in this new phase of his sweet character. But, regardless of all this, and
with a knack at tantalization quite characteristic of him, he abruptly shies
off from the subject, and proceeds to tell about a cough of Tristram’s. It
was a troublesome cough, to be sure, and probably a dangerous one, since it
is allegorically related that Tristram had a bout with Death and straightway
flew off to France, with the purpose to evade and outwit him. Thereupon
follow thirty-eight mortal chapters, describing the hero’s adventures; of
which it is enough to say that his tour was remarkable for what he did not
see; though in truth he did see many things it were quite as well he had
not seen. Men who happen to be looking up reliable material for guide-
books are hereby admonished to shun these thirty-eight chapters, as con-
taining little or nothing they would care to use. Tristram's father, Uncle
Toby, Corporal Trim, and Obadiah, either went with him upon this journey
or joined him later, for some of their doings and savings are likewise
recorded.

And now the story recurs to Uncle Toby and Widow Wadman, and, as
it ought to have done in the first place, goes back to the beginning of
things between them, and shows how they happened to become acquainted.

It seems that eleven years before, while Walter Shandy was. still a
merchant in London, and before the Hall was by him and his occupied,
Uncle Toby, having partially recovered from his wound, and burning with
a desire to give a practical turn to his ideas concerning fortifications, and
moreover, deeming his own bowling-green exactly adapted to the purpose,
surreptitiously left his brother’s house, and, taking with him Corporal ‘Trim,
came down to Shandy to begin his military operations. Shandy Hall was
at that time unfurnished, and there was no inn; so Uncle Toby was con-
strained to accept a bed in the house of Widow Wadman, his next neighbor,
which he occupied for three nights, the Corporal having in the meantime
TRISTRAM SHANDY. 305

 

constructed one for him in his own cottage. And that was the way their
acquaintance began, When a guest happens to be in a woman’s own house,
it is natural, argues the author, that she should think of him. But in such
a case, she cannot think of him, without mixing up with him something of
her own goods and chattles, and through a repetition or such combinations,
he finally gets foisted into her inventory; in short, seems in some way to
belong to her, as well as the other things. And it was in this way that
Widow Wadman made secret and silent, but sure appropriation of Uncle
Toby. It is not likely that Uncle Toby knew anything of the widow’s
desires towards him, or of her designs upon him; for at this juncture, and
for many years after, his soul was in his sieges, and all his time and
thoughts were engrossed thereby. At any rate, if he knew, he said noth-
ing, nor did he even begin to woo the widow, until she herself had made
such a dead set upon him, that he felt bound, let it be supposed, in courtesy
and honor, to meet her on her own ground, and give her as good as she
gave. It was the sentry-box which finally did the business for Uncle Toby.
You see, being interested in the man himself, it was quite natural that she
should seem at least to be interested in his affairs— and, as his military
affairs were for so long a time predominant with him, that she should be
violently interested in them. Let a woman alone for knowing how to get
around a man! First she watched the various sieges, which the varying
fortunes of the wars then in progress imposed upon Uncle Toby and his
trusty Corporal, at a distance, taking good care, however, that he should
see her at it! At length she made her way through the hedge dividing the
two estates, for closer observation; and finally accomplished her master-
stroke in pushing on to the sentry-box itself, and, once there, forcing her-
self into it—that is,as far as she could, for there was not really room
enough for two—for the purpose (of course, that and no other) of tracing
out on the diagram, nailed, as has been said to the wall, by Uncle Toby’s
assistance, the course and progress of the siege itself. All of which was very
pretty, and very proper, besides exhibiting, upon the widow’s part, a very
commendable desire for information! Well, then and there, Uncle Toby
went down, and what is to be said after that? As for her next move, the
Devil himself was in it. A mote, or a grain of sand, or something, had
got itself into her left eye, and Uncle Toby, of all men in the world, must
get it out. Well— dear, good-natured creature as he was !— he looked for
it, and looked for it, and looked for it, and looked for it, but with all his
looking, failed to find it ; and, and— in short, if Uncle Toby had been assailed
by the small arms of Love before, he was now mercilessly bombarded by
its heavy artillery, so that anything but absolute and full surrender was im-
possible. And so, like a man and a soldier, he gave in altogether.
306 LAURENCE STERNE.

The news of Uncle Toby’s love proceedings very soon became public
property, and the way he was chaffed by his friends, in consequence, was a
caution. His brother Walter, even, thought it necessary to write down for
him certain wise and precise instructions, touching his manner of procedure
in the details of his courtship; with what effect the chronicle says not.
Uncle Toby bore it all very sweetly ; as our author says: “he took it like a
lamb.” Dear, patient, gentle, uncomplaining Uncle Toby !

Of course, Corporal Trim must be told. ‘I am in love,” quoth Uncle
Toby; “she has left a ball here,” he added, pointing to his breast. Where-
,upon, Trim, who well understood who “she” was, first commenting upon
the suddenness of the affair, declares that she cannot stand a siege, no more
than she can fly. Uncle Toby recoils at the suggestion of a siege, insisting
that the best way is to let her know of his preference civilly at first. Trim
demurs. He believes that the first thing should be a good thundering
attack ; let the civilities come afterwards. And, taking Uncle Toby's con-
sent for granted, the Corporal proceeds to lay down the plan of the attack.
The Captain should be dressed in his laced clothes, and wear his ramallie-
wig ; the Corporal should put on a regimental coat which came to him from
LeFever ; they should proceed in company to the house, “marching up
boldly as if ‘twas in the face of a bastion,” and while the Captain engaged
Mrs. Wadman in the parlor, to the right, the Corporal (whose suggestion
seemed to have in it a certain flavor of self-interest) would attack Mrs.
Bridget in the kitchen, to the left.

“I had rather,” said Uncle Toby, “march up to the very edge of a trench.”

“.\ woman is quite a different thing,” replied Trim.

“I suppose so,” rejoined Uncle Toby.

Trim’s argument prevailed, and his plan of attack was scrupulously fol-
lowed. Dressed as already indicated, they march to Widow Wadman's
house. They are straightway admitted. Uncle Toby goes to the parlor, in
quest of Widow Wadman ; Trim proceeds to the kitchen with Mrs. Bridget.
The result proved that the Corporal's prophecy concerning the inability of the
widow to stand a siege, were quite correct, and that, had he gone farther,
and predicted that Mrs. Bridget's powers of resistance would turn out to be

in no way superior to those of her mistress, his foretelling would have been
equally accurate.

QUOTATIONS,

When, to gratify a private appetite, it is once resolved upon that an
Innocent and helpless creature shall be sacrificed, ’tis an easy matter to pick

“up sticks enough from any thicket where it has strayed to make a fire to
offer it up with.
TRISTRAM SHANDY. 307

We loose the right of complaining sometimes, by forbearing it ; but we
often treble the force.

Trust that man in nothing, who has not a conscience in everything.

The laws of nature will defend themselves, but error, sir, creeps in
through the minute holes, and small crevices which human nature leaves
unguarded.

A man’s body, and his mind, with the utmost reverence to both, I speak
it, are exactly like a jerkin and a jerkin’s lining—rumple the one, you rum-
ple the other.

Before an affliction is digested, consolation ever comes too soon; and
after it is digested, it comes too late.

If my son could not have died, it had been matter of wonder—not that
he is dead.

When we are, death is zot; and when death 7s, we are ot.

Science may be learned by rote, but wisdom not.

Tread lightly on his ashes, ye men of genius, for he was your kinsman ;
weed his grave clean, ye men of goodness, for he was your brother.

To say a man is fallen in love is a phrase not at all to my liking, it
carries an idiomatical kind of implication that love is a thing below a man.

Reason is, half of it, sense.

The measure of Heaven itself, is but the measure of our present appe-
tites and concoctions.
 

 

 

OLIVER GOLDSMITH

Dieo 17TTA4.

IRELAND

BoRNn 1728
OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

No appreciative reader of the two little poems entitled The Traveler and The De-
serted Village will deny that Oliver Goldsmith, who composed them, was a literary genius
of the first order.

He was born in 1728 in Ireland, was sent by 9 kinsman to Trinity College, Dublin,
where he was more dissipated than studious. He tried to enter the service of the church, but
was rejected by the bishop ; was then sent to study medicine at Edinburgh : went to the Con-
tinent, where he led a roving, adventurous life, and finally returned to England and settled
down to the profession of literature. In this profession he grubbed along on starvation
wages until one of the poems above mentioned established his reputation as a man of genius.
He numbered such men as Burke and Johnson among his friends, wrote for the magazines,
and published several works which, comparatively worthless for their subject matter, became
successful by the charm of their style, and on that ground are still admired.

In disposition Goldsmith was benevolent, simple-hearted as a child, full of generous im-
. pulses, and not without a touch of personal vanity that exposed him to ridicule and practical
jokes. Struggling with poverty himself, he was ever kind to the poor ; a butt among his
literary associates, he was nevertheless admired by them ; destitute of steady purpose and
accurate learning, he yet produced some of the most delightful pieces in the English language ;
domestic and affectionate in his tastes, he never had a family of his own. He died before he
was fifty, having, with all his disadvantages, enrolled himself among the British classic authors.

His principal works are The Present State of Literature in Europe, The Traveler, The
Deserted Village, two plays: The Good-natured Man, and She Stoops to Conquer, compendious
Histories of Greece, Rome, and England, History of the Earth and Animated Nature, and
The Vicar of Wakefield. This last is, on the whole, his most famous work. It is a plain,
entertaining tale of English country life, with fairly good plot, displaying no subtility of
art, and abounding in improbable incidents, but yet so deliciously simple and quaint, so
‘delicate in humor, so touching in many of the situations it exhibits, so rich in tender, just
and pious reflections, and withal so charming in its peculiar style, that it is read to-day with
as great relish as the reader of it experienced a century ago. Beyond a question The Vicar
of Wakefield is the work on which Goldsmith’s fame will be carried forward from genera-
tion to generation. )

THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD.

Dr. Primrose introduces himself to the reader as an English clergyman,
in good circumstances, whose domestic tastes had led him to marry early,
and who was very soon surrounded with a loving and dutiful family of chil-
dren. These children, beginning at the eldest, were George, Olivia, Sophia,
Moses, and two little fellows, Dick and Bill.
312 OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

 

The doctor’s fortune, though not large, was ample ; and he was thus en-
abled to act upon his benevolent impulses, and gave away the avails of his
living in charity. Poor relations and needy adventurers were frequent visi-
tors at his house, and were never repulsed. ‘‘ However,’ says the doctor,
“‘when any of our relations was found to be a person of very bad character,
a troublesome guest, or one we desired to get rid of, upon his leaving my
house, I ever took care to lend him a riding coat, or a pair of boots, or some-
times a horse of small value ; and I always had the satisfaction of finding he
never came back to return them. By this the house was cleared of such as
we did not like; but never was the family of Wakefield known to turn the
traveller or the poor dependent cut of doors.”

Mrs, Primrose, a kind-hearted, thrifty woman, whose good housekeeping
and gooseberry wine were the admiration of all comers, reared her children
to health and industry ; the doctor took the direction of their spiritual in-
terests, and as they grew up, the whole household presented a family group of
ideal beauty and happiness. George was sent to Oxford; Moses receiveda
miscellaneous education at home ; Olivia and Sophia bloomed into young
womanhood, admired and courted by the neighboring swains, and destined
by their mother for the most respectable and advantageous alliances that
could be secured.

But misfortunes came. The doctor’s financial agent in London failed,
and fled the country, leaving hardly enough to pay a “shilling in the pound.”
This threw the family at once into straitened circumstances, and compelled
their removal from Wakefield to a much humbler parish. Here they were
modestly housed in a small, plain dwelling, with about twenty acres of glebe,
which the doctor and the boys assiduously cultivated. The wreck of their
fortune was carefully husbanded ; the scale of their living was greatly re-
duced, and gradually they settled into content amid a simple-minded rural
population, to which the doctor at once became endeared by his loving sym-
pathy and Christian faithfulness.

An occasional visitor at the house was one Mr. Burchell, whom the fam-
ily had fallen in with on the way to their new quarters—a man of sense and
education, apparently poor, who came and went rather strangely, and evi-
dently loved Sophia, One of the doctor’s parishioners, and his landlord, was
Squire Thornhill, who lived in an adjacent stately mansion, was a noted
sportsman, a man of pleasure, and unscrupulous in his morals. The Squire
was not absolute owner of the estate on which he lived. It belonged to an
uncle in London—an excellent and benevolent gentleman, whose own tastes
were very simple, and who good-naturedly allowed his nephew to pursue his
more luxurious tastes in the country. ‘The Squire, chancing on a hunting day
to pass the doctor’s dwelling, when the whole family were drinking tea under
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 313

 

the shade of a hawthorn and honeysuckle bower, stopped and introduced him-
self, evidently captivated by the spectacle. His manners were free, fasci-
nating, and somewhat over bold. He admired the girls, and was admired by
them; and the mother, ever on the lookout for her daughters, had the weak-
ness to encourage his advances. And now, much to the good doctor’s dis-
quietude, his wife and daughters began to give undue attention to dress and
finery. Such pinking, and ruffling, and flouncing as invaded the humble
dwelling went beyond the just limits of the family expenses, and called out
strong remonstrances from the father.

One evening the young landlord came, self-invited, to the house, with
musicians and refreshments, and some gay company from London, and there
was great merry-making and feasting. The company from London con-
sisted of two under gentlemen and two young ladies, Lady Blarney and Miss
Carolina Wilhelmina Amelia Skeggs, whom the Squire introduced as persons
of great distinction, but who, with all their finery, were really bold, impu-
dent hussies of the kind which the Squire picked up to promote his pleas-
ures. These women talked about the advantages of town life, and ran on
about their acquaintance with Lord this and Lady the other, until the foolish
heads of Olivia and Sophia and their mother were completely turned. There
must be more dressing, more society ; and the doctor pathetically describes
the impatience of his family to live above their means, and the various mor-
tifications that followed.

Among the expedients for raising the wind, it peered to the female
part of the household that it would be a good thing to sell one of the family
horses. The doctor’s objections were overruled, and Moses, whom his
mother thought a discreet boy to buy and sell to advantage, was sent with
the animal to make the best bargain possible at the neighboring fair. His
sisters tricked him out with a cocked hat, and tied his hair with a black
ribbon ; and off he went, mounted upon the old nag, and carrying a deal
box in which to bring back groceries to the house. The next day they
espied him returning without the horse, and sweating under the deal box.
To the impatient inquiries how he had fared, and what he had brought, he
replied, with evident pride, that he had succeeded famously. He had sold the
horse for “three pounds five shillings and two pence,” and had laid out the
money in a most lucky venture —the purchase of a gross of green spectacles,
with silver rims and shagreen cases. The silver rims alone, he said, would sell
for double the money. But, alas! these same rims turned out to be but copper
with a silver wash. The young man had been fooled to the top of his bent by
sharpers ; and the consequent vexation and the reproaches may be imagined.

Money was still needed ; for nothing would now do but that Olivia and
Sophia must be sent up to town to be polished, and to make the profitable
314 OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

 

conquests which were thought to be within their power. So, now the other
horse must be sold. The good doctor himself undertook the sale. He was
not to be humbugged as poor Moses had been. Off he went to the fair, sold
the horse at a bargain, for which a large bill that he could not change, and
which a messenger boy pretended 4e could not get changed, was offered.
He, therefore, accepted a draft upon his worthy next-door neighbor, Farmer
Flamborough, which, when presented, turned out to be a forgery.

From this time forward misfortunes and humiliations multiplied about the
doctor's family. There was a hitch about his daughters’ going up to town.
Squire Thornhill had called to say that the thing must be given up; that
the ladies Blarney and Skeggs had heard malicious reports about the Prim-
rose family, and were not willing to forward their views. He, however,
would be their friend.

Doctor Primrose and his family sought to discover who had maligned
them, when one afternoon Dick brought in a letter case, which he had
found on the green, containing a sealed note superscribed “‘ The copy of a
letter to be sent to the two ladies at Thornhill Castle.” In their overmas-
tering curiosity, the Primroses broke open the note and found it to be plainly
enough from Mr. Burchell protesting against having the two young girls
taken to town, as a great impropriety, and closing with the words, “reflect
on the consequences of introducing infamy and vice into retreats where
peace and innocence have hitherto resided.”

Now, this letter was really aimed at the infamy and vice of Blarney and
Skeggs and their set, and was written for the purpose of protecting the
Primrose daughters. But the Primrose family misread it, and concluded that
Burchell was their traducer. A little after, Burchell unexpectedly called,
and a scene followed. The doctor burst upon him with bitter reproaches
for his perfidy. Burchell bore it all with coolness and dignity ; and, when
he found that no explanation would be listened to, departed.

Mrs. Primrose and Olivia now bent all their art upon the work of securing
Squire Thornhill, who, though assiduous in his court, made no offer of mar-
riage. The women tried in every way to bring him to the point ; and finally,
as a piece of stratagem, encouraged the attentions of Mr. Williams, a well-
to-do young farmer, who would have rejoiced to wed Olivia. The two suitors
were pitted against each other; and at last the perilous step was taken of
announcing to Mr, Thornhill the probability of Olivia’s approaching engaye-
ment to Williams, The scheme did not work. The doctor insisted on fair
treatment of Mr. Williams ; and a day for the nuptials was fixed.

About four days had yet to elapse, when, one evening Dick came
running in with the astounding intelligence, “ Livy is gone; she’s gone for-
ever ;" and then proceeded to tell how he had seen her get into a postchaise
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 315

 

with two gentlemen, and one of them kissed her, and said he would die for
her, and she cried very much, and was for coming back ; but he persuaded
her again, and she went into the chaise, exclaiming, “O what will my poor
papa do when he knows I am undone!”

Here was the heaviest blow of all. Disgrace had fallen upon the
family. The doctor lost his equanimity, and imprecated vengeance on the
villain who had robbed him of his child. The other members of the family
were frantic. The doctor resolved to pursue the seducer and recover his
sadly erring daughter. He suspected Thornhill, and went to the castle, but
was met by that gentleman himself, whose frank manner entirely quieted
his suspicions, and a word or two from whom directed his thoughts to
Burchell. One of Thornhill’s people confirmed the doctor’s new suspicions,
and sent him off on a chase for the runaways to a town thirty miles distant,
where some races were in progress. There his fatigue and anxiety threw
him into a fever, under which he languished for three weeks. His money
was gone; and he must have been turned out as a beggar but for the
timely appearance of an old friend, who had once published some of his
writings, and now supplied him with temporary aid.

Sorrowfully, without finding the object of his quest, he began to retrace
his way homeward on foot. He fell in with a company of strolling players.
With them he stopped at the next inn, where they encountered a brisk,
friendly, talkative man, who, with unaccountable kindness, asked Doctor
Primrose and the chief player to come and partake of his private hospitality.
He led the way to a magnificent mansion, and at once engaged the Doctor
in an animated conversation upon political subjects, declaring himself a
radical, and drawing out from the doctor a vigorous defence of the mon-
archy. In the midst of this dispute, who should come in but a gentleman
and two ladies, who looked about them with astonishment, while a visible
confusion fell upon their voluble entertainer. This entertainer turned out to
be only the butler of the establishment, who had a mind to cut a figure in the
absence of the master. The new comers were Mr. Arnold, the proprietor of
the house, his wife, and his niece, Miss Arabella Wilmot, who had formerly
been a pupil of the doctor, and to whom the doctor’s oldest son George had
been engaged, and would have been married but for the reverses of his family.

Miss Wilmot introduced Doctor Primrose to Mr. and Mrs. Arnold ; ex-
planations followed, and the whole company became very good friends, and
went that night to The Fair Penitent, which was to be acted by the strol-
ling players. One of these players, who was to take the part of Horatio,
had been extravagantly praised for his acting; and when the curtain rose
at the playhouse—a barn in the neighborhood—all eyes looked for
Horatio. He came forward, a handsome young man; but the moment his
316 OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

 

eyes fell on Miss Wilmot, he stammered and stuck, and could not go on.
Horatio was George Primrose, who, going away from home after the
reverses began, had knocked about the world in all kinds of straits and dis-
appointments, and had finally tried his luck as a player.

Mr. Arnold’s whole company left the playhouse, went home, had George
brought to the house with his bit of wardrobe, and listened with interest to
the tale of his vagabond experience.

The next day who should drive up to Mr. Arnold’s but Squire Thorn-
hill ; for Ae had begun paying court to Miss Wilmot ; and there was a cur-
rent report that they were soon to be married. He started at seeing Dr.
Primrose and George, but soon entered into friendly conversation with them,
and counseled the doctor privately not to say anything at present to Miss
Wilmot nor to George about Olivia’s escapade.

A day or two after this Thornhill procured for George an ensign’s com-
mission in a regiment about to start for the West Indies, and the young man
went away full of hope.

Dr. Primrose resumed his journey toward home, stopping on the way at
an inn for refreshment. He fell into conversation with the landlord about
various country magnates, Squire Thornhill among the rest. The landlord un-
masked to the doctor Thornhill’s real character, which was that of a heartless.
libertine, who had debauched and deceived numbers of young people. At
this point the landlord’s wife came in, announcing angrily that a lodger they
had upstairs could pay nothing more, and must be turned out of doors. Then
she-went upstairs and began cruelly berating this lodger, a poor woman, to
whose pitiful pleadings she would grant nothing. The doctor, who could never
stand by such proceedings unmoved, proceeded to investigate, when, lo, the
poor lodger turned out to be his own lost Olivia, whom Thornhill (for Ae it
was that carried her off) had abandoned and left at this lonely place.

Olivia, with the deepest shame and with bitter self-reproach, told her father
the whole sad story, disabusing his mind of the impression that Mr. Burchell
was her betrayer, received her father’s heartfelt assurance of forgiveness,
and started with him toward their home. Arrived in the neighborhood, the
doctor left Olivia at a little inn, and proceeded on foot alone, meaning to
take Sophia back to the inn, that both might bring home the wanderer to
the family hearth.

The honest mastiff ran out to meet the doctor late at night ; but in a mo-
ment more a strange light sprang up. The house was on fire. Mrs. Prim-
rose, Sophia and Moses ran out, terror-stricken, in their night clothes. The
doctor himself darted into the burning building to rescue the two younger
boys, and succeeded in bringing them out at the cost of severely burning
his arms. Everything was consumed,
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 317

 

Surely now they were at the bottom of the gulf! The family fortune
ruined, Olivia disgraced, George’s love for Arabella likely to be fruitless, the
house burned down, the doctor a cripple from the fire, and Thornhill, their
landlord, an unmasked villain. But worse wasto come. Thornhill came with
his plausible air to see the doctor at his ruined homestead, where the kind
neighbors had housed him temporarily in a poor shed, and were supplying
the immediate wants of his broken household. The doctor flamed out upon
him with angry accusation and terrible invective. Thornhill retorted with
insult, and finally with a threat, which he proceeded at once to carry into
execution. The poor doctor was in Thornhill’s debt, and an officer was sent to
convey him to jail. Faint and smarting from his burns, he was led off one
morning through the freshly fallen snow to prison. A few of his old parish-
ioners came shouting after the sorrowful procession, and would have brained
the officers who were carrying off their beloved old pastor, had he not re-
strained them. To prison they went; and the doctor found himself in the
common room with a lot of profane and vulgar fellows by day, and on the
straw in a cell by night.

The plot now thickens rapidly. The members of the doctor’s family
had occasional access to him and strove to comfort him in some degree.
His wife was permitted to attend him. The little boys read to him. Sophia
attended to poor Olivia, whose health was failing, and whose condition was
reported to her father daily. And Moses got work to supply the fallen
family with a few comforts.

It seemed that Olivia had been really married to Thornhill by a priest
brought in clandestinely. That information somewhat relieved the doctor’s
mind and diminished her shame. And now that Thornhill was soon to
marry Miss Wilmot, he would be guilty of bigamy. The doctor, prisoner as
he was, was yet the clergyman of the parish, and had power to forbid the
bans, which he declared he would do. His family tried to persuade him to
offer no opposition ; for then Thornhill would easily be prevailed on to set
him at large. The doctor, however, remained firm until word was brought
him that Olivia was dead. The charge of bigamy could be made no longer,
and the doctor withdrew his opposition to the marriage. But Thornhill still
declined to release his prisoner, saying that all was in the hands of the attorney.

Meanwhile, the startling intelligence came that Sophia had been kid-
napped and driven off in a post-chaise ; and on the heels of this bad news
a noise was heard, and then a clanking of fetters; and the doctor’s son
George was brought in bloody, and accused of attempted murder. He had
received a letter from his mother detailing the family misfortunes, had
hastily come home to punish the betrayer of his sister’s honor, had chal-
lenged Thornhill to mortal combat, who had declined to meet him, and had
318 OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

 

sent four ruffians in his place, one of whom George had desperately wounded,
whereupon George had been arrested and sent to prison.

Here for the first time happier prospects began to dawn. Mr. Burchell
makes his appearance. He had seen the kidnapping of Sophia, had run
after the post-chaise, knocked the postilion from his seat, and rescued the
girl. Sophy herself came. Word also was brought that Olivia was not
dead. The story of her death had been told in order to induce the doctor
to withdraw his opposition to Thornhill’s marriage. Burchell turns out to
be no other than the virtuous and benevolent Sir William Thornhill, a man
of great wealth and influence. The Squire himself appears, and all his villainy
is unmasked before his uncle. Miss Wilmot appears, renounces Thornhill,
and accepts George, her early love. Sir William clasps Sophy to his heart.
The man supposed to have been wounded by George turns out to be an im-
poster, and George is set at liberty. The Squire is reduced to a moderate
allowance from his uncle, and is deprived of the management of the estate.
The doctor, by the arrest of his defauiting financial agent at Antwerp,
recovers a large portion of his estate. His arm is healed. The prison with
its hardships and wretched crew is left by the whole company, and the even-
ing of the doctor’s days is peace and happiness.

Many incidents, like the doctor’s preaching to the prisoners, and his
meeting in the gaol with one Jenkinson, the rogue that swindled him and
his son out of the horses, are necessarily passed over. But the foregoing is
an outline of one of the prettiest and most touching tales in the language.

Here follow a few specimens of the aphorisms and delicate turns that
abound throughout.

QUOTATIONS.

“That virtue which requires to be ever guarded is scarcely worth the
sentinel.”

“Disproportioned friendships ever terminate in disgust.”

“The nakedness of the indigent world might be clothed with the
trimmings of the vain.”

‘Let us draw upon Content for the Deficiencies of Fortune.”

“Veasts acquire a double relish from hospitality.”

“The jests of the rich are ever successful,”

“The ladies of the town strove hard to be equally easy, but without
success, “They swam, sprawled, languished and frisked; but all would not
do. The gazers indeed owned that it was fine ; but neighbor Flamborough
observed that Miss Livy's feet seemed as pat to the music as its echo.”

“The pain which conscience gives the man who has already done wrong
Is soon got over, Conscience is a coward: and those faults it has not
strength enough to prevent, it seldom has justice enough to accuse,”
 

 

 

 

Born 1737

JACQUES HENRI

BERNARDIN DE SAINT-PIERRE.

FRANCE

Dieo 1814
JACQUES HENRI BERNARDIN DE ST.-PIERRE-’

The birth of the eminent French writer Jacques Henri Bernardin de Saint-Pierre occurred
at Havre on the 1gth of January, 1737. As a child he was precocious and peculiar. Even
then he was famous as a story teller. It is said that one of his boyish stories about a
cat, related years afterward to the great Rousseau, caused the philosopher to weep. He was
passionately fond of horticulture. His kindness to animals was proverbial. As a lad he
fought with a carter who was ill-treating his horse. He loved study and coveted solitude,
and his temper was moody and intractable. The education of Saint-Pierre was begun with
the Jesuits at Caen. He was afterwards established at Rouen, and was graduated with hon-
ors in 1757. Soon after, he entered the army as an engineer, but, after a brief period of ser-
vice, was dismissed for an act of insubordination. Then he went as an engineer to Russia,
where he remained four years. Returning home, he was appointed engineer for the Isle of
France. There he remained for three years, when he removed to Paris, with the determina-
tion to devote his time and talents to literature. His intimacy with Jean Jacques Rousseau
was one of the delights of his new life. It was among his distinctions that he was patronized
by Louis XVI., Joseph Bonaparte and the Emperor Napoleon. In 1773 Saint-Pierre pub-
lished his first work, Voyage to the Isle of France. This was followed, in 1784, by Studies
of Nature ; this, in 1787, by Paul and Virginia ; this, in 1789, by The Desires of a Solitary ;
this, in 1790, by The Jndian Cotlage. Besides these were The Harmonies of Nature and
Essay on Jean Jacques Rousseau. It was Paul and Virginia that rendered him famous, and
will keep him so, The fame derived from his other works is but tributary. The private life
of Saint-Pierre was far from being irreproachable. His amour with the Princess Mary of
Poland is a matter of history. However, when he was fifty-seven years old he married
Mile. Didot, the daughter of a Parisian publisher. The issue of this marriage was a boy,
whom he named Paul, and a girl who was christened Virginia. His passion for the Princess
is betokeried by this passage in a letter which he wrote after she had discarded him: ‘‘ We
live but for a day, to die during a whole life.” It is related that the great Napoleon was in
the habit of saying to Saint-Pierre: ‘‘ When do you mean to give us more Pauls and Vir-
ginias? You ought to give us some every six months.” A fine compliment, truly, but one
which betrays an amazing ignorance of the conditions and exigencies of literary work. Such
books as Paul and Virginia must needs be rare. Their inspiration comes but once ina life-
time, and that one inspiration can only come to the few. Let us forget the follies of Saint-
Pierre in the presence of his genius. He died in January, 1814.

PAUL AND VIRGINIA.

On the eastern coast of the mountain which rises above Port Louis in
the island of Mauritius, upon a piece of a land bearing the marks of former
cultivation, are seen the ruins of two small cottages. They are situated
B22 JACQUES HENRI BERNARDIN DE ST.-PIERRE.

near the center of a valley, formed by immense rocks, and which opens only
toward the north. Near the ruined cottages all is calm and still, while a
soft light illumines the bottom of the valley, on which the sun shines only at
noon.

One day when I was seated near the cottages, for to this place I love to
resort, I saw an old man approach, dressed in the ancient garb of the island.

“Father,” I said, ‘‘can you tell me to whom these cottages once
belonged ?”’

“Yes,” he replied, “those heaps of rubbish, that untilled land, were,
twenty years ago, the property of two families who then found happiness in
these solitudes.”

I was interested, for I could see by his face that he was one of those
whose history has a romance in it. I was right, for, after gaining his confi-
dence, I induced him to relate the tale which follows :

In 1726 there arrived on this island a young woman, Madame de la Tour,
and her husband. They had come to seek their fortune. She, young,
beautiful, loved by her husband, and of the nobility of France, had been
exiled by her family for marrying beneath her station.

Shortly after landing the husband died; and the wife, homeless and
bearing with her an unborn child, found at this spot, with one as unfortunate
as herself, the shelter which her family denied her.

This good Samaritan was named Margaret. Sorrow had made her gen-
erous to the unfortunate, among whom she herself was numbered ; for,
seduced and abandoned, she was rearing her child, Paul, in this lonely spot
where he should never hear of his mother’s shame.

Here Virginia was born soon after, and the two young mothers found
a new happiness in tending their fatherless children, and in each other's
friendship. “Weeach have two children, and our children have each two
mothers,” they were accustomed to say.

Madame de la ‘Tour had a cottage built adjoining Margaret's, and, with
the aid of their negro slave Domingo and his wife Mary, they managed to
raise enough grain and fruit to supply all their necessary wants

While the children were still in their cradle, their mothers talked of their
marriage ; and when they were a little older, nothing could exceed the
attachment they displayed for cach other. If any accident befell Virginia,
the cries of Paul gave notice of the disaster, and then Virginia would suppress
her complaints when she found that Paul was unhappy. They used to totter
around quite naked, holding each other by the hands and under the arms,
as we represent the constellation of the twins. ‘hey were all in all to each
other, and believed the world ended at the shores of their own island ; and
all their ideas and affections were confined within its limits.
PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 323

 

Thus passed their early childhood, like a beautiful dawn, the prelude to
a bright day.

At twelve years of age the figure of Virginia was in some degree developed.
A profusion of light hair shaded her face, to which her blue eyes and fresh
young lips gave the most charming brilliancy. Her eyes sparkled with vi-
vacity when she spoke ; but when she was silent they had an upward cast,
which gave to her face an expression of melancholy. Paul, too, was beauti-
ful, He was taller than Virginia; his skin was of a darker tint ; his nose
more aquiline ; and his black eyes would have been piercing if the long eye-
lashes which shaded them had not lent them a look of softness. From the
grace of their attitudes, the beautiful proportions of their figures, and their
naked feet, you might have fancied that you saw an antique group of white
marble, representing the children of Niobe.

Though Madame de la Tour had resolved never to have recourse to her
relations in France, to whose cruelty she owed a great part of her misfor-
tune, when she became a mother her resentment was stifled by the stronger
feeling of maternal solicitude.

“Tf I should die!” she would say to herself, “ what will become of my
Virginia?”

Two or three times she had written to a rich aunt, striving to touch her
heart in behalf of her daughter ; but she had received no reply. One day,
however, when she least expected it, she received a letter from the aunt, in-
forming her that she deserved her fate, and recommending her, if she desired
charity, to apply to M. de la Bourdonnais, the governor of the island. Her
last hope in this direction was crushed; God alone must protect the father-
less child. Vet, Virginia was protected— protected as nature protects
her children ; for she and Paul were children of nature: no care had ruffled
their peace, no intemperance had corrupted their blood, no misplaced pas-
sion had depraved their hearts. Still in the dawn of life they had all its
freshness, they were Adam and Eve, and this valley was their garden, fresh
from the hands of God.

They had neither clock nor almanac, nor books of chronology, history,
or philosophy. The periods of their lives were marked by those of nature.
‘They knew the hour by the shadows of the trees, the seasons by the kinds of
fruits and flowers, the years by the number of harvests.

In time, however, Virginia felt her heart agitated by new sensations.
Her blue eyes lost their lustre, her cheek its freshness, she was strangely
languid. She became suddenly gay without joy, and melancholy without
vexation. A love of solitude grew upon her, and she wandered in unfre-
quented paths, seeking everywhere that rest which she could nowhere find.
‘At times, on seeing Paul, she would spring gaily towards him ; but suddenly
324 JACQUES HENRI BERNARDIN DE ST.-PIERRE.

 

she would be seized with confusion ; her pale cheeks would overspread with
blushes, her eyes no longer dared meet his. He often endeavored to soothe
her by his embraces; but she, turning away her head, would fly trem-
bling to her mother. His caresses strangely agitated her; but Paul could
not understand the meaning of these new caprices.

One night, in the oppressive heat of a tropical summer, Virginia, being
restless and unhappy, arose and went through the moonlight to the spring.
She remembered how, when children, she and Paul had bathed together in
this very pool. Throwing herself in the cool water, she saw reflected on her
naked arms and breast the cocoanut trees which had been planted at their
birth. She thought of Paul’s friendship, sweeter than the odors and purer
than the fountain waters ; but suddenly, trembling and frightened, she fled
to her mother, seeking a refuge from herself.

Often, wishing to unfold her suffering, she pressed her mother’s hand
within her own; often she had felt her secret, mingled with the name of
Paul, rising to her lips, but her heart denied her lips the utterance ; and,
leaning her head upon her mother’s breast, she could only bathe it with her
tears. Though Madame de la Tour understood her daughter’s uneasiness,
she did not feel inclined to speak to her on the subject.

One day when Paul had given her a miniature of Paul the Hermit, which
he had always worn about his neck, Virginia said to him:

“Paul, I will never part with this while I live; and I will never forget
that you have given me the only thing in the world that you possess.”

At this tone of friendship—-this unhoped-for return of familiarity and
tenderness, Paul attempted to embrace her; but, light as a bird, she fled,
leaving him astonished and unable to account for conduct so extraordinary.

Margaret, who had observed the change in Virginia, spoke to her
mother about it, saying :

“Why not let them marry each other? They love each other dearly.”

“They are too young and too poor,” replied Madame de la Tour.
“What a grief it would be to see Virginia bring into the world unfortunate
children, whom she might not have sufficient strength to raise. No.
Domingo is getting too feeble to work. TI feel myself growing old. Paul
is our only hope, and if we could send him to the Indies, he would be able
to earn money to buy another slave. When he returns we will marry him
to Virginia, for I feel that no one on earth could make her so happy as he.”

The truth was that Madame de la Tour had set her heart on separating
Paul from Virginia for a few years ; but Paul, when the subject was broached
to him, sturdily refused to go.

— “Why do you want me to go on this risky hunt for fortune?" he asked.
“You say that Domingo is getting feeble; but I am young and grow
PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 325

 

stronger every day. What if any accident should happen during my absence
— above all to Virginia, who is already ill—Oh no, no! I cannot go.”

It happened soon after this that Madame de la Tour received another
unexpected letter from her aunt, which went far towards solving the diffi-
culty. Relenting in her old age, the aunt offered to adopt Virginia, give
her a good education, procure a splendid marriage for her, and promised in
the end to leave her all her fortune. The aunt had been able, through her
high position in France, to enlist the power of the Governor in her service ;
and he, after furnishing Madame de la Tour with plenty of money, told her
that he must compel either her or her daughter to return to France.

“You cannot without injustice,” he went on, “deprive this beautiful
young girl, your daughter, of so noble an inheritance. And, though I am
ordered to exert my authority, I only wish the happiness of my colony; and
I think you see that it is for your own best good for your daughter to return
to France.”

After dinner, of which the Governor partook, he drew Madame de la
Tour aside, and informed her that an opportunity presented itself for her
daughter’s passage in a ship which was to sail in a short time, and that he
would put her in charge of a relation of his own who was returning on the
same vessel.

When Madame de la Tour confided to Virginia the necessity of her
voyage, the girl acquiesced with all the submission of one who has never
known disobedience. As for Paul, ignorant of what had been decided upon,
and alarmed by the secret conversations which were going on around him,
he became very melancholy.

“They are plotting something against my happiness,” he mused, “ since
they are so careful to conceal it.” When, however, they began buying the
dresses which were necessary for Virginia's voyage, the truth dawned upon
him.

Virginia was prettier than ever in her white muslin dress, lined with rose-
colored taffeta. Her beautiful form was displayed to advantage by her cor-
set, while the mass of her light hair was caught up negligently by a simple
head dress. Her fine eyes were filled with sadness ; and the struggle of the
passion which agitated her heart flushed her cheek, and lent emotion to her
voice. Indeed, the contrast between her gay dress and pensive look made
her more interesting than usual, nor was it possible to see or hear her with-
out being moved.

Margaret, distressed by the dejection of her son, decided at length to
enlighten him on the true state of affairs.

“Why will you keep up such vain hopes?” she said. “You only render
your disappointment the more bitter. It is time that I should tell you the
326 JACQUES HENRI BERNARDIN DE ST.-PIERRE.

 

secret of your life and mine. Virginia belongs, through her mother, to a
rich and noble family, while you are but the son of a poor peasant girl; and,
what is worse, you are a natural child.”

Paul, to whom these words conveyed but little meaning, questioned his
mother anxiously.

“You have no legitimate father,” she replied. ‘I was guilty and you
must suffer for it. My poor boy, you have no relation in the world but
me.” Margaret burst into tears.

“Mother, mother,” cried Paul, “if we are alone, we will love each other
all the more for it. I love you more than ever now. But I can see why
Virginia has kept away from me for the last two months. I see why she is
going. I see that she despises me.”

One evening shortly after this Paul found Virginia seated by the spring.
The moon was rising, her light gradually spreading itself over the mountains,
whose peaks glistened with silvery green. The soft cry of the birds could
be heard, exalting in the brightness of the night; while the grass seemed
alive with the hum of insects.

“Virginia,” he said, “they tell me that you are going in three days.”

“T must do my duty,” she replied simply.

“You must go?” he cried. “You must leave ws for one whom you have
never seen? Is that your duty?”

“They tell me it is the will of God,” she answered.

“Yes,” he said; “ you find no reasons for remaining, and plenty for going;
one above all. Riches have great attractions, and you will find in the new
country to which you are going another whom you will call brother. You
will no more call me by that name. But will you be happier? Will you
find others who will love you as we love you? Cruel! What will we do?
—what will 7 do—in the morning when I shall see you no more —when the
evening comes and I do not find you ?

“Oh let me go with you on the ship. I will give you courage, I will lay
your head on my breast, I will watch over you as your slave, happy only in
your happiness.” His voice was broken with emotion,

“It is for you that I go,” sobbed Virginia ; “ for you whom I see every
day laboring for our support. If I get riches it is only to repay you the good
you have done us. Oh Paul, Paul, you are dearer to me than a brother.
How can I tear myself from you? What can I do? I will stay or go, I will
live or die ;—do with me what you will.”

Paul, seizing her in his arms, pressed her to him, as he cried :

“Twill go with you — nothing shall divide us!"

Madame de la Tour and Margaret, who had witnessed this scene from a
distance, came towards them as they heard this.
PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 327

 

““My son,” cried Madame de la Tour; “my son, if you go what will
become of us?”

Paul, trembling, repeated the words : —

“ My son ?— My son ?— You my mother? you who would separate your
children? She is everything to me ; riches, birth, family, my sole good. If
she goes, I will follow her. Can you prevent my throwing myself into the
sea?”

“Oh, Paul,” cried Virginia in a fright ; “‘ remember, whether I go or re-
main, I live for you alone. Icall everyone to witness. I will return to you,
Paul.”

As the ice of the Apennines is softened and dissolved by the sun, so was
the young man subdued by the voice of Virginia. He bowed his head, and
his eyes were full of tears. They led him away, submissive ; and confided
him to the care of a friend, with whom he passed the night.

The next morning, as he was returning home, he stood fora moment on
the rocky heights surrounding the valley ; and, as he gazed seaward, he saw,
far out on the ocean, the fading outline of a ship. They had deceived him:
Virginia had sailed unexpectedly in the night. This, then, was the reason
they had sent him away. A hard look came into his face, and, turning on
his heel, he descended quickly into the valley. He passed the cottages,
without noticing them; and, crossing the plantation, ascended the steeps
on the other side, from which one had the most unimpeded view of the
ocean,

He remained there the greater part of the day, his eyes glued on the
vessel far out at sea,—a black speck on the waste of waters. When it had
faded from his view he imagined that he still saw it, till even this fancy was
dissipated by the gathering mists, and, burying his face in his hands, he
threw himself upon the ground.

From that time he was greatly changed, wandering about by himself, and
seeking those spots which had been most dear to Virginia. He studied geog-
raphy that he might follow her course upon the map.

More than a year and a half passed away before Madame de la Tour
received any word from her daughter. She had, indeed, heard that the vessel
had arrived safely in France, but nothing more: so, when at last a letter
arrived in Virginia’s own handwriting all were overjoyed.

“My dear mother :” ran the letter.

“T have already sent you several letters, but, having received no answer,
I fear they have not reached you. I have felt very sad since our separa-
tion. My aunt was much astonished, when, on asking me what my accom-
plishments were, I told her that I could neither read nor write. She then
asked me what I Aad learned since I came into the world ; and when I an-

‘
328 JACQUES HENRI BERNARDIN DE ST.-PIERRE.

 

swered that I had been taught to take care of household affairs she told me
that I had received the education of a servant

“The next day she placed me as a boarder in a great abbey near Paris,
where I have masters of all kinds, but I do not make much progress in the
things that they try to teach me. But I studied hard to read and write, that
I might be able to write to you. I think that all my former letters were
intercepted by my aunt. She has forbidden my holding any correspondence
whatever, which might, she says, become an obstacle to the great plans she
had for my future. No person is allowed to see me at the grate but herself
and an old nobleman, one of her friends, who, she says, is much pleased
with me.”

“Though I live in the midst of wealth, I have not a sou at my disposal.
Even my clothes belong to my waiting-maids, who quarrel about them before
I have left them off. My aunt made me take the title of Countess, and
made me renounce the name of La Tour, which is very dear to me, for it is
your own.”

Though Virginia's letter was welcome, it grieved them all, especially
Paul, who was surprised at her forgetfulness of him; there being in the
postscript only a few words requesting him tu plant some flower seeds which
she had enclosed. Were he familiar with a woman’s heart, he would have
known that she always reserves for the end of her letter those thoughts and
wishes which are the most dear to her. But what still more disturbed him
was the fact, that some people who had come over in the ship which had
brought Virginia’s letter, said that she was about to be married to a noble-
man of the court. Some even declared that she was already married, and
asserted that they had witnessed the ceremony. Paul became very unhappy.
Since he had learned to read he had pored over the novels depicting the life
of the day, in order that he might figure to himself the surroundings in
which Virginia moved. These books had by no means reassured him. In
them he read of crimes, debaucheries, the heartless greed, and lust for
wealth and power; men and women sclling themselves for gold with an
abandon of which he had never dreamed. He feared for Virginia sur-
rounded by these things, which were so strange and frightful to his simple
way of thinking.

For a long time they received no news of Virginia; but early one De-
cember morning, as Paul arose, he saw a white flag flying upon the mountain,
which was the customary signal that a vessel had been sighted. He hastened
to the town to hear the news ; and when the pilot, who had been sent out
to the becalmed vessel by the Governor, returned, he learned that the vessel
was the Safat Geran, of several hundred tons burden, and, though she was
now four leagues out at sea, she expected to anchor in the port on the fol-

‘
PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 329

 

lowing afternoon, should the wind spring up in the meantime. The pilot
brought with him several letters from the ship, among which was one to
Madame de la Tour, in Virginia’s handwriting.

Paul, seizing the letter with transport, flew back to the plantation. As
he waved the letter in the air, the whole family gathered around; and Ma-
dame de la Tour, opening it, read it aloud.

Virginia wrote that she had suffered much cruel treatment from her aunt,
who, after having urged her in vain to a repugnant marriage, had disinher-
ited her. She was on the Saint Géran.

They were all transported with joy at the news ; and Paul and Domingo,
together with the old man from whose lips I have this story, set out to
inform the neighbors of Virginia’s arrival. I will continue the narrative, as
much as possible, in the words in which I heard it.

Paul was determined to start that very evening for the port, for the
vessel might anchor at daybreak, if the wind was favorable. So we set off.
As we were traversing the woods which cover the mountain side, we met a
negro, who was hastening with all speed to the Governor, with a message.
There was a ship from France, he told us, anchored off the island of Amber,
firing guns of distress, for the sea had become very heavy.

“Tet us go to that part of the island,” said I to Paul, and he instantly
assented,

The heat was suffocating. The moon had risen, surrounded by three
large black circles. The clouds hung low and ominous, lighted at times
with vivid flashes of sheet lightning. At times we thought we heard the
roll of distant thunder, but it proved later that it was the echo of the signal
guns.

At midnight we arrived at the sea-shore. The sea broke upon the beach
with terrific force, covering the rocks with dazzling white foam, On the
beach, seated around a fire, were a group of fishermen, who told us that in
the afternoon they had seen a vessel driven towards the shpre by the sea,
and since the night had hid it from their view they had heard distress guns
fired through the darkness, but that the sea was too violent to put out a
boat. 6

We remained with them till daylight, and about seven in the morning the
Governor appeared followed by a file of soldiers. After arranging them
in a line upon the beach, he ordered a general discharge of firearms, and
instantly we saw a spark of light far out on the water, immediately followed
by the report of a gun. It was the ship, and we were soon able to distin-
guish her hull and rigging looming up through the fog which was con-
stantly driving across the water. It was the Saat Géran. The Governor
had great signal fires lighted on the sand, sending out in the meantime for
330 JACQUES HENRI BERNARDIN DE ST.-PIERKE.

 

cables, provisions and all manner of things by which we might be able to
aid them. A great crowd of people had by this time collected on the shore.

It was then that I heard an old man go up to the Governor and say :

“T have heard all night, hoarse noises in the mountain and in the for-
est; the leaves of the trees are shaken ; the sea birds seek refuge upon the
land ; it is certain that all these signs announce a hurricane.”

Towards nine o'clock, there came a terrible sound across the ocean ; the
crash of thunder, and the voice of angry waters.

There was a general cry: ‘The hurricane, the hurricane!” and in a
moment a frightful whirlwind scattered the fog, and the Sant Géran stood
in full view, her galley crowded with people, her yards and main topmast
fallen across her deck, her flag in tatters ; while four cables held her at the
bow and one at the stern.

Her bow was presented to the waves, which rolled in from the open sea;
and, as each billow rushed into the narrow straits, the ship she heaved so that
her keel was in the air; while at the next moment her stern, plunging into the
water, disappeared altogether, as if she were swallowed up by the surges.
The sea, swelling with the violence of the wind, rose higher every moment;
and the channel between our island and the isle of Amber was but one vast
sheet of white foam, broken by the yawning pits of the huge black billows.

Through the violent efforts of the ship, it happened as we feared. The
cables at the bow were torn away ; and then, being held by only one, she
was instantly dashed upon the rocks at half a cable’s distance from the
shore.

Amid the cry of horror which issued from the spectators, Paul rushed
toward the sea; but I held him back, crying: ** Do you wish to perish!"

“Let me go!” hecried. ‘“ Let me go and save her; or it will kill me.”
Knowing that it was useless to reason with him, Domingo and I fastened a
long cord about his waist ; after which Paul dashed into the sea.

Sometimes we thought that he might gain the ship, but in the next
moment he would be covered with mountains of water; and finally he was
thrown upon the beach, torn and bleeding, half dead. But, when he
recovered consciousness, he again sprany into the sea, towards the vessel,
whose sides were now yawning asunder from the cruel strokes of the
billows.

At length we saw the crew, despairing of their lives, throwing themselves
in crowds into the sea ; clinging to yards, planks, anything that might afford
them a support.

It was then that a pitiable sight met our view. High up on the galley
of the tossing ship, stretching out her arms, appealingly towards the shore,
stood the slim figure of a girl, It was Virginia, ‘There she stood, waving
PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 331

 

at times with her hands, as a farewell to her lover, whom she had undoubtedly
discovered in the surf.

All the sailors had thrown themselves into the sea except one; who,
strong as a Hercules and stripped of his clothes, approached Virginia and
knelt at her feet. Then he tried to force her to trust herself to the sea,
but she repulsed him gently, turning away her head.

“ Save her, save her!” shouted the multitude on the shore; but at that
moment a billow, enormous in height, rolled towards the ship, and, rearing
its crested head and bellowing sides, swallowed up everything.

Borne by the rushing waters came a mass of debris, dashing upon the
shore, and carrying with it the sailor who had stood at Virginia’s side
and the bruised, senseless body of Paul, who was bleeding from mouth
and ears.

After we had placed Paul in the care of a surgeon, Domingo and I ran
along the beach, looking for the body of Virginia, but our search was fruit-
less. But after Paul, who had commenced to regain his consciousness, had
been carried home, we heard that a great mass of the wreck had been
washed ashore on the other side of the bay ; and when we arrived there
the first object that met our view was the body of Virginia. Though she
was half covered with sand, the features were not much changed. Her
eyes were closed, her countenance was serene; but her cheeks were livid
with the shadows of death. Her hand, which was tightly closed, was held
against her breast; and with difficulty I managed to extract from its
stiffened grasp a small box. It contained the picture that Paul had given
her; and which she had promised to never part with while she lived. She
had kept her promise.

Paul, when he had recovered from his bodily injuries, was a different
being. He would wander alone, melancholy and sombre, seeking the
places where with Virginia he had known so much of happiness. He would
not be comforted, and two months later he followed her whom he had loved
so well.

His body was laid by the side of Virginia’s, they were shaded by the same
tree; and afterwards the remains of the two mothers were placed by those
of their unhappy children. No marble marks the spot ; there is no inscrip-
tion of their virtues; but their memory is in many hearts, written in char-
acters which are indelible. :

Oh young lovers, so tenderly united! oh unfortunate mothers! No one
cultivates your now desolate fields, or inhabits your fallen huts! Your
goats are become wild, your orchards are destroyed, your birds are fled,.
and nothing is heard but the cry of the sparrow-hawk, who skims along
this valley of rocks.
 

 

JAMES BOSWELL
Bonn 1740. Se

OTLAND Dit, 1 me
JAMES BOSWELL.

James Boswell, who was born in Edinburgh, October 29, 1740, came of an old and hon-
orable family. His father, Alexander Boswell, was one of the Lords of Session of Scotland,
and bore the title of Lord Auchinleck ; his mother, Euphemia Erskine, was a descendant
of John Erskine, Earl of Mar, who was lord high-treasurer of Scotland from 1615 to 1630.
James studied at Edinburgh, and also at Glasgow, where he formed a friendship with
William Johnson Temple, with whom he corresponded during his whole life. Being un-
settled in his plans for life he visited London in 1760. Here he began to enjoy associating
with distinguished men, and to develop an ambition for intimate relations with them.
He possessed literary tastes and contributed some articles for the press. In 1762 he pub-
lished a humorous poem, The Cub at Newmarket, With his father’s consent he made a
tour of the continent before being called to the bar. Passing through London he was in-
troduced, May 16, 1763, to Samuel Johnson in the shop of a bookseller, Mr. Thomas Da-
vies. Proceeding to Utrecht he spent a few months there in the study of law. Then, after
visiting Voltaire and Rousseau, he went to Corsica and introduced himself to the patriot
General Paoli, who was celebrated as the leader of his countrymen in their resistance to the
Genoese. Returning home in 1766 he was admitted as an advocate. His Account of Cor-
sica, with Memoirs of Pascal Paoli, published in 1768, largely anecdotal in character,
abounding in lively descriptive passages, indicated Boswell’s power in biographical narration.
The success of the book, which was commended by Hume and others, and translated into
several languages, is believed to have turned the author’s head. In 1769 he married his
cousin, Margaret Montgomerie, who died in 1789. After this he occasionally visited London,
attracted by the singular intimacy that had sprung up between himself and a man thirty-one
years ais senior, and differing from him widely in temperament and character. In 1773,
through Johnson’s influence, Boswell became a member of the Literary Club; and during
the same year the two men made the tour of the Hebrides. In 1785, the year after John-
son’s death, he published his Journal of a Jour to the Hebrides. The volume was well
received, containing as it did much of Johnson’s entertaining conversation, which Boswell
had carefully recorded in his note-book. He at once began the preparation of his Life of
Johnson, Although he had spent less than three hundred days in company with his revered
idol since the introduction in 1763, Boswell had been unusually diligent in ‘‘ gathering the
tich fruits of Johnsonian wisdom.” ‘‘I cannot,” said he, ‘‘ allow any fragment whatever
that floats in my memory conceming the great subject of this work to be lost.” In 1791 his
‘ Life of Samuel Johnson, LL.D.” was published, ‘‘ the most delightful narrative in the lan-
guage,” according to Macaulay. ‘‘It is not speaking with exaggeration,” says Carlyle, ‘‘ but
with strict measured sobriety, to say that this book of Boswell’s will give us more real insight
into the history of England during those days than twenty other books falsely entitled his-
tories, which take to themselves that specific aim.”” Boswell, having removed to London, at-
tempted, in 1790, to secure a seat in Parliament, but was defeated after an expensive contest.
In a published volume of letters he makes this frank confession: ‘‘ Egotism and vanity
336 JAMES BOSWELL.

 

are the indigenous plants of my mind.” He died in 1795, leaving three sons and two
daughters.

Boswell was not only an egotist, he was full of conceit and vulgar vanity, coupled with an
utter lack of self-respect. Macaulay thought him one of the smallest men he ever knew.
His name was used as a proverbial expression for a bore. An officious, inquisitive parasite,
he was snubbed and suppressed, and made the laughing-stock of that brilliant company into
whose society he had intruded his unwelcome presence. Insensible to reproof and feeling no
sense of humiliation when slighted, he was never able to perceive that the laugh was at him.
His contemptible servility made him the constant butt of others’ ridicule ; and so great was
his thirst for notoriety that he paraded before the world those bright sayings which were
thrusts received for his own weakness and folly. Johnson, who described Boswell as a fellow
who had missed his only chance of immortality by not having been alive when the Dunciad
was written, was evidently annoyed that this man should have acted with the diligence of a
spy upon his conduct. When he first heard of Boswell's intention to write a life of him, he
declared that he would prevent it by taking Boswell’s.

THE LIFE OF SAMUEL: JOHNSON, LL, D.

Samuel Johnson was born in Lichfield, Staffordshire, England, September
18, 1709. His father, Michael Johnson, a bookseller in narrow circum-
stances, who used to open his shop in Birmingham on market day, was a
man of large robust body and strong active mind. From an early age young
Johnson was afflicted with scrofula, which disfigured his face and destroyed
the use of one eye. His mother once carried him to London to be touched
for the King’s evil by Queen Anne; but the royal touch proved of no avail.
At the age of ten he began to study Latin with Mr. Hawkins, continuing his
studies under Mr. Hunter, head-master of the school in Lichfield, who en-
forced instruction by means of the rod, and would say while flogging the
boys: “This I do, to save you from the gallows.” Though he did not join
his school-fellows in their sports, they always treated him with deference,
and would sometimes carry him to school on their shoulders. His natural
indolence was in a measure overcome by his great desire to excel. He was
fond of reading the romances of chivalry ; and these extraordinary fictions
gave him that unsettled turn of mind which prevented his ever fixing in any
profession, At the age of fifteen he entered the school at Stourbridge,
where he remained one year, receiving little benefit, except from the personal
influence of the master, Mr. Wentworth, Here he gave proofs of his poet-
ical genius, in school exercises and other oceasional composition.

‘The two years following Johnson spent loitering at home, with no settled
plan of life. While he read in a desultory manner, as chance threw books
THE LIFE OF SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL. D. 337

 

in his way, the books were all of a high order. Searching one day for
apples, which he thought his brother had hidden on an upper shelf in the
father’s shop, he found a folio of Petrarch and read it with great avidity.
But his mind was enriched by roaming at large in the fields of litera-
ture, and he was thought well qualified for the university, where he gave an
impression of extensive reading.

Johnson entered as a commoner of Pembroke College, Oxford, in Octo-
ber, 1728, being in his nineteenth year. Having given a specimen of his
poetical powers, at the request of his tutor he translated Pope’s Messiah
into Latin verse as a Christmas exercise, an effort which brought him great
applause, Pope himself saying that posterity would question which was
original and which translation. He read carefully the Greek of Homer and
Euripides, and was fond of metaphysics. He had a peculiar facility in
seizing at once what was valuable in any book without perusing it from
beginning to end; later in life a friend remarked, “he gets at the substance
of a book directly ; he tears out the heart of it.” His poverty, which was so
extreme that his feet sometimes appeared through his worn-out shoes, com-
pelled him after three years to leave college without a degree.

Soon after this, his father, who had fallen into a state of insolvency,
died, the son receiving only twenty pounds out of his effects. After
acting as usher in a school at Market Bosworth, a position which was painful
drudgery to him, Johnson went to Birmingham. Here he did some writing
for a periodical ; formed the acquaintance of Mr. Porter, whose widow he
afterwards married ; and performed his first literary work, a translation of
Father Lobo’s Voyage to Abyssinia. Being thus led to study the history
and manners of Abyssinia was the remote occasion of his subsequently
writing that philosophical tale, the principal scene of which was laid in this
country.

July oth, 1736, Johnson married Mrs. Elizabeth Porter, whose age was
double his own, and at once opened a private school at Edial, near Lichfield.
But few pupils were placed under his care, one of whom was David Garrick.
He did not find the work of teaching agreeable ; neither was he profoundly
reverenced by his pupils, to whom his oddities of manner, uncouth gesticu-
lations and awkward fondness for Mrs. Johnson were a subject of merriment.
The school was discontinued after a year and a half, when Johnson, accom-
panied by Garrick,went to try his fortune in London. Returning after a few.
months to Lichfield, where he had left Mrs. Johnson, he there completed
his tragedy Jrene, and then removed permanently to London. In 1738 he
became connected with Zhe Gentleman’s Magazine, writing literary and
biographical articles, and revising the contributions of others, and thus
obtaining a tolerable livelihood. His Parliamentary Debates, which
338 JAMES BOSWELL.

 

attracted wide attention and increased the popularity of the magazine, were
written either from scanty notes furnished by persons employed to attend,
or as the mere carriage of his own imagination, and imitated closely the
respective style of each speaker. These were continued about three years.

Learning that the speeches were thought genuine he determined to write
no more of them, for “he would not be accessory to a falsehood ; and such
was the tenderness of his conscience that a few days before his death
he expressed regret for having been the author of fictions which passed for
realities.” The publication in May, 1738, of his Zondon, a poem in
imitation of the Zhird Satire of Juzenal, first displayed the author's power
and gave the world assurance of the man. This poem, for which he
received but ten guineas, contains the couplet :

“ This mournful truth is everywhere confessed :
SLOW RISES WORTH, BY POVERTY DEPRESSED.”

Galled by his own narrow circumstances, he marked the last of these
lines by capitals. His letters to Mr. Cave, editor of the magazine, indicate
that he was living from hand to mouth, needing each guinea as soon as

he had earned it. ‘If you could spare me another guinea for the history I
should take it very kindly to-night.” “I will be glad if what you give you
will give quickly.” One letter to Mr. Cave he concludes thus: ‘I am, sir,

yours, ?#pransus, Sam. Johnson,” a fair confession that he had not a dinner.

Feeling the hardship of writing for bread he made two attempts to eman-
cipate himself from the drudgery of authorship. But these efforts failed.
He could not secure the mastership cf the school at Appleby without the
degree of Master of Arts, which Oxford refused to grant ; and he could not
practice in the commons as an advocate without a doctor’s degree in civil
law. In 1744 he produced Zhe Life ef Richard Savage, composing the
work with great rapidity. Sir Joshua Reynolds told Boswell that he took
up the book, knowing nothing of its author, and began to read it, with his
arm leaning against a chimney-piece. It seized his attention so strongly
that, not being able to lay down the book until he had finished it, when he
attempted to move he found his arm totally benumbed. Johnson's
pamphlet, Odservations on the Tragedy ef Macbeth, published in 1745, was
favorably mentioned by Warburton in the preface to his edition of Shak-
speare as the production of "a man of parts; of which commendation
Johnson said, ** He praised me at a time when praise was of value to me.”
In 1747 his Dictionary of the English Language was announced by the pub-
lication of its prospectus. For this work the contracting publishers paid the
author £1,575, and Johnson removed to Gough Square, in Fleet Street, where
he employed for a time six amanuenses for the mechanical part of the labor.
THE LIFE OF SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL. D. 339
When his friend, Dr. Adams, expressed surprise that he could do the work in
three years while the French Academy with it forty members took forty
to compile their dictionary, Johnson replied: “This is the proportion; forty
times forty is sixteen hundred. As three to sixteen hundred, so is the propor-
tion of an Englishman to a Frenchman.” Boswell having noted Johnson’s
habitually gloomy cast of thought, observes that the steady employment of
all his time while engaged upon the dictionary was the best preventive of
the constitutional melancholy which was ever lurking about him. His poem,
The Vanity of Human Wishes, an imitation of the Tenth Satire of Juvenal,
which was published in 1749, and for which he received fifteen guineas,
was composed with fervid rapidity, seventy lines of it in one day without
putting one of them upon paper until they were finished. About this time
Garrick, who had become manager of Drury Lane Theatre, undertook to
bring out the tragedy /rene. Difficulties were encountered, however, for
Johnson could not brook that his work should be revised and altered at the
pleasure of an actor, and his former pupil.

In 1750 Johnson appeared in the character of a teacher of moral and
religious wisdgm, publishing Zhe Rambler every Tuesday and Saturday
for two years. ‘That the work was undertaken with devout and conscien-
tious sentiments is evidenced by the prayer composed and offered on the
occasion. Of these essays, which embrace discourses on practical religion
and moral duty, critical investigations and allegorical and Oriental tales,
Boswell remarks: “In no writings can be found more bark and steel for the
mind, more that can brace and invigorate every manly sentiment.’’ In March,
1752, Mrs. Johnson died, an event which caused him deep and lasting grief.

In 1735 Oxford gave him the degree of Master of Arts, and his dictionary
was published; the original plan of which had been addressed to Lord
Chesterfield, the Secretary of State, who, however, took little notice of the
author until the dictionary was on the eve of publication, when he began
to write in “The World” letters expressing lofty contempt, and polite yet
keen satire. His introducing his own opinions and even prejudices under
general definitions of words, e. g., Tory, Whig, Pension, Oats, Excise, while
at the same time the original meaning of the words is not explained, Bos-
well says cannot be defended, but must be set to the account of capricious
and humorous indulgence. When a lady asked him how he came to define
Pastern, “the knee of a horse,” instead of making an elaborate defense, as
she expected, he at once answered: “Ignorance, Madam, pure ignorance.”
This work brought him great fame, and he came to be known as “ Dic-
tionary Johnson.”

After the publication of the Dictionary, Johnson wrote miscellaneous
essays for The Literary Magazine, declined a living of considerable value in
340 JAMES BOSWELL.

 

Lincolnshire which was offered him if he would enter holy orders ; and, in
1758, began the publication of Zhe J/dler, a series of weekly essays,
which was continued two years, and in which he exhibited admirable in-
stances of that grave humor of which he had an uncommon share.

In 1759 Johnson’s mother died, at the age of ninety. His reverential
affection for her was not abated by years; he had written affectionate let-
ters, and contributed liberally to her support. In his last letter he said: “I
thank you for your indulgence to me, and beg forgiveness for all that I have
done ill and all that I have omitted to do well.” He wrote Rasselas, the
Prince of Abyssinia, that with the profits he might defray the expenses of
his mother’s funeral and pay some little debts she had left. He told Rey-
nolds that he composed it in the evenings of one week, sent it to the press
in portions as it was written, and had never since read it over. George IIL,
soon after his accession, granted Johnson, who was mentioned to him asa
very learned and good man, without any certain provision, a pension of £300
a year. Unfortunately, Johnson had in the Dictionary defined pension as
“generally understood to mean pay given to a state hireling for treason to
his country.” After some hesitation he accepted the pension, being assured
by Lord Bute, the Prime Minister, “It is not given you for anything you are
to do, but for what you have done.”

In 1763 Boswell formed the acquaintance of Johnson, and began at the
first interview to make a minute of his conversation. He used frequently to
sit up all the night recollecting and writing in his journal what he thought
worthy of preservation. He apologizes for the imperfect manner in which
he at first exhibits Johnson’s conversation. But ‘in progress of time, when
my mind was as it were strongly impregnated with the Johnsonian ether,
I could with much more facility and exactness carry in my memory
the exuberant variety of his wisdom and wit.” In February, 1764, the
famous “ Literary Club was formed, which numbered among its original
members Samuel Johnson, Sir Joshua Reynolds, Edmund Burke, and Oliver
Goldsmith.

In July, 1765, Trinity College, Dublin, conferred upon Johnson the
degree of Doctor of Laws, an unsolicited mark of distinction, In October
of the same year he published his edition of Shakespeare, upon which he
had been engaged for many years. In the preface he displays both the
excellencics and defects of the immortal bard. While there had been here-
tofore a blind, indiscriminate admiration of Shakespeare, Johnson, by
candidly admitting the faults of the poet, had the more credit in bestowing
on him deserved and indisputable praise. In 1767 Johnson enjoved a
private conversation with King George III., in the library at the Queen's
house ; and in 1769, the King having established the Royal Academy of
THE LIFE OF SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL. D. 341
Arts in London, Johnson was appointed Professor in Ancient Literature.
His friend, Mr. Strahan, the printer, made an unsuccessful effort in 1771
to secure him a seat in the House of Commons. In 1773, in company with
Boswell, he made a tour to the highlands of Scotland and the Hebrides ;
and each of them afterwards published an account of the trip. Later in
life Johnson said of his tour that he got an acquisition of more ideas by it
than by anything that he remembered. Of books of travel he once
remarked: “They will be good in proportion to what a man has previously
in his mind; his knowing what to observe; his power of contrasting one
mode of life with another. As the Spanish proverb says: ‘He who would
bring home the wealth of the Indies must carry the wealth of the Indies
with him,’ so it is in traveling. A man must carry knowledge with him if
he would bring home knowledge.” Of his “Journey to the Western Islands
of Scotland,” one appreciative critic said: ‘There are in that book
_thoughts which by long revolution in the great mind of Johnson have been
formed and polished like pebbles rolled in the ocean.” Johnson often took
occasion to express his inveterate dislike for Scotland. He once said to
Boswell: ‘I wonder how I should have any enemies for I do harm to
nobody.” Boswell replied: ‘In the first place you will be pleased to
recollect that you set out with attacking the Scotch; so you got a whole
nation for your enemies.” Johnson then acknowledged that by his defini-
tion of oats, “a grain fed to horses in England and to men in Scotland,” he
meant to vex the Scotch. He objected to the extreme nationality of the
Scotch. In the heat of the controversy over the authenticity of the poems
of Ossian, he declared that Scotchmen “loved Scotland better than truth.”
But he said, ‘I will do you, Boswell, the justice to say, that you are the
most un-Scotchified of your countrymen. You are almost the only instance
of a Scotchman that I have known who did not at every other sentence
bring in some other Scotchman.” Remarking on the general insufficiency
of education in Scotland, he said: “Their learning is like bread in a
besieged town ; every man gets a little, but no man gets a full meal.” Nor
would he allow Scotland to derive any credit from Lord Mansfield, as he
was educated in England. “Much may be made of a Scotchman, if he be
caught young.” When Mr. Ogilvie had remarked that Scotland had a great
many noble, wild prospects, “I believe, sir, you have a great many,” replied
Johnson, “ Norway, too, has noble wild prospects, and Lapland is remark-
able for prodigious noble wild prospects. But, sir, let me tell you, the
noblest prospect which a Scotchman ever sees, is the high-road that leads
him to England.”

In 1775 Oxford conferred upon him the degree of Doctor of Laws;
and now he was first willing to be addressed as Doctor Johnson, though
342 JAMES BOSWELL.

 

Dublin had ten years before given him the title. During this year he pub-
lished, probably at the desire of those in power, a pamphlet entitled, ‘‘ Taxa-
tion no Tyranny: an Answer to the Resolutions and Addresses of the
American Congress."" As early as 1769, Dr. John Campbell reported that
Johnson had said of his fellow-subjects in America: ‘Sir, they are a race
of convicts, and ought to be thankful for anything we allow them, short of
hanging.” Andon another occasion he declared: “I am willing to love
all mankind, except an American.” When the pamphlet “Taxation no
Tyranny” was subsequently mentioned in his presence, he remarked: “I
think I have not been attacked enough for it. Attack is reaction: I never
think I have hit hard unless it rebounds.”

In September, 1775, Dr. Johnson set out with Mr. and Mrs. Thrale on a
tour in France, the only time in his life that he ever went upon the conti-
nent. Mr. Thrale was a rich brewer, living in Southwark, whose acquaint-
ance Johnson had made a few years previously, the acquaintance with the
family soon ripening into mutual friendship. He often dined with these
friends, and accompanied them on various excursions; and finally apart-
ments were given him in their villa at Streatham, which he occupied until
after the death of Mr. Thrale. While in France, Dr. Johnson spoke the
Latin, as it was a maxim with him that a man should not let himself down
by speaking a language which he speaks imperfectly. When on one occa-
sion Sir Joshua Reynolds presented him to a Frenchman of great distinc-
tion, he persisted in speaking Latin, though his excellency could not under-
stand it. In 1776 Dr. Johnson wrote the epitaph for Oliver Goldsmith in
Westminster Abbey. When some of his friends requested him to write it in
English rather than Latin, he replied that he would never consent to dis-
grace the walls of Westminster Abbey with an English inscription,

Before the organization of the Literary Club, Johnsor one day received
a message from Goldsmith that he was in distress, and begging him to
come. He sent a guinea, and followed as soon as he was dressed. He
found Goldsmith in a violent passion, as his landlady had arrested him for
rent. He had, however, already changed the guinea, and got a bottle of
Madeira and a glass before him. Johnson put the cork in the bottle and be-
gan to talk calmly of the means by which he might be extricated. He
looked into the novel which Goldsmith produced, Zhe Uicar of Wakefield,
saw its merit, went out and sold it to a bookseller for sixty pounds,
and brought the money to Goldsmith, who discharged the rent. The two
men were thereafter warm friends. Johnson said of Zhe Traveler,
“There has not been so fine a poem since Pope's time.” Boswell savs it
was generally circulated and believed that Goldsmith was a mere fool in
conversation, Walpole said he was “an inspired idiot,” and Garrick
THE LIFE OF SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL. D. 343

 

described him as one, “ . . . . . for shortness, called Noll, Who
wrote like an angel, and talked like poor Poll.” Johnson once declared that
“No man was more foolish when he had not a pen in his hand, or more
wise when he had.’”’ Goldsmith had an incessant desire to be conspicuous in
company, and was jealous of the extraordinary attention everywhere paid to
Johnson. He would sometimes become angry and leave the company if he
did not himself speak to advantage. Mr. Langton once observed that he
was not like Addison, who was content with the fame of his writings, and
did not aim also at excellence in conversation, for which he found himself
unfit, adding. that Addison said to a lady who complained of his having
talked little in company, “ Madam, I have but ninepence in ready money,
but I can draw for a thousand pounds.” Goldsmith thought he could write
a good fable, and mentioned the simplicity which that kind of composition
required ; observing that in most fables the animals introduced seldom talk
in character. ‘For instance, the fable of the little fishes who saw birds
flying over their heads, and, envying them, petitioned Jupiter to be changed
into birds. The skill consists in making them all talk like little fishes.”
Observing that Johnson was shaking his sides and laughing, Goldsmith
added : “ Why, Dr. Johnson, this is not so easy as you seem to think; if
you were to make little fishes talk, they would talk like whales.” “It is a
man’s own fault,” said Dr. Johnson, then in his seventieth year. “It is from
want of use, if his mind grows stupid in old age.” It was during that year,
1779, that the first four volumes of his “ Prefaces, Biographical and Crit-
ical, to the Most Eminent of the English Poets,” appeared. In 1781 the
work was finished, of which the author gave this account : “Some time in
March I finished Zhe Lives of the Poets, which I wrote in my usual way,
dilatorily and hastily, unwilling to work, and working with vigor and haste.”
Johnson himself considered the Zzfe of Cowley the best of the series, on ac-
count of the dissertation it contains on the metaphysical poets. In the
Life of Milton he maintained his opinion of the excellence of rhyme over
blank verse, quoting the language of an eminent critic, that the latter
“seems to be verse only to the eye.” In 1784, the last year of his life, Dr.
Johnson visited Oxford and spent a few days with his old friend, Dr.
Adams. He always retained an affectionate regard for Pembroke College,
and used to boast of the many eminent men educated there. Mentioning
those who were poets, he would add, with a smile of sportive triumph : ‘We
are a nest of singing birds.” He also visited Birmingham and Lichfield.
To Henry White, with whom he formed an intimacy, he said that, though he
could not in general accuse himself of having been an undutiful son, “Once,
indeed, I was disobedient : I refused to attend my father to Uttoxeter mar-
ket. ‘Pride was the source of that refusal, and the remembrance of it was
344 JAMES BOSWELL.

 

painful. A few years ago I decided to atone for this fault. I went to Ut-
toxeter in very bad weather, and stood for a considerable time bare-headed
in the rain on the spot where my father’s stall used to stand. In contrition
I stood, and I hope the penance was expiatory.”

When Boswell called on Johnson soon after he had formed his acquaint-
ance he “found his apartment and furniture and morning dress sufficiently
uncouth.” Another friend described his personal appearance thus, “ Down
from his bed chamber, about noon, came, as newly risen, a huge, uncouth
figure, with a little dark wig which scarcely covered his head, and his clothes
hanging loose about him.’’ His peculiar march is thus described : “ When
he walked the streets, what with the constant roll of his head, and the con-
comitant motion of his body, he appeared to make his way by that motion
independent of his feet,” Everything about his character and manners was
forcible and violent ; there never was any moderation. Many a day did he
fast, many a year did he refrain from wine; but when he did eat it was
voraciously, when he did drink wine it was copiously. He could practice
abstinence but not temperance. In conversation Dr. Johnson was often in
the humor of opposition. He loved to display his ingenuity in argument,
and would sometimes maintain, with all the force of his reasoning and wit,
opinions which he knew were wrong. He could not brook appearing to be
worsted in argument even when he had taken the wrong side. When talk-
ing for victory he was determined to be master of the field. Goldsmith said
of him, using a sentiment from one of Cibber’s comedies: * There is no
arguing with Johnson ; for when his pistol misses fire he knocks you down
with the butt end of it.” And Dr. Taylor, his old school-friend, téstified :
“ There is no disputing with him. He will not hear you, and, having a louder
voice than you, must roar you down.” When Johnson received his pension,
it so happened that Dr. Shebbeare, a physician and political writer, was pen-
sioned at the same time, and it was waggishly remarked that the king had
pensioned a he-bear and a she-bear. But Goldsmith spoke kindly of his
friend, saying: “ Johnson, to be sure, has a roughness in his manner; but no
man alive has a more tender heart. He has nothing of the bear but his
skin.” Dr, Johnson was gratefully sensible of any kindness done to him,
and always ready to give assistance to others. Many instances are cited of
his active benevolence. His charity to the poor was uniform and extensive,
both from inclination and principle. Johnson was sensible to the power of
music. Having gone to see a funeral procession, and some solemn music
being played on French horns, he said: “ ‘This is the first time that I have
ever been affected by musical sounds.” Boswell never knew a man to laugh
more heartily. His laugh was a kind of gooud-humored growl; or, as de-
scribed by ‘Tom Davies, “he laughs like a rhinoceros,” In a pamphlet,
THE LIFE OF SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL. D. 345

 

Modern Characters from Shakespeare, the line “you must borrow me Gar-
gantua’s mouth,” was applied to Dr. Johnson, because, as he explained to
Miss Reynolds, he used big words which required the mouth of a giant to
pronounce them. He owned that he used “too big words and too many of
them;” yet he seemed to take pleasure in his own style, and when he care-
lessly missed it he would repeat the thought in larger words. For example,
talking of the comedy of The Rehearsal, he said: “It has not wit enough
to keep it sweet,” and then added: “It has not vitality enough to preserve
it from putrefaction.” Sir Joshua once observed to him that he had talked
above the capacity of some people with whom they had been in company
together. “No matter, sir,” said Johnson, “they consider it a compliment
to be talked to as if they were wiser than they are. So true is this, that Bax-
ter made it a rule in every sermon he preached to say something that was
above the capacity of his audience.”

Johnson’s early impressions of religion were received from his mother,
who, he afterwards thought, was somewhat lacking in judgment, since she
made Sunday a heavy day, confining him to read The Whole Duty of Man,
About his ninth year he fell into inattention to religion, and manifested a
reluctance to attend church. Later he became a lax talker against religion,
though not thinking against it. While in Oxford, Law’s Serious Call to a
Holy Life, which he afterwards commended as “the finest piece of horta-
tory theology in any language,” led him to think in earnest of religion.
From this time religion was a predominant object of his thoughts ; though
he lamented that his practice of its duties fell far short of what it ought to
be. His conduct when he first came to London and associated with Richard
Savage was not strictly virtuous. He was not free from propensities which
were ever “ warring against the law of his mind:” and in his combats with
them he was sometimes overcome. Such lapses caused him deep distress.
He was accustomed to observe New Year’s Day, Good Friday, Easter, his
own birthday, and the day of his wife’s death, with pious abstraction, scrupu-
lously examining himself, and rigorously censuring his conduct. His medi-
tations and prayers on these occasions manifest great tenderness of con-
science anda sincere desire of improvement. When a friend once remarked,
“One should think that sickness and the view of death would make more
men religious,” Johnson replied: “Sir, they do not know how to go about
it ; they have not the first notion. A man who has never had religion before
no more grows religious when he is sick than a man who has never learnt
figures can count when he has need of calculation.” Shortly before his
death he requested three things of Sir Joshua Reynolds: To forgive him
thirty pounds which he had borrowed of him ; to read the Bible; and never
to use his pencil on a Sunday. Sir Joshua readily acquiesced. Opening a
346 JAMES BOSWELL,
3

 

note which his servant had brought to him, he said: ‘An odd thought
strikes me, we shall receive no letters in the grave.” When Dr. Brocklesby
told him plainly that he could not recover, he refused to take opiates, “for,”
said‘he, ‘I have prayed that I may render up my soul to God unclouded.”
Dr, Samuel Johnson died December 13, 1784, and was laid in Westminster
Abbey beside Goldsmith.

GEMS FROM JOHNSON.

Oratory is the power of beating down your adversary’s arguments, and
putting better in their place.

Knowledge is of two kinds. We know a subject ourselves, or we know
where we can find information upon it.

Tacitus seems to me rather to have made notes for an historical work
than to have written a history.

I never take a nap after dinner but when I have had a bad night, and
then the nap takes me.

Getting money is not all a man’s business: to cultivate kindness is a
valuable part of the business of life.

“ Burton's Anatomy of Jelancholy,” he said, “ was the only book that ever
took him out of bed two hours earlier than he wished to rise.”

Hume would never have written history had not Voltaire written it be-
fore him. He is an echo of Voltaire.

If a man were to go by chance at the same time with Burke under a shed
to shun a shower, he would say : * This is an extraordinary man.”

Marriage is the best state for a man in general ; and every man is a
worse man, in proportion as he is untit for the marriage state.

Quotation is a good thing: there is a community of mind in it. Classical
quotation is the parole of literary men all over the world.

Whoever wishes to attain an English style, familiar but not coarse, and
elegant but not ostentatious, must give his days and nights to the volumes
of Addison.

If a man does not make new acquaintance as he advances through life,
he will soon find himself left alone. .\ man should keep his friendship in
constant repair.

Of ‘Thomas Sheridan, he said: “Sherry is dull, naturally dull: but it must
have taken him a great deal of pains to become what we now see him.
Such an excess of stupidity is not in nature.”

Of a gentleman who had been very unhappy in marriage, and who mar-
ricd again immediately after his wife died, Johnson said it was a triumph of
hope over eapericnce.
THE LIFE OF SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL. D. 347

 

When asked, if there was good conversation at the house of a friend,
where he had dined the day before, he replied : ‘‘ No, sir, we had talk enough,
but no conversation ; there was nothing discussed.”

There are minds so impatient of inferiority that their gratitude is a
species of revenge; and they return benefits, not because recompense is a
pleasure, but because obligation is a pain.—From “ The Rambler.”’

What we read with inclination makes a much stronger impression. If we
read without inclination, half the mind is employed in fixing the attention ;
so there is but one half to be employed on what we read.

Of David Garrick he said: “He was not Latin enough. He finds out the
Latin by the meaning, rather than the meaning by the Latin.”” When some
one remarked that Garrick was beginning to look old, he replied: “ Why, sir,
you are not to wonder at that ; no man’s face has had more wear and tear.”

When Hannah More expressed a wonder that Milton, who had written
Paradise Lost, should write such poor sonnets, he said: “Milton, madam,
was a.genius that could cut a colossus from a rock, but could not carve heads
upon cherry-stones. However inferior to the heroes who were born in better
ages, he (Milton) might still be great among his contemporaries, with the
hope of growing every day greater in the dwindle of posterity; he might
still be a giant among pygmies, the one-eyed monarch of the blind.”’

Dining one day at Sir Joshua Reynolds’, he harangued upon the qualities
of different liquors, and spoke of claret as so weak that a man would
drown in it before it made him drunk. “Claret,” said he, “is the liquor for
boys ; port for men: but he who aspires to be a hero, must drink brandy.”

We were now treading that illustrious island which was once the lumi-
nary of the Caledonian regions, whence savage clans and roving barbarians
derived the benefits of knowledge and the blessings of religion. To abstract
the mind from all local emotion would be impossible if it were endeavored,
and would be foolish if it were possible. Whatever withdraws us from the
power of our senses, whatever makes the past, the distant or the future pre-
dominate, over the present, advances us in the dignity of thinking beings.
Far from me, and far from my friends, be such frigid philosophy as may
conduct us, indifferent and unmoved, over ground which has been dignified
by wisdom, bravery or virtue. The man is little to be envied, whose patriot-
ism would not gain force upon the plain of Marathon, or whose piety would
not grow warmer among the ruins of lona——From “Journey to the Western
Islands of Scotland.”
 

 

 

 

 

JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE

Dico 1832

GERMANY

Boan 1749.
GO ET HE.

Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe was born in Frankfort, August 28, 1749. His father was
fond of art, and of German poetry. His mother was a very brilliant woman, from whom
young Goethe inherited much of the great versatility of his genius. He entered Leipsic
University at sixteen, spending three years there, and afterwards went to Strasburg Uni-
versity. His education was quite irregular, he giving his attention wholly to such studies
as suited his inclination. He began writing plays, songs, and poetry of all kinds, at an
early age, and in 1771 published his drama, Gétz Von Berlichingen, which was received with
the greatest favor throughout Germany, and made him almost instantly famous. The Sorrows
of Werther, a sentimental novel, followed in 1774, and gave a new impetus to his fame.

In 1775 the Grand Duke of Saxe Weimar invited him to spend some time at his Court,
and his home thereafter was principally at the little city of Weimar, which is best known to the
world, even now, as the residence of Goethe. In 1795 Wilhelm Meister, a philosophical
romance was published. It is undoubtedly autobiographical in very many respects, and con-
tains very much of his deepest and most subtle thought. Like most of his works, it seems
deficient in moral purposes, though full of beautiful sentiment and profound knowledge of
human nature. His moral creed, perhaps, is summed up in one of his own phrases:
“Everything that is natural is right.”

He was, throughout his life, a worshiper of nature. He appears to have aimed at the
universal self culture, which is to some extent the key-note of the Apprenticeship; and
poetry, art, science, the languages, philosophy and criticism, all seem to have received equal
-favor and attention at his hand.

He was handsome in person, magnetic and sympathetic in his intercourse with his friends
and worshipers. He died at Weimar, March 22, 1832.

WILHELM MEISTER’S APPRENTICESHIP.
FROM THE GERMAN OF GOETHE.

Translated by Thomas Carlyle.

Wilhelm Meister was the son of a wealthy merchant, who endeavored to
give the lad every advantage which would conduce to his thorough develop-
ment. It was his wish that the youth should become a successful merchant,
and be ready to take the place of his father in the extensive business which
was then under the control of Herr Meister and his partner, Herr Werner.
352 JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GUETHE.

The latter had a son who was in training of the same kind, and what could
be more suitable or more satisfactory to the old gentlemen than handing
over to their respective children the lucrative business enjoyed by them ?

To Wilhelm, however, the future revealed itself in very different colors
from those which gleamed before the eyes of his father. His temperament
was poetic, and with a necessarily limited knowledge of literature, he had
high hopes of fame as a poet and a dramatist. From his earliest childhood,
the glorious illusions of the theatre had been constantly before his mental
vision, and his amusements had been writing and acting tragedy and melo-
drama. His mind revolted at the thought of life in a counting room, with
its sordidness and dull material prosperity, while on the other hand, the
mimic world of the play-house gave him the scope his intellect so greatly
desired.

At the time of the opening of this story, his natural taste for poetry and
the drama, strengthened by a variety of circumstances throughout his early
life, had received an additional impetus of late, by his having fallen deeply
in love with a beautiful young actress, Mariana by name, who, in return,
became devotedly attached to him.

Wilhelm had made the acquaintance of a theatre manager named Serlo,
who, residing in a distant city, had expressed to Wilhelm admiration for his
abilities, and a desire that Wilhelm should come to him and make his debut
as an actor, under his direction, and at his theatre. Wilhelm intended to
leave home as soon as possible, and enter upon what appeared to his enthu-
siastic spirit, as a brilliant career. Under the influence of his enthusiasm, he
unburdened his heart to his mistress in a long letter, full of his love for her,
his admiration for the drama, his own high purpose to elevate it, and to make
it a power for the moral and intellectual advancement of the world. Among
many other lofty sentiments, he wrote as follows :

“My whole soul burns at the idea that I shall at length step forth and
speak to the hearts of men something they have long been yearning to hear.

. The theatre has often been at variance with the pulpit ; they
ought not, I think, to quarrel. Tfow much is it to be wished, that both the
celebration of nature and of God were intrusted to none but men of noble
minds! 2.) . Twill hope and trust that we two shall yet appear to men
asa pair of choice spirits, to unlock their hearts, to touch the recesses of
their nature, and prepare for them celestial joys.”

This letter never reached the party addressed. Withelm's friend and
prospective brother-in-luvy, young Werner, had endeavored in various ways
fo impart to Wilhelm his own doubts of the worthiness of Mariana. These
elorts were unsuccessful, until certain circumstances following close upon
Werner's statements seemed proof to Wilhelm that she was false to him.
WILHELM MEISTER'S APPRENTICESHIP. 353

 

The shock was a very severe one, ending ina violent fever. Upon his
recovery from illness, he felt that with his love, he must give up all his high-
est joys and hopes. A spirit of self-depreciation seized him. What he had
formerly regarded as real poetic talent seemed now to have been a delusion of
his fancy, and with spiteful criticism he passed the severest judgment on his
effusions. Much to the delight of his father, he gave himself up to trade,
assiduously busy in the counting-house. All the souvenirs of his love, and
with them his youthful poems, were remorselessly burned.

He became an excellent man of business, and in the course of time his
father dispatched him upon an important mercantile mission, which occupied
some months, he traveling, as was the custom of that day, on horseback.
His sudden escape from the restraints of the counting-house, and the many
and varied beauties of mountain and river scenery which were presented to
his mind as he journeyed, had a marvellous effect upon his spirits ; his mind
recurred to many dreams of his youth, the songs which he had written long
before came back to his memory, and he sang them with great enjoyment.

His business completed, he stopped for a day or two of rest at a cheerful
little town on the bank of a lovely river. As he dismounted at an inn, he
found there a company of rope dancers and jugglers, who were very noisy,
quarreling with the landlord and among themselves. Going to his room, he
met on the stairway a young creature dressed in a short silk waistcoat with
Spanish sleeves and tight trousers with puffs. Its long black curly hair was
wound about its head. The costume perplexed him, but he decided it to be
a girl, took her into his arms and asked her to whom she belonged. She
gave him no reply, but was plainly one of the vaulting and dancing company
at the inn.

Wilhelm soon picked up an acquaintance with a young man at the inn,
called Laertes, who informed him that he had been a member of an acting
company which went to pieces at that town a short while ago, and was
waiting there for a friend who had gone to find a situation for himself, for
Laertes and for another member of the company, a young woman named
Philina. He offered to introduce Wilhelm to Philina, and the three were
soon very good friends. While in Philina’s room, Wilhelm saw in the street
the child who had interested him in the inn, and Philina went down and
brought her to Wilhelm. He asked, ‘‘ What is thy name?” “ They call me
Mignon.” ‘ How old art thou?” “No one has counted.” “Who was thy
father?”” “The great Devil is dead.”

She appeared to be twelve or thirteen years old ; her countenance very
striking and full of mystery. Her answers were given with a strangely
solemn manner, every time laying her hands on her breast aud brow, and
bowing deeply, and Wilhelm’s eyes and his heart were irresistibly attracted.
354 JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE.

 

He soon after learned that she was in no way related to any of the
strolling company, and finding that she was cruelly treated by the black
bearded Italian manager, he persuaded that personage to sunder his claims
to her for thirty crowns. The Italian professed to know nothing of her
parentage or history, except that she had been given to him by his deceased
brother, a juggler, who had been called the Great Devil. Wilhelm's in-
terest in the child grew stronger from day to day, and in the society of the
lively Philina, the days passed rapidly by in the pleasant little town. Two
other actors, old acquaintances of his, Herr Melina and wife, made their ap-
pearance there, seeking an engagement.

Melina found that some of the property of the defunct theatre was for
sale, and he proposed to Wilhelm to advance money enough to purchase it.
Wilhelm objected strongly at first, but a number of other actors having ar-
rived, all seeking employment, Wilhelm reluctantly acquiesced, and the
property was placed in Melina’s hands. He immediately set to work pre-
paring for a short season in the town. Before the preparations were com-
pleted, however, an opportunity was offered to the company to play before
the Prince, at a castle in the neighborhood,

Wilhelm was invited to accompany them, but on many accounts was
averse to doing so. He felt that duty called him to abandon the Bohemian
life he was then leading, and to return home, while on the other hand, his
intense love for the dramatic art, for poetry and music, were holding him
fast. Mignon, the mysterious child whom he had to some extent adopted as
his own, was a source of great anxiety to him. Though silent, she showed
him by every motion that she was his devoted slave. What should he do
with her at his home, and yet how could he cast her off ?

In such perplexities Wilhelm found great solace in the wonderful music
of an aged harper, whose acquaintance he and his friends had recently made.
He wore a long, flowing white beard; his mind was evidently unbalanced
by age or some unknown gricf, and his music, all of a plaintive character,
touched Wilhelm’s heart, and he gradually took the old man under his pro-
tection. The decision was finally made by Wilhelm to go with the troupe
to the castle. He met there people of much higher rank and position than
he had ever known before. ‘Phe owner of the castle, Count ———., was a
scholar and a eritic 3 his countess a very beautiful woman, whom Wilhelm re-
garded with great admiration and interest. One of the guests of the count was
an army officer, Major Jarno, understood to be a relative, and a special
favorite of the Prince. Wilhelm was requested to prepare a mythological
drama, with tableaux, ete., to welcome the Prince. One feature of it was to
be an egy dance by Mignon, but in this he was disappointed, the child say-
ing quietly, but very firmly, that she would no more go upon the stage.
WILHELM MEISTER’S APPRENTICESHI?. 355

 

When Wilhelm attempted persuasion, she fell at his feet, saying, “ Dearest
father, stay thou from the boards thyself.”

During their stay at the castle, Wilhelm became quite well acquainted
with Jarno, by whose advice he commenced reading the plays of Shake-
speare. They furnished to Wilhelm a novel inspiration. He felt instinc-
tively a strong desire to take a place among the actualities of life, to get
beyond his present narrow limitations, into the broad world. Jarno, who
evinced a strong interest in Wilhelm, was greatly pleased at this new
impulse, and encouraged it strongly, suggesting various plans, and tender-
ing every assistance in his power, to carry out Wilhelm’s wishes for active
employment.

While they were conversing upon this subject in the park, an officer on
horseback accosted Jarno, dismounted, and held a long conversation with
him, Wilhelm standing a little way off. Suddenly the stranger officer
addressed Wilhelm, holding out his hand and saying with emphasis “I find
you in worthy company; follow the counsel of your friend, and by doing so,
accomplish likewise the desire of an unknown man, who takes a genuine
interest in you.” He then embraced Wilhelm, leaped into the saddle and
departed.

Soon after this incident, a forward movement of the army necessitated
the departure of the Prince, and with him the officers and other guests at
the castle, and in consequence, our theatrical friends were soon dismissed,
with many presents and compliments. Wilhelm, in particular, had made
himself very agreeable to the count as well as the countess. Herr Melina
decided to take the company to a thriving town some distance away. While
on the journey, traveling by coach, the party halted for dinner, and
encamped upon a very pleasant wooded height, where, while enjoying
the beautiful scenery and pleasant air, they were attacked by foot-pads, their
property ransacked, many valuables stolen, and Wilhelm, who was attempt-
ing to defend the others and himself, was wounded by a musket shot, that
rendered him insensible for some little time. When he recovered conscious-
ness, he found himself supported in the arms of Philina, with Mignon,
her hair disheveled, and covered with blood, at his feet. The rest of the
company had found their way to the neighboring village, and the three
adventurers remained alone, until, just as night was coming on, a young
lady rode up, accompanied by an elderly gentleman, some cavaliers, grooms,
servants and soldiers. Seeing the group upon the sward she rode up to them
and made some prompt, sympathetic inquiries, which elicited the particu-
lars of the mishap. Wilhelm, in the meantime, weak and suffering, gazed
with rapture upon the lovely features of the noble woman, who had dis-
mounted, and was standing quite near to him. Suddenly she turned away,
356 JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE.

 

and in a few minutes a surgeon made his appearance, who gave the needed
assistance to the wounded man, but while extracting the ball, Wilhelm
fainted, and when he returned to himself, the whole party, including the fair
lady, had vanished like a dream.

He was carried to the house of a clergyman in the adjoining village, and
with the careful nursing of Philina and Mignon, he progressed rapidly
towards recovery of his physical health. But his heart had received a more
serious wound, and one which did not heal. The image of the beautiful
Amazon, as he entitled her, was constantly before his mind. Her sudden
appearance, her equally sudden disappearance, and the utter failure of his
attempts to find out anything as to her name or residence gave him great
anxiety. As his mind reverted to her features, and her form, he was con-
scious of a decided likeness between the unknown and the countess. They
seemed to resemble each other as two sisters might. The beautiful Amazon
had removed from her own shoulders, and thrown over him, a heavy coat,
which she had worn for protection from the night air. In the pocket of this
coat he found a note, the hand-writing of which bore a very close resem-
blance to that of the countess. This discovery added to his perplexity, and
appeared to deepen the mystery.

Feeling deep sympathy for the losses of the members of the troupe, who
had been the victims of the robbers, he hurried away against the advice of
his physician, before he had fully recovered from his wound, to intercede
for them with his friend Serlo, the theatrical manager, whom Wilhelm had
known some years before. He was cordially received by Serlo and his
sister Aurelia, and found himself in the society of critics and artists, who
understood him, and who could converse with him intelligently upon subjects
in which he was interested.

Wilhelm was urged by Serlo to become an actor and to take a leading
position in his troupe, the latter promising, in case of Wilhelm’s accession,
to reconstruct his company, admitting all of Wilhelm’s late associates to
places in the theatre. Wilhelm was in a serious dilemma. Many motives
were pressing upon him to forego all further connection with the stage, and
engage in some active employment for which he felt himself fitted, while,
on the other hand, his sympathy with his unfortunate friends, his own love
to art and the drama, the thought that he might keep with him Mignon and
the harper, urged him to accept the flattering offer.

While he was still undecided, he received tidings of the death of his
father. His brother-in-law, Werner, who wrote the news, advised him not
to return home immediately, but to spend half a year or more in travel, im-
proving his mind, and looking about in the world, In reply, Wilhelm wrote,
declaring his purpose in life to be self-cultivation, and explaining, that the
WILHELM MEISTERS APPRENTICESHIP. 357

 

stage presented opportunities such as he could not obtain in any other call-
ing. As soon as this letter was written, he went to Serlo and closed a con-
tract with him, greatly to the delight of his friends and all interested, except
Mignon, who for some mysterious reason endeavored to hold him back.

The reorganized company commenced the study of Hamlet, Wilhelm
undertaking the translation and adaptation to the German stage. The parts
were allotted to the various members of the troupe; Aurelia was to play
Ophelia, and Wilhelm, Hamlet. A question arose as to who was to enact
the Ghost, and before it was decided, Wilhelm received a mysterious note
promising, “If thou have faith, the Ghost shall arrive at the proper hour,”
and upon the first night the play was presented, a tall noble figure, with his
visor down, appeared upon the stage and went through the part in such a
manner as to meet with great applause from the audience, and unmitigated
wonder from Wilhelm, who failed wholly to penetrate the mystery. At the
final disappearance of the Ghost a thin gray gauze veil seemed to separate
him from Hamlet in some indescribable manner, and the stage manager
found, and gave to Wilhelm, a veil, evidently the same, on the hem of which
were found these words, embroidered in dark letters: ‘“‘ For the first and the
last time! Fly, Youth, Fly!” The play was several times repeated, but the
stranger Ghost did not reappear.

The health of Aurelia began about this time to fail, and as she became
better acquainted with Wilhelm, she sought and obtained from him great
sympathy in her sorrows. Her ill health was wholly the result of disap-
pointed affection, and her sad story was fully confided to Wilhelm. She had
become very deeply attached to a very noble man named Lothario, who had
been an excellent friend to her, but had failed to return her ardent affection.
She made no complaint against Lothario, but bitterly reproached herself for
her weakness. Wilhelm, having become acquainted with a physician, who
gave great attention to mental disorders, introduced him to Aurelia. This
excellent man contributed very much to her peace of mind by his sugges-
tions of the value of true religion. He also sent to her a manuscript,
written by an excellent friend of his, a lady now deceased, which he
entitled “Confessions of a Fair Saint.” It was an account of the experi-
ence of a young lady of fashion and rank, who found by trials of the
pleasures of society, the unsatisfactory nature of such pleasures, and whose
mind became gradually trained to look up above this world for joy and
peace. She found, after many vicissitudes, that earthly hopes and earthly
joys were in their nature evanescent, and that the soul, made for com-
munion with Heaven, could not be satisfied with anything less. The style
of the work was exceedingly attractive, and every line showed sincerity as
well as devotion. She concludes her simple and affecting narrative as fol-
358 JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE.

 

lows: ‘I scarcely remember a commandment ; to me there is nothing that
assumes the aspect of law; it is an impulse that leads me, and guides me
always aright. I freely follow my emotions, and know as little of restraint
as of repentance. God be praised that I know to whom I am indebted for
such happiness, and that I cannot think of it without humility. There is
no danger that I should ever become proud of what I myself can do, or can
forbear to do; I have seen too well what a monster may be formed and
nursed in every human bosom, did not higher influence restrain us.”

This narrative was very consoling to poor Aurelia, and under its influ-
ence, she wrote a farewell letter to Lothario, taking leave of him with the
kindest wishes, and hopes for his happiness, and with free forgiveness on
her part for all the past.

Just at this time a disclosure was made to Wilhelm, which startled him
very much, and filled him with a great variety of feelings, among which
remorse and regret predominated. Aurelia had under her charge a beauti-
ful boy, about three years of age, whom Wilhelm and others believed to be
her son Felix, but it was proven to them beyond peradventure that the child
was the son of Mariana, who died immediately after his birth, and that
Wilhelm himself was the father,

Aurelia’s illness was greatly aggravated by a severe cold, the result of
exposure, which carried her to her grave quite suddenly. Not long before
her death, she put into Wilhelm’s hands her farewell letter to Lothario, exact-
ing from him a promise to deliver it in person. This promise he regarded
as sacred, and immediately after the funeral he commenced his journey.

On arrival at the Castle of Lothario, Wilhelm was first received by a
Roman Catholic Abbe, apparently a resident of the Castle, whom he recog-
nized as a gentleman he had met two or three times before, and who seemed
very well acquainted with his character and history. Wilhelm was very cor-
dially received by his host, Baron ———, whom we have known as Lothario.

The Baron, at this time, was confined to his room in consequence of a
wound received in a duel, but was not in danger. In addition to the Abbe,
Wilhelm found another old acquaintance, namely, Jarno, From him our hero
learned that the Baron was the brother of the beautiful Countess, at whose
house the actors had played for the entertainment of the Prince. Wilhelm
confided to Jarno his admiration for the fair \mazon and asked his help to
find her. Jarno answered evasively, but in such a manner as to lead Wilhelm
to hope for some tidings of her,

During his stay at the castle, he made the acquaintance of a very noble
woman named Theresa. She had been betrothed to Lothario, but, for
some reason not explained to Wilhelm, the engagement was broken,
although a warm friendship still existed. Wilhelm was charmed by her man-
WILHELM MEISTER’S APPRENTICESHIP. 359

 

ners, her conversation, and her life of beneficence. She and a sister of the
Baron had formed a league to educate children, who were orphaned and
needed friends. She told Wilhelm that she herself took charge of such girls
as promised to be lively, serviceable housewives, while her friend, Natalia,
cared for those possessed of a finer and more quiet talent. Said she: “When
you become acquainted with my noble friend, a new era in your life will open.
Her beauty, her goodness, make her worthy of the reverence of the world.”

Wilhelm’s stay at the castle was considerably prolonged, he becoming a
sincere friend and admirer of Lothario, and receiving in return the friendship
of the latter, and enjoying the companionship of the Baron, the Abbe and
Jarno, all friends to him and all gifted and accomplished gentlemen. They
endeavored to persuade Wilhelm that it was his duty to renounce the stage,
and finally prevailed with him so that he decided to go back to the town,
bid farewell to his dramatic associates, and bring Mignon and Felix with
him to the castle.

On his arrival he was met by Jarno, who informed him that Lothario’s
uncle had just died, and the Baron had gone to take possession of the heri-
tage. Our friend soon discovered that something mysterious was going on,
and that Jarno and the Abbe had certain secrets, which appeared in some
way to concern himself. He was finally informed by Jarno that the time
had come to initiate him into the mysteries of the castle. Said he: “It is
right that a man, when he first enters upon life, should think highly of him-
self, should determine to attain many eminent distinctions, should endeavor
to make all things possible, but when his education has proceeded to a cer-
tain pitch, it is advantageous for him to learn to lose himself among a mass
of men that he learn to live for the sake of others, and to forget himself in
an activity prescribed by duty. To-morrow morning before sunrise, be
dressed and ready.”

In the morning Jarno led our friend through several galleries unknown
to him before, till they reached a heavy door. Wilhelm entered as desired ;
Jarno did not follow. He passed through a dark hall, until he came into
what appeared like a chapel. Just above the altar hung a dark curtain,
which parted in the centre, disclosing a man, whom he recognized as the
country clergyman whom he had met on one occasion long since. He re-
sembled the Abbe, but was a different person. He addressed Wilhelm in a |
tone of dignity, to this effect :

“It is not the duty of an instructor to guard his pupil fvom error but to
lead him in it. He who only tastes his error, will take delight in it; he
who drains it to the dregs, will find it out.”

The curtain closed, and Wilhelm thought to himself, “ What error can he
mean, except the one of my whole life; that I sought for cultivation where
360 JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE.

 

it was not to be found; that I fancied I could form a talent in me, while
without the smallest gift for it?”

The curtain parted once more ; an officer advanced and said, in passing,
‘Learn to know the men who may be trusted.”

Wilhelm recognized the officer to be the one who had embraced him in
the count’s park, and cried out :

“If so many men took interest in me, knew my way of life and how it
should be carried on, why did they favor my silly sports, instead of drawing
me away from them?”

‘Dispute not with us,” said a voice, “thou art saved. None of thy
follies wilt thou repent ; none wilt thou wish to repeat; no luckier destiny
can be allotted to man.”

Again the curtain parted, and the King of Denmark, in full armor,
stood before him. The vision spoke: ‘t 1 am thy father’s spirit, and I now
depart in comfort; my wishes for thee are accomplished in full measure.
Farewell, and think of me.”

There was silence for a few moments, and Wilhelm meditated deeply,
till the Abbe came to view, called to Wilhelm to come forward, and handed
hima roll. ‘Here is your indenture; take it to heart; it is of weighty
import.” Wilhelm read:

‘ INDENTURE.—Art is long, life short, judgment difficult, opportunity
transient. To act is easy, to think is hard; to act according to our thought
is troublesome. Every beginning is cheerful; the threshold is the place
of expectation. ‘The boy stands astonished ; his impressions guide him ;
he learns sportively, seriousness comes on him by surprise. Imitation is
born with us; what should be imitated is not easy to discover. The
excellent is rarely found, more rarely valued. The height charms us;
the steps to it do not: with the summit in our eye we love to walk
along the plain. It is but a part of art that can be taught; the artist

needs it all. . . . Words are good, but they are not the best. The
spirit in which we act is the highest matter. .\ction can be understood
and represented by the spirit alone. . . . Whoever works with sym-

bols only, is a pedant, a hypocrite, or a bungler, The instruction which
the true artist gives us opens the mind; for where words fail him, deeds
speak,”

When Wilhelm had read the paper he looked up to the Abbe, who said
solemnly, * Hail to thee, young man. ‘Thy apprenticeship is done, Nature
has pronounced thee free.”

After this interesting scene was over, Wilhelm sat down and wrote out
in full the history of his life, for the perusal of ‘Theresa: with this nar-
ration he enclosed a brief letter, in which he solicited her friendship, and,
WILHELM MEISTER'S APPRENTICESHIP. 361

 

if possible, her love; he offered her his hand, and entreated her prompt.
decision.

A few days later Lothario returned. He said to Wilhelm, “My sister
bids me beg of you to go to her as soon as possible. Poor Mignon is fail-
ing, and your presence may allay the malady.” Two days of travel brought,
him to a stately castle, where he met Lothario’s sister Natalia, who proved
to be none other than the beautiful Amazon. She gave the particulars of
Mignon’s illness, an affection of the heart, which was likely to prove fatal. ,
She had learned in regard to the child’s early history, that her home had
been in the neighborhood of Milan, and that she had been kidnapped by a
company of rope dancers and brought to Germany. Her disease was brought
on by an intense longing for Italy, and a wild passionate love for her bene-
factor Wilhelm. Wilhelm remained at the castle for some weeks, Mignon
seeming to improve in the enjoyment of his society, but the attenuated cord
was suddenly severed, and she passed away.

At her funeral service, conducted by the Abbe at Natalia’s castle, the
Marchese Cipriani, an old friend of the family, and at that time a guest of
Lothario and Natalia, recognized the face of the dead child as that of his
niece, the daughter of his brother Augustin, who many years before had dis-
appeared, and was supposed to have wandered away to Germany. The Abbe
soon discovered that the old harper was the brother Augustin, but before
this was revealed to the Marchese the unhappy musician, in a fit of delirium,
put an end to his sad life.

Theresa became engaged to Wilhelm, who looked forward to a life of
happiness with one so worthy in every way of his deepest affection, but before
the marriage time was fixed upon, a mystery, which separated Lothario from
her, was cleared up, and through the interposition of the Abbe and Jarno,
assisted by a wild mad-cap brother of Natalia, the engagement was severed,
and Lothario became the husband of Theresa. Wilhelm soon discovered that
his heart still retained the image of the beautiful woman who appeared to him
so opportunely, and so mysteriously, long before, and ere long he was made
happy by Natalia’s confession of her love for him. Life put on new bright-
ness as he gazed upon her lovely features, and felt the assurance of her love,
and our story closes with these words uttered by him in his joy and satisfac-
tion: “I know not the worth of a kingdom, but I know I have attained a
happiness which I have not deserved, and which I would not change for any-
thing in life.”

EXTRACTS.

“The man to whom the universe does not reveal directly what relation
it has to him ; whose heart does not tell him what he owes to himself and
362 JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE.
others, that man will scarcely learn it out of books, which generally do little
more than give our errors names.”

“How can men judge rightly of our actions, which appear but singly or
in fragments to them; of which they see the smallest portion ; while good
and bad takes place in secret, and for the most part nothing comes to light
but an indifferent share ?”’

“Children! Hasten into life! In the pure garments of beauty may
love meet you with heavenly looks, and with the wreath of immortality!”

“ The poet must live wholly for himself, wholly in the objects which delight
him. He carries in his bosom a treasure that is ever of itself increasing ; he
must also live with this treasure, undisturbed from without, in that still bless-
edness which the rich seek in vain to purchase. Men are ever hunting rest-
lessly for that which the poet has received from nature ; the right enjoy-
ment of the world ; the harmonious conjunction of things that will seldom
exist together. From his heart, its native soil, springs up the lovely flower
of wisdom. He is at once a teacher, a prophet, a friend of gods and men.”

“The song which Mignon and the harper began in the form of an irregu-
lar duet :

‘You never longed or loved,
You know not grief like mine,
Alone and far removed
From joys or hopes I pine.
A foreign sky above,
And a foreign earth below me,
To the south I look all day,
For the hearts that love and know me
Are far, are far away.’ "

“In Hamlet, I imagine Shakespeare meant to represent the effects of a
great action laid upon a soul unfit for the performance of it. A lovely,
pure, noble, and most moral nature, without the strength of nerve which
forms a hero, sinks beneath a burden which it cannot bear and must not
cast away: All duties are holy for him ; the present is too hard. Impossi-
bilities, not in themselves impossibilities, but for him, are required of him.
He winds and turns and torments himself + he advances and recoils ; is ever
put in mind, ever puts himself in mind; at last does all but lose his pur-
pose from his thoughts ; yet still without recovering his peace of mind,”

“Ivery gift is valuable, and ought to be unfolded. When one encour-
ages the beautiful alone, and another encourages the useful alone, it takes
them both to form aman. ‘The useful encourages itself ; for the multitude
produce it, and no one can dispense with it; the beautiful must be encour-
aged ; for few can set it forth, and many need it.”
 

 

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

BORn 1771. SCOTLAND. Dico 1832.
SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Walter Scott was born in Edinburgh, August 15, 1771. He was a descendant of a char-
acter known in Border history and legend as 4u/d Wat of Harden, who is commemorated in
The Lay of the Last Minstrel. Wis great grandfather, ‘‘ Beardie” Scott, is mentioned
in the last canto of Marmion. ‘‘Alexander Fairford” in Redgauntlet is a portrait of
Walter’s father, an industrious, pains-taking lawyer. A serious illness, when he was but
eighteen months old, left him with a lameness from which he never recovered. Before he
learned to read, the child was entertained with legends and ballads, recited by his mother,
which made a deep impression on his mind. Percy's Religues, a copy of which he purchased
with the first few shillings he ever possessed, doubtless also gave direction to his thought.
During his boyhood he was a diligent reader, and entered the High School at Edinburgh
with a well-informed mind. In 1786 he was apprenticed in the law office of his father,
and six years later admitted to the bar. His first publication, in 1796, was a metrical trans-
lation of Birger’s Leonore. Scott was married in 1797 to Charlotte Charpentier, daughter
of a French refugee, and was soon after appointed Sheriff of Selkirkshire. The publication
of his Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, a collection of ancient ballads, was begun in. 1802.
The Lay of the Last Minstrel appeared in 1805, its metre suggested by what a friend,
who had recently seen Coleridge, told him of that author’s unfinished Christaded.
Marmion was published in 1808, followed by Zhe Lady of the Lake in 1810. In
1812, when he began to receive a salary for his duties as Clerk of Sessions, Scott removed
from his cottage at Ashestiel, purchased a ‘‘ mountain farm,” a few miles farther down
the Tweed, within sight of Melrose, named it Abbotsford, and began to build and beautify.
In 1814, coming by chance upon the manuscript of a romance he had begun in 1805, but
laid aside, he completed the story in four weeks, and laid the foundation of his reputation
as a writer of fiction by the publication of Waverley. During the eleven years, from the
appearance of this initial volume, to 1825, the following appeared in quick succession: Guy
Mannering, The Antiquary, The Black Dwarf, Old Mortality, Rob Roy, The Heart of Mid-
Lothian, The Bride of Lammermoor, A Legend of Montrose, Ivanhoe, The Monastery, The
Abbot, Kenilworth, The Pirate, The Fortunes of Nigel, Peveril of the Peak, Quentin Dur-
ward, St. Ronan’s Well, Redgauntlet, The Betrothed, The Talisman.

A baronetcy was conferred upon him in 1820, by King George IV. In 1826, by the
failure of his publishers, Constable & Co., from whom he had received money in advance;
and whose bills he had endorsed, Sir Walter incurred large liabilities. These were increased
to £130,000 by the failure soon after of the firm of Ballantyne & Co., of which he was a
secret partner. At the age of fifty-five he set about the task of paying this enormous sum ;
and at the time of his death he had reduced it by £100,000. Besides much other literary
work, he’ produced Woodstock, Chronicle of the Canongate, Fair Maid of Perth, Anne of
Geterstein,-Count Robert of Paris,and Castle Dangerous. When health began to fail in 1831,
he took a cruise in the Mediterranean, and remained abroad several months. Feeling that
the end was approaching, he returned to his loved Abbotsford, where he died September 21,
366 SIR WALTER SCOTT.

 

1832, Lockhart, his son-in-law and biographer, has said that the lines prefixed as a motte
to one of the chapters of Old Mortality are the most characteristic lines he ever wrote, and
give the truest index to the man.

“Sound, sound the clarion ! fill the fife!
To all the sensual world proclaim,
One crowded hour of glorious life
Is worth an age without a name.”

IVANHOE.

The date of this historical romance is the end of the twelfth century and
the reign of Richard I., a time when the national distinctions between the
Anglo-Saxons and Norman nobles oppressed the inferior classes. Its scene
is that part of England lying between Sheffield and the town of Doncaster,
over which a vast forest extended, and where in ancient times bands of gal-
lant outlaws flourished. In a glade of the forest we are introduced to Gurth
the swineherd and Wamba the clown, both thralls of a distinguished Saxon,
Cedric of Rotherwood, seated upon one of the fallen Druidical monuments,
watching the swine.

Gurth, seeing the swine scattering, says :

‘“Wamba, up and help me and thou beest a man: take a turn round
back o’ the hill to gain the wind on them.”

“Truly,” said Wamba, “ to carry my gay garments through these sloughs,
would be an act of unfriendship to my sovereign person and royal ward-
robe ; leave the herd to their destiny, which can be little else than to be
converted into Normans before morning.”

“The swine turned to Normans !" quoth Gurth.

“Why, yes : how call you those grunting beasts?" demanded Wamba.

“ Swine, fool, swine,” said the herd, * every fool knows that.”

“ And swine is good Saxon," said the Jester ; * but how call you the sow
when she is flayed, and quartered, and hung up by the heels like a traitor !”

“ Pork,” answered the swine-herd,

“And Pork,” said Wamba, “is good Norman-French ; and so when the
brute lives, and is in charge of a Saxon slave, she goes by her Saxon name,
but becomes a Norman and is called pork, when she is carried to the Castle-
hall to feast among the nobles ; nay, I can tell you more. There is Old
Alderman Ox, he becomes Beef, when he arrives before the worshipful jaws
that are destined to consume him, Mynheer Calf, too, becomes Monsieur
IVANHOE. 367

 

de Veau, in the like manner; he is Saxon when he requires tendance, and ¢
Norman, when he becomes a matter of enjoyment.”

But while they were conversing, Gurth’s faithful dog herded the swine
alone, and as they drive the herd homewards, they are overtaken by two
horsemen and their attendants. The oneis recognized by Wamba as Aymer
the prior of Jorvaulx Abbey. His companion is a Knight Templar who had
fought the Saracens in Palestine. They inquire for the dwelling of Cedric,
as they wish shelter for the night. On the way they find a Palmer just re-
turned from the Holy Land, but born in these parts and acquainted with the
country, who acts as their guide and brings them to Rotherwood. When
the warder announced that Prior Aymer and Brian de Bois-Guilbert, on
their way to a tournament, requested hospitality, Cedric gave orders that
the party be welcomed and provided with the best the house afforded.
Seated beside Cedric in the great dining-hall of the mansion was his ward,
the beautiful Lady Rowena, tall in stature, of exquisitely fair complexion,
and noble cast of head and features. Scarcely had the supper begun, when
a Jew, Isaac of York, was admitted. The conversation at supper turning
upon the crusade and the gallant English warriors led to Palestine by
Richard, it transpired that Brian the Templar had fallen in a tournament
before the lance of one of the king’s followers, the Knight of Ivanhoe, who
was the disowned son of Cedric, banished for aspiring to the hand of Lady
Rowena, a descendant of the Saxon Kings.

Afer the guests had sought their places of repose, Rowena sent for the
Palmer, who had engaged in the conversation as one thoroughly familiar
with events in Palestine. She inquired eagerly for Ivanhoe, who had been
the companion of her childhood, and was informed that he was on the eve
of his return to England. Early next morning the Palmer quietly entered
the apartment of Isaac the Jew and warned him to leave instantly and travel
with haste, as the evening before he had overheard the Templar charge one
of his slaves to watch his journey, seize him, and conduct him to a neigh-
boring castle. The Jews of this period were the object of general and
relentless persecution. As the little ready money in the country was chiefly
in their possession, both sovereign and nobility attempted to wring it from
them by-oppression and-personal torture. Familiar with the paths of the
forest, the Palmer offered to conduct Isaac on his way to a place of safety.
Entering Gurth’s apartment he asked the swine-herd to open the postern
gate, get the Jew’s mule, and loan him a mule for the journey. He at first
tefused, but when something was whispered in his ear he started up as if
electrified, and with hasty alacrity obeyed the Palmer, who gave him another
secret communication before he set out. The Palmer led Isaac until they
were in sight of Sheffield, where he hada kinsman. Having seen beneath his
368 SIR WALTER SCOTT.

 

\ Palmer’s gown as he stooped over his bed that morning a knight's chain and
spurs of gold, and guessing from their conversation what he greatly desired,
Isaac gave his guide, as they parted, an order to a rich Jew of Leicester for
horse and armor for use at the coming tournament. The condition of Eng-
land at this time was most miserable. King Richard was absent, a prisoner
in the power of the cruel Duke of Austria. Prince John was using every
influence to prolong the captivity of his brother Richard, in the meantime
strengthening his own faction, that in case of the King’s death he might dis-
pute the succession to the throne. Outlaws, driven to despair by the
oppression of the feudal nobility, were banded together in the forests, and
defied justice. Yet amidst these distresses, poor as well as rich were inter-
ested in a tournament and the Passage-of-Arms to be held at Ashby, which
Prince John was expected to attend, attracted a large concourse of people.
Isaac was present with his daughter Rebecca; the beautiful Jewess by the
brilliancy of her eyes and the. perfect symmetry of her form drawing much
attention. On the first day of the tournament five of the challenging knights,
among whom was Brian de Bois-Guilbert, were met and vanquished by an
unknown warrior mounted on a gallant black horse, who had recorded him-
self as the Disinherited Knight. Prince John presented him the prize, a war-
horse, and informed him of his duty and privilege to choose the Queen of
Honor and Love who should preside over the next day's festival. Moving
slowly around the lists he paused in front of Lady Rowena and placed the
crown at her feet. The same evening, having received money from the van-
quished knights in ransom of ‘their steeds and armor, he sent his attendant,
Gurth the swine-herd, in disguise with a bag of gold to pay Isaac for the
horse and arms with which the Jew’s credit had supplied him.

The next day at the lists, Brian de Bois-Guilbert and the Iisinherited
Knight were leaders of the two parties opposed to each other, with about fifty
knights on each side. A\thelstane, a kinsman of Cedric, and representative
of the former Saxon kines, was in armor, and to the surprise of his friends,
enlisted on the side of the Knight ‘Templar. His reason for this choice,
which he had the prudence to keep to himself, was as follows : Not insen-
sible to the charms of Lady Rowena, he considered his union with hera mat-
ter already fixed beyond doubt by the assent of Cedric, who, insanely loyal
to the old regime, desired to unite by this marriage the whole Saxon people
against the Norman rule. ‘The Disinherited Knight's choice of Rowena dis-
pleased him, and he was determined that his rival should feel the weight of
his battle axe, When the field became thin, as many on either side were van-
quished, the ‘Templar and the Disinherited Knight encountered hand to hand.
Athelstine and Front de Beeuf came to the aid of the ‘Templar. When it
became evident that the Disinherited Knight must be overpowered by his
IVANHOE. 369

 

three antagonists, a champion in black armor on a black horse, who had
taken little interest in the fight, threw aside his apathy, rode to the rescue,
and soon laid both Athelstane and Front de Boeuf in the dust. With little
difficulty the Disinherited Knight completed his victory over Brian, and
Prince John declared the contest ended. The Disinherited Knight was then
led to the throne of Rowena to receive the victor’s chaplet. The marshals,
insisting that his head must be bare, unhelmed him, and the well-formed
features of a young man of twenty-five were seen, in whom was recognized
Ivanhoe, son of Cedric. Rowena uttered a faint shriek, but, summoning her
energy, proceeded to bestow the chaplet. Stooping to kiss her hand, the
victor sank and lay prostrate at her feet. There was general consternation.
The marshals, undoing the armor, found that the head of a lance had inflicted
a wound in his side. Cedric was struck dumb by-the sudden appearance of
his banished son. The name of Ivanhoe passed from mouth to mouth. At
this moment Prince John was deeply agitated by a message from France,
which he interpreted as meaning that his brother Richard had obtained
his freedom. He proceeded, however, with the archery contest, in which the
prize was awarded to an unknown competitor who called himself Locksley.
At the close of the day, while,Waldemar Fitzurse, John’s intimate counsel-
lor, was attempting to re-unite the scattered members of his chief’s cabal,
De Bracy, another of his followers, concocted a scheme of his own. With
the aid of Brian the Templar, he determines to swoop down upon the Saxons
on their return before they reach Rotherwood, conduct them to the castle
of Front de Boeuf, and there make Rowena his bride. The Black Knight,
by whose exertions the tournament had been decided, had abruptly left the
field, and was seen to take a southward course. Avoiding frequented paths
he traveled but slowly through the forest, and the second night enjoyed the
hospitality of a hermit, the Clerk of Copmanhurst. With song and wine
the night was passing in great mirth, when their revels were interrupted by
loud knocking at the door of the hermitage. Cedric, seeing his son fall
senseless in the lists at Ashby, ordered Oswald, his cup-bearer, to keep an
eye on him, and remove him after the crowd had dispersed. The Knight,
however, was nowhere to be found. On inquiring, it was learned that a
litter belonging to a lady had borne him away. But Oswald found Gurth,
who, while searching for his young master had neglected his disguise,
secured him as a fugitive, and Cedric ordered him bound.

The following day the Saxons set out upon their homeward journey,
but interruptions made it impossible to reach Rotherwood without traveling
all night, and through a wooded country infested with bands of outlaws.
Hearing cries for assistance, they came upon Isaac and Rebecca, who had
hired a body-guard of six men at Ashby to carry the litter of a sick friend.
370 SIR WALTER SCOTT.

 

Hearing that there were outlaws lying in wait, the mercenaries had fled with
the horses. In their defenseless condition, both Isaac and Rebecca begged
to be allowed to travel with their sick friend under the safe-guard of Cedric
and Athelstane. In the bustle connected with this change Gurth made his
escape. Soon after, as they were passing through a narrow defile, they were
assailed in front, flank and rear at once, by a numerous party, and all
were made prisoners except Wamba, the jester, who, after fighting bravely,
escaped, and before long met Gurth. The two were meditating some plan
for the rescue of Cedric, when a third person suddenly called them to halt.
It proved to be Locksley, the victor in archery at the lists, who after hear-
ing their story, proposed to gather a band of true Englishmen to rescue the
prisoners. Joining his companions he gives directions for the gathering. of
a band, and then sets out for Copmanhurst to find the Friar. Admitted to
the hermitage, Locksley recognizes the Black Knight as he who had decided
the victory at Ashby. He finds him a friend of the English, and willing to
aid in this enterprise ; so he and the Friar are soon armed and all set out.
The marauders meanwhile made but slow progress with their prisoners until
the morning dawned.

Arrived at the castle of Front de Boeuf, Cedric and Athelstane were confined
together, Rowena placed in an apartment alone, and Rebecca separated from
her father. The Jew was thrown into a dungeon vault of the castle. Here
he was visited a few hours later by Front de Beeuf, who demanded a thou-
sand silver pounds, and had just ordered his servants to prepare the Jew for
the rack, when the sound of a bugle outside the walls led him to quit the
dungeon hastily. De Bracy, handsome in person and with the graceful man-
ners of a courtier, entered the apartment of Rowena, and began his suit.
Repulsed, he resorted to threats, telling her that the man in the litter was
Wilfred of Ivanhoe (whom indeed it was), whose fate, as well as that of
Cedric, depended upon her answer to his suit. But he also is summoned by
the bugle which alarmed the other inmates of the castle. Rebecca, placed
in a room in a distant turret of the castle, was visited by the Templar, who
offered to cover her neck and arms with pearls and diamonds if she would
become his mistress. Leaping through the latticed window she stood upon
the very edge of the parapet, choosing rather to commit her soul to God than
her body to the Templar. His description of the power and fame that
would be his when he should become Grand Master of the Order, and which
he asked Rebecca to share with him, was interrupted by the bugle sound.
Rebecca found her way into the apartment where Ivanhoe lay wounded, and
described the battle in a manner that has made famous this part of the story.
Meeting in the hall of the castle, the three leaders, Front de Beeuf, De
Bracy, and the Templar found a letter from the besiegers, demanding the
IVANHOE. 371

 

surrender of the prisoners within an hour. To this a defiant reply was re-
turned, saying that the prisoners were to be executed that day, and requir-
ing that a man of religion be sent to receive their confession. Wamba, put-
ting on a friar’s frock, undertook this mission. Easily admitted, he was soon
conducted to the apartment of Cedric and Athelstane, where he persuaded
the former to exchange dress with him and leave the castle. With Locksley
in charge of the archers, the Black Knight led a detachment of the besieg-
ers against the outer barriers, and when a breach had been made, engaged
hand to hand with Front de Boeuf, who received a death wound. The castle
was discovered to be in flames, fired by Ulrica, one of its inmates, in revenge
for indignities she had suffered. When an entrance had been effected the
Black Knight vanquished De Bracy and made him his prisoner ; then learn-
ing that Ivanhoe was in the castle, carried him to a place of safety.
Rowena was rescued by Cedric, and Wamba and Athelstane liberated them-
selves. The Templar seized Rebecca, and was preparing to escape with his
prize, when Athelstane, supposing it was Rowena, fiercely attacked Brian,
but fell to the earth under his blow, apparently mortally wounded, and the
Templar galloped off with Rebecca toward the Preceptory of Templestowe.
Next morning, as the outlaws and their allies met at their trysting-tree
in the forest, Cedric and Rowena with Athelstane’s funeral car set out for
Coningsburgh, the dead Saxon’s castle. Locksley presented to the Black
Knight a bugle, once worn by an English yeoman, assuring him that if ever
hard beset in the forest, winding certain notes upon the horn would bring
help and rescue. Isaac, the Jew, having been rescued from the ruins of
the castle, journeyed to Templestowe to negotiate for the redemption of
his daughter. But he was roughly received, and soon expelled from the
Preceptory. The Grand Master, now first aware of Rebecca’s presence
there, prejudged her case and determined that she must die as a Sorceress.
Condemned without evidence of guilt she denied the charge, and demanded
the privilege of trial by combat, believing that God would raise up a
champion to appear for her. A friend was found willing to deliver her
message to Isaac; he, learning his daughter’s sad fate, hastened to consult
Wilfred of Ivanhoe. Rebecca’s gage of battle was given to the Templar.
When the Black Knight left the trysting-tree of the outlaws, he went to
the neighboring Priory of Saint Botolph, to which, under the guidance of
Gurth and Wamba, the wounded Ivanhoe had been removed.

The following morning he set out upon his journey, accompanied by
Wamba. In the forest they were attacked by a band of armed men, and
were likely to be overcome, when Wamba, who had begged the privilege of
wearing the bugle, sounded the notes which soon brought to their aid Locks-
ley: and some of his followers. The assailants being vanquished, their
372 SIR WALTER SCOTT.

 

leader, Waldemar Fitzurse, whose attack had been instigated by Prince John,
was allowed to depart ‘with his life on condition that within three days he
leave England. The Black Knight then revealed himself to the yeoman as
King Richard, and learned that Locksley was no other than Robin Hood of
Sherwood Forest. They were now joined by Ivanhoe, who, feeling an ap-
prehension of approaching evil, had followed, accompanied by Gurth, in the
track of the Black Knight. Ivanhoe and Richard, with their attendants,
then rode to Coningsburgh Castle, where the obsequies of its late owner
were being solemnized. Here, through the intercession of Richard, Cedric
forgives and receives to the paternal affection his son Ivanhoe. While en-
gaged in this interview all are amazed by the sudden apparition of Athel-
stane, arrayed in the garments of the grave. who informs his startled friends
that he had been only stunned by the blow of the Templar’s sword, and
that, recovering his senses, he had escaped from the coffin. I.earning that
the Black Knight was Richard, he tendered his allegiance to the King. He
then renounced Rowena in favor of his cousin Wilfred. Turning to address
him, Ivanhoe had vanished. It was at length discovered that a Jew had
been to seek him, and that, after a brief conference, he had called for Gurth
and his armor and had left the castle. Richard was gone also, having left
in company with the Jew. On the day appointed for the combat which
was to decide her fate, the unfortunate Rebecca sat at one end of the Tem-
plestowe tilt-yard near a pile of faggots arranged about a stake. In the
lists, upon his war-horse, clad in bright armor, sat Brian de Bois-Guilbert,
not willingly, however, but at the command of his superior officer.
Twice since her condemnation he had pressed his suit, exhausting every ar-
gument to persuade Rebecca to flee with him ; but had found the Jewess
firm in her resolution. As it began to be whispered that it was time to de-
clare the pledge of Rebecca forfeited, Ivanhoe appeared ; and though both
knight and horse were wearied and exhausted with the journey, he took his
place in the lists. The trumpets sounded and the contestants charged in
full career, At the merest touch of Ivanhoe’s lance, the ‘Templar reeled in
his saddle and fell to the ground, dead. Unseathed by his enemy’s lance, it
was believed that he had died a victim to the violence of his own contending
passions ; and the Grand Master declared it the judgment of God, and pro-
nounced Rebecca free and guiltless.

Cedric soon after gave his consent to the marriage of his ward, Rowena,
and his son Wilfred of Ivanhoe. ‘The second morning after the nuptials.
Rebecca visited Rowena, and presenting her with priceless jewels, expressed
her gratitude and bid her farewell. Rebecca's affection for Ivanhoe, hope-
less as it was, like a gentle murmur of sweet music, runs through this inter-
view. She and her father were about to leave England that they might
THE ANTIQUARY. 373

 

find peace and protection in the dominions of the King of Granada.
Rebecca had determined to devote her life to works of kindness, tending
the sick, feeding the hungry and relieving the distressed. Ivanhoe lived
long and happily with Rowena, and distinguished himself in the service of
Richard.

QUOTATIONS.

He that does good having the unlimited power to do evil, deserves praise
not only for the good which he performs, but for the evil which he for-
bears.— The Black Knight.

Rebecca, perceiving that her attempts at consolation only served to
awaken new subjects of complaint, wisely desisted from her unavailing
efforts, a prudential line of conduct, and we recommend to all who set
up for comforters and advisers to follow it in the like circumstances.
Age has no pleasures, wrinkles have no influence, revenge itself dies away
in impotent curses. Then comes remorse with all its vipers, mixed with
vain regrets for the past and despair for the future. Then when all other
strong impulses have ceased, we become like the fiends in hell, who may feel
remorse but never repentance.— U/rica.

Good fruit will sometimes grow on a sorry tree; and evil times are not
always productive of evil alone and unmixed.—Locks/ey.

Thou knowest not the heart of woman, or hast only conversed with
those who are lost to her best feelings. I tell thee, proud Templar, that not
in thy fiercest battles hast thou displayed more of thy vaunted courage than
has been shown by a woman when called upon to suffer by affection or
duty.— Rebecca,

Have you never felt an apprehension of approaching evil, for which
you in vain attempted to assign a cause? Have you never found your mind
darkened, like the sunny landscape, by a sudden cloud, which augurs a com-
ing tempest? And thinkest thou that such impulses are deserving of atten-
tion as being the hints of our guardian spirits that danger is impending ?—
Lvanhoe.

THE ANTIQUARY.

On a fine summer’s day, near the end of the eighteenth century, Mr.
Jonathan Oldbuck and a young man named Lovel, hitherto strangers, were
fellow travelers in the Queensferry Diligence, which carried passengers be-
374 SIR WALTER SCOTT.

 

tween Edinburgh and the Firthof Forth. When they had crossed the Firth,
and had arrived at Fairport, their final stopping place, the two men were much
interested in each other; and, contrary to Mr. Oldbuck’s usual indifference,
a cordial invitation to visit Monkbarn was extended to his companion.

Monkbarns, the home of Mr. Oldbuck had at one time been an old
monastery, but for many generations past it had formed part of the Old-
buck estate. The family was of German origin, the first Oldbuck having
been one of the original printers of that country. The first of the family
to settle in Scotland left his native land to escape the persecutions directed
against the professors of the Reformed religion. They had now been es-
tablished for several generations as land-owners, and in most shires of Eng-
land the Oldbucks would have been accounted a family of some standing.
But the district in which they lived was filled with gentlemen of more an-
cient descent and larger fortune. Besides, the neighboring gentry were al-
most uniformly Jacobites, while the proprietors of Monkbarns were steady
assertors of the Protestant succession. But in spite of the coolness it
caused among his neighbors, Jonathan Oldbuck took great pride in his
Teutonic genealogy, and was wont to abuse with all his powers of invec-
tives those who boasted of Saxon, Norman, or Celtic origin.

Possessed of good health, an excellent temper, with a slight degree of
subacid humor, learning, wit, drollery, and an ample purse, in Mr. Oldbuck
at sixty, we find a good representative of an old country bachelor. An in-
satiate craving for curiosities in the shape of rare coins, gems, vases, pot-
tery, firearms, old volumes, etc., made his study look like some Eastern
bazaar, and obtained for Mr. Oldbuck the title of “The Antiquary.” Par-
ticularly interested in the study of the language and architectural ruins of
his own country, Mr. Oldbuck spent much time in deciphering the inscrip-
tions found in the ancient abbeys and castles with which Scotland abounds.
Time and weather being busy workers, the Antiquary was often obliged to
supply possible words and origins by plausible inferences. The habit thus
acquired led him frequently to attach undue importance to insignificant
matters, and caused him asa student many a grief.

One day, with all the earnestness of an enthusiast, he explained to Mr.
Lovel how by the deepest study and research he had proved, that the sec-
tion of his estate upon which they then stood had been the camping ground
of Agricola, when that noted Roman attacked the vast army of Caledonians
who uprose to oppose his progress.

“A stone,” said the Antiquary, “which I found third day after I bought
these precious grounds bears out my theory. On the stone was rudely
carved a sacrificial vessel, and the letters A. 1D, L. L., which without much
violence stands for -lyrteola Dicavit Libens Lubens.”"
THE ANTIQUARY. 375

 

“ Nothing,” continued the Antiquary, warming with his subject, “can be
more clearly traced, a proper agger or vallum with its corresponding ditch
or fossa. Is not here the Decuman gate? And here, were it not for the
ravages of the horrid plow, would be the Praetorian.”

“Praetorian here— praetorian there—-I mind the bigging (building )
ot!”

The intruder was an old man with a flowing white beard. The three
wallets slung across his shoulders, his large slouch hat, and tall staff marked
him a beggar by profession, while his long blue gown, and the pewter badge
on his right arm, told that he belonged to that privileged class called the
King’s Bedesmen, or Blue-gowns. On the King’s birthday, every Blue-
gown received a new gown and as many shillings as the king was years old.
The life of a Scotch beggar in the eighteenth century was really a romantic
one; and if he chanced to be a Bluegown, he belonged to the aristocracy of
his order, and was a person of great importance. He had the privilege of
asking alms through all Scotland, every law against mendicity being sus-
pended in his favor

In return, the Bedesman was expected to pray for the welfare of the
King and State. So, in spite of the difference in their social positions, Edie
Ochiltree, the beggar, independently stood before the Laird of Monkbarns
and reiterated his statement.

“The—the praetorian, as ye call it, Monkbarns, the mason lads built
that just for a bield (shelter) at auld Aiken Drum’s bridal! Mair, by token,
Monkbarns, if ye just howk up the bourock (mound), ye'll find a stane tha’
ane o’ the mason callants (lads) cut a ladle on to have a bourd (joke) at the
bridegroom. An’ he put four letters on it—A. D. L. L.— Aiken Drum’s
Lang Ladle — for Aiken was a’way fond of his broth.”

Poor Monkbarns! his theory shattered to atoms by Edie’s explanation,
and Lovel turned his gaze from the Antiquary in sheer compassion for his
confusion. Seeing the Blue-gown regarding him with a countenance pro-
vokingly sly and intelligent, the Antiquary, paying a tribute to Edie’s greasy,
unlined hat, said:

“Go down to Monkbarns— let them give you some dinner — or —if you
go to the Manse, or to Knockwinnock, ye need say nothing about that
foolish story of yours.”

“Who is this familiar old gentleman?” asked Lovel, when the beggar
was out of hearing.

“Who is he? why, he has gone the réle. Soldier, ballad singer, travel-
ing tinker, and now a beggar. He is a sort of privileged nuisance. One of
the last specimens of the old-fashioned Scotch mendicant ; keeps his rounds
within a particular space, and is the news carrier, the minstrel and the histo-
376 SIR WALTER SCOTT.

 

rian of the district. That rascal knows more of old ballads and traditions
than any other man in this and the next four parishes. But I must go and
look after him, or he’ll be spreading his nonsensical story over half the
country. He generally invents some such improbable lie to provoke you.
Not that I’ll publish my essay on castramentation until I have examined the
thing to the bottom.”

A short time after Edie Ochiltree had so rudely awakened the Antiquary
from his dreams of fame, the Laird of Monkbarns invited Sir Arthur War-
dour of Knockwinnock Castle and his daughter to meet Mr. Lovel, for
whom the Antiquary cherished the most affectionate feelings.

Mr. Oldbuck received his friends at the old Palmer’s port of the
monastery.

“Welcome to my symposion, Mr. Lovell,” he said. “ Let me introduce
you to my unlucky and good-for-nothing woman-kind.”

Then with many safcastic asides, he introduced to the amused Lovel
‘“my most discreet sister, Griselda, and my most exquisite niece, Maria,
whose mother was sometimes called Molly.” While the salutation was ex-
changing, Sir Arthur and his daughter entered, at sight of whom Lovel
blushed deeply, much to the Antiquary’s amusement. After dinner, the
ladies having withdrawn, Mr. Oldbuck and Sir Arthur, who was also some-
thing of an antiquary, became excited over the derivation of the word
“ Benval.”’

“Tt is decidedly Celtic,”’ said the Baronet; “every hill in the highlands
begins with Ben,”

“But what do you say to Va/, Sir Arthur ; is it not decidedly the Saxon,
wall?”

“Tt is the Roman va//um,” said Sir Arthur; “the Picts borrowed that
part of the word.”

* Nosuch thing ; if they borrowed anything, it must have been your Ben,
which they might have had from the neighboring Britons of Strath Cluyd.”

Mr. Oldbuck became fiercely sarcastic and whiggish. They threw out
insinuations against each other's ancestry; and finally, quivering with wrath,
Sir Arthur flounced from the room, and seeking his daughter, who was in
the parlor with the ladies, he tucked her under his arm and left the house.
Dismissing the carriage, Sir Arthur and his daughter started to walk down
the turnpike road; but discerning Lovel a short distance ahead they
determined to go home by the way of the sands.

‘The tide was not so far out as they had computed, but this gave them no
fears, as there were scarcely ten days in the year when it approached near
enough to make safe walking an impossibility. They hastened forward.
The wind blew furiously, and the dark heavy sky threatened to burst at any
THE ANTIQUARY. 377

 

moment. As every advancing wave dashed up, making the narrow path
narrower still, Sir Arthur and his daughter, realizing the horrors of their
position, silently pressed forward.

“Thank God,” ejaculated Sir Arthur suddenly; “we shall get round
Halket Head, this person approaching must have passed it!”

The figure advancing proved to be Edie Ochiltree.

“Turn back! turn back! Why did ye not turn when I waved to ye?
The tide is running on Halket Head like the Fall of Fyers! We will may-
be get back by Bally-burgh Ness Point yet. It is our only chance.”

The tide was now so high, they were obliged to abandon.the sand and
walk upon the rough ledge. Struggling on, they found the crag upon which
Ochiltree depended for their safety, completely surrounded by the white
billows.

“God have mercy upon us!” solemnly uttered the beggar.

“Good man,” said Sir Arthur, “can you think of nothing? of no help?
Pll make you rich—I’ll give you a farm—I’ll—’

“ Our riches will soon be equal,” said the beggar, looking out upon the
strife of the waters, “they are sae already; for I hae nae land, and you
would give your barony for a square yard of rock that would be dry for
twal hours.”” Thus calmly the noble old man viewed his fate. Hearing
from the lad who had been sent to dismiss the carriage that Sir Arthur and
his daughter were walking on the sands, the old Blue-gown knowing their
danger, determined to save the lives of those from whom he had received so
many favors. And now with all hope of rescue shut off ; the relentless bil-
lows dashing madly around them; the wind howling furiously in their ears ;
within sight of no living thing, save his companions and the sea fowl dying
about, shrieking with terror—no selfish regret found lodging i in the old beg-
gar’s grateful heart.

“T hae lived,” he said, “to be weary o’ life; and here or yonder at the
back o’ a dyke in a wreath o’ snaw or in the wame o’ a wave, what signifies
how the old gaberlunzie dies? But the lassie! the puir sweet lassie! Wad
tha’ I could save her /”

Suddenly the sharp eye of Edie spied one scaling the rocks from above.
Exalting his voice, the old Blue-gown gave such instructions to the daring
adventurer, as his knowledge of the crags brought their dangers to mind.
Following the beggar’s instructions, and by means of a rope, Lovel, for it
was he, succeeded in raising them all to the large flat stone, called Bessie’s
Apron, upon which he stood.

Here, at least, they were beyond the reach of the tide, and where, if the
wind did not blow them off, they could wait in safety, until the arrival of
More assistance. They were not to wait long, for soon the shout of human
378 SIR WALTER SCOTT.

 

voices and the glare of torches eloquently told that deliverance was at
hand.

Foremost in the anxious crowd on the brink of the precipice was Monk-
barns.

“TI see them,” he cried ; “low down on the flat stone.”

“T see them mysell weel eneugh,” answered Mucklebackit, an old fisher-
man and smuggler. “I’se hae them up as we used to bouse up the kegs 0”
brandy lang syne. I'se warrant we'll sune heave them on board, Monk-
barns, wad ye but stand out o’ the gate?”

Thus unceremoniously ordered back, Monkbarns stood “ out o’ the gate,”
and soon the four prisoners were safe on the firm land. When he reached
the top, Lovel, who would not leave Bessie’s Apron until the other three
were rescued, found that Miss Wardour and her father had already started
for home. This seeming indifference to the fate of one who had risked his
life for theirs, filled the young man with bitter pain.

Deciding to act in the future as if she gave him no thought, Lovel re-
turned to Monkbarns at the Antiquary’s earnest solicitation, and soon, spite
of the fact that he occupied the ‘‘ ghost chamber,” was wrapped in deep
sleep. Edie Ochiltree went home with Saunders Mucklebackit ; saying to
the many peasants who offered him shelter, “I can only sleep in ae barn at
ance, but, bairns, I'll maybe live to put ilka ane o’ ye in mind some ither
night, that ye have promised me quarters and my awmous (alms).”

That night Lovel had a strange dream. Mr. Oldbuck’s ancestral printer
seemed to step from the tapestry hangings on the wall, and, approaching the
bed, he opened the volume in his hand. Then with long forefinger he pointed
to this sentence : “Kunst macht Gunst,” closed the volume and gradually
faded from sight. S&il/ wins favor was the translation given to the mys-
terious words by Oldbuck next morning, as Lovel related his experience of
the night.

Although not naturally superstitious, Mr. Lovel was inclined to place
great hopes upon this auspicious dream, and so encouraged, he called next
day at Knockwinnock Castle with the Antiquary. But the cool reception ac-
corded him somewhat checked his ardor. Then, as if she had not done
enough for one day, Miss Wardour, seizing a favorable opportunity, calmly
advised Mr. Lovel to restrain his foolish infatuation for her and to return to
England. It seems they had met in England a few months before, when
Miss Wardour was visiting her aunt in that country.

As they walked back to Monkbarns, Mr. Lovel learned from the Anti-
quary that Sir Arthur was deeply entangled in financial difficulties, and that
it was merely a question of time when the bailee should sell him out. A
German adept, named Dousterswivel had convinced Sir Arthur that his
THE ANTIQUARY. 379

 

estates were formerly vast gold mines, and under the pretext of discovering
the lost vein, he had induced the Baronet to advance him large sums of
money for facilitating the work. Fooled and blinded by the plausible
promises of Dousterswivel, Sir Arthur had put every pound he possessed,
and as many as he could borrow, into the project.

But as nothing tangible was forthcoming from the use of these borrowed
pounds, their owners naturally became anxious for*Sir Arthur to cancel his
indebtedness to them. This he could not do, and the mental anguish occa-
sioned by his inability to make restitution, together with the humiliating
failure of the enterprise, ruined his temper and undermined his health.

About a week after their experience on the sands, Sir Arthur invited
Mr. Lovel and some others to visit the ruins of St. Ruth’s Priory on the
Wardour estate, and afterwards to dine, and spend the evening at Knock-
winnock Castle. The party was just about to leave the ruins, when Captain
M'Intyre, nephew to the Antiquary, and a brother of Marie’s, appeared on
the scene. For some unexplained reason, from the moment of their intro-
duction, Captain M’Intyre and Mr. Lovel evinced a cordial dislike for each
other, The fact that each young man discovered a tendency in the other
to pay attention to Miss Wardour was not likely to lessen this feeling.

Learning that Mr. Lovel was a military man, Captain M’Intyre inquired
the number of his regiment. Lovel gave it. Now it chanced that Captain
M’Intyre knew that regiment well, and was acquainted with every officer
on the staff of which Lovel claimed to be a member. Saying in a cutting
tone that he could not recollect the name of Lovel, the latter blushed
deeply, attracting the attention of the entire party. Soon after, on the
pretext of having a severe headache, Mr. Lovel left for his lodgings in
Fairport.

He was soon joined by Captain M’Intyre, who, in an insolent manner,
said he wished to know the occupation and social position of men whom he
found in his sister’s company.

“My name, sir, is Lovel, and for the present my address is Fairport.
Further questions I decline to answer,” returned Lovel in a haughty tone.

Captain M’Intyre was an impulsive, hot-headed young man. Seeing
that Mr. Lovel was firm in resenting his questions, he became quite
abusive ; and finally, after making some most insolent remarks, he excitedly
demanded satisfaction.

“T shall be proud to give it to you, Captain M’Intyre, in the way the
word is generally understood by gentlemen,”’ said Lovel as he rode on,

As brave as most men, Lovel felt somewhat awe-stricken at the thought
of aduel. But M’Intyre’s insolent behavior, the injustice and incivility of

92 his demands upon a perfect stranger, as well as his presumptuous attentions
380 SIR WALTER SCOTT.

 

to Miss Wardour, all induced Lovel to shut his eyes to the common-sense
view of the subject, and make him determined to meet Captain M’Intyre
that evening as arranged. Arriving at the appointed spot, the duellists were
surprised to find the old Blue-Gown there before them. Drawing himself
up to his full height, his majestic figure and expressive features enhanced by
the long white beard that flowed past his waist, the beggar, with all the elo-
quence and appearance of one of the prophets of old, tried to persuade the
young men from staining their hands with each other’s blood.

Although much affected, the young men’s pride would not allow them to
withdraw. The ground was measured off by the seconds. The fatal sign
was given. Both men fired. M'Intyre reeled and fell. Raising himself on
his arm, “ Lovel,” he said, “shake hands. I— believe you—to be a gentle-
man. Forgive my—rudeness ; I forgive you —my— death — my poor sis-
ter !”

Bewildered, Lovel stood gazing upon his awful deed. “Awa! Awa— if
ye would save your young blood from a shameful death. See the men out
yonder to drag ye to prison!" So saying the beggar led the stupefied Lovel
from the scene to a cave near by, the entrance to which was concealed by
the bough of an ancient oak. Inside, the cave was high and roomy. Cut
into two sections, these intersecting each other at right angles formed an
emblem of the cross.

From one of these branches, a turnpike stair led to the kirk above.

As the air in the cave was somewhat stifling, Edie deemed it better for
them to go up into the clearer atmosphere of the kirk. Accordingly, mount-
ing the staircase, they found themselves in a narrow gallery back of the
chancel, from which it received light and air through apertures ingeniously
hidden amid the ornaments of the Gothic architecture. Keenly awake to
Lovel’s bitterness of heart, the old beggar, to prevent him relapsing into a
despondent mood, kept the unhappy man interested in his accounts of the
strange but earnest lives of the monks who formerly inhabited the caves,
and built many of those kirks and priories, now crumbling into ruins. Sit-
ting there on the stone bench, both men suddenly became aware that they
were not the only occupants of this deserted place. ‘To Edie, the first sug-
gestion was that spirits of the long departed monks had returned to wander
about their former haunts. .\ closer inspection, however, revealed the forms
of Dousterswivel and his dupe, Sir Arthur, Lovel and his companion gath-
ered from the remarks they now and then caught that the adept, feeling
probably that Sir Arthur was losing faith, had promised that night, by means
known only to himself, to compel the spirits to reveal their hidden treasures.
He set fire to some chips, prepared with a bituminous substance to make
them burn fiercely, and then threw into the flames a handful of pungent
THE ANTIQUARY. 381

 

perfumes. The vapor made the German and Sir Arthur sneeze heartily,
and, penetrating every crevice in the building, it produced the same effect
upon the beggar and Mr. Lovel.

At first Sir Arthur supposed the sound nothing but an echo, but the
violent explosion of sneezes Edie could not suppress, accompanied by a
grunting half smothered cough, made the two treasure seekers start in
terror.

“T was begun to think that dis would be de bestermost done in de day-
light. We was bestermost to go away.”

The scales dropped from Sir Arthur’s eyes. Drawing his sword:.

“No, you juggling mountebank, before Heaven, I will this night know
what I have trusted to! Go on then! Come fairy, come fiend, you shall
show me the treasures, or by the faith of a desperate and ruined man, I'll
send you where you shall see spirits enough.”

Here Edie, entering into the spirit of the affair, uttered an extraordinary
and prolonged howl. Dousterswivel flung himself on his knees.

“Dear Sir Arthur, let us go, or let me go!”

“No, you cheating scoundrel! Monkbarns warned me long ago of your
juggling tricks. Now, show this treasure, or I’ll run this sword through
you, though all the spirits of the dead rise around us!”

Having no alternative, Dousterswivel, although expecting every minute
to be seized by an unfriendly spirit, proceeded to a corner of the building,
removing with the aid of lever and pick, from under a large, flat stone, an
old-fashioned horn filled with coin. The sight restored Sir Arthur’s confi-
dence. Promising to raise enough money to repeat the experiment at the
next change of the moon, Sir Arthur and the German left the place.

“Saw onybody e’er the like o’ that ?”’ said Edie. “ The siller was all ar-
ranged beforehand ; they that hide ken best where to find. I’se be upsides
wi’ him ae day.”

In the early dawn, Edie led Lovel down to the ocean where Lieutenant
Taffril’s gun-boat awaited him. Bidding good-bye to Edie, who returned
the gold pieces dropped into his hand, Lovel stepped into the row-boat
with Lieutenant Taffril, who had been his second, and was soon on board.

After the duel Hector M’Intyre had been carried to Monkbarns, and
for the next week very little attention was paid to the Laird’s wants and
whims, much to that gentleman’s silent disgust. But as soon as Hector
was pronounced out of danger, the Antiquary felt at liberty to indulge in
complaints, and was in the middle of a grand tirade one day, when Sir Ar-
thur and his daughter were announced.

Although the Antiquary was somewhat puzzled by the horn of coins, he
laughed at the spirits’ interference in Sir Arthur’s favor. Acting upon his
382 STR WALTER SCOTT.

 

suggestion, Sir Arthur induced the reluctant Dousterswivel to accompany
them to the ruins, that they might see if the charm would work by daylight.
On the road they were joined by the old Blue-Gown.

Arriving at the ruins, at Edie’s suggestion, they began operations on the
grave near which they all stood. A few minutes’ work brought to light a
large box well filled with valuable silver plate.

Elated with his good fortune Sir Arthur put the precious box into his
carriage, sent the laborers down to the tavern, and then with the Antiquary,
drove home. The German’s chagrin at Sir Arthur's marvelous luck may
well be imagined. Remaining after the others, he stood near the grave,
muttering aloud :

“Who was it could have thought this? If I had gone but two or dree
feet deeper down, it had all been mine own.”

At this moment raising his eyes, Dousterswivel was horrified to find the
keen gaze of Edie Ochiltree fastened upon him. The cunning beggar was
planning a joke upon the wily adept. He displayed the cover of Sir Ar-
thur’s box, upon which was written : “ Search Number One!”

Then there must be a number two, argued Edie. They agreed to meet
that night and seek the coveted number two. Into the church they stole
when twilight had merged into darkness. Edie excused himself from the
laborious work of throwing out the dirt, and highly amused, watched the
adept avariciously struggling with the earth for the treasures he supposed it
to possess. But when Dousterswivel had dug down six feet, and broken his
pick on the rocky foundation of the kirk, he saw that he was the victim of
a practical joke. Enraged, he would have struck the old man with his pick,
but the beggar exclaimed in a stern, firm voice :

“Shame to ye,man! Do ye think heaven or earth will permit ve to
murder an auld man? Look behind ve.”

Turning, the German beheld a tall, dark figure. With one powerful blow,
it stretched him flaton the ground. Recovering his senses, Dousterswivel
found himself alone in perfect darkness. Swearing vengeance upon the
beggar, the adept was groping his way towards the chancel, when suddenly
a bright light confronted him. ‘Too terrified to move he gazed with super-
stitious dread upon the strange scene before him,

Lighted tapers surrounded a coftin, at the head of which stood a priest,
who chanted in deep, solemn tones the burial service of the Catholic Church.
Through the atmosphere of the room, made hazy and indistinct by the
incense, whose fumes filled the apartment, might be seen several groups of
people, all kneeling, and each holding a flambeau. Dousterswivel was almost
paralyzed with fear, ‘To add to his terror, two of the mourners, observing
him, glided from their places and seized him by the arms. Their grip etry
THE ANTIQUARY. 383
fied the adept that he was in the hands of mortals, and he would have ques-
tioned them, but they motioned him to be silent. Thus they detained him,
until a loud Alleluia pealing through the deserted arches of St. Ruth’s closed
the singular-ceremony.

After Edie and his accomplice, Steenie Mucklebackit left the senseless
‘German, they ran to Steenie’s home, a cottageon the coast. Although long
past midnight, the family were still up, evidently waiting for the cakes a
young girl was cooking over the fire. Close by sat a poor withered creature,
so old, death seemed to have overlooked her. Edie and Steenie burst into
the room, declaring a creature in white on horseback was chasing them.

“ Hout, ye daft gowks,” said Luckie Mucklebackit, Steenie’s mother. “It
will have been some o’ the riders at the countess’s burial.”

“What !” said Edie, “is the auld Countess of Glenallan buried the night
at St. Ruth’s? That wad be the lights that scarr’d us awa.” Then, regret-
ting that he had left the German alone in the kirk, the Bedesman was soon
asleep in the Mucklebackit barn. Before leaving next morning Edie
advanced to take his leave of the ancient crone.

“Did not,” said the old lady in a sepulchral voice, ‘‘somebody say that
Joscelind, Countess of Glenallan, was departed frae life?”

“Yes, cummer,” said Edie, “she was buried yestereen by torchlight at
St. Ruth’s.”

“ Then I unlade my mind, come o’t what will.”

Taking from her pocket a curious ring, set with a braid composed of black
and light brown hair, she gave it to Edie, bidding him tell the Earl of Glen-
allan that Elspeth o’ the Craigsburnfoot must see him before she could die ;
and that she sent the ring in token’of the business she would speak about.

With much difficulty the Blue-Gown obtained an audience with the Earl,
‘who for years had led the life of arecluse. Visibly affected by the ring, when
Edie added that Elspeth of Craigsburnfoot desired to communicate a dread
‘secret to the Earl, his face assumed a yet more ghastly hue, and promising to
do as requested, he hastily dismissed the beggar. Edie descended the hill to
a little hamlet, where he was soon the centre of a good natured crowd.
Presently on the outside of the group began to arise sounds of woe. The
sports were stopped ; then like a bomb fell the news. Saunders Muckle-
backit’s boat had been swamped at sea. Three of the men in it had been
rescued, but Steenie’s body, bruised and torn by the rocks, had been washed
ashore, and now lay in his father’s cottage. The news came like a knell to
Ochiltree.

As he was leaning pensively upon his staff, the old man was seized by
the collar. ‘In the King’s name,” cried a peace officer, “ I arrest you for
assault, robbery and murder !”
384 STR WALTER SCOTT.

 

“Murder! Wha did I e’er murder?”

“Mr. German Doustercivil. He had a sair struggle for his life, if a’ be
true he tells, and ye maun answer for’t at the bidding o’ the law’

The last sad rites over handsome and genial Steenie Mucklebackit had
been performed, and the friends dispersed to their homes, when a loud
knock was heard at the cottage door.

“Whatna gait’s that to disturbe a sorrowfu’ house?” said the afflicted
mother.

‘God forbid,” answered Lord Glenallan, “that I should on light occa-
sion disturb your sorrow ; but my days are numbered, and if I see not your
mother-in-law to-day, we may never meet this side the grave.”

Entering the house, ‘In the name of Heaven,” cried the Earl, “ tell why
you sent me this?” The ring his hand held acted like magic upon the
palsied frame and brain of the old crone. Her eves flashed. She stood
erect and firm.

“Be ye sure,” she cried, “tha’ your mother, the Lady Countess is gane
hame? Then it shall burden my mind nae langer!”

Then the once accomplished and favorite maid of the Countess of Glen-
allan told a story, well calculated to make the Earl curse the mother who
had brought him so much misery.

Briefly the story was this: On account of some family trouble, Miss
Eveline Neville was sent to live with her uncle, the present Earl's father.
The countess hated all who bore the name of Neville, except her husband ;
and, when an attachment sprang up between her son, Lord Geraldin, and
his cousin Eveline, she determined that nothing should allow it to termi-
nate in a marriage. Finding that coolness and cruel treatment could not
accomplish the desired result, the countess had recourse to falsehoods, and
induced her son to believe that Eveline was not a cousin, but his own sister.
Eveline and Lord Geraldin had been secretly married some time before
this, and horrified at the shocking crime of which he believed himself guilty,
the young man tore like one maddened from the house. Miss Neville was
put under guard; but the ward slept and the prisoner, escaping through the
window, made her way to the sea Elspeth, at this time in disfavor with her
mistress, was married to Mucklebackit, the fisherman, She had gone down
to the coast, and while standing there sawa light object dart from the top of
the cliff into the sea. Bold, strong, and familiar with the tide, she rushed into:
the witer, rescued, and on her shoulder bore the unfortunate young girl into
the cottaye. A few hours afterwards, Eveline gave birth to ason, and died in
the arms of Elspeth, who had always been her mortalenemy. Word was
despatched to the countess, who sent her Spanish maid, Teresa, to watch the

corpse and new-born babe, while Eisneth went up tothe castle. Were, after
THE ANTIQUARY. 385

 

an excited discussion between the countess and her younger and favorite
son, the former gave Elspeth a gold bodkin, bidding her blight the spurious
blossom that had sprung forth that night to disgrace their noble house.
Elspeth returned to the cottage, but Teresa and the, child were gone.

“ Woman !” cried the unhappy Earl, “you swore upon the gospels to
facts different from these !”

“And I wad hae taen a yet mair holy pledge on it, if there had been
ane. I wad not hae spared the blood of my body or the guilt of my soul
to serve the house of Glenallan. I served her as she required me to serve
her. The cause was between God and her conscience —the manner, be-
tween God and mine —she is gane to her account, and I maun follow.”

“May God forgive thee, wretched woman,” muttered the horrified
Earl.

In spite of his caustic manner, Monkbarns had as tender a heart as
ever beat. In the morning, seeing that the poor father was too distracted
with grief to support the head of his beloved dead, as was customary, the
Antiquary, saying that he would lay Steenie’s head in the grave, took his
place in front of the afflicted mourners. No deed could have given him
greater favor with the simple fishers than this act of condescension. And
now, when Mr. Oldbuck returned to see if the family could be relieved in
any way, Saunders Mucklebackit’s fierce grief was broken at sight of the
tears he saw rolling down the Antiquary’s cheeks. At the door of the cot-
tage Monkbarns encountered the Earl of Glenallan, who, feeling the need
of sympathetic help, unfolded to the Antiquary all the horrible details of
old Elspeth’s story. The recital was doubly interesting to Mr. Oldbuck,
for he too had been a suitor for the fair Eveline’s hand; and after her
death had tried his utmost to clear away the mystery and scandal that sur-
rounded her name.

Promising to use every endeavor to ascertain if the Earl’s son were still
living, the Antiquary, who had learned from Captain M’Intyre that Edie
was detained in jail, went to Fairport, and after much parleying induced the
magistrate to release the Blue-Gown on bail, the Antiquary himself going
security.

Next day the Antiquary, Earl Glenallan and Edie Ochiltree went over to
the cottage for further information from old Elspeth, but they could elicit
nothing more. In Elspeth was personified that savage loyalty of the Scotch
peasantry, who would forfeit happiness here and hereafter rather than be-
tray one to whom they owed allegiance.

Day and night the weight of her horrible secret had embittered the soul
of old Elspeth, yet, while the Countess lived, for no power on earth would
she seek to deliver her spirit of its awful load. Death she had seemed to
386 SIR WALTER SCOTT.

 

defy. The Countess dead, Elspeth felt her hold on life grow weaker. Even
as the Antiquary sought to question her, she sunk back, then fell sidelong
to the floor. They raised her, but she was dead.

Meanwhile, Sir Arthur’s creditors became pressing, then imperative, and
as he had expended all the silver found in the ruins, Knockwinnock Castle
was seized by a King’s messenger. In spite of all Mr. Oldbuck’s efforts to
stay proceedings, Sir Arthur was ordered to accompany the officers to jail.
As they were leaving the Castle, Edie Ochiltree, who an hour before had
implored Miss Wardour to lend him a horse, appeared, flourishing in his
hand two letters. He had hurried to Tannonburgh, and acquainted Sir
Arthur’s son, stationed there with his regiment, of his father’s predicament.
Reginald Wardour secured papers to defer action. Giving these, and an en-
velope containing one thousand pounds to the old Blue-Gown, he hurried
him back to Knockwinnock.

That night the Antiquary caused all Dousterswivel’s machinery to be
set on fire. It was mistaken for a beacon, and soon every beacon hill for
miles around was ablaze with light. Thinking that the French were about
to make an attack on the coast, Fairport prepared for defense. The militia
were all called out. Monkbarns was there commanding, so was Sir Arthur;
and much to the surprise of all, Lord Glenallan made a splendid showing at
the head of a large body of yeomanry.

‘Here comes the brave Major Neville,” cried the people. The mavis-
trates hastened to receive him, but what was the surprise of all when they
became aware that Major Neville was no other than the pacific Lovel. Ma-
jor Neville, knowing that the alarm was a false one, ordered the troops to
disperse.

Lord Glenallan dragged the Antiquary aside.

“ Tell me,” he whispered hoarsely, * who is that young man so strikingly
like the ——”

“Unfortunate Eveline ?"’ answered Mr. Oldbuck. “I have noticed the
resemblance myself, It is Major Neville.”

“Gracious Heaven!" cried the Earl, My brother’s adopted child, my
Eveline’s son? ‘The messenger I wrote to sent me the whole story yester-
day!" Investigation proved that the Earl was correct, and affecting indeed
was the meeting between father and son.

If Sir Arthur objected to Mr. Lovel, he certainly favored Major Neville,
and in a short time Isabel Wardour and Major Neville were married.
Strange that Mr, Lovel (a name assumed after quarreling with his adopted
father), who had come to Fairport on account of a romantic attachment,
should there learn the sequel to some of the unpleasant suspicions he knew
surrounded his birth,
THE ANTIQUARY. 387

 

One day Edie, who now divided his time between Monkbarns, Knock-
winnock and Glenallan, told how Mr. Lovel, knowing Sir Arthur’s financial
difficulties, had entrusted the beggar with the box of silver plate, bidding
him put it where Sir Arthur, finding, could lay claim to and use it. Now,
thanks to his son, and the assistance of his old friends, Sir Arthur’s affairs
were put in good shape, and peace was restored to all, “Now,” said the
Antiquary, “that all the lost sons have been found, and the young folks
either pleasantly married or about to be, I’ll settle down again to writing
essays and collecting curiosities.”

.

EXTRACTS.

Skill or prudence in availing ourselves of our natural talents and advan-
tages will compel favor and patronage, even where it is withheld from preju-
dice or ignorance.

I quarrel with no man’s hobby, if he does not run it a tilt against mine ;
and, if he does, let him beware his eyes.

Scandal never failed to stoop upon so acceptable a quarry as the failings
of the good man, the decline of the powerful, or the decay of the prosper-
ous.

The stoical exemption which philosophy affects to give us over the pains
and vexations of human life, is as imaginary as the state of mystical quiet-
ism and perfection aimed at by some crazy enthusiasts.

Dreams! the deceptions of imagination when reason drops the reins. I
know no difference betwixt them and the hallucinations of madness —the
unguided horses run away with the carriage in both cases, only in the one
the coachman is drunk, and in the other he slumbers.

We silly mortals deceive ourselves, and look out of doors for motives
which originated in our own willful will.

Your active exertions are due not only to society, but in humble grati-
tude to the Being who made you a member of it, with powers to serve your-
selves and others.

If you are so true a philosopher as to think you have money enough, you
have attained the summit of perfection.

You must have the fear of the public before your eyes in all your under-
takings. 7

He must be a good poet; he has the real Parnassian abstraction — sel-
dom answers a question till it is twice repeated — drinks his tea scalding,
and eats without knowing what he is putting in his mouth.

The clergy live by our sins, the medical faculty by our diseases, and the
law gentry by our misfortunes.
388 STR WALTER SCOTT.

 

Let them that scorn the tartan, fear the dirk.

A horse in a passion is no joker.

The wound that is of recent infliction must always smart severely.

How few do you see grow old in the affections of those with whom their
early friendships were formed.

They that sell the goods guide the purse— they that guide the purse,
rule the house.

The human mind is to be treated like a skein of raveled silk, where you
must cautiously secure one free end, before you can make any progress in
disentangling it.

Our best resolutions are frail, when opposed to our predominant inclina-
tions.
 

 

 

 

GEORGE GORDON NOEL, LORD BYRON

Born 1788 ENGLAND Dico 1824.
LIFE OF LORD BYRON.

George Gordon Noel Byron, the author of Childe Harold, and one of the most brilliant,
but ill-starred of English poets, was born in London, on the 22d of January, 1788. He
came of a family that traced its lineage back to the Norman conquest. His grandfather was
an admiral in the English navy. His great-uncle was Lord Byron of Newstead Abbey,
Nottinghamshire. His father, Captain Byron, married Miss Catherine Gordon, a Scottish
heiress ; but their union was a most unhappy one, and they separated soon after the birth of
their son.

Mrs. Byron went to Aberdeen, where her boy was educated at a common school. He
was only ten years old when the death of his great-uncle, whose heir he was, brought to him
the title and estate of the family.

His mother now took him to London, in the hope of curing the boy’s lameness, caused
by a deformity of one of his feet. The ablest surgeons failed to cure him, and the defect
continued, throughout the poet’s life, to be a bitter mortification to his vanity. For two
years he attended a private school, kept by a Dr. Glennie, at Dulwich, in the outskirts of
London, and then he was sent to Harrow, one of the largest and oldest of the English
public schools.

While yet a school-boy, he conceived a romantic passion for Miss Chaworth, whose
father, owner of an estate adjoining Newstead, had been killed in a duel by Byron’s great-
uncle. The young lover was doomed to disappointment, as Miss Chaworth married
another.

In 1805 Byron went to Trinity College, Cambridge, and while there issued his first
work —a volume of poems, entitled Hours of Jdleness.

It was severely criticised by the Zainburgh Review, and the young poet, who deeply
resented this attack, replied to it in a scathing satire, English Bards and Scotch Reviewers,
which attained a notoriety afterward regretted by its author. In 1809, having left Cambridge
without taking a degree, he set out on a long tour through Portugal, Spain, Turkey, and
Greece. The story of his travels was told in Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, a metrical nar-
rative in two cantos, which he published on his return to England, and with such success
that, to quote his own words, he awoke one morning and found bimself famous.

He now entered public life, and took his seat in the House of Lords, where he made
three speeches, which were received with attention. But he soon wearied of legislative
duty, and returned to literature. In 1813 and the two following years, he issued some of
his best poems: Zhe Giaour, an Oriental romance; 7he Bride of Abydos, a work of similar
character; The Corsair; Lara ; The Siege of Corinth; and The Prisoner of Chillon.

But as his poetic star culminated, Byron’s impetuous disposition and irregular life made him
an outcast from society, and an exile from his native land. In 1815 he was married to Miss
Milbanke ; a year later he left England, destined never again to see his country, his wife, or
his infant daughter. Passing through Belgium, his first halt was at Geneva, where he added
a third canto to Childe Harold.
392 LORD BYRON.

Then he spent six years in Italy, at Venice, Ravenna, Pisa, and Genoa; and another
remarkable group of poems was written at one or another of these cities—the fourth canto
of Childe Harold, Mazepta, Manfred, Cain, Marino Faliero, The Two Foscari, Sardan-
apalus and Don Juan. In 1822 he joined Shelley and Leigh Hunt in the publication of a
journal called 7he Liberal, but the death of Shelley and a disagreement with Leigh Hunt
soon caused its discontinuance.

While at Genoa in 1$23, Byron became deeply interested in the Greeks’ struggle for
liberty from Turkish oppression, His enthusiasm was so kindled, that he determined to
enlist in the cause of Hellenic freedom. To fulfill this purpose he went to the island of Cepha-
lonia, and thence, in January, 1824, to Missolonghi. Soon after his arrival he was seized
with fever and rheumatism. Though only thirty-six, his constitution had been utterly worn
out by his mode of life, and he succumbed to his disease, expiring on the roth of April,
1824.

Byron’s moral failure may be to a great extent forgiven, when we consider the violent
passions he inherited, his faulty bringing up, the temptations consequent upon rank and pre-
cocious fame, and the strange fickleness of the public, who gave him at first extravagant adu-
lation, and afterward exaggerated odium. His princely generosity and ever-ready sympathy
showed that he possessed some noble traits of character. His poetry is remarkable for its
power and its beauty — its strong expression of intense emotions, its deep pathos, its exqui-
site taste and its musical perfection of diction. The inordinate popularity which his poems
enjoyed for two generations has passed away, but the more deliberate verdict of posterity
has assigned him a lofty niche in the Temple of Fame, from which he will never be
dethroned.

CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE.

The poem is dedicated to Ianthe, a poetical name for Lady Charlotte
Harley, daughter of the Earl of Oxford, and who was at that time a beau-
tiful little maid, scarcely eleven years old.

Canto I,

After invoking the muse, Byron begins with a gloomy and exaggerated
description of his own follies and vices, shadowing himself forth under the
romantic name of Childe Harold:

“ Whilome in Albion's isle there dwelt a youth,
Who ne in virtue’s ways did take delight ;
But spent his days in riot most uncouth,
And vex'd with mirth the drowsy ear of Night.

Childe Harold was he hight: but whence his name
And lineage long, it suits me not to say ;
CHILDE HAROLD’S PILGRIMAGE. 393

 

Suffice it that perchance they were of fame,
And had been glorious in another day :

But one sad losel soils a name for aye,
However mighty in the olden time ;

Nor all that heralds rake from coffin'd ciay,
Nor florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme,
Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime.”

Childe Harold was sad and sick at heart,

“For he through Sin’s long labyrinth had run,
Nor made atonement when he did amiss ;
Had sighed to many, though he loved but one,
And that loved one, alas! could ne’er be his.”

In the following passage Byron describes his ancestral home, Newstead
Abbey :
“ The Childe departed from his father’s hall :
It was a vast and venerable pile ;
So old, it seemed only not to fall,
Yet strength was pillar’d in each massy aisle.”

Childe Harold sailed from England ; and as the sun sank into the sea,

“While flew the vessel on her snowy wing,
And fleeting shores receded from his sight,
Thus to the elements he poured his last ‘ gvod night.

ve

The song which follows is a beautiful and well known one:

« Adieu, adieu ! my native shore
Fades o'er the waters blue ;
The night winds sigh, the breakers roar,
And shrieks the wild sea-mew.
Yon sun that sets upon the sea
We follow in his flight ;
Farewell awhile to him and thee,
My native Land — Good Night!”

“With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go
Athwart the foaming brine ;
Nor care what land thou bear’st me to,
So not again to mine.
Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves!
And when you fail my sight,
Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves:
My native Land — Good Night!”
394 LORD BYRON.

 

After a voyage of four days the Portuguese coast was sighted, of whose
beauty the poet sings :

“Oh, Christ! it is a goodly sight to see
What Heaven hath done for this delicious land!
What fruits of fragrance blush on every tree !
What goodly prospects o’er the hills expand !”

“What beauties doth Lisboa (Zzséo) first unfold!
Her image floating on that noble tide
Which poets vainly pave with sands of gold.”

But Lisbon within is dirty and squalid, and as for the Portuguese people,

“ Poor paltry slaves! yet born midst noblest scenes —
Why, Nature, waste thy wonders on such men?”

At Lisbon Childe Harold left the ship, and traveled through Portugal,
visiting Cintra and Mafra, to the Spanish frontier. Here the poet thinks of
the ancient glories of Spain, and cries,

“ Awake ye sons of Spain! awake! advance!
Lo! Chivalry, your ancient goddess, cries ;
Say, is her voice more feeble than of yore,
When her war-song was heard on Andalusia’s shore >”

For the deadly struggle of the Peninsular War has begun and Spain with
her British allies has to face the invading hosts of France. Byron gives
this splendid description of war :

‘Lo, where the Giant on the mountain stands,
His blood-red tresses deepening in the sun,
With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands,
And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon ;
Restless it rolls, now fixed, and now anon
Flashing afar — and at his iron feet
Destruction cowers, to mark what deeds are done;
For on this morn three potent nations meet,
To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most sweet.”

Passing the battlefields of Talavera and Albuera, and the fortified heights
of the Sierra Morena, Childe Harold reached Seville and Cadiz :

“ Fair is proud Seville; let her country boast
Her strength, her wealth, her site of ancient days ;
But Cadiz, rising on the distant coast,
Calls forth a sweeter, though ignoble praise.”
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 395

Cadiz is famous for its bull fights, its merry revelry, and its beautiful
women, to one of whom the poet addresses the pathetic song,

TO INEZ.
“Nay, smile not at my sullen brow;
Alas! I cannot smile again :
Yet Heaven avert that ever thou
Shouldst weep, and haply weep in vain.”

“What exile from himself can flee ?
To zones though more and more remote,
Still, still pursues, where-e’er I be,
The blight of life —the demon, Thought.”

Saying farewell to Cadiz, the first canto concludes with a lament for
John Wingfield, a near friend of the poet’s, who mourns him as

“known the earliest, and esteemed the most !
Dear to a heart where naught was left so dear!”

Canto II.

The opening of the second canto was written amid the ruins of the
Acropolis of Athens, and begins with an address to Athena,

“Goddess of Wisdom ! here thy temple was,
And is, despite of war and wasting fire.”

The sad desolation of the Acropolis is pictured in the lines,

“Son of the morning, rise! approach you here!
Come — but molest not yon defenseless urn ;
; Look on this spot—a nation’s sepulchre!” -

“ Look on its broken arch, its ruin’d wall

Its chambers desolate, and portals foul:

Yes, this was once Ambition’s airy hall,

The dome of Thought, the palace of the Soul:
Can all saint, sage, or sophist ever writ,

People this lonely tower, this tenement refit?”

The poet refers, with words that burn, to the vandalism of Lord Elgin,
who carried the metopes of the Parthenon to England :

“The ocean queen, the free Britannia, bears
The last poor plunder from a.bleeding land.”
396 LORD BYRON.

 

“Cold is the heart, fair Greece! that looks on thee,
Nor feels as lovers o’er the dust they loved:
Dull is the eye that will not weep to see
Thy walls defaced, thy mouldering shrines removed
By British hands.”

Returning to this imaginary hero, Byron tells how he sailed from Cadiz
with a fleet of British frigates, passed through the straits of Gibraltar and
entered the Mediterranean. Some of Harold’s meditations on shipboard
are noteworthy :

“To sit on rucks, to muse o’er flood and fell.
To slowly trace the forest’s shady scene,
Where things that own not man’s dominion dwell,
And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been,
To climb the trackless mountain all unseen,
This is not solitude; ‘tis but to hold
Converse with nature’s charms, and view her stores unrolled.
But midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men,
To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess,
And roam along, the world’s tired denizen,
With none who bless us, none whom we can bless:
This is to be alone: this, this is solitude!"

After visiting Calypso’s isles of Malta and Gozo, where he met a fascina-
ting beauty whom he calls Florence, Childe Harold sailed to Albania, pass-
ing ‘‘ Leucadia’s far projecting rock of woe, the last resort of fruitless love,”
where legend tells us that Sappho leaped into the sea. Next he traveled
inland, past the beautiful monastery of Zitza, and through Yanina,

“To greet Albania’s chief. whose dread command
Ts lawless law; for with a bloody hand
He sways a nation turbulent and bold.”

This chief was the celebrated Ali Pasha, whom Harold met at Tepaleen,
where he held his court, surrounded by Oriental magnificence. ‘Then, es-
corted by a band of Suliotes, Harold traversed \carnania to the white stream
of \chelous. Here, camped on the shore, his native followers sang their
wild song :

“ Tambourgi! Tambourgi! thy ‘larum afar
Gives hope to the valiant and promise of war;
All the sons of the mountains arise at the note,
Chimariot, Wlyrian and dark Suliote !"

The canto concludes with an address to Greece, a threnody over her
fallen greatness :
\

CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 397

 

“Fair Greece ! sad relic of departed worth!
Immortal, though no more ; though fallen, great!
Who now shall lead thy scattered children forth,
And long accustomed bondage uncreate ?
Not such thy sons who whilome did await,
The hopeless warriors or a willing doom,
In bleak Thermopyle’s sepulchral strait.
Oh, who that gallant spirit shall resume,
Leap from Eurota’s banks, and call thee from the tomb?”

“Spirit of freedom ! when on Phyle’s brow
Thou sat’st with Thrasybulus and his train,
Coulds’t thou forbode the dismal hour which now
Dims the green beauties of thine Attic plain?”

“Hereditary bondsmen! know ye not
Who would be free themselves must strike the blow ?”

“When riseth Lacedemon’s hardihood,
When Thebes Epaminondas rears again,
When Athens’ children are with hearts endued,
When Grecian mothers shall give birth to men,
Then may’st thou be restored.”

This is Byron’s famous description of the battle-field of Marathon :

“ The flying Mede, his shaftless, broken bow ;
The fiery Greek, his red pursuing spear ;
Mountains above, Earth’s, Ocean’s plain below ;
Death in the front, Destruction in the rear !
' Such was the scene — what now remaineth here?
What sacred trophy marks the hallow’d ground,
Recording Freedom’s smile and Asia’s tear ?
The rifled urn, the violated mound,
The dust thy courser’s hoof, rude stranger ! spurns around.”

Canto III.

The third canto opens with an address to Ada, the poet’s infant
daughter, whom he was leaving behind him, as he sailed from England, never
to return. He takes up again the imagery of Childe Harold, the cup of

whose life
‘i “had been quaff’d too quickly, and he found
The dregs were wormwood ; but he fill’d again,
And from a purer fount, on holier ground,
And deem’d its spring perpetual ; but in vain!”

“Self-exiled, Harold wanders forth again,”
398 LORD BYRON.

 

crosses the channel, and soon

‘‘stands upon this place of skulls,
The grave of France, the deadly Waterloo!”

‘Then comes the well-known stanza describing the ball at Brussels on the
eve of battle:

“ There was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium’s capital had gather’d then
Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright
The lamps shone o’er fair women and brave men ;
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,
Soft eyes look’d love to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage-bell ;
But hush! hark ! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!”

“The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife,
The morn the marshalling in arms — the day
Battle’s magnificently stern array !
The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent,
The earth is cover’d thick with other clay,
Which her own clay shall cover, heap’d and pent,
Rider and horse — friend, foe —in one red burial blent!”

The poet laments the fate of one of the slain—his friend, Major
Frederick Howard —

“There have been tears and breaking hearts for thee.
And mine were nothing, had I such to give.”

Of the closing at Waterloo of Napoleon's marvelous career, Byron sings :

“Conqueror and captive of the earth art thou!
She trembles at thee still, and thy wild name
Was ne'er more bruited in men’s minds than now
That thou art nothing, save the jest of Fame.”

He who ascends to mountain-tops, shall find

The loftiest peaks most wrapped in clouds and snew:
He who surpasses or subdues mankind

Must look down on the hate of those below.”

Childe Harold turus his steps to the banks of the majestic Rhine, where
he wazes on
"A blending of all beauties ; streams and dells,
Fruit, foliage, crag, wood, corntield, mountain, vine,
And chiefless castles breathing stern farewells
From gray but leafy walls, where ruin greenly dwells.”
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 399

 

Here the poet addresses to his sister the beautiful song which begins
thus :
« The castled crag of Drachenfels
Frowns o’er the wide and winding Rhine,
Whose breast of waters broadly swells
Between the banks which bear the vine,
And hills all rich with blossomed trees
And fields which promise corn and wine,
And scattered cities crowning these,
Whose far white walls along them shine,
Have strew’d a scene which I should see
With double joy wert thou with me!”

Passing by Coblentz, with its’ castles of Ehrenbreitstein and the pyra-
mid that marks the grave of Marceau, the traveler enters Switzerland,
where

“above me are the Alps,
The palazes of Nature, whose vast walls
Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps,
And throned Eternity in icy halls
Of cold sublimity.”

It will be noticed that Byron has dropped the mask of Childe Harold,
and now writes in the first person. He continues in this strain :

“Lake Leman woos me with its crystal face,
The mirror where the stars and mountains view
The stillness of their aspect.”

Here at Geneva the poet finds a quiet retreat. He asks:

“Is it not better then to be alone
And love earth only for its earthly sake?
By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone,
Or the pure bosom of its nursing lake.”

It was at Geneva that Rousseau lived and wrote, and to him Byron pays
this tribute :
“Here the self-torturing sophist, wild Rousseau,
The apostle of affliction, he who threw
Enchantment over passion, and from woe
Wrung overwhelming eloquence, first drew
The breath which made him wretched ; yet he knew
How to make madness beautiful, and cast
O’er erring deeds and thoughts a heavenly hue.”
400

LORD BYRON.

 

‘Then we have a description of a thunder-storm on the lake at night :

. ‘ 8 “Oh night,

And storm and darkness, ye are wondrous strong,
Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light

Of a dark eye in woman! Far along,

From peak to peak, the rattling crags among,
Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone cloud,
But every mountain now hath found a tongue,
And Jura answers, through her misty shroud

Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud!"

The poet now speaks of spots on the shore of Lake Leman. Clarens,
where Rousseau wrote the romance * Héloise,” he apostrophizes thus -

“Clarens, sweet Clarens! birthplace of deep Love !

Thine air is the young breath of passionate thought;
Thy trees take root in Love ; the snows above
The very glaciers have his colors caught.”

He also alludes to Lausanne and Ferney, rendered famous by Voltaire

and Gibbon ; and then passes on to Italy :

“Italia, too, Italia ! looking on thee
Full flashes on the soul the light of ages!”

But he leaves his travels in Italy for the fourth canto, and concludes the

third, by again addressing his daughter Ada :

“ The child of love,—though born in bitterness
And nurtured in convulsion.”

“Fain would I waft such blessing upon thee,
As, with a sigh, | deem thou might’st have been to me!”

Cantu ITN.

The scene of this, the last canto, is laid in Italy. It opens in Venice ;

“J stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sivhs:
A palace and a prison on each hand :
I saw from out the wave her structures rise
As from the stroke of the enchanter’s wand:
A thousand years their cloudy wings expand
Around me, and a dying glory smiles
O'er the far times, when many a subject land
Looked to the winged lion's marble piles,
Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles '"
*

CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 401

 

The ancient glories of Venice have passed away :

‘In Venice, Tasso’s echoes are no more
And silent rows the songless gondolier ;
Her palaces are crumbling to the shore,
And music. meets not always now the ear,”

“The spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord ;
And, annual marriage now no more renewed,
.The Bucentaur lies rotting unrestored
Neglected garment of her widowhood !”

The poet thus sings his love and admiration for Italy :

“Thou art the garden of the world, the home
Of all Art yields, and Nature can decree ;
E’en in thy desert, what is like to thee ?
Thy very weeds are beautiful, thy waste
More rich than other climes’ fertility.”

*Ttalia, Oh Italia! thou who hast
The fatal gift of beauty !””

Then passing by Arqua, where lie the bones of Petrarch, and Ferrara the
home of the house of Este, we reach Florence “the Etrurian Athens.”

“ Girt by her theatre of hills, she reaps
Her corn, and wine, and oil, and Plenty leaps
To laughing life.”

The poet tells us of the art treasures of Florence; of the famous church
of Santa Croce, in whose precincts lie

“ Angelo’s, Alfieri’s bones, and his,
The starry Galileo, with his woes ;
Here Machiavelli's earth returned to whence it rose ;”

but three great Etruscans — Dante, Petrarch, and Boccaccio — are not there.
Next we pass by Thrasimene’s Lake, by Clitumnus, and the Falls of Terni,
to Rome. Byron was deeply stirred at the sight of the imperial city, and he
exclaims —
“Oh Rome! my country! city of the soul!
The orphans of the heart must turn to thee,
Lone mother of dead empires.”

“ The Niobe of nations! there she stands,
Childless‘and crownless in her voiceless woe ;
An empty urn within her withered hands,
Whose holy dust was scattered long ago,”
402

LORD BYRON.

« Alas, the lofty city: and alas,
The trebly hundred triumphs! and the day
When Brutus made the dagger’s edge surpass,
The conqueror’s sword in bearing fame away!”

None since have reared the supremacy of ancient Rome, save Napoleon;

and in considering his downfall, the poet asks :

‘Can tyrants but by tyrants conquered be,
And Freedom find no champion and no child
Such as Columbia saw arise when she
Sprung forth a Pallas, arm'd and undefiled *
Or must such minds be nourished in the wild,
Deep in the unpruned forest ‘midst the roar
Of cataracts, where nursing Nature smiled
On infant Washington ?”

Byron describes the brazen image of the she wolf, the tomb of Cecilia

Metella, the column of Trajan, and other Roman antiquities ; and then

“Arches on arches! as it were that Rome,
Collecting the chief trophies of her line.
Would build up all her triumphs in one dome.
Her Coliseum stands.”

Here of old were held the gladiatorial combats alluded to by Byron in

the following passage, which is one of the most famous yvems of his works:

“IT see before me the Gladiator lie ;
He leans upon his hand — his manly brow
Consents to death, but conquers ayony,
And his droop’d head sinks gradually low —
And through his side the last drops. ebbing slow
From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one,
Like the first of a thunder-shower; and now
The arena swims around him — he is gone,
Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the wretch who won.

‘Ile heard it, but he heeded not — his eves

Were with his heart, and that was far away :

He recked not of the life he lost nor pride,

But where his rude but by the Danube lay.

There were his young barbarians all at play,

There was their Dacian mother — he. their sire,
Butchered to make a Roman holiday —

All this rushed with his blood— Shall he expire

And unavenged ? Arise, ye Goths, and glut your ire!"
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 403

 

The Pantheon, the mole of Hadrian, the great cathedral of St. Peter, the
Vatican, with its famous statue of Laocoon —all these are mentioned, and
then the poet turns aside to mourn the death of Princess Charlotte :

“In the dust
The fair-haired Daughter of the Isles is laid,
The love of millions !”

The poem concludes with a beautiful address to the sea, which Byron
views from the Alban Mount :

“ There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society, where none intrudes,

By the deep sea, and music in its roar.”

“ Roll on thou deep and dark-blue ocean, roll!
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ;
Man marks the earth with ruin — his control
Stops with the shore.”

“Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow —
Such as creation’s dawn beheld, thou rollest now.”

“My task is done — my song has ceased — my theme
Has died into an echo!”

GENERAL REMARKS.

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, is a narrative of Byron’s own travels, and an
unreserved setting forth of the thoughts and passions suggested by the
scenes through which he passed. The first canto describes his first depart-
ture from England in 1809, sketches his character with tints that are even
exaggerated in their darkness, and conducts him through Portugal and
Spain to Cadiz. The second takes him eastward on the Mediterranean,
through Albania, and to Constantinople. The other two cantos were added
some years later. The third begins with his travels in 1816, after his unfor-
tunate marriage, when he left his native country, never to revisit it, passed
by Waterloo and the Rhine to Geneva. The scene of the fourth is laid in
Italy, at Venice, Florence and Rome.

Childe Harold is a typical and probably the best specimen of Byron’s
work. Its force of diction and many beauties of expression ; the fervor of
its passionate and poetical eloquence ; the splendor of its imagery, its tragic
404 LORD BYRON.

 

pomp, and the power of its declamation, brought it a popularity that had
never before fallen to the production of so young a writer. The faults of
Byron —his sameness, his egotism, his constant dwelling upon his own
gloomy character —do not offend in this, which is confessedly an autobio-
graphy, as they do in his dramas and romances.

To understand the dark cynicism of the poem, the reader need only turn
to Byron’s career. The metre of Childe Harold is the nine-lined Spenserian
stanza, specimens of which have been quoted in the epitome of the poem.
Its diction, also, in imitation of the Haerie Queene, is often cast in an archaic
mold.
Born 1785

 

THOMAS DE QUINCEY.

ENGLAND.

Dieo 18859
THOMAS DE QUINCEY.

Thomas De Quincey was born near Manchester, England, on the 15th of August, 1785.
His father was a wealthy merchant, who died at the age of thirty-nine, leaving a widow
possessed of rare intellectual abilities, who secured for her children excellent social and
educational advantages.

Thomas was almost from infancy a student, a philosopher, and a dreamer. His pro-
ficiency at school was the wonder of his masters. He wrote Greek at thirteen, and at
fifteen could converse fluently in Greek, so that one of his masters said of him, ‘‘ That boy
could harangue an Athenian mob better than you or I could address an English one.” At
the age of seventeen, his guardian having refused consent to his immediate transfer from the
public school to Oxford, he borrowed ten guineas from a friend, and fled at night, making his
way first to North Wales, and not long thereafter to London.

Very soon his slender resources were exhausted, and for some months he ‘‘ suffered the
physical anguish of hunger, in various degrees of intensity.” He was finally discovered by
friends and restored to his family, and not long after entered upon his university career.
He spent five years at Oxford, and in 1812, he settled to the life of a student, in a charming
cottage on the- borders of Grasmere, making that beautiful country his home, enjoying the
society and friendship of Wordsworth, Coleridge and Southey, until about 1820, when he
removed to London, and subsequently to Edinburgh, were he died December 8, 1859.

His opium experiences are told by himself, and are in substance as follows :

CONFESSIONS OF AN ENGLISH OPIUM EATER.

THE PLEASURES OF OPIUM.

In the autumn of 1804, while visiting in London for the first time since
my entrance at college, I was attacked with excruciating rheumatic pains of
the head and face. After twenty days of intense suffering, a college
acquaintance recommended opium — opium, a word of little meaning to me
then, but now, what solemn chords does it strike upon my heart! It wasa
wet and cheerless Sunday afternoon when I made my first purchase of the
celestial drug. Hurrying to my lodgings, I swallowed the prescribed quan-
tity, and what a revulsion! It was but a step from torment to Elysium.
The pain was gone, and in its place, the most complete peace of mind and
408 THOMAS DE QUINCEY.

 

 

self-satisfaction prevailed. Here, thought I, is the secret of happiness; a
balm for human woes, corked up in a small bottle, and yielding ecstatic joys
to its fortunate owner.

As to its physical effects, opium does not and cannot intoxicate. It pro-
duces no state of body resembling that which results from alcohol. For the
pleasure given by wine is always mounting and tending to a crisis, from
which it gradually declines, while the delight that opium gives is stationary
for eight or ten hours. While one is a flame, the other is a steady and
equable glow. Wine disorders the mental faculties; opium produces the
most exquisite order, legislation and harmony. Wine unsettles and clouds
the judgment; opium brings serenity and a judicial calm to all the facul-
ties. The one leads to absurdity and extravagance ; the other to compo-
sure of thought and action, and, as it seems to me, while an inebriate man is
controlled by the brutal part of his nature, the opium eater feels that his
divine nature is paramount ; the moral affections are in a state of cloudless
serenity, and over all is the great light of the majestic intellect.

And further, I found that the elevation of spirits produced by opium was
not followed, as is so often supposed, by a corresponding depression, but on
the contrary, the day after I allowed myself this luxury was always a day of
good spirits. The torpor supposed to accompany or immediately follow
opium eating had no existence, in my case, at least.

During the period between 1804 and 1812 it was my custom, after taking
my usual quantity of opium, to attend the opera, and I experienced the most
delightful sensations from the beautiful music : the intellect, being in a state
of abnormal activity, was enabled to construct out of organic sound the
most elaborate and ennobling pleasure.

IT also took great delight in visiting the markets on Saturday evenings,
and mingling with the laboring people as they strolled about making their
small purchases, and in family groups discussed ways and means and small
economies. ‘The pleasures of the poor, their cheerfulness and their conso-
lation under trial, are always a delight to me, and my mind gave to their
simple joys full sympathy ; for opium (like the bee, that extracts its mate-
rials indiscriminately from roses and from the soot of chimneys) can over-
rule all feelings in compliance with the master key. But in candor I must
add, that silence and solitude are more conducive to the opium eater’s full
enjoyment, for they are the necded adjuncts of those trances, or profound
reveries, which are the consummation of his happiness. But at the time of
which T speak, it was my disease to meditate too much and to observe too
little, and the remedies T presented for myself were society and continual
activity in scientific research, In after years, when in better mental health,
I vielded to my natural inclination to solitude. and more than once have I
CONFESSIONS OF AN ENGLISH OPIUM EATER. 409

sat from sunset to sunrise motionless in a room which overlooked the sea
and the great town of L . each about a mile distant. The scene was
typical to me, for the city represented the earth and earthly things, not
wholly out of sight, nor out of memory, but too far away to annoy or dis-
tress ; and the ocean personating with its solemn calm my mind and the
mood which then surged it; a feeling of separation from the uproar and
the strife, and of a Sabbath of repose, a tranquillity of soul, born out of in-
ertia, but of complete equipoise, infinite activity, perfect rest. And, in an-
other mood, the subtle enchanter builded for me mighty temples and mighty
cities, beyond the art of Phidias and Praxiteles, and beyond the splendors of
Babylon and Hekatompylos, and then swiftly the vision changed and showed
to me the smiles and beauty of my dear loved ones, bringing their sweet
faces back “cleansed from the dishonors of the grave.”

O, mighty Sorcerer, thou only, high and mighty Opium, can open the gates
of Paradise to man !

 

THE PAINS OF OPIUM.

The year 1812 found me living in a cottage among the mountains of
Westmoreland, reading principally German metaphysics and eating opium.
During the summer of that year I suffered much in health in consequence
of a very melancholy event, which produced serious bodily illness, and this
illness was followed in 1813 by a most appalling irritation of the stomach,
similar in all respects to the disease which afflicted me in youth, accompanied
by a revival of all the old tormenting dreams. After a severe.mental strug-
gle, I yielded to the apparent necessity, and to alleviate severe bodily an-
guish, increased the quantity of the seductive drug. I made no serious
attempt to diminish my daily allowance, inasmuch as I found my bodily and
mental health both excellent, and as I look back upon the years from 1813
to 1817, they seem the happiest of my life, but about the middle of the latter
year a sad change came over my life; and I was summoned to take a long
farewell to happiness, to smiles and laughter, to peace of mind, to hope and
tranquil dreams, From this period I date the pains and penalties of opium.

I became incapable of study, or of any sustained mental or physical ex-
ertion. Mathematics, intellectual philosophy, all analytical studies which
had been my delight, were now insupportable to me. The labor of my life,
to which I had devoted my intellect, with all its blossoms and fruits, had
been the construction of a work which I had entitled De Emendatione
fumani Intellectus. This was now lying locked up as by frost, and was
likely to be handed down to my children as a memorial of great undertaking
and no result. After laboring a long time under this almost paralysis of the
intellect, I undertook, in a temporary revival of my powers, a work on
410 THOMAS DE QUINCEY.

 

Political Economy ; but in the midst of the final preparation for publication
the old inertia came back, and I sank into the same passive state. My pre-
vailing mood was a sense of incapacity and feebleness, coupled with remorse
for duties unfulfilled. I lost none of my moral sensibilities or aspirations ;
with a semi-consciousness of what might be, and ought to be, I was under
the weight of incubus and nightmare. And then began that series of weird
visions, which haunted my sleep and even my waking hours. A theatre
seemed to be opened and lighted up in my brain, and on its stage spectacles
of more than earthly splendor were nightly enacted. I was distressed night
after night, as I lay awake in bed, by seeing vast processions pass along in
mournful pomp ; friezes of never ending stories, that to my feelings were as
sad and solemn as if drawn from times before Troy, or Tyre, or Memphis.
Whatsoever I happened to call up in my mind by a voluntary act, was
speedily transferred to my dreams, and drawn out into insufferable splendor.
Terrifying scenes from Roman history ; Roman leyions making the earth
quake with their tread, sweeping by under the leadership of that marvelous
incarnation of military power, Consu/ Romanus ; the scene swiftly changing
to a ball-room, where beautiful ladies danced and smiled, and I seemed to
hear it said, ‘These are English ladies of the times of Charles the First,”
and though I knew even in my dream while gazing upon them that they had
been dead for nearly two centuries, yet in that dream-land all seemed in
accord with reason.

All these shifting scenes, whether brilliant or sombre, were accompanied
by deep seated anxiety and gloomy melancholy, impossible to describe. I
seemed literally to descend into sunless abysses, from which I could not hope
to reascend. ‘The sense of space and of time were powerfully affected.
Vast buildings and landscapes, perceptibly amplified to enormous propor-
tions, rose before my vision, and one hundred or a thousand years seemed
to be passed in one single night.

Childish memories, and long forgotten incidents of latter years were
often revived, and appeared before me with perfect distinctness, often fol-
lowed by distorted images which seemed to caricature and mock the com-
panions and friends of the old days.

In the carly stage of my malady, the splendors that haunted my brain
were mainly architectural, and such pomp of palaces and cities was never
vet beheld by the waking eye, unless in the clouds. When the “cloud:
capped towers “and ™ gorgeous palaces’ dissolved, there succeeded dreams
of silvery lakes smiling in the sunlight ; these, in their turn, swelling into seas
and oceans, and upon their rocking billows appeared innumerable human

faces, imploring, wrathful, despairing. They surged up by thousands, br
mytaids, by generations, by centuries.
CONFESSIONS OF AN ENGLISH OPIUM EATER. 411

Visions of Oriental life followed. I lived and moved among the Chinese,
and by strange association of ideas, I brought into combination all creatures,
beasts, birds, reptiles, all trees and plants that are found in the tropical
regions, and assembled them together in China or Indostan.

My astonishment at this monstrous scenery was mingled with hatred
and abomination for all I saw. I lived long centuries with the crocodile.
The hideous reptile so haunted my dreams, that my waking hours were filled
with a nameless horror of his loathsomeness.

Another dream, far different in character, came to me in 1820, It
opened with slow and solemn music — the music of a march, as if of the tread
of innumerable armies. It was the morning of a mighty day, a day of con-
flict, fraught with infinite results to human nature, though I seemed per-
plexed as to its cause or its issue. I seemed to have the power and not the
will to decide it. The interest deepened; then sudden alarms, a panic and
a flight. And then, by turns, darkness and light, tempest and human forces,
and at last, the moment of my separation, my everlasting farewell to those
who were dearer than all the world beside, and with a sigh which seemed to
reverberate through all space, the words were uttered—everlasting -fare-
wells! I awoke in struggles and cried aloud, “I will sleep no more.”

And even now the memory of these terrible visitations lingers in my
heart. Though I have overcome the tyrant Opium, who came to me as a
pleasant friend, and who developed into a gloomy tyrant, still the dread swell
and agitatfon of the storm have not wholly subsided; my sleep is tumul-
tuous, and dreadful faces peer at me under cover of the darkness.

SUSPIRIA DE PROFUNDIS.

BEING A SEQUEL TO

THE CONFESSIONS OF AN ENGLISH OPIUM EATER.

In affixing an account of a passage in my childhood to this record of a
dreadful visitation from opium, I feel justified by the fact that it is in har-
mony with that record, and in some degree the origin of the storms which
raged about my soul, and which opium greatly intensified, but did not
wholly cause.

The first great sorrow of my life was the death of my sister Elizabeth, at
the age of eight years, I being two years her junior. My attachment to
412 THOMAS DE QUINCEY.

her was all-absorbing. She seemed to my infant soul all the world con-
tained of beauty of intellect.

On the day after her death I secretly stole up to the door of the room
where she was laid, and entered, in order to look once again upon her sweet
face. The bed had been removed, and at first I saw nothing but an open
window, through which a midsummer sun was pouring torrents of splendor.
The blue sky and the gorgeous light spoke only of life and the glory of life.
Turning away from the sunlight, I saw the sweet childish figure of my loved
sister, and her angel face, but the frozen eyelids, the marble lips, kept me
back from kissing her, a feeling of awe fell upon me, and as I stood a
solemn wind began to blow, the most mournful that ear ever heard. It was
the wind that had swept the field of mortality for one hundred generations.

Instantly, as my ear caught this vast wolian intonation, my eye filled
with the pomp and glory of the heavens, and the golden fullness of the
earth, and then I turned to look upon the frost upon my sister's face. I fell
into a trance. A vault seemed to open in the sky. I seemed tw rise on
billows up into that vast vault, and the billows seemed to pursue the throne
of God, and that seemed constantly to rise and flee from me. The flight
and pursuit seemed to go on for ever and ever. It was a flight of the soli-
tary child to the solitary God. A day or two after came the funeral. I felt
as if alone and in darkness, hearing little consciously except some strains from
the sublime chapter of St. Paul, which in England is always read at burials.

My deep grief led me to seek comfort in solitude, and thus was fostered
the tendency to dream, and form out of common objects infinite images of
things that no eye could see, but an exuberant fancy could create. Merely
shadows, or a gleam of brightness, could furnish sufficient basis for this
creative faculty. I recall one instance of this, On Sunday mornings I was
always taken to church, an ancient and venerable pile, of majestic propor-
tions. While the congregation knelt through the long litany, as often as
the prayer was read on behalf of “all sick persons and young. chil-
dren,” and that God would “show His pity upon all prisoners and cap-
tives,” T wept in seeret, and raising my tear-stuined eves to the galleries,
T saw white fleecy clouds sailing over the blue sky, and immediately a frag-
ment of such a cloud grew into visions of beds, wherein lay sick, dying chil-
dren, and as they prayed for deliverance, the beds seemed slowly to rise
through the clouds into the chambers of the air, and the arms of God de-
scended to lift them up into His presence. ‘Phese visions were self-sus-
tained, “Phey needed not that any voice should speak of them, Long
years afterwards the sorrows and consolations of those days came back to
me, and 1 tived over again all the heart-breaking experiences of my early
childhood
:

CONFESSIONS OF AN ENGLISH OPIUM EATER. 413

 

The human brain is but a mighty palimpsest. Everlasting layers of
ideas, images and feelings have fallen upon your brain. Each succession
seeming to bury all that went before, but by the hour of death, by fever or
by the searchings of opium, all these can revive in.strength. They are not
dead but sleeping.

Twice I mastered the tyranny of opium, but sank again the third time
under its power, and endeavored for the third time to retrace my steps, but
soon became profoundly aware that this was impossible. In the imagery of
my dreams I looked through vast avenues of gloom. Those towering gates
of ingress, hitherto wide open, were now barred against my retreat and hung
with funeral crape. Upon seeing the insuperable barriers raised, one pro-
found sigh ascended from my heart, and I was silent for days.

LEVANA AND OUR LADIES OF SORROW.

Oftentimes at Oxford I saw Levana in my dreams. She was the Roman
goddess whose mission it was to lift up from the ground the new-born child
and point it to the skies. She is the lady whose duty it is to care for the
education of children, not by the ordinary methods of schools and text-
books, but by the central forces hidden in the deep bosom of human life, by
strife and passion and temptation. And how profoundly must she reverence
the agencies of grief. These agencies; who are they? They are the Sor-
rows, all three of whom I know.

Let us learn more of them. Theyare threesisters. The eldest is named
Mater Lachrymarum, Our Lady of Tears. She it is that moans night and
day, calling for vanished forces. She carries keys, more than papal, at her
girdle, and she can enter every cottage and every palace. It is by the
power of her keys that she glides, a ghostly intruder, into the chambers of
sleepless men and sleepless women everywhere. Let us call her “Ma-
donna.”

The second sister is called Mater Suspirtorum, Our Lady of Sighs. She
weeps not, but sighs inaudibly at intervals. She may murmur, but it is in
her sleep. She visits the Pariah, the slave, the criminal exiled from his na-
tive land and forgotten, and not only the humble and abased, but even the
lofty and great of this world have received her mark upon their foreheads.

But the third sister! She is the defier of God, the mother of lunacies
and the suggestress of suicides, and her awful name is Mater Tenebrarum,
Our Lady of Darkness.

These were the sublime goddesses, the Humenides of my Oxford dreams ;
and these were the words which Madonna spake in signs, which no man
can read except in dreams :
414 THOMAS DE QUINCEY.

“Lo! here is he whom in childhood I dedicated to my altars. This is
he that once I made my darling. Him I led astray. Him I beguiled, and
from Heaven, I stole his young heart away to mine.

“Through me did he become idolatrous ; and through me it was, by lan-
guishing desires, that he worshiped the worm, and prayed to the wrong
grave. Holy was the grave to him; lovely was its darkness ; saintly its
corruption. Him, this young idolater, I have seasoned for thee, dear Sister
of Sighs! Do thou take him now to /4y heart and season him for our
dreadful sister; and thou ’’—turning to Mater Tenebrarum —* wicked sis-
ter, that temptest and hatest, do thou take him from Aer, See that thy
scepter lie heavy on his head. Suffer not woman and her tenderness to sit
near him in his darkness. Banish the frailties of hope, wither the relent-
ings of love, scorn the fountains of tears, curse him as only thou canst
curse. So shall he be accomplished in the furnace ; so shall he see the
things that ought not to be seen, sights that are abominable, and secrets
that are unutterable. So shall he read elder truths, sad truths, grand
truths, fearful truths. So shall he rise again defore he dies. And so shall
our commission be accomplished which from God we had— to plague his
heart until we had unfolded the capacities of his spirit.”

THE APPARITION OF THE BROCKEN.

It is a dawn of bridal June, and on such a morning, reaching the summit
of the forest mountain about sunrise, we shall have a chance of seeing the
famous Specter of the Brocken. Who and what is he? He is a solitary
apparition, and so fond of solitude as sometimes to resent intrusion.

Make the sign of the cross and see if he repeats it— look! he does re-
peat it, but the mists obscure him so that his action appears reluctant or
evasive.

Pluck an anemone, and bend the knee as if offering it upon that stone
which simulates an altar, and lo, the apparition does likewise.

Veil your head, after the example of Judea sitting under her palm tree
to weep, and immediately the specter veils Avs head after the model of
Judea.

It is evident that the apparition is but a reflex of yourself, and in utter-
ing your secret feelings to A’m, you make him a mirror for reflection to the
daylight, of your thoughts and feelings.

Such a relation does the Dark Interpreter, who has been an intruder into
my dreams, bear to my own mind. He is originally a mere reflex of my
inner nature, but, like the Specter of the Brocken, when disturbed by storms,
or during showers, he swerves out of my orbit and mixes a little with alien
CONFESSIONS OF AN ENGLISH OPIUM EATER. 415

 

natures, What he says, generally, is but what I have said in daylight, and
in meditation deep enough to sculpture it on my heart. Generally I believe
him to be a faithful representation of myself.

His leading function is to recall me to my own lurking thoughts, to
place before me such commentaries as point the moral, justifying Providence
or mitigating the fierceness of anguish.

And in the midst of mysterious manifestations of God’s wrath, the Dark
Interpreter points out the mitigations, the consolations. Hear him!

God works by earthquake. He works by grief, but upon a night of
earthquake he builds a thousand years of pleasant habitations for man.

Upon the sorrows of an infant, He raises oftentimes, for human intel-
lects, glorious vintages that could. not else have been. Less than these
fierce ploughshares would not have stirred the stubborn soil. The one is
needed for Earth, our planet, but the other is needed yet oftener, for God's
mightiest instrument, for the mysterious children of the earth.
 

 

 

 

WASHINGTON IRVING.

BORN 1783 AMERICA Dito 1859.
WASHINGTON IRVING.

As the sight of a tree, loaded with rosy-cheeked apples, turned temptingly toward the sun,
stirs the heart of a country-bred worldling with tender recollections of bucolic delights, so
the name of Washington Irving thrills the student of American literature with a nameless
longing for an incomparable style of authorship which belongs to the happy past. Wash-
ington Irving was the first American writer to obtain recognition in the Old World merely
as a man of letters. His distinctive style won for him a reputation among the literary men
of his day in Europe that reflected luster on his native country. He was born in the City of
New York, on the 3d day of April; 1783. Both his parents were immigrants from Great
Britain, his father having come from the Orkneys and his mother from Falmouth. He was
named after the Father of his Country, and biographical gossip has it that he was once in a
shop with his nurse when Washington came in and patted the little fellow on the head.
What effect this magical contact with the great General had on the latent talents of his.
biographer must be left to surmise and the studies of the hypnotically inclined.

As a child, he feasted on travels and tales, and showed a particular aversion to arithmetic.
His health was not good, and his parents sent him on a voyage up the Hudson. While on
this journey he put up at an inn, which failed to satisfy his fastidious inclinations, and on
leaving he decorated the wall over the mantelpiece with the following tribute :

“« Here Sovereign Dirt erects her sable throne,
The house, the host, the hostess all her own.”

Irving’ s father iutended him for the bar, but his studies were so.interferred with by his
delicate state of health that, in 1804, he was obliged to forego further close application, and
sailed for Europe. He visited Rome and London, observing and appreciating wherever he
went, and, after five years spent in wandering about, interspersed with desultory attempts at
composition, he returned to New York in 1809. He was then admitted to.the bar, but the
seeds of a literary life were already sown in Irving’s mental garden, and firmly refused to be
overgrown by the hardy products of legal planting, consequently he relinquished the profes-
sion chosen for him by his parents, and gave himself up to letters. His first venture of any
importance, a satirical miscellany, entitled Sa/magundi, gave ample proof of his talents as a
humorist, which were still more conspicuously displayed in his next attempt, Kvickerbocker’s
History of New York, The next few years of his life were unproductive.

"Upon the death of his father, Irving became a sleeping partner in his brother’ 5 ¢ commer-
cial house, a branch of which was established at Liverpool. His connection with this concern
was the cause of his again visiting England in 1815, when he found the stability of the firm
seriously compromised. Its eventual bankruptcy compelled Irving to resume his pen as a
means of subsistence. He found England peculiarly congenial. He liked English ways, he
adored English ruins, and he reverenced English traditions. His reputation as an American
author had preceded him, ‘and procured him admission into the highest literary circles.
Campbell, Jeffrey, Moore and Scott were counted among his friends. This period of Irving’s
career, during which he produced most of his best efforts, must be a ‘source of gratification
420 WASHINGTON IRVING.

 

to all his American admirers, as it must have been to the genial ‘“ Geoffrey Crayon ” himself.
An English critic and biographer, describing his life at this time, writes: ‘‘ He delighted in
old Rogers, at whose famous breakfasts he met the author of Waverley, obliging enough to
tell him that he was like Swift and Sterne; Jeffrey, that critical swashbuckler ; that Leo
Fulvus, who for his good friend Irving would hide his fierce claw, and ‘roar as gentle as a
sucking dove,’ over ‘ Knickerbocker’ in the Edinburgh Review ; Tom Moore, who patted
him on the back, laughed at him for shutting up in mixed company, and said he was ‘not
strong as a lion, but delightful as a domestic animal ;’ Mrs. Siddons, who read his works
with emotion, and remarked twice when she met him, and each time with her grand tragedy
air, ‘Mr. Irving, you made me cry!’” One of Irving's countrymen, who achieved some
reputation as a contributor to polite literature, and who obtained an entrée into the society of
literary London, Nathaniel Parker Willis, describing an evening spent in the salon of the
charming Lady Blessington, bears witness in the following to the universal popularity of
Irving among the great literary lights of that time: ‘‘I fell into conversation after a while
with Smith, . . . . Among other things he talked a great deal of America, and asked
me if I knew our distinguished countryman, Washington Irving. I had never been so for-
tunate as to meet him. ‘You have lost a great deal.’ he said, ‘for never was so delightful a
fellow.’ . . . . The rest of the company had turned their attention to Smith as he
began his story, and there was a universal inquiry after Mr. Irving. Indeed, the first ques-
tion on the lips of every one to whom I am introduced as an American, is of him and
Cooper.” When it is understood that the company present on this occasion included Lady
Blessington, the queen of literary London, Smith, the author of Rejected Addresses, Henry
Bulwer, the brother of the novelist, Fonblanque, the famous editor of the Examiner, a German
prince, the splendid Count D’Orsay, and many other distinguished personages, the full force
of the tribute to Irving may be appreciated. In 1826, at the age of forty-three, Irving trav-
eled to Spain, a country he loved. There some of his best work was done. In 1529 he was
Secretary of Legation at the Court of St. James ; in 1831 Chargé d’Affaires. In 1832 he
returned to America, and was received with open arms. In 1834 he made a tour of the prairies
of the Great West, and ended by settling down, at fifty-three years of age, at Sunnyside, his
country home on the banks of the beautiful Hudson, with his sister and her children. In
1842 he was appointed Ambassador to Spain. His stay at Madrid is marked more by delight-
ful letters than any great strokes of diplomatic genius.

In 1846 he left the Spanish capital and returned, full of honor and fame, to his native
land. ‘‘ His public life was virtually at an end, and a life of more variety and less exciting
incident can scarcely be imagined,” writes the Rev. H. R. Haweis in a little brochure
entitled American Humorists. Continuing, he says, referring to the close of Irving’s
career: ‘He was familiar with Paris and London; Scotland, Germany, Switzerland, and
Spain he had traveled through in turn. Everywhere he had been received by the ¢/ite
coteries of fashion, of literature, politics, art, and science. He was on terms of more
than diplomatic intimacy with crowned heads, but he delighted most in many humbler asso-
ciations, He knew the theater and the counting: house, the rural life of England, the
delights of Alpine adventures, the prairies and happy hunting fields of wild Arkansas. He
had mingled in civic /éfes and popular celebrations, Ile was regretted in London, Paris,
and Madrid, and beloved in New York and Boston; yet, amidst all these varied scenes and
tempting situations, he remained unspoiled. Simply the kind brother, the idolized uncle,
the quiet, literary gentleman longing for his Roost at Sunnyside by the Tappan Zee."

The closing years of Irving's life were peaceful and happy. Amid surroundings that
satisfied his dearest wishes, he worked or rested, as the mood was upon him. To most people
WASHINGTON IRVING.

421

the actors in the tragedies, comedies, or melodramas that are presented at the homes of the
sock and buskin, are a source of curiosity as to their appearance and manners when off ‘‘ the
boards.” The same curiosity is felt as to noted authors, who are only known to the majority
of their readers through the pages of their works. The following abstract from a pen-
picture of Washington Irving in 1858, by that charming Southern novelist, John Esten
Cooke, gives one a far clearer glimpse of ‘‘ Geoffrey Crayon,” as he ‘‘ lived, and moved, and
had his being,” than any dry biographical data culled from the most approved sources.
“‘Among the most pleasant of all my recollections isa day which I spent with Washington
Irving, at Sunnyside, in the summer of 1858. . . . It was a bright day in June, I
think, when we left the cars at Tarrytown, near at hand, and a short walk brought us to the
grounds, which were one mass of flowers, grass, and foliage. Embowered in this foliage,
and margined by flowers, rose before us, on a gentle acclivity, the queer, ow/vé picturesque,
delightfully Dutch house of Irving. I was looking curiously at the original structure, when
my eyes fell upon the figure of « man standing upon a knoll to the left of the house, his
face turned studiously away from us. My friend turned his steps in that direction. I fol-
lowed, and * How do you do, Mr. Irving?’ caused the figure to wheel round, walking-stick
in hand. It was that of a short, rather ‘dumpy’ person, dressed in black, and very plainly.
There was absolutely nothing to indicate taste or character in the costume, nor was there
much, at first sight, in the face. A plain, elderly gentleman, taking a walk in his grounds,
and enjoying the sunshine— such was the face and figure of Irving. But over this calm
face there passed all at once a smile which seemed to change its whole character. He
advanced quickly, and greeted us with the greatest cordiality, inquiring with the most affec-
tionate solicitude after his friends in Virginia. A shy smile then flitted over his face, and,
with a short laugh, he said to D——: ‘I saw you coming, but I thought you were some of
those people from New York. They are always coming up to see me—entire strangers —
and annoy me. They come at all hours, without ceremony, people whom I never saw or
heard of. Mr. Smith of Texas walks in, sends up his compliments, and when I shake
hands I find myself gazed at like a show. Mr. Smith of Texas evidently expects me to say
something brilliant, and when I don’t, considers himself defrauded.’ A friend, one day in a
book-store, was accosted by a stranger, who took up a volume of Irving’s works, and said :
‘ A great author, sir, a very great author! I consider him national property, and being near
Sunnyside lately, 7 called to get my dividend!’ We spent the whole day with Irving, and it
would be impossible to imagine anything more charming than the conversation. It was not
‘brilliant,’ or ‘striking,’ or any other commonplace adjective, but perfectly natural, original,
and pleasant. The first impression produced by the individual was not promising. You would
have said that a plain, rather dull farmer stocd before you, with no ideas beyond the price of
wheat, and no ambition greater than to raise the most gigantic pumpkins. But this theory of
the man soon disappeared from the mind. It was evidently a ‘scholar, and a ripe one,’ who
was walking beside you, with his pleasant voice, his sweet smile, his queer little figure, the
very sight of which put-you.in.good humor. . . . His talk was an April day — drifting
clouds and sunshine, but the sunshine predominant. His short, shy laugh was the perfection
of quiet enjoyment ; and there was a charm in the sad, memorial tones of his voice as he spoke
of Scott and others, which can not easily be described. . . . Here was evidently a
thoroughly good and true man — one who scorned falsehood, hated meanness, loved his fel-
lows, and had a kind and charitable word for all men. His humor attracted attention more
than all his other traits; but this humor was only the lightning which flickered over the broad
ocean of his humanity and love of his fellow-creatures. God had given to this eminent per-
sonage a temper so sweet, a heart so loving and kind, that I for one forgot all about Irving,
422 WASHINGTON IRVING.

 

the author, and saw before me only Irving, the gentleman, the smiling, winning, warm-hearted
friend and companion. As the cordial smiling gentleman strolled through his little domain, I
could not help thinking, as I looked at him, of the sweet and pathetic romance I had heard in
connection with his youth. In his early manhood he had loved and been engaged to a young
lady of New York, but his marriage was prevented by her death. He remained faithful, how-
ever, to her memory; never married ; and when he died, the bible which she had given him
was found upon the table by his bed, with his name on the fly-leaf in the delicate hand of the
woman he loved. To the last day of his life he shed tears easily. Anything sweet or pathetic
thus affected him — the song of a girl, as once at an evening party in Virginia ; the voices of
children ; or the services of the church of which he was a member. Was it remarkable that
an unknown stranger, admiring him always as one of the greatest of humorists, should have
loved him too, after looking upon the kindly face over which so many tears had chased each
other ?””

In the autumn of 1859, as the ripened leaves fell upon the withered grass of the iawns
about Sunnyside, and the hills of the blue Hudson took on the sombre tints of coming win-
ter, the shadows began to gather about the cheery spirit of Washington Irving. Yet his
quaint humor never forsook him. ‘‘ Getting ready to go, shutting up doors and windows,”
he wrote. In reply to an inquiry from his niece as to how he felt one morning, he said: “I
am apt to be rather fatigued, my dear, with my night's rest.” His malady, asthma, made
rapid inroads upon him as the cold weather approached. On the evening of November 28th
his favorite niece, Sarah, came in as was her wont, to smooth his pillow before leaving him
for the night, and to minister to his comfort in the countless ways love alone can. ‘‘ When
will this end?” he exclaimed, half aloud. She turned suddenly to look at him. But the
‘““end” had already come. He fell forward with his hand pressed upon his heart, and in an-
other moment Washington Irving, the accomplished writer, the genial humorist, the illustri-
ous citizen, had ceased to breathe.

The pecuniary reward of Washington Irving's genius was not great, though comfortable.
As ambassador to Spain he received a liberal salary. His English copyrights alone paid him
$12,217, and his other literary earnings about $24,500, making in all a literary life-work
which cannot have netted less than $36,717. The principal works of Washington Irving, in
the order of their appearance, are: Sa/magundi, Anickerbocker's History of New York,
Geoffrey Crayon's Sketch Book, Bracebridge Hall, Tales of a Traveler, Life and Vovages of
Columbus, The Companions of Columbus, The Conguest of Granada, The A‘hambra, Asto-
ria, Captain Bonneville, Life of Oliver Goldsmith, The Lives of Mahomet and His Succes-
sors, Life of Washington. The following, from the Sketch Book, is probably the most
popular and best-known of all Irving's productions, and exhibits in every line the characteris-
tic style and genial humor of the Great American author.
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 423

 

THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW.

FOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OF THE LATE DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER,

A pleasing land of drowsy head it was,
Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye;
And of gay castles in the clouds that pass,
Forever flushing round a summer sky,
' —Castle of Indolence.

In the bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent the eastern
shore of the Hudson, at that broad expansion of the river denominated by
the ancient Dutch navigators the Tappan Zee, and where they always pru-
dently shortened sail, and implored the protection of St. Nicholas when
they crossed, there lies a small market town or rural port, which by some is
called Greensburgh, but which is more generally and properly known by the
name of Tarry Town. This name was given it, we are told, in former days,
by the good house:wives of the adjacent country, from the inveterate pro-
pensity of their husbands to linger about the village tavern ‘on market days.
Not far from this village, perhaps about three miles, there is a little valley or
rather lap of land, among high hills, which is one of the quietest places in
the whole world. A small brook glides through it, with just murmur enough
to allow one to repose ; and the occasional whistle of a quail, or tapping of
a woodpecker, is almost the only sound that ever breaks in upon the uni-
form tranquillity. From the listless repose of the place, and the peculiar
character of its inhabitants, who are descendants from the original Dutch
settlers, this sequestered glen has long been known by the name of Sleepy
Hollow, and its rustic lads are called the Sleepy Hollow Boys throughout
all the neighboring country. A drowsy, dreamy influence seems to hang
over the land, and to pervade the very atmosphere. The whole neighbor-
hood abounds with local tales, haunted spots, and twilight superstitions ;
stars shoot and meteors glare oftener across the valley than in any other
part of the country, and the night-mare, with her whole nine fold, seems to
make it the favorite scene of her gambols. The dominant spirit, however,
that haunts this enchanted region, and seems to be the commander-in-chief
of all the powers of the air, is the apparition of a figure on horseback with-
out a head. It is said by some to be the ghost of a Hessian trooper, whose
head had been carried away by a cannon-ball in some nameless battle dur-
ing the Revolutionary War, and who is ever and anon seen by the country
folk hurrying along in the gloom of night, as if on the wings of the wind.
424 WASHINGTON IRVING.

 

In this by-place of nature there abode, in a remote period of American
history, that is to say, some thirty years since, a worthy wight of the name
of Ichabod Crane, who sojourned, or, as he expressed it “ tarried,” in Sleepy
Hollow for the purpose of instructing the children of the vicinity. He was
a native of Connecticut, a State which supplies the Union with pioneers for
the mind as well as for the forest, and sends forth yearly its legions of
frontier woodmen and country schoolmasters. The cognomen of Crane
was not inapplicable to his person. He was tall, but exceedingly lank, with
narrow shoulders, long arms and legs, hands that dangled a mile out of his
sleeves, feet that might have served for shovels, and his whole frame most
loosely hung together. His head was small, and flat at top, with huge ears,
large green glassy eyes, and a tong snipe nose, so that it looked like a
weather-cock perched upon his spindle neck, to tell which way the wind
blew.

His school-house was a low building of one large room, rudely con-
structed of logs; the windows partly glazed, and partly patched with leaves
of copy books. The school-house stood in a rather lonely but pleasant
situation, just at the foot of a woody hill, with a brook running close by,
and a formidable birch tree growing at one end of it. When school hours
were over, Ichabod was the companion and play-mate of the larger boys;
and on holiday afternoons would convoy some of the smaller ones home
who happened to have pretty sisters, or good housewives for mothers noted
for the comforts of the cupboard. He was, according to the country custom
in those parts, boarded and lodged at the houses of the farmers, whose
children he instructed. With these he lived successively a week at a time,
thus going the rounds of the neighborhood, with all his worldly effects tied
up in a cotton handkerchief. In addition to his other vocations, he was
singing-master of the neighborhood, and picked up many bright shillings by
instructing the young folks in psalmody. Thus, by divers little makeshifts.
in that ingenious way which is commonly denominated “ by hook and by
crook,” the worthy pedagogue got on tolerably enough, and was thought,
by all who understood nothing of the labor of headwork, to have a wonder-
ful casy life of it. He was an odd mixture of small shrewdness and simple
credulity. His appetite for the marvelous, and_ his powers of digesting it,
were equally extraordinary ; and both had been increased by his residence
in this spell-bound region. No tale was too gross or monstrous for his
capacious swallow. It was often his delight, after his school was dismissed
in the afternoon, to stretch himself on the rich bed of clover bordering the
little brook that whimpered by his school-house, and there pon over Old
Cotton Mather's direful tales, until the gathering dusk of evening made the
printed page a mere mist before his eyes. Then, as he wended his way, by
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 425

 

swamp and stream and awful woodland, to the farm house where he hap-
pened to be quartered, every sound of nature, at that witching hour, flut-
tered his excited imagination ; the moan of the whip-poor-will from the hill-
side ; the boding cry of the tree-toad ; that harbinger of storm ; the dreary
hooting of the screech-owl ; or the sudden rustling in the thicket of birds
frightened from their roost. In spite, however, of these terrors of the night,
these phantoms of the mind, he would have passed a pleasant life of it if
his path had not been crossed by a being that causes more perplexity to
mortal man than ghosts, goblins, and the whole race of witches put together ;
‘and that was — a woman.

‘Among the musical disciples who assembled one evening in each week
to receive his instructions in psalmody, was Katrina Van Tassel, the daughter
and only child of a substantial Dutch farmer. She was a blooming lass of
fresh eighteen ; plump as a partridge ; ripe and melting and rosy-cheeked as
one of her father’s peaches, and universally famed, not merely for her beauty,
but her vast expectations. She was withal a little of a coquette, as might
be perceived even in her dress, which was a mixture of ancient and modern
fashions, as most suited to set off her charms. Ichabod Crane had a. soft
and foolish heart towards the sex; and it is not to be wondered at that so
tempting a morsel soon found favor in his eyes, more especially after he had
visited her in her paternal mansion. Old Baltus Van Tassel was a perfect
picture of a thriving, contented, liberal-hearted farmer. His stronghold was
situated on the banks of the Hudson, in one of those green, sheltered, fertile
nooks, in which the Dutch farmers are so fond of nestling. Hard by the
farm-house was a vast barn, that might have served for a church; every
window and crevice of which seemed bursting forth with the treasures of
the farm. Sleek, unwieldly porkers were grunting in the repose and abund-
ance of their pens, from whence sallied forth, now and then, troops of suck-
ling pigs, as if to snuff the air. A stately squadron of snowy geese were
tiding in an adjoining pond; regiments of turkeys were gobbling through
the farm-yard, and guinea fowls fretting about it like ill-tempered house-
wives, with their peevish, discontented cry. The pedagogue’s mouth watered
as he looked upon this sumptuous promise of luxurious winter fare. As the
enraptured Ichabod rolled his great green eyes over the fat meadow lands,
the rich fields of wheat, of rye, of buckwheat, and Indian corn, and the
orchards burdened with ruddy fruit, which surrounded the warm tenement of .
Van Tassel, his heart yearned after the damsel who was to inherit these
domains. Fromthe moment Ichabod laid his eyes upon these regions of de-
light, the peace of his mind was at an end, and his only study was how to
gain the affections of the peerless daughter of Van Tassel. In this enter-
prise, however, he had many difficulties to overcome. He had to win his
426 WASHINGTON IRVING.

 

way to the heart of a country coquette, beset with a labyrinth of whims and
caprices, which were forever presenting new difficulties and impediments,
and he had to encounter a host of fearful adversaries of real flesh and blood,
the numerous rustic admirers, who beset every portal to her heart ; keeping
a watchful and angry eye upon each other, but ready to fly out in the com-
mon cause against any new competitor.

Among these, the most formidable was a burly, roaring, roistering blade,
of the name of Abraham, or according to the Dutch abbreviation Brom Van
Brunt, the hero of the country round, which rung with his feats of strength
and hardihood. He was broad-shouldered and double-jointed with short
curly black hair, and a bluff, but not unpleasant countenance, having a min-
gled air of fun and arrogance. From his Herculean frame and great pow-
ers of limb, he had received the nick-name of Brom Bones, by which he
was universally known. He was famed for great knowledge and skill in
horsemanship, being as dexterous on horseback as a Tartar. He was fore-
most at all races and cock fights, and with the ascendency which bodily
strength always acquires in rustic life, was the umpire in all disputes, setting
his hat on one side, and giving his decisions with an air and tone that ad-
mitted of no gainsay or appeal. He was always ready for either a fight or
a frolic; had more mischief than ill will in his composition ; and with all
his overbearing roughness, there was a strong dash of waggish good humor
about him. This rantipole hero had for some time singled out the blooming
Katrina for the object of his uncouth gallantries and though his amorous
toyings were something like the gentle caresses and endearments of a bear,
yet it was whispered that she did not altogether discourage his hopes.

Such was the formidable rival with whom Ichabod Crane had to contend,
and, considering all things, a stouter man than he would have shrunk from
the competition, and a wiser man would have despaired. He had, however,
a happy mixture of pliability and perseverance in his nature; he was in
form and spirit like a supple-jack — yielding but tough ; though he bent, he
never broke ; and though he bowed beneath the slightest pressures, vet, the
moment it was away — jerk ! — he was as erect, and carried his head as high
as ever. To have taken the field openly against his rival would have been
madness ; for he was not a man to be thwarted in his amours, any more
than that stormy lover, Achilles. Ichabod, therefore, made his advances in
a quiet and gently insinuating manner. Under cover of his character of
singing-master, he made frequent visits at the farm-house ; and while the
busy dame bustled about the house, or plied her spinning wheel at one end
of the piazza,and while Katrina’s father would sit smoking his evening pipe
at the other, Ichabod carried on his suit with the daughter by the side of
the spring under the great elm, or sauntering along in the twilight, that hour
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW, 427

 

so favorable to the lover’s eloquence. Brom, who had a degree of rough
chivalry in his nature, would fain have carried matters to open warfare with
his more pacific rival, and settled their pretentions to the lady, according to
the mode of those most concise and simple reasoners, the knights-errant of
yore — by single combat; but Ichabod was too conscious of the superior
might of his adversary to enter the lists against him. This left Brom no
alternative but to draw upon the funds of rustic waggery in his disposition,
and to play off boorish practical jokes upon his rival.

In this way matters went on for some time, without producing any mate-
rial effect on the relative situations of the contending powers until, one fine
autumnal afternoon, Ichabod became the recipient of an invitation to
attend a merry-making, or “quilting-frolic,” to be held that evening at
Mynheer Van Tassel’s. The scholars were hurried through their lessons,
without stopping at trifles; those who were nimble skipped over half with
impunity, and those who were tardy had a smart application now and then,
in the rear, to quicken their speed, or help them over a tall word. Books
were flung aside without being put away on the shelves; ink-stands were
overturned, benches thrown down, and the whole school was turned loose an
hour before the usual time. The gallant Ichabod now spent at least an ex-
tra half hour at his toilet, brushing and furbishing up his best and indeed
only suit of rusty black, and arranging his locks by a bit of broken looking-
glass that hung up in the school-house, That he might make his appear-
ance before his mistress in the true style of a cavalier, he borrowed a horse
from the farmer with whom he was domiciliated, a choleric old Dutchman,
of the name of Hans Van Ripper, and thus gallantly mounted, issued forth
like a knight-errant in quest of adventures. But it is meet I should in the
true spirit of romantic story give some account of the looks and equipments
of my hero and his steed. The animal he bestrode was a broken-down
plow-horse, that had out-lived almost everything but his viciousness. He
was gaunt and shaggy, with a ewe neck and a head like a hammer ; his
rusty mane and tail were tangled and knotted with burrs ; one eye had lost
its pupil, and was glaring and spectral, but the other had the gleam of a
genuine devil in it. Still he must have had fire and metal in his day, if we
judge from his name, which was Gunpowder. Ichabod was a suitable figure
for such asteed. He rode with short stirrups, which brought his knees
nearly up to the pommel of the saddle; his sharp elbows stuck out like
grass-hoppers’; he carried his whip perpendicularly in his hand, like a scep-
tre, andl as the horse jogged on, the motion of his arms was not unlike the
flapping of a pair of wings. A small wool hat rested on the top of his nose,
for so his scanty strip of forehead might be called, and the skirts of his black
coat fluttered out almost to the horse’s tail.
428 WASHINGTON IRVING.

It was toward evening that Ichabod arrived at the castle of the Herr
Van Tassel, which he found thronged with the pride and flower of the
adjacent country. Brom Bones, however, was the hero of the scene, having
come to the gathering on his favorite steed Daredevil, a creature, like him-
self, full of mettle and mischief, and which no one but himself could
manage.

Ichabod was a kind and thankful creature, whose heart dilated in pro-
portion as his skin was filled with good cheer, and whose spirits rose with
eating as some men’s do with drink. He did full justice tothe ample charms
of a genuine Dutch country tea-table in the sumptuous time of autumn. He
could not help, too, rolling his large eyes round him as he ate, and chuckling
with the possibility that he might one day be lord of all this scene of almost
unimaginable luxury and splendor. Then, he thought, how soon he’d turn
his back upon the old school-house; snap his fingers in the face of Hans
Van Ripper and every other niggardly patron, and kick any itinerant peda-
gogue out of doors that should dare to call him comrade! When Ichabod
had filled himself to repletion with the good things provided by the generous
host, and had tired himself out clattering about the room, his loosely hung
frame in full motion, in the merry mazes of the dance, he joined a knot of
the sager folks, who, with old Van Tassel, sat smoking at one end of the
piazza, gossiping over former times, and doling out their wild and wonderful
legends of Sleepy Hollow. Many dismal tales were told about funeral
trains, and mourning cries and wailings heard and seen about the great tree
where the unfortunate Major André was taken, and which stood in the
neighborhood. Some mention was made also of the woman in white that
haunted the dark glen at Raven Rock, and was often heard to shriek on winter
nights before a storm, having perished there in the snow. The chief part of
the stories, however, turned upon the favorite spectre of Sleepy Hollow, the
headless horseman who had been heard several times of late, patrolling the
country ; and, it is said, tethered his horse nightly among the graves in the
church yard.

The sequestered situation of this church seems always to have made it a
favorite haunt of troubled spirits. It stands on a knoll, surrounded by
locust trees and lofty elms, from which its decent whitewashed walls shined
modestly forth, like Christian purity, beaming through the shades of retire-
ment. On one side of the church extends a wide woody dell, along which
raves a large brook among broken rocks and trunks of fallen trees. Over a
deep black part of the stream, not far from the church, was formerly” thrown
a wooden bridge ; the road that led to it and the bridge itself were thickly
shaded by overhanging trees, which cast a gloom about it, even in the day-
time ; but occasioned a fearful darkness at night. Such was one of the
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 429
favorite haunts of the headless horseman, and the place where he was most
frequently encountered.

The revel now gradually broke up. The old farmers gathered together
their families in their wagons, and were heard for some time rattling along
the hollow roads, and over the distant hills. Some of the damsels mounted
on pillions behind their favorite swains, and their light hearted laughter,
mingling with the clatter of hoofs, echoed along the silent woodlands, sound-
ing fainter and fainter until they gradually died away. And the late scene
of noise and frolic was all silent and deserted. Ichabod only lingered be-
hind, according to the custom of country lovers, to have a téte-a-téte with
the heiress, truly convinced that he was now on the high road to success.
What passed at this interview I will not pretend to say, for, in fact, I do not
know. Something, however, I fear me, must have gone wrong, for he cer-
tainly sallied forth, after no very great interval, with an air quite desolate
and chapfallen.

It was the very witching time of night that Ichabod, heavy-hearted and
crest-fallen, pursued his travel homewards, along the sides of the lofty hill
which rises about Tarry Town, and which he had traversed so cheerily in
the afternoon. In the dead hush of midnight he could hear the barking of
the watch-dog from the opposite shore of the Hudson; now and then, too,
the long-drawn crowing of a cock, accidentally awakened, would sound, far,
far off, from some farm-house away among the hills — but it was like a dream-
ing sound in his ear. All the stories of ghosts and goblins that he had heard
in the afternoon now came crowding upon his recollection. The night grew
darker and darker ; the stars seemed to sink deeper in the sky, and driving
clouds occasionally hid them from his sight. He had never felt so lonely
and dismal. He was, moreover, approaching the very place where many of
the scenes of the ghost stories had been laid. In the centre of the road
stood an enormous tulip-tree ; its limbs were gnarled and fantastic, twisting
down almost to the earth, and rising again into the air. It was connected
with the tragical story of the unfortunate Major André, and was universally
known by the name of Major André’s tree.

About two hundred yards from the tree a small brook crossed the road
and ran into a marshy and thickly-wooded glen, known by the name of Wi-
ley’s swamp. A few rough logs, laid side by side, served for a bridge over
this stream. On that side of the road where the brook entered the wood, a
group of oaks and chestnuts, matted thick with wild grape vines, threw a
cavernous gloom over it. It was at this identical spot that the unfortunate
André was captured, and it has ever since been considered a haunted stream.
As Ichabod approached the stream his heart began to thump ; he summoned
up, however, all his resolution, gave his horse half a score of kicks in the
430 WASHINGTON IRVING.

 

ribs, and attempted to dash briskly across the bridge ; but instead of start-
ing forward the perverse old animal made a lateral movement, and ran
broadside against the fence. The school-master now bestowed both whip
and heel upon the starveling ribs of old Gunpowder, who dashed forwards
snuffling and snorting, but came to a stand close by the bridge. Just at this
moment a plashy tramp by the side of the bridge caught the sensitive ear
of Ichabod. In the dark shadow of the grove, on the margin of the brook,
he beheld something huge, misshapen, black and towering. The hair of the
affrighted pedagogue rose on his head with terror. Though the night was
dark and dismal, yet the form of the unknown might now in some degree be
ascertained. He appeared to be a horseman of large dimensions, and
mounted on a black horse of powerful frame. He made no offer of moles-
tation or sociabjlity, but kept aloof on one side of the road, jogging along
on the blind side of old Gunpowder, who had now got over his fright and
waywardness.

Ichabod, who had no relish for this strange, midnight companion, now
quickened his speed, in hopes of leaving him behind. The stranger, how-
ever, quickened his horse to an equal pace. There was something in the
moody and dogged silence of this pertinacious companion that was mys-
terious and appalling. It was soon fearfully accounted for. On mounting
a rising ground, which brought the figure of his fellow-traveler in relief
against the sky, gigantic in height, and muffled in the cloak, Ichabod was
horror-struck on perceiving that he was headless! But his horror was still
more increased, on observing that the head which should have rested on his
shoulders, was carried before him on the pommel of his saddle! Away
dashed Ichabod, his flimsy garments fluttering in the air, as he stretched his
long, lank body over his horse’s head, in the eagerness of his flight. Just
as he got half through a sandy hollow, and before reaching the green
knoll on which stands the white-washed church, the girths of his saddle
gave way, and he felt it slipping from under him He seized it by the
pommel, and endeavored to hold it firm, but in vain; and had just time to
save himself by clasping old Gunpowder round the neck, when the saddle
fell to the earth, and he heard it trampled under foot by his pursuer — Hans
Van Ripper’s Sunday saddle! An opening in the trees now cheered him
with the hopes that the church bridge was at hand. “If I can but reach
that bridge,” thought Ichabod, “ I am safe." Just then he heard the black
steed panting and blowing close behind him; he even fancied that he felt
his hot breath, Another convulsive kick in the ribs, and old Gunpowder
sprung upon the bridge; he thundered over the resounding planks; he
gained the opposite side, and now Ichabod cast a look behind to see if his
pursuer should vanish, according to rule, in a flash of fire and brimstone.
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 431

 

Just then he saw the goblin rising in his stirrups, and in the very act of
hurling his head at him. Ichabod endeavored to dodge the horrible missile,
but too late. It encountered his cranium with a tremendous crash — he
was tumbled headlong into the dust, and Gunpowder, the black steed, and
the goblin rider, passed on like a whirlwind.

The next morning the old horse was found without his saddle, and with
the bridle under his feet, soberly cropping the grass at his master’s gate —
but Ichabod was nowhere to be found. An inquiry was set on foot, and
after diligent investigation they came upon his traces. In one part of the
road leading to the church, was found the saddle trampled in the dirt ; the
tracks of horses’ hoofs deeply dented in the road, and, evidently at furious
speed, were traced to the bridge, beyond which, on the bank of a broad part
of the brook, where the water ran deep and black, was found the hat of the
unfortunate Ichabod, and close beside it a shattered pumpkin.

The mysterious event caused much speculation among the residents of
Sleepy Hollow. The stories of the vicinity were all shudderingly recalled,
and when they had diligently considered them all, and compared them with
the symptoms of the present case, they shook their heads, and came to the
conclusion that Ichabod had been carried off by the galloping Hessian. It
is true, an old farmer, who had been down to New York on a visit several
years after, brought home the intelligence that Ichabod Crane was still
alive; that he had left the neighborhood partly through fear of the goblin
and Hans Van Ripper, and partly in mortification at having been suddenly
dismissed by the heiress ; that he had changed his quarters to a distant part
of the country; had kept school; studied law, been admitted to the bar ;
turned politician ; electioneered ; written for the newspapers ; and, finally,
had been made a Justice of the Ten Pound Court. Brom Bones, too, who
shortly after his rival’s disappearance conducted the blooming Katrina in
triumph to the altar, was observed to look exceedingly knowing whenever
the story of Ichabod was related, and always burst into a hearty laugh at
the mention of the pumpkin, which led some to suspect that he knew more
about the matter than he chose to tell
 

 

JAMES FENIMORE COOPER

Dieo 1851

AMERICA

Born 1789
JAMES FENIMORE COOPER.

James Fenimore Cooper was born in Burlington, N. J., September 15,1789. His father,
Judge William Cooper, removed the following year to Otsego Lake, and became the founder
of Cooperstown. The characteristics of this early home in the wilderness made a deep im-
pression upon the lad’s nature. At the age of thirteen he entered Vale College, remaining
three years. In 1€06 he went to sea, and from his experience gained material for his sea
novels. He entered the navy, but closed his naval career on his marriage in 1811 to Miss
Delancey. When about thirty years of age he read to his wife a story descriptive of English
life, and playfully declared that he could write a better novel himself. The result was his
first volume, Precaution. Urging him to renewed literary effort, his friends advised him to
represent scenes and characters with which he was familiar. Love of country was a passion
with Cooper, and he naturally sought his subject among the scenes of the Revolution. John
Jay’s account of a spy who was in his service during the war, led him to write The Spy. By
this novel he became known. It was translated into several of the languages of Europe. In
1823,appeared The Pioneers, itself the pioneer of the Leather Stocking tales. Init he described
the manners and customs of his native land; and laying the scene about Otsego Lake, he was
able to make use of the impressions and memories of his boyhood. Zhe Pivot, the first of his
sea tales, was made vivid by the scenes and characters drawn from his own experience, and
attained great popularity. In,1825, taking an excursion with a party of Englishmen to Lake
George, the caverns at Glenn’s Falls were examined with interest, and he promised Lord
Derby that he would write a romance in which they should be introduced. In The Last of
the Mohicans, 1826, that promise was fulfilled. His delineations of Indian life established
the reputation already gained by The Spy. Treating vf a new country and a new race, the
novelty of its scenes and characters caused the book to be widely read in Europe. In 1826
Cooper went abroad and spent six years in literary labor. Zhe Prairie was finished in
Paris. In a newspaper controversy he defended his country against foreign criticism. He
published Zhe Red Rover, Wept of Wish-ton-Wish, The Water Witch, Returning to this
country and replying to the censure which his course in Europe had elicited, he became en-
gaged in a newspaper war. His Sketches of Switzerland, Gleanings in Europe, and History
of the Navy of the United States, were followed by The Pathfinder and The Deersiayer. In
1845 he published a series of tales denouncing the doctrines of the Anti-renters. In his last
book, The Ways of the Hour, he attacked trial by jury. Cooper died in Cooperstown, September
14, 1851. His wife followed him four months later. In the beautiful cemetery overlooking
Otsego Lake there stands a monument to the memory of Cooper, surmounted by a life-size
figure of Leather Stocking with his faithful dog lying at his feet.
436 JAMES FENIMOKE COOPER.

 

THE LAST OF THE. MOHICANS,

That part of the country lying between the head waters of the Hudson
and lakes Champlain and George was the scene of many fierce conflicts dur-
ing the colonial wars of North America. Over the high plain, connecting
the lakes with the Hudson, extended a portage between two English forts.
At its northern terminus on Lake George was Fort William Henry, defended
by the Scotch veteran, Colonel Munro, with one regiment of regulars and a
few provincials. Fort Edward on the Hudson was held by General Webb
with five thousand men. One evening during the third year of the war
waged by France and England for the possession of the country, an Indian
runner brought to General Webb an earnest request for speedy reinforce-
ment, since Montcalm with a large French force was moving up the Cham-
plain. Next morning a chosen detachment of fifteen hundred men was sent
to the relief of Munro. Soon after their departure a private party com-
posed of an English officer Major Heyward, and Cora and Alice, two daugh-
ters of General Munro, set out on horseback. They were led by the Indian
runner, who had volunteered to guide them, by a path little known to Fort
William Henry, and more speedily than if they followed the column. They
had just left the highway and had entered the forest when they were joined
by a person of ungainly proportions and singular attire, mounted on a gaunt
horse. He proved to be David Gamut, a singing master of simple mind,
and at his earnest request he was allowed to attach himself to the party.
About night-fall, as Heyward had began to suspect treachery on the part of
his guide, they came upon three men lingering on the banks of a river.
One was Hawkeye the white scout, armed with a long rifle. The other two
were Mohican warriors. Chingachgook the elder was in the vigor of his days,
the youthful Uncas, his son, was an Indian of noble proportions, with dark
fearless eye, and proud determined features. .\ conference with the scout
confirmed Heyward’s suspicions that their guide had wilfully misled them.
Av. effort to seize him by stealth was thwarted by the crafty Le Renard Subtil,
who suspected their design and escaped into the forest. On the appeal of
Heyward, Hawkeye and the Mohicans promised to protect and guide the
party, as they were in the country of the Hurons, the bitter enemies of the
english, Securing their horses, they all embarked in a birch canoe, and after
a perilous ride came to Glenn's Malls, where in the much prized secret of
the place, a rocky tsland in which were two caverns, they found their refuge.
But the horses were attacked by wolves, and their cries of terror brought to
the spot a band of Hurons, who soon discovered that a party was in hiding
THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS. 437

 

on the island. At break of day fire was opened up on them from the oppo-
site shore. Four Hurons swam down the current to the head of the island,
but all were laid low by their rifles or overcome ina hand to hand fight.
At last it was discovered that a Huron had reached the island unobserved,
secured the canoe in which they had left the big powder-horn, and was
swiftly moving down the stream with his prize. Unable longer to use their
rifles, Hawkeye and the Mohicans dropped into the water at the foot of the
island and were carried down the current. Cora had urged them to escape,
and had suggested that they might secure help from her father.

Left alone, Heyward and his party concealed themselves in one of the
caverns, where they were discovered by Le Renard Subtil and the whole
band of Hurons. Crossing to the south bank of the river, their horses were
brought, the band divided, and the prisoners were left in the care of six
savages, Le Renard Subtil commanding. To Heyward’s offer of gold, and
his promise of rewards most tempting to an Indian if he would conduct
them to Munro, Le Renard (who was called. Magua as a term of reproach)
returned an evasive reply. Taking a southward course they came to a level
spot thickly covered with trees, on the summit of a hill resembling an artifi-
cial mound. Here Magua sought an interview with Cora, in which he men-
tioned his grievance against her father, who had caused him to be publicly
whipped for an offense committed while under the influence of fire-water
furnished by the whites. He asked Cora to live in his wigwam, but she re-
plied with indignation. He then addressed the savages, rousing them to
fury. The prisoners were bound, and preparations made for horrible tor-
tures. Renewing his suit, Magua promised to send Alice and Heyward to
Munro if Cora would be his wife. Cora left the decision with them, and
when both refused the alternative with horror, Magua infuriated, hurled his
tomahawk at Cora, but without injury. Heyward, maddened at this indig-
nity, burst the withes that bound him, and grappled with an Indian who was
about to repeat the blow. He was likely to be overcome, when the crack of
a trifle was heard, and his antagonist fell dead. This attack was made by
Hawkeye, Uncas and Chingachgook, who had determined not to go to Fort
William Henry, but had watched and followed Magua and his captives.
The Hurons had carelessly stacked their weapons at the foot of the hill, and
among them Hawkeye found his own rifle which he had been compelled to
leave on the rocky island. After a desperate encounter all the Hurons were
overcome except Magua, who was engaged in a death struggle with Chingach-
gook, At a thrust of the Mohican’s knife Magua suddenly feigned death,
and the forest rang with shouts of triumph. But as Hawkeye was about to
take his scalp, Magua rolled swiftly over, regained his feet, and bounded
into the thicket. Arming his party with the rifles of the Hurons, Hawkeye
438 JAMES FENIMORE COOPER.

 

again assumed the leadership. Near a spring on the present site of Ballston
they halted to prepare food, and then set out toward the north. Taking
refuge in an old block house surrounded by low green hillocks, Hawkeye
recalled a skirmish fought here years before between the Mohicans and Mo-
hawks, in which the latter were all killed. He had fought with the Mohi-
cans, and had assisted Chingachgook to bury the bodies of their slain ene-
mies. He added that Chingachgook and Uncas were all that were left of the
Mohican race. While he spoke approaching footsteps were heard, and the
voices of many Hurons. But the Indian's natural respect for the dead
saved the lives of Hawkeye’s party ; for, as the foremost Hurons stooped
to examine the hillocks, and discovered that they were burial places, they
turned about and the whole band retreated.

Leaving the block house the party traveled for a time in the bed of a
rivulet, that they might leave no trail. They then entered a gorge of the
mountains, and began to climb in the darkness a steep and rugged ascent.
In the early morning light they stood on the summit of the mountain at
whose base was Lake George, and could look down upon Fort William Henry
and the encampment of Montcalm. Hastening to descend, they were at last
but half a mile distant from the fort, when they were suddenly challenged
by a French sentinel, whom a dense fog which enveloped the plain had hidden
from their view. A lively skirmish followed and the little party was in im-
minent danger of capture. Then suddenly above them was heard the voice
of a commander, ordering his men to fire. Alice recognized it as her father’s
voice, and called to him from out the midst to save his daughters. The
order to fire was countermanded ; Colonel Munro sent his men to the res-
cue; the French pursuers were routed, and Cora and Alice were soon in
their father’s embrace Amid the dangers and privations of the siege five
days had passed. Hawkeye had been sent to Webb with an appeal for help,
but on his return had been captured by the French ; and thus Webb's reply
fell into the hands of Montcalm, He retained the letter, but sent Hawkeye
to Munro requesting a personal interview. At this interview Montcalm
gave Munro the intercepted letter, which contained Webb's utter refusal to
send help, and then made proposals of surrender at once generous and hon-
orable, Munro consented to the terms proposed, and next morning left the
fort at the head of his troops, attended by Heyward. At the last moment it
was discovered that Munro, broken-hearted by the desertion of Webb which
had necessitated a surrender, had neglected to provide an escort for his
daughters. Heyward therefore placed them temporarily in care of the sim-
ple-minded Gamut, No sooner had they left the protecting mounds of the
fort than the Indian allies, headed by Magua, fell upon the retiring army,
Montcalm was powerless to restrain the fury of the savages and a terrible
THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS. : 439

 

slaughter ensued. The sisters found flight impossible; Alice fainted, and
Cora sank beside her. Gamut, who would not desert his trust, raised his
voice to its highest tones, thinking to try the potency of music. Magua was
thus led to the group. Uttering a yell of pleasure, he seized the senseless
form of Alice and moved swiftly towards the forest, followed by Cora, and
the faithful Gamut, who was still singing. Magua conducted his captives to
the mountain-top where they had before been led by Hawkeye.

As Munro and Heyward with Hawkeye and the two Mohicans searched
the deserted battle-field three days after the capitulation of the fort, Uncas
discovered indications that the sisters were captives, and in the hands of
Magua. Setting out in pursuit, they discovered, on the second day, the
trail which made sure the route he had taken. On the margin of a little
lake, where a colony of beavers had erected their dwellings, they came
upon Gamut, who reported that Alice was with the Hurons on a table-land
two miles distant, while Cora had been conveyed to a neighboring people
farther on. Heyward determined to visit the Huron encampment in com-
pany with Gamut, and to attempt the rescue of Alice. Disguised with
paint he hoped by his knowledge of French to pass himself off as a con-
jurer from Ticonderoga. The scout Jeft Munro in care of Chingachgook in
the beaver lodges, protected by the veneration of the Indian for the beaver.
Hawkeye and Uncas were to learn something of the people to whom Cora
had been sent, and whom they believed to be Delawares. Gamut’s three
days’ sojourn had made him familiar with the Hurons. On account of the
reverence of the Indians for one of simple mind he had been allowed to
go and come at pleasure. Heyward was conducted to an Indian lodge,
where he conversed with an aged warrior, announcing himself as a medicine
man, sent by the Great Father to heal any sick among them, and explain-
ing his paint as a compliment to the tribe. Their conversation was inter-
rupted by the return of a successful war party leading captive two men ;
the one stood firm and erect with an admirably proportioned frame, the other
dejected, as if palsied with terror or shame. Piles of brush were lighted.
Warriors drew their knives and arranged themselves in two lines, forming
a lane from the war party to the lodges. Even squaws and children armed
themselves with any available weapon. At the signal the younger captive set
out upon a hazardous race for life down the lane with the swiftness of a deer.
He merely entered the lines ; then before a blow could be given turned sud-
denly and gained the safer side of the formidable array. By this artifice he
turned the order of the multitude into confusion, and all blows aimed at
him were given at random. Darting like an arrow through the crowd, he
had more than once almost gained his liberty, but was turned back. Balked
in his desperate efforts, he at last sought refuge by leaning against a small
440 JAMES FENIMORE COOPER.

 

painted post before the principal lodge. Here by immemorial usage he was
safe until the council had determined his fate. As Heyward drew near he
recognized Uncas. In the council lodge the young Mohican was calm and
collected, and gained the admiration of all. He attributed his capture to
the fact that he had followed a flying coward, pointing to the Huron
brought with him by the war party. It was determined that the cowardly
Huron must die; and an aged chief thrust a knife into his heart. As the
trial proceeded Magua entered the lodge. Recognizing the captive he pro-
nounced the name universally given Uncas by his enemies, “Le Cerf
Agile,” and raising his arm said, ‘‘ Mohican, you die.” Then, addressing
his people with that dangerous eloquence for which as a Huron orator he
was famed, he roused them to frenzy. A ferocious warrior threw his toma-
hawk, but its aim was diverted by Magua, who dismissed Uncas to await
death in the morning.

Heyward in his assumed character of medicine man was conducted by
an elderly warrior to a cave in an adjacent mountain, where lay his sick
daughter, a supposed victim of supernatural power. Approaching the bed-
side to exorcise the evil spirit, he found Gamut, from whom he had become
separated, who was attempting to work a miracle by song, and who was un-
interrupted by the Indians out of respect to his imagined infirmity. On
their way to the cavern they had been followed by a bear ; and at the close
of Gamut's song it reappeared, uttering low growls. The singing master
precipitately left the cavern, with the words, “ She expects you.” Heyward
then prepared to perform his incantations, but was three times interrupted
by the growling of the bear. Receiving this as an indication that the * cun-
ning ones” were jealous, the chief departed, leaving Heyward alone with
the sick woman and the bear; whereupon the bear-skin was thrown off and
Hawkeye stood revealed He informed Heyward that after the capture of
Uncas he had overpowered an Indian conjurer and appropriated his mask of
bear-skin, hoping in this guise to effect the rescue of the Mohican. Hasty
search disclosed Alice concealed in another apartment of the cavern. Hey-
ward, overjoyed, was declaring his love, when, startled by a light tap on his
shoulder, he turned and saw Magua. Promising tortures, Magua was about
to leave the eavern, but was hindered by the bear with threatening growls.
Then the feree brute enfolded him in a desperate hug, and pinioned his
arms, With the assistance of Heyward, he was gagged, and bound hand and
foot. Coneealing Alice in Indian cloths, Heyward took her in his arms and
left the cavern, assuring the Indian warrior who was waiting at the entrance
that he was taking his child to a distance where she would be safe from
further attacks of the evil spirit. Hawkeye, with his bear-skin disguise,
after showing Heyward the path that led to the Delaware encampment,
THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS. 441

 

found Gamut, and with him proceeded to the place where Uncas was con-
fined. By strategy the Hurons who were guarding him were persuaded to
withdraw from the lodge, when an exchange of character was quickly
effected. Uncas assumed the bear-skin and Hawkeye the role of singing-
master, leaving Gamut to play the part of Uncas; thus the supposed Gamut
and the bear easily escaped. When the deceit was discovered, Gamut saved
himself from the vengeance of the angry Hurons by raising his voice in song,
thus reminding them of his imaginary infirmity. As the warriors assembled
for the pursuit they called for Magua. After a long search he was found in
the cavern chafing with rage, and was released from his bonds. Next morn-
ing at daybreak Magua with a chosen band of twenty warriors set out, their
revenge being directed chiefly against Hawkeye, who was known among the
Hurons, because of the deadly effects of his rifle, as “‘ La Longue Carabine.”
Passing the beaver village they stopped, and one of the warriors addressed
the beavers as cousins, promising them protection from the hunters, and
asking them to give him some of their wisdom for.this expedition.

This band of Delawares had been allied with Montcalm, but for some
reason had declined to fight at the siege of Fort William Henry. Magua
made skillful use of this fact in his interview with their.chief orator, artfully
insinuating that they were in reproach among their French allies, and that
their future actions would be regarded with distrust because of their late
defection. When he told them they were harboring La Longue Carabine,
the whole encampment became profoundly agitated, and a formal assem-
blage of the nation was called. At this council the aged patriarch Tame-
nund, who was held in great veneration, and was famed as so wise and just
that he had been allowed to hold secret communication with the Great
Spirit, presided. All the fugitives save Uncas were brought into the circle,
and Magua, being permitted to speak, declared the object of his visit.
Cora appealed to Tamenund for mercy, and then asked that Uncas be
brought before the nation. In response to an inquiry Uncas declared him-
self a Delaware. Supposing him to be a traitor who had deserted his tribe,
they condemned him to torture by fire. A chief tore his shirt from his
body, and was amazed as he saw the figure of a tortoise tattooed in light
blue on Uncas’ breast. The young Mohican then advanced with the dignity
of a king and declared himself to be Uncas, the son of Chingachgook. Tame-
nund recognized him, with joy, as a descendant of his friend, the eldest son
of the Lenape who, four generations before, was the wisest Sagamore of the
Mohicans. Uncas then led Hawkeye to the patriarch, calling hima just
man anda friend of the Delawares. Magua, asserting a conqueror’s right
to Cora, refused to leave without her; and Tamenund was forced to admit
the justice of his claim. So after an affecting parting scene he was
442 JAMES FENIMORE COOPER.

 

allowed to lead his captive away, protected by the inviolable laws of Indian
hospitality. But when the sun had reached the point which marked the end
of the truce with Magua, a large band of Delawares, led by Uncas and
Hawkeye, set out in pursuit. They had not proceeded far when Gamut ap-
peared, reporting that a large force of Hurons lay in the neighboring forest,
and that Magua was at their head, having placed Cora in the cavern. Rein-
forced by Colonel Munro and Chingachgook from the beaver lodges, the Dela-
wares, after severe contests, put the Hurons to flight. Pursuers and pur-
sued entered the village of the Hurons where a desperate encounter took
place around a council lodge.

Magua at last fled with his only two surviving warriors to the cavern.
Through its dark and gloomy passages the pursuers followed the retreating
forms of the Hurons. They could see that Cora was carried between two
warriors, and held so as to shield them from fire. Issuing from the cavern,
on the side of the mountain, the route lay up a most hazardous ascent. At
last Cora refused to go farther, and one of Magua’s assistants sheathed his
knife in her bosom. Uncas, who had leaped over rocks and precipices, and
gained a point above them, seeing the danger of Cora, leaped from a fearful
height ; and as his form lay prostrate on the ledge, Magua buried his weapon
in the back of the Mohican. But a moment later the contents of Hawkeye’s
rifle sent Magua over a precipice to the rocks below. The next morning
found the Lenape a nation of mourners. They had avenged their wrongs
by the destruction of the Hurons; but there were no songs of triumph.
The lodges were deserted, and the nation was assembled at one spot of com-
mon interest. Six Delaware girls stood apart and strewed flowers on a litter
of fragrant plants that supported the body of Cora. On the opposite space
of the same area appeared Uncas, seated as in life, arrayed in the most
gorgeous ornaments. After a long silence the venerable Tamenund arose
and said: “ Men of the Lenape, the face of the Manitou is behind a cloud.”
Another deep stillness, and then the women began a low, wailing chant in
honor of the dead. A girl of high rank spoke in glowing terms of the qual-
ities of the deceased warrior. Another sang of the stranger maiden who
had left the earth at a time so near his own departure as to render the will
of the Great Spirit manifest. Others spoke to the maiden herself in the
low, soft language of tenderness and love ; pronouncing Uncas noble, manly
and generous, all that became a warrior, and all that maiden could ask in
lover, betraying by their language that they had discovered the truant dis-
position of the Mohican, in whose eyes the Delaware girls found no favor.
One by one each of the gifted men of the nation spoke his tribute of praise
to the memory of the departed warrior, Then the young girls raised Cora’s
bier, bore it slowly to a little knoll shaded by young pines, placed the body
THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS. 443

 

in a shell of birch bark, and lowered it to its final resting-place. After the
burial of Uncas, Tamenund dismissed his people with these words: “The
pale-faces are masters of the earth, and the time of the red-men has not yet
come again. My day has been too long. In the morning I saw the sons of
Unamis happy and strong ; and yet, before the night has come, I have lived
to see the last warrior of the wise race of the Mohicans.” Munro and his
daughter Alice with Heyward and Gamut then left the Delaware encamp-
ment, and set out on their homeward journey. Through the medium of the
Scout, who served for years as a link between these dwellers in the woods
and civilized life, the Delawares learned in answer to their inquiries, that
Colonel Munro was speedily gathered to his fathers, and that Major Hey-

ward had conveyed his surviving daughter to a home far into the settlements
of the “ pale-faces.”
 

 

 

 

 

THOMAS CARLYLE

BORN 1795. SCOTLAND. Dito 188).
THOMAS CARLYLE.

Thomas Carlyle, the most distinguished British essayist and philosopher of the last gen-
eration, was born at Ecclefechan, Dumfriesshire, Scotland, on the 4th of December, 1795.
At the age of fifteen he went to Edinburgh University, where he remained for seven years,
and won considerable distinction, his favorite studies being mathematics and the language
and literature of Germany. It was his studies of and translations from the German writers
that first brought him into public notice as an author. After some magazine work, his first
published book was a Life of Schiller, in 1824; his next, a translation of Goethe’s Wilhelm
Meister, begun in the same year. In these early works he shows the same peculiar, rugged style,
and the same brilliance of thought that distinguishes his maturer efforts. In 1826 he married
a Scotch lady, Miss Welsh, and settled in a country home near his native town. For several
years following, he devoted himself principally to articles which appeared in the Zdinburgh
Review, Fraser's Magazine, and other periodicals, and which dealt mainly with criticisms on
biographical subjects. In 1834 he published the volume which first established his wide
reputation, although it was originally issued anonymously in the columns of Fraser's
Magazine. It bore the title of Sartor Resartus (The Tailor Stitched), and professed to be a
translation of a German treatise on the philosophy of clothes, by one Professor Teufelsdréckh
of Weissnichtwo. The book speedily achieved a great popularity.

In the same year Mr. Carlyle went to London, establishing himself in Cheyne Row,
Chelsea, which was at that time a suburban village. Here the last forty years of the life of the
Sage of Chelsea, as he came to be called, were spent. In 1837 he published the Aistory of
the French Revolution in three volumes. This work was greeted with general approbation,
not unmixed, however, with some severe criticism. The reviewer of Blackwood's Magazine
remarked that ‘‘ never before was history written in so mad a vein. Turn which way you
will—to philosophy, to politics, to religion — you will find Mr. Carlyle objecting, denounc-
ing, scoffing, rending all to pieces in his bold, ironical manner, but teaching nothing.” But
other critics, and the best judges of contemporary literature, rank the French Revolution as
a very remarkable historical prose-poem. In 1839 Mr. Carlyle wrote Chartism, an essay on
the social and political condition of England. The following year he delivered in London a
series of lectures on Heroes and Hero Worship, which were afterwards published.

The men whom Carlyle selects as the typical heroes of history are Burns, Cromwell, Dante,
Johnson, Knox, Luther, Mahomet, Napoleon and Shakespeare. Carlyle was himself an
enthusiastic hero-worshiper and a great admirer of successful power, his favorite characters
being such men as Cromwell and Napoleon.

In 1839 a large number of his essays contributed to various periodicals were reprinted un-
der the title of M/iscellanies. Then came Past and Present (1843), a volume advocating so-
cial and political reforms ; Over Cromwell's Letters and Speeches (1845), Latter Day Pam-
phlets (1850), Lise of John Sterling (1851), and an extended Life of Frederick the Great
(1858 to 1864). The reactionary ideas that were strangely mingled with his theories of social
reformation were illustrated in Shooting Niagara, in which he attacked the great reform bill
448 THOMAS CARLYLE.

 

then before Parliament, and deplored the rapid advance of democracy. He was also a sup-
porter of the institution of slavery.

Mr. Carlyle’s last works were the Early Kings of Norway (1875), and an Essay on the
Portraits of John Knox. After a long, active and distinguished literary career, he died at
Chelsea on the 5th of February, 1881, in his eighty-sixth year.

Carlyle was a great admirer of German literature, and did much to promote a knowledge
of it in England. His own literary temperament in many ways shared the characteristics of
the Germans rather than those of his fellow-countrymen. His writings are marked by the
depth and originality of his philosophy, the frequent flashes of new and striking thought, and
the quaint peculiarity of his style. This last, indeed, often becomes rough, obscure and
clumsy, especially in his later works. As a philosopher, too, he is not always logical and
free from prejudice, and his admiration for successful power is carried to an extreme. But,
all in all, Thomas Carlyle has added many gems to the diadem of English literature, and has
exerted an influence upon the current of contemporary thought such as scarcely any other
author of the nineteenth century can claim to have possessed.

SARTOR RESARTUS,

BOOK I.

CHAPTER I.— PRELIMINARY.

Considering our present advanced state of culture, and how the Torch
of Science has been brandished about for five thousand years and upwards,
till hardly the smallest cranny or dog-hole in Nature or Art can remain
unilluminated, it is surprising to the reflective mind that so little, whether
in the way of Philosophy or History, has been written on the subject of
Clothes. Strange it is, that this grand Tissue of all Tissues, the vestural
Tissue, in which man’s faculties work and his Self is enwrapped, should
have been overlooked —that philosophers should figure man as a Clothed
Animal, whereas he is by nature a Naked Animal; and should regard
clothes as a property, not as an accident. Only in Germany — learned,
deep-thinking Germany — has this subject been treated in a volume, entitled
Die Kleider, thr Werden und Wirken (Clothes, their Origin and Influence)
by Professor Diogenes ‘Teufelsdréckh of Weissnichtwo.

Chapter Il.— Korrortan Dirricutirs.

The author having received a copy of this volume from his old friend,
Professor ‘l'cufelsdréckh, desires to spread a knowledge of it among Eng-
lish speaking peoples. He was in doubt whether to effect this by pub-
lishing articles upon it in various critical journals, or in some other way,
SARTOR RESARTUS. 449
when, unexpectedly, there arrived a letter from Herr Hofrath Heuschrecke
of Weissnichtwo, offering to furnish the requisite documents for a complete
biography of Teufelsdréckh.

The author, who adopts the xom de plume of Oliver Yorke, determines
to issue his treatise on the Philosophy of Clothes in the shape of a volume
on the Life and Opinions of Herr Teufelsdréckh.

CuapTerR III.— REMINISCENCES.

Professor Teufelsdréckh, when the author knew him, lived at Weissnicht-
wo, having been appointed Professor der Allerley- Wissenschaft, or Professor
of Things in General, in the local university. This was, however, only a
Name, the professorship having no endowment and no duties. Except by
his nightly appearances at the tavern of the Grzne Gans, the city saw little
of him; and so little was known of his birthplace, parentage, prospects, or
pursuits, that he was sometimes termed the Awige Jude (Wandering Jew).
He dwelt on the attic floor of the highest house in the Wahngasse, which
commanded a view over the whole city in all four directions. He over-
looked all its life, going “from Eternity, onwards to Eternity,” as he
expressed it, with all its infinite variety of phases. His apartment, full of
books and tattered papers, united in a common element of dust, was invaded
once a month by his servant, old Lieschen, with broom and duster. None
else came there save the author—-then an enthusiastic young English
student—-and the ungainly but gentle and kindly MHeuschrecke, the
Hofrath, or Court councillor, who was a devoted admirer of Teufelsdréckh’s
work on clothes. He is too plain in his treatment of the refinements of
society to gain a paramount popularity in England. His learning is of the
widest range, but his style is very uneven — now full of strength and grace,
now weak and dull. Now he is full of love and sympathy; then again he
is cynical and sardonic. His look was grave, but the author recalls with
pleasure that he once laughed loudly, long and uncontrollably at a fantasy
of Jean Paul Richter’s of a “cast metal king.” His worst fault as an
author is an almost total want of arrangement, but we shall endeavor to
bring order out of the chaos of his work.

CHAPTER V.— THE WoRLD IN CLOTHES.

The Professor observes that as Montesquieu wrote a “Spirit of Laws”
he intends to write a “Spirit of Clothes.” There is as little that is acci-
dental in tailoring as in legislating. Clothes are full of meaning ; their cut
betokens Intellect and Talent, their color Temper and Heart. Cause and
effect are at work throughout. The first chapter of Teufelsdréckh’s book
deals with Paradise and Figleaves; then with vast erudition he considers
450 THOMAS CARLYLE.

 

primeval man, whose first want, when he had satisfied his hunger, was
clothes, not for warmth, but for decoration. Thus clothes began; they
soon gave increased security and pleasurable heat ; then modesty, individu-
ality, distinctions, social polity ; clothes have made men of us; they are
threatening to become the most important part of our being, and make us
mere clothes screens.

CHAPTER VJ.—APRONS.

Teufelsdréckh, the author opines, treats this subject — which has played
a not unimportant part in history—in a satirical and unsatisfactory tone.
Aprons, says the Professor, are Defenses —for cleanliness, safety, modesty,
and sometimes roguery. The Military and Police are the Apron of Society.
But of all Aprons, the most puzzling to Teufelsdréckh is the Episcopal
apron, or Cassock. Wherein, he asks, consists its usefulness ?

CuHapTer VII.— MiscELLANEOUS — HISTORICAL.

The middle ages in Europe, and the period down to the end of the Sev-
enteenth Century, were the era of extravagance in costume. Here the anti-
quary and student of modes finds his richest harvest. Teufelsdréckh de-
scribes the silver girdle, hung with bells, the peaked caps and shoes, the
seatless breeches and long round doublets of the medieval gentlemen ; the
scolloped gowns or train gowns and ruff mantles of the women. Strange
was the incident of the courtier who happened to sit upon a chair witha nail
on it, and then, rising, emitted several pecks of dry wheat dust — the stuff-
ing of his clothes. The simplest costume of history was the uniform of
Bolivar’s cavalry, in South America — a blanket, with a hole for the head in
the center.

CuapTer VIII.— THe Wortp ovt oF CLOTHES.

Thus far Tcufelsdrickh has dealt with the Origin of Clothes : he now
speaks of their influence. He begins with that unanswerable question, * Who
am I — the thing that can say ‘I’— What is this MK?"

The answer lies around, written in all colors and motions, in thousand-
figured, thousand-voiced, harmonious Nature > but where is the cunning ear
and eye that can interpret it? In such speculations, says the Professor, I
first came upon the question of clothes —how I despise myself for my
dependence upon this strange, extraneous, brutish tissue !

CuapTerR IX.— ADAMITISM.

But consider, oh Teufelsdréckh, the advantage of clothes! When thou
wast an infant —then again when thou first teceivedst breeches, and thy long
SARTOR RESARTUS. 451
clothes became short? Again, wert not thou at one period of life a Buck,
or a Dandy, or by whatever name such a thing is distinguished? No, Teu-
felsdréckh is a Sansculottist, but no Adamite. Society, he says, is founded
upon clothes. Imagine, if you can, a naked court ceremony, or a naked
House of Lords — what a terrible idea? What would be left of the grandees

and great statesmen? Each would be merely “a forked radish with a head
fantastically carved !”

CHAPTER X.— PuRE REASON.

How utterly, speculates our radical Professor, would all social distinc-
tions vanish were clothes abolished! And without them could we possess
the master organ, the soul’s seat, the true pineal gland of the body social —
the Purse? Yet while he thus degrades man, Teufelsdréckh also exalts him.
‘To the eye of logic, man is an Omniverous Biped that wears breeches. To
the eye of pure Reason, he is a Soul, a Spirit, a Divine apparition. Our only
reasonable temperament is one of Reverence and Wonder, before the deep
mysteries of nature.

CHAPTER XI.— PROSPECTIVE,

Teufelsdréckh illustrates the doctrine that nature is not an aggregate,
but a whole — that there is no such thing as separation — by the smithy fire
on the Black Forest moor —kindled by the sun, fed by the air, and blend-
ing the Force of Iron, the Force of Coal, and the stranger Force of Man—
an intergal part of the great universe. And all things shall change — all ex-
isting things are clothing, put on for a season, and to be laid off. The
essence of all science lies in the Philosophy of Clothes.

The authors plan to write a biography of Teufelsdréckh depended on the
material promised by Herr Heuschrecke. When these arrived, they proved
to be six bags of miscellaneous manuscript written by the professor, and
treating of every imaginable subject. From this chaos the author will en-
deavor to evolve as much order and method as he can.

BOOK II.

CHAPTER I.— GENESIS.

In every phenomenon the beginning remains always the most notable
moment ; so must we begin our Life of Teufelsdréckh with his first appear-
ance on the earthly stage. He was brought as a baby, by a mysterious
stranger of reverend aspect, into the house of Andreas Futteral and his wife
Gretchen, in the village of Entepfuhl. By these worthy peasants he was
adopted ; his parentage he has never been able to trace.
452 THOMAS CARLYLE.

CHAPTER II.— IDYLLIC.

Next we have Teufelsdrickh’s picture of his happy peasant childhood.
Diogenes, or Gneschen as he was called, gradually learned those things
whereby he was in aftertime to read the grand volume of the world.

° CuHapTerR III.— Pepacocy.

After passing through the common school of Entepfuhl, where the
teachers pronounced him a genius, Diogenes went to the Gymnasium (or
classical school) at the neighboring town of Hinterschlag. His experience
here was not very pleasant or profitable. His schoolfellows persecuted him,
his teachers were hide-bound pedants, who fed Teufelsdréckh’s mind with
innumerable dead vocables, instead of the mental food he craved. During
his third year at the gymnasium, Andreas Futteral died, and the young
student learned that he had only had a foster father, not a parent, in the
Prussian sergeant. Next he attempted a university, the name of which he
does not give, but which was no less distasteful. Its system, which he com-
pares to a square wall around eleven hundred striplings and a library, he
denounces as an imposture. There he met a young Englishman named
Towgood, in whom he found a friend of some sympathy and appreciative-
ness—or, as Teufeldréckh says, he “ was even near experiencing the now
obsolete sentiment of Friendship,""—and who introduced him to the Count
ef Zahdarm.

CHAPTER 1V.—GeETTING UNDER Way.

Thus was Teufelsdréckh launched upon the world, endowed with the
grand, miracle working art of Thought. The path through the world that
lay before him, was not a rose-strewn one. He felt the great motive force
of Hunger—for he was now alone. He passed the law examinations and be-
came an auscultator, or licensed attorney, but found little or no employment,
and that distasteful. How he subsisted is more or less of a mystery. His
friendship with the noble Zihdarm family had been ended by the death of
the Count, for whom he wrote a not very complimentary epitaph, which was
never engraved.

Cuaprer V.— Romance

Teufelsdrockh determines to abandon his auscultatorship, and strike off
upon a course of his own, — His first ati is a love romance. She was
young, beautiful, highbor
less. He met her at the C wate of W aldschloss, we do not know how ; he
calls her Blumine, the flower goddess—perhaps her real name was Flgra.
They met, conversed and loved ; they met again in town, then her Cousin
interfered; she told him he must not see her again. Their lips met in one
long kiss, and they parted forever,

                                               
SARTOR RESARTUS. 453

CHAPTER VI.— Sorrows OF TEUFELSDROCKH.

In his despair, Teufelsdrockh neither goes mad, nor begins writing
Satanic poetry, nor blows out his brains. He takes up his pilgrim staff,and
sets forth to wander around the world. He seeks a lonely mountain region.
While meditating there on a highway, there passes a carriage —a wedding
party. The bridegroom is his former friend Towgood, the bride is Blumine!
Teufelsdrockh wanders blindly away — through cities and deserts, civilized
and savage lands— only kept from suicide by the hunger that forced him to
seek a living. Thus were the sorrows of Teufelsdrockh written by his foot-
prints all over the earth.

CHapTerR VII.—TuHe Everbastinc No.

These years of wandering were with Teufelsdrockh a period of transi-
tion, of fermentation. He was losing all hope; doubt was darkening into
unbelief, and shade after shade was growing dimly over his soul. Is there
no duty, no virtue, no conscience, he began to ask himself wildly? And no
answer came, till one sultry dog-day, while he was toiling along a dirty pur-
lieu of Paris, all at once there came a mental crisis. The Everlasting No
seemed to say “ Behold, thou art fatherless, outcast, and the Universe is the
Devil’s;” and Teufelsdréckhs whole ME rose up in protest. “Iam not
thine, but free!”

CHAPTER VIII.—CENTRE OF INDIFFERENCE,

After this, which Teufelsdrockh called his ‘‘ Baphometic Fire-baptism,”
he was restless, but no longer hopeless. He ceased to “eat his own heart,”
and turned to the Not-Me —the outer world—for wholesomer food. He
traveled still, and observed with interest the products of the past — cities,
with their goverments ; tilled fields, and roads and bridges, and most of all,
books. He saw the battle-field of Wagram, and mused on the horror of
war; met Napoleon; encountered a Russian smuggler on a June midnight
at the North Cape. He visited nearly all libraries and colleges, the great
Wall of China, and innumerable other places. Meanwhile, his mind is being
healed by experience, the great spiritual doctor. Wretchedness was still
wretched ; but he could now partly see through it and despise it.

CuapTeR IX.—THE EVERLASTING YEA.

After his sojourn in the Centre of Indifference, Teufelsdrockh began to
awake to a new heaven and a new earth. From some mountain retreat
where he dwelt he used to overlook the towns below ; he began to love and
pity his fellow man. Man’s unhappiness, he reflected, comes from the ele-
454 THOMAS CARLYLE.

 

ment of the infinite within him. There is something higher than love of
happiness ; man can do without happiness, and find blessedness. Love, not
pleasure, love to God — this is the Everlasting Yea. Conviction is worthless
without conduct; the great rule for the doubter is ‘ Do the duty which lies
nearest thee.” After chaos comes creation, and Teufelsdréckh says to
himself, “Up! Work while it is called to-day!”

CHAPTER X.—PAUSE.

Teufelsdré6ckh has now an aim in life, and has found that his ideal work-
shop is this same actual workshop of the world. He became a writer, and
says that his work fell, perhaps not altogether void, into the mighty seed-
field of opinion. He speaks of the Society for the Conservation of Property
as one originating from his suggestion — but what is this society? The
editor begins to suspect that this whole biography of Teufelsdréckh may
after all be not literally true, but symbolical. At any rate, it exhibits a man
as it were pre-appointed to create the philosophy of clothes.

BOOK III.

CuapTeR I.— INCIDENT IN MODERN History.

The first passage of Professor Teufelsdréckh’s great work selected by the
editor for notice is a disquisition on, perhaps the most remarkable incident
in Modern History — namely, George Fox's making to himself a suit of
leather. He, the first of the Quakers; was a prophet. and smote against
Vanity’s workhouse and Ragfair. But would Teufelsdréckh have us all
wear leather. The old distinctions of fashion would soon be re-estab-
lished.

Cuapter T].—Cuurcu-Crorues.

Church-clothes, the vestures in which men have represented the Reli-
gious Principle, are the most important of human garnitures. They are the
outward religion, originated by society, while society is made possible by
religion, Government is the skin of the body politic, social organizations
are the muscular tissues, Religion is the inmost life giving tissue. But in
our times these Church-clothes are wofully out at elbows !

Cuaprrr II.—Synnors.
The philosophy of clothes teaches us the value of concealment — of
silence and secrecy. Shame, for example, is the root of virtue; and what are
the printing press and its newspapers to clothes and the tailor’s goose? The
SARTOR RESARTUS. 455

 

universe is ruled by symbols, and our great faculty is not the logical or
mensurative, but the imaginative. It is in and through symbols —such as a
flag or a crown — that man lives, works and has his being ; and indeed, what
else are Art and— highest of all — Religion?

CuarTer IV.— HELOTAGE.

The editor turns to a tract of Hofrath Heuschrecke’s, which has copious
marginal notes in Teufelsdrockh’s handwriting. It is termed an “Institute
for the Repression of Population,” a subject on which Heuschrecke holds
extreme Malthusian views. Teufelsdroéckh remarks, that there are two men
he honors ; he who toils with his hands, and he who toils for spiritual ad-
vancement. Must we do as the Spartans did with their Helots, and kill off
our superfluous population? It is strange that a horse should be worth from
twenty to two hundred Friedrichs d’or, but a man should be worth less than
nothing! No, the earth cannot be overcrowded yet.

CHAPTER V.— THE PHENIX.

Teufelsdréckh considers Modern Society to be dead. There is no social
idea, he says ; the Church is speechless, the State has shrunk into a mere
police office. Utilitarianism is overwhelming most existing institutions, most
of allin England. And yet Society is not wholly dead ; let her mortal coil
be burned, and from the embers of her funeral pyre a new Society, Phcoenix-
like, will arise. Verily, Teufelsdrockh is a radical and an enthusiast !

CuapTerR VI.— OLD CLOTHES.

Respect, says Teufelsdrockh, is due to all men alike. Whether thou be
a scepter or a sledge hammer, art thou not Alive? And reverence should
be felt for that outer husk of the body, a suit of empty or cast clothes.
When the Professor sojourned in London, he used to pass with an awe-struck
heart through Monmouth Street, the great old clothes market ; and it may
have been there, the editor speculates, that he first conceived the idea of the
Philosophy of Clothes.

CuHaptTer VII.—OrcGanic FILAMENTS.

The burning of the Social Phoenix may not take place for two centuries,
but the creation of a new society will not be instantaneous, but gradual.
There are Organic Filiaments that hold past, present, and future together.
Generations are the days of toilsome mankind, and each generationis linked
to the rest by the bonds of life and thought. Here Teufelsdréckh. diverges
to remark on the fact that most titles of honor are derived from prowess in
war. Konig or King (Kenning or cunning) is an exception.
456 THOMAS CARLYLE.

 

CuHaPTER VIII.— NATURAL SUPERNATURALISM.

In this section the Professor deals with the question, what is a miracle?
It is a violation of the laws of nature, do you say? But how do we know
what the laws of nature are? We know only an insignificant corner of the
vast infinitude of nature. Custom makes dotards of us when she persuades
as that the miraculous, by simple repetition, ceases to be miraculous. We
are perplexed and bewildered by those phantoms, Space and Time. The
fabled hat of Fortunatus annihilated space ; had we a time-annihilating hat
we could understand immortality, and know that with God it is a universal
Here and an everlasting Now

CHAPTER IX.— CIRCUMSPECTIVE.

The discerning reader has now perhaps begun to grasp the great Philoso-
phy of Clothes. He has learned that all symbols are properly clothes ; the
law, and all other authority are a venture ; and the articles of faith are the
wearing apparel of the religious idea. It is time to look at the architectural
or constructive side of the subject.

CHAPTER X.— THE DanpiacaL Bopy.

.\ Dandy is a man whose trade, office, and existence consists in the wear-
ing of clothes. Anxious to study the Dandy of England, where this class
most flourishes, Teufelsdrockh sent for some fashionable novels. He found
them utterly unintelligible, but from a magazine he gathered their rules for
dress. The class opposite to the Dandies in Great Britain is the Drudge or
Poor-Slave class, whose customs and mode of life are quite different from
the Dandies. These two classes are likely to spread till they include the
whole population ; then they will crush against each other with a mighty
shock,

CHAPTER XI.— Talors.

It will only be after a long and desperate struggle that the wrongs of
‘Tailors can be righted. Too long has the name tailor been used as a re-
proach, and rated as the ninth part of aman. In reality the Tailor is not
only aman, but something of a Creator or Divinity. He will one day be
the world’s Hierophant and Heirarch, or even God.

CHAPTER XII.—FAREWELL,
Here we bid adieu to Teufelsdréckh, with his Strange, entangled stvle
of philosophy. Was his work a literary experiment? Did he wish to
proselytize ? We cannot tell, and a letter from Herr Heuschrecke brings
SARTOR RESARTUS. 457

 

the strange news that Teufelsdrockh has disappeared from Weissnichtwo,
during a sedition of the tailors in which he was believed to be interested.

GENERAL REMARKS ON SARTOR RESARTUS.

In its style, outline, and method of treatment, Sartor Resartus is one of
the most curious. and whimsical of volumes. It is cast in the shape of a
lengthy review of an imaginary German book on Clothes, their Origin and
Influence, written by an imaginary Professor Teufelsdréckh of Weissnichtwo
(Don't-know-where.) The sketch of the life and mental development of
Teufelsdrockh is interesting, and is no doubt partially based on the author’s
own experiences. He describes the periods of growth, entanglement,
unbelief, almost reprobation, followed by conversion and clearer enlighten-
ment. The so-called Philosophy of Clothes is merely an excuse for the
stringing together of a number of disjointed and somewhat bizarre, but
original and striking, reflections on society and the world in general. These
are strongly tinged with the cynical and radical philosophy of Carlyle, his
contempt of forms, and his great depth of insight. “The volume,” says
a writer in the Worth American Review, “ contains, under a quaint and singu-
lar form, a great deal of deep thought, sound principle and fine writing.
The style is a sort of Babylonish dialect, not destitute, it is true, of richness,
vigor, and at times a sort of felicity of expression, but very strongly tinged
throughout with the peculiar idiom of the German language.”

QUOTATIONS.

The following are some of the best known and most striking passages
of Sartor Resartus :

“How much lies in laughter; the cipher key, whereby we decipher the
whole man!”

‘To the eye of vulgar logic, what is man? An omnivorous biped that
wears breeches. To the eye of pure reason what is he? A soul, a spirit, a
divine apparition.”

“ Thought without reverence, is barren, perhaps poisonous.”

“ What is the use of health, or of life, if not to do some work therewith ?”

“Would’st thou rather be a peasant’s son that knew, were it never so
rudely, there was a God in heaven and in man; or a duke’s son that only
knew there were two-and-thirty quarters on the family coach?”

“Gullible, by fit apparatus, all publics are; and, gulled, with the most
surprising profit.”

“The grand thaumaturgic art of thought —thaumaturgic I name it, for
all miracles have been wrought thereby.”
THOMAS CARLYLE.

 

458

“Never till this hour had he known Nature, that she was One, that she
was his Mother, and divine.”’

“ What in these dull, unimaginative days, are the terrors of conscience to
the diseases of the liver ?”’

“ The fearful unbelief is unbelief in yourself.”

‘‘Man’s unhappiness comes of his greatness; it is because there is an
Infinite in him, which, with all his cunning he cannot quite bury under the
Finite.”

“We must all toil or steal (however we name our stealing).”

“That there should one man die ignorant who had capacity for Knowl-
edge, this I call a tragedy.”

“Tt is a mathematical fact that the casting of this petble from my hand
alters the center of gravity of the Universe.”
 

 

BORN 1805

AT

HON. BENJAMIN DISRAELI

EnGlano

 

Died 1881.
BENJAMIN DISRAELI.

Benjamin Disraeli, novelist and statesman, was born in London, December 21, 1805. It
is curious that one who in later life was the popular idol of that insular patriotism stigma-
tized as Jingoism should have been in name, features, and descent so typically Hebrew.
His father, Isaac Disraeli, was a man of moderate fortune and literary tastes, and is remem-
bered as the author of Curiosities of Literature. Young Disraeli was a precocious genius.
He was only twenty when his first novel captivated the critics and took society by storm. It
was Vivian Grey, and the fact that this still stands as his most famous work will show the
early culmination of his literary powers. After two years spent mainly in Oriental travel,
Disraeli followed up his first success with The Young Duke (1830) and Contarina Fleming
(1832). But from this point he subordinated literature to his political ambition. Most of those
who have risen to eminence in English public life commenced their career under the shelter-
ing wing of some hereditary magnate, as did, for instance, William E. Gladstone. Disraeli
was young and comparatively inexperienced, with little money and few influential friends.
Seeking election to parliament, he was twice defeated at the polls. When he appeared as a
candidate for the third time it was on a platform so modified that his opponents denounced
him as an unprincipled adventurer. He was elected, however, by the votes of the Tory or
Conservative party, and entered the House of Commons as member for Maidstone in 1837,
the year of Queen Victoria’s accession. Then came the famous episode of his maiden speech.
It was a total failure, but its last sentence has become memorable : ‘‘I shall sit down now,
but the time will come when you will hear me.” Nor was it long before these bold words
were realized. Though never comparable as an orator to his great rival Gladstone, his powers
in debate were more than considerable. Of his keen shafts of sarcasm, his description of
Gladstone as ‘‘ intoxicated by the exuberance of his own verbosity’ may be taken as the best
known, though not the best example. A notable epoch in Disraeli’s life was his marriage in
1839 to the wealthy widow of Wyndham Lewis. This lady not only was the most devoted
of wives, but aided and inspired his career with the wisdom of an Egeria,. When he had
been four years in Parliament he was the foremost spirit of the ‘‘ Young England” party, an
element corresponding to the so-called Tory Democrats of to-day. His attitude towards the
Tory leaders was always very independent, and he was one of the strongest opponents of the
free trade policy established by Sir Robert Peel. In 1852 he first held a Cabinet office as
Chancellor of the Exchequer in Lord Derby’s short lived ministry. During the succeeding
decade the great question of the time was the extension of the suffrage. It was Disraeli who,
by educating his adherents up to a wider measure of electoral reform than that proposed by
their liberal opponents, founded the Conservative party as it has since existed in English poli-
tics. Having become Prime Minister in 1868, he passed a reform bill which for the first time
placed a vote in the hands of every householder. The general election that followed returned
an adverse majority, and, in accordance with British usage, he resigned, being succeeded by
Gladstone. During the five years following, Disraeli led the opposition in the House of
Commons, finding literary recreation in writing Zothair, a political novel, which he published
462 BENJAMIN DISRAELI.

 

in 1870. He suffered an irreparable loss in 1872 by the death of his wife. At the next
elections, those of 1874, the Conservatives were returned to power bya ‘‘ tidal wave,’’ and Dis-
raeli again became Prime Minister. His administration was marked by what was termed ‘‘a
spirited foreign policy,” by its supporters ; ‘‘ Jingoism,” by its detractors. At the Berlin Con-
ference, which rearranged the map of south-eastern Europe after the Russo-Turkish war, and
which he attended in person, he won a decided success by diplomacy at a time when war be-
tween England and Russia seemed imminent. ‘‘I bring peace with honor” were his words
on his return to London. In 1876 his increasing years and declining strength led him to ac-
cept the title of Earl of Beaconsfield, thereby changing the turbulent arena of the House of
Commons for the serener atmosphere of the House of Lords. In 1880 Parliament, having
lasted nearly to the statutory limit of seven years, was dissolved, and the ensuing elections ac-
cording to the customary see-saw of British politics were carried by the Liberals. Lord
Beaconsfield once more resigned, taking a final adieu of public life, for the 19th of April,
1881, he died. His place as leader of the Conservative party has since been occupied, but
hardly filled, by his former Foreign Secretary, the Marquis of Salisbury. The day of his
death, known, from his favorite flower, as Primrose Day, is still observed with a respect that
rises above partisanship.

VIVIAN GREY.

Vivian Grey is the son of an English gentleman of literary tastes and
independent income. He is educated at Dr. Flummery’s private school, and
with the Rev. Everard Dallas, a country clergyman. Vivian's brilliant abil-
ities make him a recognized leader among Mr. Dallas's pupils, but he loses
his popularity by the failure of an attempt, which he had organized, to give
private theatricals in violation of rules ; and a second fracas results in his
expulsion. Vivian, now seventeen, studies with increased earnestness at
home. He is especially attracted to the ancient classics, but his father’s
sound advice broadens his views, and prepares him to enter into politics and
society. Ambition is born within him, and he resolves to win power by the
study of mankind.

At a dinner party at the house of the elder Grey there was among the
guests the Marquess of Carabas, a nobleman, who held a high honorary
office in the government, Vivian adroitly gains Carabas’s favor by assisting
him in an after-dinner argument, and inspires him with the idea of forming
a political party of his own, In pursuance of this idea the Marquess invites
Vivian to spend the summer at his magnificent country seat, Chateau Desir,
Here are assembled a aumber of guests, of whom a series of graphic char-
acter sketches is given; Mrs. Million, the enormously wealthy widow, and
her toadies, Sir Christopher Mowbray, the old-sehool country gentleman ;
Stapylton “Toad, the self-made lawyer and member of Parliament : Julia
VIVIAN GREY. 463

 

Manvers, the Marquess’s pretty niece, who is so friendly with Vivian that
her aristocratic and watchful mother hurries her away ; Mrs. Felix Lorraine,
the German wife of the Marquess’s younger brother, who holds some office
in a distant colony.

The new Carabas party is inaugurated at a formal dinner, when Vivian
undertakes to bring over to it, to be its leader in the House of Commons,
the brilliant Frederick Cleveland. Cleveland had retired from public life
four years before, after a violent quarrel with the ministry of which Carabas
wasamember. Vivian visits him in his country retreat, gains his confidence,
and induces him to come to Chateau Desir and join the new movement.
Mrs. Felix Lorraine intrigues both with him and with young Grey, and
shows desperate jealousy and malice ; so much so, that she even attempts to
poison Vivian. All is prepared for the launching of the new party as soon
as Parliament assembles, when letters arrive from Lords Beaconsfield and
Courtown, his two chief supporters, announcing their detection, and a third
letter which conveys to Carabas his dismissal from office, Courtown being
named as his successor. Mrs. Lorraine’s strategy has conquered Vivian's.
Furious with anger, the Marquess bids him depart, but before leaving the
mansion he has an interview with Mrs. Lorraine, and, to gain revenge, by
telling her that her schemes have failed, and that he has suppressed letters
sent to her by Cleveland, whom she loves, he causes her to burst a blood
vessel.

On his meeting Cleveland at a club, the latter, indignant at the ruin
brought on him, strikes Vivian, and the result is a duel; Grey, slightly
wounded by his adversary’s first fire, fires in the air. Cleveland insists on a
second shot, when Vivian, firing without taking aim, shoots him through the
heart.

After a long illness, Vivian leaves England, and travels in the Rhine
land, spending several months at Heidelberg, and then journeying on to
Frankfort. Here he meets Baron Julius von Konigstein and his friend the
Chevalier de Boeffleurs, and agrees to spend the summer with them at the
baths of Ems. Before leaving Frankfort, at a fair held in that city’s streets,
he renders timely assistance to a wandering conjuror, who had come into
conflict with two Austrian soldiers. ‘“ When your highness is in distress,”
the grateful fellow replies, “you shall not want the aid of Essper George.”
They separate, but meet again at an inn at Coblentz, on the way to Ems,
and on reaching that watering-place, Vivian finds that Essper George is
there. Essper repeatedly proffers Vivian his services, and at length Grey
accepts him as the companion of his travels. At Ems, Konigstein intro-
duces Vivian to a party of English visitors, among whom are Lady Madeleine
Trevor, her brother, Albert St. George, and her cousin, Miss Violet Fane.
404 BENJAMIN DISRAELI.

 

Lady Madeleine warns Vivian against the Baron, who had years before been
the cause of the ruin and suicide of her husband’s ward, the brother of Vio-
let Fane. Both of the cousins confide to Vivian their anxiety about young
St. George, who does not fully believe in Konigstein’s guilt, and who has
been indulging in high play with him and others. Next evening the Baron
invites Vivian, St. George and De Boeffleurs to dine with him in his rooms.
After dinner they play rouge-et-noir, and Vivian and St. George, who play
together against the other two, lose heavily. Having been warned before-
hand by Essper George, who has obtained a pack of Konigstein’s cards from
his servant, Vivian seizes the cards and cries that they are marked. De
Boeffleurs attempts to brazen it out, but Konigstein confesses that the Che-
valier had incited him to the fraud in hopes of retrieving his previous heavy
losses. The baron makes a strong appeal to Vivian, which so touches him,
that he gives the wretched man an opportunity to leave Ems without public
disgrace. This service to St. George wins for Vivian the gratitude of his
friends, and the yet more tender regard of Violet Fane. On the occasion of
an excursion to the old castle of Nassau, Vivian and Violet became separa-
ted from the rest on the way homeward. He passionately declares his love.
Her emotion is so strong that she swoons and falls lifeless.

Some time elapses, and Vivian and his faithful retainer, Essper George,
find themselves riding at nightfall through a wild forest in southern Ger-
many. Wandering blindly on, they arrive at and are admitted to a mansion
wherein they find a strange party assembled. Eight grotesque figures are
seated at a banqueting table, quaffing huge draughts of the wines of the Rhine.
They tell Vivian that this is the Palace of the Wines, and each of them
calls himself by the name of some famous brand. The stranger's health is
drunk with repeated libations, and his request for a little solid food is quieted
with roars of scorn. An immense drinking-cup is passed around till at last
Vivian, unable longer to stand the ordeal, seeks refuge in fight. After
being chased around the hall of the mansion by the revelers, both of the
travelers escape.

Next day, continuing his journey through the forest, Vivian brings timely
aid to a huntsman beset by a wild boar. He turns out to be the Prince of
Little Lilliput, a mediatized German ruler — that is, one who has lost his do-
minion; Little Lilliput having been merged into the more powerful Duchy
of Retsenberg. The Prince, however, still keeps up royal state at his castle,
‘Turripava, to which he invites Vivian. Here the latter learns from Mr,
Sievers, the tutor of the Prince's ten-year-old son Maximilian, the rather
complicated situation of this diminutive court. The author of the aggrand-
izement of Reisenberg at the expense of Lilliput is not the Grand Duke of
Keisenberg, who is a man of literary taste and little practical ability, mor-
VIVIAN GREY. 465

 

ganatically married to Madame Carolina, a Parisian bluestocking, but Beck-
endorff, his prime minister, who has intrigued successively with France and
Austria. The Prince of Little Lilliput, who is, of course, not very well dis-
posed toward Reisenberg, has been promoting a movement to secure popular
reforms in the government of which he is now a subject. Soon after Vivian's
arrival at Turripava, Beckendorff invites the Prince to a private conference,
the Prince to come to the minister’s house incognito, and with only one
attendant. The Prince, who assumes the name of Von Philipson, induces
Vivian to be his companion at the conference. On reaching Beckendorff’s
country house, the visitors are much puzzled by the extraordinary conduct
of their host. He plays whist with them, shows them his pet birds, but will
not speak a word on the subject which they expected to discuss. His per-
sonality, too, is a most eccentric one; for instance, he takes but one meal a
day, and never goes to bed. The Prince is so much annoyed at Becken-
dorff’s failure to come to the point, that it is only Vivian’s persuasion that
prevents him from leaving in disgust. On the third day of the visit, Essper
George rushes into the house, having followed Vivian thither. Beckendorff
insists that he must be dismissed, so Vivian goes with him to the city of
Reisenberg.

After Vivian’s departure, Beckendorff makes an agreement with the
Prince of Little Lilliput, the previous delay having been for the purpose of
securing the approval of the Grand Duke. It is settled that the Prince is to
become Grand Marshal at Reisenberg, and shall, in return, abandon his
disaffected attitude. Vivian is now presented to the Reisenberg court,
and becomes quite a lion among the society of this minor capital. Madame
Carolina, the Grand Duke’s morganatic wife, is especially gracious to him.
She sends for him to give her a lesson in English conversation, and shows
him the manuscript of Haroun al Raschid, an historical romance which she
is about to publish ; and when he is indisposed she sends her physician, Dr.
Von Spittergen, to treat him. The eccentric doctor tells Vivian that gloves
are the great source of disease, and prescribes a pint of port twice a day.
Then he sends his daughter Melinda to ride with the patient, who is amazed
to see the fair equestrienne leap a tall hedge and ford a deep stream, on the
way to her father’s house, which Vivian visits. On that evening, the new
Grand Marshal gives a fete, which is attended by Beckendorff. He brings
with him an unknown and very attractive girl, who is introduced simply as
“the baroness,” Vivian dances with her, and a friendship springs up between
them. They meet again at the opera, where the stranger is visibly affected
by a passage in which the heroine deplores that she is bound to one she does
not love. A few days later there is a court fancy dress ball, at which all the
characters are chosen from the period of the Emperor Charles V. Vivian,
466 BENJAMIN DISRAELI.

who appears as the poet Clement Marot, and the baroness, who is costumed
as Margaret of Austria, stray to a leafy recess in the palace grounds. Here
Vivian speaks words of love, but the girl, with deep emotion, tells him that
there is an insuperable bar between them. Vivian visits the palace again
next evening, but has no opportunity of speaking with the baroness. She
drops her glove, however, and on picking it up he finds in it a note signed
“ Sibylla,” inviting him to a meeting in Beckendorff's house during the min-
ister’s absence. Vivian makes his way thither, and she is in his arms when
Beckendorff rushes in and would have stabbed him had not the baroness
ordered him back. She leaves the room, and Beckendorff informs the thun-
derstruck youth that she is none other than an Austrian archduchess, a
princess of the imperial house, and the pledged wife of the Crown Prince of
Reisenberg. Vivian leaves Reisenberg at once, and travels towards Vienna
in a carriage, with Essper George, who gives him a farewell letter committed
to the faithful follower by the archduchess Sibylla during Vivian's interview
with Beckendorff. The carriage is broken in crossing a stream, and the
travelers journey forward on horseback. While passing through wooded
mountains a terrible storm bursts upon them, and they are in imminent dan-
ger of being swept away in its furious rush of waters when the story closes
abruptly.

SUMMARY.

“Vivian Grey ” is the story of a brilliant failure. The young hero's am-
bition on entering life is to possess power over men. Instead of toiling by
slow degrees up the steps of the Temple of Fame,he attempts to fly through
the entrance with a single bold spring. His plans advance, the final coup
is almost delivered, when in an instant his whole design is swept away by
the malicious counterplot of a disappointed traitor, and she a woman. To-
gether with the ruin of Vivian's hopes come the downfall of the chief figure
in his scheme, and the tragic death of his friend, killed by Vivian’s own hand,
ina duel forced upon him by the victim. Seeking rest and recreation in
travel Vivian finds himself drawn into the magic realm of love. But love,
like ambition, has nothing for him but gall and wormwood, and its choicest
flower even as he grasps it turns to ashes. In new scenes, and among new
faces, Vivian becomes again the chief actor in a tragedy. His first love had
been foiled by death ; his reawakened passion is as surely frustrated by re-
morscless. circumstances, and the conclusion of the book leaves him an
aimless, heart-broken wanderer,

As Dickens interwove his own character and experiences in Dati? Cep-
perficld, so did Disraclh shadow forth his own personality in the hero of
Vian Grey, Vhe elder Grey is a sketeh of Tsaac Disraeli. In Vivian, the
VIVIAN GREY. 467

 

ambitious aspirant, conscious of his own genius and prematurely athirst for
power, an interesting light is thrown upon the mind and feelings of the
young author, whose successful career, however, signally belied the ill-
omened augury of Vivian’s tragic failures,

QUOTATIONS FROM “VIVIAN GREY.”

“In England, personal distinction is the only passport to the society of
the great. Whether this distinction arises from fortune, family, or talent is
immaterial ; but certain it is, to enter into high society a man must either
have blood, a million, or a genius.”

“To rule men, we must be men.”

“A smile for a friend, and a sneer for the world, is the way to govern
mankind.”

“ National prejudices revive as national prosperity decreases.”

“ The science of political gastronomy has never been sufficiently studied.”

“A noble poet has called this the Age of Bronze; why didn’t he call it
the Age of Slang?”

“A man never feels so proud or so sanguine as when he is bounding on
the back of a fine horse. Cares fly with the first curvet ; and the very sight
of a spur is enough to prevent one committing suicide.”

“The Emperor Augustus had a habit, whenever he was on the point of
falling into a passion, of repeating his alphabet. It was then the fashion for
emperors to be somewhat more erudite than they are at present ”

“The first great duty of a monarch is to know how to bow skillfully ;
nothing is more difficult, and nothing more important.”

“His highness was one of those true North German patriots who think
their own country a very garden of Eden, and verily believe that original
sin is to be finally put an end to in a large sandy plain between Berlin and
Hanover.”

“To be loved by any woman is flattering to the feelings of every man,
no matter how deeply he may have quaffed the bitter goblet of worldly
knowledge.”
 

 

 

 

 

HONORE DE BALZAC

Born 1799 FRANCE Dieo 1880
HONORE DE BALZAC.

Honore de Balzac, the human camera of the post-Revolutionary period of French literature,
was born at Tours in the year 1799. His early education was obtained at the college of Ven-
déme, but failing health compelled his return home before completing his course at that in-
stitution. After this came a period of study at the Sorbonne and attendance on law
lectures. But, fortunately for literature, Balzac refused to be ‘‘ inclined” in any other direc-
tion than that in which the twig was ‘‘bent.” The life of a Parisian avoué was not the life
for the author of La Comedie Humaine. After years of poverty and toil, years of striving to
attain ideals amid surroundings that would have daunted a less sanguine genius than Balzac,
success came. These ten years of living from hand to mouth, of studying the night side of
Paris for hours together, gave to Balzac that knowledge of the purlieus of human nature
which is so strikingly displayed in his romances. A dominant characteristic of this literary
light, a characteristic peculiar to many of his ilk, was a prodigality that kept him continually
under the harrow of debt. His vivid imagination gave rise to cravings for all that was lux-
urious in life, and the gratification of these cravings was the cause of countless periods of
torment when the importunate creditor broke in upon his flights of fancy with demands
that could not be met. At the culmination of Balzac’s fame he contracted a marriage with a
Russian lady, which brought with it the wealth that wiped out all the harrassing debts, built
the castle that had haunted his waking dreams, and filled it with the pictures, porcelains and
bric-a-brac that he, the connoisseur and lover of the beautiful, knew so well how to select,
but nature was not to be bribed. Just as the rosy tints of dawning happiness were begin-
ning to spread themselves over Balzac’s future, the most implacable creditor he had yet
known knocked at the gates of the castle, and the master’s spirit went forth to balance the
great account. The leading characteristic of Balzac’s work is his extraordinary knowledge of
human nature and his microscopic delineation of character. He runs the gamut of human
passions. He portrays the charnel houses of the mind, and rises to the heights of Heavenly
hopes and aspirations. In the Contes Drolatigues, a modern classic, he reproduces the style
of Rabelais coupled with his own inimitable genius. This work stands alone; a grim and
powerful monument to his talent ; a literary masterpiece of the nineteenth century. Ina
few years he wrote forty stories under the assumed names of ‘‘ Viellerglé,” ‘‘ Lord R’hoone”’
and ‘‘ Horace Saint-Aubin.” An edition of La Fontaine and Moliére in one volume, the
publication of which he essayed himself, proved a disastrous venture which drove him to the
periodicals. In 1827 he contributed to ‘‘ La Mode,” edited by M. Emile de Girardin, The
Last Chouan and El Verdugo (the executioner.) Balzac’s fecundity was something marvel-
ous. His principal works of fiction number 138, although some thirty of these grew to no
greater proportions than their titles. Among those written while he was yet a young manare :
Louis Lambert, Facino Cane, Peau de Chagrin, César Birotteau, The Interdict, Henrietta of
England (a tragedy), The Philosophy of Marriage, The Physiology of Marriage, Bal de
Sceaux, Gobsec, A Double Family, Eugenie Grandet, and le Pére Goriot. Balzac left behind
him an interesting classification of his works, which he styled ‘‘Catalogue of works to be con-
tained in the human comedy.” His analysis of them was as follows: Ist, Studies of Man-
ners (a) Scenes of Private Life, (b) Scenes of Provincial Life, (c) Scenes of Parisian Life,
(d) Scenes of Political Life, (e) Scenes of Military Life, (f) Scenes of Country Life; 2d,
Philosophical Studies ; 3d, Analytical Studies. He died at Paris in August, 1850,
472 HONORE DE BALZAC.

COUSIN PONS.

In the year 1844, M. Sylvain Pons was a unique figure in the gay life
of the French capital. He was a “ glorious relic of the Empire’’ which the
revolution had failed to divest of his pre-revolutionary attributes. He ex-
hibited in certain details of his apparel a quixotic fidelity to the fashions of
1806, without being a positive caricature of the imperial era. As to his fea-
tures, he had a sheepish, comical face, such as you may see upon the
shoulders of a Chinese squab, and nowhere else. His vast visage resembled
a Roman mask dug out of the earth, and violated every rule of anatomy.
But the settled melancholy that looked out upon the world from the poor
fellow’s faded eyes froze the smile of derision that would otherwise have
greeted his grotesque appearance, and appealed to the heart of every
Frenchman, who saw in it only the greatest deprivation that could come to
any man,—the lack of power to win a woman's favor.

Pons was a musician, and an artist. Under the Empire he had flourished
with the arts; and now that the Empire was no more, he languished, as the arts
themselves languished. He had been a winner of Le Grand Prix de Rome;
the composer of certain romances which our mothers used to warble. Now
he was the conductor of an orchestra in a boulevard theater ; and, by grace
of his unattractive visage, a music-master in several boarding-schools for
young ladies.

But, although Pons was forbidden by nature to impress the gentler
sex, he had a mistress —a mistress to whom he had devoted all of his best
energies, all the money that remained from his income after deducting his
modest expenses, and to whom he gave a love and adoration which no
woman could ever have inspired. His mistress was bric-A-brac. He was
the possessor of a complete collection of masterpieces, the catalogue of
which reached the fabulous figure 1907.

Pons, who was the very incarnation of delicacy, had yet a toible that was
ultimately the cause of all his tribulations, and in the end, of his death. He
was the slave of that sin which, of all the seven deadly sins, God will surely
punish with the least severity: Pons was a gourmand. What woman is to
others, good cheer and bric-A-brac were to Pons.

During his experience as a music-master, Pons had met, at one of the in-
stitutions where his services were employed, a German pianoforte teacher,
Herr Schmucke. Between Pons and Schmucke a love and friendship had

grown up as firm and binding as the ties which held Damon and Pythias
together.
27

COUSIN PONS. 473

 

They were both musicians, both as simple as children in their tastes and
inclinations, and both alone in the world. The outcome of their attach-
ment was that they dwelt together in a modest suite of apartments and
became merged in glory, just as some persons are drowned in their own
baths. Schmucke lived in Paris as a nightingale dwells in its forest, and
his sweetest songs were sung for Pons.

When not engaged in giving lessons, or in haunting the shops of the
second-hand dealers in search of prizes for his beloved museum, Pons spent
all his spare time in visiting the homes of such of his gay friends in Paris
as could be depended on to invite him to remain to dine. But gradually his
pertinacity grew tiresome, and his picturesque appearance and quaint style
of conversation palled upon the dinner givers, and Pons found himself
limited to a circle of three or four distant relatives who still tolerated him
for the sake of consanguinity. Among them was M. Camusot, President de
Marville, a cousin once removed. Madame Camusot, his hostess, was aged
rather than old; she assumed all the harshness and dryness of a drusgut
with a view to extorting, through the fear which she inspired, all that the
world was inclined to withhold. ‘This devil in petticoats had gathered
around her a circle of old female pietists among whom she was the high
priestess. Yet, for the sake of gratifying his sin of gastronomy, would Pons
submit to all the slights and insults which this amiable cousin by marriage
saw fit to inflict upon him as payment for guai/ au gratin.

Madame Camusot was blessed with a daughter of uncertain age, and
brilliant auburn hair, coupled with the sharpness of feature which belonged
to her maternal relative. This blossom of the house of Camusot was called
Cecile, but was always addressed by her mother as “my little Lili.” All
mothers who have daughters of 23 address them as little daughters. Ma-
dame Camusot was devoured by a desire to see her ‘“‘little Lili” married to
a desirable parti. This desire she confided to Pons on every possible occa-
sion, and the aged pensioner was soon impressed with the necessity of hast-
ening on this consummation of the mother’s hopes if he expected to con-
tinue to tickle his palate at the table of his cousin.

Schmucke soon became the repository of his friend’s ambition with re-
spect to the charming Cecile. Among Schmucke’s acquaintances was a rich
young German, who had come to Paris to invest a large fortune accumu-
lated in the provinces. To make the investment a success a wife seemed a
necessary adjunct. The man and the opportunity arriving at the same time,
Pons and Schmucke laid their heads together. The result was the introduc-
tion of Schmucke’s friend, whose name was Brunnar, to the “little Lili.”
But the wily young German soon discovered that the blushing daughter
of Madame Camusot was a bundle of selfishness, and, as a consequence,
474 HONORE DE BALZAC.:

 

retired in a dignified manner from the matrimonial contest, leaving Camusot
mere in a state of rage and chagrin more easily imagined than described, as
she had announced to all the “female pietists ” the approaching nuptials of
her daughter. The result of this contretemps recoiled upon the head of the
faithful Pons, who was driven from the house of the Camusots with a torrent
of abuse that sent the poor fellow home in the depths of despair, and
brought on an attack of jaundice that laid him low. Ar this point the
tragedy of Pons’s life began.

Pons and Schmucke dwelt in a mansion in the Rue de Normandie, pre-
sided over by one Madame Cibot. This portress, who saw and appreciated
the loneliness of the two friends, and who had a gnawing ambition to be
remembered in the will of Pons, had adopted the “two nut-crackers,” as
they were styled in the quarter, and always referred to them as “her two
gentlemen.”” Madame Cibot was once famous as a pretty oyster-girl of the
Cadran-Bleu ; though time had somewhat mellowed her charms, yet she re-
tained a masculine style of beauty which her rivals sought to disparage,
calling her a great fat lollop. Madame Cibot had now arrived at that time
of life when women of her type are obliged to—shave. But this proved no
drawback to her obtaining a situation, asa portress with a moustache is one
of the strongest guarantees for order and security that a landlord can possi-
bly have. Her integrity was of the negative kind: such persons are up-
right until they have an opportunity of becoming rich. A chance remark
which she had overheard as to the fabulous value of Pons’s collection awoke
all the cupidity in her nature, and from that time forth she plotted to obtain
possession of a large slice of the old collector's estate, either by devise, gift
— oy otherwise. In her pious endeavors she was assisted by a coterie of as
villainous harpies as have ever been depicted in romance.

Pons’s condition of health demanded the most absolute quiet. Schmucke
attended him with the faithfulness of wife and friend. His devotion was
canine, for that exquisite sense of smell which distinguishes the dog belongs
—in things moral —to the genuine friend ; he scents from afar the sorrows
of his friend. But the web was tightening around poor Pons. By constant
daily annoyances from Madame Cibot he was gradually reduced to a con-
dition of extremity, His museum was the one source of anxiety that con-
sumed him. He guarded it with the jealousy of a Turk for his mistress.
In Paris there was a Jew, one Elie Magus, who was Pons’s only rival. Into
the Pons museum he had never penetrated. It was the desire of his life.
One day the fiendish Cibot brought the Jew to Pons’s apartments, by a pre-
conceived arrangement, and admitted him into the sanctum sanctorum.
When he lett he carried with him some of the choicest masterpieces the
collection contained, It is needless to say that Madame Cibot received a
COUSIN PONS. 475

 

liberal reward for her treachery. But Pons scented danger in the air.
Struggling from his bed, by a mighty effort he penetrated into the room
where his beloved treasures were kept. He discovered his loss. It was his
death blow.

But the “two nut-crackers ” were to outwit the “ pretty oyster-girl.” With
the candle of life almost burned out, while the flame flickered and sputtered
in the draft from the open gates of the Hereafter, Pons and Schmucke
secured the services of an honest notary in the vicinity, and a will was drawn,
in which all of Pons’s earthly possessions were left to the faithful Schmucke.
With this last act of generosity to light his pathway across the dark waters,
Cousin Pons left forever behind him the treasures that his staring eyes
could no longer devour.

Simple-minded Schmucke became the envied possessor, for a little time,
of the invaluable Pons museum. But fate was to prove stronger than
justice, and the machinations of those whom Madame Cibot had let into her
plot soon robbed him of his legacy, and he very quickly followed his be-
loved companion ; mourned only by a waif that he had befriended ; with no.
monument save the fragrance of his memory.

In due time Pons’s succession was opened, and a distant cousin, with
money and influence, became the beneficiary.

ANALYSIS.

In the story of “Cousin Pons” Balzac has written a hand-book of
bric-A-brac. Aside from its value as a romance, it must appeal to the heart
of every enthusiastic collector. From the standpoint of a novel, it portrays
the beauty of true, disinterested friendship ; the possibilities of unrestrained
cupidity ; the cruelty of selfishness ; the irony of fate. The characters of
Pons, Schmucke, Madame Cibot, Madame Camusot, Fraisier, the unscrupu-
lous notary who assisted Madame Cibot in her nefarious plans and finally
threw the succession into the hands of the powerful cousin Popinot, are all
drawn with a minuteness and grimness that suggests the dissecting table.
Scattered through the work are gems of cynicism and philosophy of which
the following strike the reader with a force that compels a ready
affirmation :

“Many a suicide has paused on the very threshold of death, at the
thought of the café to which he resorts for his nightly game of dominoes.”

“ He doesn’t make any noise when he blows his nose now,” as illustrative
of a waning interest in life.

“The only costly things she did not love were women,” speaking of the
extravagances of one of the fair sex.
476 HONORE DE BALZAC.

 

“‘ How seldom does a judge ascend the stream of crime and misery, in
order to discover who held the urn whence the first trickling tributary
flowed.”

“The Russians always fancy themselves in Russia.”

“So they kissed the rod and blamed the servants.”

“In fact, the wife is the exclusive representative of the fortune which
formerly the bachelor represented alone.”

“T do believe that it is only the good God Himself who has the right to
do good ; and that is why all those who meddle with what is His business
only are so cruelly punished for their conduct.”

“A Jew in the midst of three millions of money will ever be one of the
finest spectacles in the repertory of humanity.”
 

 

 

 

 

SAMUEL WARREN.

BORN 1807. ENGLAND Dico 1677.
SAMUEL WARREN.

In 1830, there appeared in Blackwood’s Magazine, a serial by an unknown author,
entitled Passages from the Diary of a Late Physician.

So full of deep and varied experience and knowledge of life was it, that Mr. Blackwood
supposed the author must have been a person of mature years. Imagine then his surprise
when a young man of twenty-three called upon him, and introduced himself as Samuel
Warren, the author of the Diary. ‘‘ Why,” said Mr. Blackwood, ‘‘I thought your hair
must be as gray as my own.”

This knowledge of life, and the power of portraying it, was what made Samuel Warren’s
novels popular when they first appeared, and earned for him a reputation as a novelist, rather
than as a lawyer.

He was born in Denbighshire, England, in 1807. His father was a Wesleyan minister,
who afterward took orders in the Church of England. He studied medicine at Edinburgh,
and law at the Inner Temple, and was called to the bar in 1837.

While a student at college he obtained prizes for poetry, and for an essay on Comparative
Jurisprudence, and in 1835 published a work entitled 4 Popular and Practical Introduction
to Law Studies.

The first chapters of Zen Thousand a Year appeared in Blackwood's Magazine in 1839,
and at once excited a powerful interest. It was published at a time when no novel except one
of intrinsic merit could have held its grounds. The public were not slow to find many faults
with it; some caviled at the characters, many at the political bias, a good many at the plot ;
but all were impressed, and all were interested, and the hold which it then took upon the
public has never relaxed. : :

Mr. Warren’s law books, one of which, Blackstone Systematized and Abridged, was
published in 1857 and met with fair success, showed that amid the greater attractions of fic-
tion his professional duties were not being neglected. His poetical talent showed itself in a
curious unrhymed poem, on the Great Exhibition of 1851, called The Lily and the Bee.

In 1847 appeared Vow and Then, and in 1854 The Lntellectual and Moral Development
of the Age, in the pages of which, as indeed in all his literary works, morality and social
order are amiably reflected. His faithful allegiance to the Conservative party gained him
the Recordership of Hull in 1852. He entered Parliament in 1856, and in 1859 was appointed
Master in Lunacy. He died July 29, 1877.

Of his position as a writer of fiction Sir Archibald Alison writes: ‘‘ Mr. Warren has
taken a lasting place among the imaginative writers of this period of English history. He
possesses in a remarkable manner the tenderness of heart and vividness of feeling, as well
as power of description, which are essential to the delineation of the pathetic, and which,
when existing in the degree in which he enjoys them, fill his pages with scenes which can
never be forgotten.

A collection of Samuel Warren’s works has been published in England; as also an
edition in German, by Tauchnitz
480 SAMUEL WARREN.

 

TEN THOUSAND A YEAR.

Tittlebat Titmouse arose at a fashionable hour, one Sunday morning,
lighted his fire, and placing his bit of a kettle on top of it, returned to bed,
where he lay with his eyes fixed on the fire, watching the crackling blaze.
The current of thoughts passing through his mind was something like the
following :

“Heighho! Lud, Lud! Dullas ditch water! This is my own holiday,
yet I don’t seem to enjoy it! Here am I in my eight-and-twentieth year,
slaving from half-past seven o’clock in the morning till nine at night, at
Tag-rag & Co.'s, and all for a salary of £35 a year and my board. Curse
me, say I, if this life is worth having !

“ Everybody laughs when they see me, and know that I’m only a tallow-
faced counter-jumper. Oh, Lord! What's the use of being good-looking. as
some chaps say lam?” Here he instinctively passed his left hand through
a profusion of sandy-colored hair, and cast an eye toward the bit of frac-
tured looking glass that hung against the wall, and which, whenever he
chose to appeal to it, had afforded him more enjoyment than any other
object in the world, in years. ‘‘Ah, by jove! many’s the fine girl I’ve done
my best to attract the notice of ; but somehow the gals don’t take! Now
just for the fun of it, only suppose luck was to befall me.’ say that somebody
was to leave me lots of cash; l’d buy a title to set off with—for what won't
money buy? Lord, only think how it would sound !

‘SIR TITTLEBAT TITMOUSE, BARONET ;°

“That lady, for instance, the other day in the park. I should like to see
her cut me as she did, with ten thousand a year in my pocket !”

Crash went all his castle-building, at the sound of his tea-kettle, hissing and
sputtering, in the agonies of boiling over. Having taken it off and placed
it upon the hob, he began to make preparations for shaving, by pouring
some of the hot water into an old tea-cup, which was presently to serve for
the purposes of breakfast. Then he drew his solitary, well-worn razor,
several times across the palm of his left hand; dipped his brush, worn with-
ina third of an inch to the stump, into the hot water; presently passed it
over somuch of his face as he intended to shave ; then rubbed on the damp
surface a bit of yellow soap, and in less than five minutes, Mr. Tittlebat Tit-
mouse was a shaved man, ‘This operation over, he rubbed some pomatum
vigorously into his stubborn hair and whiskers. Then he drew forth from
his trunk a calico shirt, and put it on, and carefully insinuated his legs into
a pair of white trousers ; then he put on a queer kind of underwaistcoat, and
TEN THOUSAND A YEAR. 481

 

having proceeded thus far with his toilet, he sat down to his breakfast of
dry bread and coffee,

Having breakfasted, he donned a blue surtout, a pair of sky-colored kid
gloves and his Sunday hat, and lastly, he took down a thin black cane, with
a gilt head, from a peg behind the door, and having completed his elaborate
toilet, he sauntered forth, an Oxford Street Adonis, conquering and to con-
quer ; petty finery without, a pinched and stinted stomach within.

Mr. Titmouse walked along with leisurely step, scrutinizing the face and
figure of each “ pretty gal”’ as she passed. No one could have judged from
his dressy appearance and his confident air, how very miserable that poor
little dandy was, owing to the impossibility he felt of his ever being able to
indulge in his propensities for finery and display. What a crowd of elegant
women he encountered as he slowly sauntered on, all of them attended by
brilliant beaus. Poor Titmouse felt a withering consciousness of his utter
insignificance, and became more and more convinced of a great practical
truth, that the only real distinction between mankind was that effected by
money. Want of money alone had placed him in his present abject position
as shop-man at Tag-rag & Co.’s, at a salary of £35 a year and his board.
“Why,” thought he, “am I thus spited by fortune? The only thing she’s
given me is — nothing.”

That evening, in reading a copy of the Sunday Flash, his eye caught the
following advertisement: “The next of kin of Gabriel Tittlebat Titmouse,
who died in London, may hear of something of the greatest possible im-
portance by communicating with Messrs. Quirk, Gammon & Snap, Solicitors,
Saffron Hill.” In answer to this advertisement, Titmouse called upon these
gentlemen, who, after some questioning, told him that he was likely to be
one of the luckiest men of his day. ‘We may be mistaken,”’ said Mr. Quirk,
“but it appears to us, that your right is clear to the immediate enjoyment
of an estate in Yorkshire, worth some £10,000 a year, at the least.” This
news so excited Titmouse, that it was some time before Mr. Gammon could
impress upon him the absolute necessity of secrecy in the matter, if he wished
it to be successful. Elated by his prospects, the next few weeks behind the
counter at Tag-rag’s were particularly trying. He was not aware that all
this while he occupied almost exclusively the thoughts of Messrs. Quirk,
Gammon & Snap, who had an intense desire to share in his anticipated
fortune. After talking the matter over, the partners agreed to give Mr.
Gammon the entire management of the case.

A better man for the work than Oily Gammon could not have been
selected. He was of the most gentlemanly person and bearing —and at
once acute, cautious and insinuating —with a certain something about the
eye, which made Titmouse feel uneasy on looking at him.
482 SAMUEL WARREN.

 

The partners agreed that Titmouse must be kept at Tag-rag’s, and that
they must insist on his signing an undertaking to act implicitly according
to their directions in everything. This Mr. Gammon accomplished by call-
ing on Mr. Tag-rag and notifying that gentleman of the change in Mr. Tit-
mouse’s condition, and inviting Mr. Titmouse to dine with him at his lodg-
ings. On this occasion he stated his plans to Titmouse, who, under the in-
fluence of wine and a promise of what money he might want for personal
use, was influenced to sign a bond for the payment of £10,000 for lawyer’s
fees, and bound himself to conform to Mr. Gammon’s wishes in everything,
on pain of his instantly throwing up the whole affair.

TITMOUSE VISITS AT TAG-RAG’S.

The effect of Mr. Gammon’s disclosure upon Tag-rag was to change
completely that gentleman’s behavior towards Titmouse. He now treated
him with the utmost consideration, and invited him to dine at his house and
meet his wife and daughter under the impression that a young man with a
prospective income of £10,000 would be a fine match for the latter.

It was Sunday and Miss Tag-rag had been before the glass ever since
her return from chapel ; an hour and a half at least had she bestowed on
her hair, disposing it in little corkscrew and somewhat scanty curls that
quite glistened in bear’s grease, hanging on each side of a pair of lean and
hollow cheeks. For the last ten minutes she had been standing at the par-
lor window, in anxious expectation of Titmouse’s arrival. At length Miss
Tag-rag’s little heart fluttered violently, for Titmouse was coming ; and for
the first time in his life he entered the domain of Mr. Tag-rag.

Mr, Titmouse, to start the conversation, said, modestly addressing Mrs.
Tag-rag : “Seen the ‘Sunday Flash,’ mem?”

“ [—I—that is—not to-day,” she replied, coloring.

“Been to church, mem, this morning, mem ?” timidly inquired Titmouse
of Miss ‘lag-rag.

“Yes, sir,” she replied, faintly coloring.

“We always go to chapel, sir,” said Mrs. Tag-rag ; “We sit under Mr.
Horror —a heavenly preacher! You've heard of Mr. Horror?"

“Yes, mem! Oh, yes! Capital preacher!” replied Titmouse, and
then, dinner being announced, he proffered his arm to the timid Miss Tag-
rag, who scarcely touched it with the tip of her finger as she walked beside
him to dinner, During the meal she never once spoke, except in hurried
answers to her papa and mamma, and sitting exactly opposite Titmouse, was
continually coloring whenever their eyes happened to encounter one another,

Titmouse remained to tea, and after the tea things had been removed,
Tag-rag asked him whether he liked music, Titmouse, with great eager-
TEN THOUSAND A YEAR. 483

 

ness, hoped Miss T. would give them some music ; and she, after hold-
ing out a long and vigorous siege, at length asked her papa what it should
be.

“The Battle of Prague,” said her papa.

“ Before Jehovah’s Awful Throne,” hastily interposed her mamma.

“The Battle,” sternly repeated her papa.

“Tt’s Sunday night, Mr. T.,’”’ meekly rejoined his wife.

“Which will you have, Mr. Titmouse!” inquired Tag-rag, with the Bat-
tle of Prague written on every feature of his face.

“A little of both, sir, if you please.”

“Well,” replied Tag-rag slightly relaxing, “that will do. Split the dif-
ference—eh? Come Tab, down with you. Titmouse, will you turn over
the music for her ?”

The performance commenced with “ Before Jehovah’s Awful Throne,” but
mercy upon us! At what a rate she rattled over that pious air! The heart
of the lovely performer, was in ‘“ The Battle of Prague,” to which she pres-
ently did most ample justice. So absorbed was she, that she was not at all
disturbed by the bursting of a string in the middle of the cannonading ;
and when she had finished, Titmouse vowed that he had never heard such
splendid music. Shortly after nine, spirits, wine, and hot and cold water,
were brought in, and later, Titmouse was ejected from the house, in a maud-
lin condition.

The estate of Yatton, to which Titmouse apparently was entitled, as a
direct descendant of Stephen Dreddlington, had been for twelve years in the
possession of the Aubreys, a Yorkshire family — the younger branch of the
ancient and noble family of the Dreddlingtons. Mr. Aubrey is a man of
superior intelligence, and a capital scholar; a man of perfect simplicity and
purity of character. His piety is the real source of that happy and con-
sistent dignity and firmness which have earned him the respect of all who
know him, and will bear him through whatever may befall him. His family
consists of his mother, wife, two children, and his sister Kate. Kate is a
girl of decided character, of strong sense, and of high principle ; all of which
are irradiated, not overborn, by her sparkling vivacity of temperament.

One evening soon after the Christmas holidays, Mr. Aubrey and Kate
were sitting together playing chess, when Mr. Aubrey was called into the
library, to meet two gentlemen, who had sent in word that they had called
on business of importance ; on entering the library, he found his attorney,
Mr. Parkinson, and a stranger, whom Mr. Parkinson introduced as his
London agent, Mr. Runnington.

“Why, Mr. Parkinson, you look very serious—both of you. What is the
matter?” inquired Mr. Aubrey, surprisedly.
484 SAMUEL WARREN.

 

“T am no stranger to your firmness of character, sir,’ said Mr. Running-
ton; “but I fear I shall have to tax it to its uttermost. To come at once
to the point—I have here a Declaration in Ejectment, served on you by
Messrs. Quirk, Gammon & Snap of London, which they told me might be
settled, if you would consent to give up immediate possession of the whole
Yatton estate, and account for the mesne profits to their client, the right
heir — as they contend —a Mr. Tittlebat Titmouse.”

Mr. Aubrey leaned back in his chair, overcome for an instant by this
astounding intelligence; when he could speak, he said: ‘It comes to this,
then, that in all probability I and my family are at this moment trespassers
at Yatton!”

“That, Mr. Aubrey,” said Mr. Parkinson earnestly, “remains to be
proved.” ‘We must remember,” said Mr. Runnington, “that possession is
nine tenths of the law ; your adversary must first establish in himself a clear
and independent title.”

“What disastrous intelligence to break to my family,” exclaimed Mr.
Aubrey, tremulously ; “but something, I suppose, must be done imme-
diately ;"’ and having made arrangements for the examination of his title
deeds, the bearers of the direful news took their departure.

Mr. Aubrey made a powerful effort to control his feelings before his
family, until the result of a few days’ investigation made further concealment
impossible. Mrs. Aubrey and Kate bore the news with commendable forti-
tude, but Mr. Aubrey’s mother, on hearing the news, became paralyzed, and
died from the effect of the shock within a few days.

About the time Messrs. Quirk, (Gammon & Snap had presented the
Declaration of Ejectment, Titmouse went to Yatton with Mr. Snap to look
the ground over. The manner in which they conducted themselves may be
evinced by an incident, which I will relate briefly.

One evening Kate Aubrey had been to visit a poor consumptive girl, who
lived about a mile from the Hall, and was returning with Margaret, her
waiting-maid, but otherwise unattended. It was growing dark, and snowing,
and she and Margaret walked side by side at a quick pace, talking together
about poor Phoebe, when they heard a voice exclaim ina low but most offen-
sive tone, “Ah, my lovely gals! alone? How uncommon.” Miss Aubrey
for a moment seemed thunderstruck ; then she hurried on with a beating
heart, whispering to Margaret to keep close to her, and not to be alarmed.
The speaker, however, kept pace with them,

“Lovely gals!" said he, “wish I'd an umbrella, my angels! Take my
arm? Ah! pretty gals!”

“Who are you, sir?” at length exclaimed Kate spiritedly.

“Whoam IT? Ah, ha! Lovely wals! one that loves the pretty gals.”
TEN THOUSAND A YEAR. 485

 

“Wretch! ruffan! How dare you insult a lady in this manner! Do
you know whoI am? My name, sir, is Aubrey -—I am Miss Aubrey of the
Hall! Do you think a

On hearing her name, Titmouse (for it was he) felt as if he were on the
point of dropping down dead with amazement and terror; and when Miss
Aubrey’s servant screamed out at the top of her voice, “‘ Help —help,
there!” Titmouse, without uttering a syllable more, took to his heels.

The ancient city of York, exhibited on the commission day of the Spring
Assizes for the year 18—, the usual scene of animation and excitement. Soon
after the sitting of the court, Monday week was agreed upon for the trial of
the cause of “ Doe, on the demise of Titmouse v. Jolter.”” To make it not
altogether unintelligible, let us suppose the state of the Dreddlington pedi-
gree to be something like this:

 

(DREDDLINGTON.)

 

 

 

 

(Harry D.) (Charles D.)
(Stephen D.) (Geoffry D.)
A female descendant marries Ga- "A female descendant marries Charles
briel Tittlebat Titmouse, through Aubrey, Esq., father of the present
whom Tittlebat Titmouse claims. possessor.

Now Harry Dreddlington, during his lifetime, had executed a deed-of
mortgage, which was afterwards assigned to Geoffry Dreddlington ; this, if
valid, would clothe Mr. Aubrey with an indefeasible title at law ; but unless
Harry survived his father the deed would have been mere waste parchment.
It was clear that old Dreddlington, the common ancestor, died on-the 7th of
August, 1742. The question therefore arose, whether the death of his eldest
son (Harry) took place prior or subsequent to that period. Mr. Gammon
and Mr. Quirk were discussing this question, when it occurred to them that
an old tombstone would be just the thing to prove that Harry died before
his father; so Mr. Gammon started at once for Yatton, to look through the
graveyard, and his search was rewarded by finding just such a stone as he
expected, making their success apparently assured. In the meantime Mr.
Parkinson, in looking over some papers, discovered an old deed, which bore
an endorsement of the name of Dreddlington. In a word, it was a deed of
conformation by Harry’s father of the conveyance of the latter to Geoffry
Dreddlington, who, by paying off money borrowed by his deceased uncle,
had got an assignment of that conveyance to himself. The discovery of this
deed at such an opportune time seemed to Mr. Aubrey almost providential,
and he entered:the court room very hopeful of proving his right to the
estate.
486 SAMUEL WARREN.

 

From what apparently trifling and inadequate causes often flow great re-
sults! When Mr. Subtle, counsel for the plaintiff, gave place to the Attor-
ney-General, it seemed as if there was nothing left for him to say for the
defendant ; when, however, he called upon Mr. Parkinson to produce the
deed between Dreddlington, the elder, and Geoffry Dreddlington, Mr. Subtle
and Mr. Gammon were visibly affected ; Mr. Subtle examined it carefully,
and objected to its being received in evidence, on account of the insuffic-
iency of the stamp; but was overruled. ‘ Now, then, we propose to put in
and read this deed,” said the Attorney-General, with a smile of suppressed
triumph.

“Not quite so fast, Mr. Attorney-General, if you please,” said Mr. Subtle,
with a little elation of manner —“ I have another, and I apprehend a clearly
fatal objection to the admissibility of this deed till my learned friend shall
have accounted for an erasure.”

This objection was sustained, as the attorney was unable to account for
it, and the evidence was ruled out. The simple facts of the case, however,
were that the attorney's clerk, in copying out the deed, had written four or
five words by mistake, and having erased them, over the erasure wrote the
correct ones. The jury then withdrew, and after an hour and a half’s
absence, brought in a verdict forthe plaintiff. Gammon was the first to con-
gratulate Titmouse on his splendid success, and the next was old Quirk. then
Snap, and the four made a night of it; Snap and Titmouse ending up in the
cage ; but of course, as soon as the Lord Mayor had become aware who they
were, he dismissed them with a lecture and a fine of five shillings.

The trial at an end, Mr. Aubrey decided upon his course. He notified
Messrs. Quirk, Gammon & Snap that he did not intend to resist the claim,
and that they would be at liberty, on behalf of Mr. Titmouse, to take
possession of all the property at Yatton on the 17th of the next month.
When Quirk read this letter, he exclaimed, * By next quarter-day Titmouse
will have £5,000 in hard cash — Lord, what have we done for him!”
“We've put an ape into possession of Paradise — that's all.’ said Gammon
absently and half aloud, and bitterly, and contemptuously.

Augustus, fitth Harl of Dreddlington, had an only daughter, Cecilia, .\s
he belonged to the titled, and Mr, Aubrey to the moneyed branch of the
family, he had, before Mr. Aubrey’s marriage, dreamed of a union of the
two branches of the family, In this, Mr. Aubrey had disappointed him,
and, now that a new claimant to the estate of Yatton had arisen, he
hastened to make the acquaintance of ‘Tittlebat ‘Titmouse, by sending him
aninvitation to dine with him, and meet Lady Cecilia.

‘Titmouse, of course, accepted ; but when Lord: Dreddlington caught sight
of him, as he entered the drawing-room, he stood rooted to the spot, If
TEN THOUSAND A YEAR. 487

 

his servants had turned an ape into the drawing-room, the Earl could
scarcely have felt greater amazement than he experienced for a moment ;
but the thought that the poor young man had not been accustomed to
society, and that he was the lawful owner of Yatton, of Zen Thousand a
Year, gradually modified his disgust, and Titmouse became a welcome guest
at the Earl’s house.

The sun that was rising upon Titmouse, was setting upon the Aubreys.
They had moved from Yatton, and engaged a small but comfortable house
in Vivian Street, London. Mr. Aubrey resolved to live in strict privacy,
and as the bar was the profession to which his tastes inclined, he began
to study in the office of Mr. Weasel, and, as he was a man of superior
intellect, soon became very proficient in his chosen calling. One trouble,
however hung over him like a pall; besides losing Yatton, Messrs. Quirk,
Gammon & Snap were urging upon him the payment of the mesne profits,
amounting in all to over £60,000, What was to keep him from imprison-
ment for debt? Nothing but to borrow ; and to this strait he was reduced,
to meet immediate payments. The two-sided Mr. Gammon assured him that
he need not worry, as he would do all in his power to mollify his partners,
whom he blamed for pressing matters, whereas it was himself who was bring-
ing pressure to bear upon Mr. Aubrey, for purposes of his own, which will
appear later.

The occasion of Tittlebat Titmouse’s arrival, as proprietor of Yatton,
was a scene long to be remembered. A terrible thunderstorm, which some-
what dampened the ardour of the out-door demonstration, was the only
drawback to the success of the festivities. Never before had such a scene
been witnessed within the decorous, the dignified and venerable precincts of
Yatton. Champagne, burgundy and claret flowed like water, and after the
banquet, speech-making and dancing filled up the time till day-break. It
need not be said, that such a reception, together with money freely ex-
pended, gained for Tittlebat Titmouse, Esq.,a seat in Parliament at the
next election. In this high office he made himself famous, by his perfect
imitations of crowing cocks, cat calls, etc., delivered with great effect at
opportune moments during debates.

Soon after Titmouse had taken possession of Yatton, he invited the Earl
of Dreddlington, with his daughter, to spend the season at the Hall. Mr.
Gammon having given Titmouse to understand that on his being able to
affect an alliance with the Lady Cecilia absolutely depended his continu-
ance in, or expulsion from, the possession of the whole Yatton property, he
set about attaining that object. His advances were not very cordially re-
ceived by Lady Cecilia, but she, like many another, had something else in
mind besides love, and to Titmouse’s ‘“’Pon my life —I’m quite distracted
488 SAMUEL WARREN.

 

—do you love me, Lady Cicely? Only say the word,” a faint, a very faint
sound issued from her lips—'twas ‘ Yes.’’ Oh, poor Lady Cecilia! Oh,
fatal, fatal falsehood! During the wedding ceremony, when Titmouse
affixed the ring upon her finger, she trembled and shed tears— and looked,
indeed, the picture of misery ; and afterwards, when the more odious points
of Titmouse’s character and habits were forced upon her notice by daily
intercourse, the reflection that such must be the case for the remainder of
their lives became hourly more intolerable, and roused into existence feel-
ings of active hatred and disgust. But why should I defile my paper, by
specifying his gross misdeeds, or dwelling upon their sickening effects on
the mind and feelings of the weak woman who could suffer herself to be
betrayed into such a union.

Lady Cecilia’s real feelings are shown in the following extracts from
a letter she wrote to one of her confidential friends, some time after the
wedding :

Dear Blanche :—Fate should have something pleasant in store for me, since it has made
me most unhappy now ; for really, dear Blanche, you cannot think what a creature he is.
He is always smoking cigars, and at meals he communicates the odious smell to my clothes,
and he has very nasty habits besides ; namely, picking his teeth, eating with his knife, etc.,
etc., and he always takes too much wine. I do believe he has been guilty of some impudence
to Annette, but of course, I cannot ask her. And he is such a horrid liar, there is no be-
lieving a word he says. If he will but leave me here when he goes up to town, you will
surely pay me your promised visit, and I will tell you many more miserable things. Be sure

you burn this when you have read it, and believe me, your unhappy
CECILIA.

Some time after the marriage, Mr. Titmouse received acall from Gammon,
who began the conversation by saying: ‘ May I venture to hope, my dear
Titmouse, that I have established my claim to be considered, in some meas-
ure, the sole architect of your extraordinary fortunes — your earliest — your
most constant friend?” Well, I am prepared to make a communication,
which you will never forget to the day of your death. Are you prepared to
receive it?”

“Oh, yes! Never so wide awake in my life! Oh, Lord! fire away,” re-
plied Titmouse.

“Well, my dear ‘Titmouse, you are really no more entitled to be what
you seem, or Co possess what you at present possess, than the little wretch
that last swept your chimneys here.” Titmouse sat staring at Gammon in
mie dismay,

‘Nu one on earth knows the what and why of this matter but myself,"
said Gammon, “and if T choose, no one ever shall: nay, | will take care, if
you come this morning to my terms, to deprive even myself of all means of
proving what IT can now prove, at any moment I chouse."’
TEN THOUSAND A YEAR. 489

 

“‘What’s to be the figure ?’”’ faltered Titmouse presently.

“Tf you mean, what are my terms, I will at once tell you: I require
first, to sit in Parliament for Yatton, at the next election, and secondly, that
you immediately grant me an annuity for my life, of two thousand pounds
a year.”

Titmouse sprung from the sofa, and uttered a frightful imprecation.
“Tt’s all aswindle! a d—d swindle!” and almost grinning defiance at Gam-
mon, he exclaimed vehemently, ‘You're a swindler !”’

“ Possibly,” said Mr. Gammon ; “but you, sir, are a bastard.”

“ By the living Jove!” exclaimed Titmouse, starting up with a sort of
recklessness, and pouring out and tossing off a large glass of brandy. “It
can’t be true — it’s all a dream! I—TFHa’n’t—I can’t be a bas— perhaps
you’re all this while the true heir, Mr. Gammon ?”

“No, sir, I am not,” replied Gammon, calmly ; “ but let me tell you, I
know where he is to be found, Mr. Titmouse.”

“You'll excuse me, sir,” quoth Titmouse presently; “but will you, if
all this isn’t a bottle of smoke, tell me how you can prove it all?”

In reply to this Mr. Gammon drew from his pocket and read two small
bits of paper, which Titmouse suddenly grabbed, tore into fragments, and
flung out of the window. Gammon was taken by surprise, but appeared cool
and collected, yet must it not have cost him a prodigious effort? Though
he told Titmouse they were only copies he had destroyed, and that the
originals were safe in his strong box, they were nevertheless the originals,
and Gammon recognized that all he had henceforth to trust to was his
mastery over the fears of a fool. This power he now exercised over Tit-
mouse, and secured his signature to a deed, granting him a rent charge on
the estate of Yatton of £2,000 per annum.

The object which Gammon had originally proposed to himself was his
own permanent establishment in the upper spheres of society ; but even
above this, there was one dazzling object of his hopes and wishes, which,
unattained, on several accounts, rendered all others comparatively valueless
—a union with Miss Aubrey.

It was to this purpose, that while he constantly sent documents threat-
ening legal procedure to Mr. Aubrey, he represented to him, that he was his
friend, and striving to do all he could to prevent his partners from pressing
their claims. A favorable opportunity presenting itself, when no one but
Miss Aubrey was at home, he proposed to her, but, of course, was peremp-
torily rejected, even though he gave her to understand that it lay in his
power to restore to her brother all that he had lost.

It is, indeed, mysterious, how Providence, for its own awful and wise
purposes, sees fit to accumulate troubles and sorrows upon the virtuous.
490 SAMUEL WARREN.

 

Twice was Mr. Aubrey arrested, and imprisoned for debt; but each time
was released by his friends. His prospects certainly looked very discourag-
ing; and just at this time occurred the death of Lady Stratton, an old
friend and relative of the Aubreys, who up to two years before considered
them her next of kin; but, though she had always intended to leave a large
share of her personal property to Kate Aubrey, she died intestate, and, asa
consequence, all her property, including poor Mr. Aubrey’s bond for £2,000,
which she had intended to destroy, would go to — Tittlebat Titmouse.

Now, the astounding avowal concerning the Yatton property, which Miss
Aubrey represented Mr. Gammon as having made to her, in his insane
attempt to prevail upon her to entertain his addresses, had made a profound
impression on the mind of Mr. Runnington. He resolved to consult with
Sir Charles Wolstenholme about the best use to make of a caveat, which he
had lodged, in reference to the settlement of the estate of Lady Stratton.
After giving the matter a little thought, Sir Charles Wolstenholme sug-
gested, that when Mr. Runnington was called upon to support his caveat, he
do so, on the ground that Mr. Aubrey was nearer of kin to Lady Stratton
than Titmouse ; “for,” said he, ‘that will make it necessary for Titmouse
to set forth his pedigree with the greatest minuteness, and, by Jove! if
there's a flaw, you’ll hit it.” Upon this suggestion Mr. Runnington imme-
diately began to act.

While Mr. Titmouse’s pedigree is being subjected to the gloomy, silent
and mysterious inquisition of the ecclesiastical court, let us turn for a
moment, to contemplate a pitiable figure —a victim of the infernal machi-
nations of Mr. Gammon ; I mean, the poor old Earl of Preddlington. Never
had one man obtained over another a more complete mastery than had Mr.
Oily Gammon over the Earl of Dreddlington, at whose table he was a fre-
quent guest, and his confidential adviser in matters of business. The
slender faculties of Lord I)reddlington had been for months in a state of
novel and grateful excitement, through the occupation afforded them by his
connection with the fashionable modes of commercial enterprise, joint stock
companies ; the fortunate members of which got rich they scarcely knew
how; and in these enterprises his movements were skillfully guided by
Gammon,

Though he could not but be aware of the risk attendant upon such ven-
tures, he was not at all prepared for the announcement he saw in the paper
one morning, of the sudden evaporation, so to speak, of the “ Artificial Rain
Company,” in which he was a large stockholder,

As soon as the Earl had recovered from his agitation, he ordered his
carriage, and drove to Mr. Gammon’s chambers in ‘Thaives’ Inn ; not find-
ing Mr, Gammon there, he went into his room to wait for him. As he
28

TEN THOUSAND A YEAR. 491

 

entered, his eye caught sight of a legal document lying on the table; in
fact, the grant of rent charges, given by Titmouse to Mr.Gammon. He
had not more than read the inscription before Gammon entered, and, taking
the deed from the Earl, accused him of ungentlemanly conduct, in reading
his private papers. This led to some words between them, and a final
revealment of Titmouse’s illegitimacy. The news so shocked the Earl, that
he fell to the floor unconscious, from a stroke of apoplexy, from which he
never fully recovered, and diéd within two months. Lady Cecilia, on hear-
ing the news, was seized with illness, which, in her critical state of health,
resulted in her death, after giving birth to a son, still-born.

On the death of Lady Cecilia and the Earl, Titmouse became heir to the
Barony of Drelincourt ; but a wealthy and profligate fool is by no means
the enviable person he may appear to silly lookers-on. Mr. Gammon was
growing to be more and more stern and gloomy ; at Yatton, Titmouse was
fifty times more miserable than at London, and he earnestly besought Mr.
Gammon to allow him to spend a few months on the Continent ; but this
Mr. Gammon refused, till he should have been furnished with some clue to
the course which the pending investigation was taking.

The reader may possibly remember that Mr. Titmouse had established
his right to the Yatton property, by making out to the satisfaction of the
jury that he was descended from an elder branch of the Aubrey family,
through the female line of Stephen Dreddlington. Now the proof of the
trial had been simply the marriage of Gabriel Tittlebat Titmouse, by bans,
to Janet Johnson, spinster. The investigation now made, however, showed
that her maiden name had been Gubbins; that she had married a rope
maker, named Oakley, but had separated from him, and married Gabriel
Tittlebat Titmouse under the name of “ Johnson,” her husband being alive
at the time. Two years afterward this exemplary female died, leaving an
only child, Tittlebat Titmouse.

Such, then, was the damning discovery effected by the ecclesiastical com-
mission, and which would, by and by, blazon to the whole world the as-
tounding fact that this doubly base-born little wretch had been enabled, by
the profound machinations of Mr. Gammon, not only to deprive Mr. Aubrey
of the Yatton estates, but also to defile the blood and blight the honor of
perhaps the oldest and proudest of the nobility of England. Upon Mr.
Gammon it lighted like a thunder-bolt. His faculties appeared paralyzed.
He was totally incapable of contemplating the prodigious and appalling
consequences which must inevitably and almost immediately ensue. To
recruit his health and spirits, he left London to spend a week at Brighton ;
but whithersoever he went he carried about him a thick gloom which no
sunshine could penetrate. An article which met his eye in a London paper,
492 SAMUEL WARREN.

the third day of his stay, stating that he had absconded caused his imme-
diate return to London, where, after he had refuted the report, by a card
published in the same paper, he put an end to his unhappy condition, by
taking poison ; but in such a way as to make it appear that his death was
caused either by apoplexy, or an organic disease of the heart.

With its architect fell that surprising fabric of fraud and wrong, the
rise and fall of which are commemorated in this history —a fabric which,
if it “rose like an exhalation,” so, like an exhalation, disappeared, and with
it all the creatures that had peopled it.

Mr. Runnington immediately procured a writ of possession ; this he got
sealed, and then obtained a warrant from the sheriff to his officers to execute
the writ and reinstate Mr. Aubrey at Yatton.

The condition of Tittlebat Titmouse at this time was pitiful ; when Parlia-
ment was dissolved he had in his pocket a couple of sovereigns to meet liabili-
ties of about ahundred thousand pounds. There were at least a hundred of
his creditors ready to pounce upon him the instant he should make the
slightest attempt to quit the country. For all this he preserved the same
impudent strut and swagger in the street which had ever distinguished him.
He was shortly afterward imprisoned for debt, and, after his discharge, was
summarily ejected from the lodgings of a former friend, who owed him five
hundred pounds ; this friend, Mr. O’Gibbet, pushed him down the stairs,
and he fell, striking his head against the baluster with dreadful force. On
being carried to a doctor's shop he was seized with a fit of epilepsy ; his
weak mind gave way, and he became an inmate of a private lunatic asylum,
where he was cared for at the expense of Mr. Aubrey,

The reception of Mr. Aubrey, now Lord Drelincourt, and his family on
their return to Yatton was enthusiastic ; a splendid cold collation was served
in the hall for the immediate friends and guests of Lord Drelincourt, while
an immense entertainment of a more substantial description was prepared
under an awning, upon the beautiful terrace at the back of the hall, for
about three hundred people, consisting principally of the tenantry and their
families,

At about four o'clock Lord Drelincourt, accompanied by Mrs. Aubrey
and Kate, appeared upon the terrace and addressed the vast party, Oh,
my friends,” said he, * what a happy moment is this to me and mine! What
thanks do T not owe to God for His great goodness in bringing us again to-
gether, in our former relations of respect and affection. —. : e lav
He, my dear friends, who is now beholding us, and marking the thoughts of
our hearts bless and preserve you all, and enable me never to give you
to regret having thus atlectionately welcomed me back again to my
nome,"
TEN THOUSAND A YEAR. 493

The band then played in a very beautiful manner, the familiar air,

“ Should auld acquaintance be forgot,”’

and amid most vehement and prodigious cheering Lord Drelincourt with-
drew.

On Po.iticaL DISTINCTION.

There is nothing that makes such quick triumphant way in English
society as the promise of speedy political distinction. It will supply to its
happy possessor the want of family and fortune. It rapidly melts away all
distinctions; the obscure but eloquent commoner finds himself suddenly
standing in the rarefied atmosphere of privilege and exclusiveness— the
familiar equal, often the conscious superior, of the haughtiest peer of the
realm. A single successful speech in the House of Commons opens before
its utterer the shining doors of fashion and greatness, as if by magic.

On Foots.

It is a matter of indifference to a fool whether you laugh with him or
at him; so as that you do but laugh.

On PROSPERITY AND ADVERSITY.

Prosperity and adversity have equally the effect upon an inferior mind
and heart of generating selfishness. The one encourages, the other forces
it. Misery is apt to think its own sufferings greater than those of any one
else —and naturally. Not so, however, is it when a noble nature is the
sufferer — and more especially when the nature is strengthened and bright-
ened by the support and consolation derived from philosophy — and, above
all, religion.

On MarRIAGE.

Whatever may be the accidental and ultimate advantages, in respect of
fortune or social station, expected to be realized by a woman, in forming a
union with one who would be otherwise regarded with indifference, or dis-
like, or disgust, she may rely upon it that she is committing an act of
deliberate wickedness, which will be attended, probably, for the rest of her
life with consequences of unutterable and inevitable misery, which even
the obtaining of her proposed object will not compensate, but only enhance.
A marriage of this description is, so to speak, utter dislocation and destruc-
tion to the delicate and beautiful fabric of a woman’s character.
494 SAMUEL WARREN.

Gop’s Ways ARE NOT OurR Ways.

What know we of the ultimate scope and end of His working? What
seeming good shall we be sure will not produce evil? What seeming evil
shall we be sure will not produce, and is not designed to produce, good ?
And may not our ignorance in these respects be specially ordained to test
the faith of man—to check presumptuous confidence —to repel palsying
despair ; in a word, to make man walk humbly with his God, in constant and
implicit dependence upon Him ?

Ox Money.

Take away money, and that which raised its delicate and pampered pos-
sessors above the common condition of mankind —that of privation and
incessant labor and anxiety — into one entirely artificial, engendering totally
new wants and desires, is gone, all gone; and its occupants suddenly fall,
as it were, through a highly rarefied atmosphere, breathless and dismayed,
into contact with the chilling exigencies of life, of which till then they had
only heard and read.

ON SUSPENSE.

The constant apprehension of a very great evil —suspense —is a state
almost as terrible and insupportable as that produced by the infliction of
the evil.
 

 

MADAME DUDEVANT (GEORGE SAND)

BORN 1804. FRANCE Died 1876.

 
ARMANTINE LUCILE AURORE DUDEVANT.

‘*GEORGE SAND.”

_  Armantine Lucile Aurore Dudevant, whom scarcely any one would recognize beneath this
high-flown and somewhat romantic cognomen as the ‘‘ George Sand” of French literature,
was born at Paris on the 5th day of July, 1804. Like the romances that flowed from her
pen, and charmed and electrified the reading world of two continents, her own life was fan-
tastic and eventful in the extreme. She was the daughter of Lieutenant Dupin and his
mistress, Sophie Delaborde, whom he had recently married. Madame Dupin was the
daughter of a Paris bird fancier, but her paternal grandfather was a farmer-general of the
revenue, who had married the widow of Count Horn, a natural son of Louis XV., she her-
self being the natural daughter of Marshal Saxe, the most famous of the many illegitimate
children of Augustus the Strong by the Countess of Kénigsmarck. The royal blood which
flowed in her veins was a source of pride to Aurore, and the bar sinister served only to
intensify those feelings which proclaimed her one of the people. As though the very fates
had predestined her for the remarkable career which was afterwards to be hers, her very
birth was tinged with romance. Her father was playing a country dance at the house of a
fellow officer, when he was told that his wife, who had not long left the room, was the
mother of a little daughter. ‘‘She will be fortunate,” exclaimed the little one’s aunt, who
was present. ‘‘She was born among the roses to the sound of music.” When but three
years of age, Aurore crossed the Pyrennees and joined her father, who was on Murat’s staff,
occupied with her parents a suite of rooms in the royal palace, was adopted as the child of
the regiment, nursed by rough soldiers, and dressed in a complete suit of uniform to please a
whim of the general. The next ten years of her life were spent at Nohant, near La Chitre,
in Berri, the country house of her grandmother. According to the usual acceptation of the
term, she received no education. But the fields, the sky, the numberless scenes of rural life,
were all to her the pages of an open book. A few months after her return from Spain her
father was killed by a fall from his horse. From this time, the care of Aurore was delegated
to her grandmother, Mme. Dupin de Francueil, a good representation of Pancien régime.
At Nohant, the principal personage after the mistress was Deschatre, an ex-abbé, who was
Maire of the village, managed the estate, doctored the peasantry, and occupied the position
of factotum to Madame Dupin de Francueil. To his care the little Aurore was consigned,
and he, a disciple of Rousseau, allowed her to wander about and imbibe from nature the
lessons that only she can teach. She picked up at odd intervals a smattering of Latin,
music, and natural science, but there was no method in her acquisition. She exhibited
strange characteristics at this early age, falling into involuntary trances, seeing visions, and
hearing voices.

At thirteen, she entered the Convent of the English Augustinians at Paris, where for the
first two years she never went outside the walls. The effect of her convent life was to make
her ‘‘half poet, half mystic; ever stirred and stimulated, but never possessed by things
divine,” as she herself expresses it. In 1820, she returned to Nohant and to the communion
498 “GEORGE SAND.”

 

with nature which had marked her early sojourn there. At this period she read widely, though
unsystematically, and fed her own vivid imagination with René and Childe Harold, On the
death of her grandmother she was urged by her friends into a marriage with M. Dudevant,
a retired officer, who had turned farmer. After enduring this ill-considered connection for
nine years, an amicable separation was agreed upon, and, taking her daughter Solange with
her, she went to Paris to seek her fortune. Now began that stormy and tempestuous career,
which for years kept her mind in a tumult of emotions, and which was, perhaps, the main
spring of her greatest literary work. Plunging into literature, she was buffeted by the waves
of adverse criticism, or becalmed by public indifference, until she found a congenial spirit in
Jules Sandeau, a writer on Figaro, with whom she formed a literary partnership. Their first
joint work, Rose ef Blanche, appearing over her nom de plume of Jules Sand, which was
afterwards changed to George Sand, gave ber a place in French fiction. From this time
onward her career was steadily upward, until she came to be recognized by the world as the
second, if not the greatest, of French novelists. An old age, so caim and peaceful that no
record of it remains, succeeded to a career of storm and passion, and on the Sth day of June,
1876, strangely enough in the month of roses, George Sand quietly passed bevond to solve
the great mysteries which had perplexed her troubled youth.

Among the principal works by which this singularly gifted woman will be remembered,
are: /ndiana, Valentine, Lélia, Jacques, André, Leone Leoni, Letters dun Voyageur, Michel
de Bourges, Mauprat, Letters a Marcie, Spiridion, Consuelo, Lucretia Floriani, Le Compagnono
du Tour de France, Le Meunier d’ Angibault, Jeanne, La Petite Fadette, La Mare au Diable,
Les Maitres Sonneurs, Nanon, Francois le Champi, and Contes d'une Grand’ mére.

Of Consuelo, concededly the greatest of the novels of Madame Dudevant, no less a person
than Thackeray wrote: ‘‘ Her style is noble, and beautifully rich and pure. She has an ex-
uberant imagination, and with it a very chaste style of expression. She never scarcely
indulges in declamation, and yet her sentences are exquisitely melodious and full. . . She
leaves you at the end of one of her brief, rich, melancholy sentences, with plenty of food for
future cogitation. I can’t express to you the charms of them; they seem to me like the
sound of country bells falling sweetly and sadly upon the ear.”

CONSUELO,

About a hundred years ago, at Venice, the celebrated master Porpora had
charge of the choir of the church of the Mendicanti. The young choristers
were pupils of the state schools, in which they were instructed at the expense
of government, and afterwards received a dowry preparatory to marriage or
the cloister, as Jean Jacques Rousseau, who admired their magnificent voices
at the same period and in the same church, has observed, All those young
ladies were not equally poor, Notwithstanding the strictness of the admin-
istration, it is certain that some gained admission to whom it was a matter
of speculation rather than of need to receive an artistic education at the
expense of the public. All, therefore, did not fulfill the intentions of the
CONSUELO. 499

 

austere republic respecting their future lot. The administration, seeing that
this was inevitable, had sometimes admitted to the course of instruction the
children of poor artists, whose wandering existence did not permit them a
long stay in Venice. Among this number was little Consuelo, who was born
in Spain and had come thence to Italy by the route of St. Petersburg,
Constantinople, Mexico, Archangel, or any other still more direct, after the
eccentric fashion of the gipsies. Nevertheless, she hardly merited this
appellation; for she was neither Hindoo nor gipsy, any more than any of
the tribes of Israel. She was of good Spanish blood— doubtless with a
tinge of the Moresco ; and though somewhat swarthy, she had a tranquillity
of manner which was quite foreign to any of the wandering races. She had
none of the feverish petulance, alternated by fits of apathetic languor, which
distinguishes the zézgarel/a; neither had she the insinuating curiosity nor the
frontless audacity of Hebrew mendicancy. She was as calm as the water of
‘the lagunes, and at the same time active as the light gondolas that skimmed
along their surface.

As she was growing rapidly, and as her mother was very poor, her clothes
were always a year too short, which gave to her long legs of fourteen
years’ growth, accustomed to show themselves in public, a sort of savage
grace which one was pleased and at the same time sorry to see. Whether
her foot was large or not, it was impossible to say, her shoes were so bad.
On the other hand her figure, confined in narrow stays ripped at every seam,
was elastic and flexible as a palm tree, but without form, fullness, or
attraction. Her face was round, sallow, and insignificant, and would have
struck nobody, if her short thick hair fastened behind her ears, and at the
same time her serious and indifferent demeanor, had not given her a
singularity of aspect which was but little attractive. Faces which do not
please at first, by degrees lose their power of pleasing.

But among all the human butterflies that flitted behind the screen of the
Mendicanti, there was not one that possessed the voice of the little Consuelo.
Her clear and thrilling tones filled the lofty roof with the sweetest and
purest notes with which it ever echoed. She sang without an error, without
venturing upon a note which was not just, full, sustained, or interrupted at
the proper place; and as she followed with unvarying precision the
instructions which the learned master gave her, fulfilling with her clear
perceptions his precise and correct intentions, she accomplished, with the
inexperience and indifference of a child, that which science, practice, and
enthusiasm had not perhaps done for the most perfect singer. In a word,
she sang to admiration. Small wonder it was that Consuelo was the pride
‘and hope of the great Porpora, whose destiny it was to struggle with the
insolence and mediocrity of young ladies whose souls were as incapable of
500 “GEORGE SAND."

 

grasping the intrinsic beauties of the compositions which he taught as their
voices were of their execution.

Bereft of her mother in infancy, Consuelo dwelt alone in a miserable
garret, protected by her lack of physical beauty and a soul as pure as the
purling brook, with no companion but her beloved music, which was to her
father, mother, brothers, and sisters. Nevertheless, Consuelo had a lover.
Born in sunny Italy, brought up by chance, like a seabird sporting on its
shores, poor, an orphan, a castaway, but happy in the present and confiding in
the future,— such was Anzoleto, the handsome youth of nineteen, who spent
his days with little Consuelo, in perfect freedom, on the footways of Venice.
He had all the grace and beauty of a young Faun, chiselled in the palmiest
days of Grecian art ; and his features displayed that singular union, not un-
frequent in the creation of Grecian statuary, of careless irony with medita-
tive sadness. His fine fair hair, somewhat bronzed by the sun, clustered in
Antinéus-like curls about his alabaster neck ; his features were regular and
beautifully formed ; but there was something bold and forward in the ex-
pression of his jet-black eyes. He had met the little Spaniard by chance,
singing hymns before the Madonette; and for the pleasure of exercising
his voice, being passionately fond of music and possessing the sweetest tenor
voice in Venice, he had joined her for hours together beneath the stars.
Then they met upon the sands of the Lido to gather shell-fish, which he ate,
and which she converted into chaplets and other ornaments. And then
again they had met in the churches, where she prayed with all her heart, and
where he gazed with all his eves at the fine ladies. In all these interviews
Consuelo had appeared to him so good, so sweet, so obliging, and so gay,
that she had become his inseparable friend and companion — he knew not
very well how or why. Anzoleto had known love's rapture only. He was at-
tached to Consuelo ; and as he belonged toa country and a people where
passion reigns over every other feeling, he knew no other name for this
attachment than that of love. Consuelo admitted this mode of speaking
after she had addressed .\nzoleto as follows: “If you are my lover, it is then
with the intention of marrying me?" ‘To which he rephed : * Certainly, if
you wish it, we shall marry cach other.” From that moment it was a settled
affair. Possibly Anzoleto was amusing himself, but to Consuelo it was a
matter of firm conviction,

After four years of this dream-life for Consuelo, happy in the love and
devotion of Anzoleto, happy in the childish pleasures. of the streets and
cathedrals, absorbed in her beloved music, and untarnished by contact with
the gay and vicious life of Venice, came an awakening that tore away the
veil from before her eves, and permitted her to gaze on the play of those
Vices and passions which, though they saddened her young heart, never for
CONSUELO. 501

 

an instant sullied the pure soul that was enshrined within her plain and
unattractive person.

Among the chance attendants at the Mendicanti was Count Zustiniani,
a gay Venetian noble, proprietor of a theatre, passionately fond of music,
sparing neither time nor means to secure the ablest talent to be had in
Venice to enrich the operatic ensemble of his play-house. At this period,
the leading singer at the Count’s theatre was the beautiful Corilla, who was
also the Count’s mistress. The Count was a man of taste in the common
acceptation of the word — amateur, and nothing more ; but the gratification
of his lusts was the great business of his life. He loved to be busy about
the public, and to have the public busy about him, to frequent the society of
artists, to lead the fashion, to have his theatre, his luxury, his amiability, and
his magnificence, made the subject of conversation. Between Porpora and
Zustiniani there was nothing in common save the love of music, and Porpora
openly railed at the Count’s taste on this score. But the Count was rich and
courted, while Porpora, although counted a genius in his way, was devoted
to austere and classical compositions that found no echo in the hearts of
the Venetian populace, and therefore he languished in obscurity as choir-
master at the Mendicanti. Nevertheless, Zustiniani appreciated fully the
merits of Porpora, and when desirous of recruiting the ranks of his singers
at his theatre he did not disdain to choose many from the choir over which
Porpora presided.

Corilla had begun to show signs of decadence, and the Count was on the
lookout for her successor when he first heard the inimitable voice of Consu-
elo at the Mendicanti. But when he learned that the possessor of the voice
was the swarthy little Spaniard with the ugly face, he gave up all hope of
displacing Corilla with such a figure. However, four years had softened
the Count’s memory, and events had transpired which rendered it imperative
that he should possess himself of a new prima donna. Anzoleto was a pro-
tégé of the Count, and, although the latter had not been able to induce Por-
pora to instruct the lad, he had secured another master who had given a
meretricious finish to Anzoleto’s voice. He had made his debut at the
Count’s theater, and had won the plaudits of the public, but he had also won
favors from the divine Corilla to such an extent that the Count was deter-
mined to supplant his perfidious mistress should he be so successful as to
find a voice worthy of the succession. In his extremity he bethought him-
self of the little Consuelo, and as she had gone beyond the limits of Porpo-
ra’s ability to instruct, he sought out the aged maestro and urged upon him
the advantages to be derived by Consuelo from a debut at his theatre. At
last Porpora consented to permit Consuelo to make the trial, and the first
great crisis in the young girl’s life was at hand.
502 “GEORGE SAND.”

 

 

Little did Consuelo, in the virgin precincts of her modest chamber, dream
of the snares and pitfalls that were being dug in her pathway by the cruel
hand cf fate. Anzoleto had now become so involved with Corilla, as to be
unable to extricate himself, and, although in reality madly in love with Con-
suelo’s matured charms and still possessing her pure, fresh, unsullied adora-
tion, he was forced to appear to side with Corilla in the warfare that jealous
pet of the Venetian public was determined to wage on the new aspirant for
the Count’s favor. Corilla herself was consumed with passion for the fresh
young Adonis-like person of Anzoleto, and would have bound him to her
with chains, were it possible. As though this were not enough in the way of
danger to Consuelo, the passion which her voice had awakened in the breast
of Count Zustiniani had now been fanned into a flame by her graceful per-
son and the depth of feeling which she displayed while practicing the role
she was to essay in the new opera, in which she was to make her fist ap-
pearance at his theatre. The Count had not only determined to supplant
Corilla at the theatre by the little Consuelo, but also in the ménage, where
he was wont to trifle after the manner of men of his class. These attentions
on the part of Zustiniani were all observed by Anzoleto, and only served to
plunge him deeper into the mad vortex with Corilla, out of which he was
never to emerge to join his polluted soul to the pure and unsullied soul of
Consuelo. As for the blandishments of Count Zustiniani and their effect
on Consuelo, she placed them all to the account of the liberal and elegant
manners of the Venetian nobility, united with a love for art and a natural
goodness of disposition. She displayed toward him an unfeigned regard, a
sacred gratitude, with which he was compelled to be content.

At last the great day arrived which was to introduce Consuelo to the
music-loving populace of Venice. The house was filled to suffocation.
Corilla, attired in black, pale, agitated, more dead than alive, divided
between the fear of seeing her lover condemned (for Anzoleto was to appear
in the principal tenor rdle as the support of Consuelo), and her rival triumph,
was seated in the recess of her little box in the theatre. Crowds of the
aristocracy and beauty of Venice, tier above tier, made a brilliant display.
The fops were crowded behind the scenes, and even in the front of the stage.
The lady of the Doge took her place along with the great dignitaries of the
republic, Porpora directed the orchestra in person; and Count Zustiniani
waited at the door of Consuelo's apartment till she had concluded her toilet,
while Anzoleto, dressed as an antique warrior, with all the absurd and lavish
ornaments of the age, retired behind the scenes to swallow a draught of
Cyprus wine, in order to restore his courage.

‘To escape the cabals which his own name or that of any other celebrated
person would have caused, Porpora, above all things anxious for the success
CONSUELO. 503

 

of his pupil, had brought forward Jpermuestra, the lyrical production of a
young German, who had enemies neither in Italy nor elsewhere, and who
was styled simply Christopher Gluck.

Consuelo entered, self-possessed and serious. Casting her eyes around,
she received the plaudits of the spectators with a propriety of manner
equally devoid of humility and coquetry, and sang a recitative with so firm
a voice, with accents so lofty, and a self-possession so victorious, that cries
of admiration from the very first resounded from every part of the theatre.
She sang a bravura, and was ten times interrupted. They shouted
“Encore!” They recalled her to the stage seven times, amid thunders of
applause. At length the fervor of Venetian dilettanteism displayed itself in
all its ridiculous and absurd excesses. “Why do they cry out thus?” said
Consuelo as she retired behind the scenes, only to be brought back imme-
diately by the vociferous applause of the pit. “One would thirk they
wished to stone me.” :

The triumph of Consuelo was complete, and the pride and joy of Porpora
knew no bounds. But amid all the honors that were thrust upon her, the
soul of Consuelo yearned for the lover of her girlhood’s days. Meanwhile
Anzoleto, a prey to an unfounded jealousy of Zustiniani, and seeking to
solace himself with the embittered and disappointed Corilla, absented
himself from her obscure garret, where she still insisted upon remaining,
with only the memory of her sainted mother and her silent crucifix to
comfort her lonely hours. Surprised to find that three days had passed
without a visit from Anzoleto, Consuelo grew uneasy ; and as still another
day of mortal anguish and vain expectation drew to its close, she wrapped
herself in a thick mantle, for the famous singer was no longer sheltered by
her obscurity, and ran to the house for some weeks occupied by Anzoleto.
She did not find him, and learned that he was seldom there. This did not
enlighten her as to his infidelity. She knew his wandering and poetic
habits, and thought that, not feeling at home in the sumptuous abode he was
now able to occupy, he had returned to his old quarters.

She was about to continue her search, when, on returning to pass the
door a second time, she found herself face to face with Porpora. ‘‘Con-
suelo,” said he, “ what do you here at this hour, my poor child, and whom
do you seek in this house?” “I seek my betrothed,” replied Consuelo,
passing her arm within that of her old master, ‘‘and I do not know why I
should blush to confess it to my best friend. I have not seen Anzoleto since
the day before yesterday at the theatre ; he must be unwell.” “He unwell!”
said the professor, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Come, my poor girl, since you
have at last opened your heart to me, I must open mine also. Your lover is
utterly unworthy of you; he spends his time and money in low dissipation,
504 ‘GEORGE SAND.”

and only thinks of turning you to the best account in forwarding his career.”
But the heart of Consuelo would not believe these bitter truths, and her pure
soul was incapable of comprehending the baseness of which Anzoleto had
been guilty, Gradually, however, Porpora unfolded to her the full measure
of her lover’s guilt, but not until he had conducted her to his own apart-
ments, which overlooked those of Corilla, and whence one could gaze into
the boudoir of this abandoned woman, and she had seen Anzoleto even then
at the feet of her unworthy rival, would Consuelo credit all that her kind
old master had said. Crushed by the discovery, she fled to her garret to
suffer in solitude the sorrows of her shattered dreams.

But one more act was yet to be played in the tragedy of the life of
Consuelo, ere she saw the lights of Venice glimmer and grow dim in the
distance, and bade farewell to the trials and triumphs of a famous cantatrice.
One night, following the revelations of Porpora, she fainted in her box at
the theatre, literally on a bed of flowers, which had been the tribute to her
crowning effort. Always watching her every mood, and knowing full well
that the cause of her illness was the perfidy of her lover, Count Zustin-
iani approached her as soon as she had recovered from her swoon and of-
fered her the love and adoration that she at last knew would be the price of
her purity. Allowing him to escort her home in his gondola, she bade him
wait till the morrow for his answer. Mounting to her garret she found
Anzoleto already there. As she thought of the false and honeyed words of
the count, she laughed a hollow, bitter laugh. “You are very happy. Con-
suelo,” said Anzoleto ; “I congratulate you on your gaiety.”* Why should
I not be happy,” replied Consuelo, * you seemed to be happy in the boudoir
of Corilla.” ‘And why should I not aspire to happiness as well as you.
The daughter of your mother the Zingara will play the great lady in the
villa of Zustiniani on the shores of the Brenta. It will be a fair career and
I shall be glad of it.” “ Porpora was right; you are an infamous man.
Leave my sight! You do not deserve that I should justify myself. It
would be a stain were I to regret you. Leave me, I tell you: but first
know that you can come out at Venice and re-enter San Samuel with Corilla.
Never shall my mother’s daughter set foot upon the vile boards of a theatre
again, Oh my mother!" and Consuclo turned towards the bed, fell on her
knees, and buried her face in the counterpane which had served as a shroud
for the Z/ngara. As Anzoleto, terrified at her grief, sought to raise her in
his arnis, she rose of herself, and pushing him from her with wild strength,
thrust him towards the door, exclaiming as she did so, Away — away!
from my heart, from my memory ! — farewell forever!”

Thus both Anzoleto, the faithless, and the operatic public of Venice saw
never again the little Consuelo of the Mendicanti, the heaven-born genius of
CONSU&LO. 505

 

song, whose pure and untarnished soul flew from the contaminating atmos-
phere of the Italian Capital, as some sweet bird of the tropics from the car-
rion-strewn quarters of a fetid and squalid haunt of civilization. Only Por-
pora knew of the safe retreat to which he had consigned his precious charge.

In the Castle of the Giants, which looks gloomily down from a peak of
the Carpathian Mountains, between Bohemia and Bavaria, the noble family
of Rudolstadt was assembled one evening round a table profusely loaded
with game and those substantial dishes with which our ancestors in Slavonic
states still continued to regale themselves, even after the refinements of the
court of Louis XV. had penetrated to almost every part of Europe. An
immense hearth, on which burned huge billets of oak, diffused heat through-
out the large and gloomy halls. Count Christian, in a loud voice, had just
said grace, to whith the other members of the family listened standing.
Numerous aged and grave domestics, in the costume of the country — large
mameluke trousers, and long mustachios — moved slowly to and fro, in at-
tendance on their honored masters. On the right of Count Christian sat the
chaplain of the castle, on his left, his niece, the young Baroness Amelia.
The Baron Frederick, the father of Amelia, and his junior brother, whom he
always called his “young brother,” from his being more than sixty years old,
was seated opposite. The Canoness Wenceslawa of Rudolstadt, his eldest
sister, a venerable lady of seventy, afflicted with an enormous hump, and a
frightful lameness, took her place at the upper end of the table ; while Count
Albert, the son of Count Christian, the betrothed of Amelia, came forward
pale and melancholy, to seat himself at the other end, opposite his noble
aunt.

Count Albert, the last of the Rudolstadts, was dressed with some taste,
but in funeral black. His figure was that of a man of noble rank, but his
disheveled hair and beard, and his darkly pale complexion, gave him the
aspect of wearing the neglected head of a handsome fisher of the Adriatic,
on the shoulders of a nobleman. From his earliest infancy, the mind of
Count Albert had been filled with strange and superstitious notions. When
he was four years old he frequently fancied he saw his mother beside his
cradle, although she was dead and he had seen her buried. He wasa silent
and serious child. They tried to amuse him with toys, but these only served
to make him more sad. If he saw a child beaten, or a peasant ill-used, he
became so indignant that he would swoon away, or fall into convulsions for
hourstogether. The study of history excited without enlightening him. He
thought Heaven unjust in not having created all men kind and compassion-
ate like himself. At eighteen he was as unfit to live among men and hold
the place which his position demanded in society, as he was at six months
506 “ GEORGE SAND.”

 

old. They sought by travel to distract his mind from the gloomy thoughts
that seemed continually to occupy it, but all to no purpose. As years wore
on he had grown continually more strange, and weird in both thoughts and
actions. He heard strange sounds and saw strange sights that terrified
his listeners when he recounted them. He was possessed of the idea that he
was the regenerated head of the house of Rudolstadt, who, in the troubled
days of the reformation, had, with his followers, devastated Bohemia, vio-
lated convents, and hanged prayerful monks to the limbs of convenient oaks.
In a word, Count Albert in his thirty-first year was mad— and with a mad-
ness so terrible and yet so irresistibly mingled with reason as to defy the
efforts of those to whom he was most dear, and so threw a pall over the
entire household at the Castle of the Giants.

On this evening the solemn silence which weighed down the family was
interrupted by Count Albert. “What frightful weather,” said he, with a
profound sigh. Everything was calm without and within, vet nobody
ventured to contradict Albert. ‘At this very instant,” said he, “the storm
drives a stranger towards our castle. You would do well, Sir Chaplain, to
pray for those who travel beneath the tempest, amid these rude mountains.”
The castle bell, which only rang on extraordinary occasions, was now heard,
and old Hans, the head domestic, entered shortly afterwards with a letter,
which he presented to Count Christian without saying a word. It was from
Porpora, recommending Consuelo to his old friend and patron, the Count
Christian Rudolstadt, for the post of companion and musical instructor to
the Baroness Amelia, in response to a request received from the Count that
such a person might be dispatched to the Castle of the Giants with all
convenient speed. Even as the Count read, Consuelo awaited admission at
the castle gate. “ Open the gates and lower the bridge. Let every one light
torches, and bid the stranger welcome,’ commanded Count Christian. And
thus Consuelo, thereafter to be known in the halls of Rudolstadt as
Porporina, entered upon a new and startling career which was to color her
whole future life.

Gradually Porporina grew accustomed to the gloom and mystery that
surrounded her at the Castle of the Giants, and the sprightliness of Amelia
served to make her contented with a lot which was in such marked contrast
to the gay life of Venice. Seeking only shelter from the vices and cor-
ruptions of the world, and desiring nothing but forgetfulness, she found
all, amid the austere but hospitable inhabitants of this mountain fastness.
‘True, Amelia's musical abilities were of a very low order, but experience
had taught her to adapt herself to her surroundings, so that she was enabled
to fulfil her duties without giving offense. The disorder of Albert, with
which Amelia had made her acquainted, was full of a melancholy interest
' CONSUELO. 507

for her. Thus far she had been but a spectator of the tragedy that was
being enacted about her. But fate was to decree that she, too, should
assume a réle, and her opening scene was enacted in this wise: One morn-
ing Amelia had been more stupid than usual at her music, and Porporina,
to give her the true conception of the composer’s meaning, seated herself at
the spinet and began to sing. Her voice, long mute since the last even-
ing when she sang at San Samuel, was more beautiful, more marvelous,
more thrilling than ever. Amelia was at the same time transported and
affrighted. She was at length beginning to understand that she did not
know anything, and that perhaps she could never learn anything, when
the pale and pensive figure of Albert suddenly appeared in the middle of
the apartment, in front of the two young girls, and remained motionless
and apparently deeply moved until the end of the piece. It was only then
that Porporina perceived him, and was somewhat frightened. But Albert,
falling on his knees, and raising towards her his large, dark eyes, swimming
in tears, exclaimed in Spanish, without the least German accent, “O
Consuelo! Consuelo! I have at last found thee!” “Consuelo?” cried
the astonished girl, expressing herself in the same language, “ Why, Sefior,
do you call me by that name?” ‘I call you Consolation,” replied Albert,
still speaking in Spanish, “because a consolation has been promised to my
desolate life, and because you are that consolation which God at last grants
to my solitary and gloomy existence. If you depart from me, my life is
over, and I will never return to the earth for evermore.” And as he spoke
thus, he fell at her feet and fainted.

Consuelo’s lofty soul was stirred by the devotion of Albert, and some-
thing of his mystical fatalism was transmitted to her sentient and noble
being. Thenceforward she determined to devote herself to wooing him
from the awful depths into which he had fallen, and to rend the impenetrable
shroud of madness that enveloped his great intellect. After the outburst
that followed her singing, Albert disappeared, as was his wont whenever his
soul was moved, and for days he was as one dead. No one knew whither he
went nor whence he came; his disappearances were as mysterious as his
whole life. But with a cool, clear head and a keen intellect, Consuelo dis-
covered the secret of his hiding place. Stealing from the castle while the
household slept, she descended to a cavern far underneath the ground, lacer-
ating her fair hands and bruising her tender person, but animated always
with the lofty purpose to exercise her mysterious influence over the wanderer
and bring him back to those who loved and mourned him. She found Albert
in his retreat, and the magic of her presence brought balm to the frenzied
brain, and together they returned to the castle, with a secret between them.
From this time the mind of Albert resumed, apparently, its normal tone, but
508 “GEORGE SAND.”

 

the magic that accomplished this was as old as the mountains that sur-
rounded his native heart, for it was—love. All might have gone well with
Albert and Consuelo, notwithstanding the opposition of the Canoness Wen-
ceslawa, had not the faithless and perfidious Anzoleto discovered Consuelo
in her retreat, and, passing himself off as her brother, subjected her to per-
secutions which compelled her to fly to Vienna, to the protection of her old
friend and master, Porpora.

On foot, and in the guise of a boy, did the brave girl accomplish this
journey, with no companion save a lad of seventeen, who called himself Jo-
seph Haydn, and who was animated with the same love of music as filled
the little Consuelo. These two chance companions met with many adven-
tures by the way, but at last reached the Austrian capital, where Porpora
welcomed with open arms his weary and heartsore charge, and soon placed
the aspiring Haydn in the way of fulfilling his heart’s desire. But the
soul of Albert still followed Consuelo with an influence which she could not
rid herself of, and she was forced to acknowledge to Porpora the great love
that penetrated to the innermost recesses of her true heart. Then came an
urgent message from the gloomy castle in Bohemia, that the last of his race
lay dying for love of her who had been driven from him, and bidding her at
once return and close his eyes with the hand of wife as well as savior.
Traveling with all possible speed, Consuelo and Porpora arrived not a mo-
ment too soon. The household was gathered about Albert, who sat propped
up in his uncle Frederick's great chair. Consuelo darted toward her be-
trothed. It was no longer a man —it was a specter which she beheld. His
face, still beautiful, notwithstanding the ravages of disease, was as a face of
marble. There was no smile on his lips, no ray of joy in his eyes. ** Con-
suelo,” said he, “I read at this hour in your soul that you would give your
life to restore mine. That is not possible. I leave you fora time, but I
shall soon return to earth under some new form. We are brethren, to be-
come lovers, death must cast his gloomy shadow between us. We must, by
a solemn engagement, become man and wife, that in my new birth I may
regain my calmness and strength, and become, like other men, freed from
the dreary memories of the past.” ‘The ceremony was then recited by the
chaplain, and Albert found strength enough to pronounce the decisive yes,
and the other forms which were required, in a clear and sonorous voice, and
the family, from this, received a lively hope of his recovery, Hardly had
the chaplain recited the closing prayer over the newly-married couple, ere
Albert arose and, pressing Consuelo to his heart, exclaimed: “I am
saved!" Dropping back into his arm-chair, Albert loosened his hold, his
arms fell forward and rested on his knees. His aged and faithful dog, whe
had not left his feet during the whole period of his illness, raised his head
CONSUELO. 509

 

and uttered thrice a dismal howl. Albert’s gaze was riveted on Consuelo ;
his lips remained apart as if to address her; a faint glow animated his
cheek, and then gradually that peculiar and indescribable shade which is
the forerunner of death crept from his forehead down to his lips and by de-
grees overshadowed his whole face as with a snowy veil. The silence of
terror which brooded over the breathless and attentive group of spectators
was interrupted by the doctor, who, in solemn accents, pronounced the irre-
vocable decree: “It is the hand of death!”

Little Consuelo, the song-bird of the Mendicanti, was the Countess of
Rudolstadt.

QUOTATIONS.

“So true it is that in point of art the least spark of genius — the smallest
flight in the direction of new conquests— exercises a greater fascination
than all the resources and lights of science within known limits.”

“The fine arts. This, in my opinion, is a phrase which is generally
employed in a vulgar sense, and being altogether Italian, is consequently
enthusiastic and without much discernment. The culture of art, a modern
expression which the world did not mike use of a hundred years ago, has a
meaning altogether different from a@ taste for the fine arts.”

“He is one who loves to give entertainments, and who serves up music at
his theatre as he would pheasants on his table.”

“Her clear and thrilling voice died away amid the palaces and cupolas
of the canal, as the crow of the cock before the dawn is lost in the silence
of the open country.” ,

“Every one knows, however, that from fourteen to fifteen girls are
generally thin, out of sorts, without harmony either as to proportions or
movements. Towards fifteen, to use a common expression, they undergo a
sort of fusion, after which they become, if not pretty, at least agreeable. It
has even been remarked that it is not desirable that a young girl should
grow good-looking too early.”

“T never saw a creature so strangely beautiful as this Consuelo ; she is
like a lamp that pales from time to time, but which at the moment when it
is apparently about to expire sheds so bright a light that the very stars are
eclipsed.”
 

 

 

EUGENE SUE

Dieo 1AS7

FRANCE

BORN 18604
JOSEPH MARIE SUE.

Contemporaneous with such lights of French literature as Victor Hugo, Balzac. Alexan-
dre Dumas, George Sand, Paul de Kock and Vicomte d’Arlincourt, the author of Zhe Wan-
dering Jew became the great lion of the day, and achieved a success as a novelist unparalleled
since the time of Richardson. Joseph Marie Sue, or, as he was more generally known, Eu-
géne Sue, was born at Paris, December 10, 1804. The pseudonym Eugéne attached to him
from the fact that he had Prince Eugéne Bonaparte for godfather, and it is said the Empress
Josephine was his godmother. Unlike many of the author-craft, Sue was born with a silver
spoon in his mouth. He was the son of a surgeon in Napoleon’s army, who wasa staunch
Bonapartist, and who, in addition to the large revenue derived from the practice of his pro-
fession under the patronage of the ‘‘ Little Corporal,” was the possessor of an ample private
fortune.

With other of the jeunesse doree of the period, Sue received his early education at the
College Bourbon, but close application and habits of sobriety were not prominent traits in
Sue’s character during his college career, for Pére Delteil, who was his tutor, describes him as
‘‘awayward, idle and rebellious scholar.” On leaving college, Sue drifted naturally into his
father’s profession, and his medical studies were characterized by much the same habits as
marked his earlier student days. One anecdote will illustrate the exuberant spirits of the
great romanticist as well as his fertility of invention. Among the valued possessions of the
elder Sue, was a cabinet of rare wines, rich in bouquet and hoary with age. These wines were
kept for state occasions and the younger Sue and his fellow medical students were only per-
mitted a far-off contemplation of their delights. But the daring of the young Asculapius
circumvented paternal vigilance, and a duplicate key opened the cabinet, while an ingenuity
born of a knowledge of chemistry filled the empty bottles with a fluid much resembling in color
and consistency their original contents. While in the midst of a carousal over a dozen of the
choicest from the forbidden cabinet, Eugéne and his comrades were surprised by his irate
parent. This escapade, added to many others of a nature not quite so innocent but not affecting
the elder Sue in so vital a part, was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Sue was summarily
disposed of by being shipped on board a French man-of-war, as sub-assistant surgeon, in which
capacity he served both in the campaign undertaken by France in 1823 for the re-establish-
ment of royal power in Spain and at the battle of Navarino in 1828. His naval experiences
supplied much of the materials for his earlier novels.

On the death of his father, in 1828, Sue abandoned the practice of his profession and
applied himself assiduously to spending the large fortune which he inherited. His reputa-
tion for immorality and fast living soon became well-known and, perhaps, aided in creating
a demand for the products of his pen, which now began to appear. At this time he is
described by a contemporaneous American critic as ‘‘an unprincipled though clever ad-
venturer.” At the height of the romantic movement of 1830 he composed Kernock le Pir~
ate, Atar-Gull, La Salamandre, La Coucaratcha, La Vigie de Koat Ven, De Rohan, and sev-
514 JOSEPH MARIE SUE.

 

’

eral others, all of which partook of « ‘‘raw head and bloody bones” character. He next
turned his attention to more serious work, compiling a naval history of France, which pos-
sessed no merit and which added nothing to his literary reputation. In 1840 he assayed the
quasi-historical novel, in which style he composed Jean Cavalier and other stories of adven-
ture. About this time he became imbued with the socialistic ideas of the period, and posed
before the public as the advocate of the ‘‘ Rights of Man.” His attempt to exploit his views
through the medium of fiction led to the production of his two most famous works — Les
Mystéres de Paris and Le Juif Errant. These were followed by several very ordinary
romances, such as Les Sept Péches Capitaux and Les Mystéres du Peuple. Among other
novels of which he was the author may be mentioned Afathi/de, a prosy piece of work, and
Fleur de Marie, an altogether fine conception imperfectly worked out.

Sue’s prodigality dissipated his fortune, which he had inherited from his father, in a few
years, and about the year 1842, when he had reached the zenith of his popularity, by the pro-
duction of The Mysteries of Paris, he found himself dependent upon his pen for a livelihood.
But, so great was the demand for his works, he was enabled to maintain the style of living to
which he had always been accustomed and to indulge in the pleasures which his convivial
nature craved. His advocacy of the cause of the people, however, was the rock upon which
his fair-sailing bark eventually went to pieces. Filled with political aspirations and backed
by the masses he sat for Paris (the Seine) in the Assembly from April, 1850, until his exile,
following the coup a” etat.

The last years of his life were spent in a humble dwelling on the banks of a beautiful
lake at Annecy (Savoy.) His banishment only served to stimulate his literary production,
but the works of his last days are much inferior to those of his middle period ; the only one
which is worthy of comparison perhaps being Le Diadle Medecin. The habits acquired by
Sue during his sojourn in Paris carried with them their almost inevitable result, for on several
occasions after taking up his residence at .\nnecy he felt the premonitory symptoms of
apoplexy, which eventually put an end to his career of letters and terminated his exile be-
yond the power of human government to reimpose. Shortiy before his death, a friend visited
him at his retreat and found him still laboring with the ardor that had marked his whole lit-
erary life, but depressed by his enforced exile from the gay world of Paris. On the third day
of August, 1857, the final stroke came, and the author of one of the masterpieces of French
literature passed peacefully away.

Sue’s personal popularity at home was immense, and the sale of his two great works,
The Mysteries of Paris and The Wandering Jew, both in France and in America, reached
an enormous figure. The characteristics of his literary work were an easy, flowing style,
a vivid, strong imagination often running into extravagance, a power of delineating character
by a few bold dashes, and an inexhaustible fertility of incident. However, his work, with
all its natural advantages, was too often marred by a slip-shod construction and a prolixity
that detracted much from its effectiveness. Probably, the most widely read of any of his
romances is The MWumdéeringy Jew, This story was so manifestly an attack on the Society
of Jesus, or the Jesuits as they are more popularly known, that it immediately attracted
wide-world attention in every community where this powerful organization had obtained a
foot-hold. So virulent was its attack, that the reading of it was interdicted in the papal
States and in other places under Catholic influence The wisdom of the interdiction has
been questioned by later commentators as having given it an importance which it did
not merit, ITowever that may be, it sold like most would-be suppressed works and excited

4 controversy that became wide-spread, and that employed some of the ablest pens of the
time,
THE WANDERING JEW. 515

 

THE WANDERING JEW.

The story of “The Wandering Jew,” with which, however, the Wander-
ing Jew of the scriptural legend has nothing more to do than has the inci-
dental music of a lurid melodrama with the development of its plot, is told
ina Part First entitled “The Transgression,” a prologue, “The Land’s
End of Two World’s,” and fifty-three (53) chapters ; a Part Second entitled
“ The Chastisement,” a prologue “The Bird’s-Eye View of Two Worlds,”
and fifty-two (52) chapters ; a Third Part entitled “ The Redemption,” and
sixty-eight (68) chapters; and, finally, an Epilogue of two (2) chapters ;
making in all a volume of one hundred and seventy-seven (177) chapters.

The slender excuse for the title of Sue’s masterpiece is found in the fact
that at intervals throughout the story the Wandering Jew poses as the
guardian angel of some of the persecuted characters, and is made to appear
as having charge of the destinies of several individuals whose extermina-
tion seems to be the price of the Wandering Jew’s final peace. The legend
‘from which Sue derived the character of the Wandering Jew runs somewhat
as follows: ~The Wandering Jew was a shoemaker at Jerusalem. The
Saviour, weighted down by his cross, paused before the house of the artisan
and asked him to be allowed to rest an instant on the stone bench at his door.
“Goon! goon!” replied the Jew harshly, pushing him away. “ Thou shalt
go on till the end of time,” answered the Saviour in astern though sorrowful
tone. From this time forward the outcast Jewish shoemaker knew no more
of rest. In storm and sunshine, through Summer’s burning heat and Winter’s
biting cold, he traveled unceasingly up and down and through the earth with
the awful command of the Man of Sorrows ever ringing in his ears.

In the year 1831 the sum of forty millions (40,000,000) of francs awaited the
claim or the descendants of Marius, Count of Rennépént, in the reign of Louis
XIV. of France. This enormous fortune the powerful order of Jesuits resolved
to gain possession of, and, during that year, they began to act upon information
which had for some time been digesting in their hands. This information had
been obtained through the thousand-and-one channels opened to the order by
intrigue and artifice. The task of securing this rich prize had devolved upon
Father d’Aigrigny, an able iieutenant of the Church of Rome, assisted by his
secretary M. Rodin. This latter personage was well worthy to be intrusted
with the carrying out of the fiendish plot against the Rennépént inheritance.

About 50 years of age, his gray hair lay flat on his temples, and encircled
his bald forehead ; his eyebrows were scarcely marked ; his upper eyelid,
flabby and overhanging, like the membrane which shades the eyes of reptiles,
516 JOSEPH MARIE SUE.

 

half concealed his small, sharp, black eye. His thin lips, absolutely color-
less, were hardly distinguishable from the wan hue of his lean visage, with
its pointed nose and chin ; and this livid mask (deprived as it were of lips)
appeared only the more singular, from its maintaining a death-like immobility.

Such is a pen-picture of the Jesuit secretary who eventually usurped his
master’s office, and whose machinations accomplished the ruin and death of
the heirs of the Rennépont millions.

The descendants of Count Rennépont were distinguished from other men
by a simple token, which all, in the year above named, had in their posses-
sion. It was a bronze medal, bearing these legends on reverse and obverse:

VICTIM IN PaRIS,
OF RUE SAINT FRANCOIS, No. 3.
LG Dj. IN A CENTURY AND A HALF
PRAY FOR ME, YOU WILL BE.

 

FEBRUARY THE 13TH, 1832.
PARIS,

 

FEBRUARY THE 13TH, 1682, PRAY FOR ME.

One hundred and fifty years had scattered the Rennépént family through
the world, in emigration and exile; in changes of religion, fortune, and
name. Seven representatives summed up the virtue, courage, degradation,
splendor and poverty of the race. Seven: two orphan twin daughters
(Rose and Blanche) of exiled parents (Marshal Simon and his wife), a de-
throned prince (Djalma), a humble missionary priest (Gabriel), a man of the
middle class (M. Hardy), a young lady of high name and large fortune
(Adrienne de Cardoville), and a working man (Jacques Renneépont, a/ias
Sleepinbuff). Fate had scattered them in Russia, India, France and
America. As is indicated by the inscriptions on the medals, the objective
point of these seven Rennépént heirs toward which they were, knowingly and
unknowingly, as the case might be, making their way at the time the story
opens was No. 3, Rue Saint Frangois, Paris; and the conditions of Count
Rennépont's will were such that it would be necessary for all the claimants,
accompanied by their respective proofs of identity, prominent among which
would be the bronze medals, to assemble at this rendezvous on the 13th day
of February, 1832, at noon, in order to be entitled to receive their inheritance.

Rose and Blanche Simon had torn themselves from their dead mother’s
grave in Siberia, and were on their way to Paris, to present themselves at
No. 3, Rue Saint Frangois, on the fateful day. The object of their journey
THE WANDERING JEW. 517

 

was unknown to the orphans, who cherished their medals only as. souvenirs
of their absent parent. They were under the watchful eye of an old trooper,
Francis Baudoin, a/ias Dagobert, who was as much attached to them as he
had been devoted to their father, his commanding general.

. On the road to France this little party encountered the out-posts of the
Jesuit hosts at the village inn at Mockern, where they purposed spending the
night. A wild beast showman, known as Morok, the lion-tamer, an emissary
of the society of Jesus, cunning, crafty and merciless, sought to pick a quarrel
with the inoffensive veteran, but, failing in that, had loosed from his menage-
tie a ferocious panther, which devoured the soldier’s horse. This steed, called
“ Jovial,” from his kindly disposition, had carried Dagobert through many
battles, and was now bearing the orphans across Russia and Germany to their
inheritance at Paris. With the loss of Jovial the little party lost their all.
The good steed was ridden by Rose and Blanche, while Dagobert trudged at
his side. By this means alone was Paris to be reached, for the children of
General Simon had no means for other than the bare necessities of the way.
Dagobert was now denounced as a French spy, and Rose and Blanche were
accused of being adventuresses to help his designs. They were all imprisoned
in Leipsic jail, and for a time it appeared as though the efforts of Morok
must prevent the arrival of the orphan heirs at Paris at the appointed time.

General Simon, who had vainly endeavored to share Napoleon’s exile at
St. Helena, had gone to fight the English in India, all unconscious of his
wife’s banishment from Russia, and subsequent death in Siberia, leaving two
orphan daughters. But the English triumphed, the old native king of
Mundi was slain, and his son Djalma taken prisoner.

Gabriel, the missionary priest, was enduring the privations of his call-
ing in the far West of America, and, on one occasion, was nailed to a cross
by Rocky Mountain Indians, from whose clutches he escaped only by the
miraculous intervention of a sister of the Wandering Jew.

But Gabriel was not alone favored by the mysterious agency of the
Wandering Jew, for that same peregrinating personage opened the gates of
the prison to Dagobert and his charges, and they were enabled to go free.

Adrienne de Cardoville dwelt at Paris with her aunt, the Princess de
‘Saint-Dizier, a female Jesuit of the most virulent type.

Dagobert and his two charges had reached Paris, but not without en-
countering ship-wreck on the coast, where a like calamity had stranded
Gabriel, who was returning to America by order of the Jesuit society, the
better to keep its influence over him who was unconscious of his right to a
share in the Rennépont inheritance. Among the passengers who accom-
panied him, and who were also saved, were Djalma, and one Faringhea, a
Thuggee chief, who had been hunted out of India.
518 JOSEPH MARIE SUE.

 

Dagobert, Rose and Blanche Simon, Gabriel, Djalma and Adrienne de
Cardoville were now all at Paris, and the 13th of February was drawing
nigh, But the toils of the Jesuitical python were tightening about the
innocent heirs of the Rennépént succession. Dagobert was disconsolate, for
Rose and Blanche had been spirited away to a convent, from the humble
home where he had taken them to share the lot of his wife and son Agricola.
Prince Djalma, ignorant of his rights as a Rennépont heir, was a wanderer
and outcast in the streets of Paris. Gabriel was under the thumb of the
society of Jesuits; Adrienne, through the machinations of the Princess de
Saint-Dizier, was immured in a mad-house. The whereabouts of General
Simon unknown, Agricola Baudoin in prison on the charge of treason, by
reason of writing a poem for the people, the strangler Faringhea having
joined forces with the Jesuits, was it not well that M. Rodin rubbed his
slimy hands together and looked upon the 40,000,000 francs as already in the
coffers of the society of Jesuits, and a Cardinal's hat within his grasp ?

The 13th of February, 1832, was at hand. M. Hardy, through love of a
wedded woman and the treachery of a friend, had fled to seclusion. Jacques
Rennépént had met death by wasting himself in wild debaucheries. The
other four Rennépont heirs had been disposed of as has been described.
Gabriel had made over all his interest in the Rennépont millions to the
Society of Loyola, and he alone of the seven possessors of the talismanic
medals presented himself at No. 3 Rue Saint Frangois at the appointed time.
The 40,000,000 francs had grown to 212,000,000! Father d’Aigrigny and
M. Rodin accompanied Gabriel. They had made satisfactory proof of the
transfer to the society of the vast inheritance, and had the treasure in their
hands, in fact, when a woman of strangely sad beauty mysteriously entered
the room and laid a paper before the Notary. It was a codicil, duly drawn
up and signed, deferring the carrying out of the testament until the first day
of June of the same year. The Jesuits fled from the house in rage and
disappointment. Father d’Aigrigny was so stupor-stricken at the defeat, that
he bade his secretary at once write to Rome that the Rennépont inheritance
had escaped them, and hopes to scize it again were utterly at an end, Upon
this, M. Rodin revolted, and showed so plainly to the Holy Fathers at Rome
that he was capable of securing the treasure, that they at once placed him in
Father d’Aigrigny's position, and thenceforward he took the business in his
own hands.

The policy of oppression of Father d’Aigrigny was now changed to one
of apparent friendliness, but how fatal was the seeming kindness the conclu-
sion of the matter shows. ‘Tragedies of the most awful nature succeeded
cach other in rapid succession, and through them all shone the baleful light
of M. Rodin’s serpent eye.
.

THE WANDERING JEW. 519

 

Brought face to face, Marshal Simon and Father d’Aigrigny recognized
in each other mortal enemies of a former time, for the reverend father had
once been a soldier, and had betrayed General Simon. A duel to the death
ensued. When the contest was over, the body of the valiant Simon lay prone
and rigid, while the life blood of the Jesuit leader slowly ebbed away. Rose
and Blanche, worn with waiting, and overcome by the terrors of their sur-
toundings, had already suicided in each other’s arms. Prince Djalma and
Adrienne had found in each other an affinity, but ere marriage could bind
them together the dark plottings of M. Rodin had filled the heart of Djalma
with jealousy, and, though reconciled at last, they both partook of the poi-
soned cup and “ breathed their last sigh in avoluptuous agony.” M. Hardy,
too, had passed beyond the pale of false friends and illicit love. Gabriel
had fled to find peace in saving souls, but not as a Jesuit missionary, for he
had abandoned the order with horror in his heart.

On the first of June, as specified by the codicil to the Rennépént will,
‘M. Rodin and his secretary repaired again to No. 3 Rue Saint Francois. The
custodian, Samuel, admitted them and solemnly conducted them to the Hall
of Mourning, where a casket containing the treasure, in the shape of securi-
ties and notes, reposed on a marble slab in the centre of the room. M.
Rodin was filled with impatience, but within him burned a fire that was like
to nothing he had ever felt. The summit of his ambition was reached, but
why the awful gnawing at his vitals? He demanded the Rennépént inher-
itance in the name of Gabriel, and by authority of the transfer from him to
the Society of Jesuits. Slowly Samuel drew back the somber curtains that
surrounded the room and disclosed to the horrified gaze of the priest the
bodies of his victims, lying in their grave clothes on slabs of marble. They
were : Jacques Rennépént ; Francois Hardy; Rose and Blanche Simon ;
Adrienne and Djalma. Unmoved by this exhibition, M. Rodin again de-
manded the treasure. “Since your infernal soul is incapable of remorse, it
may perhaps be shaken by disappointed avarice,” exclaimed Samuel, as step-
ping forward, he pressed a knob in the lid of the casket. Through the open
work of the casket rose a gray cloud, the odor of burnt paper filled the room,
and two hundred and twelve millions of francs escaped from the coffers of
the Jesuits and was wafted away in smoke.

Again that awful agony at his vitals! M. Rodin shrieked aloud. Fall-
ing upon the floor in convulsions the miserable man perished, the victim of
a deadly poison, prepared by Faringhea, and administered by direction of
the Cardinal.

The Order of the Jesuits permits no man’s ambition to soar too high,
and so the keys of St. Peter are preserved from falling into unworthy hands.

But the Rennépént millions never enriched the Church of Rome.
520 JOSEPH MARIE SUE.

 

ANALYSIS OF SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

Among the most powerful scenes depicted in the progress of the story of
The Wandering Jew are:

JoviaL anp Deatu.— The killing of Jovial, Dagobert’s faithful steed, by
the lion-tamer Morok’s black panther, Death.

Tue Tatrooinc.—A scene in the heart of India, wherein Faringhea, a
Malay strangler, steals upon Prince Djalma while he sleeps and places upon
his body the tatoo mark that distinguishes the Thug, without awakening the
victim.

RENDERING THE AccCouNT.— M. Rodin attacked by the cholera at the
house of the Princess de Saint-Dizier.

THE SQuaARE OF Notre Dame.— The ravages of cholera at Paris; pictures
of the inhabitants in their mad efforts to stay the plague ; and a ghastly
frolic in the presence of death.

Tue Torture.— M. Rodin’s frightful experience at the hands of the
doctors. Burning holes in his flesh to arrest the progress of disease.

An American critic, writing in Zhe Wiig Revtew, at the time Zhe IVan-
dering Jew made its first appearance, thus fairly and faithfully summarizes
the principal characters of that romance :

MM. Rodin.— A masterly conception. An incarnation of pure intellect un-
fettered by moral or social restraint, inspired and possessed by a gnawing and
insatiable ambition, and attaining his ends by the exercise of a devilish
ingenuity whose expedients are never exhausted.

La Mayeux (“ Mother Bunch” ).— The best female character Sue has
ever drawn.

Adrienne de Cardoville.— \ voluptuous sensualist, totally devoid of deli-
cacy of feeling or purity of thought.

Rose and Blanche.— Interesting at first, but rather sickening afterwards.

Princess de Satnt-Distvr.— A she-devil, not a woman — a libel on her sex.

Agrtcola Baudorn.— \ bold and masculine character, representing a class,

Gabrtel.— Much too good and pure to represent our fallen nature.

M. Hardy.—'The benevolent manufacturer, the author's model philan-
thropist.

Pugebert— Tiresome on long acquaintance.

Pjatma,— X fine animal and nothing more.

D Atgrigny.— Vhe ambition of the soldier merging in that of the priest.

Marshal Sinen.— X bull-headed, honest soldier,

Faringhea.— Vhe Malay, well represents the tiger-like race to which he
belongs.

Morok.~-Vhe lion-tamer, Unscrupulous and treacherous.
 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

SIR EDWARD GEORGE BULWER-LYTTON.

Born 1805. ENGLAND. Dieo 1873
SIR EDWARD BULWER LYTTON.

Justin McCarthy, himself an able politician, parliamentarian, and author, in his Wistory
of Our Own Times, says that no man could well have made more of his gifts than Lord
Lytton. And a close study of his times and works reveals this to us. Born in Norfolk, Eng-
land, in 1805, he was graduated from Cambridge in 1826, when his Sculpture received the
Chancellor’s prize for versification. This, however, was not his first work, for at fifteen a
volume bearing his name as author, might be found on the shelves of the London Circulating
Library. From that time on, to his death, in 1873, he produced many varied works, few of
which were unsuccessful. Novels, dramas, criticisms, editorials, history, magazine articles,
poems, translations, and political pamphlets followed in rapid succession, all well received,
excepting the poems whose models failed to suit the popular taste. Several times returned
to parliament, he contrived to establish 4 reputation among educated men as a great orator.
But he was not that. He was a superb phrase-maker, could turn to account every scrap of
knowledge he possessed, and so, with his sparkling, sarcastic, and crisp style, he succeeded
in passing fora genius, Audiences in the House of Commons often regarded him as a rival
of Gladstone, and bright literary critics called him, as a novelist, the peer of Dickens and
Thackeray. And, although nobody cared to read his plays, everybody went to look at them,
and his Lady of Lyons and Richelieu, both written in 1838, even to-day, enjoy a popularity
second only to the plays of Shakespeare. He had splendid qualities, and used every one
of them. And if he was not a great author, he certainly was a great literary man. Of his
historical novels, The Last Days of Pompeii (1834), and Rienzi (1835), are the most read.
Harold, the Saxon King, one of his later novels, and Last of the Barons (1843), are not so
popular. Although Bulwer Lytton, himself, considered Eugene Aram (1831) his best effort,
readers in general think Ze Caxtons, a domestic novel, the crowning proof of his versa-
tility. Thirty-six thousand copies of this work were sold in America in three years. Jy Novel
following soon after was, in some respects, the finest thing he ever did. But for nicety of
style and cultured diction Godolphin and Ernest Maltravers rank among the most interesting
and charming novels in the English language. His translations of Goethe’s poems are con-
sidered the most perfect ever given to the public. Athens, its Rise and Fall ; with Views of
the Literature, Philosophy, aud Social Life of the Athenian People, published in 1837,
established his reputation as a historian. Tradition says that the illustrious author of the Last
Days of Pompeii did not enjoy that domestic tranquillity he could so ably describe. Under
the name of Owen Meredith, Lord Bulwer’s son has gained an enviable place in the literary
world.

LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

The vivid descriptions of life in Pompeii, the rapid march of events, and
many complications of the plot, make the “ Last Days of Pompeii” a book
of intense interest. The scene is laid in the small, but luxurious and
524 STR EDWARD BULWER LYTTON.

 

fashionable, city of Pompeii, in the year 79 A. D., Titus, son of Vespasian,
being Emperor of Rome at the time. The story opens with a conversation
between Diomed, a freedman, and Clodius, a noble but profligate Roman,
who tolerates Diomed because he is rich, and has a beautiful daughter,
Julia, whom Clodius is anxious to wed to his friend Glaucus. Glaucus is a
rich, generous and beautiful Greek of noble birth, and a great pet in society.
Freely indulging in pleasure, he plays often with Clodius, an artful cheat,
and frequently loses heavily ; and by his marrying Julia, Clodius hopes in
this way to possess himself of a goodly portion of old Diomed’s fortune,
intending then to take up his residence at the imperial court in Rome.
Leaving Diomed, Clodius encounters Glaucus, who, after gaily warning
Clodius not to forget that he is to sup with him that evening, dismisses
his chariot, and arm in arm the two friends saunter up the street. Coming
to an open space where three streets met, their steps were arrested by a
crowd gathered around a young girl who stood under the portico of a
temple, with a flower basket on her right arm, and in her left hand a small
three-stringed musical instrument, to whose music she sang a wild, barbaric
air, Gaily waving her basket at every pause in the music, she invited the
crowd to buy her flowers. Many a coin was showered into her basket, both
in compliment and compassion, for the music was charming, and the musi-
cian blind, Nydia, a slave. Glaucus knew Nydia, having often befriended
the slave, who loved him with all the ardor of a woman born in those
southern climes. He had been absent from Pompeii for some time, and so,
when he said “I must have your bunch of violets, sweet Nydia,” she, not
knowing of his return, started forward as she heard his voice, while the
blood rushed violently over cheek and temples. Glaucus, unconscious of
the feeling she bore toward him, took the violets, and then, turning to go,
he and Clodius came face to face with Julia. After a few minutes’ conver-
sation, during which Julia cast upon the Athenian many a glance of
affected timidity and real boldness, the two friends passed on, wending their
way to the beach, where they seated themselves on a small crag, and
inhaled the soft sea breeze. They were soon interrupted by a man scarcely
in his fortieth year, of tall stature and thin but sinewy frame. His features
and dark, bronzed skin betrayed his eastern origin. The melancholy vet
commanding gaze that greeted one from his deep, full black eyes, his quiet,
haughty countenance, stately form, and the somber hues of. his sweeping
garments, all impressed one uncomfortably, and also created a desire to
conceal this impression from him. ‘The two young men made a sign with
their fingers to protect themselves from the. evil eye the Egyptian was
supposed to possess, “The Myyptian'’s real name was Hermes of the Burn-
ing Girdle; but having conspired many times against the Roman power,
LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 525

 

always escaping capture, Hermes, while living in Pompeii, wisely changed
his name, and was known as Arbaces. With sarcastic but courteously
spoken words Arbaces expressed his surprise at seeing two of the gayest
youths of Pompeii enjoying the beautiful solitude; then he gathered his
robes around him, and slowly swept away. Evening came, and with it
the five guests Glaucus had invited to sup with him. After the feast, the
musicians, who had played softly during its progress, were called in to sing
“The Bacchic Hymn of the Hours,” composed by Glaucus the day before.
“The air is beautifully Ionic,” said Clodius ; “the word puts me in mind of
a toast. Companions, I give you the beautiful Ione.” “Ione: the name
is Greek,” said Glaucus in a soft voice. ‘I drink the health with pleasure ;
but who is Ione?” “She is a stranger,” said Clodius, “lately come to
Pompeii. She sings like Sappho, composing her own songs, and outdoes
the Muses on the tibia, cithara and the lyre. Her beauty is dazzling, her
house perfect. She is rich and generous, and although she has all Pompeii
at her feet, she has no lovers and will not marry.” “A miracle,” cried
Glaucus, “can we not see her?” Clodius promised to take him to see Ione
that evening. After the departure of the other guests he started with
Glaucus for the house of Ione. Reaching the house, and passing through
the vestibule, they entered the portico, where they found Ione surrounded
by adoring guests. At that moment the crowd divided on either side of
Tone, and Glaucus, with startled but enraptured gaze, beheld the face of her
whom he had long madly loved, and sought in vain. It seems that several
months before this meeting Glaucus was in Naples, and went to the temple
of Minerva to pray for his beloved conquered land. The temple was
empty, and as he prayed recollections of home crowded fast upon him.
Affectionate and enthusiastic, he was unable to conquer his emotions, and
wept as he prayed aloud. A deep sigh startled him, and turning he beheld
a beautiful young woman. The tears, too, were rolling down her cheeks.
Their eyes met. “Art thou too Athenian, O beautiful virgin?” said
Glaucus. “My birth is of Neapolis (Naples), but my heart, as my lineage,
is Athenian.” “Let us then make our offerings together,” said Glaucus.
They stood side by side, together touched the knees of the Goddess,
together laid their olive garlands on the altar. Strangers from a far and
fallen land. Alone in the temple of their country’s deity, young, beautiful,
enthusiastic, can we wonder that they loved? Silently they left the temple.
A youth appeared, evidently her brother ; she turned, bade Glaucus farewell,
and disappeared. Glaucus sought, but never again saw, his companion in
prayer, and now, as hope was dying and despair entering his heart, behold :
he stands before her. “I have seen her again,” ke said, as he paced, next
morning, one of the beautiful chambers in his small but perfect house. ‘‘1
526 SIR EDWARD BULWER LYTTON.

 

have spoken to her again. I have listened to the music of her song, and
she sang of glory and of Greece.” At that moment a shadow darkened the
threshold and a slave, still a child, stood before him. Her dress was a sim-
ple white tunic reaching from neck to ankles. She bore a basket of flowers
on one arm, and in the other hand a bronze water vase. Soft and feminine,
yet more formed than became her years, were her features, made beautiful
by their expression. Resigned sorrow, tranquil endurance had banished the
smile, but not the sweetness, from her lips. The melancholy and subdued
light in her eyes was clear and serene. But something wandering in those
eyes, something timid and cautious in her step, led you to suspect the
affliction from which she had suffered from her birth. She was blind.
“They tell me that Glaucus is here,” she said. “May I come in?” “Ah,
my Nydia,’” said Glaucus, “is that you? How you have grown: Next
year you will be thinking what answer to give your lovers.” Again, in his
presence, Nydia blushed, but this time she frowned, seeming to resent the
remark.

Then, groping about the room, she found the table and laid the flowers
she had brought Glaucus upon it. ‘‘ Poor Nvdia,” thought Glaucus as she
left the room, “thine is a hard doom. Thou seest not the earth, nor the
sun, nor the ocian, nor the stars, above all, thou canst not behold Ione.”
Then starting to go to Ione, he encountered Nydia on the threshold, spoke
kindly to her and passed on.

Nydia lingered a few minutes, and then guiding her way by a long staff,
she reached her home, a tavern, one of those obscure haunts found in the
vilest parts of all cities. A rude voice bidding her give account of her
money made, was silenced by another, which bade him not worry about
those petty profits, adding, “ You know, my Burbo, the girl's voice will be
wanted again at our rich friend’s house, and he always pays high.” Nydia

trembled. ‘TI will beg from sunrise to sunset, but send me not there; I am
young and delicately born. The female companions I meet there are not fit
associates for one who ——" “ Isaslave in the house of Burbo,” returned his

wife. Nydia, putting down her flowers, leaned her face on her hands and
wept bitterly. This rich friend was no other than A\rbaces. Poor Nydia
was often forced to assist at the frightful orgies that nightly took place in
his magnificent mansion. Wonderful were the pewers of the Egyptian’s
mind, his deep knowledge of Science, Nature and Humanity. Wonderful
the corruption of his heart, the wickedness of his private life. Austere and
virtuous about the city during the day, at night doffing his sober garments,
and clad in dazzled jeweled robes, with flowers wreathed in his hair, none
would recognize him, as he and his harem (for such his household really was)
abandoned themselves to pleasures of the wildest sensuality. If, by chance,
LAST DAYS OF POMPEHL. 527

 

any in the city witnessed these scenes, a solemn vow and Arbaces’ terrible
vengeance held them silent. Pompeii guessed at these orgies, but knew
nothing definite about them. Report called Arbaces an astrologer and
sorcerer, but, on account of his immense riches, they allowed him to go
unmolested. Cunning and learned, he taught the priests of Isis how they
could dupe more skillfully the credulous pagan people who devoutly
consulted the oracles before engaging in any enterprise. One of these pagan
priests, Calenus, a man repulsively homely, low and vicious, who had sought
the life merely because it gave a good living, was the tool Arbaces
frequently used to assist him in his private wickedness. He was a relative
of Burbo, the master of Nydia, and it was through his means that the poor
slave was obliged to sing and play at Arbaces’ house.

When Arbaces left Glaucus and Clodius, he went to the temple to consult
with Calenus about Ione and her brother Apzcides. By the death of their
parents, who believed him a virtuous man, Arbaces had become their guar-
dian. Seeing Apzcides, a soul particularly alive to religious fervor, Arbaces
excited his enthusiasm and imagination, then placed him among the priests
of Isis. There his truthful poetic temperament revolted at the deceits prac-
ticed upon the people. Horror-struck at their insincerity, he refused to
share the ceremonies, pined, became thin, and lately, much to the dismay of
Arbaces, had been known to frequent the company of the Christians, or
Nazarines, as they were then called. Arbaces wished to reconcile Apzxcides,
because he was in love with Ione, and would move heaven and earth to make
her his wife. ‘She has a soul worthy to match with mine,” he said. “She
has a genius beyond that of woman, keen, dazzling, bold. Ione must be
mine.” “But how can I assist you?” said Clodius. “Iam about to invite
her to a feast at my house. She has never entered it. I wish to dazzle, to
bewilder, to inflame her senses. Our arts must be employed ; and under the
veil of the mysteries of religion, I will open to her the secrets of love. But
first we must ensnare the brother, an easier task.’’ With these thoughts in
mind he started for the home of Ione, and passing through a thick grove
near it, he came unexpectedly upon Apacides. ‘“Apzcides,” he said
softly, laying his hand on the young priest’s shoulder. Apzecides started.
His first instinct seemed to be that of flight, then changing his mind he
turned upon Arbaces, and in words of frenzied grief, and a voice choked
with convulsive sobs, Apacides upbraided the Egyptian for his treachery
towards him. Equal to the occasion, Arbaces in soothing words told him
that the scenes he had passed through were but a trial of his faith, and that
now he was worthy to be the companion of Arbaces in his communications
with the higher divinities. ‘Come to me this night. You have taken the
vows; you cannot recede. Advance. I myself will be your guide.” It is
525 SIR EDWARD BULWER LYTTON.

 

true for Apecides there was no retreat. He had taken the vow of celibacy,
and it was natural that he should cling to a yearning desire to reconcile him-
self to an irrevocable career. Vibrating between hope and fear he promised
to see Arbaces that night.

A thrill of jealousy shot through the breast of Arbaces when he entered
her house and found Glaucus sitting by the side of Ione. Vowing destruc-
tion to Glaucus, Arbaces assumed his usual serene countenance, softly en-
tered the apartment and stood before the lovers ere his presence was known.
After some deep but apparently light remarks, in which the Egyptian sought
to lower Glaucus in the eyes of Ione, and he to defend himself, Glaucus
withdrew. Arbaces was not slow to seize his opportunity. In bland and
subdued tones he told “his sweet pupil’’ how dear to him was her reputa-
tion, consequently how great his indignation when yesterday in the public
baths Glaucus had boasted of her love for him, and said it amused him to
take advantage of it. Poor Ione, stunned, sank back and her face became
as white as the marble pillar against which she leaned for support. The
poisoned dart applied to her pride, Arbaces led her to talk of her brother.
But their conversation did not last long, and Arbaces soon left but resolved
to visit and watch her every day. When evening darkened the city, Ape-
cides hastened towards the house of the Egyptian. On the way a serious-
looking man touched his arm. “ Apacides,” said he, and he made the sign
of the cross with his hands, ‘ Well, Nazarene,” replied the priest, and his
face grew paler, “ What wouldst thou?” Not yet ready to receive the truths
of Christianity, nor yet to renounce the faith of his fathers, although dis-
gusted with the incongruity of his belief, burning to hear them explained
more fully by Arbaces, Apacides, feeling unequal to resist the fervid elo-
quence of the Christian, gathered his robes about him and fled, arriving,
breathless and exhausted, at the solemn, forbidding-looking house of
Arbaces.

The terrible stillness of the place, and the weird beauty of the images of
the Egyptian Sphinx that stood on each side of the massive steps, thrilled
the blood of the young priest with a nameless and ghostly fear. He knocked
at the door. It opened noisclessly, and a tall Egyptian slave, without ques-
tion or salutation, motioned him to Procecd. .\t the extreme end of a large,
lofty and magnificently decorated hall Apexcides met another slave. “I
seck Arbaces,” said he. The slave bowed in silence, led him through many
beautiful rooms into a dim half lighted chamber where he found Arbaces
seated at a small table. Without delay the Egyptian explained that the rites
and ceremonies practiced in the temple of Isis were but mummeries to de-
lude and lure the herd to their proper good. Man must have some belief,”
he said. These customs have been made dear to him by his father. From
LAST DAYS OF POMPEII, 529

 

these delusions came the bond of society, the harmony of the world, the
power of the wise. That power is in the obedience of the vulgar. There-
fore it is right to continue the delusion. Too gross to understand the sub-
tler faith our spiritual senses crave, let us leave them the worship they
love.” Then proceeding further, Arbaces declared his belief in two deities —
Nature and Necessity. With artful sophistries he sought to inflame the
mind and imagination of Apzcides. As he was about to reply to these ar-
guments there fell upon the ear of Apecides the softest sweetest music.
It came like a stream of sound, bathing the senses unawares, subduing with
delight. The Greek softness and ardor of Apecides’ secret soul were swayed
captive. Arbaces seized his hand. Wondering, half reluctant, the young
priest crossed the room with him. A curtain at the end of the chamber was
hastily withdrawn, disclosing a room that might have been fairy-land itself.
Apaecides hesitated, entered further into the room, and Arbaces had gained
his end.

A few evenings after the adventure of Apzecides in the house of Arbaces,
as Calenus was sitting in the back room of Burbo’s tavern, giving him the
money sent by the Egyptian, Nydia entered and, throwing herself at the feet
of Burbo, implored him not to send her again to that unholy place. Then,
growing passionate, declared she would raise the city with her cries. “I
swear!” she cried. ‘“‘ Hear me, ye gods!” Burbo’s wife seized the child,
dragged her to the wall, tore a rope from a hook, and the next minute the
agonized shrieks of the blind girl rang through the house. It happened that
the gladiators who were to fight at the next games were assembled in the
tavern, expecting several of the gay and rich youths of Pompeii to call and
examine them, before staking any bets on the various fighters. Glaucus,
Sallust, Lepidus, Clodius and some others arrived, settled their bets, and
were about to depart, when a loud cry of pain and terror startled the group.
“O Pallas, I know that voice; it is my poor flower girl!” exclaimed
Glaucus, as he darted into the room from whence the cry arose. Catching
Nydia from the grasp of the infuriated hag, he cried: “How dare you
thus use a child? One of your own sex, too.” Nydia’s tears stood arrested
on her cheeks. She clung to Glaucus and kissed his robe. The woman
demanded her slave ; Glaucus would not relinquish her. He held the terri-
fied child on his knee and, full of kindly compassion, wiped the blood from
her shoulders with her long hair. He kissed her cheek and whispered a
thousand of those soothing words with which we calm a child’s grief. Glau-
cus wanted to buy Nydia, but the woman refused to sell her. ‘‘ Nonsense,”
said Clodius ; “you must oblige me. Is not Burbo the client of my kins-
man, Pansa, the edile? Refuse, I break up your wine jars; you sell no
more. Glaucus, she is yours.”
530 SIR EDWARD BULWER LYTTON.

 

And so Glaucus bought Nydia, but how was he to give her to Ione, for
whom he had bought her? Since the day he and Arbaces had met at her
house, Ione had refused to see him. Although he indulged in pleasure, the
heart of Glaucus was never corrupted. Now love for Ione purified his idea,
making him disgusted with his former haunts. He wreathed her door-step
with garlands; through the long night played and sang under her window,
but she deigned no reply. Ione, gifted, learned, beautiful and rich, led a
most independent life for a young woman of those times. But even so, her
modest pride was proportionately vigilant and easily alarmed. Arbaces
knew well her nature when he invented the falsehood, the coarseness of
which stung her to the quick. She loved Glaucus, and fancied that he de-
spised her for yielding to that love so quickly. She denied herself to all but
Arbaces, who, assuming his right as guardian, entered when he chose. Al-
though Jone feared him, she never thought of forbidding his visits. On the,
fourth day after the last visit of Glaucus, Arbaces and Ione sat together
when he suddenly burst forth in impassioned language, telling her of his
love. Ione trembled, she knew not why. Filled with love for Glaucus, she
jaamacd Arbaces spoke only of the affection and sympathy of the soul.
Not caring to have him continue his avowals, she adroitly changed the con-
versation, Arbaces, seeing that he had said enough, condescended to
please, even to entertain, and in spite of her sadness he caused Ione to for-
get for the time the displeasing effects of his former words. He spoke of
his home, its wonderful architecture, strange devices, rare antiquities,
costly gems. ‘ Devote, sweet pupil,” he said, “ to the austere friend of your
youth one of these bright summer evenings. Let me boast that my gloomy
mansion has been honored with the presence of the beautiful Ione.” Un-
conscious of the dangers that awaited her, Ione consented. The next even-
ing was fixed for the visit, and Arbaces departed.

The next day, Nydia, to whom Glaucus had confided his secret, asked
admission to the presence of lone. Hearing that she was blind, Ione gave
permission, and Nydia delivered to Ione the flowers and letter sent by Glaa-
cus. Nydia was to remain with Ione, but asking if she might take back the
answer, should it be one to gladden Glaucus, poor Nydia, torn with conflict-
ing emotions of gratitude, love, and jealousy, delivered the answer to Glau-
cus, Returning to her new home, she inquired inditterently for Ione. The
answer appalled her, Learning it was her first visit to the E gyptian’s house,
Nydia trembled for her mistress. “ Fool that I am, shall T save her? Yes,
for I love Glaucus more than myself." She hurried to the Athenian’s house,
he had gone out; Nydia groaned. “Ione has a brother, a priest of Isis,"
said the slive who accompanied Nydia, © A priest of Isis! Oo gods! His

mame 2" Apweides.”” “1 know it all. Brother and sister are both to be
LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 531

 

victims! Apzcides! Yes, that was the name I heard in I will go
to him.” Familiar with every street, she sought the temple, found Apzcides,
and told him all. Full well did Apzcides realize his sister’sdanger. “Take
some weapon,” said Nydia; “I will show you a private entrance to the
house. We may save her.’ On the way they met Glaucus, who joined
them. Under the pretext of revealing the future to her, Arbaces had led the
innocent Ione to a small temple at the rear of the building, and there, by
means of slaves and weird panorama, in which she saw Arbaces and herself,
the Egyptian poured out the story of his love. ‘‘ Rise,” said Ione, “think not
that I scorn this homage, but I cannot listen; I love another.” ‘Dare not
mock me,” cried Arbaces. He came nearer, his breath glowed fiercely on her
cheek. He wound his arms about her. She sprang from his embrace. In
the struggle a tablet fell from her bosom. Arbaces seized it. It was the
letter she had received that morning from Glaucus. The Egyptian read.
Revenge took the place of love. He seized Ione ; she sprang from his grasp,
rushed to that part of the room by which she had entered, and fell, witha
wild shriek, at the base of acolumn. At that instant the curtain was torn
aside, and Glaucus closed at once with the Egyptian, while Apzcides raised
his sister from the ground, placed her on a couch, and, brandishing a knife,
stood over her, ready to plunge the weapon into Arbaces should he be vic-
torious over Glaucus. Fierce and desperate was the struggle, neither man
yet having the supremacy, when Glaucus was seized with a religious panic,
as he saw a statue, at the prayer of Arbaces, suddenly glow as with life ;
unable to resist the Egyptian’s next attack, he lost his footing, slipped and
fell! Arbaces, like a flash, planted his foot on the breast of his fallen foe
and.seized the knife from Apzcides, whom he stretched on the floor.
Brandishing the knife on high, he prepared to bury it into the heart of
Glaucus, who, with unwinking eyes, sternly and scornfully resigned as a
fallen gladiator, gazed upon his fate. At that instant the floor shook under
them. The earthquake had awakened. Far and wide along the soil went a
hoarse rumbling sound. The altars rocked. High over the place of contest
reeled the column. The sable head of the goddess fell from its pedestal,
struck the Egyptian between the shoulder and neck, and stretched him, with-
out a sign of life, on the ground. Glaucus staggered to his feet, assisted
Apzcides to rise, then, taking Ione in his arms, fled from the place. As they
passed out the little gate the moonlight fell on the bended figure of the
blind girl. She was weeping bitterly. Restored to each other, the lovers, in
their gratitude to Nydia, insisted upon her sharing all their pleasures. She
accompanied them wherever they went, until the sight of their happiness, so
apparent to the child in spite of her blindness, drove the poor child to
distraction.
532 STR EDWARD BULWER LYTTON.

 

One evening, receiving permission, Nydia spent the night with Julia, who
anxious to find out all she could about Glacus and Ione, had urged a visit
from Nydia. She told Nydia that in order to make an indifferent admirer
return her love, she had determined to seek rbaces, and obtain from him a
love philter. Although Nydia had no idea for whom the potion was
intended, she urged Julia not to go; but her opposition only inflamed
Julia's curiosity. She called to see Arbaces, who took little interest in the
affair, until she disclosed to him the name of the man she vainly loved —
Glaucus, the Athenian. Arbaces, still weak from the effects of his injuries,
assured Julia of his assistance. Together they would visit the Witch of
Vesuvius, who should make a philter which would, without fail, bring about
that issue of affairs she so much desired. In his heart Arbaces resolved to
procure a strong poison, and so rid himself of Glaucus forever.

With this in mind he determined to see the witch first alone; and,
strangely enough, the same evening he went to see her, Glaucus and Ione,
overtaken by a storm, had sought shelter in the witch’s cave. As they
hovered near the fire, trying to dry their wet garments, the witch appeared to
give them no thought whatever. -\ pet snake, angered by the vivid color-
ing of the Athenian’s cloak, with a loud hiss sprang upon Glaucus. He
leaped lightly aside, seized one of the half burnt logs upon the hearth, and
struck so dexterous a blow on the head of the snake that it fell prostrate among
the embers. Then the old hay, hitherto so listless, sprang up. She cursed
Glaucus, cursed Ione. “I have heard her lips call thy name,” she cried,
“and by that name shall commend thee to the demons; Glaucus thou art
doomed.” Long and loud echoed the cavern with her dreadful laugh, as
Glaucus fled from her presence. .\ few minutes afterwards, by a more
direct road than that taken by the lovers, Arbaces entered the cave, and to
the witch, who was doctoring the injured snake, he revealed a cincture
seemingly of fire that burned around his‘waist. At the sight, the witch fell
on her knees and humbly offered homage to Hermes of the Burning Girdle.
* Arise,” he said, “hear me, and obey.” How the old hag gloated when he
told her the poison was for Glaacus. ~~ But we must not kill him,” she said,
“else we be detected. But Twill vive the maiden that which wil! blast his
brains, which shall make him who quatts it unfit for the uses and purposes
of life; an abject, raving, benighted thing.” Arbaces glowed with satisfac-
tion, ‘Then, out of the generosity of his heart, promising the witch twenty
years more of life, he hastened down the mountain, At the same heur
Arbaces held this unholy interview with the witch, Apecides was baptised a
Christian,

The next evening, Julia, accompanied by Nydia, who had again received
permission to visit her, met the Egyptian at one of the public baths on the
LAST DAYS OF POMPEII, 533
outskirts of the city. Arbaces, recognizing Nydia, and fearing that she
might disclose all to Glaucus, advised Julia to bid her remain at the bath
until they returned. Time passed. Julia reappeared, hurried Nydia to the
litter, then excited and satisfied with the adventure, she revealed to Nydia
the name of the one for whom the philter was intended. A wild hope was
born that minute in the heart of the blind girl, she would obtain possession
of the philter, and. gain the love of Glaucus for herself. At night, as Julia
was sleeping soundly, the precious vial under her pillow, Nydia gently
drew out the fatal potion, and poured it into a jeweled bottle Julia had
that day given her. Then filling the empty bottle with clear water, which
Julia told her the potion strongly resembled, Nydia stole to her couch to
await the dawning day. As the sun rose, Nydia noiselessly dressed and left
the house. Julia was not obliged to wait long before experimenting with
the affections of Glaucus, for, a few days afterwards, he was one of a party
of eighteen, whom Diomed, her father, had invited to dine with him. Dur-
ing the dinner Julia smiled significantly when she saw the attentions lavished
by Glaucus upon Ione, who was also present. After the feast, which was
both elaborate and ostentatious, Julia, on the pretext of giving him a present
for Ione, invited Glaucus to her private apartments. As it was customary
for people about to be married to receive these gifts, Glaucus had no
scruples about accepting the beautiful pearl necklace for Ione. Julia stop-
ping short his thanks, poured some wine into a small bowl, and touched the
cup to her lips, saying, “Health and fortune to your bride.’ Etiquette
requiring Glaucus to drink the whole contents, he did so, Julia watching
with sparkling eye, little knowing the deception Nydia had practiced upon
her. She was disappointed when Glaucus coldly replaced the cup, and
talked as before; but she consoled herself with the thought that the next
day would see Glaucus at her feet. Poor, unfortunate, persecuted Glaucus !

Arriving at his own home, he found Nydia waiting for him in the portico.
Her heart beat wildly when Glaucus asked her to order a slave to bring him
a cooling drink. “I will prepare for you myself the summer drink Ione
loves,” said Nydia; she gave him the beverage, and with face now white,
now flushed, her hand clasped convulsively, her lips apart, she waited.
Glaucus raised the cup to his lips and drained about a fourth of the con-
tents, when, suddenly glancing at Nydia, the strange, intense and painful
expression of her face alarmed him. Fearing that she was ill, he put down
the cup, and rose from his seat to approach her. A sudden pang shot to his
heart. A wild confused sense took possession of his brain. He clapped his
hands ; he bounded aloft. His blood rushed loudly and rapidly through his
veins. He suffered no pain, but his very life seemed to glow with extraor-
dinary heat, and, unable to control himself, he tore from the house. Beneath
534 STR EDWARD BULWER LYTTON.

 

the excitement of her remorse, dismay and anguish, Nydia fell senseless to
the floor.

After Apecides had become a Christian, with all the earnestness of one
who had long sought and at last found the truth, he determined, assisted by
Olinthus, to expose to the people the impositions practiced in the temple.
Unfortunately, Calenus was working near and heard the bold project dis-
cussed. Anxious to hear all, Calenus learning that the two men intended to
meet in the same place the next evening, he determined to be present. Just
before the appointed time Apeecides, entering the grove near the temple en-
countered Arbaces, who, anxious to learn how the poison had acted, was on
his way to the home of Julia. The two men stopped. ‘‘ Apecides,” said
Arbaces, “the last time we met we were foes ; I have wished since then to
see you, for I would still have you my pupil and my friend.” ‘ Villain and
imposter,” cried Apzcides, “tremble; even now false gods shall be un-
veiled.” The Egyptian trembled with rage. Nothing daunted, Apzcides
declared himself a Christian. The Egyptian knew well the indomitable
zeal which led on the proselytes of that creed, and fearing that Apzcides
would disclose all his wickedness, he rushed upon the young convert as he
turned to leave the grove and stabbed him to the heart. Arbaces, unmind-
ful of the danger to which he was exposed, carefully wiped his weapon in
the grass, and turning to leave, saw the reeling figure of Glaucus approach-
ing. He saw that the Greek was deprived of reason. Nevertheless, as
Glaucus came up to the dead body, Arbaces struck him to the ground,
raised his voice to the highest pitch, and then taking the stilus from the gir-
dle of Glaucus, he steeped it in the blood of the murdered man, and laid it
beside the corpse. To the crowd that came at his cry, Arbaces accused
Glaucus of the murder. Olinthus appeared, and fixing his stern eves on
Arbaces, he said, in a deep loud voice, * Murder hath been done upon this
corpse! Where is the murderer? Stand forth, Egyptian, for, as the Lord
liveth, I believe thou art the man." The Egyptian paled, then adroitly re-
minded the crowd that his accuser was a Christian, he succeeded in inciting
their wrath against Olinthus, and he was placed in custody with the unfor-
tunate Glaucus.

Sallust was the only friend who remained true to Glaucus in his misfor-
tune, He became his bondsman, and, according to the custom, brought
Glaucus to his house, where he remained until after the sentence, when he
was taken to prison, The testimony of Arbaces against Glaucus had great
weight at the trial, and when he had succeeded in making the acquittal of
the Greek extremely doubtful, Arbaces pretended to feel a most benevolent
interes! in the prisoner. He called at the house of Sallust > and, almost
weeping, begged to see Glaucus. The sick man had now recovered from
LAST DAYS OF POMPETI. 535
the effects of the poison, having fortunately drained but a fourth of the
cup’s contents. Arbaces showed him a paper upon which was written acon-
fession of the crime, urging Glaucus to sign it, promising if he did so his
life would be spared. Glaucus, conscious of his innocence, scornfully re-
pulsed the Egyptian, ‘Thou knowest me not,” he cried, “thou knowst not
the haughty soul of an Athenian. The sudden face of death might appall
me for a moment, but the fear isover. Dishonor appalls-forever!” Nettled
at his failure, Arbaces left the house, encountering Nydia, who devoured by
remorse, hovered, raving, day and night, around the door of Sallust’s house.
Wishing to secure her, lest she disclose the affair of the philter, Arbaces bade
Nydia follow him home, as he wished to talk about Glaucus for his good.
Of course, Nydia goes to his house and is securely locked in aroom. After
the burial of Apscides the full horror of her position burst upon Ione.
She felt confident that Arbaces and not Glaucus had killed her brother.
She determined to go to Glaucus and share his fate, whatever it might be.
On the way she encountered Arbaces, who insisted upon her returning home
with him, pretending that the praetor, in her strange embarrassment, had
confided her to the care of him, her lawful guardian. She scorned the idea.
Then Arbaces had his slaves place her in his litter, and again, Ione over-
powered, found herself a prisoner in the Egyptian’s house. Delirious with
joy, Arbaces entertained himself with the wildest plans. He would carry
Ione far, far away from civilized people. There among nations uncrushed
by the Roman yoke he would found an empire and transplant his ancestral
creed.

Nydia, too, was planning. Finding herself a prisoner, she determined to
escape. From the slaves who guarded her she for the first time learned
that Glaucus was accused of the murder of Apecides, and she felt sure that
her confession about the philter would save his life. Swiftly she devised a
cunning plan. Knowing the superstitious nature of the slaves, she told
Sosia, her keeper, to fetch a basin of water and a napkin to her room that
night and she would reveal the future to him, and would obtain from her
divinity truthful answers to three questions. She told him that the divinity
was extremely sensitive, and, lest his feelings be hurt, Sosia was to leave the
garden gate ajar, and place some fruit and wine near by. Sdsia did all.
Nydia tied the napkin round his eyes, placed the basin on the floor between
his feet, and told him to stir the water, and if it bubbled the divinity was
answering “yes” to the question asked. Nydia then slipped from the room,
softly bolted the door, and started for the garden. Hearing voices, she
rushed through a door and found herself in a passage. Still the voices
approached her, and Nydia, recognizing the tones of Arbaces and Calenus,
hastened on. She was now in a damp, pillared vault. In her flight she
530 SIR EDWARD BULWER LYTTON.

struck against one of the pillars and fell. Glad of a place to hide, she
crawled up in the corner, and a minute later the two men were quite near
her. The small light they carried could not penetrate the gloom, and
Arbaces, unconscious of Nydia’s presence, talked freely of the murder. It
seems that waiting until the Eyyptian had made himself conspicuous at the
trial, Calenus had told the Egyptian how he had seen him commit the
murder, and demanded a large sum of money for his silence. Arbaces
promised him as much gold and gems as he could carry away from the well-
filled vaults. Calenus eagerly followed Arbaces to the coveted riches.
Reaching the door Arbaces said, “Enter, my friend, that thou mayst glut
thine eyes on the yellow heaps. Calenus did not wait to be invited twice,
but scarce had he crossed the threshold when Arbaces plunged him forward
and locked the door. ‘Starve, wretch,” said Arbaces, and, turning, he left
the place. Nydia crept to the fatal door and learned all from the duped
priest. Speaking hopefully to him, and promising to bring relief, she glided
along the pillared space and gained the passage that led to the upper air.
Here she paused, deciding to wait until all the household were asleep.
After some time, thinking it safe to do so, she entered the garden, and was
caught by Sosia and a fellow slave who had released the inquirer into the
future. Sosia gagged and carried Nydia back to her old room. Knowing
that her escape was almost impossible now, yet conscious that upon her
depended the Athenian’s sole chance for life, Nydia resolved not to give
way to despair. Sosia was her only hope. Might he not be won by the
price of freedom? Her bracelets and necklace, gifts from Jone and Glaucus,
would more than free him; Sosia refused to carry a letter to Sallust, as Nydia
requested. He declared that he dare not do it. Nydia pleaded, argued,
and finally overcame the good natured slave's scruples. Sosia took the
jewels, and Nydia, compelling him to take a solemn oath that he would
deliver it to none but Sallust, put the letter into his hand. Sosia kept his
word, but Sallust, drinking heavily to drown his grief, occasioned by the
verdict of the court, threw the fetter on a table and forget all about it,
The next morning the gladiators were to fight, after which Glaucus was to
be delivered to the jury of the lion, and the letter that could free him lies
unheeded. ”

Karly on the morning of the execution, Arbaces awoke from a hideous
dream, to find the Witch of Vesuvius standing at his side. She came to
warn him of the approaching earthquake... told how she had seen
streams of fire tear alone in the crevices of the Moustan, and admonished
Arbaces to fly. Arbaces determined to see Glaucus die, then to take Tone,
his household and valuables, and leave those shores forever. When Sallust
awoke, he repeated his order that none of his household should xo to
LAST DAYS OF POMPEII, 537

 

the Amphitheatre, then seeing the letter on the table he bade the attendant
to open and read. The man broke the seal, ‘Good gods, Noble Sallust,
hear me read!” “Arm the slaves,” cried Sallust. “We will ourselves
hasten to the house of Arbaces and release the prisoners.” They rushed
to the house, released Nydia and Calenus, and as Glaucus stood in the arena
with the lion, who, unmindful of the Greek, sniffed the air, groaned, and
crouched in the corner, Sallust burst into the Amphitheatre. “ Arrest
Arbaces,” he cried, “he is the murderer.” Calenus, pale and haggard, was
led to the row where Arbaces sat, and there accused him of the crime. His
weakened frame, unable to bear further excitement, Calenus fell to the
ground, frothing at the mouth. “A god! a god! I feel the god rush to
my lips! To the lion with Arbaces!” he cried. The people saw and
shuddered. ‘A god inspires the holy man. Arbaces to the lion,” rang
through the building. They were about to seize the Egyptian, when lo! the
flames burst from Vesuvius. The earth trembled. Lightning flashed in
the air. A panic seized the people. They heard in the distance the crash
of falling roofs. . . . Sawa monstrous cloud roll towards them. Burst-
ing, it cast forth from its bosom a shower of ashes and burning stones.
The people no longer thought of Arbaces, but all sought safety in flight.
The officers who had led Glaucus into a small cell, gave him a mantle to
cover his half clad body. Nydia entered; she flung herself at his feet.
“Tt is I who have saved thee,” she sobbed; ‘now let me die.” Taking
Nydia by the hand, Glaucus led her across the passage, and encountered
Olinthus, who joined them. Hearing someone calling upon Christ, Olin-
thus, heedless of the entreaties of Glaucus, went back, and found an old
man hanging over the body of his son, Lydon the Gladiator. Lydon had
fought at the games that morning, hoping to win enough money to purchase
his father’s freedom. But, alas! the brave young fellow was killed, and
even as Olinthus gazed, the father fell dead across the lifeless youth.
Meanwhile, Glaucus and Nydia, hurrying to the house of Arbaces, found
Ione, and the three, leaving the house, encountered the Egyptian returning
for Ione and his valuables, and, although he was quite near the fugitives, on
account of the darkness, he did not notice them. Terrible indeed were the
sights of that night. Masses of shrieking humanity, the strong tramping
the weak, fled before the awful showers that like an avenging fury pursued
them through the city. Vesuvius poured forth its rivers of fire, the earth
rumbled, the sea groaned. The ashes, already knee deep, sifted their way
into the underground passages, smothering and burying those who had sought
shelter there. In this way perished Diomed, Julia and Clodius, whom she
was soon to marry. Calenus and Burbo, robbing the temple, were accosted
by the avenger, and could not escape. Arbaces, surrounded by his slaves,
538 STR EDWARD BULWER LYTTON.

 

saw Glaucus supporting the drooping form of Ione. Determined to have
her, if only in death, the Egyptian, advancing to seize Ione, was struck by a
falling statue and his head severed from his body At such a time, Nydia,
on account of her blindness, wasa sure guide. Seeking the least frequented
streets she led them to the sea, confident that once there they could escape
from the city. Suddenly Nydia was torn from them, Glaucus and Ione wan-
dered hopelessly about. Nydia, finding herself separated from them, raised
that plaintive cry peculiar to the blind. She begged those around her to
tell her of Glaucus. But who in that maddened crowd cared for Glaucus ?
Nydia fell,and would have been crushed had not Sallust, passing then, saved
her. She slipped from his clasp, retraced her steps to the forum, where the
Egyptian had been slain, and there she found Glaucus and Ione. “ Nydia
still? thou art safe,” said Glaucus. Blessing him for his thought of her,
Nydia led them to the sea. In the darkness they put forth in a vessel just
departing, and utterly exhausted Ione slept on the breast of Glaucus, and
Nydia lay at his feet. In the silence of the general sleep, Nydia arose, bent
over the face of Glaucus and sadly kissed his brow. ‘ May the gods bless
you, Athenian,” she murmured ; * may you be happy with your beloved one.
May you some times think of Nydia. Alas, she is of no further use on
earth!” She crept along the platform to the farther end of the vessel. “I
cannot endure it, this jealous love. It maddens my whole soul. I might
harm him again! Twice have I saved him! It is the last glad thought I
shall ever know!” Aslight splash on the water, the vessel bounded merrily
on—and that was all! Next morning the lovers’ first thought was for
Nydia. No trace of her could be found. Mysterious, from first to last, she
had vanished forever. Glaucus and Ione looked into each others’ eyes.
Silently they guessed her fate and wept for her as a sister,

Arriving in Greece, Glaucus and Ione were married, and just where he
could see it from his study window, Glaucus erected a tomb to the memorr
of Nydia. Jone gathered fresh flowers for it daily, but Glaucus wreathed
them round the tomb. Sallust escaped to Rome, and ten years after the
awful calamity that befell Pompeii, Glaucus writing to his friend, urges him
to leave Rome and come to Greece. He added, that although the poison
quaffed years ago had sobered the bounding blood of his youth — happy in
the love of Ione — happy in the Christian faith, which they had both em-
braced —earth could offer no more—his life was a loving peaceful
existence,

ANALYSIS,

“Vor as there is no chimera vainer than the hope that one human heart
shall find sympathy in another, so none ever interpret us with justice and
MY NOVEL. 539

 

none ; no, not our nearest and dearest ties forbear with us in mercy ! When
we are dead, and repentance comes too late, both friend and foe may wonder
to think how little there was in us to forgive.”

“Tf we consider ourselves more harshly treated by fate than those around
us, and do not acknowledge in our own deeds the justice of the severity, we
become too apt to deem the world cur enemy, to case ourselves in defiance,
and to wrestle against our softer self.”

“ Most men have more or less passion for power.”

“When the poet is your host, his verses are sure to charm.”

“Nothing is so contagious as enthusiasm. Enthusiasm is the genius of
sincerity, and truth accomplishes no victories without it.”

“Without virtue, thou canst not have peace. Like the rainbow, peace
rests upon the earth, but its arch is lost in heaven.”

“He who awaits death dies twice.”

MY NOVEL,

Squire Hazeldean had repaired the Parish Stocks, which for lack of use
had gone to decay, and were almost hidden by a rank growth of thistles.
But now they stood out fresh and bright with a new coat of paint, awaiting
their first victim, This was little Lenny Fairfield, whom Mr. Stirn, the
Squire’s right-hand man, had spitefully seized one Sunday morning, and
thrust into the stocks, as an example to all unruly boys.

Lenny, feeling deeply the disgrace, was struggling in vain to free him-
self, when good Doctor Riccabocca, a political exile from Italy, who lived in
the “Casino,” on the estate of Squire Hazeldean, chanced to pass by. The
sympathetic doctor set Lenny free, and then to convince himself how it felt
to sit in the stocks, propped open the huge jaws with a stick, and sitting
down on the bank, thrust his long legs into the two half-circles made to
receive them. But, unfortunately for him, just as he was fairly in, the prop
slipped out, and the doctor was a real prisoner. As Doctor Riccabocca’s
form was by no means supple, and the twin parts of the wood stuck together
with that firmness which things newly painted possess, he resigned himself
to his fate, and expanding his red silk umbrella to shade him from the sun,
he was soon lost in pleasant dreams.

He was awakened by the voice of the Squire, who, returning from
church, was astonished to see the doctor in such a plight, but soon released
540 SIR EDWARD BULWER LYTTON.

 

him, and together with Parson Dale they went to the cottage of the Widow
Fairfield, to comfort Lenny, and assure him of forgiveness.

“Sir, I don’t want to be forgiven,” said Lenny. “I aint done no wrong,
and I’ve been disgraced — and I won't go to school, never no more.”

And so it came about that Leonard Fairfield went to work for Doctor
Riccabocca. Under the instruction of his new master, Leonard not only
developed into an excellent gardener, but displayed a remarkable aptitude
for reading. His taste for study was so evident, that Parson Dale made an
effort to induce Leonard’s grandparents to give him a college education.
This effort resulted in Leonard’s being sent to the home of his uncle, Rich-
ard Avenel, a wealthy manufacturer, who had made a fortune in America,
and had returned to Screwstown, where he bought a vast estate, and settled
down as a large manufacturer and tradesman.

It was with regret that Leonard bade good-bye to Doctor Riccabocca
and his family. Since he came into his service the doctor had married Miss
Jemima, a cousin of Squire Hazeldean, and had sent to Italy for his only
child Violante, a bewitching young girl, loved by all who knew her. Then,
too, Leonard was enjoying the first virgin sweetness of fame, in praises foran
essay on the diffusion of knowledge, which had been published in a local paper.

Ionard had not been two days in his uncle’s house before Richard had
forbidden all correspondence between the boy and his mother. One day,
while a grand Dé&edner Dansant was in progress on Richard's ample grounds,
the throng of titled ladies and gentlemen in attendance were startled by the
sudden appearance in their midst of a woman in a cotton gown, thick shoes,
and a little black straw bonnet.

It was Leonard’s mother, Mrs. Fairfield, who, anxious to see him, had
made her appearance at this inopportune time. Richard hurried his sister
into the house, as soon as possible, and once there, his ire burst forth in a
torrent of vituperation, and ending up with “Confound you both! You
can’t be seen creeping out of my house now. Keep her here, you young
viper, you; keep her here till T come back, and then if you choose to go,
go and be—.” Mr, Avenel hurried out of the room and locked the door
behind him, Before he returned, Leonard and his mother fled through an
open window ; Leonard resolving never again to return,

Before we follow Leonard further, let us turn back in our history, and
learn the story of Alrs, Fairfield’s sister, Nora Avenel,

Nora had (ed from the boyish love of Harley L'Estrange, in the home
of whose mother, Lady Lansmere, she was serving, to take the position of
companion to Lady Jane Horton,

There she met a young soliciter, who afterward ripened into Baron 1. evy.
Vanity in Levy was a powerful passion, and with the vain, hatred is strong,
MY NOVEL. 541
revenge is rankling. So when Levy formally proposed to Nora and was
rejected, his self-love was bitterly wounded.

Now, Harley had ever believed that Nora returned his love, and he dis-
covered, not without difficulty, Nora’s new.residence. He presented him-
self at Lady Jane’s, and she forbade him the house. His young heart
swelled with rage. He dropped threats, which alarmed all the fears of
Lady Lansmere, and even the prudent apprehension of his friend, Audley
Egerton, who, sincerely anxious to save Harley from an indiscretion which
his own notions led him to regard as fatal, had resolved to examine this
boasted pearl, and to find out its flaws.

At the first interview, the effect that Nora produced on Egerton was
profound and strange. He was prepared for a simple, blushing village girl,
and involuntarily he bowed low his proud front at the first sight of that
delicate bloom, and that exquisite gentleness which is woman’s surest pass-
port to the respect of man.

When at last, after many interviews, he summoned up courage to allude
to Harley, and saw that Harley was not loved, a joy, which he felt as
guilty, darted through his whole frame.

“T will go there no more,” said he abruptly to Harley.

“But why?”

“The girl does not love you. Cease then to think of her.”

Harley disbelieved him, and grew indignant. One day he came to him
in great grief ; he had heard that Nora was ill. He implored Audley to go
once more and ascertain. Audley went. He forgot his friend — his trust ;
he forgot ambition—he forgot the world. It was his own cause that he
pleaded — his own love that burst forth from his lips, and when the two that
day parted, they were betrothed.

To terminate a suspense, that every interview with Harley tortured alike
by jealousy and shame, Audley pressed for speedy and secret nuptials. He
represented to Lady Lansmere that Nora was no longer safe from Harley’s
pursuit, and Nora went to a house ina remote quarter, which Egerton
selected as their bridal home, and where she lived under the name of
Bertram.

Egerton’s business affairs were all in the hands of Levy, and when he
accidentally discovered who Egerton had married, he determined to have his
revenge. On pretense of assisting Egerton in the arrangement of his affairs,
he went frequently to Egerton Hall, and watched the effect Nora’s almost
daily letters produced on the bridegroom, now more and more irritated
by his business affairs, and constantly instilled into the mind of the ambi-
tious man a regret for the imprudence of hasty passion. Calling on Nora,
under the pretense of bringing her a letter from Audley, he impressed her
542 SIR EDWARD BULWER LYTTON.

 

with the idea that she held a second place in Audley’s heart, ambition being
first.

His way thus prepared, he next began to drop hints of gossip and
slander. And now Levy went further still in his determination to alienate
these two hearts. He circulated in Nora’s own neighborhood the very
slanders at which he had hinted ; and having thrown her into a wild state of
indefinite alarm, in which he obtained her solemn promise not to divulge to
Audley what he was about to say, her told her, with villainous hypocrisy of
reluctant shame, “that her marriage was not strictly legal, and that Audley
had left himself free to disown the rite and desert the bride.”

Then Nora’s anger burst forth. She believe such a stain on Audley's
honor! “TJ will go to him!” she cried impetuously.

“Go to him in his own house! What a scene. what a scandal! Could
he ever forgive you?”

“At least then I will implore him to come to me. I cannot write such
horrible words ; I cannot — I cannot — Go, go.”

Levy went, and had things so arranged that when the letter reached
Audley it found him with his house surrounded with eager creditors, who, at
the instigation of Levy, were ready to seize him the moment he attempted
to leave. Unable to go to Nora, he was prevailed upon by Levy to trust to
him for an explanation, At Levy's dictation Audley wrote: “All that you
ask me to explain I have instructed Levy, my solicitor, to say for me, and
you may believe him as you would myself.” Of that letter Levy made
such use that the day after he had given it to Nora she had left the house
—the neighborhood ; fled, and not a trace.

Audley had received no line from Nora. He was surprised and _per-
plexed, but had no suspicion of the truth. He now grew more seriously
alarmed, and in the midst of that alarm Levy contrived that he should be
arrested for debt. Before the disgrace got wind the writs were discharged —
Levy baffled. He was free through the intervention of Lord L’Estrange.
The benefit was conferred before Audley knew of it or could prevent it.
Then a new emotion, and perhaps scarce less stinging than the loss of Nora,
tortured him.

Meanwhile, the miserable Nora, deceived by the arts and representations
of Levy, had no thought save io hide herself forever from Audley’s eyes, and
shortly after she left England with an Italian lady, as a companion,

All this time the poor girl was under a moral delirium —a_ confused
fever ; but when the seas rolled and the dreary leagues interposed between
her and her lover — doubt brokg upon the previous despair, She was des-
tined to become a mother, At that thought her high nature bowed. She
would return to England, see ‘Audley, and learn from his lips the truth,
MY NOVEL. 543

 

When, after some delay, she did return, Audley was not at home. Look-
ing at the newspapers, in hopes she might discover his whereabouts, this
paragraph met her eye:

“ Among the guests at the country seat of the Earl of Lansmere, is Miss
Leslie, whose wealth and beauty have created such sensation in the fashion-
able world. To the disappointment of numerous aspirants among the aris-
tocracy, we hear that this lady will soon be married to Mr. Audley Eger-
ton.”

-Again the anchor snapped, again the storm descended, again the stars
vanished. When that fatal newspaper paragraph, which lied so like truth,
met Nora’s eyes, she obeyed the first impulse of her passionate heart, she
tore the wedding ring from her finger-and inclosed it with the paragraph it-
self, in a letter to Audley, and left London by the first coach, which went
within a few miles of her old home. Those last few miles she traveled on
foot, and exhausted and fainting, she fell down under the old pollard tree
by the side of her father’s house.

Nora died in giving birth to a child —died delirious. In her delirium
she had spoken of shame, of disgrace ; there was no holy nuptial ring on
her finger !

When Nora’s letter reached Audley, the wedding ring fell on the ground
and rolled under-his feet. And those burning, passionate reproaches ex-
plained to him the mystery of her return —her unjust suspicions — the
cause of her sudden death, which he ascribed to brain fever, for Nora did
not speak of the child about to be born.

Jane Fairfield had a sanguine belief in her sister's innocence. All her
suspicions naturally pointed to Lord L’Estrange, and she prevailed upon
Parson Dale to make inquiries ; accordingly, he went to Harley’s friend,
Audley Egerton, who seemed much agitated when he heard that Nora had
left a child, but, without committing himself, he declared Harley’s inno-
cence. Audley now made search for his son, and was told that the child
was dead. In reality it was the child of Jane Fairfield that died, while
Nora’s child lived, and was-adopted by Jane as her own. ,

Believing the child dead, the sole reason for acknowledging his marriage
seemed to Audley to be now removed. Levy was ever urging him to pro-
pose to the rich Miss Leslie, and somehow or other the marriage with all its
rich advantages to the ruined gentleman, was thus made up.

A few days after Leonard had escaped from his uncle Richard’s house,
he started on foot to seek his fortune in London. His first stop was at a
little village near the great city. As he was passing the village churchyard,
his heart was touched by the distress of a young girl weeping by a new-
made grave. He strove to comfort her, but in vain. He learned at the inn
544 STIR EDWARD BULIWER LYTTON.

 

where he stopped that her name was Helen Digby; that her father had
died there, without leaving any clue to his home or relatives, except to say,
just as he was expiring : ‘“‘ Write to Lord Les .” and never finishing the
name. The landlady said he spoke of a Dr. Morgan, who lived in London,
and was a “ homy—something.”

“Homicide,” suggested Leonard ignorantly.

“ Ah—homicide ; something like that, only a great deal longer and
worse, but we don’t know his address, and Lunnon is a vast place, sir"

“Tam going to London, and will find it out,” said Leonard.

“T wish she was going with you,” replied the landlady.

Acting on this suggestion, the next morning Leonard and Helen started
out on foot. Arrived at London, Leonard was fortunate in finding Doctor
Morgan, who recognized him at once as the grandson of his old friend, John
Avenel, and found a situation for both him and Helen. But their gooJ for-
tune lasted only for a short time ; the bookseller, for whom Leonard worked,
died, and he was thrown out of employment.

At this time he met a Mr. Burley, a brilliant writer, but a victim of
intemperance, Through him Leonard became a regular contributor to
the Beehive. One morning, as Leonard sat with Burley, a fashionable
cabriolet stopped at the door—a loud knock—a quick step on the stair,
and Randal Leslie entered. Randal was the protege of Squire Hazeldean’s
half-brother Audley Egerton, and was himself distantly related to the
Squire. He recognized Leonard, but said very little to him, his business
being with Mr. Burley, with whom he discussed a political question, which
made the then war-cry between the two great Parliamentary parties.
For five days did Randal call, and discuss the question in all its  bear-
ings; then he came no more; but there soon appeared a pamphlet on
the subject, really the thoughts and views of Mr. Burley, but over the
signature of Randal Leslie, who had skillfully used Burley’s brains to make
himself famous,

For a time Leonard was able to earn enough with his pen to support
himself and Helen comfortably ; but. trouble came; the Aechire was no
longer to be published, and Helen was smitten with a fever. Leonard
watched anxiously by her side; money grew scaree, and ‘things looked
exceedingly dismal,

One day, when Leonard was sitting ina nook in the Thames Bridge. he
heard some one who was approaching, call, * Neto, sir, come here.”

“Nero?” Phat was the name by which Helen said her father's friend
lws— had called his dog. Leonard spoke to the man,

“Pardon me, but can it be possible, that you are the one for whom I
have sought in vain on behalf of the child of Captain Digby?”

‘

 
MY NOVEL. 545

 

Harley L’Estrange stopped short. “Digby!” he exclaimed, “ where is
he?” A very few moments, and a very few words, sufficed to explain to
Harley the state of his old fellow-soldier’s orphan, and Harley himself soon
stood in the young sufferer’s room, whispering into ears that heard him as in
a happy dream, “Comfort, comfort ; your father still lives in me.”

Harley now had Helen removed to a cottage, where with pure air and
careful nursing she was soon out of danger. For Leonard, he obtained a
situation as amanuensis to a Mr. Norreys. Helen he decided to take with
him when he went abroad, to be educated, as was befitting the child of his
old comrade Captain Digby.

One day Leonard met upon the street his friend Dr. Morgan, and rode
with him, at his invitation, to see a patient a few miles out in the country.

“A very interesting patient is Burley,” said the doctor. ‘Coats of his
stomach quite worn out, sir—man of great learning, with a very inflamed
cerebellum.”’

“ Heavens!” exclaimed Leonard. “ Are you speaking of John Burley?”

“To be sure; that is his name — John Burley.”

Leonard having thus found his old friend, devoted his time to caring
for him until he died. The night of Burley’s death, wearied as Leonard
was with watching, he had no thought of sleep, and taking up a package of
papers which Burley left on the table, he began to read—to read the
journal of his own mother, Nora Avenel. And while this discovery is dawn-
ing upon Leonard Fairfield, revealing a relationship which he had long sus-
pected, let us follow the fortunes of Dr. Riccabocca.

Giulio Franzini, Count di Peschiera, was the present incumbent of
Riccabocca’s large estates in Italy. A general amnesty had already been
extended to the other refugees, and fearing he would lose ail he now pos-
sessed, Peschiera with his sister Beatrice, Marchesa di Negra, had come to
England, determined to find his exiled kinsman, and by marrying his
daughter, secure to himself an interest in the estate.

“Dear Beatrice,’ said the Count, “you say that you know some one
whom you believe to be acquainted with the lurking-place of my father-in-
law — that is to be!”

“JT think so. You remind me that I have an appointment with him this
day ; it is near the hour —I must leave you.”

Half an hour after the Marchesa regained her house, a knock at the
door was heard, and in a few moments there entered a visitor with the easy
familiarity of an intimate acquaintance — a young man, but with none of the
bloom of youth. It was Randal Leslie, and to him Beatrice disclosed the
plans of her brother, and begged him to tell the hiding place of Violante,
Riccabocca’s charming daughter, and prospective heir.
546 STR EDWARD BULWER LYTTON.

 

As Randal glided along the streets, on leaving the Italian’s house, he
thought that, if the exile’s daughter were heiress to such wealth, perhaps
he himself might win her; so calling upon Riccabocca at the Casino, and
informing him of Peschiera’s designs, he prevailed upon him to move with
his family to London, where he could keep him posted from day to day
regarding Peschiera’s movements. Thus Randal ingratiated himself into
the heart of Riccabocca, who thought to discover in the marriage of
Violante and Randal, a way of defeating any designs Peschiera might have.

Soon after Riccabocca moved to London, Harley L’Estrange returned
to England, and called upon him. As soon as he announced his name, the
door flew open, as did that of the mystic cavern at the sound of * Open
Sesame ;”’ and Harley was warmly welcomed by Violante and Riccabocca.
A long time was spent talking over affairs in Italy, and measures to be pur-
sued to baffle Peschiera. When Harley heard that Violante had been
promised to Randal Leslie, he showed marked vexation, and said: “It is
madness for you to countenance such a marriage ; it may destroy all chance
of your restoration. At all events, pause, till we know more of this young
man.”

‘At the invitation of Harley's mother, Violante went to stay with her and
Helen, as a safer retreat, and one which would be unknown to Randal
Leslie ; but Randal surmised where she had gone, and within a few days he
saw her walking in the garden with Lady Lansmere.

3aron Levy informed Randal that he had bought up Madame di Negra’s
debts, and, to secure himself, he offered Randal £10,000 if he would reveal
the hiding place of Violante, to be paid the day Count Peschiera married
her. Randal was greatly agitated, and after a silent self-commune, said :

“Look you, sir, 1am poor and ambitious ; you have tempted me at the
right moment, and with the right inducement — I succumb.”

Randal now proceeded to Riceabocea’s house, where, under false
representations of imminent danger to Violante, he obtained a letter ad-
dressed to her, in which her father requested her to receive Mr. Leslie with
favor, and informed her that it was necessary to his peace and happiness that
she should marry Randal at once. When Randal presented this letter to
Viokinte she recoiled.

“T cannot marry you,” she said: passionately,

“Tadeed "answered Randal dryly." You will be then the first daughter
of your house who disobeyed a father,”

Violante wrung her hands. "Is there no choice, no escape 2?”

“One person might perhaps have preserved you from the misery you
seem to anticipate with me; that person is the sister of your father’s enemy

~the Marchesa di Negra, Lam convinced that. she has great influence
MY NOVEL. 547

 

with her brother and might defeat his plans.” Randal then bowed with
formal ceremony, and left the house.

Violante was thus prepared to comply with the request in the following
letter, which she received the next morning :

“T would gladly see you, but I cannot call openly at the house in which you live. Per-
haps I may have it in my power to arrange family dissensions — to render you an essential
service. Will you meet me, an hour after noon, in the lane, just outside the private gate of
your gardens? I shall be alone. Come I beseech you.” ‘“* BEATRICE,”

A little before the appointed hour Violante stole unobserved through the
trees, opened the little gate and found herself in the quiet, solitary lane with
Beatrice.

“We cannot talk here,” said Beatrice impatiently, “ and I have much to
say. My carriage waits yonder. Come home with me—I will not detain
you an hour; and I will bring you back.”

Violante, at first startled, was at length persuaded to consent, and after a
ride so long that her suspicions were aroused that all was not right, the car-
riage stopped before a tall dull house, standing at the end of a narrow lane,
bounded on one side by the Thames, which was crowded with gloomy, dark-
looking crafts, all lying lifeless under the wintry sky. As the door closed on
Violante — who now, waking to suspicion, to alarm, looked fearfully around
the dark and dismal hall— Beatrice turned: “Let the carriage wait,” she
said,

The Italian who received the order bowed and smiled, but when the two
ladies had ascended the stairs he reopened the street door and said to the
driver, ‘Back to the Count, and say all is safe.”

One of the reasons which led Beatrice to assist her brother in his scheme
was jealousy. She thought she saw in Violante a rival; but a few quick and
flerce questions had cleared away every doubt, and her conscience startled
her with the magnitude of her treachery.

“I have deceived you!” she cried, “but I will save you at any cost.
Return with me quick, to the home from which I have snared you.”’

Beatrice’s hand was on the door while she spoke. Suddenly her face fell —
her lips grew white ; the door was locked from without. Both of them were
prisoners. She called—no one answered; the windows were high and
barred. Not a hope to save Violante from a fate that now appalled her
seemed to remain. Night came on. No one broke the solitude. At length,
about midnight, a bell rang at the street door. Then there was a quick
sound of steps —the door opened, and two Italians, bearing tapers, entered,
and the Count di Peschiera followed. Beatrice sprang up and rushed
toward her brother. He motioned the Italians to withdraw, then, putting
aside his sister, addressed Violante.
548 SIR EDWARD BULWER LYTTON.

“Fair kinswoman,” said he, “I have sworn to win you, and I have had
no opportunities to woo. Fear not; the worst that can befall you is to be
my bride. Stand aside, my sister, stand aside.”

Violante darted across the room, opened the door, and closed it hastily
behind her. Beatrice clung firmly to the Count to detain him from pursuit.
But just without the door, close, as if listening to what passed within, stood
a man wrapped from head to foot, in a large boat-cloak.

“Hist !”’ whispered the man in English, and passing his arm around her,
“in this house you are in that ruffian’s power; out of it, safe. Ah! I
am by your side —I, Violante!”

The voice thrilled to Violante’s heart. She started —looked up, but
nothing was seen of the man’s face, save a mass of raven curls, and a beard
of the same hue.

The Count now threw open the door, dragging after him his sister.

“Ha—that is well!’’ he cried to the man in Italian. * Bear the lady
after me gently, but if she attempt to cry out — why, force enough to silence
her, not more.”

He caught his sister in his arms as he spoke, and, regardless of her cries
and struggles. sprang down the stairs. he hall was crowded with fierce
swarthy men. In an instant, the Marchesa was seized and gagged, and
preceded by some of his hirelings, Peschiera entered a boat, which was
moored on the bank of the river. The two females were next lifted in, and
Violante felt her hand pressed almost convulsively by the man who stood
by the plank. The rest followed, and in another minute, the boat bounded
swiftly over the waves toward a vessel that lay several furlongs adown the
river, Violante was first helped from the small boat on to the deck of the
vessel ; Beatrice followed, and then Peschiera.

As the Count leaped upon the deck, a flood of light poured upon him
from lifted torches. That light streamed full on the face and form of a
man of commanding stature, whose arm was around Violante, and whose
dark eyes flashed upon the Count more luminously than the torches. At his
side stood Lord L’i strange, The Count strove to speak, but his voice
faltered, Suddenly there burst from all the Italians present, a hoot of unut-
terable scorn —"// travitere! i taditere’ (the traitor ! the traitor !)

The Count advanced toward L'Estrange with a bold stride.

“What trick is this?" he said fiercely,

 Pardieu, Monsteur le Comte,” answered Harley, “this vessel a

“Isimine 1" cried the Count, “'Those men who insult me should be in
my pay.”

 

“The men in your pay, Monsicur le Comte, are on shore, drinking: suc-
cess to your voyage. Your grand mistake is) in thinking the © Flying
MY NOVEL. 549

 

Dutchman” is yours. I have bought it. Nevertheless, for the next few
weeks, I place it — men and all— at your service, to commence by an excur-
sion to the seas of the Baltic, the sentence of banishment, which accom-
panies the same act, that restores to the chief of your house his lands and
his honors. Kneel then, Guilio Franzini— kneel at the feet of Alphonso,
Duke of Serrano.”

* At the name with which Harley concluded his address to the Count, a
cry from the Italians broke forth, and forgetful even of the Count, they
crowded around the tall form of Riccabocca, shouting: ‘“ Viva, viva, Al-
phonso the good! Duke of Serrano!”

The Count stood glaring around him, like one at bay. As the Duke ap-
proached, he exclaimed: “ Back, pedant, back. You have not triumphed
yet ;”’ and made a rush toward the side of the vessel, but was dragged back,
pinioned down, and in spite of his struggles, fairly carried down into the
cabin.

Leaving Beatrice to accompany her brother on his enforced cruise, the
rescuers returned home, rejoicing that the villainous scheme of Peschiera
had been thwarted.

In the journal of Nora Avenel, which we left Leonard reading, Harley
L’Estrange seemed clearly indicated in the boy-lover. If so, Harley must
know all that was left dark to Leonard, and to him Leonard resolved to
confide the manuscript, which he did at the first opportunity.

Harley L’Estrange sat in his room, a stern, gloomy, brooding man. He
had read that fragment of a memoir, in which, out of all the chasm of his
bare and melancholy past, there rose two malignant truths : The woman,
whose remembrance had darkened all the sunshine of his life, had loved
-another : the friend, in whom he had confided all his affectionate, loyal soul,
had been his perfidious rival. His nature, in the war of its elements,
seemed to change and harden into the forms of granite. Love, humanity,
trust, vanished away. Hate, revenge, misanthropy, suspicion and scorn set-
tled down in his heart, grim and menacing; and he wrote a letter to Leon-
ard, in which he requested him to suspend all questions, and forbear all ref-
erence to the subject for the present. He also urged him to comply with
the request of his uncle, Richard Avenel, and stand for the borough of Lans-
mere at the coming election, as opponent of Audley Egerton and Randal
Leslie.

Harley determined to ruin Egerton, thinking in his ruin to find revenge
for his years of deceit, and in this plan he secured the aid of Baron Levy,
who, as we know, was a bitter enemy of Audley’s.

Harley had meant never to have revealed to Audley the secret he had
gained, until the moment when revenge was consummated ; but willing, per-
550 SIR EDWARD BULWER LYTTON.

haps, to hail some extenuation of perfidy, he determined on an interview
with Audley, who, though he knew nothing of the memoir, had heard that
Harley had been closeted with Parson Dale, whom he knew held his secret.

As Harley entered, Egerton said, ‘You have seen Mr. Dale? You
know

* All!” said Harley, completing the sentence.

Audley drew a long sigh. “Be it so; but no, Harley, you deceive your-
self. You cannot know all from anyone living save myself.”

““My knowledge comes from the dead,’ answered Harley, and the fatal
memoir dropped from his hand upon the table.

“ Audley Egerton, you took from me the gravest trust one man can con-
fide to another. You knew I loved Leonora Avenel. You saw her whom I
thus loved ; you wooed her for yourself. Is this so?”

‘Harley, I deny it not. Cease here. Spare me, spare me!”

‘You took from me the heart of Nora Avenel. You abandoned her ; you
destroyed. And her memory cast no shadow over your daily sunshine, while
over my thoughts, over my life, oh, Egerton —Audley, Audley — how could
you have deceived me thus! You suffered me to nurse the remorse that
should have been yours — her life slain, mine wasted — and shall neither of
us have revenge ?”

“Revenge! .\h, Harley, you have had it!”

“No, but I await it! .\nd whom did fate select to discover the wrongs
of the mother ?— whom appoint as her avenger? Your son— your own
son, your abandoned, nameless son!"

“Son — son?”

“Whom I delivered from famine, or from worse, and who, in return, has
given into my hands the evideiice which proclaims in you the perjured friend
of Harley L'Estrange, and the fraudulent seducer, under mock marriage
forms, of Leonora Avenel.”

 

“Tt is false — false!" exclaimed Egerton,

“Ah, said Harley, startled. ‘.\h, false! Prove that and revenge is over.”

Then Myerton told all; his own love for Nora — his strugeles avainst
what he felt as treason to his friend — their secret marriage, Nora's Hieht,
her death — his conquest of his own grief, that he might spare Harley the
abrupt shock of learning her decease. He spoke of his journey to the village,
where Mr. Dale told him Nora's child was placed — "and, hearing that child
and mother were alike gone, whom could E right by acknowledging a bond
that T feared would so wring your heart 2"

“And now, Harley, all is told. You spoke of revenge.”

“Revenge,” muttered Harley, starting, © Audley 1 You have told me

your offense, never can L name to you my own, Rejowe that we have both
MY NOVEL. 551

 

to exchange forgiveness, and in that exchange we are equal. Still I have
much to do and undo. You are saved from the grasp of Levy ; your election
will be won. Let me go—your hand again! Ah! Audley, we shall be
so happy yet!”

The election is over. All the town know that Audley Egerton and
Richard Avenel are the members for Lansmere. Randal Leslie, who had
secured the support of Avenel, if he should withdraw from the field as he
talked of doing, was a disappointed man.

That evening, nerving himself to all that could task his power, he attended
a reception, given at the Earl of Lansmere’s. Congratulations on Ran-
dal’s engagement to Violante led Harley, who had heard something of his
duplicity, to question him in public regarding his relations with Count
Peschiera. Randal stoutly denied all imputations against his character, till
Peschiera, summoned back by Harley, suddenly appeared on the scene.

“ Monsieur le Comte,” said Harley, “I presume to inquire, who informed
you that this young lady was a guest under my father’s roof ?”’

“My informant stands yonder— Mr. Randal Leslie. And I call upon
Baron Levy to confirm my statement.”

“Tt is true,” said the Baron slowly.

Randal remained mute, and as pale as death. He felt that all present
were shrinking from his side. :

“The fact is,’’ said the Baron, “that Mr. Leslie was anxious to complete
a purchase of certain estates that had once belonged to his family, and that
the Count’s marriage with the Signora, and his sister’s marriage with Squire
Hazeldean’s son, would have enabled me to have accommodated Mr. Leslie
with a loan to effect that purchase.”

“What ! what!’ exclaimed the Squire — “ my son’s marriage! You lent
yourself to that too?”

“J abet Frank’s marriage! Oh!” cried Randal, clinging to a straw,
“if Frank himself were but here!”

Harley’s compassion vanished before this sustained hypocrisy. He
opened the door of the inner room, and Frank appeared at the entrance.

“My son—my son!” cried the Squire, rushing forward and clasping
Frank to his broad fatherly breast.

This affecting incident gave a sudden change to the feelings of the
audience, and for a moment Randal was forgotten. Then they sought him,
but he was gone; a baffled schemer, to wander in foreign lands.

The strain of the last few days had been too much for Audley Egerton’s
overtaxed system, and he was confined to his room when the news of his
election came, and a message from Harley, saying: ‘‘Before night you
shall embrace your son. We will come to your rooms.”
552 Sik EDWARD BULWER LYTTON.

 

 

Harley entered first. Leonard came next— Leonard Fairfield, whom
Audley had known as his opponent. He began to suspect -—to conjecture
— to see the mother’s tender eyes in the son’s manly face.

“Friend,” said Harley, “I give to you a son, proved in adversity, and
who has fought his way to fame. Leonard, kneel to your father! the hus-
band of Nora Avenel.”

“ Here — here,” exclaimed Egerton, ‘here to my heart !” and his proud
head sunk on his son's shoulder.

“But this is not enough,” said Harley, leading Helen, and placing her
by Leonard’s side. ‘* You must open your heart for more. Take into its
folds my sweet ward and daughter. They have loved each other from
children. Audley, yours be the hand to join, yours be the lips to bless.”

“As for myself,’ said Harley, ‘‘another home woos you, Audley. He
whom you long so vainly sought to reconcile to life, he too presents you to
his bride. But for her, I should have been a blinded, vindictive, guilty,
repentant man, and-——”’ Violante’s soft hand was on his lips.

“Thus,” said Parson Dale, with mild solemnity, **man finds that the
Saviour’s precepts, ‘Let not the sun go down on your wrath,’ and * Love
one another,’ are clues that conduct us through the labyrinth of human
life, when the schemes of fraud and hate snap asunder, and leave us lost
amid the maze.”

Egerton reared his head, as if to answer. Suddenly, both hands were
still; his head fell back. Joy had burst asunder the last Hgaments so
fretted away in unrevealing sorrow. The weakened heart ceased tw act,
and amidst promises of home and union, death strode into the household
ring, and, seating itself calm and still, looked life-like : warm hearts throb-
bing round it; love kneeling at its feet ; religion, with lifted finger, stand-
ing by its side.

QUOTATIONS.

“Tf one don't give Justice the first place at the table, all the other Vir-
tues cat up her share.”

* Life suggests to a quiet Contemplator, the image of one of those rotary
entertainments commonly seen in fairs, and known by the name of * Whirli-
gigs or Roundabouts,’ in which each participator in the pastime, seated on
his hobby, is always app. rently in the act of porsming some one before him,
ue he is pursucd by some one behind him,”

The man who wants his wedding garments to fit him must allow plenty
of time for the measure.” ;

“Trees are trees, and twigs twigs, but man is always growing, till he falls
into the grave.”
MY NOVEL. 553

 

“Fate is the Isis whose veil no mortal can ever raise.”

“There is something very strange, and almost mesmerical, in the rapport
between two evil natures. Bring two honest men together, and it is ten to
one if they recognize each other as honest. But bring together two men,
unprincipled and perverted—men who, if born in a cellar, would have been
food for the hulks or gallows—and they understand each other by instant
sympathy.”

“One may judge of the spirits and disposition of a man by his ordinary
gait and mein in walking. He who habitually pursues abstract thought, looks
down on the ground. He who is accustomed to sudden impulses, looks up
with a kind of jerk. He who isa steady, cautious, merely practical man,
walks on deliberately, his eyes straight before him. But the man of push-
ing, lively temperament, who, though practical, is yet speculative, walks with
a spring,—his port has something of defiance—his form is erect, but with-
out stiffness.” \

“Who shall say—who conjecture how near two hearts can become, when
no guilt lies between them, and time brings the ties all its own? Rarest of
all things on earth is the union in which both, by their contrasts, make har-
monious their blending ; each supplying the defects of the helpmate, and
completing, by fusion, one strong human soul. Where man’s thoughts are
all noble and generous, woman’s feelings all gentle and pure, love may fol-
low, if it does not precede ;—and if not,— if the roses be missed from the
garland, one may sigh for the rose, but one is safe from the thorn.”

“When we look back upon human records, how the eye settles upon
writers as the main land-marks of the past! We talk of the age of Augus-
tus, of Elizabeth, of Louis XIV., of Anne, as the notable eras of the world.
Why? Because it is their writers who have made them so. Intervals be-
tween one age of authors and another lie unnoticed, as the flats and com-
mon lands of uncultured history.”

“¢ Pray, Mr. —, will you answer me one question: You are said
to have two millions, and you spend £600 a year. In order to rest and en-
joy, what will content you?’ ‘A little more,’ answered the millionaire.
That ‘little more’ is the main-spring of civilization. Nobody ever gets it !”’

“Of all the agonies in life, that which is most poignant and harrowing—
that which for the time most annihilates reason and leaves our whole organ-
ization one lacerated, mangled heart — is the conviction that we have been
deceived where we placed all the trust of love. The moment the anchor
snaps, the storm comes on —the stars vanish behind the cloud.”

 
 

 

 

ALEXANDER DUMAS

Diceo 1870

FRANCE

BORN 1803
ALEXANDER DUMAS.

The real name of the great Parisian playwright and novelist, known to the world as Alex-
ander Dumas, was the Marquis Davy de la Pailleterie. His grandfather, the old Marquis,
married a negress of St. Domingo, Louise Dumas. Their son named, some say, Mathieu,
others, Alexander Davy, upon arriving at maturity, took his mother’s family name. The
son of this son was, consequently, known as Alexander Davy Dumas. He was born at Vil-
lers Cotterets, Department of the Aisne, France, 24th of July, 1803. His father died during
the infancy of his son, and Alexander was reared, in an indefinite sort of way, by his mother.
As the father left only a small property, the support of the mother fell at length to the son.
For this purpose he went, at the age of eighteen, to Paris, in search of employment, and was
engaged as copying clerk to the secretary of the Duke of Orleans— afterwards Louis Phil-
ippe —at a salary of one hundred francs ($20.00) per month. His leisure was occupied in
the composition of plays. After having written several, which were refused by one dramatic
manager after another, he finally, in 1829, secured a hit with his ‘‘ Henri III.,” and from
that moment, for thirty years, his plays were all the rage.

He became immensely rich, and being rich, suffered himself to become Wildly and wick-
edly extravagant. He lavished money on horses, women and other luxuries ; the brilliancy
of his costumes and the sumptuousness of his banquets became the talk of Paris. He built a
magnificent theatre for himself, and a wonder in the way of a residence, known as the
Chateau de Monte Cristo. On the Chateau alone he expended 450,000 francs.

Dumas claimed an important share in overthrowing the Bourbon dynasty. Whether the
claim was true or false, he received a decoration from Louis Philippe. He was chosen by the
Duke de Montpensier as the historian of his marriage with the sister of Isabella, and accom-
panied him to Spain for the purpose. His signature, hampered by numerous titles, was at-
tached to the marriage contract. From Spain, the French government gave him a man-of-
war wherewith to make a visit to Africa. :

The attempt to enumerate and characterize the swarm of plays produced by Dumas would
be hopeless. Their reputation is largely local, only one, ‘‘ Za Tour de Nestle,’ having
gained anything like cosmopolitan fame. As a novelist Dumas became conspicuous all at
once, and that by the publication of The Three Musketeers and Monte Cristo, in 1844.
These are the works by which he will be remembered ; nearly all that he has written besides
has already passed out of mind. For years he gave employment to nearly a hundred collabo-
rators, so that no one can tell how much of his multitudinous writings was really his own.

He was accustomed to say: ‘‘ There is enough of me in my work that bears my name to
make it mine.” He was an incredibly rapid writer — he must have been, to produce even a
portion of the publications which Ke claimed.

In 1842 Dumas married Mlle. Ida Ferrier, an actress of the Porte St. Martin. As was
likely, the marriage proved unhappy — how could it have been otherwise with infidelity on
both sides? At the end of three years Madame Dumas abandoned her husband, and they
were never reconciled.
558 ALEXANDER DUMAS.

 

Dumas was at once sensualist and profligate. His god was his belly. His nature was
coarse ; his instincts were brutal ; his life was around of debauchery. It was, after all, the
animal which was in him, that enabled him to accomplish so prodigious an amount of literary
work. There is everything to condemn in him asa man; little to copy in him as a writer.
He died at Dieppe, December 9, 1870, bequeathing

eae eo . “his name to after times
Linked with one virtue and a thousand crimes.”

THE COUNT OF MONTE CRISTO.

The ship Pharaon, belonging to M. Morrel & Son, of Marseilles, arrived
at that port, after a three months’ voyage, February 28, 1815. Her
captain, Leclere, had died of fever during the home passage, and had been
buried at sea. The command of the vessel was thereupon assumed by
Edmond Dantes, captain's mate, a resident of Marseilles. The dying
instructions of the captain to Dantes were that he should call on his way
home at the Isle of Elba, which history calls “the halting-place of the
great Napoleon,” and deliver a packet to the Maréchal Bertrand, from
whom he would receive another packet for a certain party in Paris, which
packet he was to hand to the party in person, as soon as possible after his
arrival at Marseilles. Danglars, supercargo of the Pharaon, who was
jealous of Dantes, overheard the conversation between the captain and his
mate.

Arriving at Marseilles, Dantes reported to M. Morrel, who had at once
come on board, the particulars of the passage, the condition of the cargo,
and the death of Leclere. M. Morrel promptly intimates to Dantes the
desire that he should become the captain's successor. Their conversation is
also overheard by Danglers. His ship duties being now discharged, Dantes
proceeds to visit his father, an old man, who lives in the fourth story of a
small house in the \llées de Meillan. ;

During their interview, Caderousse, a neighboring tailor, comes in,
having been sent by Danglers as a spy. Llaving heard what father and
neighbor have to say, Edmond asks his father’s consent to visit the village
of the Catalans, occupying a bare and barren promontory belonging to
Marseilles. ‘The reason for this haste upon the part of the young sailor was
that he was in love with, and engaged to, Mercedes, a Catalan, who is
described as “A young and beautiful girl-— hair as black as jet — eyes as

velvety as the gazclle’s — slender fingers, moulded after the antique — arms
resembling those of the Venus at \rles.”
THE COUNT OF MONTE CRISTO, 559

 

Mercedes is an orphan, living quite alone. When Edmond arrives at
her abode, he finds not only his betrothed, but Fernand, her cousin, a con-
script on leave, who, during the absence of Dantes, had been making fierce
love to Mercedes. Maddened by the embraces and impassioned ejaculations
of the lovers, Fernand rushes into the street, where he is suddenly hailed by
name and, turning, discovers Caderousse and Danglers sitting together under
an arbor connected with La Réserve, a house of entertainment, with a full
bottle before them. Fernand having joined them, they cause him readily to
consent to a plot for the ruin of Dantes. Danglers writes in a disguised
hand a letter to M. le Procureur du Roi informing him that one Edmond
Dantes, mate of the ship Pharaon, just arrived at Marseilles, has been
intrusted by Murat with a letter for the usurper, and by the usurper with a
letter for the Bonapartist committee in Paris, and that the letter will be
found upon him, or at his father’s, or in his cabin on board the Pharaon.
The letter concocted by Danglers was delivered by Fernand.

In the meantime, preparations for the marriage of Edmond and Mercedes
were swiftly progressing. The wedding feast was prepared at La Réserve,
and the ceremony was appointed to take place at the Hétel de Ville, the
Mayor to officiate. The guests had assembled, the feast was in progress,
when Dantes was arrested and borne away.

Another wedding feast was in progress at the same moment with that
given by Dantes. It was in the mansion of the Marquis de Saint-Méran,
whose daughter Renée was now to be formally betrothed to M. de Villefort,
the Procureur du Roi. The law officer was a royalist ; his father, Noirtier
de Villefort, was a Girondin, and had become a senator under the new gov-
ernment. The son had dropped a portion of his family name to show his
disapprobation of his father’s course. It happened that at the time of
Edmond’s arrest the Procureur du Roi was absent. His secretary was autho-
rized to open the procureur’s letters at such atime, and, consequently, had
opened the anonymous one written by Danglers at La Réserve. Regarding
it as of great importance, he sent for Villefort, but not finding him, took
upon himself the necessary orders for arresting the person whom it impli-
cated. Ascertaining afterwards, that the law officer was at the residence of
the Marquis de Saint-Meran, he sent the letter there, with a message request-
ing the immediate presence of Villefort at .his residence, which adjoined the
Palais de Justice. Tearing himself from Renée, his fiancée, who besought
him to “be merciful on this day of our betrothal,” Villefort hastened home,
and ordered that Dantes should be brought before him.

The examination brought out the facts concerning the packet sent by
Leclere to Maréchal Bertrand, and the letter received from him to be deliv-
ered in Paris, as already related, and the joy of Dantes cannot be described,
560 ALEXANDER DUMAS.

when, having listened to his simple, truthful story, the law officer told him
that all he had to do was to give up the letter brought from Elba, and pass
his word that he would appear should he be required, when he would be at
liberty to rejoin his friends. But Edmond’s joy was fully matched by the
consternation of Villefort, when he found that the fatal letter was addressed
to his own father, M. Noirtier! Having satisfied himself that none but
Edmond and the person from whom he received it, knew to whom the letter
was addressed, and that Edmond was wholly ignorant of the contents of the
letter itself, Villefort resolved to save his father at the expense of Dantes.
He therefore burns the letter in his presence, tells him that, before finally
freeing him, it is necessary that the judge of instruction should be con-
sulted, and that, in the meantime, he must be detained, calls in an agent of
the police, whispers some words in his ear, and straightway dismisses Dantes,
who is taken by the officer to the Palais de Justice, where he is locked up.
The same night he is conducted to the Chateau d’If, a notorious prison for
political prisoners, built upon a gloomy rock outside the harbor of Mar-
seilles, where at first he occupies a lighted cell, but, after a day or two, by
reason of having threatened his gaoler, is removed to a subterranean dun-
geon, where he is left in utter darkness.

That very night Villefort went to Paris, obtained audience with the King
Louis NVIJIL, and informed him of a conspiracy which threatened his
throne. The facts thus asserted were gained from the letter which had been
delivered to Edmond for Villefort's father. He, however, claimed that they
had been extorted from a sailor of turbulent character, whom he had long
suspected, and at last arrested, and who, but fer this, would have executed
a verbal mission to some Bonapartist in Paris, whose name the deputy could
not remember, with which he had been secretly charged at Elba, where his
vessel had touched on her return to Marseilles.

The pith of the communication made by Villefort to the King was that
Napoleon was on the eve of leaving Elba with the expectation of attaching
to himself a sufficient number of followers to justify him in attacking Paris,
in the hope of re-establishing his Empire. For this service, Villefort. re-
ceived from the King the cross of the Legion of Honor. While the discus:
sion provoked hy Villefort’s tidings was in progress, the minister of police
was ushered in, who gave information concerning the murder of General
Quesnel, a loyal servant of the King.

Returning from his interview with the King, to his hotel, the deputy was
surprised and alarmed by a visit from his father. ‘lo him Villefort disclosed
the facts connected with the letter taken from Dantes, to which M. Noir-
lcr replied that the news was stale, and that the Emperor would be in Paris
within three weeks. Villefort) then brought up the subject of General
THE COUNT OF MONTE CRISTO. 561

 

Quesnel’s murder, and repeated the description of the person who had called
to invite him to a meeting in the Rue Saint-Jacques. Noirtier immediately
repaired to the toilette table, shaved off his whiskers, changed his clothes
for garments belonging to his son, counselled him to remove the things left
-in his care, and bade him return to Marseilles, and there remain quiet, secret
and inoffensive ; after which he sailed forth, passing at the street corner the
very men who had been posted there to arrest him, without the slightest sus-
picion on their part, that he was the man for whom they were looking.

Noirtier was a true prophet. Napoleon returned to Paris. The famous
Hundred Dayssucceeded. Then Louis XVIII. remounted the throne. Under
the brief reign of the Emperor, during which Villefort was chief magistrate
of Marseilles, M. Morrel sought to gain his influence in favor of the re-

-lease of Dantes, but was continually chafed by prevarication and delay.
Nothing came of it; Villefort ever insisted that he did not know where
Edmond was. Royalty re-established, Villefort was appointed King’s pro-
cureur at Toulouse, and a fortnight afterward married Renée Saint-Meran.
Danglers, fearing all the time the re-appearance of Edmond, left for Madrid,
where he entered the service of a Spanish merchant. Fernand and Cader-
ousse had both been enrolled in the army of the empire ; the latter, on ac-
count of his age and the fact that he was married, was merely sent to the
frontier. Five months after the arrest of his son, old Dantes died.

One night, after four years of solitary imprisonment in. his lonely dun-
geon, Edward Dantes heard a sound in the wall against which he was lying
—a continual scratching, as if made by some instrument attacking the
stones. Judging that some fellow prisoner was thus making a desperate at-
tempt at freedom, he resolved to establish communication with him. By
dint of patient stealthy work, this was finally accomplished. The occupant
of the adjoining dungeon proved to be the Abbe Faria, who had been im-
prisoned for many years, as the author of a plan to consolidate the petty
principalities of Italy into a compact and powerful empire. The Abbe had

;been in former years, the secretary and intimate friend of the Comte de
Spada, the last representative of that illustrious family. Caesar Spada, one
of his ancestors was supposed to be immensely rich, and had, it was sup-
posed, willed his great fortune to his nephew, Guido Spada. Caesar Spada,
in the year 1498, was made a cardinal by Pope Alexander VL, and both the
Cardinal and his heir were poisoned at Alexander's instigation, to the end
that he might possess himself of the Spada resources.

It turned out that the inheritance consisted only of a scrap of paper, on
which Spada had written, “I bequeath to my beloved nephew my coffers,
my books, and amongst other, my breviary and the gold corners, which I beg
he will preserve in remembrance of his affectionate uncle.” So the Pope
562 ALENANDER DUMAS.

 

was foiled in his unholy purpose, and the heirs were permitted to inherit the
property. This breviary had been handed down to the successive inheritors
of the Spada property, and was regarded by them as an object of special
veneration. In 1807 the Comte de Spada died, bequeathing to the Abbe
Faria his family papers, his library, and the famous breviary. The Abbe
was preparing to leave Rome and settle in Florence. One afternoon he fell
asleep in the library and did not awake until darkness had set in. Desiring to
strike a light, and fearing to make use of any valuable piece of paper, he sud-
denly remembered that in the breviary, which lay beside him upon the table,
was an old paper, quite yellow with age, which had served for centuries as a
marker, and had been kept there at the request of the heirs. This he twisted
and applied to the expiring flame in the grate. Whereupon there appeared
upon the undamaged portion of the paper certain words which had been
traced in invisible ink. Hastily putting out the flame, and so securing one-
half of the record, the Abbe lighted a taper at the embers and proceeded to
examine, the paper.

It was the Cardinal's will! Bringing to his help his intimate knowledge
of the affairs of the Spada family, he was, after long study, enabled to supply
the missing words of the document. When completed, it read as follows :

‘This 25th day of April, 1498, being invited to dine with his Holiness Alexander VI., and
fearing that, not . . content with making me pay for my hat, he may desire to become my
heir and re . . serves for me the fate of Cardinals Caprara and Bentivoglio, who were poi-
soned, I declare to my nephew Guido Spada, my sole heir, that I have bu. . riedina
place he knows and has visited with me, . . that is, in the caves of the small island of
Monte-Cristo, all I poss . . essed of ingots, gold, money, jewels, diamonds, gems; that I
alone . . know of the existence of this treasure, which may amount to nearly two mil. .
lions of Roman crowns, and which he will find on raising the twentieth ro. ck from the
small creek to the east ina right line. Twoopen.. ings have been made in these caves;
the treasure I bequeath and leave en . . tire to him as my sole heir.

“asth April, 1498.

“Crs. aR ¢ Srapa.”

This document having been read by Dantes, the Abbe caused him to
commit it tomemory. The Abbe's whole talk was of the treasure. He had
abandoned all idea of ever profiting by it himself ; it was to be Edmond’s,
in case he was ever at liberty to seek and enjoy it, At last the end came.
The Abbe, in the dead of the night, was seized with paralysis, and in a short
time all was over, His dying words to Edmond were : “ Hasten to Monte-
Cristo; avail yourself of the fortune!”

It was the custom of the Chateau dif when a prisoner died to inclose the
body in wi sack and cast it into the sea. ‘The Abbe's death having been
discovered by the prison officials, his body was so prepared. .\ sudden idea
smote Mdmond’s mind, which he lost no time in following, He removed the
THE COUNT OF MONTE CRISTO. 563

 

body of the Abbe to his own bed and took the place of his friend in the
sack. The ruse was successful. At the appointed time Dantes, instead of
the Abbe, was carried away by the unsuspecting bearers and thrown into the
sea. Thus ended his imprisonment of fourteen years.

With a knife, which he had the precaution to secrete about his person,
Dantes, after being cast into the water, ripped open the sack in which he
was inclosed, and severed the,cord of the weight which was dragging him
down, and, being free from impediment, struck out for the land. Rescue
was close at hand. He was taken on board a Genoese tartan, “ La Jeune
Amelie,” which turned out to be a smuggler. Declaring that he was a
Maltese sailor who had been wrecked, he was engaged by the captain, with
whom he made several trips. At Leghorn he caused his beard to be shaved
clean off, and his long hair to be sheared, after which, considering the
change in his physique during his fourteen years’ imprisonment, he felt sure
that no one could possibly recognize him. What was the joy of Dantes to
find soon after, that certain exchanges having been agreed upon between
himself and other smugglers, the captain of the tartan had proposed the.
island of Monte Cristo as a safe and convenient place for the transaction,
and that ‘the proposition was accepted. The next night the tartan reached
the island. During the day following, Dantes managed to injure himself by
a fall. The tartan must leave immediately; Edmond declared that he
could not bear the pain of being carried on board, and it was finally settled
that he should remain on the island for three days, when they would return
for him. Having provided what might be needed for his comfort, his com-
rades sailed away, and Dantes was alone in Monte Cristo. It may well be
imagined that he lost no time in searching for the treasure. Carefully
following the direction contained in Cardinal Spada’s letter, every word of
which was embedded in his brain, his efforts were finally rewarded with
success. In an oaken coffer, bound with cut steel, the lid of which bore a
silver plate engraved with the arms of the Spada family, was found the very
treasure over which he and the Abbe Faria had so often gloated in expecta-
tion; a thousand ingots of gold, each weighing from two to three pounds,
thousands upon thousands of Roman crowns, and whole handfuls of precious
stones, some of fabulous size, and all of surpassing richness and beauty. A
treasure worth nearly thirteen millions, and all his own. After six days the
smugglers returned and Dantes sailed for Leghorn, where he bid farewell to
the captain, secured a yacht, and removed the whole of this immense treas-
ure ; proceeding to Marseilles, he ascertained that his father was dead and
that Mercedes had disappeared.

While there he purchased the house in the Allées de Meillan, rendered
sacred to him by his father’s death. Having at length ascertained all that
5604 ALEXANDER DUMAS.

was possible concerning what most interested him, he gave orders where to
proceed with his yacht, and left Marseilles on horseback, his destination
being a small inn, midway between Beaucaire and the village of Bellegarde,
which he had learned was kept by Caderousse. To him Edmond appeared,
disguised as a priest, saying that Edmond Dantes, who died in prison, had
left to him (the Abbe), as his testamentary executor, a diamond valued at
50,000 francs, which he had received from a fellow prisoner, a rich English-
man, as a token of gratitude for the kindness he had received from Dantes
during a severe illness. This diamond Dantes had desired the Abbe to sell,
and divide the proceeds among four dear and faithful friends ; Caderousse,
Danglers, Fernand and Mercedes. The aubergiste eagerly swallowed the
bait thus offered to him, and, in the conversation that followed, put Dantes
in possession of the very information which he coveted. Old Dantes had
died of starvation, though M. Morrel had often called upon him, and had, at
one time, left his purse, a red silk one, behind him.

Mr. Morrel had done everything in his power to effect Edmond’s release,
but without avail. he good man was now reduced to almost the last ex-
tremity, having lost five ships and suffered from the bankruptcy of three
large houses. His only hope was in the Pharaon, which was expected from
the Indies with a cargo of cochineal and indigo.

His wife had behaved through all like an anyvel; his only son was a lieu-
tenant in the army ; and his daughter was prevented by this change in her
father’s circumstances from marrying the man she loved. As for Danglars,
he left Marseilles to become cashier in a Spanish bank. During the war
with Spain he was employed in the commissariat of the French army, and
made a fortune. ‘Then he trebled his capital by speculating in the funds.
He had married twice; first his banker's daughter, next the widow, Madame
de Nargonne, daughter of M. de Servieux, the King’s chamberlain. He was
now a millionaire, was known as Le Comte Danglars, with an hotel in the
Rue de Mont Blane, ten horses in his stables, six footmen in his ante-
chamber, and more money than he could count. And Fernand? He was
enrolled in the active troop at the time of Napoleon's escapade from Etha:
was at the battle of Ligny, deserted with his general to the English ;
returned to France as a sub-heutenant ; under the favor of the Bourbons,
and through the influence of his general, was made « captain in 1823: was
sent to Spain during the Spanish war, on a secret errand + found Danglars
there, procured his general support from the royalists of the capital and the
provinces, guided his regiment by paths known to himself alone, and, in
short, rendered such important service, that, after the taking of Trocadero,
he was made colonel and received the title of the Comte de Morcerf and

the cross of an officer of the Legion of Honor, As if all this was net
THE COUNT OF MONTE CRISTO. 565

 

enough, he afterwards joined the Greek army, when Greece rose against
Turkey, but, after a time, went over to the Turks, entered the service of Ali
Pacha as instructor general, was left by Ali at his death with an immense
sum, with which he returned to France. He was now living in a magnificent
hotel, No. 27 Rue du Helder, Paris.

Mercedes? O, she nearly died with despair at Edmond’s absence and
silence, but, after a time, Fernand came back and made desperate love to
her, and, finally, supposing that Dantes was dead, eighteen months after her
lover’s disappearance, she and Fernand were married. They immediately
left Marseilles. The last time Caderousse had seen Mercedes was at Per-
pignan, in Spain, where she was attending to the education of her little son
Albert. the Viscount.de Morcerf. Of Villefort, Caderousse knew nothing
more than that he had married Mademoiselle de Saint-Meran, and soon
after left Marseilles. Bewailing, that Danglars and Fernand should be rich,
while he was miserably poor, the Abbe handed to the loquacious aubergiste
the wonderful diamond, saying, that as he alone had seemed to be poor
Dantes’ friend, he alone was, according to the spirit of the instructions given
concerning its disposal, entitled to receive it.

Edmond’s next business was to relieve M. Morrel. To carry out this
intention, he visits the Mayor of Marseilles ; informs him that he is the chief
clerk of the house of Thomson & French of Rome; that they have heavy
dealings with a firm in Marseilles, styled M. Morrel & Son; and that having
heard reports affecting the credit of the firm, he has come to make inquiries
concerning its standing in the community. The Mayor replies that Morrel
& Son are his debtors in the sum of ten thousand francs; but that M. de
Boville, inspector of prisons, is their creditor to the amount of two hundred
thousand francs, and would be more likely than himself to know just how
it was with Morrel & Son. Dantes thereupon seeks an interview with M.
de Boville. The result was that Dantes bought the inspector’s claim for its
face value, stipulating only that, in lieu of brokerage, he should be per-
mitted to inspect the registers of the Chateau d’If, saying that he had been
educated in Rome by the Abbe Faria, who, he learned, had died in the
prison, and the particulars of whose death he desired to obtain. The
inspector was very ready to comply with this easy arrangement, and Edmond
was soon in possession of the registers with their accompanying documents.
There he found everything; the denunciatory letter written by Danglars,
which he coolly put in his pocket, the examination, M. Morrel’s petition, and
Villefort’s marginal notes. He was not astonished to find against his name
on the prison register: ‘An inveterate Bonapartist. To be kept in com-
plete solitary confinement, and strictly watched and guarded.” And all this
in Villefort’s own writing! Below this was written in another hand: “See
506 ALEXANDER DUMAS.

 

note above — nothing can be done,” which he now knew was placed there
by the inspector to whom he had appealed, while in prison, for some settle-
ment of his case.

The following day, Dantes, still pretending to be the clerk of Thomson
& French, called upon M. Morrel, whom he informed that the house he
represented had collected all bills bearing his signature, in all, 287,500
francs, which amount they wished to realize, as they desired to employ the
money otherwise. M. Morrel frankly admitted that his affairs were in a
sorry state, and that his sole hope centered in the Pharaon. Hardly had
these words been uttered, when his wife, his daughter Julie, Emmanuel, a
clerk, and a company of half-naked sailors entered the apartment. The
Pharaon had been totally wrecked! After all, save Morrel and Dantes, had
left the apartment, the latter asked Morrel if a delay of three months on
the part of Thomson & French would serve him. It would save his honor
and consequently his life, the shipowner replied. “This is the 5th of
June,” said Dantes; “renew these bills for three months; on the sth
of September, at the same hour, eleven o'clock, I will come for the
money.” This having been done, Dantes took his leave. n the stairs he
encountered Julie Morrel, to whom he said, One day you will receive a
letter signed Sinbad, the Sailor; do whatever it bids you; which she
promised to do.

.\fter this, matters went on as usual. Morrel & Son had resources which
enabled them to meet their successively maturing bills now that Thomson
& French had relieved the strain. But there was always the sth of Sep-
tember to remember, with its pledge of 287,500 frances. As the time ap-
proached, Morrel became very uneasy, On the night of the fourth, he
struck a balance. Only something over 15,000 frances! Even his son,
Maximilian, who had been summoned home from the garrison at Nismes,
and of whom he had made a confident, applauded his purpose, saying :
“Death is preferable to shame.” But this was not to be, for Julie had
received a letter bidding her to proceed to the house No. 15 Allées de
Meilan, ask the porter for the key of the rooms on the fifth floor, take from
the mantel-piece a purse netted in red silk, and return with it to her father,
before eleven o'clock, on the 5th of September, and signed; “Sinbad, the
Satlor””  Phis was done, with the result that just at that hour, Julie rushed
into her father’s room, crying : * My father, you are saved!" at the same
time extending to him a purse which he recognized as the one he had lett in
the room occupied by Edmond’s father. The purse was found to contain
the bill for the 287,500 francs owed to Thomson & French, receipted ; also
a diamond as large as a hazelnut, inclosed in a slip of parchment: on which
Was written, * Julie’s Dowry.”
THE COUNT OF MONTE CRISTO. 567

 

At this moment Emanuel entered, his face all aglow. “The Pharaon !”
he shouted; “‘The Pharaon!’ Hastening one and all to the pier, there
sure enough was a new “ Pharaon,” the exact counterpart of the other, loaded
with the same cargo, and manned by the old crew to a man.

Soon after the above occurrence, a stranger of great wealth and influ-
ence, known as the Count of Monte-Cristo, was instrumental in releasing
Viscount Albert de Morcerf, who will be recognized as the son of Fernand
and Mercedes, from a band of robbers in the vicinity of. Rome.

The only service asked by the Count in return for freeing Morcerf was
that he should introduce him into Parisian society ; the Count expecting to
visit Paris in three months, This interim having expired, Monte-Cristo visits
Albert’s rooms in Paris, where he is introduced to Comte de Chateau-Re-
naud, a French aristocrat; M. Lucien Debray, secretary to the Ministre de
l’Interieur ; M. Beauchamp, an editor ; and M. Maximilian Morrel, captain
of Spahis. In the course of the long conversation which they had together,
it came out that Albert was engaged to Eugenie, daughter of Baron Danglars.

The next day, Albert introduced the Count to his father and mother —
the Fernand and Mercedes of his younger days—who overwhelmed him
with their gratitude at what he had done for their son. Monte-Cristo was
calm and cool; Madame Morcerf was greatly agitated and evidently sus-
picious, Returning to his hotel the Count found there a notary from Auteuil
who had come to Paris by his orders, and with whom he promptly negotiated
the purchase of house No. 28 Rue de la Fontaine,-Auteuil, which will be
recognized by the reader as the former residence of the Marquis de Saint-
Meran. Thither he at once proceeded with Bertuccio, with whose former
history he was familiar, although Bertuccio little suspected it. Bertuccio
had been a prisoner at Nimes, and upon his release had been recommended
to the service of the Count by the Abbe Busoni, the chaplain. On going
over the house, Bertuccio exhibited so much agitation that the Count in-
sisted upon an explanation. At length Bertuccio confessed that in the gar-
den of that very house he had assassinated M. de Villefort, a procureur du
roi, against whom he had a grudge, while in the act of burying his new-born
and illegitimate child. Bertuccio, however, believing Villefort to be dead,
exhumed the body, which proved to be that of a male child, and, discover-
ing in it signs of life, bore it to his sister, Assunta, by whom it was reared
under the name of Benedetto. Bertuccio also informed his master that he
had been a witness to the murder, by Caderousse, of a jeweler, whom he had
invited to his house to purchase a magnificent diamond ; that after the
aubergiste had received 45,000 francs for the jewel, he had fallen upon his
guest and assassinated him, that he might have both diamonds and ducats.
For this murder, Caderousse was sentenced to the galleys for life.
568 ALEXANDER DUMAS.

 

Benedetto, during an absence of Bertuccio, stole everything in Assunta’s
house, set it on fire, and decamped, since which time nothing had been heard
of him.

Returning to Paris, the Count gave orders that apartments be prepared
for a visitor whom he was hourly expecting ; who soon appeared in the per-
son of a Greek girl named Haydée, who had been purchased by the Count
in Constantinople. The next day Baron Danglars called upon the Count to
say that Thomson & French had given him unlimited credit with the
house represented by the Baron, whereupon the Count instantly drew for six
millions.

About this time Ali, a Nubian in the Count’s service, saved Madame
Villefort and her little son from the danger of a runaway, which brought
Villefort himself to the Count for the purpose of expressing his gratitude.
During their conversation Villefort informed him, among other things, that
his father, M. Noirtier, was a hopeless, speechless. paralytic.

When the Count returned this call he was introduced to Madame de
Villefort and to her daughter Valentine, who was in love with Maximilian
Morrel, though her parents intended her for M. Franz de Quesnel. The
Count in conversing with the Madame, warily introduced the subject of toxi-
cology, and promised to send her, which he afterwards did, the recipe for a
certain elixir, cautioning her, that while one drop was a remedy, six would
kill, although so stealthily as to defy detection. At the opera Haydée recog-
nizes in the Count de Morcerf (Fernand) a traitor, who had sold her father
to the Turks.

The Viscount Albert de Morcerf was paying court to Eugenie Danglars,
at the special request of his father, His mother (Mercedes) bitterly opposed
the alliance, and Albert himself was repugnant to it. Mentioning these facts
to Monte Cristo, he promises to aid him by substituting a person, who will,
he thinks, be a more desirable match in the estimation of Baron Danglars.
‘To favor this end, he causes Benedetto, whom he had found, to assume the
name of Andrea Cavalcanti, and to represent himself as immensely rich.
Old Noirtier, learning that his son is determined that Valentine shall ‘marry
M. de Quesnal, alters his will, giving 900,000 francs, originally intended for
Valentine, to public charities. The Count, by means of a false telegram,
causes Danglars to lose a million,

He invites to the house at Auteuil the Villeforts, the Danglars, Chateau-
Renaud, Debray, Max Morrel, and the pretended Cavalcanti, and his pre-
tended father, In Madame Danglars Rertuccio recognized the mother of
Villefort's Hegitimate son—- the rascal Benedetto, The Count, in relating
the history of the house, causes his guests to be brought into the very
room where the child was born, and to the very spot in the garden where
THE COUNT OF MONTE CRISTO. 569

 

it was buried; so exciting Villefort and Madame Danglars that they are
well nigh besides themselves. As the Count expected, Danglars was at once
attracted by Andrea Cavalcanti. While the latter is driving home, he was
overhauled by Caderousse, who had escaped from prison, and knowing his
secret, forced him to pledge to him 150 francs per month.

Danglars remonstrates with his wife over her extravagance. The Count
encourages Danglars to lend money to Cavalcanti, although he knows that
Danglars has lost 1,700,000 francs within a month. Madame Danglars visits
Villefort, to talk over the incidents of the dinner at Auteuil, the interview
ending with a pledge on the part of the procureur that he will find out all
about this Monte Cristo who has dared to “speak in our presence of chil-
dren who have been disinterred in a garden.” He, therefore, writes to M.
de Boville, who recommends him to call upon Lord Wilmore and the Abbe
Busoni (other names, remember, for Dantes himself), which he does, but
learns nothing satisfactory. Danglars again loses 200,000 francs by the
failure of a house in Frankfort.

The Marquis and Madame Saint-Meran start for Paris, to help on the
marriage of Valentine with Franz. Just after leaving Marseilles, the Mar-
quis dies. The Madame, after her arrival, takes to her bed, and very soon
dies of poison placed in orangeade by Madame Villefort ; the very elixir for
which Monte Cristo had given her the recipe. Valentine being Madame de
Saint-Meran’s sole heiress, Madame Villefort believed the legacy would
help on her marriage Max Morrel and Valentine prepare to elope. Valen-
tine confesses their intention to her grandfather, who promptly forbids it,
assuring Valentine that she shall not be forced to marry Franz; that he him-
self will prevent it. When Franz comes to the Villefort Hotel, to arrange the
settlements, M. Noirtier sends for him, and overwhelms him by the confession
that it was he (M. Noirtier) who assassinated his father, and Franz, as Noirtier
intended, refuses alliance with the granddaughter of his father’s murderer.

All this time, matters are progressing between Eugenie Danglars and
Cavalcanti, according to Monte Cristo’s wishes. Danglar’s himself takes
kindly to the project, moved perhaps by another loss, this time of 200,000
francs. The Count now arranges for an interview between Albert de Mercerf
and Haydée, during which the lovely Greek girl relates to the Viscount her
history. Her father was Ali Tebelen, pacha of Yanina, who had been
betrayed by a French volunteer officer during the Turko-Greek war, and had
been beheaded. Haydée’s mother died of grief, and Haydée herself was
sold as a slave, first to a rich Armenian, then to the Sultan Mahmoud, and
finally to Monte Cristo ; her price in the latter instance being an enormous
emerald. The French officer just named was, as the reader knows, Albert
de Morcerf’s father. M. Noirtier, at Madame de Villefort’s request, now re-
570° ALEXANDER DUMAS.

 

stores the name of Valentine to his will. Again the Madame seeks to remove
one who has successfully opposed her, by introducing poison into her orange-
ade. Barrois, an old servant who first tastes it, dies of the poison. Danglars
refuses Albert de Morcerf as a suitor for Eugenie, in favor of Cavalcanti.

Caderousse and Cavalcanti (Benedetto) arrange for a burglary at Monte
Cristo’s house. Benedetto remains outside ; Caderousse enters, and is con-
fronted by the Count, disguised as the Abbe Busoni. From Caderousse the
Count wrings a confession that Benedetto is his accomplice, and that they
were fellow-prisoners at Toulon. He also causes the villain to write a note
to Danglars, saying that the man to whom he intends to marry his daughter
is an escaped felon named Benedetto. This note, for the present, the Count
suppresses. After this, Caderousse is allowed to depart, but has no sooner
reached the street than he is murdered by Benedetto. The Count, hearing
his cries, hastens to him and receives his dying deposition. At the very
last he reveals his name to the expiring robber. “O, my God! my God!”
exclaimed Caderousse. ‘The blood no longer flowed from his wounds. He
was dead. “ One!” said the Count of Monte Cristo.

By this time the treachery of the Count de Morcerf (Fernand) had, in
some mysterious way, been imparted to the Paris newspapers. in which it
was promptly published. Morcerf was thereupon summoned to trial before
the House of Peers. The Count of Monte Cristo, at this moment, was ab-
sent, having gone to Normandy. .\t a certain stage of the trial, Haydée
came forward as a voluntary witness against Morcerf. At the conclusion of
her testimony, Morcerf rushed insanely from the chamber, after which a
verdict of treason was unanimously recorded against him,

Albert, suspecting that Danglars was in some way responsible for the
conveyance of the damning information to the newspapers, sought an inter-
view with him. The banker admitted having written to Yanina, alleging as
a reason, that he desired to know all about the antecedents of the man who
might become his daughter's father-in-law, but insisted that he had done
this at the instance of Monte Cristo. ‘Then Albert and the Count had a
scene, terminating in arrangements for a duel the next morning. In the
evening the Count was surprised by a visit from the Countess de Morcerf,
who, on entering the room, exclaimed: * Edmond, vou will net kill my son?”
showing what he had already suspected, that she had guessed his secret.
The interview was most touching > Edmond for a long time hesitated to
grant the prayer of Mercedes, but at length the memories of their old love
prevailed, and he gave the promise she desired. The event proved that
Mercedes was equal to himself in magnanimity, for, on arriving home,
she summoned her son and acquainted him with the Count's whole history

their ill-fated love — the treachery of his father when he was only Fer-
THE COUNT OF MONTE CRISTO. 571

 

nand the conscript—and the Count’s long period of suffering in the Chat-
eau d’If. Under the influence of these revelations, Albert offered to the
Count, on the duelling ground the next morning, an unconditional apology,
which was promptly accepted. M. de Morcerf, seeing Albert return, rushes
off to the Count to demand an explanation of his conduct towards his son,
or, in its absence, to challenge the Count himself. In the course of their
excited talk, Morcerf sneered at the Count’s many names. “ You shall know
me as I am,” was the reply, and stepping from the room he returned ina
few moments in the full dress of a sailor. “Edmond Dantes!” cried the
terrified man ; then, rushing home, he seized a pistol and blew out his brains.
And when the Count heard of it : ‘‘ Zwo/”’ was all he said.

Valentine was accustomed to drink of the orangeade prepared for her
grandfather ; the same into which poison was constantly introduced by her
stepmother. From its consequences he was exempt, though the murderers
did not know it, by reason of having been in the habit of taking diluted
poisons at the instance of his physician. One day Max Morrel had called
on Valentine, when she suddenly fainted; and became cold and inanimate.
A physician was called, who decided that she would not die, and young
Morrel hastened to acquaint Monte Cristo with what had happened.

All through her illness Valentine Morrel was watched over by Monte
Cristo, impersonating the Abbe Busoni, who, by reason of his chemical
knowledge, was able to frustrate the designs of her stepmother, who still
continued to poison her drink. At first the young girl was greatly alarmed
by his appearance in her chamber, but soon learned to trust him implicitly ; so
much so, that she readily swallowed a pastile which he gave her, and under
the influence of which she was pronounced dead. Monte Cristo draws from the
banking house of Danglars & Co. 5,000,000 francs, to be repaid by Thompson
& French of Rome. He then sought Max Morrel, who, unmanned by Valen-
tine’s death, was evidently making preparations for suicide. The Count bids
him hope, saying that he has a method for his cure. Morrel finally promises
to wait fora month. ‘In a month, then,” said Monte Cristo, “if I do not
cure you, I will place loaded pistols before you, and a cup full of the dead-
liest Italian poison.” And in the meantime, the Count insisted that Morrel
should come and live with him, Haydée having departed to await his coming.

The company assembled at the hotel of Baron Danglars, to witness the
signing of the marriage contract between Eugenie and Cavalcanti, were sur-
prised in the midst of the proceedings by the appearance of officers, who had
come to arrest the bridegroom as an escaped felon. But the bird had flown.
The same night Eugenie, dressed in male attire, ran away from home with
her music teacher Louise d’Armilly, and put up at the Bell Hotel. Through
some irony of fate Cavalcanti, after his sudden flight, chose the same hotel.
572 ALEXANDER DUMAS.

 

Having gained his room, he discovered, on looking out of the window, the
presence of gendarmes in the court. In his terror he fled to the roof by
means of the chimney. He then descended another chimney and found him-
self in the room occupied by Kugenie and Louise, whose screams quickly
brought officers, by whom the miscreant was arrested and borne away.

The trial of Benedetto came on. Before going to the Hall of Justice,
Villefort accused his wife of the poisoning of Madame de Saint-Meran and
Valentine, and the attempted poisoning of M. Noirtier, and informed her
that if he found her alive on his return he would cause her arrest as a
murderess. Benedetto having been arraigned, was asked to give his name.
“T do not know it,” he answered; “but I know that of my father. His
name is Villefort.” He then went on to tell the same story which Bertuccio
had told to Monte Cristo, Bertuccio having previously visited Benedetto in
prison and communicated to him its particulars. Villefort thereupon acknowl-
edged the truth of the statement, resigned his office, proceeded home, found
that his wife had poisoned herself and her son, and straightway went mad.

When the month pledged by Max Morrel to the Count had nearly
expired, he was taken to the cave of Monte Cristo, and, still insisting upon
suicide, was given by the Count a spoonful of greenish paste, and soon
after, in the midst of a delicious languor, Valentine, who was saved by the
Count, and cared for by Haydée, appeared to him, and thus after all their
trials and hardships, the lovers were re-united.

Almost at the same time, Haydée confesses her love for Monte Cristo,
who gladly accepts it as the most precious gift of his life. And so the man
of vengeance becomes a man of love.. The next morning, as Valentine
and Maximilian were walking on the sea-shore, a sailor handed them a
letter. It was from the Count, and it said:

“ My Dear Maximilian :— There is a felucca for you at anchor. Jacopo will conduct
you to Leghorn, where M. Noirtier waits his granddaughter, whom he wishes to bless
before you lead her to the altar. All that is in this grotto, my friend, my house in the Champ
Elys¢es and my Chateau in Tréport are the marriage gifts bestowed by Edmond Dantes upon
the son of his old master Morrel. Mademoiselle de Villefort will share them with you ; for
I intreat her to give to the poor the immense fortune reverting to her from her father, now a
madman, and her brother, who died with his mother. . . . Live and be happy, beloved
children of my heart! and never forget that until the day when God will deign to reveal
the future to man, all human wisdom is contained in these two words —' Hatt and Hope,’

“* Your friend, Eo monn DANTES, Cons of Monte Cristo.”

And when Maximilian asked for the Count, th

at he might protest against his
excess of gencrosity, the s

atlor pointed towards the horizon, where was to be
discovered a large, white sail," Who ean say whether we shall ever see him
again,” sighed Maximilian, “ My friend,” replied Valentine, * Wait and Hope.”
 

 

 

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY

BORN 1811 ENGLAND Oieo 1863
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

In an age of esoteric, erotic and licentious literature the legacy left to the reading and
thinking public by William Makepeace Thackeray looms like ‘‘ the shadow of a great rock in
a weary land.” To the younger generation of novel readers the name of this genius of let-
ters has a far-off and unreal sound, though little more than three-quarters of a century has
elapsed since he first saw the light of day. Thackeray was born at Calcuttain 1811. His
father, of good, old Yorkshire stock, held office in the Civil Service of the East India Com-
pany. When a very little child Thackeray was sent to England to be educated. Of a nat-
urally shrinking and timid disposition, this early separation from his parents left an indelible
impress on his character. One incident of his voyage to England seems to have retained
a place in his memory for many years — an incident which must have appealed strongly to his
keen sense of the ridiculous when his mind had attained that particular bent which his
writings display. He relates it in the following words: ‘‘ Our ship touched at an island on
the way home, where my black servant took me for a walk over rocks and hills till we passed a
garden, where we saw a man walking. ‘ That is Bonaparte,’ said the black ; ‘he eats three
sheep every day and all the children he can lay his hands on.’ Truthful picture of the
exiled Napoleon as conceived by the British mind !”

On arriving in England, Thackeray was placed in the old Charter-house schools, which
afterwards appears in his works as ‘‘Slaughter-house”’ and ‘‘ Smithfield.” But as time
softened his memory of the scenes of his earliest encounters with ‘‘ The world, the flesh, and
Devil,” these savage terms gave way to the mellow one of ‘‘ Grey Friars,” where the gentle
“*Colonel Newcome” ended his days. After spending some time at Cambridge, which he
left in 1830, without taking a degree, he resolved upon art as a vocation. In pursuance of
this resolution, he proceeded to Rome and some of the German cities, particularly Weimar,
where he prepared himself, unconsciously, perhaps, for painting those pen-pictures that were
destined to delight thousands. On attaining his majority, in 1832, he inherited a considerable
fortune, the income of which reached the comfortable living figure of five hundred pounds a
year. But the-failure of an Indian bank, and an unfortunate speculation in a newspaper
enterprise, soon dissipated the young artist’s patrimony and forced him to seek some lucra-
tive livelihood. Abandoning, therefore, the brush and easel, Thackeray entered at the
Middle Temple and commenced his literary career by contributing to the pages of Fraser's
Magazine. Month by month there appeared tales and sketches by ‘‘ Michael Angelo Tit-
marsh” and ‘‘ George Fitz-boodle, Esquire ;” which, although slow in attracting general atten-
tion, caught the eye of such men as John Sterling, who saw in them the evidence of great
talent in the bud. Pusch was the next periodical to publish the ebullitions of Thackeray's
genuis, and nowhere among the pages of the merry little gentleman’s namesake is there to
be found such richness as emanated from his pen.

In 1846 appeared Thackeray’s first and greatest novel, Vanity Fair. Published as a
serial, it rapidly became a universal favorite, and soon raised its author to the proud eminence
in English literature which he has ever since occupied. In rapid succession followed the
best known of Thackeray’s novels, namely: Pendennis, Henry Esmond and The Newcomes.
576 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

 

In 1837 Thackeray married Isabella, daughter of Colonel Matthew Shaw. Trollope, in re-

ferring to this matrimonial episode, says: ‘‘ Mrs. Thackeray became ill, and her mind failed
her, and Thackeray thereupon became, as it were, a widower till the end of his days.” In
person and general characteristics Thackeray is described as: ‘‘ A tall, ruddy, simple-looking
Englishman, . . . There was nothing like a scowl on the face, and it was neither thin,
bilious, nor ill-natured ; but plump, rubicund, and indicative of an excellent digestion.
He was a large man; his height was above six feet. His eyes were mild in expression ; his
hair nearly gray; his dress plain and unpretending. Everything about the individual pro-
duced the impression that pretence was hateful to him. He was quiet in his manner, and
spoke slowly and deliberately in a low tone — apparently uttering his thought as it rose to his
lips, without selecting his words. . . . There was, indeed, almost nothing of the typical
litterateur about him, His face and figure indicated a decided fondness for roast beef, can-
vas-back ducks — of which he spoke in terms of enthusiasm, — plum-pudding, ‘ Bordeaux,’—
and all the material good things of life. . . The fact is, Mr. Thackeray was a bon
vivant — not given to wearing his heart upon his sleeve, but prone to good-fellowship, fond
of his ease, and liked nothing better than to loll in his arm-chair, tell or listen to a good story,
sing a good song, smoke a good cigar, and ‘have his talk out’ with his chosen friends.”
During an interview with an American admirer, the conversation naturally turned upon
Thackeray's chef-d’euvre, Vanity Fair. In discussing this book, Thackeray delivered him-
self of the following entertaining little homily, illustrative of the man: ‘‘ I married early, and
wrote for bread, and J anzty Fatr was my first successful work. 1 like Becky in that book.
Sometimes I think I have myself some of her tastes. I like what are called Bohemians, and
fellows of that sort. I have seen all sorts of society — dukes and duchesses, lords and ladies,
authors, actors and painters — and, taken altogether, I think I like painters the best, and
‘Bohemians’ generally. They are more natural and unconventional ; they wear their hair on
their shoulders if they wish, and dress picturesquely and carelessly. You see how I made
‘ Becky’ prefer them, and that sort of life, to all the fine society she moved in.”

Perhaps these lovable traits in the character of Thackeray, which must have necessitated
more or less of a disregard for the ‘‘ early to bed and early to rise’ theory, hastened the close of
a short but phenomenally brilliant career. On the eve of Christmas, 1863, while the chimes,
which his great contemporary, Dickens, loved so well, were quivering with their message of peace
and good-will, the summons came suddenly while he rested quietly in his bed, and the sun of
Christmas morning smiled upon the face of William Makepeace Thackeray, cold in death.

Naturally, the pen that devoted itself to the humiliation of empty pride and the destruc-
tion of those shams which flourish thickly in the atmosphere of fashionable life, provoked
censure and abuse. But time has taught the readers of Fon:ty Furr the truthfulness of
Thackeray’s models, and his genius has triumphed over adverse criticism. One of his con-
temporaries, analyzing his work, has paid him the following just and glowing tribute: ‘ His
genius resembles some tart and sparkling wine, which has ripened with age into a mellow
cordial — golden, sweet and strong. His later works, though somewhat less pungent, possess
a deeper human wisdom and a sunnier glow of benevolence, His language is fresh and idio-
matic English, abounding in the better coinage from the mint of sling, though never
descending to its haser metals, Words that would have shocked Dr. Johnson, and which still
startle gentlemen of the old school, by their direct expressiveness, rise to his pen continually,
And he talks to his readers out of the pleasant page he gives them, witha playful, genial
artlessness, which not unfrequently changes to a sudden shower of sharp, satiric hits. That
which especially distinguishes his work among the crowd of English novels that load our
shelves and tables lies in his portrayal of human character as i¢ és.”
VANITY FAIR. 577

Following is a list of the principal writings of William Makepeace Thackeray, in chrono-
logical order —a liberal education for every English-reading man and woman: Timbuctoo
(lines written on the subject for a prize poem, Cambridge, 1829); The History of Mr. Samuel
Titmarsh and the Great Hoggarty Diamond, Vellow-plush Papers, Catherine, Fitz-Boodle's
Confessions and Professions, Men's Wives, The Shabby Genteel Story (Fraser's Magazine,
1840); The Paris Sketch Book (1840); Snob Papers, Ballads of Policeman X, Cod-
lingsby, A Legend of the Rhine, Cox's Diary, Fatal Boots, Rebecca and Rowena (1843-'53);
Irish Sketch Book (1843); From Cornhill to Grand Cairo (1844); The Luck of Barry Lyndon,
a Romance of the Last Century (Fraser's Magazine 1844); Vanity Fair (1846); Pendennis
(1850); Henry Esmond (1852); The Newcomes (1854); The English Humorists of the
Eighteenth Century (1851, delivered as a series of lectures in England, and in the United
States in 1852 and 1853); Zhe Virginians (1857); Roundabout Papers, The Adventures of
Philip, Lovel the Widower (Cornhill Magazine, 1860-62); Denis Duval (not completed at
the author’s death in 1863).

VANITY FAIR.

A NOVEL WITHOUT A HERO.

Among the crowd of puppets that throng Vanity Fair there may be no
one that merits the title of hero; but the fantastic Becky puppet has be-
come so famous that she certainly may, with propriety, be called the
heroine ; and around this interesting female figure, so flexible in the joints
and so lively on the wire, the rest of the show merrily revolves.

When Miss Pinkerton’s select school for young ladies closed for the
season, one young lady took her departure amid such universal grief as can
only be found in an institution where young women form those sentimental
friendships that lead to promises of perennial correspondence and protesta-
tions of undying love and regret. Amelia Sedley was finished in music, in
dancing, in orthography, in every variety of embroidery and needle work,
and in that dignified deportment and carriage so requisite for every young
lady of fashion, as the Misses Pinkerton expressed it in a note to Miss Sed-
ley’s mamma, and was to return no more to the precincts of Chiswick
Mall, famous for having been honored by the presence of The Great
Lexicographer.

Miss Sedley was accompanied by her dear friend Rebecca Sharp, but
while the former was returning to a home of affluence, the latter was going
forth to accept a position as governess, appropriate sphere for a poor orphan
girl with her own way to make in the world. Miss Sharp’s father was an
artist, and in that quality had given lessons in drawing at Miss Pinkerton’s
578 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERA Y.
school. He was a clever man and a pleasant companion, with a great pro-
pensity for running in debt, and a partiality for the tavern. When he was
drunk he used to beat his wife and daughter, and the next morning, with a
headache, he would rail at the world for its neglect of his genius. Re-
becca’s mother, a French lady, was something at the theater, with a strong
suspicion that a flexibility of lower limbs was more her stock in trade than
any histrionic genius. She had had some education somewhere, and when
she died she left to Becky a pure Parisian accent, which enabled that young
woman to speak French fluently and correctly, in those days rather a rare
accomplishment, and led to her engagement at Chiswick Mall. At her
mother’s death, her father, finding himself not likely to recover after his
third attack of delirium tremens, wrote a manly and pathetic letter to Miss
Pinkerton, recommending the orphan child to her protection, and so
descended to the grave, after two bailiffs had quarreled over his corpse.
Rebecca was seventeen when she came to Chiswick, and was bound over as
an articled pupil; her duties being to talk French ; and her privileges, to
live cost free, and, with a few guineas a year, to gather scraps of knowledge
from the professors who attended the school. She was small and slight in
person ; pale, sandy-haired, and with eyes habitually cast down. When
they looked up they were very large, odd, and attractive. She looked like a
child, but she had the dismal precocity of poverty. Many a dun had she
talked to and turned away from her father's door, many a tradesman had
she coaxed and wheedled into good humor, and into the granting of one
meal more. The happiness, the superior advantages of the young women
round her at Miss Pinkerton’s, gave Rebecca inexpressible pangs of envy.
She determined at any rate to get free from the prison in which she found
herself, and so took advantage of the means of study the place afforded. So
apt a pupil did she prove that, at the period at which this story opens, she
had fitted herself for the position of governess, and had prevailed upon Miss
Pinkerton to cancel her indentures and procure for her a situation in the
houschold of Sir Pitt Crawley,

And so Amelia and Rebecca bade farewell to Chiswick, and went out into
the world. Rebecca was to pay a visit at the home of her friend, Miss Sed-
ley, before commencing her duties with Sir Pitt Crawley. The attachment
which existed between these two young girls was a source of wonder to all
the inmates of Chiswick. Amelia was all gentleness, goodness, and truth,
while Rebecca was the incarnation of selfishness and worldly wisdom, But
so clearly did) Rebecca dwell upon her orphan and unprotected state that
the kind-hearted Amelia warmed toward her, and that pity which is akin to
love took the lonely governess to her heart and also into the bosom of the
Sedley family,
VANITY FAIR. 579

Once thoroughly at home with Amelia’s surroundings, our little friend
Rebecca began to cast about for an opportunity to better her condition.
The opportunity soon presented itself in the person of Amelia’s brother
Joseph. Joseph Sedley was twelve years older than his sister Amelia. He
was in the East India Company’s Civil Service as Collector of Boggley
Wallah, in which position he had acquired a large fortune and a beautiful
specimen of Anglo-Indian liver. It was this last acquisition that had
brought Joseph home on an extended leave, and placed him under the
immediate control of Doctor Jollop. He did not live with his family while
in London, although presenting himself at the house every day, but had
lodgings of his own, like a gay young bachelor. Before he went to India he
was too young to partake of the delightful pleasures of a man about town,
and plunged into them on his return with considerable assiduity. On
returning to India, and ever after, he used to talk of the pleasures of this
period of his existence, and gave you to understand that he and Brummel
were the leading bucks of the day. He was lazy, peevish, and a don vivant,
and the appearance of a lady frightened him beyond measure.

To this formidable young gentleman Rebecca devoted herself. Her
success was remarkable, and had not an unforeseen accident supervened, the
poor little orphan might have shared Joseph’s regard for his liver to the end
of his days, and found a resting place on his expansive bosom from the
storms of the world, which, however, fate had decreed she must endure.

One evening Joseph proposed a visit to Vauxhall, and so a merry little
company was made up consisting of Amelia and George Osborne, a captain
of foot, to whom Amelia had been betrothed from childhood, George’s
faithful friend, Captain William Dobbin, large of frame and heart, but
clumsy of foot and speech, and lastly Joseph and Rebecca. The little
orphan was in the seventh heaven of bliss, Joseph was complacent and
fascinated, while Amelia beamed on Rebecca’s efforts benignly. But in a
fatal moment Joseph ordered a bowl of rack punch, and, under the influence
of several tumblers of it, made love to Rebecca before the whole assem-
blage, and wound up by singing a comic song and calling Rebecca his
“ diddle — diddle — darling.” The united efforts of Osborne and the faithful
Dobbin succeeded in carrying off Joseph to his lodgings, where, on the follow-
ing morning, the full knowledge of his performance came home to him, and
he fled incontinently from London, leaving Rebecca with a heart filled with
rage and bitterness, which was scarcely mollified by a present of a large pro-
portion of her friend Amelia’s wardrobe. Under the circumstances there
was nothing left for Rebecca to do but bid farewell to the Sedley household,
and begin operations all over again in her new field with Sir Pitt Crawley’s
family.
580 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

 

Among the most respected of the names beginning with C, which the
Court-Guide contained in the year 18—, was that of Crawley, Sir Pitt, Bar-
onet, Great Gaunt Street, and Queen's Crawley, Hants. This gentleman of
such a distinguished lineage, upon Rebecca's first introduction to him,
appeared in drab breeches and gaiters, with a dirty old coat, and a foul old
neckeloth lashed round his bristly neck. This faithful picture of an English
baronet was completed by a shining bald head, a leering red face, a pair of
twinkling gray eyes, and a mouth perpetually on the grin. To Rebecca,
who had imagined that a baronet must be handsomely dressed in a Court
suit, with ruffles, and his hair a little powdered, this apparition was a severe
disappointment ; but, with the recollection of her recent failure before her
mental vision, she resolved that this uncouth peer should be subjugated,
even if all her preconceived notions of the nobility and gentry were shat-
tered at a blow. Meeting Sir Pitt by appointment at the Gaunt-street
town-house, where she was regaled with a lunch of bread, cheese and
beer, shared with Mrs. Tinker, the charwoman, Rebecca accompanied him
to Hampshire by coach. and soon found herself installed as governess at
Queen’s Crawley.

The family at Queen’s Crawley was composed of Sir Pitt Crawley, a
philosopher, with a taste for what is called low life, and who was a dreadful
screw besides, Lady Crawley, a mere machine in her husband's house,
receiving Sir Pitt’s abuse in apathetic silence, without character enough to
take to drinking, and who moaned about, slip-shod and in curl papers all
day, and two little daughters, who had, before the advent ot Rebecca, come
up of their own sweet will. In addition to these personages who composed
the immediate family of the baronet, there was Sir Pitt’s eldest son by his
first wife, who, on his return from Christ Church, had taken up his residence
at the hall. This Mr. Pitt Crawley was a man of rigid refinement, who
would rather have starved than dined without a white neckcloth, At Eton
he had been known as Miss Crawley; but at college his career had been
highly creditable, and he had there prepared himself for public life. But
though he had a fine flux of words, and delivered his little voice with great
pomposity and pleasure to himself, he had not been a success in his chosen
field, and, after having had a try at the diplomatié service, which he quitted
in disgust, he had settled down to the life of a country gentleman. He was
in London, if not for the Parliament session, at least in May, for the religious
meetings. In the country, he was a magistrate, and an active visitor and
speaker among those destitute of religious instruction, He was said to be
paying his addresses to Lady Jane Sheepshanks, Lord Southdown’'s third
daughter, and whose sister, Lady Emily, wrote those sweet tracts, Zhe
Suttor’s Truc Binnacle, and The Apple-woman of Finchley Common,
VANITY FAIR. 581

 

Being domiciled as a member of this amiable family it became naturally
Rebecca’s duty to make herself, as she said, agreeable to her benefactors and
so gain their confidence to the utmost of her powers. Who can but admire
this quality of gratitude in an unprotected orphan? “I am alone in the
world,” said the friendless girl. “I have nothing to look for but what my
own labor can bring me; and while that little pink-faced chit, Amelia,
with not half my sense, has ten thousand pounds and an establishment
secure, poor Rebecca (and my figure is far better than her’s) has only herself
and her own wits to trust to.” Before she had been a year at Queen’s Craw-
ley she had quite won the Baronet’s confidence, and was almost, mistress of
the house when Mr. Crawley, who was the only living being of whom Sir
Pitt stood in awe, was absent.

There were two individuals who made periodical visits to the hall, that,
because of the prominent part they play in this serio-comic tragedy of Vanity
fair, must now be presented to the reader. One was Miss Crawley, the Baro-
net’s maiden sister, and the other was Rawdon Crawley, the Baronet’s younger
son. Old Miss Crawley was possessed of one great good quality ; she had
seventy thousand pounds, and had almost adopted Rawdon. She was cer-
tainly one of the reprobate, but those seventy thousand pounds proved a
much more efficacious garment than even the mantle of charity. She was
the most hospitable and jovial of old vestals, and had been a beauty in
her day, she said. She had been in France (where St. Just, they say,
inspired her with an unfortunate passion), and: loved ever after French
novels, French cookery, and French wines. This worthy old lady took a
fancy to Rawdon Crawley when a boy, sent him to Cambridge (in opposi-
tion to his brother at Oxford), and when the young man was requested
by the authorities of the first-named university to quit after a residence of
two years, she bought him his commission in the Life Guards Green. A
perfect and celebrated “ blood,” or dandy about town, was this young officer.
Boxing, rat-hunting, the fives court, and four-in-hand driving were then
the fashion of our British aristocracy ; and he was an adept in all these
noble sciences. Although he had seen no foreign service he had already
fought three bloody duels, apropos of play, of which he was immoderately
fond.

Rebecca’s ready wit and adaptability soon subjugated Miss Crawley, and
on that vivacious old lady’s return to town she carried Becky away with her
for a visit. But the little orphan had made good use of her time at the hall.
The poor, washed-out Lady Crawley had gradually faded from the picture,
and finally from the world altogether. Sir Pitt wore a wide band of crape,
and in six weeks came up to London and laid his fortune at the feet of
Becky. But that young lady had burned her bridges behind her by a secret
582 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

 

marriage with Rawdon Crawley, and, with tears of regret, was forced to bid
the aged suitor to think no more of matrimony with the friendless girl who
had won his confidence and made herself so useful to the master of Queen's
Crawley.

When the smoke of the explosion caused by the announcement of
Rebecca’s marriage had cleared away, the puppets in J’anity Fair had mate-
rially changed their positions. Miss Crawley promptly disinherited the luck-
less dragoon and took up Pitt Crawley. The Baronet returned to Queen’s
Crawley more under his elder son’s influence than ever, while Becky was
forced to try the experiment of living on nothing a year. But her fertility
of expedient never deserted her. Gradually she forced her way
upward through the mass of untoward circumstances that bore down upon
her. She conquered Mr. Pitt Crawley, by her grace. She took up her resi-
dence in Gaunt Street ; she borrowed the means to keep up a grand establish-
ment, and finally attached to herself Lord Steyne, a noble peer of the realm.
My Lord's influence and means were all at Becky’s command. But in the
meantime Rawdon had been plunging deeper and deeper in debt, and the
bailiffs were sharp after the unfortunate guardsman. He had gradually
dropped out of Becky’s calculations. And now that the poor, friendless
little girl had, by her own unaided efforts, succeeded in surrounding herself
with all those luxuries which she had considered the reward of merit, the
wires were destined to experience a violent jerk that would upset Becky
entirely and set this ambitious little puppet to cutting a sorry figure indeed.
One night, as Rawdon was returning from his club, the bailiffs pounced upon
him and bore him off to the sponging house. From there he sent a note to
Becky in Gaunt Street, to which she replied that she was disconsolate, but
that while she wept in her chamber she had no money to release her poor,
dear soldier, but on the morrow would fly to the rescue. Nevertheless.
Rawdon was released that night and, returning home, let himself quietly into
the house. He could hear laughter in the upper rooms. He went silently up
stairs. Rawdon heard laughter within — laughter and singing. Becky was
singing a snatch of song he knew well: a hoarse voice shouted ~ Brava!
Brava!’ —it was Lord Steyne’s. Rawdon opened the door and went in. A
little table with a dinner was laid out—and wine and plate. Stevne was
hanging over the sofa on which Becky sat. The wretched woman was ina
brilliant full toilette, her arms and all her fingers sparkling with bracelets
and rings; and the brillants on her breast which Steyne had given her, He
had her hand in his, and was bowing over it to kiss it, when Becky started
up with a faint scream as she caught sight of Rawdon's white face. At the
Next istant she tried a smile, a horrid smile, as if to welcome her husband :
and Steyne rose up, grinding his teeth, pale, and with fury in his looks.
VANITY FAIR. 583
There was that in Rawdon’s face which caused Becky to fling herself before
him. “I am innocent, Rawdon,” she said; ‘before God, I am innocent.”
She clung hold of his coat, of his hands; her own were all covered with
serpents, and rings, and baubles. “I am innocent—say I am innocent,”
she said to Lord Steyne. But Rawdon Crawley springing out, seized him
by the neckcloth, until Steyne, almost strangled, writhed and bent under his
arm. And Rawdon struck the peer twice over the face with his open hand,
and flung him bleeding to the ground. It was all done before Rebecca
could interpose. She stood there trembling before him. She admired her
husband, strong, brave, and victorious.

Then Rawdon Crawley left his wife forever. In the morning she arose
to find herself an outcast from the house in Gamut Street. The bailiffs were
in possession, her servants in revolt, and nothing left for her to do but go
out into the world once more and begin all over again. And as she crept
away she pondered.

What had happened. Was she guilty or not? She said, not; but who
could tell what was truth which came from those lips; or, if that corrupt
heart was in this case pure? All her lies and her schemes, all her selfishness
and her wiles, all her wit and genius had come to this bankruptcy.

While we have been watching the clever Becky at her antics, there have
been other characters in Vanity Fair playing their little parts, but none so
entertaining as her. Amelia Sedley has passed through the fires of misfor-
tune, has been married to George Osborne, who was utterly unworthy of her,
has been widowed by a bullet of the enemy, and has finaliy been wooed and
won by the faithful William Dobbin, who has worshiped her from afar in
his clumsy way for ever so long a time.

Before we ring down the curtain, we may catch a glimpse or two of a few
of our puppets ; just long enough to see Rawdon Crawley die of fever far
from his home and faithless wife ; Becky, a wanderer and adventuress, once
more running across Joseph Sedley, and living off of his plethoric purse,
until death pulls its strings close ; Amelia and her William happy and con-
tented; and most of the rest of the puppets shut up in their little boxes
forever.

The following selection from Vanity Fair, to be found at the end of the
eighth chapter, affords an excellent example of Thackeray's style :

He has explained how he wishes to describe men and women as they
actually are, good, bad, and indifferent, and to claim a privilege —“ Occa-
sionally to step down from the platform, and talk about them: if they are
good and kindly, to love and shake them by the hand; if they are silly, to
laugh at them confidentially in the reader's sleeve ; if they are wicked and
554 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

heartless, to abuse them in the strongest terms politeness admits of. Other-
wise you might fancy it was I who was sneering at the practice of devotion,
which Miss Sharp finds so ridiculous; that it was I who laughed good-
humoredly at the reeling old Silenus of a’ baronet — whereas the laughter
comes from one who has no reverence for anything except prosperity, and
no eye for anything beyond success. Such people there are living and flour-
ishing in the world — faithless, hopeless, charityless: let us have at them,
dear friends, with might and main. Some there are, and very successful too,
mere quacks and fools ; and it was to combat and expose such as those, no
doubt, that laughter was made.”

HENRY ESMOND,

‘Tis known that the name of Esmond and the estate of Castlewood
came into possession of the present family through Dorothea, daughter
and heiress of Edward, Earl and Marquis Esmond, and Lord of Castlewood,
which lady married Henry Poyns, gent, a page in the household of her
father. Francis, son and heir of the above Henry and Dorothea, being of
military disposition, remained long in Germany with the Elector-Palatine,
lending large sums of money to that unfortunate prince, and receiving many
wounds fighting for him Returning home, Sir Francis was rewarded by
his late Majesty, James I, who was pleased to advance Sir Francis to the
dignity of Viscount Castlewood ; and the Viscount’s estates being impover-
ished by loans to the King, his Majesty gave him a grant of land in the
plantations of Virginia.

In the course of events—deaths and such like— Thomas Esmond became
heir to the title. My Lord Castlewood, much enraged that his title should
piss to a rascally Roundhead (for the father of ‘Thomas Esmond had taken
the Parliament side in the quarrels), would have had a match between his
daughter Isabel and her cousin Francis Esmond. It was said the lady her-
self took a fancy to the young man, her junior by several vears. Frank
Msmond, however, coolly refused the lady, settled on a small property he
had of his mother, and never came near the court again in King Charles’
tine. ‘Then Thomas Esmond thought to mend his fortune, which he had
dissipated in’ brawlirg, vice and play, by marrying the lady himself. She
was now of more than middle age, and had nobody's word save her own for

the beauty she said she once possessed. Lean, vellow, and long in the

tooth, Mr, Killigrew was wont to call her the Sybil and the Death's head
HENRY ESMOND. 585
put up at the King’s feast. She was indeed a woman who might be easy
of conquest, but whom only a very bold man would think of conquering.
Madame Isabel was said to have royal jewels of great value, whereas poor
Tom Esmond’s last coat but one was in pawn, and, feeling that the game
was worth the candle, bold Tom succeeded in wedding the fair (?) Isabel.
This marriage took place shortly before King Charles died; whom the
Viscount of Castlewood speedily followed.

My Lady Castlewood was no favorite at court. Holding the purse
strings in her own control, the lady broke up her establishment in London,
and with her household, her lap-dogs, and her husband, retired to Castle-
wood Hall. My Lady intended to have a triumphal entry into Castlewood
village, but the country was then in no-popery fervor, and ‘twas known that
Lady Castlewood and her husband had joined the Catholic church. More-
over, the folks in the village were scared at the sight of her Ladyship’s
painted cheeks and eyelids, as she bobbed her head out of the carriage,
intending to be very gracious, and one old lady cried out: “ Lady Isabel !
Lord-a-mercy, its Lady Jezebel !”’

But in a short time the village people became reconciled to their lady,
who, if she was old and high tempered, was also generous and kind.

Coming up to London a short time after his retreat, Lord Castlewood
sent a retainer of his to the village of Ealing, near London, where dwelt an
old French refugee named Pastoureau. With this man lived a little boy
who went by the name of Henry Thomas. The child, who had no recollec-
tions of his parents, got little else but blows and ill names from Mr. Pastou-
reau’s wife, consequently he was very glad when a gentleman clad in black, ac-
companied by a mounted servant, came to fetch him away from Ealing. The
lackey, before whom Henry rode, told the boy that he was now to be called
Master Harry Esmond, and that the Lord Viscount Castlewood was his god-
father. Meeting Lord Castlewood in London, the party set out for Castle-
wood, which they reached after three days’time. When Harry saw my lady
sitting in state by the fire he was indeed amazed at her appearance. The
awe (indeed it was anything but admiration) exhibited by the child pleased
the lady immensely

“Page Esmond,” said she graciously to Harry, who was down on his
knees, as Father Holt, the gentleman in black, had directed, “ my groom of
the chamber will inform you of your duties, and good Father Holt, our chap-
lain, will instruct you as becomes a gentleman of our name. You will pay
him obedience in everything, and I pray you may grow as learned and as
good as your tutor.”

During the few months they spent together at Castlewood, Mr. Holt ob-
tained an entire mastery over the boy’s intellect and affection. Indeed, by
586 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

 

dint of that extraordinary personal magnetism for which he was distinguished,
Father Holt seemed to acquire a quiet sort of mastery over everyone. My
lord and lady were seldom without visitors, for the Catholic gentry, of whom
there were a pretty many in the country, came not seldom to Castlewood to
partake of the hospitalities there. Mr. Holt moved among the highest as
quite their equal, and as commanding them all. While poor Dr. Tusher,
having once been chaplain at the hall, and still to the Protestant servants
there, seemed at a disadvantage, and usually rose to leave after the first
course.

A few months after he began life at Castlewood, Harry was left alone
with the domestics, my lord and lady and Mr. Holt having left the country
for London. A kingdom was changing hands while my lord and lady were
away. King James II. was flying ; the Dutchmen were coming ; neverthe-
less the time passed pleasantly for the idle little page. One morning about
four o'clock, while lying awake, Harry heard the door of the chaplain'’s room
open. He jumped up, and flinging wide his door, Harry saw a light in the
room opposite, and a figure standing in the doorway, while a great smoke
issued fromthe room. Father Holt, for it was he, after giving Harry a hasty
greeting, continued to burn in a brazier some papers, drawn from a secret
cupboard over the mantel. Opening a wardrobe, always kept locked, Mr.
Holt, taking out several suits of clothing and wigs of different colors, and
two small swords, placed them in the cupboard, saying :

“If they miss the cupboard, they will not find these : and if they find
them, they will tell no tales, save that Father Holt wore more suits of clothes
than one.” Then, laughing gayly, the father threw into the brazier, only
half burning them, however, some Latin sermons he had been writing,
Having done which, Mr. Holt cautioned Harry not to mention that he had
been in the house, and then let himself down to the ground by means of the
frame-work of a window which could be dropped down to the cavity below.
Replacing the frame, Harry locked the door, put the key on the book-shelf
in the priest's study, and returned to his own room. That day the Prince of
Orange was at Salisbury, and Dr, Tusher, in silk cassock and a great orange
cockade in his broad-leated hat, went over to pay his respects to His High-
ness, While Dr. Tusher was away, there came (did the doctor send them ?)
a troop of dragoons, who quartered at Castlewood, some of them coming up
to the Hall, where they took possession, Father Holt had not been to
soon. The first room they asked for was. his. Henry bringing them the
key, they ransacked the room, but could tind nothing, and Harry, being a
staunch little fellow, told nothing. When my lord and lady returned, which
they did in a few months, a guard was stationed in the village, for well was
it known that the allegiance of the Catholic family at the Hall was with the
HENRY ESMOND. 587

 

banished King James, and not the Prince of Orange, whom my lady defi-
antly called “Tyrant of Orange— the beast! the wretch!” My Lord,
equally loyal, had of late thrown off his listless manner, entered heart and
soul into the cause of King James, and even then was preparing to lead a
great uprising of his Majesty’s party in that section of the country.

One day in July, 1690, bidding his family an affectionate farewell, the
Lord Viscount Castlewood, accompanied by Mr. Holt and two servants, rode
out of Castlewood gate, and were delayed, on reaching the bridge, for a
few minutes by an officer in scarlet. It seems that the officer requested my
lord not to ride out, as he was under surveillance. My lord answered that
he rode for his health, and the officer might accompany them if he wished.
Coming to a cross-road the party halted, and the officer, again interfering,
Mr. Holt shot him dead.

“ About two o’clock,” continued the servant who brought the news, ‘‘as we
watered our horses at an inn, we heard that our plans of attack had fallen
through. Father Holt bade me to return to Castlewood and deliver these.”
He gave Harry two notes, one for himself, the other for his mistress.

“Burn the papers in the cupboard ; burn this ; you know nothing about
anything,” was what Harry read. Delivering my lady’s note, Harry rushed
into the Chaplain’s room, fulfilled his orders, then half burning some
sermons in the brazier, as he had seen Father Holt do, Harry locked the
door and ran back to his mistress.

“ Order the coach,” she said, “and I will ride away anon.”

The coach was ordered, but the mysteries of her ladyship’s toilet were
not yet completed, when three officers and three and twenty soldiers entered
the court-yard.

At first my lady was for dying, like Mary, Queen of Scots (to whom she
fancied she bore a resemblance in beauty), but her gentlewoman persuaded
her to adopt a more sensible course, and feign illness. Deception was useless,
however, for entering the bed-chamber, Captain Westbury said quietly :

“My duty is to arrest the person of Thomas, Viscount Castlewood, of
Robert Tusher, Vicar of Castlewood, and of Henry Holt, a Jesuit known
under various names, who is now at the head of the conspiracy about to
break out in this country against the authorities of their Majesties King
William and Queen Mary. My orders are to search the house for such

apers or traces of conspiracy as may be found here.”

Having searched the room, he said sternly, “ Madame, if you are too ill
to leave your bed, I’ll have in four of my men to lift you off in the sheet.
I must examine this bed.” Without further delay he seized the pillows, my
lady being still in bed, and found one bolster stuffed with papers. Her
trunks were packed, and my lady taken a prisoner to Hexton Castle.
538 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

 

The troopers remained some months encamped in Castlewood, Captain
Westbury and Corporal Dick Steele, the scholar, taking a great fancy to
Harry Esmond, It happened one morning that a letter coming for Lady
Castlewood, who was still at Hexton Castle, Captain Westbury opened the
epistle, and reading, informed Harry Esmond that Thomas Esmond, Vis-
count of Castlewood, had been fatally wounded at the battle of the Boyne,
fighting for his exiled king, and that to Francis Esmond, faithful subject of
Prince of Orange, would descend the title of Viscount of Castlewood. That
night, as Harry lay in his little room, the boy, with many a pang of grief
and shame, thought of his friendless condition. Save Dick the scholar, and
Father Holt, he had never had a friend: sv, when Francis Esmond took
possession, and his beautiful wife, hardly more than a child, going through
the house for the first time, appeared to Harry Esmond, as he sat in the
book room all alone, the boy's heart went out to the noble lady who spoke
kindly to him. It could not be called love that he gave her, but rather wor-
ship — worship quite as deep as that of my lady for her husband. She saw
nothing, did nothing, thought nothing, save through the glass of which her
husband was the focus, and this husband of hers was a very ordinary man.
In truth, good looking, but little else was there to commend him, save his
good nature, which, by the way, could not always be depended upon. All
exercises of the body he performed to perfection ; that is, he thought he did
them to perfection. My lady thought the same — for a while. My lord was
fond of the parade of dress, and my lady, to please him, spared no pains
with her own toilet.

Henry Esmond, being much with his kinspeople, for they treated him as if
he were their own child, could not forbear learning — he was a sharp youth —
that my lady bestowed much more adoration upon her lord than that worthy
gave to his wife. To tell the melancholy truth, my lord firmly believed that
self-preservation was the first law of nature, and, what is more, had the cour-
age of his convictions ; so did not scruple to take up his departure from
Castlewood as soon as it was learned that Henry Esmond, calling on the
blacksmith’s Naney, had held her little sick brother on his knee the very
afternoon of the evening the child’s aulment developed into small-pox. Poor
Henry 1 My lady spoke to him as he had never heard her address anyone.
But, considering that her two children, Beatrix and Frank, had both been
talking to Henry when Dr, ‘Tusher brought the news, one could not blame
her. Moreover, my lady knew that my lord loved her beauty, and not the
mother of his two children, so ‘twas no wonder the prospect of possible con-
tagion caused her to lose her temper, and act unjustly to the orphan, But
Henry had little time to worry over her treatment, for presently he was laid
up with the small-pox himself; and upon recovering, he found that Lady
HENRY ESMOND. 589

 

Castlewood, too, had contracted the disease. My lord, returning when the
danger was over, and finding that Lady Castlewood no longer possessed that
dazzling beauty for which she had been noted, the beacon light of love no
longer shone in hiseyes. Discovering this, and finding that her efforts to win
him back were futile, my lady gave all her attention to Beatrix and Frank.
By her father, the Dean, Lady Castlewood had been well grounded in the
Latin, French, and Italian languages, and so she read much with Henry, who
was well up in the languages, thanks to his early life with Mr. Pastoureau,
and the teachings of good Father Holt. Henry had been tutor to Lady
Castlewood and her children about two years, when one day comes a mes-
senger from Winchester, saying that the Dean’s sister had died, and left her
fortune of two thousand pounds to be divided among her six nieces, the
Dean’s daughters. When my lord, who was generous with his own, and, in-
deed, with other folks’ money, heard the good news, he immediately promised
Trix, as he called her, and Frank all kinds of good things.

“T have another use for the money, my lord,” says my lady, turning very
red; “I intend to give the money — can’t you fancy how, my lord?”

My lord, swearing one of his big oaths, said he did not know in the least
what she meant.

“ There,” says my lady, “1 intend it for Cousin Harry Esmond to go to
college and make a name for himself. But he will come back and this will
always be his home.”

Due preparations having been made, Harry Esmond went to Cambridge,
but did little good there. My lady’s heart was set on his receiving holy or-
ders and becoming chaplain of Castlewood, and Harry, although he had no
taste for the life, tried to fit himself for it rather than cause a pang of dis-
appointment to his kind mistress. Father Holt had instructed him in the
rudiments of the Catholic religion, and the Lady Isabel had intended him to be
a priest. But the present Lady Castlewood, being a Protestant, had had Harry
instructed in that religion. However, spite of the efforts of both ladies,
Harry never became a gentleman of the cloth.

Returning home after two years Harry found the gentlest and kindest of
women suffering ill usage and shedding tears in secret. My lord was drink-
ing more heavily than ever, and leading anything but a virtuous life. One
day, during Henry’s vacation, among a noble company, came one, my Lord
Mohun, a bold, handsome, and profligate man. Lady Castlewood expressed
objections to this person, but roused the Viscount’s ire, and the two lords
became more intimate than ever. They played much, and my Lord Mohun
won much. Mistress Beatrix chose to be jealous of the latter, and her
father, laughing, was wont to say :

“Thou shalt marry Lord Mohun, Beatrix, when thou art older.” ‘
590 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

 

 

And one evening, in answer to this old joke, Trix said :

“T think my lord would rather marry mamma, than marry me; and is
waiting till you die to ask her!”

The two lords were at cards; both gave a start, and my lady, turning
as red as scarlet, bade Mistress Beatrix go to her own chamber. Thereupon
the girl, as was her wont, putting on an innocent air, added :

‘‘T am sure mamma talks a great deal more to Harry Esmond than she
does to papa. She cried when Harry went away, and she never does when
papa goes away. And last night she talked for ever so long to Lord Mohun,
and sent us out of the room, and cried when we came back, and is

“D n,”’ cried out my Lord Castlewood. ‘Go out of the room, you
little viper!”

Beatrix clung to her mother, and the pair left the room. My Lord
Mohun tried to explain that Lady Castlewood had asked him to play no
more cards or dice with her husband; but my Lord Castlewood was angry
and suspicious. One word led to another, and the two men would have
fought had not Harry Esmond talked them into reason and good nature.
The quarrel was averted for that night ; but my Lord Viscount, now on the
alert, saw my Lord Mohun, under the pretext of devoted friendship, trying
to weave the spell of his charms about my Lady Castlewood, who, spite cf
the small-pox, was developing mto a woman of regal beauty. After some
few days, Lord Mohun went to London, whither Lord Castlewood followed
him. Harry Esmond insisted upon going with his patron, and in the words
that ensued between their lordships, he, seeing the danger that menanced,
tried to draw the quarrel upon himself.

But the two men, who really liked the boy, refused to see his object.
The duel was fought ; Lord Castlewood was mortally wounded, and Henry,
acting as his second, received a painful cut on his wrist. Lord Castlewood
was carried into the inn, and in accordance with his urgent request, a clergy-
man was sent for, to whom my lord made a dying confession. This the
clergyman wrote down, which my lord signed, and requested the paper to
be given to Henry Esmond, Esmond read the document ; went to the fire,

and threw the paper into it. Then he went into the next room where the
Viscount lay,

 

 

“My Lord Viscount,” says Mr. Atterbury, the minister, “ Mr, Esmond
wants no witness, and hath destroyed the paper.”

“My dearest master,” Esmond. said, kneeling down and kissing his
hand, ‘The dying lord sprang up in bed, and flung his arm around Esmond.

“God bl bless ——" was all he said,

The blood rushed from his mouth, deluging the young man, His dearest
lord was no more, After kissing the cold lips of his benefactor, Henry
HENRY ESMOND. 591

 

Esmond gave himself up at the prison. It was on the third day after he
had come to ‘Gatehouse prison, that my Lady Castlewood, clad in the
deepest black, visited and upbraided him for her husband’s death. Poor
Esmond, who, as we well know, had done his best, at this charge, being still
weak, and overcome with grief, fell back, striking his wounded hand. He
fainted, became delirious, and was ill for many days.

While Henry lay in the prison, Dr. Tusher died, and Lady Castlewood
appointed Thomas Tusher, his son, to the vacant parish; thus throwing
Henry Esmond out of his only prospect of making a living. But good
fortune in the guise of the Dowager, Lady Isabel, came to his aid. She
sent him liberal allowances while in prison, and when he was released, one
of her servants escorted him to her ladyship’s house. Esmond lost no time
in acquainting the Dowager with the dying statement of her cousin Francis,
Viscount of Castlewood. In brief, it was this: Thomas Esmond, late lord
but one of Castlewood, and husband of Isabel, the present Dowager, being
in Flanders, fighting for his King, became enamoured of a gentle, innocent,
Flemish girl, whom, three weeks before the birth of her son, he married
under the name of Captain Thomas. Deserting his bride, Thomas Esmond
returned to England, and married Isabel, while his wronged wife, entering a
convent, died there some four years afterwards. Her son, Harry Esmond,
grown to manhood, fighting likewise for his country, happened by chance in
his mother’s village home; and assisted by Father Holt (who was always
appearing and vanishing most mysteriously), he found the grave, where,
under the name of Soeur Marie Magdelenie, reposed his mother’s ashes.
So, when Thomas, Viscount of Castlewood, was killed at the battle of the
Boyne, Henry Esmond became, and still was, rightful heir to the titles and
estates. Generously refusing, however, to advance his claims, he obtained
a commission in the army three weeks before King William’s death placed
the crown upon the head of the Princess Anne. Henry Esmond served on
the continent under the famous Brigadier-General John Richmond Webb, in
the campaigns of 1706-1707 and 1708; was honorably mentioned in the
despatches, and retired from the army with the title of Lieutenant-Colonel.

But if Harry Esmond proved himself a brave and successful soldier,
‘truth compels us to acknowledge that he did not make a great display of
these qualities, when storming Cupid’s citadel. Coming home from his first
campaign, he wished to see if his former mistress, Lady Castlewood, still
cherished towards him those feelings she manifested so cruelly when visiting
him in the prison, after her husband’s death. He called, and, learning that
my lady was assisting at prayers in the church, went thither. In the affec-
tionate meeting that followed, Esmond, filled with all his old love for his
mistress, discovered that she, although a few years his senior, loved him with
592 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

 

an intensity that burst through all cold formalities. It shone in her eyes,
glowed on her cheeks, and dropped from her tongue in loving words.
Esmond, gazing enraptured, thought he had never seen her look more beau-
tiful. He begged her to become his wife ; to go with him to the estate of
Castlewood in Virginia, and there begin a new life ina new world They
entered the house together. Lady Castlewood, pressing his arm, whispered
“Welcome,” and Harry, with eyes aflame, smiled down in her face.

But, alas! why are men so fickle? Just then Mistress Beatrix descended
the staircase, the lighted wax candle in her hand illuminating the exquisite
beauty of her face and neck, and displaying the matchless grace of her
figure. Harry looked at her with eyes of delight. He had left a child ; and
returning, found a woman grown into a dazzling completeness of beauty.

“ N’est-ce pas?” says my lady in a low sweet voice, still hanging on
his arm. Harry turned round, and with a startled blush met his mistress’s
clear eyes. He had forgotten her, wrapped in admiration of the beautiful
daughter. Moreover, Esmond did not stop here ; ke fell most hopelessly in
love with Mistress Beatrix, who, having very high notions about marriage,
taunted the young man with his nameless birth, and at times treated him as
so much dirt under her feet. And with that rare innocence, about the only
kind a man possesses, Harry poured the burden of his woes into my Lady
Castlewood’s ears. And she, being not even a private, to say nothing of an
officer, made no sign of the pain these love confidences cost her. After the
famous battle of Blenheim, where Esmond fought with honor, being favor-
ably mentioned in the despatches, he again humbled himself before the ca-
pricious Beatrix, now one of the maids of honor at the Court of Queen
Anne. But she, having all the great men of the kingdom on their knees
before her, disdained Harry Esmond. And so he sighed and moaned, and
bewailed his fate.

One day, during that same winter, Harry Esmond and his old friend,
Dick, the scholar, now Corporal Stecle, making their way down Germain
Street, met Mr, .\ddison, who invited the gentlemen to his lodgings, Learn-
ing that Colonel Esmond had been at Blenheim, he begged that young
man to describe certain portions of the battlefield, for Joseph Addison was
even then working on his noble poem of the Campargn. Within a month
from that day all the town was in an uproar. Addison was saluted as the
greatest poet seen for ages. ‘The people huzzaed for the Duke of Marl-
borough and Addison, ‘The latter was appointed Commissioner of Excise,
and rising from this honor to others, Addison enjoyed unlimited prosperity
the remainder of his life.

While Colonel Esmond was away on his last campaign, the Dowager of
Chelsey died. Feeling that her life was nearing its end, the Dowager had
HENRY ESMOND. 593
sent for my Lady Castlewood, whom she alternately ignored and tolerated,
and told her the true history of Henry Esmond, to whom she left her entire
fortune. Lady Castlewood sent immediate word to Esmond, but the letter
miscarried, and the Colonel arrived in London, having quit the army, had the
story of the Dowager’s death from my Lady Castlewood herself. She
besought Harry to decide affairs and take his rightful due.

“ By my dear lord’s bedside, ten years since, it was settled,” said Harry.
“The children must know nothing of this. Frank and his heirs must bear
our name. ’Tis his right fully ”

Lady Castlewood fell on her knees at his feet. ‘Don’t raise me,” she
said in a wild way. ‘Let me kneel — kneel — and worship you !”

But to his credit, be it said, Colonel Esmond would allow nothing of the
kind. He placed her upon a chair, and when she had become calm, Esmond
told her of a letter he had received from Frank, just as he was starting for
London. The letter contained the somewhat startling news that he, Castle-
wood, being anxious to sow his wild oats, had married one Clotilda, a German
Countess, with a large family of brothers and sisters, who, it afterwards
transpired, shifted the burden of their support upon the youthful Castlewood.

Esmond took a lodging near his mistress, at Kensington, glad enough to
be with his friends, for his health was quite shattered. Here, having
nothing else to do, he dabbled some in letters, and when particularly
displeased with Beatrix he wrotes satires to relieve his mind. Ye gods!
what a life the lady led him, as indeed she did everyone, her mother
included. At length, fortunately for Esmond’s peace (and that of his
friends), her ladyship Beatrix condescended to promise herself in marriage
to the Duke of Hamilton, one of the most distinguished men in the king-
dom, and who, immediately after his marriage, was to go to France as
Ambassador Extraordinary.

One evening, shortly after the announcement, Colonel Esmond had just
given as a wedding gift the diamonds left him by the Dowager when the
Duke of Hamilton was announced.

“Look, my lord Duke,” said Beatrix; ‘(they are a present on my mar-
riage.”

“From her Majesty? The Queen is very kind.”

But when my lord Duke learned that the gift was from Colonel Esmond,
he haughtily commanded it to be returned, saying that the Duchess of
Hamilton was not to receive presents from gentlemen that bear a name they
have no right to. At this, my Lady Castlewood broke out, telling the Duke
that Colonel Esmond’s name was as old and honorable as his Grace’s own,
at which remark my lord: Duke smiled. But after listening to my lady’s
further explanation, his Grace, with a low bow, said:
594 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

 

 

“ Marquis of Esmond, my lord, permit me to ask your lordship’s pardon,
and beg for the favor of your friendship. I shall esteem it a favor if my
lord Colonel Esmond will give the bride away.”

But a few days after London rang with the startling news that the Duke
of Hamilton had been murdered! ‘To decide a quarrel over some property,
the Duke had fought with the notorious Lord Mohun, his brother-in-law.
In the duel the Duke killed Mohun; theréupon Macartney, my lord Mo-
hun’s second, stabbed the Duke as he lay wounded beside the dead lord.
Thus again the ambitious hopes of Beatrix were circumvented ; but whatever
her feelings, she made no sign, proudly refusing all consolation, and, indeed,
would not acknowledge that she needed any.

The country at this time was rent with political strifes. As the Queen was
timid by nature, and the tool of her ministers, the Whigs were in a panic lest
she should forsake their Hanoverian Prince George ; while the Tories, wish-
ing to have a prince of the royal blood on the throne, were anxious to recall
the exile Prince James, and used all their influence to bring about this end.

The Esmond family had always been on the Tory side, and Colonel Es-
mond, still infatuated, hoped that by bringing the Prince to England he
would merit the hand of the most beautiful woman in England. Accord-
ingly, going quietly to France, he met the Prince and induced him to return
to London and play boldly for the English crown. My Lord Castlewood,
then in France, and who bore a strong resemblance to the Prince, accompa-
nied the party to Kensington, where my Lady Castlewood and Beatrix,
delighted to harbor their prince, had apartments prepared. The Prince
played the part of my Lord Castlewood, while Frank, disguised, passed
for my lord's secretary. Frank not having been at home for so long a time,
and the old servants having been all sent away, this plan worked remarkably
well for a time. The Prince, anything but a good man, acted the part
of brother to Beatrix so lovingly, thereby almost driving Colonel Esmond to
desperation, made love to the servants, and drank so heavily that all in the
house, save perhaps Beatrix, regretted his coming,

When he had been at Kensington some time, by the connivance of mem-
bers of the royal household, the Prince was presented to the Queen, as the
brother of Beatrix, by that lady herself. Then, watching his opportunity,
the prince revealed his identity to the Queen, who thereupon took a fit, in
which she lay many hours. ‘The prince stayed two days after this with the
Bishop of Rochester, during which time Reatrix, with the air of an injured
empress, by the advice of her mother, retired to Castlewood Hall. His lord.
ship returning and making inquiries for Beatrix, he received some plain
talking from Colonel Esmond, whereat my lord, vowing vengeance, left the
house and took up his residence with the Bishop of Rochester.
HENRY ESMOND. 595

 

Meanwhile, although opinions differed, Mr. Esmond was for having the
prince, under escort of troops of Horse Guards, boldly to present himself
before the council, message having come on July 3oth that the committee of
the council was then sitting at Kensington Palace. In spite of the Whigs
and the Duke of Marlborough, the Tories had still a majority in the Coun-
cil, and now or never was the time. Their captain had the guards within
and without the palace. Twenty-one members of the House of Commons,
eleven peers of Parliament, and many of the most brilliant generals in the
army, were with Prince James. The Queen was with him, and she was dy-
ing. The council was with him. Success was sure; and Colonel Esmond,
who had not slept for three nights, so busy had he been summoning the
friends of the prince, with a beating heart, walked rapidly to the bishop’s
palace. The prince was not there! Esmond hastened back to his friends
with the news. Consternation on every face, they sought Prince James in
every direction. Then entered Frank Castlewood into the room at the inn
where the officers were assembled, and handed Colonel Esmond a note. It
.was from Beatrix to the prince, telling him that she was a prisoner at Castle-
wood Hall.

“Gentlemen,” said Esmond, very pale, ‘‘ something has happened to the
Prince. You had best settle up with the landlord and go home. There can
be no game where there is no one to play it.”

Then Esmond and my Lord Castlewood ‘rode to Castlewood Hall, arriv-
ing there late at night. Effecting an entrance, by means of the window in
Father Holt’s study, they confronted the Prince ; and Esmond, taking from
the cupboard the Father’s two swords, would have fought him, but the Prince
apologized. Just then Beatrix entered the room. Her astonishment at
seeing her brother and Colonel Esmond wasindeed great. The latter gazed
sternly at her. How had he ever loved this woman so desperately for the
past ten years! He left the room without a word, and never saw her
again,

As for the Prince, overcome with remorse (and no wonder, when a crown
was at stake), he hastened to London, with Colonel Esmond and my Lord
Castlewood, thinking to be stillin time. Too late! For as they neared the
Palace, the herald at arms came forward and proclaimed :

“ George, by the grace of God, of Great Britain, France, and Ireland,
King, Defender of the Faith!” And the people shouted :

“God save the King!”

Father Holt’s sad face was seen among the crowd. Again his plans for
the king had failed. This most unlucky man, but indefatigable worker, went
over to Maryland as a missionary, and often appeared at Castlewood, Va.,
where Colonel Esmond and his wife, his dear mistress of old, my Lady Cas-
596 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

 

tlewood, lived in peace and prosperity. And it is to his daughter and only
child, Rachel Esmond Warrington, that we are indebted for the publication
of these memoirs, written by her dear and honored father himself.

ANALYTICAL EXTRACTS.

The world deals good-naturedly with good-natured people, and I never
knew a sulky misanthropist who quarreled with it, but it was he, and not the
world that was in the wrong.

Sure, occasion is the father of most that is in us; ‘tis misfortune that
awakens ingenuity, or fortitude, or endurance, in hearts where these qualities
had never come to life but for the circumstances which gave them a being.

’Tis an error, surely, to talk of the simplicity of youth. I think no per-
sons are more hypocritical, and have a more affected behavior towards each
other than the young. We get to understand truth better, and grow simpler
as we grow older.

‘Tis strange what a man may do, and a woman yet think him an angel.

I say unto you, that all my troubles, and joys, too, for that matter, have
come from a woman. 'Twas a woman that made a soldier of me, and set
me intriguing afterwards, and I believe I would have spun smocks for her,
had she so bidden me.

A kindness or a slight, puts a man under one flag or the other, and he
marches with it to the end of the campaign.

I suppose a man’s vanity is stronger than any other passion in him.

What is the meaning of fidelity in love, and whence the birth of it. "Tis
a state of mind that men fall into, and depending on the man rather than the
woman, We love being in love, that’s the truth of it. If we had not met
Joan, we should have met Kate, and adored her.

One of the greatest of a great man’s qualities is success : ‘tis a latent
power in him, which compels the favor of the gods, and subjugates fortune.

Of all the weeds grown on earth, surely the nicotine is the most soothing
and salutary.

A young fellow cannot be cast down by grief and misfortune ever so
severe, but some night he begins to sleep sound, and some day, when dinner
time comes, to feel hungry for a beefsteak,

We have but to change the point of view, and the greatest action looks
mean; as we turn the perspective glass, and a giant appears a pygmy.
 

 

 

CHARLOTTE BRONTE.

BORN 1816. ENGLAND Dieo 1686.
CHARLOTTE BRONTE. °

Jane Eyre, a novel, by ‘‘Currer Bell,” was, like Vanity Fair, the initial work of a new era.
Owing but little to favorable notice from contemporary critics, it achieved at once a surprising
success. The whole reading world of England was in a ferment to discover the unknown
author ; even the publishers were ignorant whether ‘‘Currer Bell” was a real or assumed
name ; whether it belonged to a man or woman, and it was not until the book reached its
second edition that Charlotte Bronté revealed herself as the author, and the parsonage at
Haworth became famous.

Patrick Bronté, Charlotte’s father, accepted the perpetual curacy of Haworth in 1820.
His family at that time consisted of his wife and six children; but within the next four years,
Mrs. Bronté and the two older daughters, Maria and Elizabeth, died. Mr. Bronté was
eccentric and unsocial in his habits, and the children were thrown much upon their own
resources ; Charlotte and Emily amused themselves by writing.stories and childish ‘‘ maga-
zines,” extracts from which, given by Mrs. Gaskell, in her admirable Life of Charlotte
Sronté, shows remarkable indications of imaginative power.

Up to 1844 Charlotte’s time was spent as pupil and teacher in school, as governess, and
as instructor of French one year in Brussels, when she returned to Haworth, where she spent
the remainder of her life. In 1846, the three sisters, Charlotte, Emily and Anne, published
a small volume of collected poems, under the pseudonyms of ‘‘Currer,” ‘‘Ellis’” and
“Acton” Bell.

They next offered three novels: The Professor, Wuthering Heights, and Agnes Grey,
to various publishing houses; Emily and Anne’s stories found publishers, but Charlotte’s
novel, Zhe Professor, was rejected. This failure did not deter her from offering to the pub-
lishers Jane Eyre, which was accepted, and received by the public with one burst of
acclamation.

In 1848 Mr. Bronté’s only son, Branwell, died, and soon after, death claimed Emily and
Anne, leaving Charlotte, then in her thirty-third year, sole survivor of six children, to
comfort and care for her father. At this time she suffered frequently from nervous depres-
sion; yet she still persevered in literary composition, and Shirley, the least melancholy of
her novels, was published in 1849, and three years after, despite many interruptions caused
by depression and ill-health, she produced Vi//ette, a novel which is to a large extent,
autobiographical.

In 1854, she was married to Mr. Nicholls, her father’s curate, and while health lasted,
her life was a happy one ; the next winter, however, her health failéd, and she sank gradually,
and died March 31, 1855, aged thirty-nine years.

Much of her life had been sad and solitary; ‘‘her little figure, her earnest eye, her
smooth, brown hair, and her quiet movement, present the woman to us, as she must have
always seemed. Contrasted with the splendors of De Staél and the lurid brilliancy of George
Sand, and with all the flickering, fading gleams of the female novelists of her time, her light
shines pure and planetary. It is to that calm power that the literature of England will long
be indebted for a truer tone, and the lives of Saxon women for a sweeter inspiration.”
600 CHARLOTTE BRONTE.

 

JANE EYRE.

My childhood was a sad one; from my earliest recollection, I was a
member of the family of my aunt, Mrs. Reed; treated by her daughters,
Eliza and Georgiana, with proud indifference, and bullied and punished
continually by her son John, a school boy, my senior by four years.

My very first recollections of existence included hints of my obligations
to my aunt, and insinuations that, if she were to turn me off, I would have
to go to the poorhouse. Not until my tenth year did I learn for the first
time that my father had been a poor clergyman; that my mother had mar-
ried him against the wishes of her friends; that my grandfather Reed had
cut her off without a shilling, and that after my mother and father had been
married a year, they both died from typhus fever within a month of each
other.

At this age, Mrs. Reed placed me in Lowood School, a charitable institu-
tion in shire. Mrs. Reed informed the treasurer, Mr. Brockelhurst, that
she wished me to be brought up in a manner suiting my prospects: to be
made useful, to be kept humble, and as for the vacations, that I was to
spend them always at Lowood.

I remained an inmate of Lowood School eight years—six of them as
pupil. In time I rose to be the first girl of the first class: then I was
invested with the office of teacher, which I discharged with zeal for two
years, and then came a change. In reply to an advertisement, I found a
position as governess in the family of a Mr, Rochester, the owner of Thorn-
field, near Millcote, shire.

Soon after my introduction to Thornfield occurred an event, which made
a deep impression upon my mind. Mrs. Fairfax, Mr. Rochester's house-
keeper, was showing me about the Hall, and we ascended to the roof to view
the beautiful landscape. In coming down, while Mrs Fairfax staid behind
to fasten the trap-door, I proceeded to descend the narrow garret staircase,
when the last sound I expected to hear in so still a region, a laugh, struck
my car, Tt was a curious laugh, distinet, formal, mirthless.

“Mrs. Fairfax!" T called out; “did you hear that loud laugh? Who
is it?"

 

 

“Some of the servants, very likely,” she answered 5“ perhaps Grace
Poole,”

“Grace £" exclaimed Mrs. Fairfax.

The door nearest: me opened, and a servant came out—a woman of
between thirty and forty ; red-haired, and with a hard plain face.
JANE EYRE. Gay

 

“Too much noise, Grace,” said Mrs. Fairfax ; “remember directions!”

Grace courtesied silently and went in. .

“She is a person we have to sew, and assist Leah in the housemaid’s
work,” continued the widow ; ‘by-the-by, Miss Eyre, how have you got on
with your new pupil this morning ?”’ .

The conversation thus turned on Adéle, continued till we reached the
light and cheerful region below.

The promise of a smooth career as governess in Thornfield Hall was not
belied on a longer acquaintance with the place and its inmates. Mrs. Fair-
fax turned out to be what she appeared, a placid-tempered, kind-natured
woman. My pupil, Miss Adéle Varens, Mr. Rochester’s ward, was a lively
child, who had been spoiled and indulged, and therefore was sometimes way-
ward ; but under my care soon became obedient and teachable. Mr. Roch-
ester was absent from home when I first arrived at the hall, and did not
return for three months. On the evening after his arrival the following
January, while I sat musing by the fireside, Mrs. Fairfax came in and an-
nounced that Mr. Rochester would be glad to have me and Adéle take tea
with him in the drawing-room. The day previous, while walking i in the lane
leading from Thornfield, I had assisted a stranger to remount his horse,
which, as I was passing, had shied and slipped on an icy spot, and fallen
with his rider, who sustained a slight sprain of the ankle. The traveler, who
I afterward learned was Mr. Rochester, was a man past youth ; perhaps he
might be thirty-five. He had a dark face, with stern features and a heavy
brow, and accepted my offer of assistance with a curtness and gruffness of
speech which, while it was disagreeable, did not disconcert me at the time ;
but to-night, unused as I was to strangers, it was rather a trial to appear
thus formally summoned into his presence, and I let Mrs. Fairfax precede
me into the dining-room. Half reclined on a couch appeared Mr. Roches-

r; his foot supported by a cushion. He was looking at Adéle and the dog
Pilot. :
- “Here is Miss Eyre, sir ;”’ said Mrs. Fairfax.

“Let Miss Eyre be seated,” said he.

He went on as a statue would; that is, he neither spoke nor moved.
Mrs. Fairfax began to talk.

“Madame, I should like some tea,” was the sole rejoinder she got.

“Come to the fire,” said the master when tea was over and the tray taken
away.

“You have been a resident of my house three months ?”

“Yes, sir.”

“ And you came from

“From Lowood School, in ———shire.”’

 

2”
602 CHARLOTTE BRONTE.

 

“ Ah, a charitable concern. How long were you there 2

“Eight years.”

“What age were you when you went to Lowood?”

* About ten.”

“You are now, then, about eighteen. Adéle showed me some sketches
this morning which she said were yours ; fetch me your portfolio.”

I brought the portfolio from the library. He deliberately scrutinized
each sketch and painting. Three he laid aside; the others, when he had
examined them, he swept from him. After a critical examination of these
three he said: ‘ There, put the drawings away !”’ and, looking at his watch,
added abruptly : ‘It is nine o’clock ; what are you about, Miss Eyre, to let
Adéle sit up so long? Take her to bed.”

For several subsequent days I saw but little of Mr. Rochester; one after-
noon, when he chanced to meet me and Adéle in the grounds, and while
she played with Pilot and her shuttlecock, he asked me to walk up and down
a long beech avenue, within sight of her. He then said that she was the
daughter of a French opera-dancer, Céline Varens, towards whom he once
cherished what he called a “ grande passion’ This passion Celine had pro-
fessed to return with even superior ardor, but proved false to him, aban-
doned her child Adéle, and ran away to Italy with a musician, ~ I acknowl-
edge no natural claim on Adele's part,” he continued, “to be supported by
me, but, hearing that she was quite destitute, I took the poor thing out of the
slime and mud of Paris, and transplanted it here, to grow up clean in the
wholesome soil of an English country garden.”

It was not until I had withdrawn to my own chamber for the night that
I steadily reviewed the tale Mr. Rochester had told me. His deportment
had now for some weeks been more uniform towards me than at the first.
I felt at times as if he were my relation rather than my master. He was im-
perious sometimes still, but I did not mind that: T saw it was his way.
Gratitude, and many associations, all pleasurable and gemal, made his face
the object I best liked to sce. Yet I had not forgotten his faults ; he was
proud, sardonic, harsh to inferiority of every description. He was moody,
too, but T believed his moodiness, his harshness and his former faults of
morality, had their source in some eruel cross of fate.

Thardly know whether I had slept or not after this musing ; at any rate,
I started wide awake on hearing a vague murmur which sounded, I
thought, just above me. T rose and sat up in bed listening. Just then it
seemed as if my chamber door was touched; as if fingers had swept the
panels in groping a way along the dark gallery outside: I thought that it
micht be Pilot, the dog, when all at once [ heard a demoniac laugh — low,
suppressed and deep — uttered, as it seemed, at the very kev-hole of my
JANE EYRE. 603

 

chamber door. Ere long, steps retreated up the gallery towards the third
story staircase. I heard a door open and close, and all was still.

“Was that Grace Poole, and is she possessed of a devil?” thought I.
Impossible, now, to remain longer by myself, I hurried on my frock and
shawl and opened the: door with a trembling hand. I was amazed to find
the air filled with smoke; Mr. Rochester’s door was ajar and the smoke
rushed in a cloud from his room. In an instant I was within the chamber.
Tongues of flame darted round the bed where Mr. Rochester lay in a deep
sleep.

“Wake! wake!” I cried— then rushed to his basin and ewer, deluged
the bed with water, and, by God’s aid, succeeded in extinguishing the flames
which were devouring it. The splash of the shower bath roused Mr. Roch-
ester from his stupor.

“Ts there a flood!” he cried.

“No, sir,’ I answered, “‘ but there has been a fire.”

“What is it, and who did it?” he asked.

I briefly related to him what had transpired, to which he listened with
more concern than astonishment, and then said :

“Tam going to leave you a few minutes here; I must paya visit to the
third story. Don’t move or call any one.”

He re-entered pale and gloomy, and saying, “I have found it all out,”
told me to say nothing about it, and returnitomy own room. Bidding him
good-night, I rose to leave, when he spoke :

“JT knew you would do me good in some way, at some time ; I saw it in
your eyes when I first beheld you. My cherished preserver, good-night.”

The next morning Mr. Rochester left Thornfield, and was gone for nearly
two weeks ; when he did return, he brought with him a number of friends —
and though I pondered much over the enigmatical character of Grace Poole,
I was obliged to dismiss the subject without a solution of the mystery.

Merry days were those at Thornfield Hall, when the house was filled with
guests, and you could not traverse the gallery, once so hushed, without encoun-
tering a smart lady’s maid, or a dandy valet ; but I saw very little of Mr.
Rochester.

T had learned to love him; I could not unlove him now, though I found
that he had ceased to notice me, or because I saw all his attentions appropri-
ated by the beautiful Miss Ingram, one of his guests, who scorned to touch
me with the hem of her robes as she passed ; I could not unlove him, though
I felt sure he would soon marry this very lady, because her rank and connec-
tions suited him. It surprised me when I first discovered that such was his
intention, but the longer I considered, the less I felt justified in judging and
blaming him,
604 CHARLOTTE BRONTE.

 

One day, while Mr. Rochester was away, a stranger arrived in the post-
chaise, who gave his name as Mason ; and, bowing to Lady Ingram, said: “I
arrive from a very long journey, and I think I may presume so far on old
acquaintance, as to install myself here till Mr. Rochester returns.”

When I announced the stranger’s arrival to Mr. Rochester that evening,
and pronounced his name, adding, ‘the comes from the West Indies ; from
Spanish Town, in Jamaica, I think,” he gave my wrist a convulsive grip;
apparently a spasm caught his breath.

*: Mason — the West Indies!”’ he repeated three times, growing whiter
than ashes. ‘Jane, I’ve got a blow—I've got a blow, Jane!” He stag-
gered, sat down, and made me sit beside him.

‘My little friend,” said he, “ I wish I were in a quiet island with only you;
and trouble and danger, and hideous recollections removed from me.” He
then asked me to fetch him a glass of wine from the dining-room. When I
returned with it, his extreme pallor had disappeared, and he looked. once
more, firm and stern.

“Jane,” he said, * go back now into the room; step quietly up to Mason,
and whisper in his ear that Mr. Rochester is come, and wishes to see him.
Show him in here, and then leave me ”

I did his behest. At alate hour I heard the visitors repair to their cham-
bers ; I heard Mr. Rochester say : * This way, Mason ; this is your room.”
He spoke cheerfully. The gay tones set my heart at ease, and I was soon
asleep. For a month succeeding this, I was absent from Thorndale attend-
ing my aunt, Mrs. Reed, who sent for me, and on her dvinz bed confessed
that she had twice wronged me ; first, in not keeping her promise to her hus-
band te bring me up as her own child, and second, in writing to an uncle of
mine in Maderia, who was desirous of adopting me, that I had died of typhus
fever at Lowood Though I freely forgave her, she could not change her
habitual frame of mind ; living, she had ever hated me — dying, she must
hate me still.

A fortnight of dubious calm succeeded my return to Thorntfield Hall.
Nothing was said of the master’s marriage to. Miss Ingram, and I began to
cherish the hopes that the match was broken off, and that rumor had been
mistaken,

One midsummer eve | watched Adéle till she dropped asleep and then I
sought the garden. As To made for the wicket leading to the shrubbery, I
saw Mr, Rochester entering ; he greeted me pleasantly ; I did not like to
walk at this hour, alone with him in the shadowy orchard ; but I could not
find a reason to allege for leaving him,

“ Jane, he said, * Thornfield is a pleasant place in summer, is it not?”
“Ves, sir.”
JANE EYRE. 605

 

“You must have become in some degree attached to the house, and
to Adéle, too.”

“Yes, sir; in different ways, I have an affection for both.”

“And would be sorry to part with them.”

“Ves, I would grieve to leave Thornfield ; I love Thornfield. I love it,
because I have lived in it a full and delightful life. I have known you,
Mr. Rochester; and it strikes me with terror and anguish to feel I
absolutely must be torn from you forever ; I see the necessity of departure,
and it is like looking on the necessity of death.”

“Where do you see the necessity ?”’ he asked suddenly.

“In the shape of Miss Ingram —a noble and beautiful woman — your
bride.”

“My bride? What bride? I have no bride.”

“But you will have.”

“Yes: Iwill! —I will!”

“Then I must go.”

‘‘No; you must stay! I swear it, and the oath shall be kept ; come,
Jane — come hither.”

“Your bride stands between us.”

He rose and, with a stride, reached me. “My bride is here,” he said,
“ because my equal is here, and my likeness. Jane, will you marry me? I
would not —I could not marry Miss Ingram. You,—I love as my own
flesh. I entreat you to accept me as a husband.”

“What, me?” I ejaculated, beginning to credit his sincerity. “ Are you
in earnest? Do youtruly love me? Do you sincerely wish me to be your
wife?”

“TI do; and if an oath is necessary to satisfy you, I swear it.”

“ Then, sir, I will marry you.”

“God pardon me!” he ejaculated, “and man meddle not with me; I
have her and will hold her. Come to me— come to me entirely now ; make
my happiness —I will make yours.”

The month of courtship wasted ; all the preparations for the wedding
were complete. I, at least, had nothing more to do ; but I had at heart a
strange and anxious thought. Something had happened which I could not
comprehend ; no one knew of or had seen the event but myself; it had
taken place the preceding night. Mr. Rochester was absent from home, nor
was he yet returned, but when he didcome that evening I told ‘him the whole
story, for he noticed my melancholy and depressed appearance.

“On awaking during the night,” I said, “a gleam dazzled my eyes ;
there was a light on the dressing table, and the door of the closet, where my
wedding dress and veil hung, stood open. I heard a rustling; and a form
606 CHARLOTTE BRONTE.

 

emerged from the closet. I had risen up in bed; I bent forward; first sur-
prise, then bewilderment came over me: and then my blood crept cold
through my veins. Mr. Rochester, this was not Teah, it was not Mrs. Fair-
fax ; it was not even that strange woman, Grace Poole.”

“Tt must have been one of them,” interrupted my master, “ Did you see
her face?”

“Not at first, but presently she took my veil from its place, held it up,
gazed at it long, and then she threw it over her own head and turned to the
mirror. At that moment I saw the reflection of her face —oh, sir, I never
saw a face like it! It was a discolored face; I wish I could forget it.”

“Ah! what did she do?”

‘‘Sir, she removed my veil from her gaunt head, rent it in two parts, and
flinging both on the floor, trampled on them, and, taking the candle, retreated
to the door; for the second time in my life—only the second time, I be-
came insensible.”’

“Who was with you when you revived ?”

“No one, sir, but the broad day. Now, tell me, who and what that
woman was.”

He drew his breath short, and strained me close to him. After some
minutes’ silence he continued cheerily :

“Now, Janet, I'll explain to you all about it. It was half dream and half
reality ; that woman was—must have been—Grace Poole. I see vou
would ask why I keep such a woman in my house; when we have been
married a year and a day, I will tell you. Are you satisfied ?”

I reflected ; satisfied I was not, but to please him I endeavored tu appear
so, and now, as it was long past one, I prepared to leave him.

The next morning we walked quietly to the church, which was just be-
yond the gates. There were no groomsmen, no bridesmaids, no relatives to
wait for, or marshal — none but Mr, Rochester and I.

We entered the quiet ard humble temple; all was still, The priest
waited in his white surplice at the lowly altar, the clerk beside him. Two
shadows only moved in the remote corner. Our place was taken at the
communion rails. Hearing a cautious step behind me, I glanced over my
shoulder; one of the strangers —a gentleman, evidently — was advancing
up the chancel. The service began, ‘The explanation of the intent of matri-
mony was gone through, and the clergyman, Mr. Wood, was proceeding,
when a distinct and near voice said :

“Phe marriage cannot goon, 1 declare the evistence of an impediment.”

The clergyman looked up at the speaker and stood mute; Mr. Rochester
moved slightly, as if an earthquake had rolled under his feet. Taking a
firmer footing, and not turning his head or eyes, he said, * Proceed.”
JANE EYRE, 607

 

Presently Mr. Wood said, ‘‘I cannot proceed without some investigation
into what has been asserted, and evidence of its truth or falsehood. What
is the nature of the intpediment ?”’ he asked.

The stranger came forward. “It simply consists in the existence of a
previous marriage; Mr. Rochester has a wife now living.”

My nerves vibrated to those low spoken words, as they had never
vibrated to thunder; but I was collected and in no danger of swooning.
The stranger then produced and read a certificate of marriage between
Edward Fairfax Rochester and Bertha Antoinetta Mason, at Spanish Town,
Jamaica. I looked at Mr. Rochester. His whole face was colorless rock,
his eye was both spark and flint.

“That,” said he, ‘does not prove that the woman mentioned therein as
my wife is still living.”

“T have a witness to the fact, whose testimony even you, sir, will
scarcely controvert,” said the stranger.

“Produce him —or go to hell.”

“T will produce him first — he is on the spot ; Mr. Mason, have the good-
ness to step forward.”

“Sir,” said the clergyman, “are you aware whether or not this gentle-
man’s wife is still living ?”’

_ “She is now living at Thornfield Hall,” said Mason; “I saw her there
last April. I am her brother.’

I saw a grim smile contort Mr. Rochester’s lips. He mused —for ten
minutes he held counsel with himself ; he formed his resolve, and announced
it. ‘Wood, close your book, and take off your surplice ; there will be no
wedding to-day. Bigamy is an ugly word! I meant, however, to be a big-
amist, but fate has outmaneuvered me. I ama little better than a devil at
this moment. I have been married, and the woman to whom I was married
lives. Bertha Mason is mad; and she comes from a mad family; gentle-
men, I invite you all to come up to the house and visit Mrs. Poole’s patient,
and my wife! You shall see whether or not I had the right to break the
compact, and seek sympathy with something at least human. This girl,” he
continued, “knew no more than you, Wood, of the disgusting secret ; she
thought all was fair and legal, and never dreamt she was going to be
entrapped into a feigned union with a defrauded wretch, already bound to a
bad, mad, imbruted partner! Come, all of you,” and still holding me fast,
he left the church.

That night Mr. Rochester gave me the history of his unfortunate alliance,
and begged me not to leave him, but my mind was fixed ; yet so great was
my love for him still, that I could not resist, before we separated for the
night — yes, as I fully believed, forever — kneeling down by him, kissing his
608 CHARLOTTE BRONTE.

 

cheek and smoothing his hair with my hand. “Farewell!” was the cry of
my heart as I left him. Despair added, “ Farewell, forever !'”

That night I left Thornfield, to wander, I knew not whither. I took
nothing but what I could call my own; some linen, a locket, and a ring.
Reduced in a moment from comfort to want, from affluence to beggary, I
traveled on, till I fell, in utter exhaustion, at the door of Moor House,
where I had applied for help. Out of pity for my abject misery, I was
received into the house and tenderly cared for by the inmates, St. John
Rivers, and his sisters Diana and Mary Rivers.

Ina few days I had sufficiently recovered to give an account of myself, but
repressed the story of my Thornfield experience, and gave my name as Jane
Elliott. After atime Mr. St. John, who was expecting to go as a missionary to
India, and now had charge of a large and scattered parish at Morton, secured
for me a situation at the head of a school for girls he had recently established.
St. John visited often at the school and the little cottage in Morton which I
made my home. One stormy winter’s night, when the wind was blowing a
hurricane, I heard a knock at the door, and opened, to find st. John Rivers.

“Ts there any ill news?” I demanded ; “has anything happened ?”

“No,” he replied ; “how very easily alarmed you are!”

I soon found, however, that he had important and astounding, if not
alarming news. It was to the effect that he had discovered my real name,
and that I had fallen heir to a fortune of twenty thousand pounds, left me
by my uncle, Mr. Eyre of Madeira, who was also his uncle.

* Then we are cousins,’ I said, forgetting my fortune for a time, in my
joy at finding blood relations. I surveyed him. It seemed I had found a
brother — one I could be proud of —one I could love; and two sisters,
whose qualities were such that, when I knew them but as mere strangers,
they had inspired me with yenuine affection and admiration. Glorious dis.
covery'to a lonely wretch! ‘This was wealth, indeed — wealth to the heart —
a mine of pure genial affection,

In my joey, T insisted upon a division of the legacy, and at last had the
pleasure of seeing St. John, Diana, and Mary each become possessed of a
competency,

St. John, who became more and more attentive to me, finally proposed
marriaye, that we might go together as missionaries to India. He made no
profession of love, but simply appealed to my sense of Christian duty.

“God and nature,” said he, intended you for a mussionary’s wile: you
are formed for labor, not love. A missionary's wife you must —you shall
be, You shall be mine: [claim you—not for my pleasure, but for my
Sovereign's service,”
JANE EYRE. 609

 

I shuddered as he spoke. I felt his influence in my marrow — his
hold on my limbs. His appeals to duty became more and more power-
ful; I had almost yielded to his importunities; my heart beat fast and
thick, when suddenly it stood still to an inexpressible feeling that thrilled
it through.

“ What have you heard? What do you see?” asked St. John.

I saw nothing; but I heard a voice somewhere cry, “ Jane! Jane!
Jane! ”—nothing more. “Oh God! what is it?” I gasped.

I had heard it— where or whence, forever impossible to know! and it
was the voice of a human being —a known, loved, well-remembered voice,
that of Edward Fairfax Rochester ; and it spoke in pain and woe; wildly,
eerily, urgently.

“Tam coming!” I cried, “wait for me! Oh I will come!” I flew to
the door and looked out; it was dark; I ran out into the garden ; it was,
void.

“Where are you?” I exclaimed, and the hills sent the answer back:
“Where are you?” Then all was still. I broke from St. John, who had
followed, mounted to my chamber, fell on my knees, and prayed, in my
way — took a resolve —and lay down, unscared, enlightened, eager for
the day.

The next morning I started for Thornfield Hall. Instead of the stately
mansion I had expected to see, I found a blackened ruin. From the inn-
keeper I heard the sad story.

“Grace Poole,” said he, “had but one fault — she kept a private bottle of
gin by her, and now and then took a drop overmuch. On such occasions
Mrs. Rochester, who was as cunning as a witch, would take the keys and go
roaming about the house, doing any wild mischief that came into her head.
The night of the fire she made her way to the room where the governess
used to sleep and set fire to the bed ; she then went to the roof, Mr. Roch-
ester following her ; we heard him call her ‘ Bertha,’ and then she yelled and
gave aspring, and the next minute she lay smashed on the pavement. As Mr.
Rochester came down the staircase, there was a great crash —all fell. He
was taken out from under the ruins alive but sadly hurt ; he lost an eye and
ahand. The other eye inflamed ; he lost the sight of that also. He is now
helpless indeed — blind, and a cripple.”

Reader, I went to him. I found him in the manor house, cared for by
his old servants, Mary and John. He had just sent for Mary to bring him
a glass of water.

“Give me the tray,” I said ; “I will carry it to him.”

“This is you, Mary, is it not?” he asked as I entered.

“ Mary is in the kitchen,” I answered.
610 CHARLOTTE BRONTE.

 

“Who is this? Who is this?” he demanded, trying, as it seemed, to see
with those sightless eyes.

“Will you have a little more water, sir ?”’

“Great God !—what delusion has come over me? Where is the speaker ?
Is it only a voice?” He groped, arrested his wandering hand, and prisoned
itin both mine. The muscular hand broke from my custody ; my arm was
seized, my shoulder, neck, waist. I was entwined and gathered to him.
“Jane Eyre !— Jane Eyre!” was all he said.

I pressed my lips to his once brilliant and now rayless eyes. I swept his
hair from his brow, and kissed that too; the conviction of the reality of all
this seized him,

“Tt is you —is it, Jane? You are come back to me then?”

“Tam.”
- ‘And you will stay with me?”

“Certainly — unless you object. I will be your companion, to read to
you, to waik with you, to sit with you, to be eyes and hands to you. You
shall not be left desolate so long as I live.”

* * * * * * * *

I have now been married to Mr. Rochester ten years. I know what it is
to live entirely for and with what I love best on earth. I know no weariness
of my Edward's society ; he knows none of mine: we are precisely suited in
character — perfect concord is the result.

One morning, at the end of two years after our marriage, he came and
bent over me and said: * jane, have you a glittering ornament around your
neck ?”’

T had a gold watch chain. I answered * ves.”

‘And have you a pale blue dress on?”

T had. He was recovering his sight. He and I went up to London,
where he had the advice of an eminent oculist, and his sight was so far
restored that he can find his way without being led by the hand.

When his first-born was put into his arms, he could see that the boy in-
herited his own eyes as they once were — large, brilliant, black, and on that
oceasion he again, with a full heart, acknowledged that Goud had tempered
his judgment with mercy.

QUOTATIONS,

Nobody knows how many rebellions, besides political rebellions, ferment
in the masses of life that people earth

Most things free-born will submit te anything for a salary,
JANE EYRE, 611

 

On Woman.

Women are supposed to be very calm generally ; but women feel, just as
men feel; they need exercise for their faculties, and a field for their efforts
as much as their brothers do ; they suffer from too, rigid a restraint, too ab-
solute a stagnation, precisely as men would suffer ; and it is narrow-minded
in their more privileged fellow-creatures to say that they ought to confine
themselves to making puddings and knitting stockings, to playing on the
piano and embroidering bags. It is thoughtless to condemn them or laugh
at them, if they seek to do more or learn more than custom has pronounced
necessary for their sex.

ON PRESENTIMENTS.

Presentiments are strange things! and so are sympathies ; and so are
signs ; and the three combined make one mystery to which humanity has
not yet found the key. I never laugh at presentiments in my life, because
I have had strange ones of my own. Sympathies, I believe, exist whose
workings baffle mortal comprehension. And signs, for aught we know, may
be but the sympathies of nature with man.

A Happy Day.

Take one day ; share it into sections; to each section appropriate its
task ; leave no stray, unemployed quarters of an hour, ten minutes, five
minutes ; include all; do each piece of business in its turn with method,
with rigid regularity. The day will close almost before you are aware it has
begun ; and you are indebted to no one for helping you to get rid of one
vacant moment ; you had to seek no one’s company, conversation, sympathy,
forbearance ; you have lived, in short, as an independent being ought to do.

On Gop as SEEN IN NATURE.

We know that God is everywhere; but, certainly, we feel his pres-
ence most when His works are on the grandest scale spread before us;
and it is in the unclouded night-sky, where his worlds wheel their
silent course, that we read clearest his infinitude, his omnipotence, his omni-
presence.

Hewinc Our Own Way.

God has given us, in a measure, the power to make our own fate, and
when our energies seem to demand a sustenance they cannot get, we need
neither starve-from inanition, nor stand still in despair: we have but to seek
another nourishment for the mind, and to hew out for the adventurous foot
a road as direct and broad as the one fortune has blocked up against us, if
rougher than it.
 

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.

Dieo 1864.

AMERICA

BORN 1804
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.

Hawthorne, the most shy and sensitive of American authors, and by no means volumi-
nous, ranks as one of the most refined, accomplished and highly prized of them all. A few
-remarkable works of fiction are about all that he gave to the public. Twice Told Taz:es,
Mosses from an Old Manse, The Scarlet Letter, The House of the Seven Gables, The Blithe-
dale Romance, and The Marble Faun, were the principal. Our Old Home was a sketch of
his observations in England; and his o¢es was a posthumous work of fragmentary charac-
ter. The story of his life is soon told. Born in Salem, Mass., July 4, 1804, he died in 1864.
He was educated at Bowdoin College, being a classmate of Longfellow, who was always his
attached friend and admirer. Another dear friend, of life-long constancy, was Franklin
Pierce, who became President of the United States, under whom he served four years as
consul to Liverpool, and whose life Hawthorne wrote. For three years, under Mr. Polk's
administration, he held the office of surveyor of the port of Salem; and one of the most
delightful sketches he left was a description (prefixed to his tale of Zhe Svarlet Letter) of his
life in the custom-house, and of his associates in that queer, old place at the end of the long
wharf. Hawthorne’s name is connected with the memorable experiment of the Brook Farm
enthusiasts, of whom he has dainty morsels of information for the curious. He had an acute
and subtle intellect, was meditative, introspective, kindly, charitable; never sullied his page
with anything at variance with the strictest morality,.nor with reflections and innuendoes
against the Christian faith, He left a son, Julian Hawthorne, who is an author of merit,
and who has given us, among other things, that strange tale, entitled Archibald Malmaison.

THE SCARLET LETTER.

This is a remarkable story ; and among all the pieces left by Hawthorne
the dispute for pre-eminence would probably lie between the Scarlet Let-
ter, and the Marble Faun. Blackwood's Magazine, and some other critical
authorities, have been disposed to censure the former work as desti-
tute of the glow of natural health, and feverish with the hectic of disease.
It is a tale of passion, with little plot, with a denouement clearly foreseen
after the first few chapters, and yet of well sustained interest throughout.
The characters are intense, the analysis of motives is subtle, the descriptions
are vivid, and the end is overwhelmingly sorrowful. At the opening of the
616 VATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.

 

tale we are brought in front of a heavily timbered, iron-studded, prison door,
in the early days of Boston. A crowd of bearded men with steeple-crowned
hats, and of somewhat hard-featured women, await the opening of that door,
with gloomy, unpitying faces; while severe and cutting remarks are ex-
changed about the prisoner whom they are expecting momentarily to appear.
A noise of bolts thrown back quickens all their senses. The door opens, and
out steps a dark, handsome woman with a babe in her arms, attended by the
beadles. She is the mother of the child, whose father is not known; and for
the scandal of whose birth, she, in accordance with the severe code of that
day, has been imprisoned, and is now to be publicly punished. In that
crowd of New England Puritans there is no eye to pity her, no word of ten-
derness and sympathy for her ear, nor even gentleness for her babe. Even
the women have nothing but hard names for her, and freely express opin-
ions that hanging would be no more than she deserves. The punishment,
however, awarded her is not to be death, nor stripes; but she is to stand
for three hours on a raised scaffold, near the pillory, though not locked into
it, exposed to the gaze of the multitude, with a scarlet letter. An initial letter
of her crime pinned upon her breast; and this letter she must continue to
wear all her days as the badge of her shame, and markiny her as a proper
object for the public abhorrence. The woman bears herself not detiantly,
but proudly, firmly, and with an expression of intense suffering and bitter-
ness, returning the hard, unfeeling stare of the crowd with a look as stony
as her beautiful eyes could cast, but with nothing of beseeching or expec-
tation.

Her name was Hester Prynne. (n a platform above her were gath-
ered the church and civic dignitaries of the province to be witnesses of
the woman's disgrace, and impart a kind of sacredness to the popular
abomination in which she was to be held. There was Governor Bellingham,
with his sergeants-at-arms ; and there were the Rev. John Wilson, Boston's
oldest clergyman, a great man and profound scholar, and the Rev. Arthur
Dimmesdale, a young minister, the woman's own pastor, with other mag-
nates who need not be mentioned. —.\ moment more and a stern voice from
the platform was heard addressing the unhappy woman, — It was that of the
old clergyman, who, solemnly rebuking her for her sin, said she ought to give
up the name of her partner in guilt; but he would commit the task of deal-
ing with her to one who must. be presumed to understand her natural
temper better than he could pretend to do, viz... to her own godly pastor, the
Rev. Arthur Dimmesdale. Summoned thus to the front, while all eves were
fastened upon him, the young clergyman bent his head a moment in silent
prayer; and then, leaning over the balcony, he said: ~~ Hester Prynne, if
thou feelest it to be for thy soul’s peace, and that thy earthly punishment will
THE SCARLET LETTER. 617

 

thereby be made more effectual to salvation, I charge thee to speak out the
name of thy fellow sinner and fellow sufferer. Be not silent from any mis-
taken tenderness and pity for him ; for believe me, Hester, though he were
to step down from a high place, and stand there on thy pedestal of shame,
yet better were it so, than to hide a guilty heart through life.” The young
pastor’s voice was “tremulously sweet, deep, and broken.” But the woman
shook her head. She would not tell. Even when assured that confession
and repentance would avail to take the scarlet letter off her breast, she said:
“Never ; it is too deeply branded. Ye cannot take it off. And would that
I might endure his agony as-well as mine.” She was led back to prison.

At the moment when Hester Prynne was led up to her exposure on the
scaffold, she caught sight of two persons in the crowd that caused her to
shudder. One was an Indian, and near him a white man, “in a strange dis-
array of civilized and savage costume ;”’ a man small in stature, with a thin
furrowed visage, keen and penetrating eyes, slightly deformed and with a
look of remarkable intelligence. This man made eager inquiries of the by-
standers concerning the woman and her offence ; announced himself as one
Roger Chillingworth, who had seen strange mischances by sea and land, had
been in captivity among the Indians of the South, and had come hither to
arrange for his ransom. He had been a great student, having devoted him-
self much to the occult sciences, and to medicine, and to his skill in this last
had added much from what he had learned concerning the virtues of roots
and herbs during his captivity. Physicians of skill were scarce in the colony.
The terrible strain to which Hester had been subjected had thrown both her
and her babe into so fevered and frenzied a condition, that it was feared she
might make away with herself. Roger Chillingworth was called to examine
and prescribe for her, and was left alone with her and her infant in prison.
Now, this cold, studious and repulsive looking man was Hester Prynne’s hus-
band. In Amsterdam she had in some way been persuaded to become his
wife, although she neither felt nor pretended any love for him. Taking it
into his head to come to the New World, he had sent his wife on before while
he remained to settle some affairs, purposing soon to rejoin her. Thus they
had been separated ; and after a long period, being able to gain no tidings of
him, she concluded, with no sorrow, that he was lost to her forever. And
now, at last, after the misstep which had brought her into disgrace, here was
the man whom of all others she least desired to behold. The interview be-
tween Hester and Roger Chillingworth in the prison was a most painful one,
full of horror on her part and bitter malice on his. He would prescribe for
her and the babe, and opened a little case of medicines for the purpose. But
the woman would receive nothing from his hands, fearing that he meant to
poison her, and thus deprive the poor babe of its mother. But Roger did
618 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.

 

not intend to do this ; and he soon made her believe that if he imagined a
scheme of vengeance he could do nothing better for his object than to keep
her alive and in infamy. The babe was quieted by his medicine ; and she
also received a svothing draught. He tried to persuade her to give up the
name of him who had wrought her ruin. She was unyielding. No power
on earth should compel her to reveal it. His pleadings were all in vain.
He acknowledged his folly in supposing that any young woman could ever
feel for an object like himself,— old, ugly, a book-worm, ungraceful,—the pas-
sion of love. But still he bitterly reproached Hester, and persisted in know-
ing the author of her shame. And when he found that her lips were hope-
lessly closed on the subject, with a penetrating and burning look, that fright-
ened her, he said impressively, ‘‘ I shall seek this man as I have sought truth
in books, as I have sought gold in alchemy. Sooner or later he must needs
be mine.” He swore, however, that he would not reveal himself as Hester’s
husband. The keenness of the quest for the man who had wronged him
made concealment of his true relation to Hester a necessity. He would live
and die unknown. He would be Roger Chillingworth, a learned foreign
physician. But oppose him what would, he would track out and hunt down
the secret partner of his wife’ssin. When the term of Hester's imprison-
ment had expired, she was set at large and took for herself a poor lonely cot-
tage on a barren spot on the outskirts of the town, where she supported her-
self by her marvelous skill in embroidery, an art much more in demand for
festive garments, robes of honor, wedding finery, funeral habits, and the
clothing of well-born babies, in that age than at any time since. Hester's
work, now a lost art, was of the finest ; and by it she kept herself and her
little Pearl, as she called the child, in moderate comfort. But no one visited
her as a friend. The finger of scorn was pointed at her everywhere ; and
she expected nothing else. Kind she was to the poor; and yet those who
received her help or her little charities paid her only with reviling, Children
in the streets made a mock of her, and were encouraged so to do. Grave
good people drew up their garments for fear of defilement when she ap-
proached. And wherever she went that scarlet letter \ blazed out upon
her breast and burned into her heart,

Pearl was growing upa strange wayward little elf, attached to her mother,
but so changeable and fitful in her moods that Hester never could feel that
she had her thoughts or her affections for more than a minute at a time. On
this little one she lavished all the wealth of her affection, all the pity of her
own aching heart, all the instruction she could impart, and all the skill of her
needle, ‘There was nothing in her condition to live for but Pearl, Decked
out in the clothing with which the poor woman arrayed her, she was a mar-
vel of beauty, fying about in the strangest freaks of play and passion, so
THE SCARLET LETTER, 619

 

that even her mother sometimes looked upon her with astonishment as being
hardly human. The child early became sensible of the antipathy with which
she was regarded by the other children, and that she was an object of scorn
or suspicion ; and this developed in her a spirit of opposition, so that when
the urchins gathered about her, as they sometimes did, she would “ grow pos-
itively terrible in her puny wrath, snatching up stones to fling at them, with
shrill, incoherent exclamations, that made her mother tremble, because they
had so much the sound of a witch’s anathemas in some unknown tongue.”
One of the first things that excited her childish curiosity was the scarlet letter
on her mother’s bosom. And the more Hester sought to divert her attention
from it, the more persistently she returned ‘to it as an object of wonder, and
inquiry. What wasit? What was it for? Why did her mother wear it and
no other woman? Then she would lay her finger on it, and curiously exam-
ine it; and no discouraging nor evasive answers abated her curiosity. The
torture which the poor woman endured from her beloved child in this way
became almost intolerable. Meantime, there came to her ears a rumor that
the authorities were meditating the step of taking the child from her keeping,
on the plea that this was for the health of .the child’s soul ; for it could not
be supposed that a mother so lost to virtue as Hester Prynne would rear her
offspring in godly ways. With all her fears alarmed, Hester straightway
proceeded to the house of Governor Bellingham to protest against this ad-
ditional cruelty. She was ushered, with her child, into a stately hall, hung
with old pictures and pieces of armor; and presently the governor came in.
‘He was attended by the two ministers, Wilson and Dimmesdale, and the old
physician, Roger Chillingworth. Hester’s business was soon made known,
and Pearl became at once the subject of earnest discussion. The little elf
was questioned as to her religious knowledge ; but her answers were so per-
verse and wayward as to furnish to these worthy gentlemen a colorable argu-
ment in favor of putting her under better instruction ; and fora time, in spite.
of the passionate and- almost fierce protestations of the mother, it seemed as
if her visit had been the means of defeating her purpose. At this juncture
she appealed wildly to her pastor, Mr. Dimmesdale, to speak in her behalf.
The young minister, with deep feeling, and impressive words, immediately
took up her case. “It is good,” he said, “for this poor sinful woman that
she hath an infant immortality, a being capable of eternal joy or sorrow, con-
fided to her care, to be trained up by her to righteousness, to remind her at
every moment of her fall, but yet to teach her, as it were, by the Creator’s
sacred pledge, that if she bring the child to heaven, the child also will bring
its parent thither. Herein is the sinful mother happier than the sinful father.”
The eloquent and feeling words of Mr. Dimmesdale carried the point, and
Hester was left in possession of her Pearl.
620 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.

The Rev. Arthur Dimmesdale was the only person who exhibited any
tenderness and charity for Hester. He was a man of powerful and pene-
trating intellect, a learned scholar, a deep student, a most eloquent and
moving preacher, tireless in the discharge of all parochial duties, admired
and revered by old and young, and ever surrounded with the odor of heav-
enly sanctity. But his health appeared to be giving way, filling his friends
with pity and deep concern. He had a habit of laying his hand on his
heart. Some secret malady appeared to be preying upon his vitals. His
face became paler, his voice more tremulous, and his look more anguished
from day to day. This decline was ascribed by his friends to over work,
exhausting study, anxiety for the souls of his flock, and frequent vigils and
fasting. The services of the old physician, Roger Chillingworth, were
devoted unremittingly to the work of restoring the minister's health ; and to
this work the strange and sinister old man devoted himself with unusual
assiduity and skill. He finally took lodgings in the same house in which the
minister boarded, and set up his laboratory, with all his books and appli-
ances of occult sciences, in close proximity to the study of the minister.
Thus he had opportunity to watch all the symptoms of Mr. Dimmesdale’s
malady, to visit him frequently, and to be always at hand with counsel and
prescription. The two men, having much intellectually in common, became
close friends, each passing hours in the study of the other. Rover appeared
to devote himself, with the zeal of science and friendship combined, to the
care of the minister's health, professing the highest reverence for him, and
peering into the very penetralia of his patient’s constitution. He searched
not only his pulses, his temperature, and his nerves, but his very soul and
spirit. But no apparent good came of his attention. The minister became
restive under this watchfulness, often refused medicine entirely, shrank from
inspection, and finally conceived a rooted aversion for his medical attendant,
But Roger slackened nothing of his zeal. He gathered roots and strange
plants, distilled and combined them in his laboratory, and became so per-
sistent in his investigations of the clerical patient’s trouble as to subject the
latter to positive torture. Mr. Dimmesdale grew paler and more attenuated ‘
his hand was often on his heart, as if he were pierced with pain; but still he
spoke to the people like an angel from heaven, his wonderful voice, and his
powerful appeals, going to the very bottom of their hearts. He practiced
fasting ; spent long hours in agonizing prayer ; lay upon his face in humil-
ity ; not selklom applied a knotted scourge to his bare back in secret ; and
on one memorable night wandered out into the darkness and_ silence,
mounted the scaffold where Hester Prynne had been exposed in disgrace,
and there kept a vigil with his eves raised in pleading and penitence to
heaven, and his voice often bursting forth in sobs and ejaculatory prayers
THE SCARLET LETTER. 621

 

for mercy. What was the matter with this poor tormented minister? The
teader of Hawthorne’s tale divines well enough before this point in it is
reached that Arthur Dimmesdale was Pearl’s father. And the old physician
shrewdly suspected the same ; but, instead of bursting out on his patient
with accusations tending to force, or hasten a confession, he preferred, with
the devilish malice of his nature, to veil his suspicions, and, under the pre-
tense of scientific zeal and concern for his patient, to probe his wound more
and more deeply, causing him all the agony which that process, relentlessly
and skillfully followed, could produce. On the night of Mr. Dimmesdale’s
lonely vigil on the scaffold a strange thing happened. While he stood there
he heard Hester Prynne’s voice. She was returning froma night watch at
Governor Winthrop’s death bed; and Pearl was with her. The minister
spoke to her. In astonishment, she answered, approached, and joined him.
And there the three stood together, father, mother and child, as unhappy a
trio as could be found on this earth. It is needless to detail their conversa-
tion. A lurid meteor, shaping itself to the minister’s disordered vision into
a letter A, lit up the landscape, “ and there stood the minister, with his hand
over his heart, and Hester Prynne, with the embroidered letter glimmering
on her bosom, and little Pearl, herself a symbol, and the connecting link be-
tween those two.” The meteor flash revealed another sight. It revealed
Roger Chillingworth approaching. He, too, had been at Governor Win-
throp’s. , To the horror of the minister and Hester he drew near. But he
gave no token of the infernal joy of discovery that must now have glowed
in his heart. On the contrary, professing to see in this singular conduct of
Mr. Dimmesdale only a result of brain trouble, he accosted him with, “ Pious
Master Dimmesdale, can this be you? Well, well, indeed! We men of
study, whose heads are in our books, have need to be straitly looked after.
We dream in our waking moments, and walk in our sleep. Come, good sir,
and my dear friend, I pray you, let me lead you home.”

The next day, being Sunday, Mr. Dimmesdale preached a sermon of
super-mortal eloquence. At the close, the sexton handed him a glove, which
the minister recognized as his own. “It was found,” said the sexton, “ this
morning on the scaffold where evil-doers are set up to public shame. Satan
dropped it there, I take it, intending a scurrilous jest against your reverence.
But indeed he was blind and foolish, as he ever is. .A pure hand needs no
glove to cover it.” Hester, who inthe prison had received from Roger Chil-
lingworth the assurance that he would not proclaim his relation to her, had
at the same time promised and sworn that she herself would keep the secret.
But seeing the torture to which Roger, with devilish malice and skill, was
continually subjecting Mr. Dimmesdale, she resolved to be quit of her oath,
and to tell the minister plainly who his tormentor really was. To this end
622 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.

 

she sought Roger one day, as he was gathering herbs, and informed him of
her purpose. Long did they speak with each other in mutual bitterness and
recrimination, he doing all in his power to burn the letter A into her very soul,
and she setting before him, with passionate vividness of language, a picture
of the fiend into which he had transformed himself. Meantime, a change had
gradually made itself manifest in the relation between Hester and the people
of the town. By degrees heavenly pity had established itself in their hearts.
She had by her unremitting industry, faithfulness, and unweariable goodness
to the sick and poor, conquered for herself the respect and love of those
among whom she lived. And the scarlet letter upon her dress became less a
symbol of disgrace, and almost a mark of honor in their eyes. She was still
tormented by the questioning of Pearl, who would never give her rest about
that badge, and sometimes asked, “ Why the minister was always putting his
hand upon his heart.”

A crisis was approaching. Mr. Dimmesdale went away from home to
visit Eliot, the apostolic missionary to the Indians. He must return by a
lonely forest path known to Hester. She stole away from the town, with her
little girl, to meet him. They met in the forest. They sat down ona mossy
bank, while Pearl played at a distance; and there they poured out their
hearts to each other. A weight seemed to be lifted from both their spints.
Then and there they resolved to fly the country, and seek peace and love in
some retirement beyond the seas. Hester tore off the scarlet letter and
flung it from her. A passage was quietly engaged in a vessel soon to sail.
But, alas! the devil became busier than ever. Having made this compact,
the minister felt as if he had only added sin to sin, and was tempted to all
kinds of blasphemy, and often had the utmost difficulty in restraining him-
self. Then, to Hester's unspeakable horror, came the information that on
the very ship on which the minister and she were to sail a passage had been
engaged for Roger Chillingworth. A new governor was to be installed in
office, and Mr. Dimmesdale was to preach the “ election sermon,’ a great
occasion. Mr. Hawthorne vividly describes the New England holiday. The
minister girded himself to his task. The day came. The clanging music
was heard. The procession was formed. .\ dense crowd filled the church,
and swarmed around it. The sermon was amasterpiece. Never had Master
Dimmesdale so shaken the hearts of his hearers as he did that day. But
when it was done, to the bewilderment and amazement of the multitude, he
made his way toward the scaffold of the pillory, encountered Hester and
Pearl on his way, led them with him, leaned upon her arm (she had again at
Pearl's entreaty pinned the letter upon her breast), and with them ascended
the bad eminence, and then and there confessed his guilt. “Lo, the scarlet
letter which Hester wears," he said, ye have all shuddered at it. But there
THE SCARLET LETTER. 623
stood one in the midst of you at whose brand of sin and infamy ye have not
shuddered. Now at the death hour, he stands up before you. He bids you
look again at Hester’s scarlet letter. He tells you that with all its mysteri-
ous horror it is but the shadow of what he bears upon his own breast.
Hester, farewell!’ So saying he expired. In the sequel it is related how
old Roger Chillingworth died and bequeathed a large property to Pearl ; how
she and her mother went beyond the sea. Years after, a woman in a gray
robe approached the old cottage, and entered. Hester Prynne had returned
and taken up her long forsaken shame. Letters came to her often, with ar-
morial seals upon them, though of bearings unknown to English heraldry.
She lived in the old place in seclusion and comfort. ‘And once Hester was
seen embroidering a baby garment, with such a lavish richness of golden
fancy as would have raised a public tumult, had any infant, thus appareled,
been shown to our sober-hued community.” The scarlet letter never quit
Hester’s bosom. After many years a grave was delved near an old sunken one
in the burial ground beside which King’s Chapel has since been built. It was
near that old and sunken grave, yet with a space between, as if the dust of
the two sleepers had no right to mingle. Yet one tombstone served for both.

“ Let men tremble to win the hand of woman, unless they win along with
it the utmost passion of her heart. Else it may be their miserable fortune,
as it was Roger Chillingworth’s, when some mightier touch than their own
may have awakened all her sensibilities, to be reproached even for the calm |
content, the marble image of happiness, which they will have imposed upon
her as the warm reality.”
 

 

 

 

 

HARRIET BEECHER STOWE

BORN 1612. AMERICA
\

HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.

This distinguished American writer sprang into fame at one bound, by giving to the world
the tale of Uncle Tom's Cabin. She was the third daughter, and the sixth child, of the cele-
brated Dr. Lyman Beecher; was born at Litchfield, Conn., June 14, 1812. She was edu-
cated, first by her sister Catherine, and then in the school of a Mr. Brace, and continuously
in the stimulating society of the truly remarkable family into which she was born. The
brightness and promise of her childhood were early noticed. She took at once with loving
interest to Scott’s novels, the Arabian Nights and Don Quixote, and from her school days
had, in common with her brothers and sisters, a decided leaning toward theological subjects.
In 1836 she was married to Professor Calvin E. Stowe. While residing in Maine she began
aserial story in the column of the National Era (published at Washington), which immedi-
ately caught the ear of the great American public. As the story went on, the interest in it
became unprecedented. When the story was finished, it was Uncle Tom’s Cabin. Mrs. Stowe
was famous. Nothing that ever was written by reformers, or moralists, or statesmen, con-
tributed so much as this touching tale did to the downfall of slavery, In book form the work
sold by the hundred thousand. It was very soon translated into all the European, and into
several Asiatic languages. Mrs. Stowe wrote other works, which were not without consider-
able merit, but were floated mainly on the reputation of her chef-d’euvre. Sunny Memories
of Foreign Lands, Dred, a Tale of the Dismal Swamp, The Minister's Wooing, The Peart
of Orr's Island, Agnes of Sorrento, and Oldtown Folks, are her principal works. In a con-
troversy about the private life of Lord Byron, she was severely handled by the critics. At the
present writing (July, 1890,) she is still living in a peaceful and retired old age, from which
all her literary memories appear to have vanished.

UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

The inimitable pathos and humor of Uncle Tom’s Cabin lie largely in
the dialogues in which it abounds; in the negro dialect which is very skill-
fully introduced ; in the shrewd remarks of the slaves ; in the author's keen
reflections on American pro-slavery statesmen and clergymen ; and in her
wonderful application of scriptural texts to the various incidents and situa-
tions she describes.

We are introduced at the opening of this wonderful tale into the parlor of
Mr. Shelby, a Kentucky planter, a most humane and enlightened gentleman,
628 HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. .
whose debts, unfortunately, have thrown him into the power of a trader in
slaves, a loudly dressed, coarse, vulgar person by the name of Haley. Shelby
is the owner of a number of slaves, among others of one “ Uncle Tom,” an
invaluable man for every kind of service, and one of those faithful, simple-
hearted, affectionate, and piously devoted souls often found among these
lowly and oppressed people. Uncle Tom with his wife, Aunt Chloe, and
their two boys, in their cabin near the master’s house, are set before us, ina
most interesting and picturesque description, as an ideally happy slave
household, Uncle Tom himself, a powerful giant, but pious, devoted, and
gentle as a lamb; Aunt Chloe, a worthy wife, shrewd, industrious, and
unrivalled in culinary matters; the boys, irrepressible, fun-loving little
darkies of the normal type. Another of Mr. Shelby’s slaves was Eliza, a
quadroon, handsome, stately, and the wife of an intelligent and hand-
some young man, George Harris, who was owned on another planta-
tion, but was just now serving in a bagging factory near by to whose
proprietor his owner had let him. These two had a handsome, curly-headed
little boy, who lived with his mother at the Shelby place, a smart monkey
up to all kinds of tricks, and an inimitable mimic. This boy happened to
come into the room while Haley and Shelby were in conversation, amused
the trader at Shelby’s request, and so took his fancy, that he offered at once
to buy him. The mother coming in just then made upon Haley a still
deeper impression ; and he offered a large price for her. But Shelby was
firm as to the mother and the boy. He positively refused to part with
either. He also groaned inwardly at the thought of parting with Uncle
Tom. But the trader had him at a disadvantage, which he relentlessly fol-
lowed up, so that, finally, it was agreed that Uncle Tom must go to relieve
the financial embarrassment. Now Eliza, suspecting that something peri-
lous was in the air, by listening in a closet had overheard the conversation
between Shelby and the trader. All her fears were alarmed. She rushed off
to Uncle Tom’s cabin with the terrible news that he was to be sold in the
Southern market. Shelby’s wife, also, who had been kept in ignorance of
her husband's embarrassed affairs, had now the sad truth broken to her. All
were thrown into the very deepest distress, Mrs. Shelby, Eliza, Uncle Tom's
household, ‘and George Harris, who coming to visit his wife, learned what
was going on, This George, on his part, had rendered himself invaluable
at the factory, being not only honest, industrious, and capable, but an in-
ventor of some HpEeNNe in the machinery. The coarse and brutal
master who had hired him out to the factory, seeing what a man he was
becoming, resolved, out of pure maliciousness and envy, that he should stay
oe ee ibis Ryaieh the * nigger” better than to be stepping
: and gentlemanlike. He would have him down a peg, and take
UNCLE TOM'S CABIN. 629

 

all that presumptuous nonsense out of him. So, in spite of the factory pro-
prietor’s protestations and offers of increased wages, George was taken away
by his master, and put to the most hard menial work, and was one day tied
to the cart tail, for an imaginary offence, and wantonly flogged by his mas-
ter’s boys. This roused the young man to sucha pitch of indignation that
he resolved to escape or die in the attempt. Very touching is the descrip-
tion of his parting with Eliza. He told her of all the indignities he had
suffered, and of his new formed and irreversible determination, showed her
a firearm he had concealed on his person, and with breaking hearts they
bade each other farewell. It will simplify the tale if, instead of tracing the
fortunes of its principal characters intermittently, as the author does, we
follow George and Eliza through their principal adventures, and then return
to the uninterrupted and sorrowful career of Uncle Tom. Eliza had no
sooner been left by her husband than she formed the resolution to attempt
an escape for herself and her boy. . Bidding a hasty farewell to Uncle Tom
and his lowly household, and packing a small bundle, she fled by night in
the direction of the Ohio river. Haley, who had succeeded in overcoming
Mr. Shelby’s reluctance to sell the boy, had bought him. But in the morning,
when he sought for his pretty purchase, he found, to his intense vexation,
that neither the boy nor his mother were anywhere to be seen. Nobody could
give any information about them. He began to reproach Mr. Shelby, but was
soon cut short by that gentleman, who would suffer no insinuations that he
had dishonorably connived at the woman’s disappearance, and professed
himself ready to furnish all necessary aid for an immediate pursuit. Horses
and hands were ordered to be in readiness as soon as possible to go with
Haley upon the track of the fugitives, if it could be discovered. But the
“hands,” Sam and Andy, two very sharp fellows, discovered at once that
Mrs. Shelby was not ill pleased that “the gal and her young ’un” had got
away, and that nothing was further from her wishes than to have .them
retaken. Well knowing which side their bread was buttered, and that it was
good for them to “stand in with the Missis,” they cunningly brought about
all manner of vexatious delays to setting out on the hunt ; and one of the
most amusing parts of the book is that which describes their capers with the
irate and impatient Haley. Pretending to be in great haste to catch the
horses, they managed to scare the beasts into a wild scamper about the
lots; and when they were finally caught it was dinner time, and all hands
must stay till afternoon. When Haley mounted his horse a beechnut, which
had been dexterously slipped under the saddle by Sam, being driven by its
master’s weight into the creature’s back, resulted in a violent kick-up that
flung the trader sprawling upon the turf. The horse broke away and had
to be caught. And so these fellows continued to delay the pursuit for hours.
630 HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.

 

At last a start was made by Haley with Sam and Andy for guides. Treach-
erous guides they proved; for in the most artfully innocent manner they
continued to lead Haley off upon the wrong road. When they finally got
upon the right course and were approaching the Ohio river it was too late.
For Eliza and her boy had reached the place a few hours previously, and
finding that the ferry had been discontinued were resting, footsore and
weary, in dire perplexity about crossing. The river was full of great cakes
of floating ice. No boat could venture. And here came the most exciting
act of thedrama. Catching sight froma riverside house of the approaching
pursuers Eliza, like a hunted roe, darted from her concealment, and having
snatched her boy, made madly for the stream. Off she went upon the ice,
bounding with the energy of despair from cake to cake of the grinding pack,
until, bleeding and exhausted, she reached the other side and was helped up
the bank by a friendly hand and conveyed with her boy to a temporary ref-
uge. She was in a free state, though not yet beyond the danger of recap-
ture. Falling into the hands of the family of a Senator, who, as a politician, de-
fended the “ peculiar institution ” of slavery, but whose heart was better than
his head, Eliza and her boy were forwarded toa settlement of some Quakers,
ever the friends of the oppressed ; and there the fugitives were hospitably
received, secreted, clothed, fed, and nursed into strength. In the meantime,
George Harris, Eliza’s husband, disguising himself as a gentleman of
fashion, which his fine form, light complexion, and high intelligence enabled
him easily to do, and taking with him a fellow fugitive to pose as his valet,
started off boldly in another direction, traveling by night until he got be-
yond the circle of those who knew him, then stopping at the best hotels,
finally succeeded in pushing his way, as good fortune would have it,
into that very Quaker settlement where his wife and boy were sheltered.

To the intense joy of each, husband and wife were reunited. But there was
one more perilous passage for the fugitives before final freedom was assured.
They must reach the British Dominions, on which the fetters of every slave
drop off. To this end they must be taken to Sandusky and put on board a
steamer sailing for Canada, <A bold, brutal fellow, Tom Loker, noted for
his persistence in catching slaves, accompanied by a sharp, weasel-faced law-
yer named Marks, were put on the track of the fugitives. These fellows,
with others whom they had enlisted in their service, were making for San-
dusky to stop the runaways. Friend Phineas, one of the Quakers, a keen,
strenuous, bold man, had wind of the pursuit, and getting ready a covered
wagon and a good team, hustled George, Eliza and the boy, with two other
fugitives, into it, and drove away toward Sandusky long before daylight.
But the horsemen were upon their track, and early in the day were discov-
ered gaining on them. The pursuit became so hot that Phineas and the
UNCLE: TOM’'S CABIN. 631

 

fugitives alighted from the wagon, which was sent on, while.they took to a
cover of rocks near which Phineas had prudently taken his way. This was
a kind of Gibraltar, which two or three men could hold against a regiment.
Loker made an attempt to penetrate the stronghold, and was promptly hit
by a bullet from George’s pistol, and was immediately pushed over by the
strong arm of Phineas into a crevasse into which he fell wounded, swearing
and helpless. Marks and the others, finding the fortress so well defended,
fled from the place as fast as their horses could carry them. The end was
near. The wagon ride was resumed. A resting place was reached. George,
still disguised as a foreign traveling gentleman, Eliza as a slender young
man, and the boy as a little girl, were safely bestowed upon a lake steamer,
their tickets bought, and they themselves landed securely at Amherstberg,
in Canada, where, before the story is finished, we shall have a pleasant
glimpse of them again.

We must now return to Uncle Tom. It would carry us beyond the space
at our disposal to relate his experience, particularly ; and we must confine
ourselves to bare outline. He was put on board a Mississippi steamer for
the Southern market. On the passage a sweet, little girl fell into the river.
Uncle Tom, who, on account of the confidence that Haley had come to
repose in him was left unshackled, plunged into the river and rescued the
little girl. This little girl was Evangeline St. Clare, Eva they called her,
who with her father was returning from the North to their home in New
Orleans. A warm friendship sprang up between: her and her deliverer,
Uncle Tom; and she easily persuaded her father to buy him. St. Clare,
who had been cruelly disappointed in love, had hastily married a proud, rich
woman, whose haughty, selfish and supercilious ways, chilled any love he
may have felt for her, and repelled both him, and their child Eva, and all
who had anything to do with her. Her great forte was “ sick headache.” In
her own opinion she was a martyr. St. Clare, on the other hand, was a man
of noble, generous, loving nature, wealthy, educated, accomplished, and so
humane and indulgent to all his slaves that they were spoiled. To help super-
intend his household he was taking back with him to New Orleans a maiden
sister, Miss Ophelia, a shrewd, conscientious, thrifty New England woman,
orthodox, pious, and hardly tolerant of slavery in any form. She found every
thing at the St. Clare mansion done wastefully and extravagantly, and tried to
institute reforms among the “shiftless”” servants, in vain. She did not under-
stand the negroes, and they did not understand her. She had particular
trouble with one Topsy, a young “nigger” girl, who would dance, and play
tricks, and lie, and steal, and whom neither threats nor punishment could re-
form. She did not know who her father and mother were, nor who created

her ; and when asked where she came from, replied, “’spect I growed.”
632 HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.

 

A most devoted friendship sprang up between Eva and Uncle Tom ;
and the description of this is one of the most touching things in the book.
At last Eva sickens, and dies. Uncle Tom is with her when she breathes
her last ; and St. Clare himself is brought under the powerful spell of the
unselfish goodness, unfeigned piety, masterful affection of this poor devoted
man. One day St. Clare was accidentally killed ; his estate was broken up,
his slaves were sold, and an inhuman wretch named Legree bought Uncle
Tom. He also bought in the slave mart a comely young woman named
Emmeline. With these, whom he treated most harshly, he proceeded to his
home, a frouzy, dilapidated, ill-kept mansion, that had once been fine and
luxuriously appointed in other hands, and was now a lonely place on a great
cotton plantation in the Red River County. Here the master lived a life of
tyranny, cruelty, lust, and drunkenness indescribable. A woman named Cassy
kept the house ; she was a slave, but had in early life been tenderly reared,
educated, and loved. Without legal form, she had been the happy wife of
one to whom she had borne children. But by the reverse which came so
often under the system of slavery, she had sunk lower and lower, and had
finally fallen into the possession of this human brute, Legree, who had
nearly tired of her, and was about to put Emmeline in her place. Cassy was
driven out to work with the field hands. But there was something in her
bearing still so imperious, that Sambo and Quimbo, the wretched negro over-
seers, dared not lay a finger on her. Uncle Tom, however, drank the cup of
misery to the dregs, and was at last beaten so cruelly, that he lay disabled
in the gin-house. Cassy ministered to him there, told him the sorrowful
story of her life, and imparted to him a scheme that she had devised for the
escape of herself and Emmeline ; for Uncle Tom would not be persuaded
to attempt an escape for himself.

Legree was superstitious. He was particularly afraid of a lofty garret in
the old house, from which uncanny noises, as he thought them, had often
proceeded. Cassy, who, by her superior nature, had still a great deal of in-
fluence over him, turned this to advantage. She fixed a bottle neck in the
floor, through which the wind made a peculiarly alarming sound, After
playing upon his fears by this artifice, she, with Emmeline, pretended to run
away one night, purposely drawing observation upon herself. She took to
the swamp with her companion. Meantime, the alarm was given ; a hunt
was organized ; the bloodhounds were set on the trail; and it was confi-
dently expected that the girls would be run down in an hour, But the cun-
ning Cassy led her charge through the water; the trail was lost, and the two
women returned by a back path to the now deserted house, where Cassy
hid Emmeline in the haunted garret with a store of provisions and clothing
which she had secreted there. ‘lhe garret was never visited by anvone.
UNCLE TOM'S CABIN. 633
No money could have hired Simon Legree to venture into it. The rest is
soon told. Legree, balked of recovering the fugitives, drank and swore, and
accused Uncle Tom of aiding their escape, and finally beat that poor, faith-
ful fellow so cruelly that he died. Meantime. the noises in the old mansion
became more mysterious ; a sheeted ghost appeared to Legree in his cups ;
doors were unaccountably opened and unlocked ; a roll of bills disappeared
from a desk. One night two figures glided away in the gloom, and next day
a lady, apparently a Creole Spanish lady, with her maid, took passage on a
steamer bound up the Mississippi, and were handed on board by George
Shelby, son of our old friend, the planter. He had tracked out Uncle Tom,
whom he loved as a boy, and whom he had come to buy back with money
earned and saved by poor Aunt Chloe. But he came too late, and had only
the poor privilege of tenderly burying the lacerated body of the faithful
old man. George Shelby became acquainted with the two lady passengers
we have mentioned, and with another passenger, one Madame de Thoux,
who had been a slave in the West Indies, but had been set free. It is need-
less to say that the two lady passengers were Cassy and Emmeline, and
that they regained freedom. Madame de Thoux turned out to be the sister
of George Harris; and Cassy turned out to be the mother of Eliza, George
Harris’ wife ; and these suffering ones were all reunited in Canada, and into
the land of Canaan they came.

QUOTATIONS.

“Where do you suppose New Jerusalem is, Uncle Tom?” said Eva.

“O, up in the clouds, Miss Eva.”

“There, I think I see it,” said Eva. ‘‘ Look in thoseclouds. They look
like great gates of pearl ; and you can see beyond them, far, far off. It’s all
gold. Tom, sing about ‘Spirits Bright.’”

“Has there ever been a child like Eva? Yes, there have been; but
their names are always on grave stones ; and their sweet smiles, their heay-
enly eyes, their singular words and ways, are among the buried treasures of
yearning hearts.”

Uncle Tom, in one conversation near Eva’s death, says, “You know it
says in scripture, ‘At midnight there was a great cry made. Behold, the
bridegroom cometh.’ That’s what I’m ’specting now every night, Miss
Feely ; and I couldn’t sleep out o’ hearing’ noways.”
634 HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.

 

“Why, Uncte Tom, what makes you think so?”

“Miss Eva, she talks to me. The Lord he sends his messenger in the
soul. I must be thar, Miss Feely ; for when that ar blessed child goes into
the kingdom they'll open the door so wide we'll all get a look in at the glory,
Miss Feely.”

The last words of the book are these. They were prophetic :

, “ Not by combining together to protect injustice and cruelty and making
a common capital of sin is this Union to be saved ; but by repentance, jus-
tice, and mercy ; for not surer is the eternal law by which the millstone
sinks in the ocean than that stronger law by which injustice and cruelty shall
bring on nations the wrath of Almighty God.”
 

Born 1800

 

THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY.

ENGLAND

Died 1859
LIFE OF MACAULAY.

Thomas Babington Macaulay, one of the most famous scholars, critics, historians, and
statesmen that England has produced, was born at Rothley Temple, Leicestershire, on the
25th of October, 1800.

His father was a gentleman of Scotch descent; his mother, the daughter of a Bristol
bookseller, came'of a Quaker family, and young Macaulay’s home education was religious
and austere. From early childhood he was passionatly fond of literature, and especially of
poetry and history. At eighteen, he entered Trinity College, Cambridge, where he won great
distinction, twice taking the Chancellor’s medal for English verse. After graduating he was
chosen a Fellow of his college; but he was too ambitious for an academic life, and studied
for, and was admitted to the bar.

His literary reputation was established early, by the poem of The Battle of Ivry (1824)
and the Zssay on Milton (1825).

The latter, which was published in the Zdinburgh Review, was the first of his critical
and historical articles, and at once placed him in the foremost rank as an essayist. In 1830
he entered public life, having been elected to represent the town of Calne in Parliament.
The memorable struggle that led to the passage of the first Reform bill was in progress, and
Macaulay took a prominent part in it. Four years later he was made a member of the
Supreme Council of India, and placed at the head of a commission to prepare a code for the
government of England’s great dependency. This task took him to India, where he
remained for three years, returning to England in 1838.

He at once reéntered Parliament as member for Edinburgh, and was appointed Secretary
of War. In 1841 his party, the Whigs, were driven from office, but when they were restored
to power in 1846, he became Paymaster-General. The following year he was defeated for
re-election. Mortified at this repulse, he retired into private life, and devoted himself to his
greatest work, the Aistory of England.

The first two volumes appeared in 1848, and were received with universal applause, being
read as eagerly as a fresh novel of Scott’s or Bulwer’s.

In 1849 Macaulay was chosen Lord Rector of the University of Glasgow, and in a speech
delivered soon afterward, he took a formal leave of public affairs, But in 1852 his former
constituents of Edinburgh again returned him to Parliament, although he had in no way
offered himself as a candidate. He accepted the seat, but declining health rendered him
incapable of doing much active service, and forced him to resign in 1856. A year later he
was made a peer, with the title of Baron Macaulay of Rothley.

He still devoted himself to literary work, in spite of his increasing infirmity, until.shortly
before his death, which occurred suddenly, from an affection of the heart, on the 28th of
December, 1859. He was never married.

Macaulay’s versatility was extraordinary. He stood high as an orator and as a practical
statesman, while in literature his fame as a great historian is secure, as an essayist he has
had few equals, and as a poet he won well merited applause. His Lays of Ancient Rome are
models of their kind, and with several of his shorter poems will not readily be forgotten.
638 MACAULAY,

 

 

ESSAY ON “MILTON”

This essay appeared in the Edinburgh Review for August, 1825, being
suggested by the publication of a translation, by Charles R. Sumner, of a
Latin manuscript entitled De Doctorina Christiana (on the Doctrines of
Christianity), written by Milton, but subsequently lost, and only discovered,
in 1823, by Mr. Lemon, deputy keeper of the State papers.

The book itself, says Macauley, will not add much to the fame of Milton.
We propose, however, while this memorial of a great and good man is still
in the hands of all, to say something of John Milton, the poet, the states-
man, the philosopher, the glory of English literature, the champion and
martyr of English liberty.

It 1s by his poetry that Milton is best known. The civilized world ranks
him among the greatest masters of the art. His critics have said, comparing
him with poets of earlier ages, that he enjoyed a great advantage in living
in an era when education was so much further advanced. But as civilization
advances, poetry almost necessarily declines. A great work of imagination
is really the more wonderful when produced in modern times. In a rude
state of society, men are children with a greater variety of ideas. He who
in an enlightened and literary society aspires to be a great poet must first be-
come a little child. No poet, it follows, ever triumphed over greater difficul-
ties than the learned Milton.

The most striking characteristic of the poetry of Milton is the extreme
remoteness of the associations by which it acts upon the reader.

Almost every epithet hints at a picture, whose details it does not sketch.
In none of his works is this peculiar manner more happily displayed than in
L’ Allegro and Lf Penserese. Vie Samson Agentstes is marred by Milton's
imitation of Euripides. Had he taken .Eschylus for his model, he would
have given himself up to the lyric inspiration and poured out the treas-
ures of his mind without hampering himself with dramatic proprieties. The
Comus, which ts framed on the model of the Italian Masque, is certainly
the noblest performance of the kind that exists in any language. The only
poem of modern times that can be compared with the Paradise Lost is
Dante's Doine Comedy, It is interesting to compare the eract details of
Dante with the dim intimations of Milton, ‘Phis difference renders Milton the
more successful in his use of the agency of supernatural beings.

Milton lived at one of the most memorable cras in the history of man-
kind, Of the principles of liberty, then struggling for their infant existence,
he was the most devoted and cloquent literary champion, Even those who
ESSAY ON MR. ROBERT MONTGOMERY’S POEMS. 639
sympathize with Charles I. cannot find just cause for attacking Milton’s
conduct, or his most famous prose work, the Defensio Populi Anglicani
(Defense of the English People). Milton was neither a Puritan, nor a Free-
thinker, nor a Royalist. In his character the noblest qualities of every party
were combined in harmonious union. He led the fight not so much against
the abuses of the monarchy, as against the more fearful evils of moral and
intellectual slavery, and for the liberty of the press, and the unfettered exer-
cise of private judgment.

ESSAY ON MR. ROBERT MONTGOMERY ’S POEMS.

A review of Zhe Ommnipresence of the Deity and Satan, poems by Rob-
ert Montgomery ; contributed to the Edinburgh Review for April, 1830.
Pope was the first Englishman who by the mere sale of his writing real-
ized a sum that enabled him to live in comfort and in perfect independence.
From that time originated the art of puffing, which is now so shamefully
and so successfully carried on that it isthe duty of all who are anxious for the
honor of the literary character to join in discountenancing the practice. We
select Mr. Robert Montgomery for notice, because his works have recetved
more enthusiastic praise and have deserved more unmixed contempt than
any recent ones, so far as our knowledge extends.
The few ingenious lines in Zhe Omnipresence of the Deity are stolen
from Pope, Dryden and other poets. Byron said, addressing the sea :
“Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow.”
Mr. Robert Montgomery steals and twists this into :
“ And thou, vast Ocean, on whose awful face
Time’s iron feet can print no ruin-trace.”
Sir Walter Scott wrote the lines :
“ The dew that on the violet lies
Mocks the dark luster of thine eyes.”
Mr. Robert Montgomery spoils this in plagiarizing it :
“And the bright dew-bead on the bramble lies,
Like liquid rapture upon beauty’s eyes.”
But Mr. Robert Montgomery can make similitudes for himself. No one
else could write such nonsense as

“ The soul, aspiring, pants its source to mount,
* As streams meander level with their fount.”
640 MACAULAY.

 

Further extracts are given, tasteless, commonplace, and even ungram-
matical, as for instance

“For all the thronging woes to life allied
Thy mercy tempers, and Thy cares provide.”

And this tawdry patchwork is what has been described by the puffers
in terms which would require some qualification if used respecting Paradise
Lost !

If our remarks give pain to Mr. Robert Montgomery, we are sorry for it.
To show that we are not actuated by any feeling of personal enmity to-
ward him we hereby give notice that as soon as any book shall, by means of
any puffing, reach a second edition, our intention is to do unto the writer as
we have done unto Mr. Robert Montgomery.

ESSAY ON “JOHN BUNYAN,”

A review contributed to the Edinburgh Review for December, 1830, of
Robert Southey’s Zhe Pilgrim’s Progress, with a Life of John Bunyan.

alr. Southey’s “ Life of Bunyan,” while it cannot add much to the literary
reputation of such a writer, is written in excellent English and in excellent
spirit. Some of Mr. Heath’s illustrations are admirably designed and
executed : Mr. Martin’s does not please us quite as well.

The characteristic peculiarity of the Pilgrim's Progress is that it is the
only work of its kind which possesses a strong human interest. The alle-
gories of Johnson, Addison, and even Spenser had not this quality. It is the
highest miracle of genius that things which are not should be as though they
were —and this miracle, Bunyan, the illiterate tinker, has wrought. His
work, while it commands the admiration of the most fastidious critics, and
was one of the two or three books which Dr. Johnson wished longer, is also
in every nursery a greater favorite than Jack the Grant Killer, The Slough
of Despond and the Wicket Gate, the Interpreter’s House, the House Beau-
tiful, the green Valley of Humiliation, the gloomy and frightful Valley of
the Shadow of Death, the dens of the giants, the tumult of Vanity Fair, the
Delectable Mountains, the Mnchanted Ground, the fair land of Beulah, the
black and cold river of Death — all these stages of Christian's pilgrimage
seem to the reader to be in actual existence.

Bunyan's own history, as told in his Grace dlbounding, is the story of a
most excitable mind in an aye of excitement. He represents himself as a
vile sinner, though it is quite clear that he was not a vicious man, At
ESSAY ON MOORE'S “LIFE OF LORD BYRON.” 641

 

times he fancied that he was possessed by the devil, or that he had committed
the unpardonable sin. Scarcely any mad-house could produce an instance of
delusion so strong, or of misery so acute.

There aresome characters and scenes in the Pilgrim’s Progress which can
be fully comprehended and enjoyed only by persons familiar with the history
of the times through which Bunyan lived. Mr. Greatheart, the guide, for
instance, is a sketch of some stout old captain of Naseby and Worcester,
who, with the praises of God in his mouth and a two-edged sword in his
hand, turned to fight the swearing, drunken bravos of Rupert. There were
many such men as the time-serving By-ends in those changeable days; and
the trial of Faithful, and Vanity Fair is a satire upon the mode in which state
trials were conducted under Charles IT.

Though there were many clever men in England during the latter half
of the seventeenth century, there were only two minds which possessed the
imaginative faculty in a very eminent degree. One of these minds produced
Paradise Lost, the other the Pilgrim’s Progress.

ESSAY ON MOORE'S “LIFE OF LORD BYRON.”

A review contributed to the Edinburgh Review for June, 1831, of Thomas
Moore’s Letters and Journals of Lord Byron.

We have read this book with the greatest pleasure. It deserves to be
classed among the best specimens of English prose; nor is the matter in-
ferior to the manner. The extracts from Lord Byron’s journals and corre-
spondence are in the highest degree valuable.

So sad and dark a story as that of Byron’s life is scarcely to be found in
any work of fiction. He was by birth noble, but poor ; handsome, yet de-
formed ; brilliantly gifted, yet not wholly sound. At twenty-four he found
himself on the highest pinnacle of literary fame. Then, driven from Eng-
land by a howl of contumely, he plunged into wild excesses at Venice, and
then, having drawn his sword in the cause of Grecian liberty, he died at
Missolonghi, a worn-out man of thirty-six.

Byron’s lot was cast in a time of a great literary revolution. Poetry had
been so shackled by artificial rules of supposed correctness that it became
feeble and mechanical and fell into utter decay.

Cowper in England, and Alfieri in Italy were the forerunners of the res-
toration of literature. No writer, not even Sir Walter Scott, contributed so
much to its consummation as Byron, although, strangely enough, his sym-
642 MACAULAY.

 

pathies were with the old school, and his greatest admiration was for Pope.
But Byron the critic and Byron the poet were two very different men.

Byron is not dramatic. All his men,— Harold, the Giaour, Manfred,
and the rest —have the same character, proud, moody, cynical, scorners of
their kind. So with all his women — Haidee, Julia, Leila, Zuleika, Gulnare —
they are all of one breed, soft and gentle, yet capable of being transformed
by passion into tigresses. It was in description and meditation that Byron
excelled. From maniac laughter to piercing lamentation there was not a
single note of human anguish of which he was not master.

The overwrought admiration of Byron has passed away ; but much of
his work will only perish with the English language.

ESSAY ON “LORD BACON,”

A review contributed to the Edinburgh Revtew for July, 1837, of Basil
Montagu’s edition of the works of Francis Bacon.

This truly valuable work is an enthusiastic defence of the great Chan-
cellor. It is easy to forgive the faults of the famous men of the past.
Plato is never sullen, and Cervantes is never petulant.

Bacon was the son of Sir Nicholas Bacon, who was for more than twenty
years the keeper of Queen Elizabeth's great seal. After three years at
Cambridge, which gave him a profound contempt for the university system,
he went to Paris, but on his father’s death returned to England and studied
law. He practiced his profession, was elected to Parliament, published his
“Essays,” and won the friendship of Essex, the queen's favorite. But when
Essex was charged with treason, Bacon turned against him. —a piece of
treachery which Mr. Montagu cannot explain away. He was knighted at
the accession of James I., and was successively appointed Solicitor-General,
Attorney-General, and Keeper of the Great Seal. His administration of
this office was most reprehensible. He and his dependents accepted large
presents from persons engaged in suits that came before him. His illicit
gains were stated by his enemies at a hundred thousand pounds.

In 1621 Bacon had reached the zenith of his fortunes. He had just
published the “Novum Organum," and had been created Viscount St.
Albans. Then came his downfall. He was accused of corruption by a
committee of the House of Commons, and, being put on trial before ‘the
House of Lords, was forced to confess his guilt, ard was sentenced te pay
a fine of £40,000 and to be imprisoned during the King’s pleasure.
' ESSAY ON WARREN HASTINGS. 643

He was, however, at once liberated and his fine remitted, and he retired
in disgrace to Gorhambury. His last years were devoted to philosophy and
science, up to his death in 1626.

The chief peculiarity of Bacon’s philosophy was this, that he aimed at
ends altogether different from those which his predecessors had proposed to
themselves. All the classical and medieval thinkers busied themselves
with metaphysics, considering that natural philosophy, useful inventions,
and the improvement of man’s estate were beneath their notice. Bacon’s
object was “fruit’—the multiplying of human enjoyments and the miti-
gating of human sufferings. Two words form the key of his doctrine —
Utility and Progress. For instance, Plato values arithmetic because the
study of the properties of numbers habituates the mind to the contempla-
tion of pure truth, and raises us above the material universe. Bacon values
it only on account of its uses with reference to that visible and tangible
world which Plato so much despised.

Bacon established his philosophic system by the inductive form of
reasoning. It is nonsense to say that he invented the induction —a mental
process practiced by every human being since the beginning of the world ;
but he did for the inductive method that which Aristotle did for the syllo-
gistic method ; that is to say, he analyzed it well, and preached and prac-
ticed its systematic use.

In keenness of observation Bacon has been equalled, though perhaps
never surpassed. But the largeness of his mind was all his own. “I have
taken,” he said, in a letter written when he was only thirty-one, ‘all knowl-
edge to be my province.” The art which he taught was the art of invent-
ing arts. The knowledge in which he excelled all men was a knowledge
of the mutual relations of all departments of knowledge. -It is painful to
turn back from contemplating Bacon’s philosophy to contemplate his life —
the checkered spectacle of so much glory and so much shame !

ESSAY ON WARREN HASTINGS.

An essay contributed to the Edinburgh Review for October, 1841 on
the Rev. G. R. Gleig’s “ Memoirs of the Life of Warren Hastings.”

Instead of minutely examining this book, we will attempt to give our
own view of the life and character of Mr. Hastings. Our feeling towards
him is not exactly that of the House of Commons which impeached him in
O44 MACAULAY.

 

1787; neither is it that of the House of Commons which uncovered and
stood up to receive him in 1813.

He came of an ancient and honorable, but impoverished family, and it
was one of his earliest ideas to recover the estate of Daylesford, in Wor-
cestershire, which had belonged to his fathers. In 1750 he went to Fort
William (Calcutta) as a clerk in the office of the East India Company.
After two years passed in keeping accounts at Calcutta, he was sent up the
country to Cossimbazar, where he was taken prisoner by Surajah Dowlah, the
Nabob of Bengal, who had declared war against the English. When Clive
conquered Surajah at Plassey, Hastings was appointed the company’s agent
at the court of Meer Jafher, who was installed as Nabob; and in 1761 he
became a member of the Council.

In 1764 he returned to England, still a poor man, though most of his
fellow officials were making fortunes by oppression and extortion. Five
years later he returned to India as head of the East India Company's office
at Madras, and in 1772 was transferred to the Government of Bengal.

As Governor he seems to have laid it down that when he had not as
many lacs (hundred thousands) of rupees as the public service required, he
was to take them from anybody who had. The pressure applied to him by
the Directors in London left him no choice except to commit great wrongs
or to resign his high post. With an empty treasury, with an unpaid army,
with his own salary often in arrears, with deficient crops, they would call
upon him to remit great sums to them. In violation of treaties, he seized
Allahabad and Corah, and sold them to the Nabob of Oude. For forty lacs
of rupees he loaned the same prince a brigade of the company’s troops,
with which he wantonly attacked and conquered the Rohilcund territory,

In 1773 Parliament changed the constitution of the Indian government.
Hastings was made Governor-General, with four councillors, Barwell, Clav-
ering, Monson and Francis—the last named of whom was probably the
author of the famous * Letters of Junius — and a chief justice, Sir Elijah
Impey. A violent quarrel soon arose between Hastings and the majority of
the council, who accused him of misgovernment, After a prolonged contest
waged in India and in London, the Governor-General’s authority was main-
tained, and when his original term of five years expired he was reappointed.
It was well for England that he was the ruler of the Indian dominions at a
crisis when she was struggling with the United States, with France, Spain
and Holland, threatened by the armed neutrality of the Baltic and by a dis-
contented Ireland. It is not too much to say that if he had been taken
from the head of attairs, the year 1780 and 1781 would have been as fatal
to British power in Asia, as to. British power in America, Hyder Ali, the
Sultan of Mysore, fell upon Madras, Tasting’s promptitude drove him
ESSAY ON WARREN HASTINGS. 645

 

back. Next the Rajah of Benares was attacked and, a pretext for a quarrel
having been manufactured, despoiled of his dominions. Then Hastings
joined the Nabob of Oude in plundering the latter’s mother and grand-
mother —the Begums of Oude —of their vast treasure. By such unscrupu-
lous measures was English authority maintained.

In 1785 Hastings returned to England, where he was received with great
honor by the King and the ministry, but the opposition in Parliament, incited
by Edmund Burke and Hasting’s old antagonist, Francis, demanded and
carried his impeachment. On the 13th of February, 1788, began the mem-
orable scene of his trial before the House of Lords, the highest tribunal
of the land. The trial dragged on for over seven years, and ended in
his acquittal. Popular resentment against him, which Burke’s eloquence
had strongly kindled at first, had now faded away. His fortune had been
dissipated by the costs of his defense. He retired to Daylesford, the old
estate of the family, which he had purchased in fulfillment of his boyhood
resolve. There he lived quietly until his death at the age of eighty-six. He
emerged from his retirement in 1813 to give evidence before the House of
Commons upon the renewal of the East India Company’s charter, and was
received with acclamations. He was also made a Privy Councillor.

Warren Hastings’ principles were somewhat lax. His heart was some-
what hard. But though we cannot with truth describe him either as right-
eous or as a merciful ruler, we cannot regard without admiration the
amplitude and fertility of his intellect, his rare talents for command, for
administration and for controversy, his dauntless courage, his honorable
poverty, his fervent zeal for the interests of the state, his noble equa-
nimity, tried by both extremes of fortune, and never disturbed by either.

The remaining essays of Macaulay are mostly historical or biographical
sketches, suggested by the publication of some volume of which they were
published as reviews. They include the essays on Machiavelli, which defends
the character of the famous Italian statesman; on Lord Nugent’s Memort-
als of Hampden; on Burleigh and His Times, a sketch of the reforma-
tion era in English politics ; on Lord Mahon’s War of the Succession in
Spain (1702 to 1710); on Horace Walpole's Letters to Sir Horace Mann, a
subject which is taken up again in the essay on William Pitt, Earl of Chat-
ham ; on Sir William Temple ; on Lord Clive —an essay in which, as in
that on Warren Hastings, Macaulay displays the knowledge gained during
his residence in India from 1835 to 1838; on Ranke’s History of the Popes ;
on Lord Holland; on Frederick the Great of Prussia ; and two literary
biographies, those of Madame D’Arblay and Joseph Addison.
646 MACAULAY.

 

Besides these, there are six essays which are rather critical than purely
historical in character — those on Hallam’s Constitutional History ; a some-
what severe review of Southey’s Colloguies on Society; another of Croker’s
edition of Boswell’s Life of Johnson, which treats Croker's work unfavor-
ably ; a complimentary notice of the treatise on Church and State, written
by W. E. Gladstone, at that time a young Tory member of Parliament ; and
essays on Sir James Mackintosh’s History of the Revolution, and Leigh
Hunt’s Dramatic Works of Wycherley, Congreve, Vanbrugh and Farquhar.

The essay on the Civil Disabilities of the Jews is a political tract showing
the inexpedience of those disabilities, which were soon afterward abolished.

QUOTATIONS FROM MACAULAY'S ESSAYS.

FROM THE Essay on Bacon.

Time glides on; fortune is inconstant ; tempers are soured ; bonds
which seemed indissoluble are daily sundered by interest, by emulation or
by caprice. But no such cause can affect the silent converse which we hold
with the highest of human intellects. That placid intercourse is disturbed
by no jealousies or resentments. These are the old friends who are never
seen with new faces, who are the same in wealth and in poverty, in glory
and in obscurity. With the dead there is no rivalry. In the dead there is
no change. Plato is never sullen. Cervantes is never petulant. Demos-
thenes never comes unseasonably. Dante never stays too long. No difference
of political opinion can alienate Cicero. No heresy can excite the horror of
Bossuet.

FRroM THE Essay oN WARREN HASTINGS,

The culprit was indeed not unworthy of that yreat presence. He had
ruled an extensive and populous country, had made laws and treaties, had
sent forth armies, had sct up and pulled down princes. And in his high
place he had so borne himself that all had feared him, that most had loved
him, and that hatred itself could deny him no title to glory, except virtue.
He looked like a great man, and not like a bad man, \ person small and
emaciated, yet deriving dignity from a carriage, which, while it indicated
deference to the court, indicuted also habitual self-possession and self-
respect; a high and intellectual forehead, a brow pensive but not gloomy, a
mouth of inflexible decision, a face pale and worn, but serene, on which was
written, as legibly as under the picture in the council chamber at Calcutta,
Mens equa in arduts » such was the aspect with which the great Proconsul
presented himself to his judges,
 

 

CHARLES DICKENS,

Died 1870

ENGLAND,

Bonn 1612
CHARLES DICKENS.

Charles Dickens, the great-hearted, humanity-loving creator of David Copperfield, The
Tale of Two Cities, Old Curiosity Shop, Oliver Twist, and a score of other famous novels,
besides innumerable sketches of exquisitely humorous texture, was born at Landport, a sub-
urb of Portsmouth, England, February 7, 1812. He was the second of a family of eight
children. His father, John Dickens, a clerk in the Navy pay office, was an industrious,
painstaking man, but improvident, and has been immortalized by his son in the character of
the ever sanguine Micawber, synonym for all time of the type of grandiloquent, irresistible
ne’er-to-do-well. At the age of nine, the family being then in Camden Town, a suburb
of London, the precocious talent of the future novelist was revealed in a tragedy, entitled
Misnar, the Sultan of India. This was founded on one of the tales of the Genii, which col-
lection, with Don Quixote, Gil Blas, Robinson Crusoe, the novels of Fielding and Smollet,
fortunately found on a shelf in his father’s meagre library, furnished inspiration, and stim-
ulated his imagination throughout a dreary boyhood of distasteful drudgery.

His father becoming bankrupt, was imprisoned for debt in the famous Marshalsea, and
the delicate, sensitive, ambitious boy was put to work in a blacking establishment, owned in
part by a distant relative. Here he was thrown into companionship with the lowest classes,
and saw, with his observing, questioning eyes, all the squalid, grotesque, yet sometimes
broadly amusing drama of life, in one of the oldest and most miserable quarters of London.
Cruel though he always regarded this action on the part of his parents, it proved fortunate for
literature, and, while he never ceased to regret his deprivation of a liberal education, Eton,
Harrow, Rugby and the universities could never have equalled for him this school of poverty
and the street. His emancipation from the blacking manufactory came with a small legacy
left his father, who then sent him to school, and himself became a reporter for the Morning
Chronicle, Dickens’s time in school was short, and at the age of fifteen he was engaged as an
office boy to a solicitor in Gray’s Inn, where experience was again fruitful for future novels.
He mastered shorthand, and at nineteen began to report parliamentary proceedings for the
True Sun, and later in the same capacity was employed by the Morning Chronicle. During
five years of this work, in riding to and from the country with his copy, he saw the last of the
old coaching days, and the old inns, which he has perpetuated for posterity.

One of his first original sketches, AZrs. Joseph Porter over the Way, was published in the
Monthly Magazine, in 1834. Itis included in his Sketches 6y Boz. Being refused pay for sub-
sequent sketches sent to the Monthly Magazine, he wrote Pickwick Papers, under engagement
with the publishers, Chapman & Hall. These papers appeared in monthly installments. The
first two numbers were illustrated by the artist Seymour, who died by his own hand. In the
third his place was taken by Robert William Buss, Thackeray, then an unknown youth, applied
for the position of illustrator, but Dickens chose Halbot K. Browne (Phiz), who completed
the series. But moderately successful on the start, with the introduction of Sam Weller in
the fifth number, the Pickwick Papers became instantly famous, Before the series ended,
the author was the most-talked-of writer in England. Success accomplished, he henceforth
650 CHARLES DICKENS.

 

made his own terms with publishers, producing his novels and tales steadily, in weekly and
monthly numbers, and always disposing of his work with exceptional business ability. In the
same year of the success of Pickwick Papers, he married Catherine, the eldest daughter of
George Hogarth, a writer on the Chronicle. Later he became the editor of Bentley's Mis-
cellany, and during his short connection with this periodical, began Oliver Twist in its pages,
and much of his best work was afterward undertaken for publications with which he connected
himself,

In 1842, accompanied by his wife, he made his memorable first visit to America. Féted
and fawned upon, his impressions took the form on his return, of the American Notes, in
which he satirized, naturally perhaps, but unjustly, his New World admirers. Martin
Chuzzlewit, which was published soon after, was also a vehicle for his criticisms. His
natural restlessness, a strongly marked characteristic, sent him to the Highlands of Scotland
and to Italy, and always with fruitful results. In 1850, he founded Household Words, a
monthly which, through the popularity of his stories published therein, is said to have gained
in Great Britain, a circulation of 90,000 copies. A quarrel with the publishers led him to
purchase their interest and discontinue the magazine, which he soon resumed, under the title
of All the Year Round. This survived, and is now edited by his son and namesake.

Most of his novels were produced serially, which largely accounts for the frequent
criticism of their want of plot in the usual sense of the term. In 185§, in spite of the con-
ventional feeling of the time against such an innovation, he appeared as a reader of his own
creations, thus satisfying an inherent dramatic instinct, previously displayed in the writing of
minor pieces for the stage, and in amateur acting. In this he was also amazingly successful,
and on his second visit to America, is credited by his friend and biographer, Forster, with
profits amounting to £19,000 as the proceeds of thirty-four readings. That he never seriously
attempted dramatic composition is doubtless to be ascribed to lack of opportunity, rather
than talent.

In 1857, he bought Gadshill Place, thus realizing an early ambition. Here, thirteen years
later, he died of apoplexy, caused by overwork. He was buried privately, in the Poet's
Corner of Westminster Abbey, without show or ostentation, as he had wished: an end
befitting a man who had refused a baronetcy offered him by the Queen. He was survived by
five sons and two daughters, the result of a union that terminated unhappily in a separation,
the true reason for which has never been known, and remains an unexplained chapter in
his life.

Of his rank as a novelist there is difference of opinion, but of his genius none. It has
been said of him that he opened a new era in fictitious literature; that no predecessor had
made so many studies from actual and ordinary life, from the scenes and characters nearest
at hand, or had been so original in their delineation. M. Taine, dwells upon his boundless
wealth of imagination, Robert Buchanan says; ‘ The fairy tale of human life as seen first
and last by this good genie of fiction, seems far too delightful to be found fault with just
yet. . . . Ife was the greatest work-a-day humorist that ever lived.” Another critic
declares that Dickens belonged to a serious and moralizing generation. He came in with the
Reform Bill, and partook largely of the spirit of its framers. Even in the joyous /icéwick
Papers there is a serious blow at prison abuses. O¢iver 7 ceist is almost as didactic as one
of Ilarriet Martineau’s tales. Before writing Vicholas Vick/chy, he went down to Yorkshire
like 2 Government Commissioner to inquire into the abuses of the Yorkshire Schools, Hard
Times, it might be added, depicts the miseries of the manufacturing population, Bleak House

the delays of Chancery, but his Christmas Stories are mosaics of costly glass, lighted only by
the glow of the sweetest emotions.
DAVID CUPPERFIELD. 651

 

While many regard that historical masterpiece, Tale of Two Cities as his best effort,
David Copperfield is fixed upon as his representative work, since it is so largely auto-
biographical in its character.

CHRONOLOGY OF DICKENS’S WORKS.

Sketches by Boz ; Sunday Under Three Heads ; The Strange Gentleman; The V: tllage
Coquette ; Pickwick Papers (1836); Oliver Twist, Nicholas Nickleby (1838); Old Curiosity
Shop, Barnaby Rudge (1840); American Notes (1842); Martin Chuzzlewit, Christmas Carol
(1843) ; Chimes (1844); Dombey and Son (1846); Haunted Man (1847); David Copperfield
(1849); Child's History of England (1851); Bleak House (1852); Hard Times (1854); Little
Dorrit (1855); Tale of Two Cities (1859); Hunted Down, Uncommercial Ti vaveler, Great
Expectations (1860) ; Our Mutual Friend (1864); Holiday Romance (1868); Mystery of Edwin
Drood, unfinished (1870).

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

The mother of David Copperfield had been a widow six months at the
time of his birth. She was a fair-haired, childish creature, whom her late
husband had petted and indulged, and so carefully helped over the rough
places of life, that she was peculiarly unfitted to journey on alone.

David’s earliest recollections were of his pretty mother, and of her maid,
Peggotty, plain and unattractive in manner and person, but with the heart of
an angel. She was wholly devoted to her sweet mistress and her delicate
thoughtful son David. David describes her as so very plump, that when-
ever she made any little exertion, the buttons on the back of her gown would
fly off, usually reaching the ground at a considerable distance from her own
person.

As a young child, Davy was a very happy one, tenderly loved by two
good women, one of them his mother ; but just as he was emerging from in-
fancy into boyhood a very sad change came into his life. A gentleman with
beautiful black hair and whiskers made his appearance, and soon persuaded
the gentle widow to marry him.

At the time of the wedding Peggotty was granted two weeks’ absence to
visit her brother at Yarmouth, and Davy was allowed to accompany her.
The brother lived in what was once a barge, but now had been moored upon
the beach, just above high tide; its deck pierced by a stovepipe. This
dwelling, very plain in its exterior, contained all that is most beautiful ina
home — mutual love and devotion. Mr. Peggotty, a great-hearted, gigantic
fisherman, the widow of his former partner, Mrs. Gummidge, Ham, his
nephew, and his niece, the little Emily, as she was called, a very lovable
652 CHARLES DICKENS.

 

child, constituted the family ; and here Davy spent two very happy weeks,
fully believing that the rude cabin on the beach was, next to his own home,
the most beautiful place in the world. Little Emily, near his own age, was
especially dear to him, and with all the innocence of childhood he pledged
his everlasting devotion to her, promising to return and claim her for his
bride.

Davy returned to the Rookery at Blunderstone with Peggotty, to find Mr.
Murdstone, the gentleman with the beautiful black whiskers, installed as his
mother’s husband. Mr. Murdstone lost little time in demonstrating his au-
thority, both over the gentle woman he had enticed into matrimony, and her
son; and with the aid of his unmarried sister Jane, who made the Rookery
her home, all question of supremacy was soon set at rest. Davy was packed
off to Salem House, aschool near London, where a Mr. Creakle, an ignorant
bully, tyrannized over the small boys placed under his charge. Here Davy
became strongly attached to the head boy, James Steerforth, who took the
little David under his patronage, dazzling him by his beauty and accomplish-
ments. Another of Davy’s friends, Tommy Traddles, was of a very differ-
ent fibre, very plain in person, noted for his amiability and cheerfulness un-
der the most discouraging circumstances. Both of these lads were well-
known to him in after life, and their peculiar characteristics, which increased
in force as they entered manhood, greatly influenced his history.

David had been at Salem House less than a vear when summoned home
by the death of his idolized mother, worn out by the domineering husband
and sister-in-law. His grief was violent, and the parting from his dearly
beloved mother was followed by separation from the faithful Peggotty, who,
soon after her dismissal by Miss Murdstone, married Mr. Barkis, a carrier,
who drove a wagon conveying passengers and packages between Blunder-
stone and Yarmouth. Mr, Barkis’s courtship was conducted in a very char-
acteristic fashion by him, Commencing with the peculiar message given
verbally to David to be conveyed to Peggotty, “ Barkis is willin’:"’ months
afterwards the second message was sent by the same channel, * Barkis is
awaitin’ fora answer.” The second message appears to have settled the mat-
ter, ‘The answer desired was doubtless conveyed to him in some mysterious
manner, and when poor Peggotty was separated from the two beings she
loved best in all the world she consented to make happy the home of the
taciturn carrier,

The small property left to David's mother by her father all found its way
alter her death into: Mr. Murdstone’s hands, and thus the little orphan was
left wholly destitute and in his stepfather’s eves a burden to be gotten rid
of as soon as possible. Mr. Murdstone was a partner in a wine Importing
house in London, and Davy was sent there at the age of ten to earn his own
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 653

 

living, his duty being to wash empty bottles and affix labels thereto. His
companions were London boys of the very lowest character, one answering
to the name of Mick Walker, another Mealy Potatoes.

In such companionship his days were spent. His lodgings were in Wind-
sor Terrace, under the roof of Wilkins Micawber.

At the time David first made his acquaintance “ Mr. Micawber was a
stoutish, middle-aged man, with no more hair upon his head than there is upon
an egg ; nothing especially striking in his appearance, except an imposing shirt
collar.” Mrs. Micawber was a thin and faded lady, the mother of twin infants,
also of two other children, the eldest four years old. Mr. Micawber was at this
time ostensibly engaged in soliciting orders for wines and other commodities
on commission, while his real occupation—and an arduous one it often
proved to be — was explaining his present and prospective financial position
to the numerous creditors who called upon him at any and all hours, some of
whom were at times quite ferocious. Such were Davy’s surroundings for
some months, and such they promised to be for an indefinite future, until he
made a bold stroke for liberty. His only known living relative was an aunt
of his father, Miss Betsy Trotwood, said to be very strong minded and very
eccentric. David wrote to Peggotty, learned from her that Miss Trot-
wood lived at Dover, or in the vicinity, and borrowing from her half a
guinea, of which he was robbed before getting out of London, he started for
Dover, walking all the way and buying food with money obtained by the
sale of his waistcoat and jacket, reaching the house of his aunt hungry and
ragged. Here the forlorn boy found a kind home and was made much of
by his aunt and by Mr. Dick, a distant connection of hers, a man whose
mind was somewhat clouded, but amiable and harmless, whom Miss Trot-
wood had taken under her guardianship, thereby saving him from a private
lunatic asylum, where his near relatives desired to place him.

After David was rested and recruited, his aunt placed him at an excellent
school at Canterbury, he boarding at the house of Mr. Wickfield, Miss Trot-
wood’s man of business. Mr. W. was a widower with one child, his daughter
Agnes, a very interesting young girl, who was not only her father’s pet, but
his careful housekeeper and, child though she was, his wise counsellor. She
became a true friend and sister to David, interesting herself with ready sym-
pathy in everything that concerned him. When David became an inmate of
Mr. Wickfield's house, he came into contact with a “red-haired person,” as
he expressed it, who answered to the name of Uriah Heep, about fifteen,
but looking older, having hardly any eyebrows, and no eye-lashes, with a
long, lank, skeleton hand, his whole appearance and manner leaving a most
unpleasant impression upon David. His leading characteristic, according
to his own representations, was humility of the most exasperating nature,
654 CHARLES DICKENS.

 

while his real character, as will appear hereafter, was something very differ-
ent. Inthe midst of such surroundings David grew toward manhood and
began to look back upon his life in London as only a dream.

When seventeen he left school, and, being undecided as to his future oc-
cupation, his aunt suggested his looking about him for a time, and David
set out for a short journey, intending to include in it a visit to his nurse,
Mrs. Barkis, and the Peggottys in the barge at Yarmouth. Stopping in Lon-
don, he met by accident his schoolmate at Salem House, Steerforth, now a
handsome young man, an undergraduate of Oxford, and at his earnest invi-
tation accompanied him to visit his mother at Highgate. Mrs. Steerforth
was a proud imperious woman, whom the son closely resembled in person
and character. She was devoted to her son, worshiping his many lovable
attractive traits of character, and bestowing not less admiration upon his
pride, his self-will and his ungovernable temper. In all her idolatry she was
seconded by her companion, a brilliant woman of about thirty, named Rosa
Dartle, who, though constantly quarreling with him, betrayed the most
devoted attachment to the handsome young man.

After the visit at Highgate was finished, David, accompanied by Steer-
forth, went to Yarmouth, where they were warmly entertained by the Peg-
gottys, and where Steerforth saw for the first time the little Emily, grown to
be a lovely young woman, and betrothed to Ham, her cousin. Steerforth,
gay and debonnaire, became instantly a great favorite with all the inmates of
the barge. Returning to London, David met his aunt, who had taken lodg-
ings for a week at a private hotel, and after certain preliminaries had been
arranged, the most important one being the payment by Miss Trotwood of
one thousand pounds premium, he was entered as an articled clerk in the
office of Spenlow & Jorkins, Proctors, in Doctors Commons. He was in-
stalled in lodgings in Buckingham Street, and svon after gave a dinner in
honor of Steerforth and two of his Oxford associates, at which dinner David
drank more wine than was best for him, and the whole party, going to the
theatre thereafter, he was guilty of some indiscretions, of which he was after-
wards heartily ashamed ; especially as his dear friend Agnes, then visiting in
London, and happening to be present, was a witness, The noble girl invited
him to call upon her, and he did so. Apologizing to her for his escapade, he
was readily forgiven, she taking occasion, however, to warn him against un-
due intimacy with Steerforth, who, with her clear-sightedness, Agnes felt to
be a dangerous friend. She told him that the ‘umble Uriah had, in some
mysterious way, so wormed himself into her father’s confidence, and acquired
such an influence over him, as to demand being taken into partnership ; that
her father had, with very evident reluctance, acceded to the request, and that
she herself had consented, hoping the step would relieve her father of the
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 655

 

burden of anxiety and suffering which seemed fast wearing him out. The
unwelcome news was confirmed to David not long afterwards by Uriah him-
self, who, with that seeming humility which he spread as an unctious varnish
over his exultation at his advancement, boasted of his success, and exasper-
ated the youth nearly to madness by avowing his love for Agnes and his
hope of making her his wife.

At adinner party at which David was present about this time, he met
and renewed his acquaintance with his Salem House school friend, Tommy
Traddles, now a struggling young law student, upon whom [avid called, to
find him domiciled in the house ‘of his old friend Wilkins Micawber. Mr.
Micawber, still struggled with pecuniary straits, and David found that, of
course, the soft hearted Traddles had allowed Micawber to involve him by en-
dorsing one or two of his innumerable I.O. U's. Poor Tommy was engaged to
the dearest girl, at least that was his estimate of her, oft repeated ; one of ten
daughters of a Devonshire curate ; and his absurd good nature to Micawber
was likely to lengthen very materially what promised to be at the shortest a
very long engagement. Receiving a call from Steerforth, he was surprised
to learn that that gentleman had just returned from Yarmouth. He brought
to David a letter from Mrs. Barkis, informing him that her husband was at the
point of death, and David told Steerforth he should go down to Yarmouth
the next day to comfort his old nurse. Steerforth apparently favored his
going, but managed to induce David to visit him and his mother at High-
gate for a day or two. A brief visit was made, and David went to Yar-
mouth, arriving in time to be present at the death of Mr. Barkis, and to hear
a story far more terrible than death, the disappearance of Emily, enticed
away from her home by Steerforth. She was last seen in company with Lit-
timer, Steerforth’s man servant, who had conducted her toa carriage in
which Steerforth was awaiting her. The grief of the honest-hearted Ham
and of her uncle is indescribable ; the latter declaring his intention to devote
his future life to the duty of finding and bringing her back to the home she
had made, desolate.

David went back to London nearly broken-hearted in his sympathy for
his afflicted friends. Soon after he made the acquaintance of and fell into
desperate love with Mr. Spenlow’s beautiful daughter Dora, and in a brief
space of time won her love, and the two chitdren, for such they were in all
respects, were clandestinely engaged. About the same time David's aunt
came up to London to inform him that she had lost nearly all her money,
the result of her own unwise investments, and David commenced the study
of stenography, qualifying himself in due time as a parliamentary reporter.
In the meantime Mr. Spenlow died very suddenly, leaving his daughter
almost penniless, and she went to live with two unmarried aunts at Putney.
656 CHARLES DICKENS.

 

In due time, David, guided by Agnes’s judicious counsel, was received as an
occasional guest at Putney, and at the age of twenty-one, having achieved
for himself a modest income, his bliss was completed by his marriage to
Dora, his child wife, as she desired to be called.

While David was thus entering upon life’s more serious responsibilities,
the Micawber family had left London and taken up their residence at Can-
terbury, where Mr. M. was employed as a clerk in the office of Wickfield
& Heep. Not very long after David’s marriage he received a note from
Micawber inviting Miss Trotwood, Mr. Dick and David to meet Mr. Trad-
dies and himself at Canterbury on a certain morning, to breakfast with him
at the hotel, and afterwards to receive an important communication from
him. They went accordingly, and after breakfast, and at his request, they
all went to Mr. Wickfield’s house, where they met Agnes, Traddles and
Uriah Heep. Mr. Wickfield was ill and unable to be present,

Mr. Micawber, then, in the lofty style of which he was so completely
master, read a statement prepared by himself, of the greatest interest and
importance to his listeners. It was in substance as follows: He had been
engaged by Uriah Heep at a small stipend asa clerk. The salary proving
insufficient for the needs of his family, Uriah Heep had lent him several
small sums of money, receiving notes of hand therefor. He soon found
himself completely in the power of Heep, and this power was used by the
latter to compel him (Micawber) to falsify matters of business, and to assist
in mystifying Mr. Wickfield. Mr. M. stated that he had prepared a long
list of malpractices, too numerous to be detailed at this time, the principal
of which was obtaining Mr, Wickfield’s signature to important documents,
representing them as unimportant. These frauds were committed at times
when Mr. Wickfield was in such mental condition as to be easily influenced,
and Heep had made his victim believe that these transactions were necessary
to cover up some dishonest act of his (Mr. W.’s). All of this villainy was
undertaken by Heep in order to secure a partnership, with full control of all
of Mr. Wickfield’s business and property of all kinds, as well as of trust
funds in his hands. ‘These trust funds included Betsy Trotwood's fortune,
which the man, Heep, had led Mr. W. to believe had been lost by his (Mr.
W.'s) dishonest speculations, and Mr, Wickfield had so represented the mat-
ter to Miss ‘Trotwood. After Micawber had ended his denunciation and ex-
posure, Praddles came forward, armed with a power of attorney from Mr
Wickfield, and compelled Heep to make full confession and restitution in
order to save himself from a long term in prison,

Uniah Heep appears once more in this history. David found him, some
years afterwards, the model prisoner in a model prison, posing as the con-
summate type of an humble, repentant sinner, exhorting to a better life men
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 657

 

like Copperfield, who had not reached the stage of saintship to which he had
himself attained.

David’s aunt recovered nearly all her money, and she and Mr. Dick be-
came residents of London, living very near David and his wife. The latter
remained to the end of her brief life a child, always beautiful and loving,
and winning the love of all with whom she came in contact, unfitted by
character or disposition for the practical duties of life. She was one to be
shielded and guarded, and her loving husband, conscious equally of her
deficiencies and her loveliness, sought by every means to keep fresh the frail
“Blossom,” as his aunt called her, which faded, spite of all his love and
tenderness, and soon all that remained on earth of the beautiful child-wife
were sad sweet memories. After her death David went abroad, spending a
long time away from England, seeking the health which had been much
shattered by his bereavement.

The patient faith of Mr. Peggotty had its reward at last in the recovery
of the little Emily, truly penitent, and very grateful to be welcomed back to
the home, which, under the influence of a wicked man, she had deserted.
Steerforth perished at sea. Both his mother and Rosa Dartle, whose lives
seemed bound up in his, never recovered from the shock of his death, but
lived on for years, hopelessly insane.

Mr. Micawber, with his numerous family, emigrated to Australia, where
he became a magistrate, in every way respected and honored by his fellow
citizens. :

Time, the great consoler, at last brought comfort to the heart of the
bereaved David Copperfield, and in the society of his second wife, known to
us as Agnes Wickfield, and of their interesting children, his days flowed on
in prosperity and happiness.

The “dearest girl” at last became the very dear wife of Tcmmy Trad-
dles, and the young struggling student was eventually the wise and honored
judge of one of England’s. high courts.

Mr. Peggotty, Mrs. Gummidge and Emily went out to Australia, where,
far beyond the reach of idle gossip, Emily became, as described by Mr.
Peggotty : “Cheerful along with me; retired when others is by ; patient ;
liked by young and old; sought out by all that has any trouble. That's
Emily.”

SUMMARY.

Aunt Betsey’s INTERVIEW WITH THE MURDSTONES.

“ And when you had made sure of the poor little fool,” said my aunt ;
“God forgive me that I should call her so; and she gone where you won’t
goinahurry . . . because you had not done wrong enough to her and
658 CHARLES DICKENS.

hers, you must begin to train her, must you? Begin to break her, like a
poor caged bird, and wear her deluded life away in teaching her to sing your
notes?” ‘This is either insanity or intoxication,” said Miss Murdstone, in
a perfect agony at not being able to turn the current of my aunt’s address
toward herself ; “and my suspicion is that it’s intoxication.” Miss Betsey,
without taking the least notice of the interruption, continued to address her-
self to Mr. Murdstone as if there had been no such thing. ‘ Mr. Murd-
stone,” she said, shaking her finger at him, ‘‘ you were a tyrant to the simple
baby, and you broke her heart. She was a lovely baby. . -. I know
that ; I knew it years before you ever saw her, and through the
best part of her weakness you gave her the wounds she died of. There is
the truth of your comfort, however you like it. And you and your instru-
ments may make the most of it.” *¢ Allow me to inquire, Miss Trotwood,”
interposed Miss Murdstone, “whom you are pleased to call, in a choice of
words, in which I am not experienced, my brother's instruments?” Still
stone-deaf to the voice, and utterly unmoved by it, Miss Betsey pursued her
discourse : “ It was clear enough, as I have told you, years before you ever
saw her, and why, in the mysterious dispensation of Providence, you ever
did see her, is more than humanity can comprehend. It was clear enough
that the poor, soft little thing would marry somebody at some time or other,
but I did hope it wouldn't have been as bad as it has turned out. That was
the time, Mr. Murdstone, when she gave birth to her boy here,” said my
aunt ; “to the poor child you sometimes tormented her through afterwards,
which is a disagreeable remembrance, and makes the sight of him odious
now. Ay, ay! you needn’t wince!” said my aunt. “I know its true with-
out that.” He had stood by the door all this while, observant of her, with
a smile upon his face, though his black eyebrows were heavily contracted.
I remarked now that, though the smile was on his face still, his color had
gone in a moment, and he seemed to breathe as if he had been running,
‘Good day, sir,” said my aunt, “and good-bye! Good day to you, too,
ma’am,” said my aunt, turning suddenly upon his sister. “ Let me see you
ride a donkey over my green again, and as sure as you have a head upon
your shoulders, I'll knock your bonnet off and tread uponit !"
Barkis’s COURTSHIP,

“You might tell her, if you would," said) Mr. Barkis, with another slow
look at me, “that Barkis was a-waitin for a answer. Says you — what
name is it?” “Her name?” “Ah!” said Mr. Barkis, with a nod of his
head. “Peggotty.” “Chrisen name? Or nat'ral name?” said Mr. Barkis.
“Oh, it’s not her Christian name. Her Christian name is Clara.” “Ts it
though ?" said Mr. Barkis. He seemed to find an immense flood of reflec-
tion in this circumstance, and sat pondering and inwardly whistling for some
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 659

 

time. ‘“ Well,” he resumed at length. “Says you, ‘Peggotty! Barkis is a-
waitin’ for a answer.’ Says she, perhaps, ‘Answer to what?’ Says you,
‘To what I told you.” ‘What is that?’ says she. ‘Barkis is willin’,’ says

you.
MICAWBER’S ADVICE UPON THE SUBJECT OF HAPPINESS.

“My other piece of advice, Copperfield,” said Micawber, “you know.
Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure nineteen nineteen six,
result happiness. Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure twenty
pounds ought and six, result misery. The blossom is blighted, the leaf is
withered, the god of day goes down upon the dreary scene, and
and in short you are forever floored. As I am.”

SuBLIME DEVOTION oF PEGGOTTY TO EMILY.

“Every night,” said Mr. Peggotty, ‘as reg’lar as the night comes, the
candle must be stood in its old pane of glass, that if ever she should see it,

it may seem to say, ‘Come back, my child, come back!’ If ever there’s a
knock, Ham (partic’ler a soft knock), after dark at your aunt’s door, doen’t
you gonighit. Letitbeher . . notyou . . . . that seesmy

fallen child!”

Micawser Exposinc HEEp’s VILLAINY.

“ Ask Heep if he ever kept a pocket-book in that house,” said Mr. Mi-
cawber, “will you?” I saw Uriah’s lank hand stop involuntary in the
scraping of his chin. ‘Or ask him,” said Mr. Micawber, “if he ever burnt
one there. If he says yes, and asks you where the ashes are, refer him to
Wilkins Micawber and he will hear of something not at all to his advan-
tage!” The triumphant flourish with which Mr. Micawber delivered him-
self of these words had a powerful effect in alarming the mother, who cried
out in much agitation: “Ury, Ury! Be ‘umble and make terms, my dear! “4
“ Mother,” he retorted, “will you keep quiet? You're in a fright, and don’t
know what you say or mean. Umble!” he repeated, looking at me with a
snarl, “I’ve ’umbled some of ’em for a pretty long time back, ‘umble as I.
was !”’

Mrs. MICAWBER UPON “ WAITING FOR SOMETHING TO ‘ TURN UpP.’”

“Just so,” returned Mrs. Micawber. “It’s precisely that. And the fact
is, my dear Mr. Copperfield, that we cannot live without something widely
different from existing circumstances shortly turning up. Now, I am con-
vinced myself, and this I have pointed out to Mr. Micawber several times of
late, that things cannot be expected to turn up of themselves. We must,
in a measure, assist to turn them up. I may be wrong, but I have formed
that opinion.” ,
660 CHARLES DICKENS.

 

Davip’s CARE For His CHILD-WIFE.

“T began to carry her down-stairs every morning, and up-stairs every
night. She would clasp me round the neck and laugh the while, as if I did
it for a wager. Jip would bark and caper around us, and go on before and
look back on the landing, breathing short, to see that we were coming. My
aunt, the best and most cheerful of nurses, would trudge after us, a moving
mass of shawls and pillows. Mr. Dick would not have relinquished his post
of candle-bearer to any one alive. Traddles would be often at the bottom
of the staircase, looking on and taking charge of sportive messages from
Dora to the dearest girl in the world. We made quite a gay procession of
it, and my child-wife was the gayést there. But sometimes, when I took
her up and felt that she was lighter in my arms, a dead blank feeling came
upon me, as if I were approaching to some frozen region yet unseen, that
numbed my life.”

A TALE OF TFWO CITIES.

In the year 1775, as for many years before and after, Tellson’s Bank in
London was a prominent factor of business life in that city. Its offices near
Temple Bar, dingy and ugly and respectable, were regarded by its cus-
tomers with a reverence founded primarily upon the wealth of the House,
but enhanced by their dustiness and general shabbiness. No partner in
that House would have dared to suggest improvement or any innovation
upon the time-honored inconveniences, under which the House had grown
old and wealthy: So wealthy, that * Tellson’s’ was a synonym for great
accumulation of money, as also for unquestioned integrity. United in in-
terest, and equally respected, was * Tellson’s in Paris. In both England
and France the financial affairs of very many prominent and wealthy
families were entirely in the hands of ‘Tellson’s.

Lucie Manette, a girl about eighteen years of age, living in England, had
been in a sense bequeathed to the guardianship of Tellson’s in her infancy.
She was the daughter of a physician of French birth, who resided in Paris,
marricd an English lady, and whose carly wedded life was a very happy one.
Rising rapidly in his profession, with a lovely and loving wife, a bright
future scemed assured to the young couple. But a sad and mysterious
destiny was before them. One evening Doctor Manette was called from his
home by a messenger in a carriage, who spoke of an urgent case in the Rue
A TALE OF TWO CITIES. 661,

 

St. Honoré, and hurried him away. . Dr. Manette never returned, nor were
any tidings of his fate brought to his young wife, who in less than two. years
sank broken hearted into the grave, leaving the little Lucie fatherless and.
motherless. One of the trustees of Mrs. Manette’s property was Mr. Jarvis
Lorry, an old and valued official of Tellson’s, employed by the House,.
as boy and man, both in London and Paris, and to his especial care was her
child entrusted by the dying mother.

After her death the little Lucie was taken by Mr. Lorry to England,
placed in kind hands, and carefully educated. She grew up very lovable
in person and character, possessed of a sunny temperament which made
her very dear to all who knew her. The mystery which surrounded her
father was carefully concealed from her, she believing that both her
parents had died in her early infancy.

Near the close of the year mentioned above, the startling news came to
Tellson’s London house, from their Paris manager, that Doctor Manette,
after eighteen years of confinement in the Bastile, had been recalled to life,
and was then in Paris. A letter was dispatched to Lucie, giving no hint of
the truth, but stating that “some new intelligence, respecting the property
of her father,” rendered it necessary for her to go to Paris. In accordance
with this letter, Miss Manette, with her maid, Miss Pross, started for Paris,
meeting at Dover Mr. Lorry, who was to be her escort to the French capital.
While at the inn in Dover Mr. Lorry, with great tenderness and tact, revealed
to the astonished girl the facts of the restoration of her father to life, and
endeavored to prepare her for the meeting.

Monsieur Ernest Defarge was the keeper of a small wine shop in a nar-
row street in the suburb of Saint Antoine, in Paris. He was a large, swarthy
man, possibly good humored, but certainly stubborn and implacable. Madame
Defarge, a stout woman, with strong features, indicating courage, determina-
tion, and (perhaps) cruelty, seemed im all respects a helpmeet for her hus-.
band. It was upon these worthy people that Mr. Lorry and his young
charge called, and it was under their care, in a lonely garret, they found all
that eighteen years of entombment had spared — an old white-haired man,
making shoes. All memory of the past, all recollections of youth and man-
hood, of the joys and sorrows of life, had gone. Monsieur Defarge asked his
name, and the answer, promptly given, was, “ One hundred and five, North
Tower!” His beautiful daughter took him into her arms, and with the
most touching and loving words and acts, attempted to bring back to him
some remembrance of what he had lost ; but all in vain, and not until many
months had passed, and in their quiet London home, was the devotion of the
daughter rewarded by the restoration to health and reason of the father,
giving a new life and new happiness to the child.
662 CHARLES DICKENS.

 

Their house, in a quiet street corner near Soho Square, was the home of
two happy people ; the white-haired man, feeling himself blessed in the
affection and care of his loving daughter, and she, in her turn, rejoicing in
the new ties, which made her life full of tender cares and loving acts.
Gradually they made acquaintances, and as the doctor’s scientific attain-
ments became known, his professional services were called into requisition,
enlarging the family purse, as well as the circle of family friends. And thus
the years went by, five happy, uneventful years, until 1780.

In that year Doctor Manette and daughter were summoned to the Old
Bailey Court as witnesses in the case of Charles Darnay, indicted for treason.
Charles Darnay was a young Frenchman, living in London, who made fre-
quent visits to France on business of importance, the nature of which was
not known even to those with whom he was on the most friendly terms. On
his return from one of these visits five years before he met upon the packet
ship, while crossing the Channel, Mr. Lorry and Miss Manette, then on their
return from France, having in their care Doctor Manette, just after his rescue
from the Bastile.

An acquaintance, begun at that time, had continued to the present,
Darnay having presented letters to the Doctor which satisfied him as to
his character. These visits to France, and some little mystery which
attached to them, were made the pretext for the terrible charge now brought
before the Old Bailey Court. His accusers were two spies employed by the
British Government ; their names John Barsad and Roger Cly. The latter
had been for a time Charles Darnay’s servant, and pretended to have found
in his desk lists of British troops and ships, which were in course of prep-
aration for service in America, and which lists he, the said Darnay, intended
to convey to the French Government.

A rising Old Bailey lawyer named Stryver was counsel for the prisoner.
The lawyer for the Crown bent all his efforts to prove that Darnay was seen
at certain times in the immediate vicinity of certain dock-yards, and one wit-
ness testified with great positiveness to having seen the prisoner at a certain
time and place, and when, on his cross examination, he was asked whether he
had ever seen any man closely resembling him, his reply was, * Never any one
who could be mistaken for him.”

Stryver then said, “ Look well upon my learned friend there,” pointing to
another lawyer in the court; “are they not very like each other?" The
witness was obliged to admit the close resemblance, and the damaging effect
of his testimony was neutralized,

The lawyer thus referred to, and whose resemblance to the prisoner
startled every one in the court room, was Mr. Sydney Carton, a man of abil-
ity, but indolent, indifferent to his own welfare, giving up to vulgar dissipa-
A TALE OF TWO CITIES. 663

 

tion time and talents which properly used would have made him a valuable
member of society. He was an intimate and to some extent a friend of
Stryver, aiding the latter by his legal knowledge and capacity. Stryver, far
inferior to Carton in all the better traits of manhood, was ambitious, push-
ing, and self-satisfied. He was always ready to profit by Carton’s sugges-
tions, and used him as a stepping-stone in his upward course, or, in other
words, Stryver was the Lion, Carton the Jackal who provided and prepared
the food for the King of Beasts. They had been at school together, where
Stryver had received the credit for work prepared for him by Carton, and in
the Law courts, the same system was carried out, Carton providing the legal
acumen, which Stryver exhibited to the bench and bar.

The case of the Crown versus Darnay failed completely, and he was tri-
umphantly acquitted.

The incidents of the trial created a very friendly feeling on the part of
Doctor Manette towards the two lawyers, and they became frequent visitors
at the house on Soho Square. The corner was a wonderful corner for echoes,
and the tread of people passing seemed to the inmates of the house to be
perpetuated and repeated many times over. Miss Manette’s fancy endowed
these echoes with new and startling properties, for they seemed to be the
echoes of all the footsteps that were coming by and by into her life and her
father’s. The strength of this fancy seemed to grow, and communicate itself
to her friends. Sydney Carton, dull and listless as he usually seemed, was
especially struck by it, and declared that to him, too, these echoing footsteps
were prophetic of his, as well as their future. For, without the slightest
hope or wish on his part for a return of interest, he had pledged himself,
body and soul, to Lucie Manette, and the time finally came, when with a
proud humility, he avowed his hopeless devotion to her, neither asking or
desiring anything, but the opportunity to be of service to her.

“For you and for any dear to you, I would do anything. If my career
were of that better kind, that there was any opportunity or capacity of sac-
rifice in it, I would embrace any sacrifice for you, and for those dear to you.
Try to hold me in your mind at some quiet times, as ardent and sincere in
this onething. The time will come, the time will not be long in coming, when
new ties will be formed about you ; ties that will bind you yet more tenderly
to the home you so adorn, the dearest ties that will ever grace and gladden
you. O, Miss Manette, when the little picture of a happy father’s face looks
up in yours ; when you see your own bright beauty springing up at your feet,
think now and then that there is a man who would give his life, to keep a
life you love, besides you. Farewell, God bless you,” he said, and left her.
_ The new ties were, indeed, soon formed, for Charles Darnay had won her
love, and ere long he became her husband. Happy months and years fol-
664 CHARLES DICKENS.

 

lowed in the house upon the corner. The countles$ footsteps still echoed
and re-echoed upon the pavement without, and in due course of time the
sweet sound of little Lucie’s tiny footsteps made joyous echoes in the
mother’s house and heart.

But all through these years there were other echoes from a distance, that
rumbled menancingly in the corner; and when the little Lucie was ap-
proaching her sixth birthday the sounds became more and more terrific, tell-
ing of a great storm ready to burst over France. For it was the fateful
year 1789, and that awful restlessness and discontent, which had been grow-
ing in intensity and strength many years, had burst forth in revolution.
The long enduring masses had learned at last their power, and by one wild
savage impulse every barrier had been broken. The serf had become the
master, and the long repressed desire for vengeance was gratified. The
nobles, the place holders, the courtiers, fled from the country, seeking a
refuge anywhere, to escape from the wrath to come.

During these years of unrest the little wine shop of St. Antoine had
been the resort of many half-starved Parisian working men, and of their
poverty-stricken brethren in the provinces, where many dark schemes of
revenge and murder were concocted and prepared for execution as soon as
the time was rife therefor. Though under the suspicion of government
spies, nothing was detected, for the eyes of Madame Defarge saw nothing,
and yet saw everything, while spies came and went; drank her wine, and
tried in vain to elicit from her something criminating, while with her eyes
upon her knitting needles, her brain was registering their faces for future
reference.

The day the mob attacked the Bastile, Mons. Defarge led a large force
of men, while Madame I). headed a troop of Amazons, eager for blood.
When the fortress surrendered, Defarge was among the first to cross the
draw-bridge, and finding one of the guards of the prison, he compelled him
to lead the way to number one hundred five North Tower.

Here he found, as he expected, some relics of poor old Doctor Manette ;
among others, some scraps of paper written upon, which he hastily concealed
in his pocket, and then set fire to the scanty furniture of the room.

The echoes of the tumults in Paris reached the little house in Soho
Square, and caused many a shudder to the gentle Lucie Darnay, and many
a prayer of thanksgiving went up to heaven that her dear ones were safe in
another land. And safe they were, until one day in August, 1792, Charles
Darnay received at Tellson’s Bank, a letter addressed to “ Monsieur, hereto-

pe ne Marquis St. Evremonde of France, in care of Tellson & Co.,
ondon,”
A TALE OF TWO CITIES. 665:

 

Charles Darnay, though the fact was known to but one person in Eng-,
land, namely, Doctor Manette, was the Marquis St. Evremonde, and the:
letter was from the steward of the St. Evremonde estates, dated Prison of.
the Abbaye, Paris, informing his master that he had been imprisoned, and
was in danger of the guillotine, because he had been the agent of an emi-
grant, and imploring the Marquis to come to Paris and save him.

Charles Darnay found it impossible to resist this appeal. He made hasty
arrangements, writing to. Doctor Manette and to his wife letters, to be de-
livered to them after his departure, and started the next night for Paris. He
arrived there, after many delays, under arrest, and was conveyed to the
prison of La Force. His old friend, Mr. Lorry, left London one day before
him, on business for the bank. Mr. L. was accompanied by Jerry Cruncher,
an old porter and messenger for the bank, who spent his days doing odd
jobs and errands about the streets, and (though none of his employers sus-
pected it) very many of his nights in and about the grave-yards, engaged in
providing medical students and practitioners with subjects. Poor Jerry’s
conscience had been sadly conventionalized ; for he talked and thought of
himself as an honest tradesman, and believed, if his occupation was not
strictly correct from a moral point of view, the sin rested wholly upon the
wicked surgeons. He was, whatever his moral obliquities, a faithful friend
and servant to Mr. Lorry, and the old gentleman trusted him fully.

Soon after Mr. Lorry’s arrival in Paris, while sitting alone in the evening
in his rooms at the bank, he was startled by the entrance of Lucie Darnay
and her father. From them he learned that Charles Darnay was in prison in
Paris. Doctor Manette had hastened hither, feeling sure that his having
. been a prisoner in the Bastile would be a protection to himself and his
daughter, and give him power to save Charles.

In this belief the Doctor was right, for, while Lucie spent the night in
an agony of suspense and terror, her father, going boldly into the streets,
was carried by a friendly mob to La Force, and late the next day Mr. Lorry
received a note from him stating that Charles was safe, and that he (the
Doctor) would remain with him for the present. Four days later Doctor
Manette returned. He stated to Mr. Lorry that in the prison he found a
self-appointed tribunal in session, going through the forms of trying the
prisoners ; in some cases releasing them, in others ordering their murder, or
in some few cases returning them to their cells. To this informal court the
Doctor announced his name and profession, and told of his long imprison-
ment in the Bastile, when one of the so called judges arose and identified
him. He proved to be the citizen Defarge.

At the Doctor’s request Charles was brought before the lawless court,
but remanded to custody, the Doctor being permitted to remain with him
666 CHARLES DICKENS.

 

until the murders in the prisons were over. Though unable to obtain his
son-in-law’s release, the popularity of the Doctor continued and increased,
until, in a very short time, he became the inspecting physician of three
prisons, including La Force. His skill as a surgeon and his history as a
Bastile captive, made him a man of marked influence everywhere. One
year and three months passed by and Charles was still in prison, while his
wife and child waited and hoped; Doctor Manette pursued his merciful
calling in the prisons, and Mr. Lorry kept secure the property and records
entrusted to his care. But at last the suspense was ended, and “ Charles
Evremonde, called Darnay,” was summoned before the Revolutionary Tri-
bunal, charged with being an aristocrat and an emigrant, but, by the testi-
mony of Dr. Manette, he was acquitted, and was carried by the fickle crowd
in triumph to his home.

No pen can do justice to the scene in that household, united after a
separation so long and so full of despairing anxiety. But, alas, their joy
was sadly brief, for the same night the citizen Evremonde was again
arrested, having been denounced by Citizen and Citizeness Defarge and by
one other, At the time of his re-arrest, Miss Pross, Mrs. Darnay’s maid,
accompanied by Jerry Cruncher, was absent, engaged in making some small
purchases for the family. Calling at a wine shop, while standing at the
counter, a man passed near to her whom she immediately recognized as her
brother Solomon, who had many years before stolen all her money and run
away. She addressed him very affectionately, calling him Solomon, but her
friendliness was not reciprocated, for he repulsed her very gruffly, informing
her that he was an official of the Revolutionary Government, and was
known in Paris as a Frenchman and a patriot

Poor Miss Pross was lost in amazement and disgust, that her brother
should be in any way associated with the horrible creatures who governed
Paris, and who in her eyes were the incarnation of fiendish cruelty. But
great as was her surprise at the sight of the long lost brother, it did not exceed
the astonishment of Jerry Cruncher, who had Tecognized in the same per-
son, one of the English government spies, who had attempted to swear
away Charles Darnay's life many years before, at the Old Bailey. Mr.
Cruncher’s memory brought back to him only the face, and while trying to
recall the name, was assisted by a voice at his side, which pronounced it
“Barsad.”” ‘Turning at the voice, he saw Sydney Carton, who explained to
Miss Pross that he had just arrived at Mr. Lorry’s, and after escorting her
home, he desired a little conversation with her brother. After some
demurring on the part of Barsad, he consented to accompany Mr, Carton
and Jerry to the bank. Qn their arrival, Mr. Carton, in the presence of
Mr. Lorry and Jerry, informed Barsad that he knew him as a former spy of
A TALE OF TWO CITIES. 667

 

the British government, and that he had seen and heard him that very even-
ing in conversation with Roger Cly, who was Barsad’s associate witness at
the trial of Charles Darnay, at the Old Bailey. This statement Barsad
stoutly denied, that individual having died in London many years before,
and, putting his hand in his pocket, produced a burial certificate, attested
in due form, when with a burst of indignation, the honest tradesman, Jerry
Cruncher, interrupted him by saying that the coffin purporting to contain
the body of Roger Cly, was filled with paving stones. This revelation
astonished Barsad, but not more than it did Mr. Lorry and Sydney Carton.
Under its influence, by threats of denunciation to the Revoiutionary authori-
ties, Sydney Carton succeeded in making a contract with him, the nature of
which will appear hereafter. Barsad was dismissed, and Sydney Carton,
bidding Mr. Lorry good night, went out, as he said, to prowl about the
streets. During his wanderings he found a chemist’s shop, where he had
some small packets put up for him, and then went out and paced the streets,
meditating deeply upon the past and the present, his mind calm and clear,
his memory traveling back to childhood and early youth, and then, to the
death of his father, and the solemn words of the burial service came again
to his mind and to his lips.

“JT am the resurrection and the life saith the Lord: he that believeth in
me, though he were dead, yet shall he live : and whosoever liveth and be-
lieveth in me shall never die.”

When the time came, in the morning, he went to the Tribunal where
Charles Evremonde, called Darnay, was again arraigned and denounced as
an enemy of the Republic, one of a family of tyrants who had infamously
oppressed the people.

The Public Prosecutor said he was denounced openly by three voices,
Ernest Defarge, Therese Defarge, his wife, and Alexander Manette, physician.
Doctor Manette denied, with great indignation, that he had denounced the
husband of his child, but was silenced by the Court, and Citizen Defarge was
called tothe witness stand. Hestated that he had been a servant to Doctor
Manette at the time of his imprisonment, told of the release eighteen years
after, and of the state of the prisoner when delivered up to him. He further
stated that when the Bastile was taken, he was directed by a gaoler to one
hundred and five North Tower, and that there he had found a paper in the
handwriting of Doctor Manette. This paper he produced and handed to the
President, who ordered it read. The paper was in substance as follows :

“While walking for exercise one evening in December, 1757 (I think
the 22d), on the quay by the Seine, a carriage driven very rapidly was stopped
just as it passed me, and two young men alighted from it and addressed me,
insisting upon my entering the carriage, which I did, and it was rapidly
668 CHARLES DICKENS.

 

driven beyond the North Barrier, about two miles, when it struck off the
main avenue and stopped at a solitary house. As we entered, I discovered
the two young men to be, without doubt, twin brothers. I was conducted
to an upper chamber, where I found a woman of great beauty, but little
over twenty, her arms bound with sashes and handkerchiefs. On one of the
sashes I saw the armorial bearing of a noble and the letter E. She was ina
high fever of the brain, raving constantly of her husband, her father, and her
brother. I administered sedatives with but slight effect, and after sitting by
her bedside for half an hour, one of the brothers, apparently the elder, in-
formed me there was another patient, and conducted me to a species of loft
over a stable, where I found a handsome peasant boy about seventeen, I
saw that he was dying. I asked the gentleman how the boy was wounded,
and he answered sneeringly that this serf had attacked his brother, who was
compelled to kill him.

“The boy told me his terrible story. The woman I had left dying was
his sister. She had been married but a short time to a good man whom she
loved and with whom she was happy, when the younger one of these brothers
saw and admired her, and finding that she hated and feared him, compelled
her husband, who was not strong, to remain out in the mists of night and to
fabor during the day, until exhaustion and death came to his relief. His
weeping widow was stolen from her home by the two brothers and concealed,
but the boy had tracked the high-born scoundrel to that house and attacked
him with his sword.

““«And now,’ said he, ‘lift me up, Doctor,’ and while I was trying to raise
him gently, he got upon his feet, raised his right hand and addressed the
elder brother.

“Marquis, in the days when all these things are to be answered for, I
summon you and yours to the last of a bad race, to answer for them. I
summon your brother, the worst of a bad race, to answer for them separ-
ately.” He stood for an instant with his hand raised, and when it dropped,
he also dropped, and I laid him down dead.

Returning to the bedside of the woman, I found no change. She con-
tinued to rave, and repeat the words, husband, father, brother. In this state
she lingered for a week, and then her sufferings suddenly ended. The
brothers, who never left the house during that time, seemed much relieved
when informed that the woman was dead. The Marquis politely dismissed
me, handing me a rouleau of gold. This I took from his hand, but laid
upon the table, refusing to accept money from them. The next day the
gold was left at my house. During that day I decided to write to the
Minister, in order to relieve my mind of its great burden. My letter was
not completed till the morning of the last day of the year. On ‘that morn-
A TALE OF TWO CITIES. 669

 

ing a lady called upon me, who announced herself as the wife of the Mar-
quis St. Evremonde, and I soon connected her husband with the terrible
scenes I had so recently witnessed. She had heard in some way of the
poor woman whose tragic death I had seen, and had called upon me, wish-
ing to learn something of her, she said, not knowing of her death, that she
might extend some womanly sympathy to her. She had hoped to avert the
wrath of heaven from her husband’s family, for the sake, especially, of her
infant son Charles. I sealed and delivered the letter myself to the Minister,
not mentioning the names of the brothers, which I had just learned. That
night I was decoyed from my home, to this my living grave, and now, in my
unbearable agony, do I denounce these brothers and their descendants, to
the last of their race. I denounce them to heaven and to earth.”

As soon as the reading was ended, a roar, like that of wild beasts rose
from the assemblage, and Citizen Evremonde was unanimously condemned
to death within twenty-four hours! The prisoner was returned to his cell,
and the heart-broken wife was carried insensible to a coach, and from the
coach was carried up the stairway to her rooms by Sydney Carton, who, in
parting, bent down and kissed her face, murmuring these words, which were
heard by the child Lucie: “A life you love.”

Going into the street, he paused for a moment in uncertainty, and then
saying to himself, “It is best that these people should know there is such a
man as I here,” he walked on to St. Antoine, entered Defarge’s wine shop,
called for wine, and, while drinking it, heard Madame Defarge demanding
of her husband, and some others, the arrest and denunciation of Lucie
Darnay. Returning to Mr. Lorry, he told him of this new danger, and
they two arranged all the details for immediate departure for England.
He himself was going at noon to the prison, to bid farewell to Charles
Darnay, and he handed to Mr. Lorry his passport to keep for him until
his return from the prison, enjoining him to have everything in complete
readiness to start at two o’clock. “The moment I come,” said he, “take
me in, and drive away.” He exacted from Mr. Lorry a solemn promise,
that nothing should induce him to deviate from the course decided upon by
them both.

Charles Darnay spent his last day of life in writing to his wife, to her
father, and to Mr. Lorry. Just after the clock struck one, Sydney Car-
ton was admitted to his cell. Without any delay, Carton compelled him
to exchange clothing with him; he in vain protesting against what he
believed to be Carton’s fruitless sacrifice of life. As soon as Charles had
put on the clothing Sydney Carton had removed, he was directed by the
latter to sit down to the table and write as he should dictate, and Syd-
ney Carton dictated to him these words :

\
670 CHARLES DICKENS.

 

“If you remember the words that passed between us long ago, you will
readily comprehend this when you see it. You do remember them, I know.
It is not in your nature to forget them. I am thankful that the time has
come when I can prove them. That I do so, is no subject for regret or
grief.” Carton was standing behind him, and had drawn something from
his breast, which produced a vapor, the effect of which upon the prisoner
was very decided. His eyes were clouded, and he seemed to be losing his
power to attend to what Carton was saying, and suddenly sprang to his feet,
and for a few seconds struggled with the man who had come to lay down
his life for him, and then, in a moment, he was stretched insensible on the
ground.

Carton placed the paper in his breast pocket, then quickly arranged his
own dress, and softly called “Come in,” and Barsad, the spy, entered. He
hastily instructed Barsad to take Darney, still insensible, to the court-yard,
where the others were, to tell Mr. Lorry to remember his promise, and
drive away.

At two o’clock the name of Citizen Evremonde was called, and the man
who answered to that name, came calmly forth to die.

At that same hour, Mr. Lorry and his party, including the supposed
Sydney Carton, not yet restored to consciousness, were driving as rapidly as
possible towards the Northern coast. Jerry Cruncher and Miss Pross were
to follow at a later hour, and Jerry, having gone out to complete some final
arrangements, Miss Pross was left alone in the deserted rooms. While thus
alone, Madame Defarge entered, fearing that her intended victim, Lucie,
might escape her. Not seeing any one except Miss Pross, she attempted to
enter the inner rooms, and as Miss Pross was determined she should not go
any further in her investigations, a spirited altercation ensued, the one talking
violently and rapidly in French, the other, with equal violence and rapidity, in
English. Neither understood the language of the other. Finally, to prevent
Madame D., from opening the inner doors, Miss Pross seized her round the
waist. Madame 1). drew from her pocket a pistol, Miss Pross struck it
upwards; the pistol exploded, and the Citizeness Defarge fell dead upon
the floor,

There were fifty-two victims of the guillotine that day. Men said about
the city, that the face of Evremonde was the most peaceful looking man's
face ever beheld there. Many added, that he looked sublime and_ pro-
phetic. If he had given any utterance to his prophetic thoughts, some of
them would have been these ;

“I see the lives for which I lay down my life, peaceful, useful, prosperous
and happy, in that England which I shall see no more. I see her with
a child upon her bosom, who bears my name. [see her father, aged and
A TALE OF TWO CITIES. 671
bent, but otherwise restored and at peace. I see the good old man, so long
their friend, enriching them with all he has, and passing tranquilly to his
reward.

“T see that I hold a sanctuary in their hearts, and in the hearts of their
descendants, generations hence. I see her an old woman, weeping for me
on the anniversary of this day. I see her and her husband, their course
done, lying side by side in their last earthly bed, and I know that each was
not more honored and held sacred in the other’s soul than I was in the
souls of both.

“TJ gee that child who bore my name, a man, winning his way up in that
path of life which once was mine ; running it so well, that my name is made
illustrious there by the light of his. I see the blots I threw upon it faded
away.

“Tt is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done. It is afar,
far better rest that I go to, than I have ever known.”
 

 

CHARLES KINGSLEY

Died 1875

ENGLAND

BORN 1819
CHARLES KINGSLEY.

Charles Kingsley was born at Dartmoor, Devonshire, England, June 12, 1819. He was
educated at King’s College, London, and Magdalene College, Cambridge, graduating at
Cambridge in 1842, with the highest honors. He took orders, and became Curate of Evers-
ley the year of graduation, and Rector of the same parish soon after ; was made a Canon of
Chester in 1869, and Canon of Westminster in 1873. His death occurred January 23, 1875.

As a preacher, he was distinguished for his great earnestness and force. He was a warm,
personal friend, and, in a sense, a disciple of Rev. J. F. D. Maurice, taking a prominent posi-
tion with him in favor of what was then styled Christian Socialism. Two of his novels,
Alton Locke and Yeast, both published in 1849, embody his views on this subject.

He was sometimes called jestingly, the Apostle of Muscular Christianity, being a warm
advocate of athletic sports, and himself delighting in fishing, mountain climbing, etc. He
was a man of very decided opinions on all moral and political questions, and his indignation
at oppression and injustice were always very plainly expressed. He was, as is clearly seen
in Westward Ho !/ intensely Protestant, and like his hero, fearless in word and action when
combating wrong.

His place in literature is a very high one. His Saint's Tragedy is full of beauties.
Many of his poems are admirable in sentiment and expression. He excelled in description,
and his work ‘shows a love for and familiarity with natural scenery almost unsurpassed by
any English author. His books for children, such as Glaucus, The Water Babies, and
others, written primarily for his own sons and daughters, show a poetic fancy and delicacy
which make them models of that class of literature.

WESTWARD HO!

In the year 1577 Francis Drake embarked at Plymouth, England, upon
his famous expedition, from which he returned three years afterward, having
sailed around the world. He took with him a number of the younger sons
of prominent English families, who shared the dangers and privations of his
wonderful voyage, and came back with him to share the welcome which
England gave to the bold commander and his brave and faithful sailors —
for the results of the voyage were in every way gratifying to Queen Eliza-
beth and her subjects.
676 CHARLES KINGSLEY.

 

Spanish galleons had been captured and their treasure brought to enrich
the Royal Treasury and the officers and men of the fleet, as well as the mer-
chants who had invested their money in fitting out the ships ; and Drake had
made his name a sound of terror to the settlements of Spanish subjects in
all parts of America.

The town of Bideford, in Devonshire, then one of the principal ports of
England, was especially jubilant, for five of her brave youth had returned
after three years’ absence to make glad their homes.

One of the five was the hero of this story, Amyas Leigh, the younger
son of Mrs. Leigh of Burrough Court. Amyas was twenty years of age, but
a giant in size andstrength, fair-haired and fair-browed, brave and impetuous
when occasion required, but at home, gentle, loving and obedient. After
his father’s death, four years before, his school life became very distasteful
to him. He found little in books to satisfy his aspirations, for his eve and
his heart were full of the broad, blue sea, which lay spread out so close to
his home.

His guardian, Sir Richard Grenville, one of England's naval heroes, find-
ing the boy’s longings to be altogether seaward, obtained Captain Drake's
consent to receive him on his ship.

Frank Leigh, his elder brother, was in all respects a complete contrast to
the younger. As delicately beautiful as his brother was huge and strong,
he had won high honors at school and at Exeter College, where he gained
the friendship of Sir Philip Sidney and many other accomplished young
men. From Oxford he had gone to Heidelberg, studying there two years,
and becoming the tutor of two young German Princes, he had traveled with
them through France and Italy, and finally returned to England, where,
through the influence of Sir Richard Grenville, he was speedily appointed to
some office in the Queen's household, became a favorite of the Queen, and
by his varied accomplishments secured the friendship of the most refined
and intellectual people of the day. He was visiting his mother at Bideford
when .\myas arrived, and both remained there to rejoice the heart of the
proud mother, whose life was bound up in her two sons, differing so widely
in disposition, but both noble, brave and true.

Avery happy young man was .\myas Leigh, finding himself home again,
welcomed by his beautiful mother and the brother whom he loved so w ell,
and welcomed also by so many ot his young companions and friends. But
the sweet face of Rose Salterne was missing from Bideford, and Amyas,
poor fellow, thought he could have spared almost any one else better than
the fair Rose, Rose Salterne was the only daughter of the Mayor of Bide-
ford, a very worthy merchant of that town, who had found it necessary a
short time before our hero returned to send his daughter away to his
WESTWARD HO! 677

 

brother, who lived at Kilkhampton, on the Atlantic cliffs, where she was too
secluded and too far away for her numerous admirers to persecute her (and
her father) with their attentions; for the admiration she had inspired
seemed to be universal ; and love sonnets, nosegays and all sorts of missives
were constantly offered at her shrine. Amyas had believed himself in love ;
with her before he went to the South Seas, and this fancy had so grown
during his absence that he believed her presence necessary to his happiness.

Thomas Leigh was a younger brother of Mr. Leigh, of Burrough Court,
who had become a Papist during the reign of Mary Tudor, and had so re-
mained after the accession of Elizabeth. He lived ina rambling dark house
called “Chapel,” perched on the Atlantic Cliffs, a few miles from Bideford.
This house was believed in the neighborhood to be the concealed headquar-
ters of certain Jesuits and Seminary priests, but though much was suspected
little was known. His son Eustace had been educated at Rheims for the
Roman Catholic priesthood, but was now at his father’s house, not having as
yet entered upon his priestly career. He was a handsome young man, plaus-
ible in manner, endeavoring to make and keep friends, which was not easy
for him to do, for there was a certain air of insincerity mingled with his
cordiality, which often repelled those he was most anxious to conciliate.

At this time, the air was full of rumors of Spanish and Popish plots
against Queen Elizabeth, and all the west coast of England was carefully
guarded by the loyal people to prevent the coming and going of Jesuit emis-
saries from Italy, Spain and Ireland. Soon after the return of Amyas, a
friend of his, Will Cary, of Clovelly Court, received one day an anonymous
warning that a spy from Ireland would probably land that night somewhere
in the vicinity, and in consequence, Will Cary, the two Leighs and others,
posted themselves in positions to guard all the possible points where a boat
could land. Amyas, knowing the coast well, believed that Freshwater, a se-
cluded spot half a mile from the town, would be the place selected, and he
and his brother took up a position at the head of a narrow path, which led
from the beach, Frank being about twenty yards from Amyas. Suddenly a
man appeared coming up the path. Frank sprang forward and challenged
the stranger, who struck him three times with a dagger before Amyas could
teach the spot. As soon as he drew near the ruffian, he struck him with the
hilt of his sword, breaking his jaw and felling him to the earth. In a mo-
ment more, he discovered it was his cousin Eustace ; took a packet of papers
from him and then hurried him away, to save him from exposure and disgrace.
The papers were intended for two priests then at the Chapel, and among
them was a letter from Saunders, the Pope’s Legate in Ireland, informing
them that eight hundred Spanish soldiers had landed at Smerwick.
678 CHARLES KINGSLEY.

All the letters were taken by Amyas to Sir Richard Grenville, and the re-
sult of the night’s adventure was, that Amyas was to start for Ireland, as
soon as the wind would permit.

His brother Frank, not seriously wounded but disabled for a time, was
taken to the Ship Tavern in Bideford. While there, he succeeded in gath-
ering to a dinner given by him, all the most prominent aspirants to the hand
and heart of Rose Salterne, in which number Frank himself must be included.
After dinner, Frank, with wonderful diplomacy, induced them all to
forget their rivalries, swear friendship each to the others, and unite them-
selves in what they called the “ Brotherhood of the Rose,” the band of union,
being their love for the beautiful Rose Salterne, and a pledge of devotion to
her service. The next day Amyas and some of the others set sail for Ire-
land; Frank, as soon as he had recovered, returned to London, and Mistress
Rose was left in peace.

On Christmas Day, at Smerwick, Amyas captured a Spanish officer of high
rank, Don Guzman De Soto, and he, being held for ransom, as was the cus-
tom of the time, was invited by Sir Richard Grenville to become his guest at
Stow, his residence in Devon. Don Guzman was soon a favorite among the
gentry and people of the neighborhood, and by his beauty and accomplish-
ments, won the heart of fair Rose Salterne. After a long delay the ransom
arrived, and Don Guzman announced to his new friends his intended depart-
ure, and his appointment as Spanish Governor of Ia Guayra, in Caraccas.

Will Cary, one of the Brotherhood of the Rose, learning of the love pas-
sages between the Spaniard and Miss Salterne, forced a quarrel upon the
former, and fought a duel with him, with no serious results to either, but
causing considerable talk, which coming to the ears of the Mayor of Bide-
ford, he sent his daughter away to Kilkhampton, from which place she soon
disappeared, and it was believed the beautiful girl had sacrificed home and
country for her Spanish love.

Amyas Leigh, at this time, had gone “ Westward Ho,” with Sir Humphrey
Gilbert’s Expedition, for the settlement of Newfoundland and Labrador, a
scheme which ended in disaster, and from which A\myas returned, very poor
in purse (having lost considerable money which he had “adventured"’), but
alive and well. From Will Cary, he learned all that was known as to Rose
Salterne, namely: About six weeks after the duel Rose had disappeared,
and with much difficulty was traced to Lundy's Island, ten miles from the
coast, and had probably sailed thence the day after her disappearance. A
woman named Lucy Passmore, a fortune-teller, and, in the common esteem,
a witch, had vanished from her cottage on the beach at the sume time, and
was believed to have accompanied Rose as her maid. ‘This was all that was
known or even surmised until months afterward,
WESTWARD HO! 679

 

Mr. Salterne, nearly crazed by his misfortune, urged upon Amyas the
fitting out of a ship to go to find his daughter, offering all the money
necessary for her full equipment and Amyas, with his mother’s consent, and
the co-operation of the Brotherhood, undertook the work. Will Cary
mortgaged a farm and volunteered his services. Frank Leigh did the same,
and on the 15th of November, 1583, the good ship “ Rose” weighed anchor
in Bideford Bay, and the next day stood out to sea, carrying Captain Amyas
Leigh, his brother Frank, Will Cary, and a crew of one hundred men. Among
the men were a number of old sailors, who had taken more than one voyage
to the Spanish main, and who were delighted with the prospect of fighting
and plundering the Spaniards, under the brave Captain Leigh. Perhaps the
happiest man on board was Salvation Yeo, whose history was a most
romantic one, and must be briefly rehearsed here.

He had been a sailor all his life ; had been with Captain John Hawkins
when he had made his voyages to Guinea for negro slaves, which were sold
in the West Indies, and in the year 1575 had gone out as gunner in a ship
commanded by Captain John Oxenham, who sailed from Plymouth for New
Spain, promising his men to find, in some way or other, fabulous wealth for
himself and his crew of seventy English sailors. Captain Oxenham landed
near Nombre de Dios, ran his ship aground, crossed the Isthmus of Panama
with his crew, and reaching a river which flowed into the Pacific Ocean (or
as it was then called, the South Sea), they constructed a pinnace, on which
they reached the Isle of Pearls in the Gulf of Panama. There they
remained sixteen days, waiting for a ship from Lima, which he captured,
and with it a beautiful young woman and her daughter, a pretty child of
six or seven,

This lady was the wife of a wealthy Spaniard, living at Lima. She had
run away from her husband with her child, in the expectation that the ship
would be captured, as it was, by Oxenham. Having secured the lady, her
child and some treasure, Oxenham and his crew returned to the Isthmus.
But from that time everything went wrong. They were pursued by the
Spanish and wandered miserably about in the woods for some months, and
at last all were captured by a party of Spanish soldiers, led on by the
deserted husband. Captain Oxenham was hanged, the lady committed sui-
cide, the child was carried off by the husband, and Salvation Yeo, after
numerous hardships, fell into the hands of the inquisition at Lima. He
finally escaped, and after a long series of adventures, found his way back
to England, with but one purpose in his life, and that to go back to South
America, and fulfill the promise he had made to Oxenham, namely: To
care for the “little maid,” who had been carried off, at the time of his
capture on the Isthmus. And now he believed that his prayers had been
680 CHARLES KINGSLEY.

 

answered, for he was sailing Westward Ho! in an English ship, well armed,
and commanded by a noble, God-fearing man.

Another remarkable character on board the Rose was John Brimblecome,
son of a schoolmaster at Bideford, who had becomea clergyman. Jack, as he
was usually called, had been a corpulent, dull-witted boy, who appeared to
think more of his stomach than his brain, and had grown up to manhood
retaining to some extent his boyish characteristics. The young gentlemen
at the Ship Tavern had, as a joke, initiated him into the Brotherhood of the
Rose, but he took it in dead earnest, for as soon as he heard of Miss Sal-
terne’s flight he went to Will Cary first, and afterwards all the way to Lon-
don to see Frank Leigh, urging his claims and demanding an opportunity to
fulfill the obligation he had taken to protect her. He was accepted as
chaplain, and sailed in the Rose, with a glad heart.

With favorable winds the Rose soon reached the Bermuda Islands, where
they tarried four days, breathing in the delights of that earthly paradise.
Taking on fresh water they sailed westward to Margarita Island. Here they
captured a Spanish vessel, and with it some valuable pearls, but finding the
Spanish settlements had been warned of their approach, Amyas sailed south-
westward to the coast of Caraccas. When abreast of Cape Codera they saw a
large ship, which had passed them in the night, sailing eastward, about ten miles
away. Salvation Yeo urged Amyas to put about and capture the ship, saying :

“We ought to do the Lord’s work thoroughly. She is delivered into
your hands and you will have to give an account of her.’

“The Lord’s work, I take it, is to cripple the Spaniard and exalt her
Majesty the Queen.”

Amyas was for a time irresolute, but Frank’s counsel, which was to go
stiaight to La Guayra, prevailed, and the Rose continued on her course.
The same day at noon two Indians in acanoe came alongside and informed
Captain Leigh that there were ships of war at La Guayra waiting for his
ship ; also that Don Guzman, the Governor, sailed eastward the day before,
looking for the English vessel, Amyas bitterly regretted that he had let his
enemy go when he was so near him, but it was then too late. He soon came
in sight of a low, black cliff, a battery at either end, enclosing a few narrow
streets of white houses upon a flat strip of land not over two hundred yards
in breadth, and behind a high mountain wall. Three well-armed ships were
riding at anchor just off the town. A\myas called a council of war, consisting
of Prank, Cary and himself, together with Yeo, Brimblecome and Drew, the
master,

While the others were planning Frank was absorbed in a different mat-
ter, He discovered off to the castward of the town, up the mountain side,
a larec, low white house, surrounded by trees and gardens. The roval Nag
WESTWARD HO! 681

 

of Spain floated over it. Surely it must be the Governor’s house ! and Frank
gazed until he believed he saw a woman’s figure walking upon the terrace in
front of the house, and finally persuaded himself it was Rose. Amyas pro-
nounced it impossible to surprise the town by land, for if the crew went
ashore the ship would be left defenceless. It was finally agreed to run down
to the westward a mile and a half and anchor until midnight. Frank imme-
diately declared his purpose to land alone, find his way to the Governor’s
house, and speak with Rose. Amyas endeavored in vain to dissuade him
from his rash purpose, and finally consented, on condition that he himself
should accompany him. 51x of the crew volunteered to man a boat, and the
two brothers went down over the side on their desperate errand, leaving Will
Cary (the tears glistening in his eyes at the thought that it was a final leave-
taking) in command. Stepping on shore, leaving the boat’s crew in waiting,
Frank and Amyas went up a path made of white shell sand, ending at a wicket
gate, which they found open. Straight on Frank pushed, his eyes riveted
upon a light burning in an upper window. As they neared the house they
saw twenty negroes asleep on the terrace, one of whom awakened with a
cry, and immediately the light above was extinguished, and while Amyas
was endeavoring to persuade Frank to return, the figure of a woman, envel-
oped in a cloak stole around the corner of the house and came toward them.
Behind her walked another figure, that of a tall man, following her steps.
The moonlight revealed his face. Said Amyas, “It is Eustace, our cousin,”
and all flashed upon him. The scoundrel had crossed the Atlantic to warn
Don Guzman of the sailing of the Rose, in order to be revenged upon his
cousins, The two figures stopped close to Frank and Amyas, who were in
deep shadow, and were compelled to listen to the conversation, in which
Eustace accused Rose (for it was she) of unfaithfulness to her husband in
wandering towards the beach at night, when she knew his enemies were in
the neighborhood, seeking to plunder his house and to carry her off.

“ Why should not your husband know of this on his return ?” said Eustace.

““Why not, indeed,” replied Rose, “ while you are here. You the tempter,
the eavesdropper, the sunderer of loving hearts. You, serpent, who found
our home a paradise, and see it now a hell!”

“ My only sin is to have loved you too well,” was his answer. “You have
blighted my life, broken my heart. I have sought you over land and sea to
complete your conversion to the true church, to the blessed Virgin Mother,
who would save your soul.”

“Depart with your Virgin Mother, sir, and tempt me no more. I, Donna
Rosa de Soto, bid you leave this place now and forever ; after having
insulted me by talking of your love, ard tempted me to give up that faith
which my husband promised me he would respect and protect. Go, sir!”
682 CHARLES KINGSLEY.

 

Thoroughly maddened by her stinging rebuke, but retaining a quiet man-
ner, the wretch hinted to her a threat of the inquisition. Her answer was
a shriek, which rang through the woods, and Amyas sprang forward, sword in
hand, but Eustace slipped off his long cloak and threw it over Amyas’s head
and saved his own worthless life, the negroes coming forward and surround-
ing him. Amyas stepped back. Frank was making a wild appeal to Rose,
and she was bidding him farewell. Appearances had put her wholly in Eus-
tace’s power. Amyas stood for a moment irresolute. He would gladly have
gone back, killed Eustace and then fought his way to the ship, or die sword
in hand ; but the thought of his mother and of his promise to her to care for
Frank, came to him, and he seized his brother and dragged him away, the
negroes in full pursuit, and throwing large stones, which might at any
moment disable both of them. Down the two rushed together, shouting to
the men in the boat ; a stone struck Frank’s head ; down he dropped. The
giant threw him over his shoulder, and hurried on. He reaches the boat, Frank
still in his arms ; another heavy blow, and Amyas loses his senses. When he
recovers, he finds himself in the boat with two only of the six boatmen, both of
them wounded, the others dead, and Frank lost ; the men knew nothing of him.
The boat was driving out to sea; a furious land breeze prevented her return
to the shore. They reached the ship, weighed anchor and stwod off and on
until morning. And so ended that fatal venture of mistaken chivalry.

The next day they were attacked by the Spanish ships they had seen lying
at La Guayra, all of which were sunk by the Rose, while she, in turn, was dis-
abled, and Amyas ran her inshore and up a small river. Finding the air full
of miasma, and the men falling sick, he ordered the whole crew, with all
their stores and movables of every kind, up to the hills in the vicinity, which
were considerably above the sea level. Here they fortified themselves, and
repelled successfully a large force of Spaniards under command of Don Guz-
man. A wounded Indian, last of sixteen, who was with the Spaniards, was
captured, and by kind words and presents was induced to remain with them.
Amyas then revealed his plan to his men, which was, with the young Indian as
guide, to go through the passes of the mountains, to the Orinoco, and find
Manoa, which, according to the highest Spanish authorities at that time, was
a city far surpassing in wealth and civilization all that had been found in the
New World. And so eighty vahant men vowed to spend two vears if nec-
essary, in seeking the golden city ; and, receiving the Holy Communion at
midnight, took up their line of march.

For three years, this band of brave Englishmen, reduced in that time from
eighty to forty-four, wandered up and down along the banks of the Orinoco
and the Amazon ; hundreds of miles of forest and river had been traversed
until at last all hope of finding Manoa was at an end. And then a new plan
WESTWARD HO! 683

 

was matured and joyfully accepted, namely, to cross the Cordilleras, seize a
gold train going to or from Santa Fé de Bogota, then march to the nearest
river, build canoes, try to reach the sea and seize a Spanish ship and then
home to England. They were wholly destitute of fire-arms, their muskets
having rusted out and been thrown away, and their weapons were their
swords, large bows and arrows, and the pocuna or blow-gun of the Indians.
With a courage and a faith as strong as when they left La Guayra, they
started immediately, paddling patiently up a branch of the river Meta.

At the foot of some rapids they found an Indian village, where they were
received with great kindness. Halting here for a few days, they found a
young girl dressed as an Indian princess, of very fair complexion, and
regarded by the Indians with a mysterious awe, which the Englishmen ~
could not understand. The Indians called her the ‘“ Daughter of the Sun,”
and Amyas believed her to be a descendant of the Incas. When the Eng-
lishmen left the village, Ayacanora, as she was called, secretly followed
them and joined them a few days after. Coming to the vicinity of Sante Fé
they learned that a gold train was seen going down from that place to the
Magdalena River. This train, after a skirmish with the Spanish soldiers
guarding it, they captured, securing a large amount of gold, and muskets
enough to arm them all.

Resuming their march, on the fourth day they reached a river broad enough
for navigation. Here they built canoes, and stowing away their gold and
arms, down they floated to the Magdalena and to the sea. Ayacanora
accompanied them, each man pledging himself to treat her as a sister, and to
hang anyone who forgot his duty towards the innocent girl who had so
fully trusted in them.

In the bay of Santa Martha, at midnight, a noble Spanish galleon was
riding at anchor ; all hands asleep, except a guard or two on watch, when
suddenly from their canoes, our bold Englishmen reached the deck, and,
after a short but desperate fight, the great ship was captured, the anchor
weighed, and off for Merry England they sailed.

Besides the gold which they had brought in their canoes, they found great
treasures of gold and pearls on the galleon, and in ransacking the ship, they
found an elderly Englishwoman, covered with scars, emaciated by famine,
and nearly idiotic from the sufferings she had borne. She proved to be Lucy
Passmore, the witch, as she was called in Devon, who had gone away with Rose
Salterne years before. Under the kindest treatment she soon recovered
sufficiently to tell her dreadful story. Frank Leigh and Rose Salterne were
burned at the stake, and she herself, after horrible tortures, was sentenced to
perpetual imprisonment at Seville. The sufferings of the poor creature were
soon ended, for long before the ship reached England she was buried at sea.
684 CHARLES KINGSLEY.

 

During the voyage Ayacanora recalled something of her early childhood;
enough to satisfy all, and especially Salvation Yeo, that she was his “ Little
Maid,” John Oxenham's daughter, who had been abandoned in the woods
by her mother's husband, but saved and cared for by the Indian tribe, of
which she was the Queen when found by the English.

Amyas sailed into Bideford ‘River, and there upon the quay stood his
mother to welcome home her boys. But she found but one, and of him it
was required to whisper, with quivering lips, the sad fate of her noble Frank.
Another melancholy duty was to inform Mr. Salterne of the tragic fate of
his beautiful daughter, who, as Amyas told her father, was worthy of all the
love his brother and himself had shown; “for if she sinned like a woman,
she died like a saint.” Her father received the news with apparent calm-
ness, but in a few short hours he was found dead and cold, kneeling
by his daughter's bed, his hand upon his prayer book, open at the burial
service.

Six months of quiet at home were granted to Amyas, and then he was
called upon to aid in the defence of England against the Spanish Armada.
After years of vast preparation, it had actually sailed, with the avowed pur-
pose of invading and subjugating England. Amyas was put in command
of several vessels, his flag ship, the ** Vengeance,” having been bequeathed to
him by Mr. Salterne. He learned by a note from Sir Francis Drake, his old
admiral, that Don Guzman was commandant of the soldiers on the “ Santa
Catharina,” and after several days of hard fighting had passed, he found the
ship, and fought her for hours, but was obliged to withdraw for want of am-
munition. In the few days that followed, the Armada was defeated, its ships
captured, sunk or scattered; but .\myas, getting upon the heels of the “Santa
Catharina,” followed her for sixteen days, until, in a terrific storm of light-
ning and wind, in her efforts to escape the * Vengeance,” she was wrecked
on Lundy’s Island, and all on board were lost.

Amyas, furious with disappointment that his foe had thus escaped him,
hurled his sword into the sea, and, at the same instant, a flash of lightning
struck the “ Vengeance,” killing Salvation Yeo, and blinding for life Sir Amyas
Leigh (for he was knighted on one of the first days of the feht), He was
carried home, and Yeo, whom Amyas styled “Phe flower and pattern of all
bold mariners, the truest of friends and most terrible of foes,” was buried
at Northam, with all possible honor,

Mrs, Leigh, praising God for his mercies to her brave son, welcomed him
home to Burrough, and there, in the society of his loving wife, Ayacanora,
honored by England as a brave and a good man, the fires and hatred of
malice burned out, and his wentle nature asserting itself, free from the dross
of passion, the noble Knight, Sir Amyas Letgh, lived out his days, content.
WESTWARD HO! 685

 

EXTRACTS.

“Tslands and capes hung high in air, with their inverted images below
them ; long sand hills rolled and weltered in the mirage; and the yellow
flower bed and huge thorny cacti, like giant candelabra, which clothed the
glaring slopes, twisted, tossed and flickered, till the whole scene seemed one
blazing phantom-world, in which everything was as unstable as it was fan-
tastic, even to the sun itself, distorted into strange oval and pear-shaped
figures by the beds of crimson mist through which he sank to rest.”

“ And do you forget, Cary, that the more fair this passing world of time,
by so much the more fair is that eternal world, whereof all here is but a
shadow and a dream; by so much the more fair is He, before whose throne
the four mystic beasts, the substantial ideas of nature, and her powers, stand
day and night crying, ‘Holy, Holy, Lord God of Hosts, Thou hast made
all things, and for Thy pleasure they are and were created!’ If He beso
prodigal of his own glory as to have decked these lonely shores with splen-
dors beyond all our dreams, what must be the glory of His face itself!”

“ Ah, it’s all very well for you, Captain,’ said some grumbling younker:
‘Yes, sirrah, it is very well for me, as long as God is with me; but He is
with every man in this ship, 1 would have you to know, as much as he is
with me.’”

“What a tree that was! Borne up on roots, or rather walls, of twisted
board, some twelve feet high, between which the whole crew, their ammuni-
tion and provisions, were housed roomily, rose the enormous trunk, full forty
feet in girth, towering like some tall lighthouse, smooth for an hundred feet,
then crowned with boughs, each of which was a stately tree, whose topmost
twigs were fully two hundred and fifty feet from the ground. Once in the
tree, you were within a new world. Flower gardens were there in plenty ;
for ‘every limb was covered with pendant cactuses, gorgeous orchises, and
wild pines; and while one half of the tree was clothed in rich foliage, the
other half,-utterly leafless, bore on every twig, brilliant yellow flowers,
around which humming birds whirred all day long. Parrots peeped in and
out of every cranny, while within the airy woodland, brilliant lizards basked
like living gems upon the bark, gaudy finches flitted and chirruped, butter-
flies of every size and color hovered over the topmost twigs, innumerable
insects hummed from morn till eve; and when the sun went down, tree
toads came out to snore and croak till dawn. There was more life round
that one tree than in a whole square mile of English soil.”
 

 

 

DINAH MARIA MULOCK-CRAIR.

BORN 1826 ENGLAND Dico 1887
DINAH MARIA MULOCK-CRAIK.

Possessing so keen a knowledge of that complex organism, the human heart, Miss Mulock,
like Nathaniel Hawthorne, created characters almost startling in their life-likeness, but,
unlike Hawthorne, she could not paint the enthusiastic, neither was she a success in dealing
with aught but good, or semi-good people. It has been said that she knew a good woman
through and through, but other women, from the outside only ; consequently, Miss Mulock
seems to have found it difficult to treat ill-natured and mistaken-notioned women with
justice.

She seemed to have insight only through her sympathies, and this trait constituted at
once her strength and her weakness. Not seeking height or strength of character, but good-
ness, her writings are noted for their pure, moral tone. Miss Mulock enjoyed the proud
distinction of never having written a line that a child might not safely read, and when
we consider the vast amount of literary work she has published, this is no insignificant
compliment.

Born in Stoke-upon-Trent, Staffordshire, England, in 1826, Miss Mulock was early left
an orphan, with two small brothers depending upon her for support. Mrs. Mulock’s annuity
expired with her, and although the family exchequer was not exactly empty, Miss Mulock
found it necessary to keep the proverbial wolf from the door with her pen.

In 1864, by obtaining a literary pension of sixty pounds a year, the struggle for existence
was considerably lessened, and an idea of her literary success may be estimated from the fact
that she left an estate of $85,000 at her death. Her first published volume was Rhoda's
Lesson, a story for children, which was followed soon after, in 1849, by The Ogilvies, a
novel over which the literary world made much ado. Then came Olve (1850); Head of the
Family (1852); Avillon (1853); John Halifax, Gentleman (1856).

Up to this time, Miss Mulock had never allowed her name to be affixed to her writings ;
but when John Halifax was claimed by another writer, Miss Mulock, in December, 1856,
wrote to a gentleman in New York, acknowledging the authorship of John Halifax and all
her previous works. Miss Mulock thought, and in this opinion she was sustained by many
of her literary friends, that 4 Life for a Life (1859), showed her best work ; however, the
public in general award the palm to John Halifax.

As a pleasant reminder of the popularity of this favorite novel, Miss Mulock, on her wed-
ding day, received from an anonymous admirer a gold pen-holder, upon which was inscribed
‘John Halifax.” Miss Mulock’s marriage came about in a most romantic way. In 1865 a
serious railway accident happened near Miss Mulock’s home, and Mr. George Lillie Craik,
Jr., being severely injured, Miss Mulock had him brought to her house. Giving him com-
plete possession, and leaving her servants to attend to his wants, she went to live witha
friend near by. When Mr. Craik became convalescent, his hostess, a woman of charming
manner and rare loveliness of character, visited him every day. A fine conversationalist, she
succeeded in making the patient forget his pain for the time. Although a few years younger
than Miss Mulock, Mr. Craik became infatuated, naturally, proposed to that lady and was
accepted. After her marriage, Mrs. Craik continued her literary work, but made it secondary
690 DINAH MARIA MULOCK-CRALK.

 

to her household duties, some weeks writing scarcely more than one hour. A Noble Life
(1866) was well received, as were also J/y Mother and J (1874); translations from the French of
Mme. de Witt, Guizot’s J/. de Barante, Will Denbigh, Nobleman (one of the No Name series,
1877); Plain Speaking (1882); Fairy Stories, and collections of romantic tales, domestic
tales, some ten or eleven long stories for children, and many volumes of girl's stories.

Miss Mulock was also a frequent contributor to the leading magazines, and her last com-
pleted work was an article in 74e Forum, published in New York; and at her death, for that
same periodical, she was at work on another article entitled Vearing the End.

Mrs. Craik died at Shortlands, Kent, England, October 12, 1887. As she had always
predicted, her death being caused by failure of the heart’s action. Strange, her life ended so
peacefully, and in exactly the same manner as her description of the death of John Halifax
and his wife Ursula — a description written thirty-one years before.

Although Miss Mulock, as a poet, never soared to any great height, her verses, chiefly
lyrical, will live long after her pretentious effusions have passed into oblivion. PAifip my
King was written for Mrs. Craik’s god-son, who afterwards became known as “‘ the
blind poet,” Philip Bourke Marston. Rothesay Bay, By the Alma River and Philip my,
King can never lose their freshness, while Douglas, Tender and True will only be forgotten
when the human heart forgets the art of loving.

JOHN HALIFAX. GENTLEMAN,

John Halifax was only a ragged, muddy, and miserable-looking boy when
I, Phineas Fletcher, made his acquaintance. I said miserable-looking ; and
yet, after all, he was not that: the lad was tall and strongly built ; had
straight, muscular limbs, square, broad shoulders, and crisp curls of bright
thick hair. His eyes were those honest brown that look through, as well as
at one, and in spite of his rags, Sally Watkins, once my nurse, changed her
mind about calling him a vagabond, as had been her evident intention, and
contented herself with telling him to get out of Mr. Fletcher's road. Both
my father and myself, who were about to take shelter under her porch from
the rain, looked inquiringly toward the person she had accosted.

“Thee need not go out into the wet, my lad. Keep close to the wall
and there will be shelter enough for us and thee,” said my father as he pulled
under cover my little hand carriage. The lad, with a grateful look, put out
his hand likewise and pushed me farther in. After that he scarcely stirred,
but remained leaning against the wall: an expression on his wan face that
might have belonged to a man of thirty rather than a boy of fourteen. My
father, a methodical business man, pulling out his ponderous silver watch
and discovering that twenty-three minutes had been lost on account of the
shower, said he must go to the tan-yard, but did not know how he was going
JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 691

 

to get me home; for alas! I could not walk much, and was too weak and
puny to go by myself in the little hand-carriage my father had invented
for me.

My poor father. It was hard to have thy only surviving relative repre-
sented by me! Yet he was always kind to his lad.

“Sally Watkins! do any o’ thy lads want to earn an honest penny?”
But Sally was out of hearing, and the strange lad started forward, while the
blood rushed over his face.

“Sir, [ want work ; may I earn the penny?”

His voice was musical, and as he took off his tattered cap and looked in
a manly, fearless fashion, right up into my father’s face, the old man scanned
him closely. Questioning the lad in his stern way, my father learned that
his name was John Halifax ; that he was an orphan, fourteen years of age;
had come from Cornwall, and was used to work.

“Let me see — art thou a man to be trusted?” and, holding him off, my
father regarded the lad with eyes that were the terror of all the rogues in
Norton Bury.

John Halifax neither answered nor declined his eyes. He met the attack
and conquered.

“Lad, shall I give thee thy groat now?”

“Not till I’ve earned it, sir.”

My father slipped the money into my hand and left us. The Cornish lad
leaned in his old place, but did not speak. As we waited in the rain, the
mayor’s children, whom I knew by sight, appeared in the window opposite,
and seemed much amused, those rosy-faced children, to see us out in the
rain. Another child, a visitor, came to the window, then disappeared ; soon
after we saw the front door half opened, and heard loud words spoken.

“T will, I say!”

“But you shan’t, Miss Ursula !’

“But I will.” And there stood the little girl with a loaf in one hand and
a carving knife in the other. Succeeding in cutting a large slice of bread,
she held it out to John Halifax.

“Take it, poor boy ; you look so hungry. Do take it.” As the servant
then forced her in we heard a loud, sharp cry.

After a few minutes John Halifax crossed the street and picked up the
slice of bread. He eyed it ravenously, but it was a long time before he ate
a morsel; and when he did so it was quietly and slowly, looking very
thoughtful all the while. Soon the rain ceased and we took our way home.

“How strong you are,” said I, half sadly, as he, with a sudden pull,
saved me from being overturned by young Mr. Brithwood of the Mythe
House. ‘So tall and so strong.”
692 DINAH MARIA MULOCK-CRAIK.

 

“Well, I shall need my strength to earn my living.”

When I asked John Halifax if he would like to learn a trade, the lad
hesitated, as if weighing his speech, then made answer :

“Once I thought I would like to be what my father was, a gentleman
and a scholar.”

“And your mother ?”’

The lad turned round, his cheek hot, his lip quivering: ‘She is dead;
I do not like to hear strangers talk about my mother.”

I begged his pardon, then chatting on we became quite sociable, and
soon arrived at my father’s handsome house.

“ Ah, here we are at home,” I eagerly cried, and the lad, just glancing at
the house, said :

“Good day, then — which means good bye.” :

This lad’s face had come into my lonely life like a flashof sunshine. To
let it go from me was like going back into the dark. My heart cried after
him, “ Don’t go; ah, here comes my father.”

‘So here thee be; hast thee taken care of my son? Did he give thee
thy groat?”

We neither of us had thought of the money, and so my father, smiling
at us, said: “Here is thy groat,; and a shilling for being kind to my son.”

“Thank you ; I want payment only for my work,” said John Halifax
proudly, as he put the shilling back into my father’s hand. He, good man,
was astonished, and telling John Halifax that he was an odd boy, my father
bade me come in to my dinner. Then, with a sudden thought, he turned
back and asked the lad if he were hungry. Nature gave way at last. Great
tears came into the lad’s eyes. ‘ Nearly starving,’ he made answer to the
question.

“Bless me, then get in and have thy dinner; but first—thou art a
decent lad, of decent parents ?”’

“Yes,” almost indignantly.

“ Thee hast never been in jail?”

“No,” thundered the lad. ‘1 don’t want your dinner. I would have
stayed because your son asked me. He was kind to me, and I liked him.
Good day, sir.”

I caught him by the hand and would not let him go. Se I brought him
into my father’s house. John Halifax took his dinner in the kitchen, then
Jael, at my request, brought him into me, much against her will,

‘What dost thou want with this beggar boy !"" she whispered.

John heard. “ Madame,” he said, with a droll bow, * you mistake. I never
hegyed in my life. Tam a person of independent property, which consists
of my head and my two hands. I hope to realize a large fortune some day.”
JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 693
Jael retired abundantly mystified ; as for us, we waxed so merry, I scarcely
knew myself. Then the lad spoke of going, but I, who had resolved upon a
plan, determined to keep him until my father’s return. Strange how I loved
this lad ; I cannot account for the feeling ; I know not why the soul of Jon-
athan clave to the soul of David. I only know that the first day I beheld
the lad, John Halifax, I, Phineas Fletcher, loved him as my ownsoul. My
earnestness persuaded him, and he staid. Later on he asked me if I could
read and write, and I, who prided myself on my knowledge, told him I could.
Taking a little case of leather from his pocket, he unwound the cord, and
drew forth a small black silk bag. From this bag he exposed to my somewhat
curious gaze a small book. He would not let it out of his hands, but held
it so that I could see the leaves. It was a Greek and English testament.
John pointed to the fly-leaf, and I read: “Guy Halifax, his book.” “Guy
Halifax, gentleman, married Muriel Joyce, spinster, May 17, in the year of our
Lord 1779.”

“ John Halifax, their son, born June 18, 1780.”

“ Guy Halifax, died Jan. 4, 1781.”

“Now write,” said John, “ Muriel Halifax, died Jan. 1, 1791.”

‘Nothing more?” said I. : :

“ Nothing more,” said John Halifax, as he looked at the fly-leaf, then
carefully put the precious volume in his pocket. That is all I ever heard of
the boy’s parentage, neither do I think he knew more himself. Again he
wanted to go, but I coaxed him into the garden. As we sat at the end of the
arbor, the Avon, Shakespeare’s Avon, flowing at our feet, my father came to
us, and after asking the lad many strange and as I thought useless questions,
he hired John Halifax to drive the cart used for carrying the skins of defunct
animals.

After that first day, I did not see John Halifax for some time. Now my
father’s servant, he was not allowed to visit me. “Thee must not take the
lad out of his place,” said my father when I asked him to allow John Hali-
fax to come to me in my sick room, where, alas! I spent so much of
my life, But when I was better, I came down stairs, and watched at the win-

. dow for John — my John Halifax. He drove by in the cart, and I called him
to stop, which he did.

“T am glad you're better,” was all he said; as I appeared at the door ; but
one look of his, expressed as much as half a dozen sympathetic sentences. of
other people.

“T’ll come toxsee you, this afternoon,” I called after him, as he drove
away, and sol did. Mentally and physically, I abhorred the tan-yard. To
enter it made me ill, but I wanted to see John Halifax, so determined to
brave all the disagreeable consequences. We had a holiday, and sat on a pile
694 DINAH MARIA MULOCK-CRAIK.

 

of tan-bark, John and I, and as our hearts warmed more and more towards
each other, John told me that the pile of bark was his bed by night. He
said it was a delightful thing to wake up in the night and find thousands and
thousands of stars keeping watch over you. But I, who looked with horror
upon sleeping out of nights, resolved to see Sally Watkins, and ask her to
let John have Bill’s garret for two-pence a night, as winter would soon be
upon us.

John seemed to like the idea, so we started at once. Bill had gone to be
a soldier, and poor Sally, as she showed us the room, could do nothing but
weep and curse “Bonyparty.” The attic was small and low, but John
gazed about it with an air of proud possession, declaring he would be as
happy asa king. And so he was, bless his honest manly heart. Hard work
all day over, left him too tired to do anything at night but sleep. Never-
theless, my David, as I loved to call him, found many spare moments by
day, as he drove his cart, and taught himself to read and add up. My
father, Abel Fletcher, hearing of his progress, and taking a kindly interest
in the lad, although he would not acknowledge it, promoted John Halifax
from driver to collector.

On the day of my David's advance in wages as well as dignity, he had a
holiday, which he spent at the Mythe, a little hill on the outskirt of the
town, and overlooking the Severn.

The river was rising rapidly, and as we watched it, a mass of water three
or four feet high, came surging down the mid-stream. Ina boat, trying to
get out of the ever, for such it was, we saw two men, one of whom I
recognized as Mr, Brithwood of the Mythe House, and his cousin, Mr.
March.

“Throw out that rope,” cried John, “ and I'll pull you in,”

It was a hard tug, but he did it, and the two men leaped on shore. At
first they paid little heed to John; then, ina condescending manner, offered
him money, which he scornfully refused. After they left I gave John his
first writing lesson, using the smooth gravel, and a rose stick for our
writing materials. Crossing the bridge on our way home, we saw the Aven
much swollen, No one at Norton Bury minds it, 1 told John, when he
expressed his alarm, not unfounded. ‘That night my father was awakened
by a knocking on the door. Going down, he found John Halifax. The
river had overflowed, and the tannery was in danger. ‘Together they went
to the yards, not returning tll sunrise. As John Halifax stood before the
fire drying himself, Abel Fletcher said : “John Halifax, thee has been of
#real service to me this night; what reward shall T give thee >”

“It is quite reward enough, that | have been useful to my master, and
he acknowledges it.”
JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. “695

 

My father took the lad’s hand, told him he was right, and that the act
would not be forgotten. Winters and summers slipped away; John was
still with us, and still my David. One day, lured by the desire to hear
Sarah Siddons, unknown to my father, we went to the play-house in Colt-
ham, to see that matchless woman act the part of Lady Macbeth. The
play ended, dazzled both in eyes and brain, we staggered into the street,
and, horrified, heard the town town clock strike eleven. John Halifax
started to go for a horse and gig, but, putting his hands in his pocket, he
discovered that his money had been stolen in the crowd. We started to
walk, but gradually the distance grew upon me. I fell, and could not rise.
Great, strong, loving John took me in his arms, and just as the red streaks
were showing in the East, he sat me down on the steps of our house. My
father opened the door. John Halifax would not let me speak ; indeed, I
was almost too weak to breathe, but took all the blame upon himself.

“Young man, thou shalt not lead my son into harm’s way any more. I
have been deceived in you,” said my father, in a slow, calm tone. “As my
clerk, I retain thee ; as my son’s companion, never.”

Oh John, how unlike to thine, that sorrowful face! ‘Good bye, Phin-
eas, I deserve it all,” he muttered in a heart-broken way. He was gone,
and for two long years I never once saw the face of John Halifax.

The summer of 1800 was passing; war, famine and tumult stalked
through our country hand in hand and there was naught to stay them. My
father, who had added a mill to the tanning business, decided not to sell his
grain just then. The people clamored for meal, but he would not give it.
A bread riot broke out in the town, and the hungry, desperate crowd, think-
ing my father in the tan-yard, filled the alley leading to it, demanding food.
We, my father and I, were safe in the mill, whither we had been led by John,
who was trying to induce his master to let the people have grain. “If they
had waited I should have given it, but now! never! They shall not force
it from me. Rather than let them have it I shall throw it into the river.”
He opened the window, and, before we could interfere, he had thrown a
heavy sack of grain into the stream below. A howl of fury and despair
arose from the mob.

“We must get out of here ; they will fire the mill next, and Phineas is

here,” said John.
' My poor father ; remorse was entering his soul; he arose at once.
From where they stood the mob could not see the door. We crept forth,
and soon were safely hid in John Halifax’s garret, so much better furnished
than when I last saw it. Placing my father on his bed, John left us. Thor-
oughly exhausted, my father fell asleep. Then I, who felt excited and strong,
crept down stairs, found Jem Watkins, and asked him for Mr. Halifax.
696 DINAH MARIA MULOCK-CRAIEK.

 

“Don’t know where he be, sir; wish I did — wouldn’t be a long time
finding out though, only he says, ‘Jem, you stop here wi’ they,’ (pointing
his thumb up the stairs), ‘so, Master Phineas, I stops.”

Putting on Jem’s hat and coat, and going out into the gloom, I found
John. We got into my father’s house safely, and a few minutes later the
mob surrounded it. John raised the window, and a random stone hitting
him, I pulled him in, terrified, imploring him not to risk his life.

“Life is not always the first thing to be thought of ; I must do what is
right, if it is to be done.”

“Burn them out! They be only Quakers,” came up from the crowd.
John seized a pistol from Jael, rushed down stairs, and before I guessed his
purpose he had unbolted the door and stood on the steps in full view of the
mob. His daring paralyzed them.

“Who be’ee! It’s one of the Quakers.” ‘No he bean't.”  “ Burn ‘un
anyhow.” “Touch him if you dare.” There evidently was a division. The
noise arose, but John never stirred.

“I zay, young man,” cried a shrill voice, ** didst ever know what it is to
be nearly vamished ?”

“ Ay—many a time.”

The answer, so brief, so unexpected, hushed the crowd. John, seizing
his chance, talked, reasoned with them, bade Jael feed the hungry creatures,
and by this completely subdued them. Then giving each man a written
order for grain, which they were to present at the mill next day, John Hali-
fax ordered the now quiet crowd to go home. We went for my father, and
when we again reached our house John Halifax stood proudly on the
threshold. My father remembered that early morning two years before —
“Come in, lad,” he said, ‘and sit down.”

I still remained sickly. Dr. Jessop advised a change of scene. My
father, literally wedded to his tan-yard, could not leave it for a single
day, so it was decided that John should accompany me to Enderley
Flat, a village five miles away, where John had engaged board for us at

“Rose Cottage.” A week skipped by ; the bracing air of Enderley was
fine, and John rejoiced to see me gaining strength, How thoughtful and
kind my David always was! As soon as he was gone in the morning

(he went to Norton Bury every day) 1 longed for the night to bring
him back to me. Mrs. ‘Vod, our landlady, did her best. to prevent me
from being lonesome, and often regaled me with bits of information
about the sick gentleman and his daughter, who occupied the other half of
the house.

“Miss March is a good daughter,” honest Mrs. Tod would say ; “much
better than he do deserve, He he so cross and quarrelsome like.”
JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 697

Although sometimes in our walks we caught sight of Miss March’s gray
silk dress we never saw that lady’s face, until returning one evening we
found her standing near the cottage door. The calm, dignified manner,
firm, self-reliant, yet attractive face, and the simple elegance of her dress, all
impressed one favorably. As we passed, John raised his hat, and her quiet
recognition in return, showed her a young woman who had mixed much in
society. Whenever Mrs. Tod dispensed any information about our neigh-
bor, which she did to a considerable degree while laying the cloth for sup-
per, I noticed that John took a deal of interest in the owner of the gray silk
dress, and so I said ; but he only laughed, and then added:

“Poor child, it must be hard for her ; this lovely weather, too.”

One evening, as we sat in our cosy parlor, the great masses of pink roses
forcing themselves in at the window, and John sitting there petting them (he
had such a gentle way, my David) Mrs. Tod rushed in. Mr. March was
dreadful bad; the doctor lived a long distance from Enderley, and would
Mr. Halifax be so kind as to lend Tod his horse. .

“T’ll go myself.” He cantered away in the darkness, and long before
we thought he had reached the office, John Halifax returned, bringing the
doctor with him. Next day Mr. March was better ; able to be out, and, at
his invitation, we took our supper with them out of doors, at a little rustic
table, set not far from the cottage. What happiness shone in John’s eyes.
Yet he seldom addressed Miss March that evening. And how tenderly John
examined the books Miss March was kind enough to send in tome. Much
did I marvel to see him so engrossed with those lyrical ballads lately brought
out by that young man, William Wordsworth. Ah, Miss Ursula March, I
wonder, did you know the harm in lending books of poetry?

Again Mr. March sickened, and in a few days died. His daughter, poor
little lady, was completely prostrated ; so John arranged all for the funeral,
which was very simple, and attended only by Miss March, Mrs. Tod, John
Halifax and myself. We changed rooms with Miss March, and in a few
days, when she had grown calm, John and I saw her there for the first time.
Speaking about Norton Bury, where she intended to reside with her cousin,
Lady Caroline Brithwood, Miss March told us how, when a child, visiting in
Norton Bury, she had cut her arm with a bread knife, struggling with a

servant who would not let her give some bread to a poor lad. ‘“ He looked
so hungry, and I was sorry for him.”
“Were you?” said John almost inaudibly. “Please, let me see the

scar.” Tenderly he turned back the soft sleeve, revealing a large, discol-
ored scar. His face twitched, and turning, John Halifax left the room with-
out a word. The next evening I was amazed to hear John again ask per-
mission to see the once injured arm. Firmly taking her hand, he pressed a
698 DINAH MARIA MULOCK-CRATK.

 

hot lover’s kiss upon the wound, and fled out into the night ; returning late,
tired and despondent. Then I knew that I no longer held the first place in
my brother's heart, and my soul writhed bitterly at the discovery.

After we returned from Enderley, Dr. Jessop’s wife, for many years gov-
erness to Miss March, invited us to her house, adding, that Lady Caroline
Brithwood, who was desirous of meeting the hero of the Bread Riots, would
also be there. Thinking nothing of the frivolous Lady Caroline, but hoping
to see-Miss March, John accepted Mrs. Jessop’s invitation, as I did likewise.
Charming as her manner really was, Lady Caroline tried to make the dis-
tinction between a tradesman and a member of the gentry just a little per-
ceptible. But John Halifax would not have it so. With quiet, dignified
manner, and perfect self-possession, he completely disarmed and, at first,
confused Lady Caroline. Did she speak French, he replied in the same lan-
guage, thereby displaying well uncommon ability. Enchanted, Lady Caroline
invited him to dinner the next Sunday. This led to a scene with her hus-
band, to which John however paid little attention, for in the door stood Miss
March. Their eyes met. John paled—as for Miss March, her face was
all aglow.

“T say, you, Halifax!”

“Were you addressing me, Mr. Brithwood?” They stood face to face—
one confused, the other quietly waiting.

‘“Upon my honor it’s awkward ; you're a pretty decent fellow enough, I
suppose ; but rank is rank, and I can’t invite you to my table, you know.”

‘Neither could I humiliate myself by accepting any such invitation,”
came the quiet response.

Did Norton Bury blue blood ever hear like unto this? Thoroughly
taken back, Brithwood recovered himself and poured forth a volley of
insulting words. Ursula March flushed and sprang forward, saying :

“Cousin Brithwood, in my presence you shall treat this gentleman like a
gentleman, He was kind to my father.”

“Curse your father.”

His right hand swung free and John Halifax clutched the brute by the
collar. Like a flash, Brithwood turned and struck him on the cheek. John
started forward as if he would tear him to pieces, then drew back with
foldedarms. “ A duel.” * He won't fight ; he’s a Quaker.” No,” returned
John Halifax, as he stood erect, though very pale, “I am a Christian,”
Then, bowing to those present, he left the room,

Miss March took up her abode with Mrs. Jessop, but we were never
invited there again, My poor David, conscious of the gulf between himself,
an apprentice toa tanner, and Ursula March, a lady of wealth and family,
was striving to live down the mighty passion that was dev ouring his very
JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 699

 

soul. Useless endeavor. I saw his handsome face pale—the sparkle go
out from his eye —the joyous spring from his step. Falling sick at my
father’s house, and unable to move, he was carried to my bed. Days slid
into weeks. Scarcely seeming to suffer, he lay there, slowly wasting away.

“ Yes,” I resolved, “ whether it be right or wrong, I’ll do it.” Excited,
I sought Miss March and told her that my brother was dying. I wept aloud.
He loves ome better than life; bid him live, I cried ; bid him live! The sun-
set blush spread over her cheeks, but she did not speak. I implored her to
send him a message, and still she kept silent. Torn with anguish, I
reproached her heartlessness, left the house, and entering my brother's
room, found him sitting up, much better. Next day Mrs. Jessop brought
him a note from Ursula, and some flowers.

Well,” said she, when she had stayed some time, “what shall I say to
my child?”

“Say . . . . ask her to come.”

An hour later Miss March came, and I, watching her narrowly, did see
how she paled at the sight of my David’s wan face. She sat near him, yet
somehow they neither had much to say. Suddenly, John Halifax, lying
there, his eyes fixed upon her, said:

“JT am going abroad as soon as I get strong.”

“Where ?”’

“To America —at any rate, I must quit England; I have reasons.”

“What reasons ?”

“JT am going because there has befallen me a great trouble, which, while
I stay, I cannot get free from. I do not wish to sink under it. Do you not
think me right in thus meeting and trying to conquer an inevitable ill ?”

“Ts it inevitable ? ”

“ Hush,” he answered wildly, “you cannot judge — you cannot know —
I must go because, because "

“John, stay!”

It was but a low, faint, cry, but he heard it — felt it, and at once all was
made clear. In the autumn they were married, and I think that John Hali-
fax was not altogether sorry when Mr. Brithwood refused to give up the
bonds and money he held in trust for Mrs. Halifax. Disdaining to go to
law, John proudly declared his wife could be supported by her husband’s
labor.

My father’s health failing, John assumed much of the responsibility of
the business, and, later on, both the mill and the tan-yard came under his
control; for, one evening when he had returned from the christening of
John’s first child, my father, going to his study, was, a few hours later,
found by Jael dead in his chair. My poor father ; thou dead and I alive !

 
700 DINAH MARIA MULOCK-CRAIK.

 

Ah! strange dispensations. The little Muriel, who that night had been
blessed by my father, was born blind. She seemed not like other children,
but rather some angelic thing that had wandered away from Heaven. Pos-
sessing the musical instinct natural to the blind, as she grew older, her touch
awakened most sweet, heavenly sounds from the harp. No one ever saw
her angry; as for John, he called her his “ blessing,’ as indeed she was.
And to see them together, she with her head resting against his arm, they
looked not so much like father and daughter as man and his guardian
angel.

In 1812 I had been living with John and his family ten years, when
Richard Brithwood unexpectedly transferred to Mrs. Halifax the estate left
her by her father. His surprising action was a most acceptable occurrence
for John Halifax and his wife. In a month's time we were living at “ Long-
field,” the much desired home in the country ; also, John held the lease of
the Enderley cloth mill safe in his honest hand.

Lord Luxmore, father of Lady Caroline Brithwood, decided to have the
borough of Kingswell represented in Parliament by the notorious Gerard
Vermilye. But John Halifax, succeeding to the vote of his wife’s father in
that district, knowing how the poor people had been bribed, and strongly
advocating the cause of independent voting, opposed his election, and nomi-
nated Mr. Herbert Oldtower, representative of an old Norman family in the
neighborhood * The objectionable candidate was defeated, and Lord Lux-
more, who owned John Halifax’s mill, determined to ruin the man who had
so fearlessly opposed his plans. Under the pretext of needing the water in
his park, Lord Luxmore turned the course of the mill stream, and the wheel
hung idle! But not for long. A daring scheme it was to introduce the
steam engine into his mill, yet John Halifax did it. True, he had to con-
tend with evil reports and dissatisfied mill hands for so doing, but John lived
them down, and convinced his men in a practical way that he was still their
friend.

But with these triumphs, came to John Halifax a great sorrow. A sick
lad, to whom John had given shelter, proved to be afflicted with the small-pox.
Muriel took the dread disease, and although recovering from it, the child
never seemed to regain her strength, On the day the engine began to work,
Lord Luxmore, plunging his horse suddenly forward (was it accidental 9)
knocked down Muric¢l, who stood in the road. ‘The blind child declared her-
self unhurt ; neither could the most skillful medical examiners detect any
symptoms of injury ; yet she gradually grew too weak to leave her bed. On
the morning of her tenth birthday, John, going early to her room to give his
darling a father’s birthday kiss, found Ursula calmly sleeping with baby

Maud on her bosom, and at her side lay Muriel—dead, In that heart,
JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 701

which loved as few men love, so deep a wound could never be healed. And
ever after Muriel’s funeral it seemed as if a portion of the father’s
own life had been buried with Muriel in her little grave. The years
sped on. Constantly improving the homes of his tenants at Enderley,
identifying himself with the Catholic Emancipation act of Daniel O’Con-
nell, suggesting Parliamentary reforms, giving a helping hand to every
public and private scheme for good, the name of John Halifax became a
household word.

Beechwood, the manor house of Enderley, being for sale, and feeling that
as master there as well as at the mills, he could do much good among the
poor people, John Halifax purchased the property. John and Ursula laugh-
ingly compared it to the little square house in Norton Bury to which my
David had first brought his bride. Years had changed John Halifax’s for-
tune, but not the loving husband, the tender, trusting bride. With strang-
ers, and those for whom she had no particular liking, Ursula still reminded
John and me of the independent, distant Miss March of ‘other days; but in
her family, Ursula Halifax was the personification of motherly love and
wifely devotion. Some time after our removal to Beechwood, Lord Ravenel
calmly informed John Halifax that he wished to honor his daughter Maud
by making her his wife. My David, gentle and firm as of old, gave that
misguided youth some wholesome advice. The seed fell upon good soil, for,
after the death of his father, the notorious Lord Luxmore, dropping his title,
Mr. Ravenel went to America, engaged in business with John Halifax’s son
Guy, who also had gone out to the New World; then, both returning to Eng-
land, Mr. Ravenel asked Maud’s hand in marriage likea man. The somewhat
entangled love affairs of their children being made straight, John and Ursula
now thought of renting Beechwood Hall, and ending their days in their more
modest home at “ Longfield.”

“Once there were only two, John,” said Ursula, “now we shall be only
two again. Never mind—we shall be very happy. We want only one
another.”

a Only one another, darling ;” then stretching himself upon the soft grass,
and pulling his hat over his eyes, John said he would take anap. In an hour
or so the others wandered back to him.

“ How cold it is grown,” said Maud. “I think we ought to wake my
father.” She went up to him; put her hand upon his, folded so peacefully
together ; she looked startled.

“Father !”

Putting the child aside, I, Phineas Fletcher, his life-long friend, took the
hat from my David’s face. While he was sleeping, his God, whom he so
faithfully served, had called him home.
702 DINAH MARIA MULOCK-CRAIK.

 

They carried him into the upper room in Mrs. Tod’s house, for we had
been staying that day at Rose Cottage, then I went to tell Ursula, who had
gone back to Beechwood.

She was at last, as we thought, quiet on her bed, lying almost deathlike,
but calm. Then I went up to Rose Cottage to have one last quiet hour
with John. Sitting there, I felt a light touch on my arm, and, turning,
beheld Mrs. Halifax.

“It is very like him; don’t you think so, Phineas?’’ The voice was
low and soft but unbroken. “I can come and look at him you see.” The
children came in. ‘‘ Mother! mother darling ! come home,’’ sobbed Guy.
His mother kissed him, her favorite son.

“Presently, my son. Now go away all of you. I want to be a little
while alone with my husband.”

We closed the door, and left her alone. We waited, then Guy softly
entered. Her arm was around her husband's neck; her face pressed on
the pillow, nestled close to his hair. Guy lifted her up tenderly.

“Mother,” he softly said ; but “the mother’ had joined her husband in
Paradise.

ANALYTICAL EXTRACTS.

“It’s wicked to hate what wins one’s bread, and it is the only thing one
is likely to get on with in the world, because it’s disagreeable.”

“ Society's dangerous waters become smooth to him, as to a good swim-
mer, who knows his own strength, trusts it, and struggles not.”

‘No insult offered to a man can ever degrade him; the only real degre-
dation, is when he degrades himself.”

“T often think that all loves and friendships need a certain three days
burial before we can be quite sure of their truth and their immortality,”

“It is easier to make the world trust one, when one is trusted by one’s
own household.”

‘Our wishes come as a cross to us sometimes.”

“ Misfortune makes people unjust.”’

“Love is worth nothing that will not bear trial —a fiery trial, if needs
be.”

*T uphold a true aristocracy, the best men of the country. These ought
to govern, and will govern one day, whether their patent of nobility be birth
and titles, or only honesty and brains.” ,
 

 

 

HERBERT SPENCER.

Bory 1820. ENGLAND
HERBERT SPENCER.

Herbert Spencer was born in Derby, England, April 27, 1820. During childhood he be-
came interested in studying the habits of insects. His early education was directed by his
father, whose method was to guide the child to independent study, strengthen the observing
faculties, and stimulate him to find out solutions himself. For three years he studied with
his uncle, the Rev. Thomas Spencer. At the age of seventeen he accepted a position as
civil engineer on the London & Birmingham ‘Railway ; a few years later this profession was
given up. In 1842 he wrote for the Monconformist a series of letters on ‘‘ The Proper
Sphere of Government.” The year 1843 found him in London seeking literary employ-
ment, soon after which he determined upon literature as a profession. From 1848 to 1852 he
was employed on the Economist and the Westminster Review. At the home of Dr. Chap-
man, the editor of the Review, he met George Eliot, and formed a friendship with her that
continued through life. ‘‘ Social Statics,” a text-book on political philosophy, appeared in
1851. In 1855 he published his great contribution to philosophy: ‘‘ Principles of Psy-

: chology.” His subsequent works appeared in the following order: ‘‘ Education,” 1861 ;
“‘ First Principles,” 1862; ‘‘ The Classification of the Sciences,” and ‘‘ The Principles of
Biology,” 1864 ; ‘‘ Spontaneous Generation,” 1870 ; ‘‘ Recent Discussions in Science, Philoso-
phy, and Morals,” 1871; ‘‘ The Study of Sociology,” 1872; ‘‘ Ceremonial Government,”
and ‘‘ The Data of -Ethics,” 1879. In 1882 Mr. Spencer visited the United States. He is
a frequent contributor to the leading magazines and reviews.

EDUCATION,

CHAPTER I.
WHAT KNOWLEDGE IS OF MOST WORTH ?

As in aboriginal life decoration precedes dress, and as among ourselves
the function of dress is in great measure subordinated to appearance, so in
our education use is subordinated to display. The character of our educa-
tion has been determined not by the intrinsic value of knowledge, but by its
extrinsic effects. Guided by custom, liking or prejudice, adopting the cur-
rent fashion in education, we have given little attention to a question of first
importance, viz.: the comparative worths of different kinds of knowledge.
To prepare us for complete living is the true function of education. Five
706 HERBERT SPENCER.

 

leading kinds of activity constitute human life. The rational order of sub-
ordination is something as follows: That education which prepares for
direct self-preservation ; that which prepares for indirect self-preservation :
that which prepares for parenthood; that which prepares for citizenship ;
that which prepares for the miscellaneous refinements of life. The ideal
education is complete preparation in all these divisions. Failing this, the
aim should be to maintain a due proportion between the degrees of prepara-
tion in each. A knowledge of the truths of science is of intrinsic worth,
both as a preparation for these several kinds of activity, and as discipline ;
and it should take precedence of knowledge of quasi-intrinsic or conven-
tional worth. Nature teaches the first lessons in self-preservation. We may
aid the child in gaining this fundamental education by giving free scope to
its daily developing instinct to attain safety. But physical sins deduct from
complete living ; through breaches of physiologic law a great part of life
is thrown away ; hence a knowledge of physiology, which subserves direct
self-preservation by preventing loss of health, is an all-essential part of
rational education. Science is of fundamental importance as an aid to indi-
rect self-preservation, since it facilitates the gaining of a livelihood. Indus-
trial success depends upon a knowledge of the mathematical, physical, and
chemical properties of things, as well as of the sciences of biology and soci-
ology. Little preparation is commonly made for parenthood. The task of
rearing and training children is undertaken without a knowledge of physi-
cal, moral and intellectual principles. Ignorant of physiologic laws, parents
inflict a curse upon their offspring. An unfolding human character is com-
mitted to a mother who is ignorant of the phenomena with which she is to
deal, and her rule is impulsive and inconsistent. Ignorant of psychology.
parents mismanage the culture of the intellect. Books are placed in the
child’s hands too soon, before it has obtained all possible knowledge by
observation. Only in proportion to this antecedent experience of things can
words in books be rightly interpreted into ideas. Intellectual progress is
from the concrete to the abstract. Definitions and rules should not be put
first, but disclosed through the study of cases. For regulating this division of
human activity a knowledge of the laws of life is needful, the laws to which
the development of the child conforms. | Some acquaintance with the first
principles of physiology and psychology is indispensable for the right bring-
ing up of children, ‘To fit one for the discharge of the functions of a
citizen, a knowledge of the phenomena of social progress, the natural his-
tory of society, is necessary. But without an acquaintance with the general
truths of biology and psychology, a rational interpretation of social phe-
hoteles is impossible, As the enjoyments of Nature, Literature and the
Kine Arts occupy the leisure part of life, they should occupy the leisure
c 4

INTELLECTUAL EDUCATION. 707

 

part of education. Science underlies the fine arts, and is necessary, both for
their successful production and full appreciation. Esthetics are based upon
scientific principles, and can be pursued with success only through an acquaint-
ance with those principles. For the criticism and appreciation of works of
art a knowledge of science is necessary. For the regulation, then, of each
of the activities of human life, a knowledge of science is found to be of
primary importance. The acquirement of facts useful for regulating con-
duct involves a mental exercise best fitted for strengthening the faculties.
The education of most value for guidance must be the education of most
value for discipline. Science affords a wider field than language-study for
the exercise of memory. Moreover, while language exercises the memory and
the reasoning faculties, science is superior as a means of discipline in that it
cultivates the judgment. It is also best for moral discipline. The pupil
must think out his own conclusion; the result is, that valuable element in
character, independence. The discipline of science is superior, because of
the religious culture it gives. Science is not antagonistic to true religion.
Devotion to science is a tacit worship ; a tacit recognition of worth in the
things studied, and in their cause. Science is religious, inasmuch as it gen-
erates profound respect for these uniform laws which underlie all things.
To the question, What knowledge is of most worth? the uniform reply is,
Science. For guidance in the five departments of human activity, the need-
ful preparation is—Science ; and for purposes of discipline, intellectual,
moral or religious, the most efficient study is — Science.

CuapTer II.
INTELLECTUAL EDUCATION.

We are beginning to see that there is a natural process of mental evolu-
tion ; that body and mind must both be cared for, and the whole being un-
folded. Learning by rote is falling into discredit. The new method is that
of presenting truths in the concrete. There is also a growing desire to make
the acquirement of knowledge pleasureable. An appetite for any kind of
knowledge implies that the mind has become fit to assimilate it, and needs
it for the purposes of growth ; while disgust towards any kind of knowledge
is a sign that it is prematurely presented, or presented in an indigestible
form. The common characteristics of these changes is conformity to Pes-
talozzi’s doctrine, that in its order and its methods education must conform
to the natural process of mental evolution. We are learning to make our
methods subservient to that spontaneous unfolding which all minds go through
in their progress to maturity. To the question, Why not leave children to
708 HERBERT SPENCER.

 

the discipline of nature? it is replied: There is a general law of all life, that
the more complex the organism to be produced, the longer the period during
which it is dependent on a parent organism. The child is unable to reduce
many kinds of knowledge to a fit form for assimilation. The right facts,
prepared in the right manner, must be given at appropriate intervals. The
following principles may guide in the choice of right methods of education :
1. Proceed from the simple to the complex. 2. Start from the concrete, and
end inthe abstract. 3. Education should be a repetition of civilization in
little. There is in every child an aptitude to acquire knowledge in the same
order in which the human race has mastered it. 4. Proceed from the
empirical to the rational. Since science is organized knowledge, let every
study have a purely experimental introduction. 5. Encourage the process
of self-development. Lead children to make their own investigations. The
need for perpetual telling is the result of our stupidity, not the child’s.
6. Make the acquirement of knowledge pleasurable. A child's intellectual
instincts are more trustworthy than our reasonings. Under normal condi-
tions the healthful action of the knowing faculties is pleasurable. Passing
from the theory to the practice of education. Since the activity of the fac-
ulties is from the first spontaneous and inevitable, materials on which they
may exercise themselves should be supplied in due variety. The earliest
impressions the mind can assimilate are given by the sensations of resist-
ance, light, sound, etc. Since every faculty is capable of receiving more
vivid impressions during that period of greatest activity, when it is spon-
taneously evolving itself, it is an economy of time to occupy the first stage
of childhood in gaining a complete familiarity with these simplest elements.
A child desires intellectual sympathy ; therefore, listen to all it has to say,
and encourage it to say everything possible about objects. A child rejoices
in its success, delights in the discovery of its powers; let the teacher aid
self-evolution, teach the child to observe, strengthen its power of successful
activity. Object-lessons should extend over a wide range of objects, and be
so kept up during youth as insensibly to merge into the investigations of the
naturalist and the man of science. The recognition of drawing as an element
of education is a sign of a more rational view. Instead of drawing from
copies, and the formal discipline of making straight and curved lines. follow
the natural order by encouraging the child's spontaneous efforts to represent
things around it. From remarks on objects, pictures and its own drawings,
the child will acquire definitions and scientific terms without effort, and
pleasurably. After voluntary practice has secured some steadiness of hand, a
first lesson in empirical perspective may be given; and by a simple and
attractive method a familiarity with the linear appearance of things and a
faculty of rendering them is acquired step by step. A further step is the
40

MORAL EDUCATION. 709
practice of testing the correctness of figures drawn by the eye. As a pre-
liminary to geometry the child’s propensity to cut things in paper, to make
and build, should be encouraged. Then the transition may be made inci-
dentally to empirical geometry. Following the method of nature, guiding
the pupil’s self-development, rousing his intellect, and inducing him to be-
come an active discoverer, geometry is made interesting and beneficial. The
foregoing outlines of plans follow the six principles laid down above.
Throughout youth and in maturity education should be a process of pleas-
urable self-instruction. The pupil’s activity of mind, concentration of
thought, and the excitement of triumph, register the fact in his memory.
Self-help involves moral culture. The system of making the mind work for
its food, produces such characteristics as courage, concentration and perse-
verance. Where this system is adopted, education is not likely to cease
when school-days end.

CuHapTER III.
MORAL EDUCATION.

The most glaring defects in our programs of education is the lack of
‘preparation for the position of parents, a responsibility sure to devolve upon
nine out of ten, and the most difficult function the adult has to fulfil. The
great error in discussing juvenile discipline is ascribing all the faults and
difficulties to the children, and none to parents. The difficulties of moral
education result from the combined faults of parents and children. Nature
illustrates the true theory and practice of moral discipline. A child falls,
suffers pain, and is disciplined into a proper guidance of its movements.
This is the inevitable reaction of the child’s action. It is proportionate to
the degree in which the organic laws have been transgressed. This disci-
pline is of the most efficient kind. No humanly devised penalty can replace
it. Artificial punishments fail to produce reformation. Here we have the
guiding principle of moral education. It is the function of parents to see that
their children habitually experience the true consequences of their conduct,
the natural reactions. Natural penalties are more efficient than artificial
ones. The child who finds that disorderliness entails the trouble of putting
things in order, or who misses a gratification from dilatoriness, or whose want
of care is followed by the loss or breakage of some much-prized possession,
not only experiences a keenly-felt consequence, but gains a knowledge of
causation. The system of artificial rewards and punishments produces a
wrong standard of moral guidance. The natural system is a system of pure
justice. When the boy who is reckless with his clothes is required to rectify,
as far as he can, the harm done, to clean off the mud or mend the tear, he
recognizes the system of discipline by natural reactions, and the temper of
710 HERBERT SPENCER.
parents and children are less likely to be ruffled. The parental and filial rela-
tions will be more friendly, and therefore more influential. It gives that
rational comprehension of right and wrong conduct which results from actual
experience of good and bad consequences caused by them. The plan may
be carried out in more serious conduct. Secure the perfect confidence and
affection of the children and the simple display of disapprobation will prove
an efficient punishment. The impressions of children are determined by the
treatment they receive. If that treatment oscillates between gentleness and
castigation, the child acquires conflicting beliefs respecting parental charac-
ter, regards parents as friend-enemies, and becomes sceptical respecting their
professions of friendship. Asa result of this method there will be a more
sympathetic feeling, and a strengthening of mutual good feeling. Under
this regime the graver offences are likely to be less frequent and less grave.
But if such offences are committed, the discipline of consequences may be
resorted to. The natural consequences of a theft are direct, i. e., making res-
titution, righting the wrong, and indirect, the grave displeasure of parents.
Such displeasure will be potent for good in proportion to the warmth of
attachment between parent and child. The following maxims and rules are
deducible from the foregoing principles. Do not expect froma child any
great amount of moral goodness. It is unwise to use very urgent incite-
ments to good conduct. Our higher moral faculties, like our intellectual, are
complex, and late in their evolution. A higher morality must be reached by
a slow growth. See that the child always suffers the natural consequences
of his actions, and you will avoid excess of control,and put a check upon
your own temper. Parental disapprobation is a natural consequence of the
child's wrong action, and may, as a secondary punishment, supplement the
primary. Be sparing of commands. Be anxious for the child's welfare
rather than his subjugation. Aim to make the child control himself. When
you do command, command with decision and constancy. The aim of dis-
cipline should be to produce a self-governing being ; therefore diminish the
amount of parental government as fast as you can substitute for it in the
child’s mind that self-government, and bring the child to a state of unaided
self-restraint. Do not regret the exhibition of considerable self-will on the
part of the child. Be prepared for mental exertion, study ingenuity, patience,
self-control. Analyze the motives of juvenile conduct ; distinguish between
acts that are good, and those simulating them ; guard avainst the mistake
of translating neutral acts into transgressions. Modify your method to suit
the disposition of each child. You will have to carry on your own higher
education while educating your children, The last stage in the mental
development of each man and woman is to be reached only through the
proper discharge of the parental duties.
PHYSICAL EDUCATION. 7II

 

CHAPTER IV.
PHYSICAL EDUCATION.

While great interest is manifested in the feeling and management of ani-
mals, comparatively little attention is paid to the quantities and fitness of
food to the constitutional needs of growing boys, and to the bringing up of
fine human beings. Physical development is the condition of national pros-
perity. The great desideratum is to conform the regime of the nursery and
school to the established truths of modern science. Limitation in the quan-
tity of food is injurious. Appetite isa good guide for childhood. The uni-
versal love of sweets among children signifies more than a gratification of the
palate. Sugar plays an important part in the vital processes. The domi-
nant desires which express the needs of the juvenile constitution should not
be ignored. The confidence with which parents take upon themselves to
legislate for the stomachs of their children proves their unacquaintance with
the principles of physiology. Children should have a diet more nutritive
than that of adults. The adult needs food to make up for the day’s waste,
and to supply fuel for the day’s expenditure of heat. The boy wastes, in
proportion to his bulk, as much as a man, and as his body exposes greater
surface in proportion to its mass, he loses heat more rapidly by radiation.
Hence the quantity of heat-food he requires is greater than that required by a
man, But the boy has also to make new tissue, to grow ; hence his relatively
greater need for nutriment. An exclusively vegetable diet will not neces-
sarily produce fine development and well-toned fibers. Well-fed races have
been the energetic and dominant races. Energy is maintained only by high
feeding. The food of children should be not only highly nutritive and
abundant, but varied at each meal and at successive meals. Clothing is an
equivalent for a certain amount of heat. By diminishing the amount of
heat, it diminishes the amount of fuel needful for maintaining the heat ; and
when the stomach has less to do in preparing fuel, it can do more in pre-
paring other material. The clothing of children should be sufficient to
prevent any general feeling of cold ; and that there may be no restraint
upon that restless activity so natural and needful to the young, it should be
made of a material that will receive little damage from the wear and tear,
which childish sports will give it. The natural promptings of boyish instinct
is wisely allowed to govern their bodily exercise. But the case of girls is
otherwise. In some girls’ schools noisy play is a punishable offence. Spon-
taneous exercise, gymnastics, has been introduced. But gymnastics are
inferior in respect of the quantity and quality of the muscular exertion, and
because of the lack of that agreeable mental excitement which has a highly
712 HERBERT SPENCER.

 

invigorating influence. Formal exercises of the limbs are better than
nothing, and may be used as supplemental aids ; but cannot supply the place
of exercise prompted by nature. Under-feeding, deficient clothing, discour-
agement of juvenile sports, and excess of mental application, have produced
derangement of the vital functions, retardation of bodily growth, and under-
mines constitutions. There is a prevailing tendency to an unduly urgent
system of culture. But it should be remembered that there is a given order
in which, and a given rate at which, the faculties unfold. Nature is a strict
accountant. If you insist on premature or undue growth of one part she
will concede the point; but that she may do your extra work, she must
leave some of her more important work undone. The amount of vital en-
ergy is limited. If you divert an excess of energy into one channel, you
abstract it from another. If in youth the expenditure in mental labor ex-
ceeds that which nature has provided for, the expenditure for other purposes
falls below what it should have been, and evils are entailed. Excess of
mental exertion tells against bodily perfection, and against the brain itself,
Over-education produces a disastrous result npon the health, undermines
the constitution, enfeebles the energies. The cramming svstem is a mistake
every way, as giving knowledge that will soon be forgotten, since the mind
cannot assimilate beyond a certain rate; as producing a distaste for study ;
as neglecting that organization of knowledge which is more important than
its acquisition ; as weakening or destroying that energy, without which a
trained intellect is useless; as entailing that ill-health for which even suc-
cess would not compensate, and which makes failure doubly better. he
ordinary treatment of children is prejudicial, It errs in deficient feeding,
deficient clothing, deficient exercise, and in excessive mental application.
We are inclined to respect the mind and ignore the body. We do net
realize the truth that, as the physical underlies the mental, the mental must
not be developed at the expense of the physical. ‘The preservation of
health is a duty. There is such a thing as physical morality. Every
bodily transgression is vicious. All breaches of the laws of health are
physical sins.

It should be remembered that the evils mentioned by Mr, Spencer, in
1860, have been, in a measure, remedied ; and that the more efficient me-
thods of instruction which prevail to-day are largely due to this book. Mr,
Spencer's purpose is to show that the true basis of education is a scientitic
training ; that the true method of education is conformity to the natural process
of mental evolution, following which process the teacher will abandon rote-
learning, make the acquirement of knowledge pleasurable, guide the pupil's
self-development, stimulate his natural curiosity, and strengthen his obsery-
PHYSICAL EDUCATION. 713
ing faculties ; that there should be education for parenthood, and that in
moral discipline the method of natural consequences should be followed ;
and that the body should be cared for and trained, as well as the mind.

ANALYSIS.

To prepare us for complete living is the function which edu-
cation has to discharge.

: Only when Genius is married to Science can the highest
results be produced.

‘ It has been well said, concerning the custom of prefacing the
art of speaking any tongue bya drilling in the parts of speech and their
functions, that it is about as reasonable as prefacing the art of walking by a
course of lessons on the bones, muscles and nerves of the leg.

Sad, indeed, is it to see how men occupy themselves with
trivialities, and are indifferent to the grandest phenomena, care not to under-
stand the architecture of the Heavens, but are deeply interested in some
contemptible controversy about the intrigues of Mary, Queen of Scots; are
learnedly critical over a Greek ode, and pass by without a glance that grand
epic written by the finger of God upon the strata of the Earth.
 

 

BORN 1802.

VICTOR MARIE, VICOMTE,

FRANCE

 

Dico 1865
VICTOR HUGO.

Victor Marie Hugo, the author of Les Misérables, was born at Besancon, France, in 1802.
His father, Joseph Hugo, was a general in Napoleon’s army ; his mother, though a firm sym-
pathizer with the expelled royalists, accompanied her husband wherever his military duties
took him, so that the great author’s childhood was spent in constant travel. In 1809 he
returned to France to receive a classical education from a tutor who, some years later, was
arrested and shot for his avowed opposition to Napoleon’s government. It was not strange
that young Hugo imbibed royalist principles from his mother and his preceptor.

His literary genius developed early. In 1822 he was married, and in the same year his
first published work, a volume of poems entitled, Odes e¢ Ballades, gained him a considerable
reputation. He was recognized as the leader of a new movement in the world of letters, and
as the founder of the so-called Romantic school, which entirely set aside the classical, artifi-
cial rules of criticism adhered to by the French and English writers of the eighteenth century.
The chief works of the earlier part of his life were Les Ovientales (1828), another collection of
verses ; several dramas, Cromwell (1827), Hernani (1830), Marion Delorme (1831), Le Rot
S Amuse (1832), and the first of his great novels, Votre Dame de Parts (1831). In 1841 he
was chosen a member of the Academy, the distinction most prized by French litterateurs.
Victor Hugo’s middle life was mainly devoted to public affairs. King Louis Philippe
created him a vicomte in 1845, but his ideas had undergone a change, and he boldly an-
nounced his republican principles from his seat in the upper chamber of the House of Depu-
ties. Inthe troublous times of 1848 he was prominent among the advanced republicans,
and when Louis Napoleon’s coup d’etat struck the deathblow of liberty, Hugo denounced the
usurper so bitterly that he was banished from France. He found a refuge in the island
of Guernsey, where his greatest works were written, Les Miserables (published in 1862), The
Toilers of the Sea (1865), and L’Homme Qui Rit (1869). On the fall of Napoleon in
1870, he returned to Paris, where he lived amid great popular veneration to his death at the
age of eighty-three, on the 22d of May, 1885.

4

LES MISERABLES.

In 1815, the year of Waterloo, M. Myriel was Bishop of D——, a town
in the south of France. He was a man of such saintly life and such self-
sacrificing charity that he became known as Monseigneur Bienvenu, or
Welcome. He gave up his Episcopal palace to serve as a hospital, taking
for himself and his sister, Mlle. Baptistine, with their one servant, Mme.
Magloire, the small and poorly furnished quarters formerly occupied by the
718 VICTOR HUGO.

 

hospital. He distributed the whole of his salary, except one thousand
francs yearly, in charity, and devoted himself tv good works, ministering
even to condemned prisoners, and visiting the poor and the politically pro-
scribed. The door of his house was riever locked. In October, 1815, there
entered I)———, a man on foot, tired and travel-stained, shabbily dressed,
and carrying a knapsack. He sought entertainment at the inn, the Cross of
Colbas, but the landlord, who discovered that he was a discharged convict,
ordered him away. He met with the same reception at another inn, and at
a peasant’s cottage ; he asked for admission to the jail, but was repulsed ;
he strove to crawl into a dog-kennel, but was driven out. At last a woman
told him to apply to the good bishop. He did so, announcing himself as
Jean Valjean, who had been nineteen years at the bagne, or convict prison.
The bishop at once invited him to dinner, and gave hima bed. Valjean
was a peasant of La Brie, and a wood cutter by trade. After the death of his
father and mother he had lived with his sister, who was very poor. Jean,
a dull, good-natured boy, stole a loaf for her seven starving children, and
was sentenced to five years at the bagne. Four attempts to escape added
fourteen years to his term of imprisonment, and then he was released, a man
who had lost all hope, a desperate and deadly foe to society. He was a
marvel of strength and suppleness, and had gained some education at the
prison school. waking in the night, Valjean remembered -some silver
candlesticks which he had seen M. Myriel put away in a closet over his
bed. The convict took them and stealthily decamped. In the morning he
was seized by. gendarmes and brought back, but the bishop told them he
had given the silver to the convict, who was therefore released, with a part-
ing injunction from M. Myriel to use this gift to become an honest man.
Valjean was overwhelmed by a flood of new thoughts and emotions, and
wandered off like one dazed. At sunset he was seated in a lonely plain
three leagues from ID———._ Little Gervais, a Savovard boy, passed him
and happened tu drop a two franc piece, on which Valjean put his foot, and
then drove the boy away, seeming not to understand his request for his
money. As darkness came on, however, Jean returned to his senses, and
strove to find little Gervais to return the coin. Unable to overtake the
Savoyard, he ran on blindly in the darkness, then fell to the earth and
wept. The change in his moral nature was now complete. That night late
passers-by saw a man kneeling in the attitude of prayer before the good
bishop's door, ‘The scene changes to Paris and the time to the veat US47.
Four Parisian students promise their mistresses a surprise. They take them
to St. Cloud for a day in the country, winding up with a dinner at the
Cabaret Bombarda on the Champs Elysees. Tere comes the surprise, The
four young men leave the Cabaret, bidding the girls to wait for them. An
LES MISERABLES. 719

hour later a letter is brought in, which announces that the students have
left Paris and returned to their homes. One of the girls, named Fantine,
thus abandoned by Felix Tholomyes, her lover, sets out from Paris to
return to her birthplace, M. Sur M., with her girl baby Euphrasie, or Cosette
as she was nicknamed. On the way thither, at Montfermeil, not far from
Paris, Fantine falls in with Mme. Thenardier, whose husband is landlord of
the Sergeant of Waterloo Inn, and arranges to leave Cosette with the
Thenardiers, while she herself goes on to M. Sur M. She finds that the
town has prospered, owing to the large industry built up by one Father
Madeleine, who had come to the place some years before as a poor stranger,
and had introduced great improvements in the manufacture of black beads.
Father Madeleine had grown rich; he was very charitable, but shrank from
society : and had been appointed Mayor, after once refusing the office. In
1821, when M. Myriel, the Bishop of D , died, it was noticed that
Father Madeleine wore mourning. The only man in M. Sur M. who did not
respect the Mayor was Javert, the inspector of police, who determines to
trace out his history. Once Madeleine displays enormous strength in lift-
ing a heavy cart which had fallen upon a poor fellow named Fauchelevent.
Javert, who watched him, observed that he never knew any man capable of
performing such a feat but one, and he was a galley slave. Fantine, on
returning to M. Sur M., enters M. Madeleine’s shop. A year later the secret
of her child is discovered, and she is discharged. She now lives by her
needle, in great poverty, struggling to earn the fifteen francs a month which
the Thenardiers demand for keeping Cosette. She cuts off and sells her
hair, and allows a dentist to draw her two front teeth, vainly striving to
satisfy the Thenardiers’ rapacity. At last she is driven upon the streets, and
is arrested for fighting with a country dandy, named Bamatabois. Inspec-
tor Javert sentenced her to six months’ imprisonment, when M. Madeleine
enters the office, and though Fantine spits in his face, supposing him to be
the one who, by discharging her, caused all her troubles, he compels Javert
to release her. Then, for she is dying with consumption, he places her in
his own infirmary, under the care of Sisters Simplice and Perpétue. Mean-
while Javert denounces him to the Prefet as Jean Valjean, a convict who
has broken his ban. The Prefet replies that that cannot be, for a man
named Champmathieu has just been arrested at Arras, as the real Jean
Valjean. Javert goes to the Mayor, tells him of this, and asks to be dis-
charged for disrespect. The Mayor declines to discharge him, and after a
terrible mental struggle, decides to sacrifice himself and go to Arras to save
this man Champmathieu, for he himself is Jean Valjean. It is barely pos-
sible for him to drive to Arras in time, but though delayed by a series of
accidents he accomplishes the journey, and is admitted to the court-room

 
720 VICTOR HUGO.

 

where Champmathieu is being tried. The defense is weak, and three con-
victs identify the prisoner as Jean Valjean. M. Madeleine rises, and by his
knowledge of them convinces the convicts that he and not Champmathieu
is their old fellow prisoner. Then saying that he can be found whenever
he is wanted, he leaves the deeply astonished court, which forthwith acquits
Champmathieu. Madeleine, or Valjean, returns to M. Sur M., his hair
turned snow white by the terrible ordeal. Fantine, who thinks he has gone
to fetch Cosette, is eagerly expecting his return. He is by her bedside when
Javert enters with the order for his arrest. Fantine, in horror, falls back
dead. Valjean is taken to the jail, but escapes, returns to his house, and is
giving directions to Sister Simplice when Javert enters in pursuit. Valjean
hides himself. Sister Simplice says she has seen no one, and the inspector
withdraws. The fugitive escapes toward Paris, but a few days later he is
recaptured there, while entering the stage for Montfermeil. He is tried for
highway robbery and sentenced to death, but the penalty is commuted to
imprisonment for life. Strange stories were told of his downfall, which
brought ruin to the trade of M. Sur M. He was said to have withdrawn
over half a million francs from Laffitte’s bank, and to have concealed the
money in some unknown place; certain it was, that Boulatruelle, a road
mender of Montfermeil, had seen a man enter the woods near there with a
pick, a shovel and a box, and return without the box.

In 1823 the French man-of-war Orion entered Toulon harbor for repairs.
While bending a sail, a negro loses his balance and falls, but is caught in a
rope and hangs in a perilous position. A convict climbs aloft and rescues
him, but in returning slips, and drops into the sea, and is never seen to rise.
It was Jean Valjean. On Christmas day of that year, Cosette, now eight
years old, who is kept by the Thenardiers at Montfermeil as a drudge, is
sent for water late in the evening. She has to go to a spring some distance
away in the woods, where she meets a stranger who carries her bucket back
to the inn, This stranger, who came from Paris by a stage coach and walked
to Montfermeil through the woods, is Jean Valjean. At the inn he protects
Cosette from Mme. Thenardier, buys her a grand new doll, and finally pro-
poses to take the child away with him. The greedy Thenardier demands
1,500 francs for her, which is paid at once, and Valjean takes Cosette to
Paris, where he finds quarters in an old house known as the Maison Gorbeau,
in the Boulevard de I'Héspital, in the district called the Salpetriere.

A strong affection springs up between him and the child, an emotion that
neither he nor Cosette had known before, and one that prevents Valjean
from relapsing into crime in his disgust at society. Their life at the Maison
Gorbeau is a very quict one, Valjean never going out except at night. Yet
he finds he is watched by a fellow lodger, an old woman, who waits on them.
LES MISERABLES. 721

 

 

Then he thinks he recognizes Javert in an old beggar to whom he often
gives alms. Javert, who has been promoted to serve in the Parisian police,
has in fact taken the beggar’s place in order to watch Valjean, whose iden-
tity he suspects, having hit upon his trail by reading an account of the “ ab-
duction” of Cosette. Valjean and Cosette leave the Maison Gorbeau at
night. They are followed by four men, one of whom is Javert. The pur-
suers hem the fugitives in, but Valjean escapes by climbing a high wall and
drawing Cosette after him with a rope. He finds himself in the garden of
the Convent of the Perpetual Adoration in the Rue Picpus. The gardener,
who proves to be old Fauchelevent, whose life Valjean had saved at M. Sur
M., befriends the refugees and conceals them in his cottage. The discipline
of the convent is most severe, and no man is allowed within the walls except
Fauchelevent, who wears a bell on his knee to warn the nuns of his approach.
A sister has just died, and the Mother Superior tells Fauchelevent that the
lady must be buried in the chapel, a thing forbidden by the police regula-
tions. Hence, the coffin brought for the dead nun must go to the cemetery
empty. Fauchelevent, or Fauvent as he is called at the convent, manages to
smuggle Valjean out in the coffin ; and then, representing him as his brother,
Fauvent secures permission for Valjean to share his quarters and his work
in the convent garden. In this quiet retreat Jean Valjean lives for about
eight years under the name of Ultimus Fauchelevent, Cosette passing as his
grandchild. He is peaceful and happy, and the sight of the saintly, self-sac-
rificing lives of the nuns has a chastening effect upon his mind. At this
time there lived in the Rue des Filles du Calvaire M. Gillenormand, a wealthy
nonagenarian, with his unmarried daughter and his grandson Marius.
Marius was the son of another daughter, now dead, who had married George
Pontmercy, one of Napoleon’s officers, to the deep displeasure of M. Gille-
normand, who was a staunch, old-fashioned royalist. Pontmercy was made
a colonel and a baron by Napoleon for gallantry on the field of Waterloo,
but an hour later, in the final struggle with the British, was covered with
wounds and left amid a heap of corpses. A prowling marauder is robbing
him when he recovers his senses, but Pontmercy believes that the man, who
gives his name as Thenardier, has saved his life, and promises to reward
him. It was this incident that furnished Thenardier with the sign of his inn
at Montfermeil, the Sergeant of Waterloo. Napoleon having been banished,
Pontmercy retired to Vernon, near Paris, where he lived almost in poverty,
and made floriculture his hobby. His little son, Marius, he sent to M. Gille-
normand, who did not allow him even to see the boy. He went periodically
to Paris, however, and visited St. Sulpice, M. Gillenormand’s church, to gaze
surreptitiously at his son. But Marius knew nothing of his father till one
day he is summoned to Vernon, where Pontmercy lies dead. Then M.
722 IICTOR HUGO.

Mabeuf, a churchwarden of St. Sulpice, tells the young man of his father’s
devotion to him, his gentleness and his heroism. Marius is deeply moved.
He studies his history of the Napoleonic times, becomes an enthusiastic Im-
perialist, and makes secret pilgrimages to the grave of his father. M. Gillenor-
mand’s grandnephew, Theodule Gillenormand, follows Marius on one of
these journeys, and informs the old Royalist. A scene ensues; Marius
proclaims his new opinions, claims his father’s title of Baron, and is turned
out of doors.

Marius is now in great poverty, but yet refuses to accept money sent him
by his aunt, M’lle Gillenormand. He finds cheap quarters in the Maison
Gorbeau, completes his law studies and is admitted to the bar, but does not
practice, earning a scanty living by literary hackwork. M. Mabeuf is
friendly to him, but his chief associates are a company of revolutionary stu-
dents, of whom the leaders are Courfeyrac and Enjolras. He is continually
searching for Thenardier, for his father, unable to find his supposed rescuer
at Waterloo, had in his last message bidden his son to seek out the man and
reward him. Meanwhile, unknown to Marius, Thenardier, who has been
forced by his debts to leave Montfermeil, is living in the next room of the
Maison Gorbeau, under the name of Jondrette, with his wife, his daughters
Eponine and Azelma, and a son, Gavroche, who is abused and driven upon
the streets by his parents. Thenardier Jondrette had also two other boys,
but these had been sold while infants to a woman named Magnon, who had
been M. Gillenormand’s servant, and who extorted money from him by rep-
resenting the two boys as his children. Marius shuns the seciety of women,
but one day he is struck by the beauty of a voung girl whom he sees walking
with an old man inthe gardens of the Luxembourg He often watches these
two, and at length follows them home to ascertain where they live. Soon
after this he finds that they have moved away, and he has lost trace of them.
The poverty of his neighbors, the Jondrettes, arouses Marius’s sympathy,
and he aids them. Finding a peephole in the wall that divides his room
from theirs, he looks into their lodging and sees them receive two visitors, in
whom he recognizes the old man of the Luxembourg and his pretty daughter.
Jondrette tells them a piteous tale, and the old man promises to come again
in the evening with moncy to relieve his distress. Jondrette, who has recog-
nized him as the mysterious stranger who took Cosette from Montfermeil,
plots to capture and hold him for a ransom, Marius overhears this, and
reports it at a police station, where the inspector, Inspector Javert, tells
him to watch Jondrette and fire a pistol when help is needed.

At eight o'clock the old man, who is Jean Valjean, enters, and finds him-
self (rapped, for the room is full of masked ruffians. Jondrette demands
200,000 francs, revealing himself as ‘Vhenardier, to the horror of Martius, who
LES MISERABLES. 723
thus learns that his father’s rescuer is a despicable bandit. Valjean is over-
powered and bound, when in rushes Javert with fifteen constables, who ar-
rest Thenardier and his gang. In the confusion Valjean manages to cut
his bonds and escape through the window before Javert notices him. This
leaves Marius still in ignorance of the whereabouts of the old man and his
daughter, until he learns from Thenardier’s daughter, Eponine, that they
live in the Rue Plumet. Here Valjean, still known as Ultime Fauchelevent,
who has left the convent to prevent Cosette from becoming a nun, has found
a quiet house, with a garden opening upon another street. He also goes
sometimes to quarters in the Rue de L’Homme Armé and others in the Rue
de !’Ouest, to which last he had been followed by Marius, and which he left
in order to escape from the youth, of whose evident love for Cosette Val-
jean is intensely jealous. One day Cosette finds on a bench in the garden
of the Rue Plumet house, a long and sentimental epistle ; and the next
evening Marius, who has slipped through the railings, meets her for the first
time. Mutually enamored, they meet every evening in the garden. Mag-
non, to whom Thenardier sold his youngest children, being arrested by the
police, the little boys are turned adrift upon the streets. They are succored
by Gavroche, who, not knowing that the two waifs are his brothers, finds
shelter for them inside an elephant erected in the Place de la Bastille. In
the early morning Gavroche is summoned by a thief named Montparnasse
to aid in the rescue of Thenardier, who, in escaping from La Force prison,
has got into a perilous position on the top of a high wall. Thenardier and
his fellow-bandits are plotting to rob Jean Valjean’s house in the Rue
Plumet, which Eponine had spied out for them; but when they go there
the girl, in a fit of remorse, drives them away, and afterward warns Valjean
to leave the house. Meanwhile, Marius calls on M. Gillenormand to ask, ac-
cording to French custom, for permission to marry Cosette. The proud old
gentleman refuses, and arouses his grandson’s wrath by suggesting that he
should make the girl his mistress. Next evening, on visiting the house in
the Rue Plumet, Marius finds that it has beendeserted. Popular discontent
with Louis Philippe’s government, long smoldering, bursts into flame at the
funeral of General Lamarque in June, 1832. An escort of dragoons is
attacked by the citizens ; barricades spring up in the streets. One of these
is erected in the Rue de la Chanvrerie by Marius and his old revolutionary
student-friends, Enjolras, Courfeyrac,and the rest. Little Gavroche and old
M. Mabeuf stray into this barricade, and among others who enter is a sus-
pected spy, who is seized and found to be Inspector Javert. Troops
approach ; they fire upon the defenders, killing M. Mabeuf aud others, and
nearly capture the barricade, from which they are driven by Marius’s threat
to explode a barrel of gunpowder.
724 VICTUR HUGO.

 

After the soldiers have retreated, Marius finds Eponine behind the barri-
cade, mortally wounded by a bullet which had been aimed at him, and which
she had intercepted, for she loves him. She has come to give him a note
from Cosette, telling Marius that she is at No. 7 Ruedel’Homme Armé, and
expects to go to London soon. This note Jean Valjean reads in Cosette’s
blotter, and he thus discovers Cosette’s love for Marius. He also receives
Marius’s reply, brought to the Rue de l’Homme Armé by Gavroche ; and in
spite of the jealousy he cannot but feel, he puts on his National Guard uni-
form and makes his way to the barricade, intending to save Marius for
Cosette’s sake. The defenders of the barricade having now abandoned all
hope, Enjolras, their leader, orders four men to escape in the uniforms of
four slain National Guards. Valjean gives up his uniform to a fifth. Then
the soldiers renew the attack with a cannon. Gavroche, crawling out to
secure the cartridge boxes of the killed assailants, is shot down. The
besieged have nearly exhausted their ammunition, and are resigned to their
inevitable fate. Javert, the captured spy, is about to be shot, but Jean Val-
jean asks that the prisoner may be given him to slay. Then, to the intense
amazement of the inspector, Valjean takes him to the rear of the barricade
and sets him free, also giving Javert his address in the Rue de l'Homme
Armé. Then comes the final assault upon the barricade. After a desperate
struggle it is captured, and the defenders, who retreat into an adjacent wine
shop, are annihilated. During the struggle Marius falls, covered with
wounds, at the door of the wine shop. Jean Valjean seizes him, and in the
confusion carries him off to the rear of the barricade. Here he is lucky
enough to find a grating left open, and escapes by it into the great labyrinth
of sewers beneath the Parisian streets. Not knowing which way to turn, he
sets out blindly into the darkness, bearing Marius's inanimate body on his
back. He finds himself gradually descending, and after a narrow escape
from a searching party of police, and a terrible struggle through a quicksand
that nearly engulfs him, he reaches an opening on the Scine, near the Pont
de Iéna. It is closed by a locked grating, but just inside he meets Then-
ardier, who has been chased into the sewer by a policeman, and who has a
key. Thenardier does not recognize Valjean, but Imagining him to be a robber,
lets him out ; and in doing so, thinking he may want to identify the supposed
victim, he cuts a piece off Marius's coat. On leaving the sewer, Valjean is
confronted by Javert, who had been following Thenardier, ‘The Inspector
calls a cab and takes Marius and Valjean to the address in the former's
pocket-book, the house of M. Gillenormand, where. the young man, still
senseless, iss left. Then Valjean, who supposes himself to be under
arrest, requests that he may first visit his house in the Rue de VHomme
Armeé, ‘They go thither, and Javert allows Valjean to enter, saying that he
LES MISERABLES. 725

 

will wait at the door. A terrible struggle is passing in the inspector's mind,
between his devotion to duty and his gratitude to the man who so generously
gave him his life at the barricade. Finally, unable to solve the problem, he
walks to the Seine, and drowns himself in its waters. :
After six months of sickness, through which he is tenderly nursed by his
aunt and his grandfather, Marius recovers from his desperate wound. The
revolution has now blown over. M. Gillenormand, overjoyed at his grand-
son’s recovery, Consents to his marriage with Cosette, who is brought to the
house by Jean Valjean, or M. Fauchelevent, as he is still called. The wed-
ding is arranged, and Valjean presents the bride with nearly 600,000 francs,
the money that he had kept buried in the Montfermeil woods. The ceremony
takes place on Shrove Tuesday (February 16, 1833). Valjean does not
attend the joyous wedding dinner, and does not sign the marriage deeds, on
the pretense of an injured hand. The next day he calls on Marius, and
reveals that heis an escaped convict, and says that he cannot stay among
them and maintain a deception against which his soul revolts. Yet he asks
leave to come and visit Cosette. Marius, though deeply horrified, consents
to this, When Valjean sees Cosette, his cold constrained manner puzzles
her, but he gives her no explanation. He calls every day to see her, and
soon notices that her heart is gradually slipping away from him, and that his
visits are less welcome. Finally, he stays away, telling Cosette that he is
going on a journey. Now Marius has formed the belief that his bride’s
dowry was in some way stolen from M. Madeleine, Mayor of M. Sur M., of
whom he happens to hear ; and he wishes to return the money, if he can find
its rightful owner. One day he receives a letter from Thenardier, offering
to sell him a secret. They have an interview, and Thernadier tells Marius
that he is harboring a robber. Mariussays he knows it, for Jean Valjean
robbed M. Madeleine and murdered Javert. Thenardier assures him that
he is mistaken on those points, and convinces him by cuttings from old
newspapers ; but adds that he met Valjean in the sewers, carrying the body
of a man he had killed. To prove this he produces the pieces he cut from
the coat of the supposed victim. Marius recognizes it asa part of his own
coat, and thus he learns, what he had long vainly tried to discover, how he had
been saved from the barricade. Marius’s eyes are now opened. The whole
mystery is explained, and he sees the character of Jean Valjean in its true
grandeur. With Cosette, he hastens to the Rue de Homme Armé ; but
they are too late, for Jean is dying. His strange life has a peaceful ending.

 

Victor Hugo, “the great contemporary master of wordmanship,” is the
foremost French author of the nineteenth century, and Les Misérables is his
masterpiece. Robert Louis Stevenson justly says that “ there are few
726 VICTOR HUGO.

 

books in the world that can be compared to it.” It is a story of French life
from 1815 to 1833, and as its name, Ze Outcasts, indicates, its characters
are drawn principally from the lowest social ranks. Jean Valjean, the con-
vict; Fantine, the fallen woman ; Cosette, the nameless waif; Marius, the
penniless Bohemian ; Thenardier, the thief ; Gavroche, the street Arab.
The moral purpose of this notable story is to awaken society to the startling
flaws in its own structure ; to show at what a fearful cost the social fabric is
maintained ; to describe the labor, the sweat, and the death of the pinioned
slaves, who draw the great chariot of civilization, in which their fortunate
brethren ride so smoothly. Hugo points out that the machine of the law
personified, with all its prejudices, in Javert, the inflexible police officer,
grinds like a sawmill, rending tender twigs and stubborn trunks with the
same unforgiving edge. He presents to us the weighty problem, how is it
that the law crucified Christ, that the law jailed Galileo, that the law sent
Valjean to the galleys? Jean Valjean is the towering, central fivure of the
book, and certainly one of the most remarkable characters of fiction. His
psychological growth to moral grandeur is extraordinary, but nut illogical.
There are four great crises in his life : First, his meeting with the good bishop,
which revealed to him a new ethical world ; second, his self-sacrifice in giv-
ing himself up to the galleys to save the innocent peasant, Champmathieu ;
third, the subordination of his jealous paternal love for Cosette to her own
happiness, when he risked his life to save that of Marius ; and fourth, his
revelation to Marius of his real identity, through scorn of sailing under false
colors. ‘The author himself sums up Valjean’s character when he says that
Marius ‘was beginning to catch a glimpse of some strange, lofty, and som-
ber figure in this Jean Valjean. An extraordinary virtue appeared to him,
supreme and gentle, and humble in its immensity, and the convict was trans-
figured into Christ.”
 

 

a

 

WILLIAM WILKIE COLLINS

BORN 1824 ENGLAND Dico 1889
WILKIE COLLINS.

Wilkie Collins, christened William Wilkie, was born in London on the first day of
January, 1824. His father, William Collins, R. A., was an artist of considerable celebrity ;
his mother was a sister of Mrs. Carpenter, one of the most gifted portrait painters of the time.
Wilkie was their eldest son. His father’s specialty was rustic scenery, which may account for
the minute and delicate handling of Nature which asserts itself in all the works of the son.
Having received his primary education at a primary school, he completes it in Italy, where he
spends two years with his parents. Returning to England, he was articled to a firm in the
tea-trade, but, not taking to the business, began the study of law, at Lincoln’s Inn,

His first literary work was a biography of his father, published in two volumes in 1848.
From this time his energies were solely devoted to literature. His works were named and
published as follows: Aztonina (180) ; Notes in Cornwall (1851); Basil and Mr. Wray's
Cash Box (1852); Hide and Seek (1854); After Dark (1856); The Dead Secret (1857). All
these were originally printed in Household Words, of which Charles Dickens was editor.
Then came The Queen of Hearts (1859); The Woman in White (his masterpiece) (1860) ;
No Name (1862); My Miscellanies (1863); Armadale (1866); The Moonstone (1868) ; Aan
and Wife (1870); Poor Miss Finch (1872); Miss or Mrs. ? (1873); Agnes Warlock and The
Law and The Lady (1875); Two Destinics (1876); The Haunted Hotel (1878); The Fallen
Leaves and A Rogue's Life (1879); Jezebel’s Daughter (1880): The Black Robe (1881); Heart
and Science (1883); I Say No (1884); The Evil Genius and The Guilty River (1886); The
Legacy of Cain (1888), and Béind Love (1889). The, latter work, unfinished at the time
of his death, was completed from the author’s notes, by Walter Besant. Vo Thoroughfare, |

“written jointly with Charles Dickens, appeared in 1867.

Mr. Collins visited America during the year of 1873-4, giving public readings of two of his
works in the principal cities. He was both novelist and dramatist. His maiden play, 7he
Lighthouse, was first produced at Camden House ;’afterwards at Olympic Theater. Zhe
Frozen Deep, was acted at Tavistock House, the cast including Dickens. The Moonstone,
dramatized by the author himself, was brought out at the Olympic, also Ze New Magdalen,
and The Woman in White. Man and Wife was produced at the Adelphi. All these were
successful, but his original play Runk and Riches, proved a failure.

Wilkie Collins died in London on the 23d of September, 1889.

THE WOMAN IN WHITE.

Walter Hartright, a drawing teacher in London, goes of an evening to
Hampstead, to visit his mother and sister. He finds there an Italian named
Pesca, a teacher of languages, whom he had met at houses where each had
730 WILKIE COLLINS.

 

pupils. Walter had once saved Pesca from drowning, and had thereby won
his lasting gratitude. Pesca declares that he now has the means of making
some slight return to Walter for the service he has rendered him. Among
the pupils of the Italian were the three daughters of a rich merchant, resid-
ing in Portland Place. While recently engaged with their usual Italian
exercise, their father enters the room, bringing a letter from his friend Fred-
erick Fairlie of Limmeridge House, Cumberland, who desires to secure the
services of a drawing-master for his two nieces. Pesca recommends Walter,
who subsequently secures the engagement.

Walter returns to London on foot the same evening. On the road he
suddenly encounters a woman, dressed from head to foot in white, who
inquires the way to London. At first she is timid and uncommunicative, but
something in Walter’s appearance and manner seems, after a time, to reas-
sure her, and their conversation becomes more familiar. Walter proposes
that they shall go on together. She consents, with the condition, that when
they reach the city, and she desires to leave him, he shall make no attempt
to follow her. As they walked, she asked strange questions — among them,
if he knew many people of rank in London; pressing him to give her the
names of any baronets of his acquaintance. He having done so, she
exclaims: “Ah! you don’t know dim;" but refuses all explanations.
Walter mentions that he is about leaving London for Limmeridge House, a
place which she confesses she knows, and talks of her love for Mrs. Fairlie,
who, she says, is dead.

Arrived in London, she takes a cab, eagerly thanks Walter, kisses his
hand, and is driven off in the direction of Tottenham Court Road. A
moment later a carriage drives up, containing two men. These men hold a
conference with a policeman, which Walter hears from the opposite side of
the street. They are making inquiries about a woman dressed all in white,
who has escaped from an asylum. Walter goes to Limmeridge House,
where he first meets Marian Halcombe. Her mother contracted a second
marriage with Philip Fairlie, an older brother of Frederick, present owner
of the house. Frederick was a bachelor, very nervous and irritable. The
household, beside himself, consisted of Laura, the only child of Philip,
Marian, and Mrs. Vesey, Laura's former governess and always valued friend.
Frederick is Laura's guardian, Laura is the prospective heiress of Limme-
ridge House, Walter mentions to Marian his strange interview with the
woman in white, and what she said of Mrs, Fairlie. Marian promises to
look over her mother’s papers, in the hope of finding something that will
throw light upon the mystery. In an interview with Mr. Fairlie, matters
relating to the duties he is to perform are arranged to Walter's satisfaction.
Tle then meets Laura, She wears white, and is singularly like the woman
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 731
he encountered on the London road. The drawing-master is at once
attracted to her. Marian finds in her mother’s letters allusions to a Mrs.
Catherick, who had come to Limmeridge to care for a dying sister, Mrs.
Kempe, bringing with her her little daughter Anne, who, during her few
months’ stay in the village, attends a school established and supervised by
Mrs. Fairlie. The child, who is intellectually weak, is yet sweet and love-
able, and becomes a favorite with Mrs. Fairlie. She has a way of saying
quaint things, upon which Mrs. Fairlie’s letter specifically remarks, instanc-
ing this illustration: Some of Laura’s white frocks had been made over for
her, and Mrs. Fairlie, upon giving them to her, had said she thought that
little girls with her complexion looked best in white. Kissing Mrs. Fairlie’s
hand, she answered, “I will always wear white, as long asI live. It will
help me to remember you, ma’am, and to think I am pleasing you still when
I go away and see you no more.”

Mrs. Fairlie’s letter states that her real reason for being so fond of Anne
is that, wfthout being half so pretty as her own Laura, who is a year
younger, Anne is, nevertheless, Laura’s living image. Laura herself remem-
bers Anne ; that she stayed a few months in the village, and then returned
home with her mother. In all this, there is enough to suggest to Walter
and Marian the strong probability that the woman seen on the London road
was Anne Catherick.

Time passes on. Walter becomes desperately in Jove with Laura, but
conceals, as he supposes, the delicate secret ; but Marian has already dis-
covered it, and, having intimated to him this knowledge, informs him that
her half-sister is engaged to Sir Percival Glyde, baronet, owner of Black-
water Park, Hampshire. This brings up Anne’s inquiries about Walter’s
knowledge of titled men, especially baronets. Marian insists that Walter
shall leave Limmeridge House at once, lest his further presence should
create trouble for both Laura and himself. At this time Laura receives an
anonymous letter left by a woman, warning her against marriage with a per-
son, whom she describes, but does not name. The description accurately
represents Sir Percival Glyde, her affianced husband. Taking into consid-
eration all that he knew of Anne Catherick, and coupling with it the asser-
tion of one of the school-boys, which had been spread through the village,
that he had seen a ghost in the churchyard on the previous evening, Walter
has no hesitation in attributing the anonymous letter to Anne. Soon after
he encountered her in the churchyard of Limmeridge, in company with Mrs.
Clements, by whom, as a child, she had been for the most part brought up.
They were stopping, she said, at Todd’s Corners, three miles away, where
Mrs. Clements had relatives. She had gone to Mrs. Clements, who had
moved from Welmingham to London, the night when Walter had first seen
732 WILKIE COLLINS.

her, and Mrs. Clements Had now come down with herto Limmeridge. Wal-
ter charges her with writing the letter to Laura. She denies it. Walter
pressed the charge, and added: “ Miss Fairlie knows that the person you
write of is Sir Percival Glyde.” Whereupon Anne shrieked with terror,
bringing Mrs. Clements to her side, by whom she was borne away, and
Walter never sees her more.

Mr. Gilmore, the family solicitor, comes to Limmeridge House to arrange
the marriage settlements. At this juncture Walter takes his leave, first hav-
ing a last interview with Laura, wherein he discovers signs upon her part of
a strong affection for himself. His honor, however, compels him to be
silent.

Mr. Gilmore sends to Sir Percival Glyde a copy of the anonymous letter
received by Miss Fairlie, and informs him that a search for Anne Catherick,
who is supposed to have written it, has ended in failure. The baronet states
in reply that he is indebted to her mother for faithful services in the past :
that her husband had long since deserted her and left her in trouble; that
her child was a weak-minded creature, and, at his instance and through his
help, had, as a humane and a precautionary matter, been sent to a private
asylum. This fact was at the bottom of her hatred of him. These state-
ments were confirmed by Mrs Catherick herself in a letter, written in reply
to one addressed to her at Sir Percival’s urgent solicitation, by Miss Fairlie.

Mr. Gilmore, having explained to Laura the nature of marriage settle-~
ments in general, and the particulars concerning her own, returns to Lon-
don. Not long after, he received a letter from Marian, saying that the mar-
riage had been fixed for the latter part of the month of December, three
months before the expiration of Laura’s minority. It became his duty,
therefore, to draw up the marriage settlements. The expectations of Miss
Fairlie are twofold, comprising her possible inheritance of real property, or
land, on the death of her Uncle Frederick, and her absolute inheritance of
personal property, or money, upon coming of aye. Sir Percival’s prospects.
in marrying Laura were the use of three thousand pounds a year, the income
of the estate, by permission of his wife, while she lived, and in his own right
on her death, in case he survived her; also the inheritance of Limmeridge
House for his son, should he have one. The personal estate amounted to
twenty thousand pounds, to which Laura was entitled upon reaching her
majority. She had also a life interest in ten thousand pounds, which was at
her decease, to go to her aunt Mleanor, wife of an Italian count named Fosco.
The future disposition of the twenty thousand pounds would depend upon
such arrangements as might be made with Sir Percival’s solicitor. Mr
Gilmore stipulated that the amount should be so settled as to give Laura the
income for life, or in case of her death to Sir Percival during his life;
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 733
the principal to go to the children of the marriage. In default of issue
the principal was to be disposed of as Laura might direct, and the
right, in such case, to make a will was to be reserved to her. Sir Perci-
val’s lawyer demurred ; insisting that the will clause should be stricken out
and that the principal should pass to Sir Percival in the event of Laura’s
death. Finally, the settlements were so drawn.

Meanwhile, Walter Hartright goes to Central America as draughtsman
to an exploring expedition, a position secured for him through the influence
of Marian. Laura confesses to Marian her love for Walter, In an inter-
view with Sir Percival, Laura informs him that she does not love him, and
does love another, hoping that this will lead to the rupture of their engage-
ment. To her surprise and chagrin, he insists upon the performance of
their mutual contract. The marriage takes place on the 22d of December.
The honeymoon is mostly spent on the Continent. At the end of six months
the Baronet and Lady Glyde return and settle down at Blackwater Park,
where Marian was already established by invitation of Sir Percival, given at
the time of his marriage. They are accompanied by the Count and Countess
Fosco, with whom they spent some time during their protracted wedding
tour. The Count is alarmingly fat, and oppressively bland ; it is not possible
to trust him, and yet it is hard to resist him. He exhibits a puerile weak-
ness for pets ; a cockatoo, several canaries, and as many mice, are his con-
stant companions. The Countess is, in a word, a woman who lives in terror
of her husband. Nothing has been heard of Walter Hartright for six
months. Mr. Gilmore, the family solicitor, has had a stroke of apoplexy,
and has gone to Germany to rest, leaving the affairs of the firm in the hands
of his partner, Mr. Kyrle. The habitual mood of Laura is unhappy, but she
suffers in silence, making no admissions or explanations, even to Marian.
Mr. Merriman, the baronet’s solicitor, visits Blackwater Park. Marian
Surprises a conversation between him and Sir Percival. The words: “It all
rests with Lady Glyde,” uttered by the lawyer, came to her ears.

Sir Percival learns that Mrs. Catherick has been at the park, making in-
quiries concerning Anne, who, she declares, is lost. The news greatly
agitates him, and he straightway goes upon a journey; it is supposed to
Welmingham, where Mrs, Catherick resides. On his return he requests
Laura to sign a certain legal paper. She refuses. About this time Laura sud-
denly meets with Anne Catherick at the boat-house belonging to the park.
She confesses to the anonymous letter, and reproaches herself with not hav-
ing done more; with not having put Laura in possession of ‘the secret.”
Asked what secret, she replies that it is one of which Sir Percival is afraid,
on account of which he caused her to be shut up, and under the influence
of which her mother has wasted half her lifetime. She pauses in the midst
734 WILKIE COLLINS.

 

of her recital, declares that some one is spying upon them (which is true, the
spy being Count Fosco), and abruptly leaves Laura, promising to meet her
again in the boat-house the following day. Laura gives Marian the particu-
lars of the strange interview. Sir Percival makes no further attempt to gain
his wife’s signature. His change of purpose seems to be due to Count Fosco,
who, in some way, has acquired a wonderful influence overhim. The next
day he is missing from breakfast time. At lunch, he has not returned. After
lunch, Laura goes to the boat-house to meet .\nne Catherick. At the expi-
ration of an hour she has not returned. Marian, alarmed at her long absence,
goes to seek her. The boat-house was empty, but outside were footsteps,
large and small, which she at once decided were made by Laura and her hus-
band. Sir Percival had evidently been put upon the scent by Fosco, the spy
of the previous day. Near the boat-house was a hole in the sand artificially
and freshly made. Following the footsteps, Marian was not surprised to
find that they led directly to the house. Enquiring of Mrs. Michelson, the
housekeeper, if Lady Glyde had come in, the answer was that she had, in
company with Sir Percival ; that she seemed much agitated, and had pro-
ceeded at once to her own room. Thither goes Marian and finds the door
fastened against her. Her knock is answered by Margaret Porcher, one of
the under servants, who informs her that Sir Percival has issued orders ex-
cluding her from the room. Through the agency of Count and Madame
Fosco, Laura is speedily released, and matters assume their former footing,
Laura tells Marian that while on her way to the boat-house, she discovered
the word “ Look !” traced in large letters, in the sand. After digging, she
found a note from Anne, saying that, on the previous day, she was followed
from the boat-house by a stout man, who. however, failed to overtake her;
that she was afraid to repeat her visit, but would soon find some way of
seeing, or communicating with her. While reading the note, she was sur-
prised by Sir Percival, who demanded and read it, then insisted upon know-
ing all that Anne had told her: was refused ; cursed and misused her, forced
her to the house, dismissed her maid, Fanny (who was afterwards sent to a
neighboring inn to await orders, by Marian), pushed her into her room, and
set Margaret Porcher on guard.

It thus became evident to both Lady Glyde and her sister that matters
were approaching a crisis, and that something must be done. Marian there-
fore writes to Mr. Kyrle, acquainting him with all that has occurred, and to
Laura's uncle Frederick, saving that his niece desires refuge at Limmeridge
House, These letters she carries to the inn where Fanny is staying, puts
them in her charge, bids her go to London, and post the one to Mr. Kyrle
and then go on to Limmeridee House and deliver the other to Mr Fairlie.
The same evening, Marian having, by chance, overheard the commence-
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 735
ment of a conversation between Sir Percival and Count Fosco outside her
window, determines to listen to the rest of it, after, as usual, they have
adjourned to the library. Taking her station, stealthily, close to the
veranda, upon which the library windows open, she distinctly hears all that
they say. Fosco asserts that they both came from the continent, sadly in
need of funds; that they expected to be relieved by Lady Glyde’s signa-
ture; that after this was refused, the necessary amount was raised by means:
of three months’ bills, bearing an enormous interest; and that these bills
can be met only by means of Lady Glyde’s signature, or through her death.
The Count reminds the Baronet that he has, of his own accord, placed the
whole matter in his (the Count’s) hands, and assures him, that when the
bills fall due, they will be paid, leaving it to the Baronet to conjecture the
means. Count Fosco goes on to accuse the Baronet of keeping a secret
from him; says that he will give it a name, and pronounces that of Anne
* Catherick. Sir Percival replies, that it is a secret with which the Count has
nothing to do, but finally admits that its responsibilities are more than he
can master, and requests Fosco’s help. He declares that Anne’s mother is
equally interested with himself in keeping the secret inviolate ; that he has
been in frequent communication with her ; that he dictated the reply to the
letter addressed to her by Laura, previous to her marriage ; and finally, that
she, as well as himself, is ignorant of the present whereabouts of Anne, to
whom the secret is also known, and who was placed in the asylum to prevent
her from revealing it.

The Count again assures the Baronet that the bills shall be paid at
maturity, and bids him no longer’be uneasy about Anne Catherick, for he
himself will find and dispose of her. The exposure to which Marian has
been subjected during this conversation, results in a sudden chill, under the
influence of which she creeps back to her room, proceeds to relate all that
she has heard upon the pages of her diary, and has just concluded, when
her senses fail her, and she sinks to the floor, leaving the record of her con-
fidence upon the table. There it is found by Madame Fosco, who gives it
to her husband to read, after which it is returned to Marian’s room.

Fanny now appears at Limmeridge House. Mr. Fairlie is informed of her
dismissal from Lady Glyde’s service by Sir Percival ; that she was sent to
a neighboring inn to await orders ; that Marian Halcombe came to her with
two letters, one for Mr. Kyrle, the other for himself, which she now deliv-
ered; that after Miss Halcombe had left the inn, Madame Fosco appeared
there, declaring that she had come to bring some messages which Marian, in
her haste, had forgotten ; that the Madame was strangely kind to her, and
insisted, among other things, upon making her acup of tea; that after drink-
ing it she swooned, and when her senses returned the Madame was gone.
736 WILKIE COLLINS.

 

She immediately proceeded to ascertain if the letters, which she had placed
in her bosom, were safe. They were there, but were strangely crumpled.
She proceeded at once to London, posted the letter to Mr. Kyrle, as directed,
and completed her instructions by continuing her journey to Limmeridge
House and placing Marian’s letter in his (Mr. Fairlie’s) hands.

This letter asked that, for sufficient reasons, Lady Glyde might be
‘straightway invited to Limmeridge House. To this Mr. Fairlie replied that
he desired that Marian should come first herself to Limmeridge, for the purpose
of explaining matters which, as they stood, he was at a loss to understand.
Then came a letter addressed to him by Mr. Kyrle, saying that he had
received, by post,an envelope bearing his address in Marian’s handwriting,
containing only a blank sheet of note paper. Could Mr. Fairlie throw any
light upon the matter? Of course he could only send a negative reply. As
if to test Mr. Fairlie’s nerves to the utmost, Count Fosco now arrives at
Limmeridge House, saying that he had come instead of Marian, on account
of her sudden illness. It was his object he said, first to testify that Marian,
in her letter, had in no manner exaggerated the differences existing between
Sir Percival and his wife, and to emphasize her request that Laura might be
invited to Limmeridge House; second, to answer Mr. Fairlie that he would
not in that case be annoyed by any attempts on the part of Sir Percival to
reclaim his wife. He was also prepared to make any explanations which
Mr. Fairlie might require.

He urged Mr. Fairlie to write at once to Lady Glyde, offering her an
asylum in his home. It would be useless to wait for Marian’s recovery. She
was well cared for, and to allow Lady Glyde to remain at the Park, would be
to risk public scandal and to put in jeopardy the reputation of two families.
Mr. Fairlie therefore writes the required letter -—really to rid himself of
Fosco, and thinking, at the same time, that Laura would certainly decline to
leave the Park at least until Marian was better. Fosco departs with the
letter. Marian’s illness continues, and becomes more alarming. Mr. Daw-
son, the nearest medical practitioner, is called to attend her. Mrs. Michelson,
the housekeeper, who acts as her nurse, passing the library door, hears Sir
Percival ask Count Fosco, who for the third time during Marian’s illness had
gone out early, and who had then just entered the hall, * Have you found
her?” ‘There was no reply, but the Count’s smiling countenance revealed
his success in searching for Anne Catherick. Mrs. Rubelle, a small, sly
person of fifty, with Creole complexion, is brought down from London to
assist in nursing Marian, She turns out to be a creature of the Fosco’s.
Marian grows worse, .\ physician is summoned from London, Lady Glyde
is no longer allowed to sce her sister, ‘Ten days after, Marian is pronounced
out of danger.
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 737

Count Fosco and Mr. Dawson, who have been anything but friendly
during Marian’s illness, come to an open rupture, and the doctor throws up
the case and leaves the house. Lady Glyde is so overcome by the good
news concerning Marian that she is obliged to keep her room. Sir Percival
summons Mrs. Michelson to the library, and announces to her the immedi-
ate breaking-up of his establishment. This is done. There remain only
Mrs. Michelson, Margaret Porcher and the gardener. A day or two after,
Sir Percival requests Mrs. Michelson to go to Torquay and engage apart-
ments for Lady Glyde and Marian, it having been decided that. they had
better rest there for a brief season before proceeding to Limmeridge House.
Sir Percival gives the housekeeper elaborate written instructions as to the
kind of apartments he desires to secure. Mrs. Michelson finds it impossible
to carry out his wishes, and returns to the Park. Sir Percival expresses no
disappointment on account of her failure. During her absence the Foscoes
had left the Park and taken up their residence in St. John’s Wood. Mar-
garet Porcher had been constituted Lady Glyde’s attendant. Proceeding
to Lady Glyde’s room, Mrs. Michelson finds her much excited because no
one has that morning brought her any news of Marian. Lady Glyde is
assisted to dress, and starts for Marian’s room, but is met on the way by
her husband, who informs her that Marian left the day before, with the
Foscoes and Mrs. Rubelle, on her way to Limmeridge House. Lady Glyde
asking why Marian has gone without her, Sir Percival replies that her uncle
declined to receive her until he had first questioned Marian, Asking why
Marian went without bidding her good-by, he answers that it was thought
best to spare her a trying interview. Lady Glyde expresses her determina-
tion to follow Marian without delay. Her husband replies that she cannot
go until the next day, and that he will write to Count Fosco to meet her by
the mid-day train. Lady Glyde wishes to know why the Count should be
written to at all, and is informed that her uncle’s letter of invitation advises
her to break the journey to Limmeridge House by spending a night with
the Foscoes. To this Lady Glyde strongly objects. Sir Percival insists,
warns her not to put obstacles in the way of his arrangements, and not to
make him repent of letting her go at all. Mrs. Michelson seeks to reas-
sure Lady Glyde, who has now returned to her own room — reminds her
that the Count was most friendly to Marian during her illness, and de-
clares, among other things, that even the misunderstanding with Mr. Daw-
son, in consequence of which he abandoned the case, was due to his
interest in the patient.

This is a revelation to Lady Glyde. She exclaims that the quarrel was
provoked by the Count for- the purpose of getting Mr. Dawson out of the
way, since he would never have consented that Marian, in her debilitated
738 WILKIE COLLINS
state, should be allowed to travel. Her fears concerning Marian led to
fears concerning herself, and she dashes off a hurried letter to her old
friend, Mrs. Vesey, saying that she expects to be in London the next day,
and will, by her permission, sleep at her house. This letter is secretly
posted by the housekeeper.

The next morning Sir Percival informs Lady Glyde that the chaise will
be at the door at a quarter to twelve, to convey her to the station ; that he
is called away on pressing business, but expects to return before she leaves ;
if not, Mrs. Michelson will accompany her to the station.

“T shall never see you again,” replied Lady Glyde. ‘Will you try to
forgive me, as I forgive you?”

A sudden pallor overspreads her husband’s countenance, and great beads
of perspiration break out on his forehead, as he answers :

“T shall come back.”

But he does not come! The housekeeper goes with her mistress to the
station. The train is already there, and Lady Glyde, bidding her attendant
a hurried good-bye, is whirled away to London. Arriving there, she was met,
as her husband had informed her she would be met, by Count Fosco. From
the station she was conveyed to a house in a small street behind a square,
and was piloted upstairs to a back room, in company with the Count, by a
foreign-looking person with a black beard; the husband of Madame
Rubelle. Afterwards two men came in, one by one —men from the asylum
—who were presented to her by Fosco as his friends, eyed her rudely, asked
her strange questions, and subjected her to such agitation as ended ina
swoon. From this point her recollections were confused. When full con-
sciousness returned, she found herself in an asylum, where she was known,
not as Lady Glyde, but as Anne Catherick. The consternation of Mrs.
Michelson is not to be described when, on her return to Blackwater, she en-
counters Mrs. Rubelle, and learns from her that Marian had never left the
house! Sir Percival explains to the housekeeper that Lady Glyde had been
subjected to a harmless deception solely for her own benefit ; that change of
air and scene was in her case imperative ; and that, because it would have been
impossible to induce her to leave the Park so long as she knew that her sister
was there, she had been told that Marian had preceded her to London.

In the dead of the same night, Sir Percival, who has been greatly excited
and unusually violent, orders the chaise, declaring that he will remain no
longer in his dungeon of a house, drives to the nearest station and leaves by
the train, his purpose and his destination being alike unknown. Marian and
the housekeeper journey together to London, where they part — Marian
going on to Limmeridye Elouse, and the housekeeper remaining with a friend
in’ Islington.
is. THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 739
The scene now changes to Count Fosco’s house in St. John’s Wood, where
preparations were in progress for the reception of Lady Glyde. She no
sooner arrives under the Count’s escort than the whole household is in com-
motion— she has been taken suddenly ill and is suffering with violent
convulsions! She lies upon a sofa, her face ghastly, her hands clinched, her
head drawn to one side. A Doctor Goodricke is called in, and, saying that
the patient is the victim of heart disease of the most dangerous kind, affirms
that there can be no effectual help for her. The next morning she is dead!
Count Fosco was not present at the moment. The fact that the Count was
a foreigner led the doctor himself to register the death. The body of Lady
Glyde was prepared for burial by Jane Gould, who remained with it until the
coffin was screwed down previous to its removal to Limmeridge churchyard.
There it was buried, and in due time a suitable inscription appeared upon
the family monument.

Walter Hartright, returning from Central America, reached London on
the 13th of October, 1850. He is still madly in love with Laura Fairlie. Pro-
ceeding to his mother’s house, he is overwhelmed with the tidings of Lady
Glyde’s death. Three days after he goes to Limmeridge to visit her grave.
While he lingers there two women, closely veiled, approach the grave. One
of these proves to be Marian Halcombe, the other Laura, Lady Glyde!

A mean house in a poor neighborhood of London. The ground floor a
shop ; the second floor occupied by two sad-faced women, the third by a
drawing master who passes for their brother. The reader need not to be told
who theyare. And yet itis only by Marian and Walter that their companion
is recognized as Lady Glyde. To all others who know or pretend to know
anything of her, she is Anne Catherick, a mad woman, who trades upona
resemblance to Lady Glyde, and insists that she is Lady Glyde herself. Her
uncle and guardian has publicly disowned her ; the servants of Limmeridge
House have failed to identify her; her estate has been administered, and
her fortune has passed to Sir Percival Glyde, her husband, and to the Countess
Fosco, her aunt. She is socially, legally, actually and absolutely dead to all
save her sister and to their faithful, trusty friend, Walter Hartright.

How came about the restoration of Laura, Lady Glyde, and Marian Hol-
combe to each other, after their enforced separation, by means of the treach-
ery of Sir Percival Glyde and of his shameless and unscrupulous tool, Count
Fosco?

Marian was, of course, put in immediate possession of all the particulars
relating to the departure of Lady Glyde from Blackwater Park. The
Countess Fosco had promptly sent to her the news of Lady Glyde’s death.
740 WILKIE COLLINS.

 

For three weeks she lay prostrate under this cruel blow. Then Marian
and Mrs. Michelson went, as stated, to London; the housekeeper remaining
there, Marian going on to Limmeridge House. Her first move was to com-
municate to Mr. Kyrle her suspicions that Lady Glyde had been foully dealt
with in the house of Fosco. After a patient, minute and exhaustive investi-
gation of the matter, in which he was aided in every possible way as it
seemed, by the Count himself, the lawyer assured Marian that her suspicions
were groundless. Count Fosco had already written to Mr. Fairlie the full
particulars of Lady Glyde’s death, and had sent on the very clothes she
wore when she came to St. John’s Wood. Ina postscript to the letter it was
stated, apparently as a matter of small consequence, that Anne Catherick’s
hiding place had been discovered ; that she had been returned to the asylum
from which she had escaped, and that a new phase of her malady had ap-
peared, namely : she insisted that she was not Anne Catherick, but Lady
Glyde!

Overcome by excitement and the failure of her efforts thus far to discover
the truth concerning Lady Glyde, Marian was again prostrated and remained
housed at Limmeridge for a whole month. Upon her recovery, goaded by
her old suspicions, she caused Fosco's house to be privately watched, but all
to no purpose. It was then that she remembered the reference to Anne
Catherick, in the postscript contained in the Count's letter to Mr. Fairlie,
and became suddenly impressed with the idea that the only way to the solu-
tion of the mystery surrounding the fate of Lady Glyde lay through Anne
herself. Nothing was to be made out of the Foscoes — nothing out of Sir
Percival Glyde, who, as she had learned, wasin Paris. She must go to the
Asylum! Its location she already knew — the knowledge was Cerived from
her first conversation with Walter Hartright. The letter from Count Fosco
to Mr. Fairlie had mentioned her by name; it would be natural to suppose
that she would be interested in the case of Anne, especially now, when she
claimed to be Lady Glyde. Armed with this letter, she proceeded to the
asylum and, upon the strength of it, was admitted. In a conversation with
the proprietor, who stated that Anne had been returned to his custody by
Count Fosco, who had brought with him a letter of instructions relating to
her, written by Sir Percival Glyde, Marian was informed that the proprietor
had, at once, discovered a change in the patient —a personal change, he
said — by which he was greatly perplexed. She was Anne, and yet not
Anne. He admitted that he felt rather than saw this change. While
Marian was much impressed by this statement, it in no Way prepared her for
what was to follow. For when, soon after, she was brought face to face
with the supposed Anne, Laura herself, rushed into her sister's arms! It
happened that no one was present at this interview except a nurse, Through
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 741

 

the aid of this nurse, Lady Glyde on the following day, made her escape
from the asylum, and was brought to Limmeridge House by Marian and, for
obvious reasons, subjected to a temporary seclusion. Here, a decided
repulse awaited them. Marian having, after a night’s rest, presented Laura
to her uncle; he became much excited, declared that his niece was dead, and
that this woman was an impostor, declined to harbor her, and ordered
Marian to take her away at once. Nothing seems left for them therefore,
but to return to London. Laura insists that they shall first visit the grave
of their mother in Limmeridge churchyard. And there, manifestly directed
by the finger of Providence, they meet their best friend, and, finally, heroic
deliverer, Walter Hartright, by whom they were accompanied to London,
and there provided for as already shown.

From this moment the controlling purpose of Walter was to establish
Laura’s identity, punish the authors of the conspiracy, to serve whose ends
she had so greatly suffered, and unearth the secret of Sir Percival Glyde.
He begins with Mr. Kyrle, who hears him patiently, but declares that he
has no legal case; that all would be different, if a discrepancy could be
established between the date of Lady Glyde’s journey to London, and that
of the doctor’s registry of her death. Only Sir Percival and Count Fosco
could by any possibility, serve him in the matter, and what was to be
expected of them? Yes, the lawyer said, Sir Percival was now in London.
Well, he must know more about him. Marian, having gained the knowledge
at the time of his marriage with her sister, could tell him that he was the
only son of Sir Felix Glyde, who inherited Blackwater Park while a young
man. Sir Felix was deformed ; his one passion was music; he had married
a lady with tastes similar to his own. Both husband and wife were very
unpopular in the community. After a brief residence in Blackwater, the pair
left for the continent. There Sir Percival was born, and there both father
and mother died. Sir Percival’s acquaintance with Frederick Fairlie did
not begin until after the death of Sir Felix, and his only intimate friend in
the Farlie family was Sir Philip, the father of Laura. It occurred to Walter
that something might be learned from Mrs. Clements, by whom Anne
Catherick was attended to Blackwater, when she had gone there with the
hope of preventing the marriage of Laura Fairlie with Sir Percival Glyde.
It was with Mrs. Clements that Anne had lived from the night when Walter
had first met her on the London road. Marian, therefore, wrote to Mrs.
Todd, of Todd’s Corners, with whom the two had stayed while Anne was
seeking to execute her mission to Lady Glyde, asking for the address of Mrs.
Clements, which, in reply, was furnished. It was in Gray’s-Inn Road, Lon-
don, and thither Walter speedily repaired. He learned from Mrs. Clements
that when Anne returned to Todd’s Corners, for the last time from Black-
WILKIE COLLINS.

742

 

water, she was much agitated, and that, to calm and reassure her, Mrs.
Clements went herself, next day, to the plantation, hoping to see Lady Glyde
and induce her to come to Anne’ She meets Count Fosco, who informs her
that it is Lady Glyde’s earnest request that she should return with Anne to
London, thereby preventing their possible discovery by Sir Percival, where
she would see them shortly, as she herself was going soon to London = She
must not fail to send Lady Glyde her London address. Supposing that all
is right, Mrs. Clements complies with Lady Glyde’s request. At Blackwater
station, she sees the Count again, conversing with “an elderly lady,” in
whom the reader will recognize Madame Fosco. This person goes to Lon-
don by the same train. Mrs. Clements, after their arrival, sends her address
as requested, to Lady Glyde. A fortnight later, Madame Fosco appeared at
the house saying that she had come from Lady Glyde, who was then in
London, and desired to see Mrs. Clements, to arrange for an interview with
Anne. Suspecting nothing, she entered the cab, which was in waiting, with
Madame Fosco. After proceeding a short distance, the Madame ordered
the cab to stop at a shop, saying that she had a purchase to make, and
asking Mrs. Clements to wait for her. After waiting some time, the latter
became alarmed, and ordered the cabman to drive back to her lodgings.
Arriving there, she found that Anne was missing. The servant informed
her that the young lady had, during her friend's absence, received a letter
brought by a boy, after reading which, she had gone out, dressed in her
bonnet and shawl. This was all Mrs. Clements knew about her. She had
never heard from her, or of her, since her mysterious disappearance.

Mrs. Clements was also able to furnish Walter with various particulars
concerning the Cathericks. They were neighbors in Old Welmingham,
where Mrs. Clements spent the first years of her married life.

The Cathericks, newly married, had come to Welmingham by reason of
the appointment of the husband as clerk at Welmingham Church. There, a
few months later, Anne was born. Mrs. Catherick had been a servant at
Varneck Hall, Southampton, the seat of Major Donthorne. She had mar-
ried Catherick to save her reputation, The month before Anne was born,
Sir Percival Glyde made his appearance in Old Welmingham, stopping at an
inn on the river. He was then in mourning for his father, his mother hav-
ing died some years before. It very soon became evident that there was
“something between" the Baronet and Mrs. Catherick. While they were
supposed to have met as strangers, circumstances seemed to point to a
former acquaintance ‘The Clements believed that he was the father of
Anne. Catherick finds hidden away in his wife’s drawer a gold watch and
chain, the watch bearing her initials, with other expensive things. He sus
pects that the giver is Sir Percival; becomes insanely jealous, watches his
THE WOMAN IN WHITE, 743

 

wife and the Baronet, and, at length, discovers them together under the
vestry, carrying on a whispered conversation. In his frenzy he falls upon
Sir Percival, and administers to him a cruel beating, and afterwards leaves the
place and never returns. The last heard of him,he was in America. Before leav-
ing England he writes to Mr. Clements, offering through him a quarterly
allowance to his wife. She disdainfully refuses it, defies public opinion by
continuing to live right on in Welmingham, and is evidently furnished with
the means of a comfortable maintenance by some one in the background —
generally supposed to be Sir Percival. Mrs. Catherick hated Anne from her
birth. Mrs. Clements, out of womanly pity for the child, and having no
children of her own, offered to bring her up. To this her mother so far
consented, that Anne remained with Mrs. Clements most of the time. About
the time when Anne was taken to Limmeridge by her mother, Mrs. Clements
was left a widow, and, during their absence, decided to remove to London.
Upon her return she informed Mrs. Catherick of her determination, and
begged that Anne might go with her to London. To this Mrs, Catherick
would not listen. Mrs. Clements, therefore, went alone to London, and did
not see Anne again until she came to her, after parting with Walter Hart-
right, on the night of her escape from the Asylum. Anne informed her that
Sir Percival had caused her to be placed there, because her mother had let
out to her a damaging secret relating to his affairs, and he wanted her out
of the way.

Enough had been said by Mrs. Clements to create in Walter a strong
desire to have an interview with Mrs. Catherick. For this purpose he pro-
ceeded to Welmingham. Mrs. Catherick’s manner was suspicious and repel-
lant ; she held Walter off at every point. Twice there was a change — once,
when Walter having introduced the name of Sir Percival Glyde, to whom he
alluded as the descendant of a great family, she burst out laughing and
replied: “Especially by the mother’s side.” Again, when Walter made
reference to her interview with Sir Percival under the vestry of the church,
she trembled with a terror, which all her hardihood could not resist ; but
almost immediately recovered her self-possession, and bade him go. Yes, he
said, he would go, but he might have news to bring her of Sir Percival,
which she did not expect ; then he would come back. ‘To which she made
answer that there was no news of Sir Percival that she did not expect,
except (hesitating) the news of his death. And thus they parted.

Walter is now moved by an impulse, which he can hardly explain, to visit
Welmingham Church. The words, “The vestry of the church,” which he
had just used to Mrs. Catherick, kept sounding in his ears. Her words to
him: “Especially by the mother’s side!” seemed to mingle with his own,
and in the refrain which they together constituted there was an indefinable
744 WILKIE COLLINS.

 

something which sounded like acommand. There was a guilty secret be-
tween Sir Percival and Mrs. Catherick. That secret was, in some way, con-
nected with the vestry of Welmingham Church. “The vestry of the church !”
That was where the registry was kept. ‘Especially by the mother’s side!”
Was there something wrong about the marriage of Sir Percival’s parents ?
By the way, why did he come to Welmingham so soon after his father’s
death? The vestry! The register! Would the register afford him any
clue? At any rate, he would consult it. Something might come of it
Marian had told him Sir Percival’s age at the time of his marriage; he
must have been born in 1804. Walter goes to the church, seeks the regis-
trations for the previous year, and finds that the marriage of Sir Felix Glyde
and Cecilia Jane Elster is recorded as having taken place in September.
The record was compressed into a singularly small space at the bottom of
the page, and had a suspicious look. This led Walter to examine a copy of
the register, which the clerk of the church had told him had been care-
fully kept by Mr. Wansborough, in the neighboring town of Knowlesbury.
The copy contained no entry of the marriage of Sir Felix Glyde! Instead
of this, there was a space at the bottom of the page corresponding with that
occupied by the record of his marriage in the original register. The secret
was out. Sir Felix had never been married to Sir Percival’s mother. The
record in the register at Welmingham was a forgery. Sir Percival was not
Sir Percival at all; was neither a Baronet, nor the rightful owner of Black-
water Park ; only a bastard, with no rights at all! Here was the explana-
tion of the whisperings under the vestry between himself and Mrs. Cather-
ick, and of his fear of Anne. Here the animus of the conspiracy was re-
vealed. The whole future of Sir Percival Glyde hung on the lips of Walter
Hartright, who already knew that he had been shadowed by the Baronet’s
spies, and that his every movement had been faithfully teported to him,
whom they most directly concerned.

Walter hastens to Knowlesbury to the church, to make sure of a copy of
the original register. Sir Percival, having stolen the key of the vestry from
the house of the clerk, had reached the place in advance of him. He locks
himself in, lights a match, unintentionally sets the vestry on fire, is unable
to unlock the door, and perishes in the flames.

Following the tragic death of Sir Percival, Walter receives a letter from
Mrs. Catherick, which admits the forgery of the record on the register of
Welmingham Church by Sir Percival, through her connivance, She goes on
to say that, after this was done, he forced her to remain in the place so that he
would always know where to find her, making her a suitable allowance. Anne
never knew the real secret, although she thought she did, and so did Sir Per-
cival, It was for this that she was, at his instance, placed in the Asvlum,
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 745

 

During the absence of Walter, Marian and Laura removed to Gower’s
Walk, Fulham, to avoid Count Fosco, who had discovered their former resi-
dence. On his return, Laura is told of her husband’s death. Walter writes
to Major Donthorne, and learns that Sir Percival never visited Varneck Hall,
but that Sir Philip Fairlie was his guest, while Mrs. Catherick — then unmar-
ried — was a servant in the house. Another matter was thus made plain.
Sir Philip was Anne’s father as well as Laura’s, and the reason for the strong
likeness between them was thus made apparent.

After the lapse of a few months, the marriage of Walter and Laura takes
place. Walter now turns his attention to Count Fosco, the remaining con-
spirator. He is helped in his efforts by Pesca. The Italian admitted to
Walter that he belonged to a secret brotherhood in his native country, the
members of which were unknown to each other, and that he had been wait-
ing in England all the time the orders of his chief. At the opera Fosco is
pointed out by Walter to Pesca. He does not know Fosco, but Fosco evi-
dently recognizes him, and is afraid of him. The same night Walter visits
Fosco, and, using the Count’s fear of Pesca as a weapon, wrings from him
a written confession of the whole conspiracy. The entire matter was man-
aged by Fosco. All the deceptions practiced upon Marian, Lady Glyde,
Anne and Mrs. Clements were the products of his cunning, He furnishes
Walter with proof that Laura started for London the day after the doctor’s
certificate of her death was registered. The count is afterwards allowed to
leave London, which he was making preparations to do when Walter
surprised him.

Taking with him his wife, Marian, and Mr. Kyrle, Walter now goes to
Limmeridge. He summons the tenants of the plantation to Limmeridge
House, and reads in their presence a plain statement of all particulars of the
conspiracy, which he had previously prepared. The result is the unanimous
recognition and hearty reinstatement of Laura, in which Mr. Fairlie coin-
cides. All then proceed to the graveyard, where the false inscription upon
the monument is erased ; after which, having first assured Mr. Fairlie that
all friendly relations and all communications between themselves and him
are forever ended, the party return to London. -

Shortly after, Walter was chosen to go to Paris on business for a friend,
who had been kind to him in his earlier struggles. While there, he happened
to pass the Morgue. At the moment, a party came out who were discussing
the sight they had just seen — the corpse of a man of immense size, with a
strange mark on his Jeft arm. Going in, Walter finds the dead body of
Count Fosco. The wound which killed him had been struck exactly over
the heart. The left arm showed two fresh, deep cuts, in the form of the letter
T. He had been murdered in secret as a traitor to the Brotherhood.
746 WILKIE COLLINS.

 

Nearly a year passed after Walter’s return from Paris. He had become
connected with an illustrated newspaper, and was earning what sufficed for
the wants of his household. Early in the succeeding year Laura becomes a
mother —the child, a son, is christened after his father. Six months later
Walter is sent to Ireland to make sketches for the paper to which he is
attached. On his return he finds a note from his wife saying that they have
all gone to Limmeridge House, and entreating him to follow. He goes, and
arriving there, exclaims: ‘“ What in the name of Heaven has brought you
here? Does Mr. Fairlie know —” Marian suspends the question on his lips
by telling him that Mr. Fairlie is dead, and that Mr, Kyrlie had instructed
them to come down immediately. Then catching up little Walter, she archly
asks his father: “Do you know who this is?"’ Yes; Walter thought he
could answer for knowing his own child. But Marian insists that he is mis-
taken, and that a formal introduction is necessary, whereupon she proceeds
to present to each other two important personages — Mr. Walter Hartright
and the Heir of Limmeridge.

So ends a story of what woman’s patience can endure, and man's resolu-
tion achieve,
 

 

 

 

GEORGE ELIOT.

BorRN 1820. ENGLAND, Died 1880
GEORGE ELIOT.

Mary Ann Evans was born November 22, 1820, near Griff, in Warwickshire, England.
Her father was a land agent. It is believed that his portrait is drawn in Caleb Garth. Griff,
the home of her happy childhood, is described in Felix Holt. At eight years of age she was
placed in a school at Nuneaton, where she received strong impressions from her governess,
Miss Lewis, Later, she enjoyed, for a few years, the advantages of a school in Coventry.
After the death of her mother, and the marriage of an older sister, Mary Ann found herself,
at the age of seventeen, in the position of housekeeper. While these duties were performed
with enthusiasm, her great delight was in books, and her strongest desire was for a better
education. Under the direction of a teacher from Coventry she studied the ancient and mod-
ern languages. The removal of her family in 1840 to Foleshill, near Coventry, brought
Miss Evans within the influence of a literary circle of advanced Freethinkers. By her own
confession, chameleon-like in the readiness with which she took color from her surroundings,
she quickly and easily gave up her early Evangelical views. Her first literary effort, a schol-
arly translation of Strauss’s Leben Jesu, began at the age of twenty-five, occupied her for
three years. After the death of her father in 1849, she spent some time on the continent,
pursuing her studies with intense zeal. ‘‘I take a dose of mathematics every day,” she said,
‘‘to prevent my brain from becoming quite soft.” Accepting the position of assistant editor
of the Westminster Review, Miss Evans spent three years in London, enjoying the compan-
ionship of such scholars as John Stuart Mill, Herbert Spencer and George Henry Lewes.
Her most noted article in the Review was that on Savonarola. Her translation of Feuer-
bach’s Essence of Christianity appeared in 1853. In 1854 Miss Evans resigned her position
onthe Westminster Review and formed a union with George Henry Lewes, whom she could
not legally marry, and with whom she lived until his death in 1878. Her first attempt at fic-
tion was Scenes from Clerical Life. The pseudonym ‘‘ George Eliot,” was chosen when Mr.
Lewes sent the first of these sketches to Mr. John Blackwood for publication, saying it was
written by a friend of his. The stories were well received, and public curiosity was aroused
as to the personality of the author. ‘‘He is a great writer,” said Arthur Helps. Both
Thackeray and Mrs. Oliphant thought the new author wasa man. Mrs. Carlyle conceived
the writer of the Scenes to be ‘‘a man of middle age, with a wife from whom he got those
beautiful feminine touches in his book.” While others believed that ‘‘ George Eliot” was
the name of a man as well as aman’s name. Charles Dickens, perceiving that the women
were more perfect characters than the men, that the latter were only described while the very
hearts of the former were revealed, felt sure that he could detect a woman’s delicacy of
touch. Writing Mr. Blackwood, who had sent the stories for his criticism, he praised the
author and spoke highly of her genius. Adam Bede appeared in 1858, The Mill on the
Floss, 1860, with its ideal picture of English girlhood ; Maggie Tulliver is, no doubt, in great
part autobiographic, Silas Marner followed in 1861, and then the author went to Italy,
studying in Florence for her great Italian romance, upon which she spent a year and a half,
“‘T began Romola a young woman, I finished it an old woman,” she said. Felix Holt was
published in 1868. Middlemarch appeared in 1871-72, and Daniel Deronda in 1876. Mr.
750 GEORGE ELIOT.

 

 

Lewes died November 28, 1878. George Eliot was married May 6, 1880, to Mr. John Wal-
ter Cross. Her own death occurred December 22, 1880. The stone that marks her grave in
Highgate cemetery bears as an appropriate inscription three of her own lines :

“O may I join the choir invisible,
Of those immortal dead who live again
In minds made better by their presence.”

MIDDLEMARCH.

Middlemarch deals with life in a provincial town in the Midlands of
England, whose name gives the book its title. It is the author's “ Study of
provincial life,” and is interesting not so much for its plot as for those de-
lineations of motive and developments of character which make the volume,
in the language of one critic, ‘A Compressed Library of Human Nature.”
The story opens near the end of the reign of (seorge the Fourth, when the
people were “still discussing Mr. Peel's late conduct on the Catholic ques-
tion.” Dorothea Brooke isa young girl of twenty, who, with her sister
Celia, has recently come to live at Tipton Grange with their uncle, a man
sixty years of age, of acquiescent temper, miscellaneous opinions, and un-
certain vote. The rector, Mr. Cadwallader, describes Mr. Brooke as “a
very good fellow, but pulpy ; he will run into any mould, but he won't keep
shape.” Mr. Brooke had traveled, and whether the subject were literature,
music, science or art, could say that he “ went a good deal into that at one
time.” He had an easy way of taking life, and liked things * up to a cer-
tain point, but not too far.” An interesting account is given of the discus-
sion, by Mr. Brooke and his friends, of the political and social reforms of the
day ; also a narration of the electoral canvass with its study of human am-
bition and weakness. Mr. Brooke's estate was worth three thousand pounds a
year, and if Dorothea married and had a son, that son was to inherit the
estate. Reared in seclusion, Dorothea’s education had been neither liberal
nor extensive. Early Puritan influences had served to make her religious
disposition intense. Cela had the feeling, though she would) never express
it, that her sister was too religious for family comfort. Dorothea had that
kind of beauty which scems te be thrown into relief by poor dress. Her
profile as well as her stature and bearing seemed to gain the more dignity
from her plain garments, It was her ambition, and towards this her whole
nature struggled, to live an ideal life. She had an absorbing desire to
lighten the burdens of others and to better the condition of her fellow mor-
tals, When Dorothea rejected the suit of the baronet, Sir James Chettam,
MIDDLEMARCH. 751

 

and manifested a preference for, Mr. Casaubon, the rector of the neighbor-
ing parish, her bachelor uncle “felt that women were an inexhaustible
subject of study, since even he at his age was not in perfect state of scien-
tific prediction about them.” Dorothea believes that in Mr. Casaubon she
has found her ideal, so far above her is he in judgment and knowledge.
She wishes to be delivered from her girlish subjection to her own ignorance,
and to enjoy the freedom of voluntary submission to a guide who would take
her along the grandest path. Mr. Casaubon is a faded scholar, already past
middle life, with wealth enough to give luster to his piety. He is engaged
upon a great work, the “Key to all Mythologies,” he has assembled his
voluminous notes, and has made that sort of reputation which precedes per-
formance, often the larger part of a man’s fame, To his mental estate mapped
out a quarter of a century before he now thinks of annexing happiness with
a lovely young bride. He determines to take a wife to adorn the remaining
quadrant of his course, and be a little moon that would cause hardly a cal-
culable perturbation. This learned gentleman, a guest at Tipton Grange,
had somehow set playing in Dorothea’s soul a symphony of hopeful dreams,
adoring trust, and passionate self-devotion. Dorothea’s friends, however, do
not approve of Mr. Casaubon as a suitor. His blinking eyes were objec-
tionable to Celia. Sir James found the want of muscular curve in his legs
painful. Mrs. Cadwallader, from the first arrival of the young ladies at
Tipton Grange, had pre-arranged Dorothea’s marriage with Sir James ; and
when it was remarked that Casaubon had no good red blood in his veins,
she added, ‘‘ No, somebody put a drop under a magnifying-glass, and it was
all semi-colons and parenthesis.’”” Mr. Casaubon had imagined that his long,
studious bachelorhood had stored up for him a compound interest of enjoy-
ment, and that large drafts on his affections would not fail to be honored.
He found, however, that the stream of feeling to which he had determined
to abandon himself was an exceedingly shallow rill; and as courtship
hindered the progress of his great work, “The Key to all Mythologies,” he
was eager to shorten the days of courtship. As the day fixed for his marriage
came nearer he did not find his spirits rising. Though he had won a lovely
and noble-hearted girl, he had not won delight. Their wedding journey
took them to Rome, where Mr. Casaubon soon lost himself in the dusty
alcoves of the Vatican, leaving Dorothea to spend the honeymoon hunger-
ing for a fuller sort of companionship. And after the return to her future
home, Lowick Manor, though always trying to be what her husband wished,
she was never able to repose on his delight in what’she was. It had been the
great ambition of her life to help some one who did great works so that his
burden might be lighter. While she had little vanity, she had the ardent
woman’s need to rule beneficently by making the joy of another's soul. But
 

752 GEORGE ELIOT.
Mr. Casaubon distant, self-contained, absorbed in his books, seemed to have
little need of wifely help or appreciation of wifely sympathy. About the
time of Dorothea’s marriage, Tertius Lydgate, a young physician, came to
Middlemarch. He was twenty-seven years of age, well-bred, generous, and
ambitious of social distinctions. .\ man of great professional enthusiasm, it
was his conviction that the medical profession, as it might be, was the finest
in the world. He felt a triumphant delight in his studies and would never
have been happy in any other profession that did not call forth the highest in-
tellectual strain, His voice, habitually deep and sonorous, was capable of be-
coming very low and gentle at the right moment. Lydgate had confidence
in his own powers and integrity. Possessed of energy and lofty independ-
ence, he had an ideal, and was above the little meannesses to which others
stooped. Since he had a few hundred pounds left after paying for the prac-
tice of his predecessor, and could not forecast the immoderate result of the
conflict of his new ideas with the old prejudice, Lydgate had determined
not to marry for five years, at least. The young physician, steadily increas-
ing his practice, was called professionally into the house of Mr. Viney, a
Middlemarch manufacturer of general good-fellowship, who had risen to the
dignity of mayor, and at whose well-spread table there were always guests.
Rosamond Vincy was the flower of Mrs. Lemon's school, the chief school of
the county. With her nymph-like figure and immaculate blondness, her hair
of infantine fairness, neither flaxen nor yellow, and eyes of heavenly blue,
she had excellent taste in costume, a ready, self-possessed grace, and gave
the impression of refined manners. Rosamond never acted unbecomingly.
She was, in short, a combination wf correct sentiments, music, dancing, draw-
ing, and perfect blonde loveliness. She did feel that she might have been
happier if she had not been the daughter of a Middlemarch manufacturer,
and she disliked anything that reminded her that her mother had been an
inn-keeper's daughter. I.ydgate seemed to her almost perfect. It he had
known his notes so that his enchantment under her music had been less like
an emotional elephant's, and, if he had been able to discriminate better the
refinements of her taste in dress, she could hardly have mentioned a defi-
ciency in him, ‘To Lydgate, Rosamond was grace itself. She produces the effect
of exquisite music. So, contrary to his determination, after a brief court-
ship, he marries, and contracts heavier debts than his practice warrants, that
their house may be becomingly furnished. .\ frequent visitor at Lydgate'’s
home was Wil Ladistaw. He was something of an artist, and could appre-
ciate Mrs. Lydgate’s rendering of the finest music. He had a fondness, half
artistic, half affectionate, for ltthe children ; the smaller they were on toler-
ably active legs, and the funnier their clothing, the better Will liked to sur-
prise and please them, He entered into every one’s feelings, and could take
-UIDDLEMARCH. 753

 

 

the pressure of their thought, instead of urging his own with iron resistance.
He cared little for what are called the solid things of life, but greatly for its
subtler influences. Ladislaw was second cousin to Mr. Casaubon, the
grandson of his aunt Julia, whose portrait Dorothea had found at the Manor
on her first visit just before her marriage. Mr. Casaubon had remarked that
his aunt made an unfortunate marriage. Dorothea met Ladislaw the same
day, and noticed the similarity of his face to the portrait, his light grey eyes,
delicate, regular nose, with a little ripple in it, and hair falling backward.
They found him sketching as they were walking about the grounds near the
Manor. Just before his departure for a sojourn upon the continent, he was
on a brief visit at the house of Mr. Casaubon, who had supplied the necessary
funds to provide him with an education.

When Dorothea made some remark about his sketch, Ladislaw had
thought, “What a voice! It was like the voice of a soul that had once
lived in an AXolian harp.” Unexpectedly, he had met Mr. Casaubon and
Dorothea in Rome, where his German artist friend made portraits of both
of them, and Dorothea became deeply interested in conversations on art
with her husband’s cousin. Unreasonably suspicious and jealous, Mr.
Casaubon declined Ladislaw’s proposition, made by letter a few months
later, to visit Lowick Manor. The letter, however, was just received, and
Mr. Casaubon had not penned his reply, when he was taken suddenly and
seriously ill, Dorothea gave the letter to her uncle, Mr. Brooke, begging
him to let Will know that her husband’s health would not allow the recep-
tion of visitors. But the end of Mr. Brooke’s pen was a thinking organ,
evolving sentences, especially of a benevolent kind, before his mind could
well overtake them. It expressed regrets and proposed remedies. The
pen found it such a pity that young Ladislaw should not have come into the
neighborhood just at that time in order that Mr. Brooke might make his
acquaintance more fully ; and before the end of the second page, had per-
suaded Mr. Brooke to invite Ladislaw since he could not be received at
Lowick, to come to Tipton Grange. Mr. Brooke was a man of projects.
It was not long before he had purchased the Middlemarch Pioneer to clear
the pathway for a new political candidate, and had placed Ladislaw in the
editorial chair. Dorothea was thoroughly loyal to her husband; Will did
not receive an invitation to go to the Manor, and it was partly by chance
that he met her first after he came to Middlemarch. During that interview
Dorothea learned that Will’s grandmother, the aunt Julia of the portrait,
had been disinherited because of her marriage to a Polish refugee. This
man, who was a patriot, was musical in his tastes, could speak many
languages, and got his bread by teaching. Will's father inherited the
musical talent. Shortly before his death he had made himself known to
754 GEORGE ELIOT.

 

Mr. Casaubon, who felt it his duty to care well for Will and his mother,
because of the injustice done to his own mother’s sister. Will's mother had
but recently died. Of her own family she had never told him anything,
except that she forsook them to get her own bread. Dorothea admired the
sense of justice which had prompted her husband’s former generosity to
Will Ladislaw. Mr. Casaubon’s will, made at the time of their marriage,
left the bulk of the property to her. She had no need of so much money,
and that full justice should be done, the will ought to be changed and jus-
tice done to Will Ladislaw. The thought had a peculiar fascination for
Dorothea, and she waited for a favorable opportunity of opening her heart
to her husband. Her plea was, however, summarily dismissed, and she was
informed that no dictation would be accepted within that range of affairs
that he considered distinctly his own. After a brief and joyless married
life Mr. Casaubon died, leaving his wealth to Dorothea; but a codicil to
the will provided that she should forfeit all claim to the property if she
married Will Ladislaw. Fred Vincy, Rosamond’s brother, was a spirited
young fellow who loved horses, and had an appetite for the best of every-
thing. His father had given him an education, expecting him to become a
clergyman, but with characteristic lack of energy he had failed tu take his
degree.

Fred had great expectations from Mr. Featherstone, a rich old widower
living at Stone Court, who had expressed a fondness for him. Featherstone’s
first wife had been Caleb Garth's sister, the second Mrs. Vincy’'s sister.
This had led to an acquaintance, which was carried on chiefly by the children
of the two families. Fred Viney and Mary Garth had always loved each
other. As Featherstone’s end approached, his relatives hung around him
like vultures, anxious to learn what disposition he had made of his property.
There remained as the nethermoxt sediment in the mental shallows of his
sister, Jane Waule, a persuasion that her brother, Peter Featherstone, could
never leave his chief property away from his blood relations. And it was
thought by the Vincys and Garths that the nephews and nieces might be
supposed to touch the alfections of the childless widower. But all were
doomed to disappointment ; Stone Court and all the land was left to Joshua
Rigg, a natural son, of whose existence none had been aware. Rigg
preferred a different sort of life, and soon sold the estate to Mr. Bulstrode,
arich banker. Mr, Bulstrode, a man of dimly known origin, was not born
in Middlemarch. He had married a sister of Mr, Viney. In secial and
commercial circles he was one of the leading citizens, Lydgate, with his
progressive Views, Was associated with him in carrying out certain philan-
thropic schemes, He was zealous in) Christian work, and he fortified his
power by a ready beneficence. While Joshua Riges was the proprietor of
MIDDLEMARCH. 755

 

Stone Court a strange character had appeared, a man named Raffles, who
had married Riggs’s mother. By a strange chance he learned that Stone Court
might pass into the hands of Mr. Bulstrode, of whose whereabouts he had
-been ignorant. So he repeated the visit, for he was possessed of Bulstrode’s
secret, which he finally revealed. Bulstrode’s wealth was obtained by dishon-
orable methods. He had been an employé in a pawnbroker’s establishment.
On the death of his employer he became a partner with the widow, and then
first learned that stolen goods were received and sold by the firm, a fact
which had led the daughter to run away from home. Marriage began to be
thought of by Bulstrode and the widow ; but the mother’s heart yearned for
her daughter. Inquiries were set on foot, and at last the mother, believing
the child could not be found, consented to marry without reservation of
property. She died soon after, having willed the entire property to Bul-
strode. Bulstrode had really learned, through Raffles, that the daughter was
alive, had married a Mr. Ladislaw, and had ason. He had paid Raffles for
keeping silence, and keeping himself at a distance. Originally a man of
sincere piety, drawn into a nefarious business innocently, he had quieted his
conscience by the thought that he could do good service in the cause of
religion with his ill-gotten gains. On the appearance of Raffles, fearing an
exposure, and persuading himself that if he does something right God will
save him from the consequences of previous wrong-doing, he makes a con-
fession and proposes a partial restitution to Will Ladislaw, the grandson of
his former wife. But Will, with his mother’s high sense of honor, is too
noble to‘accept ill-gotten wealth. Bulstrode paid Raffles more than once to
leave town, judging that it must be more for the divine glory that he should
escape dishonor. When the man finally reappears, and is ill with delirium
tremens, Bulstrode hopes he may not recover ; he even allows the directions
of Lydgate, the physician, to be disregarded, and Raffles dies. He had,
however, reported the facts to others, and Bulstrode is ruined ; very nearly
dragging Lydgate also to his ruin.

Mary Garth was plain and unassuming. Honesty and truth-telling fair-
ness was her reigning virtue. She thought Fred Vincy had sense and knowl-
edge enough to make him respectable in some good worldly business ; but
to be a clergyman for gentility’s sake contemptible. Fred would be
ridiculous in that position. Fred developed in manliness under the influence
of Mary’s father, Caleb Garth, a mild-mannered man of simple goodness, to
whom business was a sacred calling, and who found the chief part of his
happiness in doing a good day’s work, and doing it well. Mr. Farebrother,
the vicar, whom Dorothea chose as her husband’s successor in the Lowick
Rectory, also loved Mary, but with magnanimous heroism he renounced his
own joy to make two other lives happy. So Fred and Mary married and
756 GEORGE ELIOT.

 

settled at Stone Court, where Fred managed the estate for his Aunt Bul-
strode. Dorothea grows in nobility of character. Her rare spiritual beauty
makes her the ideal woman. Her delicate intervention saves Lydgate from

the effects of his association with Bulstrode, and from the ruin which Rosa-.

mond’s weakness and obstinacy had nearly caused. Will Ladislaw’s high
sense of honor, and his proud resolve to give the lie to any suspicion that
he would play the needy adventurer seeking a rich woman, keeps him long
apart from Dorothea. But at last an announcement is made, which Celia,
the wife of Sir James Chettam, receives with hearty disapproval. Dorothea
deserved to live an ideal life. George Eliot tells us, in conclusion, that her
aspirations resulted in the two determining acts of her life, which were not
ideally beautiful ; namely, she married a sickly clergyman, old enough to be
her father, and in a little more than a year after his death gave up her estate
to marry his cousin, young enough to have been her son, without property
and not well-born. The responsibility for such mistakes, since none of us
are so strong as not to be influenced by the social air we breathe, lies with
society, which pays too little attention to the fitting relations of life, and to
the education of woman. Though a young woman of such rare spiritual
endowments, Dorothea’s aspirations are stifled, she sinks to the level of the
common-place, because society is against her. And yet, “her finely-touched
spirit had still its fine issues, though they were not widely visible. Her full
nature, like that river of which Alexander broke the strength, spent itself in
channels which had no great name on the earth. But the effect of her being
on those around her was incalculably diffusive ; for the growing goud of the
world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill
with you and me as they might have been is half owing to the number who
lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs.

OCOTATIONS.

Character is a process and an unfolding.

— By being contemptible we set men's minds to the tune of contempt.—
Vr. Matrhrother,

— There is no sorrow UT have thought more about than that, to love what
is great, and try to reach it, and yet to fail— Derethea.,

~ Failure after long perseverance is much grander than never to have had
a striving good cnough to be called a failure — - Dorothea,

Who can know how much of his most Inward life is made up of the

thoughts he believes other men to have about him, until that fabric of
Opinion is threatened with ruin,
MIDDLEMARCH. 757

—When one is grateful for something too good for common thanks writ-
ing is less unsatisfactory than speech ; one does not, at least, hear how inade-
quate words are.— Lydgate.

— If we had a keen vision and feeling of all ordinary human life, it would
be like hearing the grass grow and the squirrel’s heart beat, and we should
die of the roar which lies on the other side of silence.

—Some one highly susceptible to the contemplation of a fine act has
said that it produces a sort of regenerating shudder through the frame,
and makes one feel ready to begin a new life.

— You must be sure of two things ; you must love your work, and not
be always looking over the edge of it, wanting your play to begin. And
the other is, you must not be ashamed of your work, and think it would be
more honorable to you to be doing something else.— Caleb Garth.

—I don’t make myself disagreeable ; it is you who find meso. Disa-
greeable is a word that describes your feelings and not my actions. —
Fred Vincy.

— The mere idea that a woman had a kindness toward him (Sir James
Chettam) spun little threads of tenderness from out his heart toward her’s.

— When I married Humphrey, I made up my mind to like sermons, and
I set out by liking the end very much. That soon spread to the middle and
the beginning, because I couldn’t have the end without them.— M/7s, Cad-
wallader, the rector’s wife.

— A man’s mind, what there is of it, has always the advantage of being
masculine, as the smallest birch-tree is of a higher kind than most soaring
palm, and even his ignorance is of a sounder quality.

—I don’t love him because he is a fine match, but because I have always
loved him. I should never like scolding any one else so well, and that is a
point to be thought of in a husband.— Mary Garth.

—There are natures in which if they love us, we are conscious of a sort
of baptism and consecration. They bind us over to rectitude and purity by
their pure belief about us; and our sins become that worst kind of sacrilege
which tears down the invisible altar of trust.

—JI have a belief of my own, and it comforts me, that by desiring what
is perfectly good, even when we don't quite know what it is, and cannot do
what we would, we are a part of thedivine power against evil, widening the
skirts of light, and making the struggle with darkness narrower.—Dorothea.
 

 

LEWIS WALLACE

AMERICA

BORN 1827
LEWIS WALLACE.

Lewis Wallace was born in Franklin County, Indiana, April 27, 1827. His father, David
Wallace, was Governor of Indiana from 1837 to 1840. At the commencement of the Mexi-
can war, Lewis, then a law student, volunteered his services as a soldier, and went to Mexico
with the rank of first lieutenant. After peace was declared, he returned home, completed his
studies, and was practicing law in Crawfordsville, Indiana, when the rebellion broke out in
1861. He was for a time Adjutant-General of Indiana, but went into the field early, having
command of a division at Fort Donalson and at Shilo.

He remained in active service during the war, returning to the practice of his profession,
and giving much time also to travel and literary pursuits. The results of his literary labor are
The Fair God, ‘a tale of the Conquest of Mexico by Cortez, published in 1873, and Bex Hur,
in 1880; the latter having received all the honor possible to a successful book, viz.: Enor-
mous sales in America and Great Britain, and a number of translations into foreign languages.

He was Governor of Utah from 1878 to 1881, and American Minister to Constantinople
from 1881 to 1885. General Wallace is still living.

BEN HUR.

A TALE OF THE CHRIST.

Upon a certain day, near the close of the year 747 of Rome, three men,
riding upon camels from different directions, met about noon in the midst of
the Arabian Desert. They were Balthasar, an Egyptian, a representative of
the race of Ham; Melchior, from Hindoostan, of the race of Shem; and
Gaspar, a Grecian, a descendant of Japheth.

Worshipers of the true God, their lives spent in love and prayer and
service to Him and to their fellow-men, each had been directed in vision to
seek his unknown friends, and to go in company with them from the desert
to Jerusalem.

After rest and refreshment, they started upon their journey due west-
ward, and when night fell upon them there appeared a star of dazzling
luster, which seemed to go before and guide them in their course.

When arrived at Jerusalem they asked of every one they met, ‘‘ Where
is He that is born King of the Jews? For we have seen His star in the East,
762 LEWIS WALLACE.

 

and are come to worship him.” The appearance of the three men and the
strange question aroused great wonderment, and the officers who guarded at
the North Gate, at which they entered, reported the matter to King Herod.
The monarch, much troubled by what seemed to hima menace to his throne,
sent for the wise men, questioned them closely, and desired them, if they
found the new-born King, to report to him, so that he might offer worship
to the child.

As soon as dismissed from the Royal Palace, they departed through the
Joppa Gate. As soon as they left the city, the glorious star, which had been
their guide thus far, again appeared, and led by it, they found the Khan at
Bethlehem, and within its enclosure, the cave where the infant was lying
in the lap of his mother. Before the unconscious babe the wise men laid
their gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh, and with the outward tokens
they offered the worship of their hearts, fully believing that the Saviour of
men was indeed in that humble abode.

Twenty-one years later, in one of the gardens on Mount Zion, one noon-
day in July, two boys were engaged in earnest conversation The elder,
about nineteen, was evidently a Roman, and from his manner, one of the
proudest of that proud race. The younger, about seventeen, was as evi-
dently a Jew. Both were handsome, and, notwithstanding the difference of
race, closely resembled each other. They had been playmates and friends
in childhood in Jerusalem, but for five years the young Roman, Messala,
had been in Rome, receiving the education of a patrician’s son, while Judah,
son of Hur, had been sitting at the feet of the learned Doctors of the Law
at the Great College in Jerusalem.

The conversation showed that, young as they were, their characters and
thoughts and feelings had diverged as far as it was possible for two persons
to be separated. Messala, every inch a Roman, was sketching his full
career, as it seemed to lie plainly before him; first, a successful Warrior ;
then Governor of some wealthy province ; and then great wealth, and the
pleasures which wealth gives : while for his companion there was nothing of
promise, merely a life without opportunities. Ben Hur was greatly dis-
tressed to find that the friend he loved had become so hard
separated from him, discontented and sorrowful.

Ben Hur and his sister Tirzah, a beauti 7 i
the only children of their a conve tia i cae a ouineey
the Princes of Jerusalem boasting of dese nit in: oo. c on raat vie
the companion of Justina, He died at fi . . pees Hat csiee hie

‘estate, for, besides his ancestral stich Reda be ie Hanon plies
Se ae ; ad been an extensive and a

and evnical, and
BEN HUR. 763

 

The day after the meeting of the two former friends, Valerius Gratus,
the new Procurator of Judea, made his formal entry into Jerusalem, under
the escort of a very strong guard. The turbulent population of the city was
more than usually turbulent at that time, and greeted the new official with
angry looks and words, and even missiles.

Judah and his sister Tirzah were upon the house top, and, in order to
have a better view of the cortege and the disturbances in the street, leaned
over the parapet, and in doing so, Judah’s hand struck and loosened a tile,
which fell directly upon the head of the Procurator, felling him to the
ground. The Roman guards, believing the tile was thrown from the roof
with deadly intent, immediately attacked the house. Judah hastened to the
ground, to find his mother and sister prisoners, and as Judah appeared, the
young Messala pointed him out to the soldiers as the assassin. Judah sup-
plicated Messala for mercy for his innocent mother and sister, but the
Roman affected not to hear, and, with perfect indifference, walked away,
while Judah, in the bitterness of his heart, prayed to heaven, that in the
hour of Divine vengeance, which was sure to overtake such wickedness, he
might be the instrument in the Lord’s hand to punish the unfeeling Roman.

The mother and sister were carried to the Tower of Antonia, and Judah
was sent to the galleys for life. Two days later he was despatched to the
sea coast under a strong guard, and put on board a Roman trireme. Upon
the way to the coast the small village of Nazareth was reached, and the
Decurion, with his command, halted at a well, where his wretched prisoner,
footsore and faint, sank down into the dust of the road. While lying
there, neglected and forgotten by his guard, and the curious and gossiping
villagers who swarmed about the well, he felt a hand laid upon his shoulder,
and, looking up, saw a face never afterwards forgotten: a young man, his
face lighted up by dark blue eyes, full of love and holy purpose. To the poor
captive, bowed down with anguish, the look of compassion seemed like a
vision of heaven, and when the stranger offered him a pitcher of water, he
drank freely, and then he felt the touch of a gentle hand resting on his dusty
locks, long enough to say a word of blessed comfort. As the stranger left
him, and went back to the well, all eyes followed him, for it was “ Jesus of
Nazareth, the Son of Mary.”

For three years the young Jew, chained to the oar, with no companion-
ship except his sad and bitter thoughts and memories, lived his life; and
then a change came.

Quintus Arrius, the Tribune, was directed by the Emperor to take com-
mand of a fleet of one hundred triremes, to be dispatched from Misenum
Italy to the #2gean, for the purpose of exterminating the pirates, who had
gathered there in great numbers, and were terrorizing all the coast of that
764 LEWIS WALLACE.

 

 

 

sea. His flagship, as the modern expression is, was the Astrea, on which -
our hero was serving as an oarsman. In some mysterious manner the young
Jew attracted the attention and received the sympathy of the noble Roman
dignitary, and was allowed to row unchained. After a long pursuit, Arrius
was able to meet the pirate fleets and engage them in battle.

The conflict was a long and desperate one, during which the Astraa was
sunk, and with her, went down nearly all the crew. Ben Hur succeeded in
escaping from the sinking ship, and in reaching a plank, and while floating
in the sea, came near to a man clad in armor just ready to sink, whom, by
the exertion of all his strength, and at the risk of losing his own frail hold
upon life, he drew up to his plank, and thus saved his new found friend Ar-
rius. They were picked up by a Roman vessel. Arrius resumed command,
and achieved a great victory over the pirates, returning in triumph to Italy,
where he introduced to his admiring friends, his adopted son and heir, known
to us as Judah Ben Hur, but to them as Arrius, the son of Arrius the
Duumvir.

Five years later we meet Ben Hur again, clad as a Roman patrician
standing on the deck of a ship which is entering the bay, and river Orontes,
the harbor of the city, known as the second city of the world, Antioch, the
Queen of the East. The five years had given to the young Jew the
physical perfection of manhood. His appearance was very attractive,
but his quiet dignity and reticence kept him somewhat apart from the
other passengers, who at this time had all crowded to the deck to admire
the lively scenes which met the eye on every hand. Without intending
it, he overheard some conversation, which he found was of startling interest
to himself. A Hebrew from Cyprus was relating to a group of interested
passengers the story of an immensely wealthy merchant of Antioch, It
was as follows:

‘There was formerly living in Jerusalem a Prince of very ancient family
named Hur. He was a merchant with a genius for business, and conducted
vast enterprises, both in the Mast and the West. His agent at Antioch was
an Israelite with the Greck name of Simonides. ‘The master was drowned
at sea. The business continued prosperous and grew rapidly, After a while
trouble came to the merchant family. His only son, a youth, attempted to
kill the Roman Procurator Gratus. Te failed, and immediately disappeared,
and in fact the family was annihilated, ‘Phe Procurator confiscated every-
thing he could find which had belonged to them; Stmonides went into biiess
on his own account, and soon became the greatest merchant in Antioch 3 mar-
velously successful in every adventure he undertook. ‘The Procurator believed
the merchant held large sums of money belonging to the Hurs, and twice
tortured him in the hope of compelling a surrender, but without av.ul,
43

BEN HUR. 765

 

Simonides claiming that all he had came to him lawfully. Finally, he pro-
cured a license to trade, signed by the Emperor, and thus was saved from
further persecution.

When an opportunity came, Judah questioned the Hebrew further as to
the family of Hur, learning nothing, except that it was supposed that the
boy was sent to the galleys, and was probably a long time dead; the widow
and daughter had never been heard from, and without doubt had died in
the cells of some castle in Jerusalem. The next day Ben Hur sought out
Simonides, finding him propped up in an easy chair, and attended by a very
lovely young girl, his daughter Esther.

The merchant had, in consequence of the tortures to which he had been
subjected, become crippled, and unable to move from his chair in which he
was carried from one place to another, as necessity required. His mind
was always active, and by means of faithful agents he was able to carry on
his enormous business, while his loving daughter looked after his personal
comfort. Ben Hur was received with great courtesy, but when he declared
himself to be the son of Ithamar, head of the house of Hur, Simonides,
with great deference asked for the proofs of the claim. In reply, the young
man recited his strange history, and explained to the merchant, that he had
come to Antioch to accompany the Consul Maxentius in his projected
campaign against the Parthians; that he was very wealthy, as the heir of
the Duumvir Arrius, but entreated the merchant to tell him anything he
knew as to the fate of his mother and sister. With great sorrow and sym-
pathy the merchant answered, that he knew nothing, and Ben Hur soon
withdrew.

As soon as he had departed, Simonides sent for one of his most trusted
agents, Malluch, also an Israelite, directed him to find, and if possible to
become acquainted with his recent visitor, saying he felt sure that he was
indeed the head of the house of Hur, but before acknowledging him he
must learn his character, and whether he was a worthy son of his father.
Malluch undertook the commission, and the next day, while Ben Hur was
on his way to the Grove of Daphne, the world famous pleasure resort of
Antioch, Malluch contrived to join him, and with great tact secure his com~
panionship, and to some extent his confidence.

Upon any young man, the gay scenes which met his eye as he walked
about the pleasure grounds of Daphne, could not fail of making some
impression, and our hero, though preoccupied with sad thoughts, and
though he saw much which was offensive to his severe taste, fell to some
extent under the influence of the place; but his attention was very soon
diverted from the trivialities of the present, by circumstances which led his
thoughts and purposes into a new channel.
= 66 LEWIS WALLACE.

Standing at the famous Fountain of Castalia, Ben Hur was astonished
at the approach of a very tall, w hite camel, richly caparisoned, carrying in
a houdah, a very aged man, accompanied by a young woman, evidently an
Egyptian, of rare beauty, covered with laces and jewels.

Just as the camel stopped at the fountain, there was a great out-cry, the
by-standers ran affrighted in all directions, and Ben Hur saw coming ata
tremendous pace, four horses, harnessed abreast, driven by a man in a
chariot, Their course was directly towards the camel, and threatened
instant destruction to the two persons in the houdah.

Ben Hur rushed forward, caught one of the horses by the bit, and saved
the strangers from death or serious injury. The charioteer was instantly
recognized by Ben Hur as his ancient enemy, Messala, who with careless
laughing apologies to the lady, drove away The old man thanked Ben
Hur for his timely aid, and giving his name as Balthasar the Fyyptian,
urged him to come to visit him in the Great Orchard of Palms, where his
daughter and himself were the guests of the Arab Sheik, Ilderim the
Generous. The bright eyes of the beautiful Iras, the daughter, lingered in
the memory of Ben Hur, as he gradually formed his plan to be revenged on
Messala. He learned from Malluch, that six days later, there were to be
at the circus, a series of games in honor of the Consul Maxentius, among
them a chariot race. Messala had already entered his name as one of the
contestants, Sheik Ilderim had brought from the desert, four beautiful bays.
which he desired to enter, if he could find a skillful driver. For three vears,
at the Circus Maximus, in Rome, Arrius, the son of Arrius, had excelled all
others as a charioteer. Could he induce the Sheik Ilderim to trust him with
his priceless team, he would win fame and wealth for the noble Arab chief,
and, for himself, would gain revenge upon his remorseless enemy, Messala.
Accordingly, with the help of Malluch, he found his way to the Orchard of
Palms, where the matter was quickly decided as Ben Hur desired.

Remaining during the intervening time before the race the guest of
Ilderim, he renewed his acquaintance with the venerable Egyptian, and
from him heard the story of the Child King, whom he and his two com-
panions saw and worshiped in the manger at Bethlehem, nearly thirty years
before ; for this venerable man was one of the three favored ones spoken
of in the beginning of this narrative. ‘The story was a revelation to Ben
Hur, fraught with the deepest interest, and his whole being thrilled with the
thought that the promised Messiah was really upon the earth. To him the
Saviour of his people was a Prince and a warrior, and Ben Hur in his secret
soul dedicated himself to the service of his King.

As the days of preparation for the chariot race went by Ben Hur was
kept busy exercising the noble Arabs upon whom he depended for his
BEN HUR. 167

 

 

triumph, and the discomfiture of his enemy. An intercepted letter, put into
his hand by Ilderim, gave to him some strange revelations. The letter was
from Messala, at Antioch, to Gratus, the Procurator, at Cesarea, and in-
formed him that the son of Quintus Arrius, the duumvir, was at Antioch,
and that the writer believed him to be none other than the Jew, Ben Hur,
who, they both supposed, had ‘died a galley slave years ago, and whose
property they two had converted to theirown use. The letter hinted at the
possibility that the mother and sister might still be living ; warned Gratus
of the danger they both were in if Ben Hur should claim his estate and seek
revenge for his wrongs, and offered to assist Gratus in putting out of the
way the dangerous enemy.

While meditating upon this 1etter Ben Hur was summoned to the city by
Ilderim, and went immediately to the house of Simonides, where he found
the merchant, Esther and the Sheik. Simonides explained that Ilderim
was there as a witness of certain papers, and he handed to the astonished
young man a statement of the property which he had been holding in trust
for his young master. The paper set forth that there was standing to the
credit of Judah Ben Hur the sum of six hundred and seventy-three talents,
“Making thee, O, son of Hur, the richest subject in the world.” Almost
terrified at the revelation, the young man proposed that Simonides should
give him one hundred and twenty talents, the sum originally intrusted to
him by the elder Hur, the merchant to retain the enormous increase. This
Simonides refused, but finally consented to retain the care of the property as
steward, and when the business was finished Simonides, taking up in succes-
sion the predictions of the prophets, pointed out to Ben Hur that the time
was at hand when the Messiah should come to deliver his people from their
oppressors, aud that he, the son of Hur, a Prince in descent and more than
a Prince in fortune, trained as a’ soldier, should devote himself to preparing
the armies which would be needed to seat the King upon his throne. After
a long conference and a full exchange of views, Ben Hur pledged himself to
the work of the King who was to come.

The day of the chariot race finally arrived. Enormous wagers were
made by Messala and the other Romans at Antioch, and Ben Hur, through
his agents, accepted all that were offered. There were six starters. Messala
secured the extreme right, and Ben Hur, placed originally at the extreme
left, managed by great dexterity when the signal was given, to rush forward
and put himself by the side of Messala, and close together they swept along. ,
As they neared the first goal, Messala whirled his lash and struck the Arabs
of Ben Hur, frightening them so that they dashed forward in fear, but were
soon calmed by the strong hand of the Jew, and kept well up with the
Roman. As the race progressed the excitement became intense, and three
768 LEWIS WALLACE.

 

hundred thousand spectators were wild with the varied emotions wakened
by the contest. At the sixth round, Ben Hur wheeled his four behind
Messala’s car. The Romans were jubilant; to them the movement meant
victory for their favorite and ruin to the Jew faction. Ilderim dropped his
brows, Simonides bent low his head; Esther scarcely breathed, Iras only,
appeared glad. Half way round the course the Roman was still leading,
the Jew following. Messala was expectant. Only six hundred feet away,
fame, increase of fortune and victory were waiting for him. The man he
hated and had so greatly injured was behind him; by no probability, as he
believed, could the tide turn soon enough to change the result. Suddenly
Ben Hur leaned forward and gave the reins to the Arabs, and the four, as
one, in one instant were alongside the Roman’s car, and in another instant,
Ben Hur’s inner wheel struck the wheel of Messala’s car and down on the
right side toppled the body of the Roman chariot. Messala was pitched
forward, the third contestant unable to turn out, plunged into the wreck ;
Ben Hur with his noble Arabs seem to fly around the course, and the race
was won.

Messala was picked up alive, but his physicans said he would never walk
again.

A very happy man was the Sheik Ilderim, and royal were his tenders of
gifts to Ben Hur, all of which were declined ; the latter saying he might
hereafter accept aid in the cause of the King.

Thirty days thereafter, as the result of a bribe of five talents paid to
Sejanus, the favorite of the Emperor, Valerius Gratus was succeeded by
Pontius Pilate, who, among his few good deeds, ordered an inspection of all
the prisons and a full report of all persons in custody, and the crimes for
which they were confined. An examination of the Tower of Antonia
revealed the fact that two women had been confined for years in a cell, the
existence of which was unknown even to the officers of the prison, Gratus
having bribed the keeper to make a false diagram of that portion of the
structure. The two wretched victims of the diabolical cunning of Gratus
and his confederate Messala were the mother and sister of Ben Hur. When
brought to light they were lepers, and after being furnished with water,
food and clothing, were liberated and driven out of the city,

Just at this time Ben Hur arrived at Jerusalem, and by accident found
his aged servant, Amrah, who had seen his mother and sister, and was
carrying daily to their abode in a deserted tomb, the necessaries of life.
The mother, learning of Ben Hur's arrival, extorted from Amrah a solemn
promise not to reveal their present abode, or even their existence to him,
but through Matluech's inquiries, their release from prison became known to
him but they concealed themselves. so carefully that the large rewards
BEN HUR. 769
offered by Malluch for their discovery, failed to bring light to the anxious
son and brother.

He finally abandoned the search in despair, and went into Galilee, where,
arousing the patriotic and martial spirit of that people, before the winter
was gone, he had organized three legions after the Roman pattern, full of
enthusiasm for the cause of the King, who, their chief expected daily, would
appear to lead them, under his banner, to the conflict against the hated
Romans. To Ben Hur and to his soldiers the prophecies which he daily
read to them, were sure to be speedily fulfilled by the manifestation of the
Messiah, their Saviour and their deliverer. A letter from Malluch at
Jerusalem, seemed to him a practical confirmation of his hopes. It informed
him that a prophet had appeared, who preached constantly of one greater
than himself, who was soon to come, and for whom he was waiting at the
River Jordan. Crowds of people were going out from Jerusalem to see
him, and the writer desired Ben Hur to come and judge for himself whether
the prophet was the herald of the King they were awaiting. Ben Hur
started without delay, and while out in the desert met the aged Balthasar,
accompanied by his beautiful daughter Iras, riding upon the wonderful
white camel which he had seen in the grove of Daphne.

Traveling together, on the fourth day they came to the ford of Betha-
bara, where they saw and heard the prophet, John the Baptist. His coarse
raiment and rude manner, the manner and gait of a Nazarite, so at
variance with Ben Hur’s impression of how a prophet should appear, excited
in him great disappointment, almost disgust, but in a moment more his eye,
and every eye, was fastened upon a man who approached Balthasar, and as
he drew near, the Nazarite cried with a loud voice, “ Behold the Lamb of
God, which taketh away the Sin of the World!”

Balthasar fell upon his knees. To his mind, enlightened as it had been
by his experiences, this was the Redeemer of men. He rejoiced that God
had blessed his eyes with another vision of his Saviour, for whom he had
waited so long and with such earnest faith. Upon Ben Hur, studying the
face of the stranger, a new light dawned. This was not the warrior King,
whom his imagination had pictured so long, and to whose service he had
dedicated his life, but from the chaos of thoughts and feelings which filled
his soul, memory evolved the well at Nazareth, and the young man who had
brought to him the water when he was perishing of thirst. He leaped from
his horse to do homage, but Iras called him to assist her father, who had
fainted, and when he looked again for the marvelous stranger, he had dis-
appeared.

Three years later, Balthasar and his daughter were living in the old
palace of the Hurs in Jerusalem. Malluch, acting for Ben Hur, had pur-
770 LEWIS WALLACE.

chased the home from Pontius Pilate. Ben Hur was engaged in military
preparations in Galilee, interspersed with occasional visits to Jerusalem,
where he was received by Balthasar and Iras as a guest. To him the
daughter was as fascinating as ever, while the discourses of the devout Bal-
thasar concerning the miracle worker, whose wonderful deeds of mercy were
echoing through the land, still held their power over his mind. Recently
Simonides and Esther had arrived from Antioch, and were sojourning in the
Hur Palace.

Soon after their arrival Simonides received a letter from Ben Hur, stating
that the Nazarine was on his way to Jerusalem, and that he himself was
coming by another road, with a legion of soldiers, and that a second legion
would follow. The Nazarine had said upon setting out, that all things writ-
ten in the Prophets concerning him were now to be accomplished. The
writer added, “ Our waiting draws to an end.”

Ben Hur preceded the Nazarine by one day, and while he was reiating
to his friends the wonderful miracles of healing performed by the Master,
the faithful Amrah heard, and hastened with the good news to the abode of
the outcast lepers ; and with her help they found the Master, and by a word
they were cleansed. Ben Hur, going out of the city to meet thé Nazarine,
witnessed the miracle, unconscious that these two poor creatures were of
any personal interest to himself, but as soon as the mighty change came to
them he learned who they were, and joined with them in thanksgiving to
God. And thus, when the Jewish statutes had been complied with, they
were all united again in the long forsaken home.

Rapidly the drama hastened to a close; Ben Hur brought quietly his
Galilean soldiers to Jerusalem, holding them in readiness to spring to the
side of the Nazarine, the moment he proclaimed himself the King, and his
mission the expulsion of the hated Romans from the Holy City, while the
aged Balthasar waited prayerfully for the spiritual redemption of the world,
which he believed was to be accomplished by the Messiah.

On the first Passover Eve, Ben Hur coming to the Hur palace, found all
the inmates absent except Tras, who revealed to him the feelings of scorn
which she felt for the Messiah ; the certainty to her, that he who had entered
into Jerusalem riding upon an ass’s colt and in tears, would never be the King
whom Ben Hur had hoped to serve, and for whom he had labored so long 3
and out of her scorn, the thought came to him, and grew into his heart, that

Balthasar was right.

It was a Kingdom of Souls the Master had come to establish,

Tras continued. Revealing herself in her true colors, she recounted the
incidents of her listener's later life, suggested her power to crush him by
telling the story to the Lord Sejanus and coupling with it the significant
BEN HUR. 771
fact that he of whom these things were true was the richest man in the
Empire. Finding him unmoved by threats, she besought him to have mercy
upon Messala, and restore to him the fortune he had lost at the chariot race.
Ben Hur refused to give up any portion of the sum, and sent to Messala,
a message of hate and defiance, and thus the beautiful Egyptian and Ben
Hur parted forever.

The days that followed witnessed the saddest and strangest events of
human history. Gradually Ben Hur learned that all his schemes and all
his preparations were for naught. The Son of Man was to be betrayed
into the hands of his enemies. After a mock trial, he was convicted, and
‘suffered the death of the cross.

The life of the faithful Balthasar was spared only just long enough to
witness the death of Jesus Christ, and then his spirit in the triumph of faith
passed away to meet the Redeemer, for whose manifestation he had so long
waited, and whom he so dearly loved. Iras had disappeared, and upon Ben
Hur and his friends devolved the duty of burying the body of the venerable
Egyptian.

Five years after the crucifixion, Esther, now the wife of Ben Hur, sat in
her room in the villa of Misenum. With her were her two beautiful chil-
dren, and Tirzah. A stranger entered, and informed Esther that she was
Iras, daughter of Balthasar; that her husband Messala was dead, slain by
her hand. She refused all offers of hospitality, and soon disappeared. No
trace of her was ever discovered, and, without doubt, she had thrown her-
self into the blue waters of the bay.

In extreme old age Simonides received the news of the persecution of the
Christians at Rome by Nero, and by his advice, Ben Hur, who had for many
years contributed vast sums to the Christian cause, both in the East and the
West, devoted a large part of his immense estate to the relief of the suffer-
ing brethren in Rome, and to the construction of the Catacombs, those vast
tombs, where the Christians were protected from the fury of the brutal
emperors, and from which Christianity at last issued to supersede the Cesars.
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